4: What Bunny Lady, Sweetie?

  SHIP TIME: YEAR 1, DAY 1 or 366 Days Since Capture

  Neil Howe had always prided himself on control.

  Control over his trades - knowing when to buy or sell. Control of his image. Control over his habit. He'd seen real addicts. He knew what that looked like as he stepped over them, walking into silver towers of commerce. He wasn't like that. He just needed a bump before important meetings or marathon trading sessions; something to take the edge off the constant, grinding pressure of being perfect.

  It was under control.

  Except now, standing in the bathroom of his apartment, staring at the empty baggie in his trembling hands, Neil realized that control had been an illusion.

  The baggie had been in his jacket pocket when the light took him, along with his phone, his wallet, and his keys to his apartment. He'd rationed his stash for almost a year. One bump every few days, to keep the edge from becoming a chasm beneath him. Karen's Valium and booze had helped bridge the gaps. But the baggie in his jacket was found money, and he'd gotten greedy.

  Now it was gone.

  Neil looked at himself in the mirror. His reflection looked back: dark skin ashen, eyes bloodshot, hands shaking so badly he could barely hold the empty plastic. He hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours.

  The rational part of his brain - the part pushed him to succeed - tried to assert itself. You can handle this. It's just withdrawal. Physical symptoms. They'll pass.

  But the rest of him, the part that had been using cocaine to paper over the cracks for the past five years, was screaming.

  He needed more. Had to have more. Karen. He was sure Karen had some in reserve. After all, he'd seen her and Chad sharing a joint weeks ago. Neil's hands slammed against the bathroom counter. The crack echoed in the small space. His reflection looked wild, desperate.

  It was under control.

  Karen Blackstone's mansion was the kind of place Neil found beautiful, but cold. All white or black furniture, abstract art, clean lines, a flash of colour here and there, and the faint scent of expensive candles.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said. His voice sounded too loud, even to himself.

  Karen stood there in silk pyjamas that probably cost more than his first car, looking confused and half-asleep. “Neil? It's the middle of the night.”

  “I know what time it is. I need-” He stopped. Tried to organize his thoughts, but they kept scattering like marbles on tile. “You have any more…I need just a little more. Karen. You’ve got more, something to help…”

  Understanding dawned on her face. Followed immediately by something that looked like pity, which made Neil want to break something.

  “I don't have cocaine,” she said. “I had some when I first got here, but it’s gone.”

  “Where is it?” Neil pushed past her into the house. “Where'd you put it?”

  “Neil, I used it months ago. It’s gone.”

  “You're lying.” He was in her living room now, looking around wildly. “You probably have a stash. Rich people always have a stash!”

  “I'm not lying!” Karen's voice had an edge. “I had maybe an eight-ball when I got here. I used it up already. There's nothing left.”

  Neil spun to face her. “Nothing? You had nothing else?”

  “Some pills. Xanax, Ambien. But I used them, and they’re the one thing that hasn’t been replenished. We’ve got lots of weed, but-”

  “Bitch, please! I’m out of coke! I just need a little something to take the edge off. To help me taper down properly. Going cold turkey is dangerous!”

  “Bullshit.” That was Chad, emerging from the hallway in boxer shorts and a t-shirt. “Cold turkey from coke isn't dangerous. Uncomfortable as hell, but not dangerous.”

  “How would you know?” Neil snapped.

  “Fifteen years as a cop. Seen plenty of people detox.” Chad moved to stand next to Karen, arms crossed. “You want to get clean? We'll help you. But we're not giving you more drugs.”

  The rational part of Neil's brain knew Chad was right. The rest of him wanted to punch the smug Australian in his face.

  “I don't need your help,” he said. “I need…”

  The room tilted. His knees buckled, and suddenly he was on Karen's expensive white carpet, hands pressed against the pristine fibres, trying to remember how breathing worked.

  “Shit,” Chad muttered. “Karen, get some water.”

  “Don't!” Neil tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't cooperate. “I'm fine. Just lightheaded.”

  “You haven't slept in days,” Chad said. He was kneeling now, one hand on Neil's shoulder. “Have you eaten?”

  “I don't need food. I need some fucking coke.”

  “You need to detox properly,” Chad interrupted. “Come on. Let's get you to a couch.”

  Neil wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Chad to fuck off, tell Karen to find her stash, tell his own traitor body to get its shit together. But he was so tired. So fucking tired. And the room wouldn't stop tilting.

  He let Chad half-carry him to the couch. Karen brought water he couldn't quite coordinate drinking. They talked around him like he wasn't there, making plans, organizing, taking control because he'd lost it.

  It was under control, he thought one more time, right before his consciousness grayed out at the edges.

  It was under control.

  SHIP TIME: YEAR 1, DAY 3

  Ian found Neil the next day at 4:00 AM. Ian couldn't sleep. Every wasted minute here was hours passing for everyone he'd left behind. He'd been walking when he heard the shouting.

  Neil was in the middle of what they'd started calling the Plaza; shirtless and waist-deep in a flowerbed, digging frantically with his hands. The few people who'd been nearby had backed away, uncertain.

  “Neil,” Ian called out. “Hey, Neil!”

  Neil spun toward him, eyes wild. “We need to dig our way out!! We can get out, I know it, we have to dig!”

  “There's nothing there,” Ian said, keeping his voice calm. He'd seen and experienced panic attacks before. But this was different. This was worse. “We always hit that solid flooring about a metre down, remember?”

  “NO! We haven’t dug deep enough!” Neil lurched forward, stumbling on the edge of the hole he’d dug. “I know it! Dig! We can dig our way out-” He stopped, steadying himself. “I need to get out. Need to-”

  He rubbed his hands together frenetically. Ian moved closer, hands up in what he hoped was a friendly gesture.

  “Okay, let's just…step out of the hole, yeah? Take a break.”

  Behind Ian, more people were emerging. Samir, looking rumpled and confused, Jing, and Maureen in running clothes. Apparently, Ian wasn't the only one with insomnia.

  “Withdrawal,” Maureen said quietly, coming up beside Ian. “How long?”

  “He came to Karen's place two nights ago,” Chad answered. Ian hadn't heard him approach. “Said he was out of cocaine. We've been trying to keep an eye on him, but he left his place tonight when I was in the bathroom.”

  “You didn’t think to tell us?” Maureen’s tone was scolding.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Neil let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scream. “You think you're helping? You're all helping them! All of you, following their rules, eating their food…” He stepped out of the hole and spun in a circle, addressing the growing crowd. “Don't you see? We're the experiment! We're the rats in the maze!”

  “Neil,” Samir said, his calm biologist voice cutting through. “You're experiencing withdrawal. The paranoia, the irrationality. They're symptoms. They'll pass.”

  “FUCK YOUR SYMPTOMS!” Neil charged at Samir, hands reaching for his throat.

  Ian moved without thinking, putting himself between them. Neil's momentum carried them both to the ground, Neil's fists swinging wildly. One caught Ian's cheekbone, sending stars across his vision.

  “Someone! Stop him!” Karen was shouting.

  Chad grabbed Neil from behind, trying to pin his arms. Neil thrashed, stronger than he should have been, fueled by whatever cocktail of fear and withdrawal was flooding his system.

  “Get off me! GET OFF OF ME!”

  A fist connected with Chad's jaw. The Australian cop stumbled back, and Neil scrambled to his feet, looking around wildly for an escape route. His gaze landed on Jing, frozen with her tablet, and something in his expression shifted to predatory.

  “No,” Ian gasped, still on the ground. “Neil, don't-”

  Neil lunged toward Jing.

  And Ian's mouth, always running faster than his brain, blurted out: “Fuck’s sake, someone sedate him!”

  The words hung in the air for half a second, and time seemed to slow down.

  Then came a sound Ian had never heard before: a sharp thwip, like compressed air releasing.

  Neil jerked mid-lunge. Looked down at his shoulder, where a small dart had suddenly appeared, its tip buried in his skin. His eyes went wide.

  “What the-”

  His knees buckled. He dropped like someone had cut his strings, hitting the pavement with a sickening thud.

  “NEIL!” Karen rushed forward, but Maureen got there first, fingers going to his neck, checking his pulse.

  “He's breathing,” she said. “Pulse is steady. He's just unconscious.”

  Ian scrambled to his feet, heart hammering. “What the fuck just happened?”

  A metallic sphere descended from above. Maybe basketball-sized, its surface reflecting the streetlights. It floated down with impossible smoothness, no visible means of propulsion, until it hovered directly over Neil's unconscious form.

  The crowd backed away as one.

  The sphere extended what looked like a small appendage: sleek, mechanical, precise. It grasped the dart in Neil's neck and withdrew it in one smooth motion. Then it rose, dart held delicately, and simply... left. Floating upward until it disappeared into the darkness above the streetlights.

  Silence.

  “What,” Jing finally said, “was that?”

  No one answered, because no one knew.

  Ian looked up at the dark sky. His cheek throbbed. His hands shook.

  “Something's listening,” he said quietly. “Something heard me say that… and did it.”

  “We need to move Neil,” Maureen said. “Get him somewhere safe. Samir, check him over.”

  “Whatever it was,” Chad said, “it worked fast.”

  They moved Neil to the clinic. Ian stood outside the clinic, staring up at the sky.

  Something was watching. Listening. Understanding context, sarcasm, and colloquial speech. And it would intervene and sedate someone from a distance with perfect accuracy.

  “Ian.” Samir's voice pulled him back. “Your face. You're bleeding.”

  Ian touched his cheekbone. Blood on his fingers.

  Samir examined the cut. “Actually, this doesn't look as bad as I thought. The bleeding's already slowing.”

  “Great. My one talent: rapid clotting.” Ian tried for humour, but it fell flat. “Samir, what just happened? Something heard me. Something understood and acted on it.”

  “I know.”

  “So, what is it? Aliens? A monitoring system?”

  “Does it matter?” Samir met his eyes. “Whatever it is, it's watching us. Listening to us. And now we know it will intervene.”

  “To stop violence,” Jing said, exiting from the clinic. “Neil was attacking people, and something... something stopped him.”

  “Which means,” Lisette said, joining them, “we have parameters. Rules we're expected to follow.”

  “Is Josie okay?” Jing asked.

  “Yeah, the noise woke her up. I got her back to bed. What do you mean, rules?”

  “Rules, or direct intervention,” Ian said. “Think about it. We've been here for… what, a year by our time? And this is the first time something has directly intervened. Why now?”

  “Because Neil was going to hurt someone,” Chad said.

  “Or a control measure,” Lisette countered. “They sedate anyone who steps out of line.”

  “Neil wasn't just stepping out of line,” Samir said. “He was genuinely dangerous. If this were Earth, we'd have called 911.”

  “Except we didn't consent,” Ian said. “I made a sarcastic comment, and something took it seriously. This isn’t the only thing they’ve been doing to keep us docile.”

  Samir held up a hand. “We're all tired. Scared. This incident has shaken us. I suggest we table any discussion until we've had time to think clearly. Right now, we need to focus on Neil.”

  “If he wakes up,” Chad muttered.

  “He will,” Samir said. “The sphere withdrew the dart. That suggests the sedation was temporary.”

  “We hope,” Jing added.

  They dispersed slowly, people drifting back to their replica homes. Ian found himself walking with Samir, neither of them quite ready to be alone with their thoughts.

  “What was that? Alien or an alien AI?” Ian asked. “The thing that's listening?”

  “I suspect mechanical over biological. AI is a broad term,” Samir said. “Could be anything from sophisticated monitoring software to genuine consciousness.”

  They reached the street where their houses sat: Ian's house and Samir's McMurdo quarters, side by side in the impossible geography. The streetlights cast long shadows. Above them, the dark sky revealed nothing.

  “Get some sleep,” Samir said. “Your face is going to hurt like hell tomorrow.”

  “Already does.” Ian touched his cheekbone gingerly. The bleeding had stopped completely. “Thanks for checking it.”

  “Of course.” Samir hesitated, like he wanted to say something else, then nodded and headed toward his door.

  Ian watched him go. He lifted his gaze to the fake sky as it shifted from night toward dawn. “I didn't mean it,” he said quietly to the fading darkness. “Not really. I was just scared.”

  No response. Not that he expected one. But he felt better having said it anyway.

  Inside his home, Ian lay in his bed and stared at his ceiling, listening to the too-quiet night. His cheek throbbed. His mind raced. And somewhere a few houses away, Neil Howe slept the drugged sleep of forced detox, unaware that his withdrawal crisis had just proven they weren't alone.

  They'd never been alone.

  SHIP TIME: YEAR 1, DAY 5

  Neil woke forty-seven hours later.

  Ian was there when it happened. He'd been taking shifts with Chad and Karen, making sure someone was present when Neil came around. Maureen had examined Neil thoroughly, declared his vitals stable, and predicted he'd wake within two days.

  She'd been right.

  Neil's eyes fluttered open. Focused slowly on Ian sitting in the chair beside the bed.

  “Hey,” Ian said softly. “How're you feeling?”

  “Like shit.” Neil's voice was hoarse. “What happened?”

  “You don't remember?”

  “I remember...” Neil's forehead creased. “Running. Screaming. Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Ian. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. You were sick. Withdrawal-induced psychosis.”

  Neil closed his eyes. “I hit you. I remember hitting you.”

  “Yeah.” Ian touched his cheekbone, still tender but healing faster than it should. “You did.” He then leaned forward. “Neil, something happened after you hit me. Something... intervened.”

  He told Neil about the dart and the sphere, how it seemed to have responded to his throwaway comment. Watched Neil's face cycle through disbelief, fear, and acceptance.

  “So, something heard you,” Neil said finally. “Heard your request and sedated me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it still listening now?”

  Ian glanced at the ceiling. “Probably.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Then Neil laughed; weak, but genuine.

  “That's the most fucked up thing about all this,” he said. “Not that we're on an alien ship. Not that time runs faster for us. No, it’s that something's listening to us every second and we just... keep talking.”

  “What else can we do?” Ian asked. “Stop talking? Live in silence?”

  “No. I guess not.” Neil struggled to sit up. Ian helped him, adjusting the pillows. “Huh. The withdrawal. It's gone.”

  “What?”

  “The symptoms. The craving. It's...” Neil looked down at his hands. Steady, no tremor. “It's gone. Like it was just... turned off.”

  “The dart. Whatever was in it, it didn't just sedate you. It-”

  “Fixed me,” Neil whispered. He looked down at his hands. No tremors. “I don't know how, but I can feel it. I'm clean.”

  They stared at each other, the implications enormous.

  “It can heal us,” Ian said. “Whatever's watching, it has medical technology beyond anything we have on Earth.”

  “Which means,” Neil said slowly, “if it can heal, it can probably hurt. It could kill us just as easily as it saved me.”

  “Yeah.” Ian stood, pacing. “But it chose to save you. It could have let you hurt yourself, hurt others. Instead, it stepped in.”

  “This time,” Neil cautioned. “Doesn't mean it will next time.”

  “No,” Ian agreed. “But it's data. It's something. It's-”

  A sound from the doorway made them both turn. A little girl stood there. Josie, Lisette's daughter. Her dark eyes were huge, her small hands clutching a stuffed rabbit.

  “Hi Josie,” Ian said gently. “Are you looking for your mom?”

  “I had a dream,” Josie said. Her voice was small, uncertain. “About the metal bunny lady.”

  Ian exchanged a glance with Neil. “What bunny lady, sweetie?”

  “The one who lives in the walls. She has long ears and pretty fur, and she watches us.”

  He felt the reassuring smile on his face freeze. “Did she... did she talk to you?”

  “No. She just watches. And sometimes she's sad.” Josie clutched her rabbit tighter. “Why is she sad?”

  “I don't know,” Ian said honestly. “Josie, can you tell me what she looks like? This bunny lady?”

  “She's tall. Blue or brown fur. She’s got a metal suit like Iron Man. Taller than Mama. And her ears go like this…” Josie held her hands at the sides of her head, sticking straight up. “But sometimes they go like this-” She moved them to point sideways. “When she's scared.”

  “When was she scared?”

  “When Mr. Neil was yelling. I saw her watching high up on one of the buildings. She sent the silver ball down to make him sleep.” Josie's eyes were starting to water. “She didn't want to. But he was going to hurt people.”

  Neil had gone very pale. Ian knelt to Josie's level.

  “It's okay,” he said. “The bunny lady, she helped us. She kept everyone safe.”

  “But she's still sad,” Josie insisted. “She doesn't want to be here either. She wants to go home, too.”

  Lisette appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath. “Josie! I told you not to wander off-” She stopped, seeing her daughter's face. “What happened?”

  “Just a bad dream,” Ian said smoothly, standing. He caught Lisette's eye and shook his head slightly. Not now. Tell you later.

  Lisette hesitated, then scooped up Josie. “Come on, Mija. Let's get you some breakfast.”

  As they left, Josie looked back over her mother's shoulder, directly at the ceiling.

  “Bye, bunny lady,” she whispered.

  Ian and Neil stood frozen until the footsteps faded.

  “A four-year-old,” Neil said finally, “just gave us a clue?”

  “She saw something. Maybe because she’s a kid. Kids don't filter the way adults do. Or something let itself be seen by her,” Ian finished. A thought flittered through his head: How do I know that?

  “What do we do with this information?”

  Ian looked up at the ceiling, at the space where something might be listening, might be watching, might be a tall bunny lady with ears that moved when she was scared.

  “We remember it,” he said. “And we wait. Because sooner or later, whoever, whatever is listening...”

  “Might want to talk back,” Neil finished.

  They were right.

  Except it would be years before they heard her voice.