But then my reckless heart warms to the idea. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ve already survived the vault of dreamers. I’ll kill before I let that happen to me again, and if I fail at killing, if I still end up being mined, I’ll do what Thea did and escape that way. I flick on my flashlight and venture into the tunnel.
Clingy, ragged webs drape the walls and ceiling, and random leaves crinkle underfoot. This stretch of tunnel is old and decrepit compared to the tunnel I traveled when I was still a student. I cast my flashlight beam before me and hurry up the slope of the tunnel, never looking behind me. When I reach the dusty glass walls at the bottom of the clock tower pit, I breathe a small sigh of relief. Familiar territory. I hurry the last length of the tunnel, to the door that leads to the elevator under the dean’s tower.
There, finally, I stop with my hand on the knob and wait, listening. Stillness expands around me, filling my ears like cotton. I turn off my light, and in the absolute darkness, I slowly open the door. Not even an exit light glows in the landing area. I turn on my flashlight again and scan the elevator, the counter area, the glass that separates me from the vault of dreamers. I know nothing is behind the glass. Thea told me so. Yet I feel images tugging at the corners of my mind: sleep shells glowing with their blue light, and children’s pale, haunting faces under glass domes. This was where Gracie lay dreaming with her teddy bear. I’m a few paces from the room where I was first mined for my dreams, and the dark power of this hangs in the air, making it difficult to breathe.
A shimmer of nightmare draws me irresistibly to the vault’s door, and I’m compelled to open it. I smell the vinegar, and something like tweed, as if Berg was just here. My beam trembles as I cast it around the empty room, and a shifting noise answers. Heart in mouth, I shine my light toward the sound, and a baby mouse runs wildly along the baseboard. It angles through the corner and vanishes into a crack. My light meets the door to the operating room. That’s where it started. That’s the place.
I’ll die if I go in there, I think. What’s left of my brain will liquefy into black silage and run out my nose, and I’ll be dead.
I swallow thickly and back out of the vault. I press the button for the elevator.
“Come,” I whisper.
When a scratching, rubbing noise, as faint as a whisper, comes from the vault behind me, I can’t tell if it’s the mouse or if I imagined it. My lungs contract with fear. The elevator doors open, and I step in gladly, wincing at the brightness. A rush of relief makes it easier to breathe. I push the button for the sixth floor, and my stomach dips as the elevator begins to rise. With a last reflexive shiver, I brush off my jacket and put my flashlight in my pocket. I can do this. I will win.
The doors slick open, and I step into the landing. I peer around the corner to a large, unlit room. This is where the techies work by day. Rows of desks and monitors gleam faintly in the darkness and descend toward the windows. I’ve been here once before, when I eavesdropped on Berg, but now the lowest corner, where Berg sat, is empty, and I tread softly in that direction.
I dial Burnham.
“I’m here,” he says. “Show me.”
It’s pretty dark, and I have a shoddy disposable phone, but I turn the lens to the room so he can see what I’m seeing. I slide into the seat where I once saw Berg working, and I’m hit by misgivings. This computer doesn’t look any different from the others in the room.
“He had special projection pucks when I saw him before,” I say. “I can’t believe I didn’t remember until now.”
“It’s all right,” Burnham says. “Put the peg into the computer before you start it up. We’ll know in a second if it has what we want.”
It’s tricky to find a port in the dark, but I do and slip the peg in. “Okay,” I say, and turn on the computer.
The screen seems dangerously bright. I quickly dim it down to the faintest setting. It’s a blank green rectangle, with no text or icons. It doesn’t even have a type box. My heart sinks.
“It’s broken,” I say.
“Just wait. Don’t touch the keyboard or the screen,” he says, and softly, I hear him typing in the background. A minute later, the screen comes alive with a watercolor scene of a dock at a lake. It’s about the last thing I expected. Then I recall that Berg likes to paint.
“Burnham?” I say.
“Hold on.”
I hear more clicking. The image shimmers, and with a reverse-dissolve effect, four icons appear around a silver circle, like the points of a compass.
“Good,” Burnham says. “Pick a direction. Go ahead. You can touch the screen now.”
“West,” I say, and touch the left-hand icon.
Up comes a spreadsheet listing names, ages, blood types, and other medical information. Half the codes I don’t understand, but I can see it’s a ton of information.
“Are you getting this?” I whisper.
“I’m copying it now,” Burnham says. “It’ll take some time. You said you saw maybe sixty dreamers in the vault under the school?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a lot more people listed here,” he says. “A way lot more.”
“Should I wait or can I click back?” I ask.
The screen splits in half, with one half showing a shrunken version of the files he’s copying and the other half showing the main icon compass again.
“Go ahead,” he says.
I try the east icon, which takes me to an informal scratch pad of blue ink handwritten on a white board. Very retro. A bunch of equations with letters, numbers, and honeycomb symbols reminds me of science class. Burnham hums pensively.
“Can you tell what he’s brainstorming?” I ask
“It’s chemical compounds,” Burnham says. “This looks more like he was explaining something to somebody. It’s practically scribbles on a napkin. Let me check something.” His typing goes again, and up comes a new series of equations in another box. “I don’t know what this means,” he says. “He’s got the chemical compound for a common over-the-counter sleeping pill.”
“Does your company sell it?” I ask.
“I’d have to look into it. We sell a ton of different meds,” he says. “See what else is there.”
I try the north icon.
At first, I think I’ve found a color wheel, the kind I’ve used to pick out a hue for a presentation project, but as I scroll over the wheel, different boxes expand upward toward me, and each box shows a different image that is predominantly the color in the wheel. A yellow dragon flies against an orange sky. A black castle melts into a gray sea. A roiling flash flood of blood and bones barrels through a slot canyon. I gasp.
“Do you see this?” I ask.
“Yes. Each file takes over 4G of memory,” he says. “There must be thousands. I can’t possibly copy them all.”
“Are they dreams?” I ask. “Were they all mined?”