Paranormal Misdirection

by Dima Zales

  “It doesn’t matter what it looks like,” I say, knowing full well that if Ariel goes into her Batman-defending mode, we could be here a while. “The key is that I don’t die while wearing it.”

  The reminder of the perilous journey seems to bring everyone out of comic book worlds.

  “Let’s get you geared up,” Itzel says and readies the front of the suit.

  I let her clothe me. Despite all the extras, the suit still feels like a straitjacket.

  “Try lifting your hand,” Itzel says when I’m fully in.

  I do as she says. The motors whir and the joints creak—and my hand lifts much too quickly and easily for the effort I put in.

  Before anyone prompts me, I take a step.

  Just like with arm movement, the motors Itzel imbedded in the suit make my step unnaturally light and easy. Which is why I proceed to waltz around the lab like a hyperactive kid after a bag of cocaine-laced candy.

  “Wearing this all the time would make me lazy,” I say when I stop. “But I love it.”

  “Now that you’ve gotten acclimated, let’s get you to the gate,” Itzel says, beaming with pride. “I’m staying here so as not to mess with your powers.”

  Ariel and Felix walk me to the gate in the hub.

  I face it and do my best to get into the prerequisite mental state. But of course, knowing what happened the last time, convincing myself to want to step into that hellish place turns into a difficult project.

  It takes a good half hour before I enter Headspace.

  Hmm.

  The visions that surround me feel safe.

  Either I failed at my goal of convincing myself to walk into the gate, or I don’t die in this new and improved suit.

  Metaphysically shrugging my nonexistent shoulders, I touch the shape that looks most tempting and prepare for the worst.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  My steps as light as those of an astronaut on the moon, I prance into the bright yellow shimmer of the gate.

  When I get to the other side, the post-apocalyptic landscape is the same—decimated theme park rides and all.

  “Here goes another small step for a woman,” I can’t help but say as I walk forth.

  No one replies.

  The ground under my feet is once more covered with slime.

  The contraption around me glows faintly with the same energy as that of Itzel’s ball lightning. I guess it’s creating some kind of a force field around me—which is encouraging.

  I suck in spacesuit air.

  No strange odor this time.

  I breathe out as I walk. Step after step, I seem to be fine.

  The stats in my peripheral view are acting as they should: the outside is still toxic and radioactive, but there’s no penetration (Itzel’s choice of words, not mine.)

  Too eager for someone who’d recently fallen down and died in almost this exact spot, I rush for the gate that’s my destination… and make it all the way without any stomach pains or even getting out of breath.

  “Great,” I say out loud. “Let’s see if I survive whatever awaits behind gate number two.”

  I step into the next gate excitedly—

  “It worked,” I say as soon as I find myself back next to my friends. “I made it through without any issues.”

  They—and Itzel through the headset—pepper me with questions. I patiently describe the speed of my gait, the environmental readings, and even my mood as I walked.

  “What about the next Otherland?” Felix asks when the interrogation comes to a pause. “What did you see there?”

  “The vision cut out,” I say. “So I have no clue.”

  “Can you try again?” Itzel suggests in my headset. “Though I’ve made the suit pretty versatile, it would still be nice to be sure it can survive the next environment.”

  She’s right, so I try the whole rigmarole again, finding it much easier to convince myself to step into the gate this time around.

  Once in Headspace, I encounter nearly identical safe-seeming shapes as the last time—which is good.

  I zoom out to make sure to get a longer vision, but not so long as to give up my weekly supply of seer juice in one go.

  The jog through the toxic wasteland is as safe this time as the last, but the vision halts at the same point as the last time—just as I enter the next gate.

  “Maybe it’s hard to have a vision that spans too many universes?” Ariel says after I debrief them on what happened.

  “Assuming the Otherlands are universes,” Itzel mumbles under her breath. “For all we know, they could be planets in one very big universe.”

  “So what now?” I ask as we start walking back to the lab. “When can we head out on this quest?”

  “Well,” Itzel says, “if we consider the testing a success—which I guess it is—I can make more suits in a couple of days or so.”

  “Can you do it any faster?” Felix asks.

  “I don’t work well under stress and pressure,” Itzel says. “And when it comes to suits, you don’t want me to rush it, trust me.”

  “Agreed, no rushing,” I say. “Just please make one extra suit for when we rescue my father. He’ll need it to come back with us.”

  “Naturally,” Itzel says. “How does Saturday morning sound? Do you want to head out then?”

  “Saturday is good for me,” Ariel says as we enter the lab. “There’s not much going on at rehab on weekends anyway.”

  I take off my helmet and say, “If we have to wait until the weekend, can it be late Sunday afternoon? I might as well attend this week’s Orientation.”

  “That works out well,” Felix says without looking me or Ariel in the eye. “I’m having lunch with Maya this Saturday, and I’d hate to cancel on her.”

  I wriggle out of the suit and sneak a look at smirking Ariel. She’s clearly on the verge of making virginity-related jokes at either Maya’s or Felix’s expense.

  Felix must realize this too, because he gives Ariel a preemptive evil eye. “We’d better walk you to rehab,” he says. “This way, if Thalia tattletales to Nero about our outing today, and he challenges Sasha about it, she can pass his lie detector test.”

  “My deviousness is clearly rubbing off on you guys.” I grin. “Let’s go.”

  The trip through Gomorrah is as fascinating as every other time I’ve done it.

  It’s daytime, so the fire-and-brimstone-like nebula can’t be seen in the sky, but the sprawling and never-ending metropolis is just as glorious as it is at night.

  Maybe more so.

  The feeling of being in a living and breathing cyberpunk movie comes over me as we ride the self-driving futuristic car. Only in addition to using fancy technology and wearing futuristic garb, the denizens of Gomorrah also happen to be a wide variety of shapes, sizes, and colors of Cognizant.

  If Hollywood directors could travel through the gates, they’d shoot movies like Ghost in the Shell and Blade Runner right here—though I guess they’d need to hire more human-looking extras.

  “Thanks for taking me,” Ariel says, bringing me out of ogling mode. “I know it was to trick Nero, but it’s still nice.”

  “Not just to trick Nero,” Felix says. “That’s a bonus.”

  “We can come get you on Sunday.” I squeeze her shoulder reassuringly.

  “Nah,” she says. “Better if I meet you at the lab.” She looks around the rehab facility’s lobby. “We don’t know how long your excursion to get your father will take, but if we’re lucky, it might be as long as the trip here. If so, Thalia and Nero would be none the wiser.”

  “Since Felix doesn’t need to take the stupid limo everywhere he goes, he can come get you while I’m at Orientation,” I say. “I’ll just meet the two of you in the lab afterward.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Felix says. “Let’s do that.”

  Ariel looks happy too, so we hug it out and say our goodbyes.

  Gawking at all the Gomorrah wonders on our return trip, I decide that Hollywood
can shoot movies like The Fifth Element here as well. It wouldn’t take that much makeup to make elves, dwarves, orcs, and the like look like aliens—which is what they kind of are in any case.

  I’m so fascinated by everything that I’m a little disappointed when we reach the skyscraper with the hub at the top. But I have to go back. We wouldn’t want Thalia—and by extension, Nero—to get suspicious.

  When we return to Earth, we update Itzel on the final plan and have Thalia take us home.

  Then we fill Fluffster in on everything over dinner.

  “Are you going to work tomorrow?” he asks as we clean up. “I bet Nero will expect you to.”

  “I don’t want to, but I better.” I stick a plate into the dishwasher with so much force it almost cracks. “I don’t want to give him any excuses to interfere with our Sunday plans.”

  “That’s wise.” Fluffster puffs up his tail. “Now, how about we watch The Diamond Arm? It’s an old Soviet comedy that you can enjoy even if you predict its plot, as usual. Most importantly, your Russian is now good enough to understand it.”

  The next morning, instead of simply dropping me off by the building entrance, Thalia guides the limo into the parking lot.

  “Did he ask you to walk me to my desk?” I ask, eyeing her with suspicion.

  She shakes her head, a smile playing on her thin lips as she takes out her phone and types out:

  Nero wants us to resume your martial arts training.

  I cringe.

  She must notice that, because she types:

  If you’re uncooperative, he told me to tempt you with double work allotment.

  She winks at me and types:

  I’m happy to pretend you were uncooperative if you want.

  “Thanks.” I give her a wide grin. “I really appreciate that.”

  There’s almost a bounce in my step when we get to the mat in the gym.

  Thalia starts the workout less brutally than usual, but then she keeps amping it up until I’m sweating like a hyperhidrosis sufferer in a football mascot suit.

  In a banya.

  In hell.

  Still, I don’t mind the training today because of its therapeutic effects. I fantasize of punching Nero every time I hit Thalia’s mitts. Also, the longer the workout, the longer I don’t have to face him.

  When the floor is a slipping hazard due to my sweat, Thalia calls it quits.

  I shower and change, but instead of going to my office, I swing by the cafeteria and eat.

  Then, when I can’t postpone it any longer, I go to the top floor.

  Though I know he heard the elevator doors open—and maybe my frantic heartbeat, too—Nero doesn’t look up from his computer.

  Of course.

  Pretend like nothing’s changed.

  How mature.

  As I walk to my office, Jason—the Venessa replacement—looks up and gives me a friendly smile.

  I briefly contemplate flirting with him to see if that would get Nero to notice me, but decide against it. If by some remote chance, my flirtation makes Nero jealous, Jason could get fired. Or in a really extreme scenario, I might have to take another shower to clean off Jason’s shredded entrails—and that wouldn’t do.

  When I take too many showers, my skin gets way too dry.

  An email from Nero awaits in my inbox.

  I glare at him through the glass wall separating our offices, but he doesn’t look up.

  Squinting at the screen, I read the email.

  Nero wants me to research a few stocks.

  Fine.

  I do that until the computer screen is blurry before my eyes, and my stomach is rumbling. Then I email Nero my findings and check if that causes him to look up.

  Nope.

  Well, at least we can pretend he won’t see me leave early.

  Locking my computer, I head out with a confident stride.

  Using the concept of a shiner from my bag of card-cheat skills, I sneak a peek at Nero’s office in the reflection of the elevator.

  He still isn’t looking my way.

  Jason, on the other hand, is checking me out with inappropriate-for-work appreciation.

  Which might be why he isn’t there when I walk in the next morning.

  In his place is the kindest-looking old lady I’ve ever seen.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Barb.” I shake her gnarly hand. “I hope you like it here.” I look pointedly at Nero, but his nose is in his screen yet again.

  When I get to my desk, an email requesting more stock research is there, as expected.

  After I tire of working, I go into Headspace and check on Vlad. I find him still fighting at that arena place.

  If he’s still at it in a few months, I’ll have to figure out a way to help him grieve in a less violent manner.

  Somehow.

  I resume researching stocks, then use my visions to drop in on Kit—and instantly regret it.

  There’s getting an eyeful, and then there’s what I saw.

  Leaving the vision, I clear my throat and shoot a guilty look at Barb and Nero. I feel like that guy who gets caught watching porn at work.

  Apparently, Kit and Lola will have an epic time in a bathtub in the near future. Kit will sprout not one, but four tentacle-like phalluses, and Lola will find the most creative uses for each of them.

  Poor Kit. She’s clearly going to end up back in rehab if this continues. I wish I could help, but I wouldn’t even know where to start.

  For the rest of the day, I act like a perfect employee and even stay late.

  Nero doesn’t look up as I leave, nor when I come back the next morning.

  The rest of the work week is uneventful—that is, until I get an email from Nero at 4:59 p.m. on Friday, just as I was about to head out.

  I need you to research the attached list of stocks for my Monday morning conference.

  “Seriously?” I shout, staring at him through the glass wall.

  He’s looking at his monitor as usual.

  “You realize you’re asking me to work on the weekend?” I say out loud.

  Why is he doing this to me? Is there really a conference, or does he want to keep an eye on me during the weekend? Or—and this is scary—has he gotten a whiff of my weekend plans and is trying to thwart them this way?

  Could Kit have blabbed about the map? Did Nero sneak some surveillance equipment into my life again?

  No. If he knew, he’d lock me up in the basement instead of using subtlety.

  Maybe.

  Another email hits my inbox.

  Do this for me, and I’ll clear the rest of the work allotment you owe me from the other week.

  Mumbling curses under my breath, I open the list of stocks.

  It’s about a day and a half worth of work—which isn’t that bad of a deal for the ungodly number of hours I still “owe him.”

  Okay. I’m on it, boss, I write back.

  Then I notify Felix that I’ll be home late and decide to pull an all-nighter in order to make sure my Sunday remains free.

  A few stocks later, around 7:00 p.m., Barb offers to get me some dinner—an offer I gratefully accept.

  After getting the food, she looks at me and Nero, shakes her head disapprovingly, and leaves for the day.

  I eat the fried goodness she got for me and work tirelessly on the stocks.

  At midnight, I begin to think Nero isn’t going home today either.

  By morning, I know it for sure.

  Does he always work all night on Fridays, or is this a special occasion?

  I pause for breakfast, get myself enough espresso to kill two zebras, a giraffe, and a horse, then keep working with bleary eyes and a sour feeling in my stomach.

  I can’t help but notice that Nero doesn’t break even to eat—unless he snuck a meal of something like an energy bar when I wasn’t looking.

  By mid-day Saturday, I’m finally done. I email the results of my research to Nero and prepare to go home to pass out.

  Another ema
il arrives in my inbox as I get up.

  I’m almost afraid to look, but like the proverbially deceased cat, I can’t help myself.

  Come to my office, the subject of the email says. My heart rate spikes, and I read the actual message.

  We have to talk.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  He knows.

  The horrific idea circles through my mind, over and over.

  When I see him, he’ll lord the information over me, then lock me up in the basement cell until the Kobe cows come home to drink their beer and enjoy their massages.

  I take in a deep breath, then another.

  When I’m calmer, I realize I have a way to know what he wants without actually going into his office.

  Of course.

  I can have a vision of what happens if I go.

  If he really intends to lock me up, I can try to run for it—though how I’ll make it out is anyone’s guess. Even if I make it to the elevator, he can pull that trick of already being downstairs, like the day when he fired Venessa.

  I close my eyes and seek Headspace.

  That I succeed is a testament to how good I’m getting at this process. With almost no effort at all, I find myself floating among shapes in the very next moment.

  And the shapes around me are majorly frightening, which is odd. Is Nero planning to cut off my feet instead of merely locking me up in a cell?

  Bursting from morbid curiosity, I reach out to the scariest shape and fall into a vision.

  As I walk to Nero’s office, I’m reminded of the venerable pirate tradition of forcing their victims to “walk the plank.”

  When I enter, Nero doesn’t even look up at first.

  When he finally raises his head, his blue-gray eyes are devoid of any hint of emotion.

  I know whatever he’s about to say is bad news. There’s no doubt about it now.

  Time seems to slow.

  He says, “That can never happen—”

  I stagger back. He knows. Somehow, he found out. He’s going to prevent me from—