Writers of the Future Volume 28: The Best New Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Ironically, I realize I’m humming a tune.

  A soft cracking sound from behind makes me whirl. A fissure has erupted in the wall of the cell, and strange glowing runes are wicking away the indigo-blue stone, forming a large doorway. No thought necessary, I’m instantly through it, into a glen—a field.

  But I stop to look at where I’ve come from. You would never guess there’s a whole universe of cells full of sleeping people in them just beyond that doorway. It’s nothing more than a small crevice carved into a half-moon-shaped boulder that resembles a broken archway some giant’s dropped in the middle of a grassy plateau. In fact, I walk around the prominence for good measure. Geeze, appearances can be deceiving.

  Why doesn’t this feel like a dream?

  For days I travel, taking in the sights. I avoid the mist, explore the willow tree. Then I come to the house, where my calm flakes into panic against my will. The mist converges around the sides of the house, flanking it, barring me passage. I can’t walk around to the front, unless I want to lose myself. So I go in through the back.

  Anxiety hits me like a fever. And I’m out as soon as I’m in! The back door is swinging behind me, and I’m running until I hit that prominence. What (I shiver) the hell (I try not to vomit) are those things? I’m radiating butterflies of fear so bright I can see them. Whatever those things in my house are, I know without proof that if they’ve seen me . . . okay, there are things worse than death.

  But this nightgown business. It really gets to me, and I have to go back, if only to scavenge a change of clothing from my room.

  And it happens again!

  Freak! After the second attempt, I vow I’m never going back in there. Ever.

  My cell inside the prominence is soothing, on the other hand, so I decide to stay there, instead. Hours turn into days. Days into weeks—or so I figure. I get lost in thought so deep it turns to song. The song morphs into a burning curiosity to explore this place. And I do. Tentatively, I shimmy down to the cell below mine to visit its occupant . . .

  Wasn’t my fault. I swear! I couldn’t wake the woman, so I hollered, shouted, pummeled her cocoon. Then I ripped it.

  Either way, she didn’t wake up, so I spider-climb back to my ledge, feeling guilty.

  None of the men, the older woman, or that little boy whose cells adjoin mine wake up, either. None of the occupants in a ten-, twenty-, thirty-cell radius of mine wake up. No one wakes up in this place.

  “HELLO!” I call into the void, hearing it rumble back.

  “I’M SO ALONE!”

  It’s no use. I know where I am. I’ve been here before. Plenty of times. This is no dream, although I wish it was. I’m trapped inside the most inescapable prison conceivable.

  I miss my mom . . .

  I hear an echo.

  I almost trip getting to my feet.

  Popping my ears, I listen hard. Eons roll past like the breath of a god, but I can’t hear anything. Maybe it was my imagination.

  Feeling bizarrely more calm than defeated, I try to make myself get depressed, but only achieve that hollow feeling in my stomach again—the one I’ve been noticing lately, like something’s missing. I haven’t slept a wink since those freaks in my house stole my body, and I’m pretty sure that’s what happened to everyone else in here, too. Maybe it wasn’t an accident that killed that scientist, Dr. Growlinger, after all.

  Sleep. I wish I could sleep. In this place, I don’t need to eat, or drink, or go to the little girl’s room, or do any of those things you do when you have a physical body.

  Sure, I’ve “tried” to sleep, if only to wake up in the real world (“tried” being the operative word.) I’ve slipped between the snarled roots of the willow on the grassy hill, curled up and hummed more than one lullaby.

  But every time I nod off, I wind up in that sinister crystalline coffin, swaddled up like a baby. Jesus, how many of the freakin’ things have I pushed off the ledge into the yawning void?

  I hear another echo, this time louder.

  “HELLO!” I holler.

  More echoes bounce out of the darkness, and I think there is no doubt now that I’m leaving my ledge. I’ll search every cell in this mammoth universe until I find someone else or die trying.

  Another echo. I listen. This one rolls from somewhere to the left.

  It’s a direction.

  I crawl.

  The abyss greets me the moment I step off of my ledge, and although there is no wind here, it feels like the whole place is breathing. I’m careful to keep a straight line from my cell, so I don’t lose my way and find I can never get back. Getting lost in this place is as genius as wandering off into the mist. I’ve also long since discovered that none of the cells but mine have doorways into glens. Or anywhere for that matter.

  Past cell fifty-one to the left there are good handholds. The thin, foot-wide catwalks carved naturally into the blue stone widen, although not every space between cells is this negotiable. Doesn’t matter, I think. I’m actually doing it! I’m finally doing what I’ve been dreading since I first woke up in here, even if it means that I might never get back.

  Taking rests in neighboring chambers as I go, I make sure to inspect every slumbering human. No one’s awake. It’s still only me. After a time, my hands chafe and my feet start to hurt. I’ve been at this forever, and I feel heavy. I’m in cell number one-twenty-six now.

  In the distance, I see a faint orange glow.

  I’m all over it.

  Let’s go. Let’s go! I’m freaking now. For not requiring any sleep, I feel so exhausted, but strangely, it’s not physical; it’s mental. I pick up the pace—and practically start floating, I feel so light!

  Almost there. The glow is getting warmer. If you ask me, it looks suspiciously like a campfire. And I swear, for a moment I see something arching away behind it into the void—but then it’s gone.

  Cell one-thirty-one.

  One-thirty-two.

  One-thirty-three.

  The light is on above me. Palm slaps stone, I grasp the rock of the prow and before I know it, there are hands grabbing my forearms, hauling me up. I land, flopping, like a fish on the ledge, and look around.

  It takes a second, but I adjust my eyes to the roaring campfire. Through the flames, I see that I’m on an unusually long ledge jutting out of a cell the size of a 7-Eleven. And there are about thirty people staring in my direction.

  Told you I heard something in the Honeycomb, Lt.,” says a little boy with sandy hair and shocking green eyes. Three paces away, he has his hands tucked behind his back and is studying me inquisitively.

  The man he’s talking to—Lt.—is a mean-looking black man in desert camouflage and full Kevlar. He’s chewing on a stogie, the same as when he pulled me onto the ledge. The assortment of people behind him, collected around the blazing campfire, are eclectic, but almost half of them look like Tibetan monks in orange robes, sitting half-lotus.

  “Welcome to COP Phoenix.” Lt. proffers a hand.

  I squint, trying to gauge that I’m not actually hallucinating. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen people—real people, not sleepers. “COP Phoenix?”

  “Combat Outpost. Small base of operations. We’re establishing other COPs in the Honeycomb as we expand, but this COP is alpha.” His hand is still extended. “Name’s First Lieutenant Jackson, United States Marine Corps.”

  I’m not timid. I take it.

  “Strong grip.” Lt. nods in approval. “Good quality in a soldier.”

  I look over the people clustered around the campfire on the ledge and try to take it all in. Behind them, I notice a bridge with elaborate filigree rails which look like tree branches, arching off the side of the prow—and I’ve only just now noticed it, because one of the monks is strolling toward us, over its surface. In fact, I only see the bridge when I look directly at it; when I turn m
y head, it disappears. The glow of the campfire casts a pinkish hue over its cathedralesque facade as it spans the gap to the next chamber over. Focusing my eyes, I see another bridge beyond that—part of a network, it looks like.

  My thoughts catch up with me. These people are awake in here!

  “Probably thought you were the only one, did you?” Another man approaches. He’s tall and gaunt, with a garish look in his eye, and he’s dressed in an early-style 1900s English frock coat. “On the contrary. As you can see, there are plenty of us to go around.”

  “Plenty of Baselys, that is,” drawls a young woman with chin-length amber hair. A few of the people around the campfire snicker.

  “That’ll be enough now, whippersnapper,” says the gaunt English gentleman.

  “Cool it, you two.” Lt. puckers his cheeks in an odd assortment of twitches, and blows an astrolabe of smoke rings at them. “Let the girl acclimate.” He points to the English gentleman. “This here is Basely. The man’s always sour grapes, so don’t take it personally.”

  “So are all of them.” The amber-haired girl gestures to a bombshell of a redhead, then to a rapper-type decked out in silver, a businessman, and a dwarf in a three-piece suit with tails.

  “Eh-hem,” intones Basely. Tapping a foot, he eats me up with his eyes like I’m fresh meat—something he hasn’t seen in forever—and waits until he has my full attention. “Young woman, allow me to introduce you to my darling Jin-Jin, superstar Pop-Fizz—double “z,” Fizz—Benjamin, and Murphy the Short.”

  They all wave at me.

  The little boy who first spoke is having a conniption, and Lt. snaps at the crowd. “Would someone please escort Sebastian off the ledge before he chokes?” And two of the Tibetan monks usher the boy, giggling, across the bridge.

  “Basely is the lead personality,” whispers the amber-haired girl in my ear.

  Right now, I don’t know what the freak these people are talking about, but I don’t want to give myself away. Better to observe the situation first, then ask questions later.

  The amber-haired girl catches my look. “Basely has dissociative identity disorder. Multiple personalities. He doesn’t like anyone talking about it, though. Every one of his crowd is autonomous in the Honeycomb, with minds of their own. We even had them split up at different COPs for a while, until Tall Bill took a plunge off a ledge and vanished.” She puckers her lips. “By the way, never mention Tall Bill in Basely’s presence. It was an accident and he never came back. It wasn’t like when you go to sleep outside the Honeycomb in your Unconscious Mind. Tall Bill was more or less erased from existence.”

  “What’s the Honeycomb?” I venture, careful to conceal my awe of the eccentric people on this ledge.

  “You’re looking at it.” Lt. gestures wide-armed at the breathing universe of indigo-sapphire chambers and humans in stasis. He takes a knee, tucking a knife into a combat boot.

  “The Honeycomb is the Collective Human Consciousness,” giggles the little boy, who has snuck back across the bridge. “This is where we are all connected. Hi, I’m Sebastian.” He puts out a hand. “I’m not afraid to talk about what I am.”

  Tentatively, I shake it.

  “What are you then?” I ask.

  “I’m a cranky, ninety-four-year-old man.”

  The kid’s pulling my leg.

  “He really is,” asserts the amber-haired girl. “Ninety-four.”

  “We can’t send him on recon outside the Honeycomb,” adds Lt., dubiously. “Too risky. His body’s on death’s doorstep, but his mind . . .” He taps his temple. “Sharp as a tack. Sebastian never served in any wars before the invasion, though.” Lt. shoots the boy a critical look, and Sebastian smiles and bounces on his heels.

  A ninety-four-year-old man, I wonder. Then I think, wait. I have to remind myself that I’m not in physical reality here. This is totally interesting!

  “I’m Avril, by the way,” the amber-haired girl introduces herself. “And in case you’re wondering, I’m an intellectual monomaniac, and I’m usually obsessed with only one kind of delirious idea.”

  “Don’t listen to her.” Lt. waves her off. “Avril has plenty of good ideas. She’s one of my best.”

  “It’s different outside the Honeycomb,” Avril rebuts. “It’s the same as your schizophrenia, Lt. You always tell us what it was like fighting in the war in Afghanistan, battling hallucinations, and paranoia, and delusions and disorganized thinking in the desert.” Avril turns to me. “Lt.’s the de facto leader of this COP. He set it up. He organizes the missions. He’s the most clear-thinking person in the Honeycomb.”

  Self-satisfied, Lt. blows another ring.

  “And yet he still experiences six distinct states of consciousness,” Sebastian clarifies. “Not the typical three, as an aide memoire of his condition.” I clink my jaw shut; it’s so weird hearing an old man’s wisdom coming out of a little boy’s mouth. Especially mixed with the giggling.

  Lt. snorts. “Sebastian here has deduced that healthy human beings experience three states of consciousness. That’s Awake, Asleep and In-Between. But this group,” he gestures to the people on the ledge, “experiences at least four.”

  “Hence why we are each awake in the Honeycomb.” Sebastian grins.

  Lt. chews thoughtfully on his stogie and then takes a puff deep enough to turn an elephant green. “I’ve got six levels,” he says, eyes closed. “Great for recon.” Then his eyes pop open, and he rakes me, slit-eyed, with a stare so hot, it’s burning the hairs on the back of my neck.

  “Six,” he repeats. “Six! I can go six places: Collective Consciousness—that’s the Honeycomb. Unconsciousness, Preconsciousness, Transcendental, Alpha Wave and Waking Consciousness. Almost got caught once by the Grunge, poking around in Alpha Wave.”

  “The Grunge?” Now I’m really confused. “What’s that?” I can’t help myself. None of this talk about mental disorders and levels of consciousness is jiving. Acutely, I’m aware of that Pop-Fizz guy breathing down my neck, with his chains clanking together and his eyes lost somewhere behind his liquid shades. He’s pumping out a beat with his foot, trying to coax me into following.

  “Not ‘what.’ ‘Who.’” Lt. gives me a dark look, then, singsong, courts my understanding: “The Grunge, dammit! They’re the enemy. The body spoilers.” He fills me in.

  I raise a brow, trying not to freak. I think about the news broadcasts of the temples in Antarctica. “Those things in my house? That’s what they are?”

  “They came through a gateway the size of an atom,” confirms Sebastian. “And to think, all this time we’ve been expecting them to show up on the White House lawn and ask to be taken to our leader.” He winks at me. Then by way of an explanation, he continues, “They’re not extraterrestrial. Rather, they’re interdimensional. Incorporeal. Dr. Growlinger, that infamous scientist who was all over the news before our current—” He raises a brow. “—predicament, he was a colleague of mine. I told him not to thaw those pyramids. Some things are best left buried.”

  “Alien scum,” Lt. sneers as Pop-Fizz goes snapping away and steals that redhead, Jin-Jin, for a dancing partner. “Grungy! Mark me, they won’t be master of my body for much longer. The team, we’re awake, and we’re waking up others. We’ve launched a campaign. Pain is what they’ll feel, they want bodies so bad. The Grunge are going to wish they never crossed into the physical dimension.”

  I’m on the cusp of a revelation here. These people are awake in the Honeycomb, while billions of others sleep, and I think I know why. I’m just not sure exactly how.

  Squinting into the firelight, I study Lt., who has the perfect jawline for exuding that grim determination typical of a seriously misunderstood Marine.

  “What’s your name, soldier?” he asks me.

  “Janie,” I answer straight and flat. “Shouldn’t you be calling me a ‘recruit’? I mean, if you’re
recruiting people into your COP?” Just look at me, I think. I’m in a nightie! It’s so embarrassing. “How do you know you can trust me?”

  “Negative.” Lt. wags a gloved finger. “The day the Grunge seized human bodies, you were recruited. You have no ulterior motive. If you did, we would be able to see it. You’re in the Honeycomb. We can see into your mind. Literally.” He taps his temple. “If you posed a threat, you would have come amongst us looking a hellova lot different than a girl in a nightgown.”

  And before I can pop from how red I’ve just turned, Sebastian pulls on Lt.’s Kevlar vest and Lt. holds up a hand. Like night terrors, the two of them retreat into the shadows of the ledge and whisper heatedly with Avril, Basely and all of Basely’s personalities.

  Obviously, I’m the subject of debate. Kinda rude, you think? A hard lump solidifies in my chest—the first since I’ve been in the Honeycomb.

  One of the Tibetan monks from around the campfire tries to hand me something just then, and, distracted, I make to turn it down. But then I can smell it, steamy and rich, curling into my nostrils. A heaping bowlful of rice.

  Previous thoughts evaporating, I stare at it like it’s going to disappear.

  “Eat,” says the oldest of the monks, a twinkle in his eye. “Rice has no feet to walk away on.”

  I’m flummoxed. “I don’t understand. How did you get food?” I don’t see any silverware or chopsticks anywhere. The rice is sticky enough that the monks are eating it with their hands, scooping in mouthfuls with their middle and index fingers, like spoons.

  Then I think, who cares! The smell is so intense; I inhale the entire bowlful! And it’s only rice!

  Strangely, I don’t feel full. Only mildly satiated. One by one, I pop the last few grains into my mouth and curl them onto my tongue, savoring their flavor.

  “We recall our food,” replies the older monk, whom I gather is named “Lobsang,” based on how several of his companions are addressing him while they collect the bowls.