Prologue

Running. I am running for my life. That much I know as my silver stiletto boots clink a rapid, repeating staccato beat against the metal floor. But where am I? Who’s chasing me? And, most importantly, why?

I have no idea.

Run faster. Run harder. Run from the moon.

A strange voice echoing through my brain seems to mock me as it begs for speed with an urgency I can’t comprehend. Endless demands competing with my own frantic thoughts, skitter across my brain like a dog’s claws on slick linoleum.

Where am I? Run faster. Who’s chasing me? Run harder. And why? Run from the moon.

But there is no moon. The corridor is black, skyless, deep underground. And I’m already running as fast and as hard as I can.

I suck in a breath and take in my surroundings—trying to think, to process, to find a shred of familiarity in the dark steel beams crisscrossing the black ceiling, the mammoth fans cut into the walls every few feet, expelling hot, sour air that my already burning lungs struggle to accept. It all seems so familiar and yet at the same time completely foreign. Like a déjà vu pricking at the dark recesses of your brain, or a name on the tip of your tongue— the one you always remember at three a.m., when it no longer matters.

Except, this time I think it might still matter. And three a.m. may be too late.

“Don’t let her reach the hatch!”

My heart slams against my chest as I realize my pursuers— whoever they might be—aren’t far behind. Sweat pools in the hollow of my throat, then drips down, soaking my breasts. My muscles burn, my lungs refuse to take in air, I can barely swallow and my vision has gone spotty. Soon I’ll have to stop. To take a break.

But to stop is to die. That much I know. And so I keep running.

I turn a corner and my bleary eyes catch sight of a ladder in front of me, embedded firmly into the wall, a potential salvation ascending into the darkness. Where does it go? Could it lead to the hatch my enemies seek to keep me from? To stop and check it out will eat up valuable time—time I don’t have. But I have to take a chance. I can’t run forever.

I throw myself against the ladder, wrapping my hands around each rung as I climb. Step after step. The ground falls away, and with it the dim tunnel lighting and soon I am engulfed in blackness.

A few seconds later I bang my head against something, almost falling off the ladder from the impact. I steady myself then reach up with one hand, fingers exploring the ceiling until they come upon a latch. More frantic exploration reveals a handle. There’s definitely some kind of trap door.

“Up here! Get her!”

I hear feet pounding against the metal rungs as my pursuers start up after me. I don’t have much time left. Wrapping my hand around the trapdoor handle, I yank on it with all my might. This is my one chance to escape.

It doesn’t budge.

I pound on the door, my heart exploding in my chest as I realize that I likely have precious seconds to live. Surprisingly, my life does not flash before my eyes—in fact, I’m still having difficulty remembering any life at all. Who I am. What I do. How I got here into this mess.

Run from the moon, the mysterious voice in my head demands.

“Shut up,” I mutter, tired of its useless advice.

The first man reaches me, paws at my feet through the darkness. “We’ve got her!” he cries. And indeed, it seems he has.

Not willing to give up without a fight, I slam my foot down on his hand, the stiletto heel driving into his palm. A crunch of bone. A yelp of pain. I repeat the blow, then follow up with a wild kick to where I estimate his head to be, all the while clinging to the ladder for dear life. I don’t miss. Knocked off balance he loses his grip, falls backward, and hurtles screaming down into the blackness. A sickening thud, followed by silence, tells me he’s likely met his maker below.

But his death is not enough to save me. The second guy is right behind him and much more prepared for my alley cat tactics. There’s a flash of light—a crimson laser cutting through the darkness—then a sharp, icy pain spreading through my ankle, shooting through my veins at a lightning pace, reaching my toes, my fingers, my brain simultaneously. My grip loosens, my head swims, my muscles fail. At first I fear he’ll just let me fall, hurtle down to the earth below. But my attacker grabs on and starts dragging me down the ladder.

Not good.

At the bottom, the men flip me over so I’m lying on my stomach, spread-eagle on the ground. I can’t move at all, my body is Jell-o, my muscles completely useless.

But I can see. I can hear. I can feel.

Three men kneel above me, armed with some pretty scary- looking tools, including something that looks like a high- tech electric syringe, complete with gauges and lights and a really long needle. I’m not sure what it does, but I know for a fact that I don’t want it done to me.

The first man reaches into his bag and pulls out a small silver box. He presses his thumb against the top. The box beeps and flashes a green light, then pops open, revealing a vial of some sort. He presents the vial to the man with the syringe, who takes it and sticks the long needle inside, sucking up the unidentified contents. The syringe beeps in approval and a few green lights flash in sync.

“Are you ready, my dear?” the man with the gun asks, his lips curled in a sneer. He’s big, built like a soldier and sporting a trim gray beard. He’s wearing a shiny metallic belted uniform reminiscent of Michael Jackson’s costume in Captain Eo.

“Please!” I beg, not thinking for one second that anything I say will make a difference, but at the same time desperate to try. “Just let me go!”

The men laugh, shake their heads in mirth. “Oh, you’ll go all right, Mariah,” replies the second guy. He’s smaller than the first, but no less menacing. “Pow!” he quips. “Straight to the moon.”

They grab my arm and flip it over. I watch helplessly as they stab me with the syringe, injecting silver liquid into my unwilling veins. I scream and scream and scream, knowing it will do no good. Knowing that there’s no escape.

Like it or not, I’m going to the moon.

Chapter One “Skye, Skye! Wake up!”

The voice seemed a thousand miles away as I clawed through the blackness, struggling to regain consciousness. After a few futile attempts, I managed to pry open my eyes and shake off the nightmare’s iron grip.

“Ah, she rejoins the living. Welcome back,” Craig teased, having no idea of the hell I’d just been through. He lay back down on his side of the bed, evidently satisfied he’d sufficiently fulfilled his duty as a boyfriend by waking me, and that he felt justified to go back to his own much more peaceful dreams.

I rubbed my eyes and sat up in bed, taking in my surroundings, still trying to catch my breath. My eyes sought and focused on the familiar: The slightly battered four-poster bed, draped with my aunt’s homemade quilt. My ragged teddy bear Melvin, strewn to one side. My antique bookcase against one wall, crammed with well-worn fantasy epics I couldn’t bear to throw away. My prized Alienware computer, souped up to run the latest and greatest videogames. And, of course, my framed movie posters on the wall—Star Wars, The Matrix, Blade Runner. I smiled a little as Luke, Neo and Deckard all glowered down at me, as if daring me to claim my nighttime adventure was more hellish than their everyday realities.

I took a breath and plopped my head back down on my pillow. My closet of a New York apartment, the one the realtor called “cozy” in the way only realtors can get away with while keeping a straight face, for once actually did evoke a feeling of comfort and warmth.

I was home. I was safe. I was me again.

“Wow, that was the worst one yet,” I remarked to Craig, in the rare hope that he was still conscious. There was no way I was going back to sleep now, and it would help to have someone to talk to. Not that Craig was the greatest of listeners, but he did have a knack for responding with a grunted “mmhm” at appropriate pauses in the conversation.

“Yeah?” he asked, for once going above and beyond.

“Yeah. I can’t remember all the details. I mean, you know how dreams are. But it’s like I’m running down this underground corridor, fleeing for my life. Someone’s chasing me, but I don’t know who—or why, for that matter. And then they inject me with some kind of drug. But the weird thing is it’s, like, not exactly me. It’s almost as if I’m someone else…”

“Were you naked?” Craig queried, rolling over on his side to face me, his green eyes dancing mischievously.

I swatted him. “No!”

He laughed. “Too bad. Here I thought this was going to turn out to be some really great sex dream. Like the one I was having with Scarlett Johansson before your screams woke me up.”

I grimaced. “Uh, thanks for sharing your nocturnal infidelity.”

“No, no,” he corrected with a smile. “You were there, too. And amazingly enough, you’d just agreed to a threesome. Damn shame I woke up when I did, actually.”

I forced a chuckle, but it sounded more like a sigh. I knew he was just trying to cheer me up. To make me feel better. Normally it would probably work. But after night upon night of horrible nightmares and little actual rest I was at my breaking point. Irritated, frustrated, and oh-so-tired. It was no wonder his light-hearted manner only succeeded in annoying me.

“Look,” I said, “I know it sounds funny, but when I’m dreaming it all seems so real. And when I wake up, I’m… terrified.” I choked on the word. Great. The last thing I needed was for him to see me cry. I was supposed to be tough. The cool chick. In control of every situation thrown my way. And here I was, crying like a baby over a stupid dream.

Can we say, loser?

Craig’s face softened, the way some guys’ faces do when the girls they’re sleeping with turn on the waterworks. Maybe he figured he could soothe my vulnerability and get some action at the same time. But lovemaking was the last thing on my mind. In fact, since I’d started having the dreams, I’d pretty much lost my sex drive altogether. Poor Craig. He’d selflessly gone without for nearly a month now. Who could blame him for trying to take advantage?

I allowed him to grab my hand and pull me into a hug. But just as I’d resigned myself to settle into his arms, he shoved me away again. “Ew, you’re all sweaty,” he complained, wiping his hand on his boxer shorts. So much for the comfort of a lover’s embrace.

“Fine. I’m going to take a shower,” I muttered, accidentally on purpose kicking him as I crawled out of bed. I headed to the kitchenette to pour myself a cup of yesterday’s leftover coffee. I didn’t care that it was ice cold or tasted like tar. It had caffeine; that was all that mattered. “And then maybe play some RealLife.”

Craig groaned, grabbing a pillow and throwing it in my general direction. It fell short, landing on my unswept floor with a soft plop. I made no move to pick it up.

“You know, staying up all night with your little games can’t be healthy,” he lectured.

I narrowed my eyes. Little games? That was my livelihood he was talking about. At age twenty-four, I was the youngest game designer at Chix0r, the world’s first all-girl run computer gaming company. The launch of our massive multiplayer online game RealLife was scheduled to happen in two weeks, and it’d been hyped by Wired magazine as the biggest thing since World of Warcraft.

Little games, indeed.

“How about you take your shower and then play some real, real life instead of your virtual version?” Craig continued. “You know, maybe do your ‘sleeping quest’ tonight so that tomorrow you can be awake enough for your ‘work quest’ chain?”

“Hardy, har, har. You’re so funny.” He was always teasing me about that—implying that I considered my real life a series of quests, just like a character would in a videogame. Accomplish one goal, get your reward, move on to the next. Level up day by day in the game of life. In a way, he wasn’t far off the mark.

“Look, I can’t go back to sleep,” I said, forcing back my annoyance and focusing on his suggestion. I mean, what good did it do to justify my career to him? He was a techno DJ for chrissakes. “I’m afraid I’ll have another dream.”

Even from across the room, I could see him rolling his eyes. “They’re just dreams, Skye,” he said slowly, as if addressing a child. “They’re not real.”

“They might as well be.”

“Look.” He sat up in bed. “I wouldn’t worry about them. Unless you start seeing Freddie Kruger wielding some terribly creative weapon of dream destruction, then you’re not living Nightmare on 72nd Street, and you will be fine.” He chortled to himself, evidently pleased by his wit.

“Whatever,” I replied wearily. “I’m going to take that shower.”

In the bathroom I switched on the light. The realtor had described my apartment as having a marble bath and Jacuzzi tub. I assumed the marble was the cat’s eye marble a past tenant had stuck in the window to plug an old bullet hole, and the tub did bubble when the plumbing failed and spurted out used bathwater from the neighbor downstairs. You had to love New York.

I turned on the shower and crossed my fingers. I had about a fifty-fifty chance of hot water at this time of night. In the morning, those odds would go down to about twenty- eighty. But hell, I only paid $2,100 a month for the place. What did I expect?

I caught my reflection in the mirror. This no sleep thing was definitely affecting my looks. Dark, puffy splotches circled my eyes. An unsightly zit had made itself at home on the tip of my nose. My once stylish shag cut stuck out in all directions like straw from a scarecrow. In short, I was a mess.

Suddenly, my breath caught in my throat, which was constricting and making it nearly impossible to breathe. Argh. This was the last thing I needed tonight. I’d had asthma since I was a kid and sometimes it got pretty bad. Especially in stressful situations. I reached into the drawer under the sink and pulled out my inhaler. Putting the device in my mouth, I released a dose of Lunatropium into my lungs. Recently I’d been trying to cut back on the amount of times I used the inhaler each day and had been learning to control my breathing through yoga instead. But tonight seemed like a good time to give myself a break and let modern medicine lend a hand.

After my shower—there was hot water, thank god—I toweled off and headed back to the main room of my apartment. Changing into clean pajamas, I sat down at my computer desk. I glanced over at Craig. He’d fallen back asleep and was sure to be out of it until at least noon. As a DJ, spinning nights at a Lower East Side club, he was entitled to spend his mornings dead to the world while the rest of us sorry humans put in our Starbucks orders and jockeyed for positions on the subway.

Not that I didn’t like my job. It was just with the lack of sleep I’d had, these days it was harder and harder to stay awake for it. I was pretty sure my boss had begun to notice my sudden drop in performance, too. Not good. Because Foosball table, creative dress code and free Diet Cokes aside, 21st-century dot-coms like mine were downright traditional when it came to clocking in and working hard.

I logged into the server and selected my game character. I was doing beta testing for the soon-to-be-launched RealLife, checking for bugs and other errors before it was distributed to the general public. The post-apocalyptic virtual earth I’d created was practically empty now, inhabited only by computer generated characters and myself. But soon it’d be alive with avatars from all over the world, players logging in to live a virtual existence, creating characters to fight digital monsters, competing for epic weapons and armor, and forming lifelong friendships with fellow gamers.

For now, though, it was empty and mine to explore. An escape from all that plagued my reality. I loved it in there. It was a haven, a solace.

From my 21-inch monitor, my game character “Allora” looked back at me impatiently, probably wondering why I wasn’t moving her. As an all-girl company Chix0r had gone one step further than the traditional guy-centric games like World of Warcraft or Everquest, where the player characters were flat and static and did exactly what you told them. Our characters had their own personalities, their own artificial intelligence built into their codes. Sort of like if you could put The Sims in chain mail and give them swords. So while you could control your character’s movements and direct his or her career path, you couldn’t make them do things they didn’t want to do. They wouldn’t fight if you didn’t feed them first. They’d refuse to accept a quest if they were tired. They got lonely if you didn’t socialize them, and angry if someone did them wrong. Sometimes they were scarily like real people.

“Okay, fine, Allora. Let’s go to the pub,” I whispered, moving the mouse to direct her to the local tavern. “We’ll get you a beer.” For beta testing purposes we’d temporarily sectioned this virtual town off from the rest of the game. Luckily, Allora had no idea there was a world outside her city. To her, the outskirts of Mare Tranquilitatis were the ends of the earth. A bit sad, really.

I sat her down at a table and bought her a beer. She raised her glass and drank, blissfully unaware of her own plight or her operator’s exhaustion. So innocent. So happy. So content. If only I could join her there—crawl into my computer, immerse myself in my virtual world and block out my reality.

But that was just another dream. I took a big slug of coffee. In the end, it was much better to be awake.