I Am Falling

I am falling, toward a white light.

"Commander, wake up. They're here." One-decibel words deep in my ear, translated from touchpad, maintaining silence.

They're here. Time to get ready.

I open my eyes to total darkness.

As I stand up someone brushes against me, rushing to very quietly deposit one last bag of urine in the pail by the back wall.

Suddenly there's a light under the door, brilliant, startling. We are all standing now, all breathing silently, hearing the main room slowly fill up. Ideally we'll have them all inside, and nice and relaxed—maybe even sitting—before any of them think to check the storage room.

Hands on your weapons, men, stretch your muscles (but don't let a single joint crack, if you value your lives). Adjust to the light as best you can, it's still going to be blinding when—now footsteps approaching deep silent breaths and wait until the handle turns and the door just begins to open before I shove it open hard, sending the girl flying backwards, and we step out with our guns in front.

Almost ideal—must be at least two dozen here. And total silence. As ideal as one can realistically hope for.

Blake—I know him from pictures—steps forward, with his hands above his head. "We will offer no resistance."

You might as well, you poor deluded fuck, I think, meeting his eyes for a moment.

"Kill them all," I say.

Some run, right then. But most of them don't. Most just stand there, hands in the air, as though they have no idea what "kill them all" means.

I pick a face and fire.

Now they start to run, the ones who haven't fallen. Now chaos begins; anticipation of chaos ends. As trapped rodents will, they attack with their teeth and their claws.

"Don't kill him!" I shout at the trooper I see taking aim at Blake's head. He obediently lowers the barrel of his gun and shoots Blake in the leg. Blake is thrown back, by the guard or the force of the charge—falls back hard and rolls and lands practically at my feet, and I smile and aim my weapon at his head and look down at him.

He has a gun. Pointed up at me.

I'm not afraid.

He fires.

The charge tears into my shoulder. I scream—the pain is beyond imagination.

He fires again.

My eye explodes, and everything goes white.

***

I am falling, toward a white light. Weightless, spinning, falling.

Insect voice inside my ear. "Commander, wake up," it says. "They're here."

I open my eyes, and it's still just as dark, and my heart momentarily races. I'm blind. Blind. I touch my eye—it's still there, whole; the phosphenes flash.

Feel my shoulder, elbow, arm. Intact. A few pins and needles, but otherwise fine.

Fine time to dream. What if I'd actually screamed?

I know I wouldn't.

I stand, and someone brushes by to put his piss in the pail. Place his offering ever so gently on top of the heap of sealed bags, some old and cold, some still warm—two and a half days, six men, I keep thinking I smell it, but they're sealed airtight start to finish, and anyhow there's chemical stuff in the air to kill our smell—I doubt it would actually be noticed above the perpetual background stench of cycling dome air, not until it was too late—but it's little things that can make all the difference.

Suddenly there's light, under the door, jangling the optic nerves. Stare at it, men, accustom your eyes as best you can, before one of them thinks to check—now, footsteps approach, and I flex my muscles (but don't let a joint crack) and force myself to wait until the handle turns, until the door is just starting to open, and then I shove it, hard. The girl goes flying backwards, lands on the floor, stares at us, too terrified to make sense of it.

Blake steps out of the silent crowd, with his hands raised above his head. "We will offer no resistance," he says.

I meet his eyes for a moment. Then turn to my men. "Kill them all," I say.

Some of them understand. Run. But most of them don't. Hands still in the air, they just stand there. One young girl in the middle in an ugly brown smock—her parents ought to learn to mind their children—just stands there and stares straight at me. Wide brown eyes.

I shoot her in the chest.

Then they understand—the ones still standing.

Then it's chaos.

Blake is struggling hand-to-hand with one of my men. "Don't kill him!" I shout at the trooper taking aim at Blake's head—he lowers his gun and shoots a leg instead. Blake screams. It hurts, yes, I know. I've dreamed of being shot.

He falls back, rolls over, comes to rest almost at my feet.

As in my dream. Deja vu. I look down at him.

He has a gun, pointed up at me.

He fires. I scream, as the charge tears through my shoulder. The pain is so much worse than anything I ever could imagine.

Deja vu.

He fires again.

***

I dream I am falling toward a white light.

"Commander. Wake up. They're here."

I stand, and someone brushes by me, to make a last-minute deposit in the urine bank.

I glance toward the door, and as I expected, on cue, there's suddenly light pouring in underneath it—that particular blue-white sub-basement light, that makes everything look so cold. My left hand feels cold.

Ready your weapons, men, and yourselves. In absolute silence.

My left shoulder aches, and I should have pissed when I had the chance.

The handle turns, and the door begins to open.

"We will offer no resistance," Blake tells me, hands above his head.

Yes you will, yes you will, yes you will, you lying fuck.

Keep calm. Don't let him get the gun.

"Kill them all."

Some of them understand, and run. But most of them don't. Most just stand there with their hands in the air. Alphas playing revolution, but obedient at heart. This one young girl staring straight at me, her brown eyes wide. Wondering if this is a dream, I imagine. She ought to be at home in bed asleep.

I shoot her square in the middle of her ugly brown smock. And then the room erupts in chaos. Everything so quick and random. But most of it doesn't matter. Just don't let him get the gun.

I see the trooper taking aim at his head, but I say nothing. After all, if Blake dies, I can't be held directly responsible. We were all ordered not to kill him. Not my fault this one forgot in the heat of the moment—

But one of the little mice tackles him just as he's about to pull the trigger, and the shot goes low, hits Blake in the leg. Blake falls backwards, and rolls, and comes to a stop very near my feet.

"God, god," I say. I don't even look down.

He fires.

***

I am falling, toward a white light. I am afraid.

"Commander."

I am afraid. Not of dying.

"Wake up."

Not of dying. Of the pain.

"They're here."

Yes. I'm afraid of the pain.

I'm not a coward. I'm not afraid to die. I have not previously been afraid of pain, either—but this—I remember it a bit more clearly each time. Dread it a little bit more each time. And how many times has it been now?

I stand up carefully, rubbing the numbness from my arm. Someone brushes against me.

I urinate—manage to finish just as the light comes on, under the door. Timing. That's why I'm the boss, boys. Set the bag on the floor.

Kick the door open the very instant it might be beginning to open, send the girl sprawling flat on her back. Step out all like black death in the watery morgue light.

Blake steps toward me, with his hands above his head. "We will offer no resistance."

"Yes you will." I raise my gun, and shoot him dead. Against orders. End of my career, at the very least.

My men stare at me. Their orders too.

"Kill them all," I say. And turn away. Put the muzzle of my gun in my mouth. Quick and very nearly certain. It's not death that I'm afraid of, it's the pain.

Behind me, the room erupts in chaos.

I take a deep breath, and pull the trigger, one more time.

***

I am falling, toward a white light.

"Commander, wake up."

I clench my fists.

"They're here."

As I rise to my feet, someone brushes against me. On impulse, I stick out my foot and trip him, so that he falls forward, knocking over the pail, making a terrible noise, and the reek from burst bags fills the room, odour-absorbing chemicals or no.

"What was that?" asks a voice outside the door.

"It came from the storage room," another says. "Everybody stay well back while I check." Closer now. "Back. In the corridor. Everyone ready to run."

"No, don't chance it." That's Blake. Loud and clear. "You all know what to do."

We give chase, but they're gone without a trace, like mice.

I turn to the man in the telltale urine-soaked uniform. "Per, you idiot, I ought to fucking execute you right here and save the price of an inquiry—"

"Someone tripped me, sir," he says.

I roll my eyes. My two good eyes. "Come on. Who here would do a thing like that?"

It feels unbelievably good to be out of that basement. Now things will proceed as they ought to, I tell myself. No idea why. Vague notion that the way out in such situations is to make some change of the sort I've made—save lives, whatever the price—that kind of stupid sentiment.

Feels all right even to be back at base, filling out reports, choking on my pride—yes, I confess, the plan, my plan, went wrong, too ambitious, too inflexible. I have learned. I will be more reasonable in future.

Break the pen in two.

By afternoon I've completely convinced myself that it was a particularly vivid dream—perils of sensory deprivation—over now. I'm getting ready to leave.

"Commander Travis?"

Don't recognize the voice, so I don't bother to look up. "Yes?"

"Would you come with me, please?"

I look up. It's Major something I can never remember, and two troopers. With their visors down.

"What for?"

"We have infrared cameras, idiot." He grins. "If only your leader was as stupid as you."

"My leader?" And even as I say it I know who they mean, and what they think. Hand on my gun, under the table. Bastards.

The major nods. "Come, please."

I tilt the barrel of my gun up toward my chin, but one of the escorts knocks it aside.

"There'll be plenty of time for that later, Commander. After you've answered some questions."

I'm afraid.

I fight. Swinging wild, all teeth and claws. So they'll have to kill me.

The major sighs heavily. "Sedate him." Needle in my left arm, my valuable left arm, paid for with my honour, my career, and I am falling toward the white floor—

***

I am falling toward a white light. Which seems brighter now than it did before, if no warmer.

"Commander, wake up. They're here."

If I were standing I'd fall to my knees. Thank you.

Someone brushes past as I stand, and I stick out my foot and trip him. And again the rebels hear.

And again, we give chase. But again, they're gone.

Still feels good to be out of the basement. But back at the base it's uncomfortable, trying to remember exactly when they came, estimating how long before that they knew. I rush through the reports, pride swallowed, digested, throw them at the people who want them, and run. "I'm going out. I'll be back in a while."

I know a bit about Blake, you see. At a certain intersection, I turn left, not right, and find myself shortly standing just inside an unguarded dome exit.

Perhaps stepping outside the dome is what breaks the spell.

In any case, there's nothing inside for me now. I open the door. Walk out.

It's pretty much the same. Just bigger. An infinite room, with one wall. I force myself to step straight out into the space.

And soon enough there are walls of sorts—trees, technically, but if you squint—or better yet, stare at the ground. I forge on.

"What are you doing out here all alone...Commander?"

I jump, spin around. At least I don't scream. The young girl in the ugly brown smock. She's got a weapon trained on me. Unsophisticated, but sufficient.

"You're one of Blake's," I say.

"She is," he answers, behind me. "And you are?"

I turn to him. "I was in the storage room. I was the one who gave us away. They've got infrared cameras, though, of course, so that's it for my career."

"How tragic," he says, sardonically.

"I saved your life," I respond.

"Yes." His eyes meet mine. "Why?"

I swallow. My shoulder twinges. "I had a vision," I say.

Which suffices, it seems, for them to lead me the rest of the way through the forest to the camp. There's a fire, and the rest of his followers are gathered close around it. All look up when they hear us approaching. Two dozen faces, and I've shot each one at least two dozen times, all staring at me with justified mistrust.

He feeds me. Flatbread, roast meat—I don't ask what—and a sweet warm wine. And they stop staring, eventually. Drift off one by one to their bedrolls and tents.

"So you're only here," Blake says, "because you can't go home." And passes me the wineskin. The sky's gone black, and the forest. Half a dozen left around the fire by now.

"Basically, I suppose," I say.

"So you have no ideological reason to rebel."

"No. But I have no ideological reason not to."

He looks me up and down. "Frankly, you don't seem the sort."

I smirk. "I can get new clothes."

He nods. "We'll see. Ella, keep watch."

Over me, he means.

The girl in the brown smock nods.

I am falling asleep staring into the fire—Ella with her eye on me and her fingers tight white around my gun. Animal sounds, yellow dancing fire.

***

I am falling, toward a white light.

"Wake up, Commander."

Oh hell.

"They're here."

Trip him. Listen to them scatter. Chase them. Turn left not right. This door not that. Like a children's game, where the list gets longer and longer.

At least this time I know where to expect her.

"Hello, Ella," I say.

She jumps, spins, puts her hand to her heart. "Do I know you?"

I look around. "Where's Blake?"

"Who's Blake?"

I brush past her. "I can find my own way."

She trails me all the way to the camp. And again he gives me bread, meat, wine, and only much later bothers to question me.

"I had a vision," I tell him.

"What sort of vision?"

Gives me pause, I admit. "I thought I was caught in a time loop," I say. "Living the same day over and over again, until I could determine what was needed to set things right."

His eyes meet mine for a moment. "I think you still believe you are...caught," he says.

I don't answer.

"I won't attempt to dissuade you. I'm just curious—why do you assume there's a teleological vector to your, ah, time loop?"

"What?"

He smiles, condescendingly. He's overeducated, undertrained. "Why assume anything you can do will break the cycle?"

"It seems as reasonable as not."

"Seems egotistical, to me." He pokes at the fire. "The whole world, the whole universe waiting for you to set it right..."

Ella smiles.

I shrug. "Maybe it's only stopped for me."

He nods. "I guess we'll find out tomorrow. Ella, keep watch."

She nods.

I fall asleep staring into the fire.

***

Falling toward a white light.

"Commander, wake up. They're here."

Initiate program of subversion, treachery, desertion. It would make me sick, if I still paid the least attention. But I don't. It's all automatic, by now.

"What are you doing out here all alone, Commander?"

"Looking for you, Ella. Looking for Blake."

And as usual Blake quizzes me. And I do my best to answer truthfully. I still hope there might be some tiny thing I'd missed.

And then I'm alone, except for Ella keeping watch. Animal sounds. Eventually I speak. "It's a great effort, coming here, every day. There's so many steps I have to take, to get this far, and I know in a few hours I'll have to start over again."

"I know it's hard. It's very hard. But you're not alone. I know Blake's not the army, but still, you're not alone."

"It's really in your best interest to try and convince me that all of that effort is worth my while." I jab at the fire, warm yellow hypnotic, it bids me sleep. "Otherwise, you're usually the first one I kill."

She raises her eyebrows, and her fingers tighten on the barrel of my gun. "Is this some sort of psychotic seduction technique?"

Poke at the fire again. "And then he kills me," I say.

She smiles. "It's good to know I'm so quickly avenged."

"You think it's a game. All you Alpha fools. Right up to the moment the charge hits your chest—you still think it's a game."

She looks at me a long time, silent. Eventually I open my mouth, to say—I have no idea. "And why do you think it isn't a game?" she asks.

I rub my hands together, stretch them out toward the fire. "I've felt my arm torn off, my eye shot out, a dozen...hundred...times. What kind of game is that?"

"But you've told me, you always start over unharmed the next day."

Push my hands closer to the flame. Palms uncomfortably hot, now, but the rest still cold. Grind my teeth. "That makes it so much worse. I always thought, if nothing else, at least I could only die once."

She has come close, and now smiles down at me. "You're mad, mister Travis," she says.

I look up. "I suppose so," I say.

"I'll tell you what, though." She runs her fingers very lightly down the side of my face. "If you can get to tomorrow, I'll be waiting." She touches her thin dry lips to my forehead. "Tomorrow, I might be inclined to make all the terrible trouble of getting here worth your while."

And she smiles, and turns and goes off to her bedroll, takes my gun with her, leaves me staring into the fire. I ought to have brought some stimulants, I think. Next time, next time. No. The spell must have been broken now. There will be a tomorrow. Look. Lives saved. And now a kiss. Yes. The spell must be broken, now.

And I slide smoothly into dreaming, staring at the fire.

***

I dream am falling toward a white light, which is blinding bright, but as cold as the dark.

"Commander, wake up." One-decibel words in my ear. "They're here."

I stand up. Someone brushes against me in passing. I let him creep unimpeded to the pail.

All the rebels entering the main room—light under the door burning bright white as the sun after two days in the dark.

Blake steps forward. "We will offer no resistance."

I meet his eyes for a moment. He looks tired. I think he knows very well what the answer will be.

As do I.

Look away.

"Kill them all."

Some understand, and run. Most of them don't. Most, like the girl in the ugly brown smock, just stand there. Hands in the air. Staring at me.

I aim at her chest—try to make it as quick as possible.

And the chaos starts. And the forgetful trooper is taking aim at his head. "Don't kill Blake," I tell him. He points the gun lower. Shoots.

And Blake falls back, and rolls, and lands at my feet. I look down at him, this time, for a change.

I drank wine around the fire with you. Or maybe that was someone else. Philosophy. Alpha stupidity. I snort, or start to.

He fires.

I do my best to savour the sensation as the charge tears into my shoulder. Try to tell my body that the pain will be gone in a minute, at least for a while. Still hurts as much as it ever did, though, and I still scream. Long and loud, until he fires again, and my eye explodes, and everything goes white.

And then I am falling, again.