This morning, Proto took a left turn out of his room again.

  The last time, he’d meant to explore a bit and find an alternate route to the lounge. Instead, he’d gotten lost, run into Dahlia, seen the Shadowcaster in action, and ended up skipping his visit that day.

  As it happened, he ran into Dahlia again today—this time, quite literally.

  He was rounding a corner, lost in thought, when abruptly a robed figure with a book in front of her face stood inches away. He managed to stop, but, rapt as she was, she plowed right into him.

  “Oof!” cried Dahlia, bouncing off backward and dropping her book in surprise. She blinked at the sight of him. “Spunky, that was uncalled for! Behave yourself.”

  Feeling the full-bodied impact, Proto was reminded just how much shape was concealed by her shapeless robe. It made the pain a little pleasant.

  “Well, anyway, don’t just stare at me dumbly.” She brushed a tress of long blonde hair off her face. “Pick up my book for me like a proper gentleman. Or, at least, your best impression of one.”

  Leaning down to lift the book, he read the cover: The Taming of the Shrew and Other Elizabethan Comedies.

  He smiled involuntarily. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was getting. One of the few literary courses he’d taken at his university was on Shakespeare. And this was one of the plays he’d read.

  “Your book, mademoiselle.” He held it forth with a bow and flourish.

  “Well, you tried, anyway,” she acknowledged languidly, flipping back to the proper page.

  Then, she paused and looked at him. “Do you think I’m a shrew?”

  “You, like Kate?” he replied, drawing on what he remembered of the play. “No, I don’t see it.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him. Then, she removed her monocle. “Good! I think I have a little of her in me. But I do try to bury her deep.”

  “No, you’re more a Viola or Rosalind,” replied Proto, mustering up the only two names of Shakespearean comedy heroines that came to mind.

  “Well, now you’re just being nice,” she replied, tilting her head at him thoughtfully. “But, more importantly, I’m beginning to think you actually know your literature. Last time, I’d thought you’d just gotten lucky.”

  “No, not for some time now,” he said.

  Her lips quirked up. “Behave yourself!” she repeated, bonking him on the head with her book. “There’s that shrew for you.”

  “That’s at least the fourth time your books have banged me,” he noted, rubbing his head. “Talk about hard-hitting stories.”

  “True,” she tittered. “Hard-hitting stories and powerful characters, I tend to fall for.” She smoothed her rumpled robe. “Anyway, best learn your lesson and avoid a fifth time!”

  “I’ll try, but I’m not sure how much I’ll remember after this concussion.” He patted his skull.

  She pursed her lips. “How could I help make this lesson more memorable?” Her blue gaze glimmered over a playful smile, framed by her long blonde hair. Clusters of white flowers bloomed starkly against her black and red robe. Its looseness concealed what lay beneath, save the start of cleavage showing at the V of her neckline. “Maybe you’re not a book learner?”

  He blinked and considered how to reply.

  “Ah, there you are,” called a man from down the corridor—Mayger, Proto now saw. He was wearing a Steve McQueen bomber jacket, tasteful and understated, but his hair was in a pink pompadour.

  Dahlia sighed and glanced skyward. “Searching for me, were you?”

  “Not even slightly,” replied the slender man.

  “Ouch,” frowned Dahlia. “Really now.”

  “I’ll be overseeing our provisional visitor’s visit today.” Mayger gestured toward Proto. “Astrid is busy helping Somnus with something.”

  “Still? Seems like she’s busy half the time with something or other,” said Proto.

  “I hope you’re not too disappointed with the substitute.” Mayger spread his arms forth winningly.

  “He may wear leather, and spike his hair entirely too often, but he’s a softie deep down.” She patted Mayger on the pompadour. “He’s just compensating.”

  “All too true,” sighed Mayger lightly.

  “He lets it show in his pink hair and his forgiving evaluations,” Dahlia went on.

  “All too true,” the man repeated.

  “You guys do evaluations of me?” asked Proto.

  “Well, he does. And so does Astrid, Powers have mercy on you,” said Dahlia. “There’s a Kate for you!” she added in a murmur.

  “I don’t know any Kates here, but we should be getting to that dream,” responded Mayger. “Sooner it’s done, sooner I can go watch Grease.”

  Dahlia wrinkled her nose. “Philistine. Please don’t let it influence your wardrobe too much.”

  “Too late,” replied Mayger.

  “Well, I’m all dressed and ready to go.” Proto patted his blue, gold and white tracksuit with the Saturn logo.

  Dahlia scanned him up and down. “You really ought to mix it up a little. How about a chiton? Do you have a chiton?”

  “As long as you don’t wear that robe Somnus gave you,” said Mayger. “I’ll give you a leather jacket if you promise never to wear that robe.”

  “I’ll accept the jacket, as long as you don’t borrow his hair dye,” Dahlia told Proto.

  “Do you have blue dye?” asked Proto.

  Mayger shrugged and pursed his lips in thought. “That can be arranged—”

  “That settles it. I’m going to join you on this visit,” Dahlia broke in. “It seems someone needs to supervise the supervisor. Blue dye!” She shook her head grimly.

  “You can join our visits too?” asked Proto. “I didn’t know that was possible. Or allowed.”

  “It is if I allow it,” said Mayger. “But giving a provisional visitor an audience is usually a bad idea. Best to avoid unnecessary pressure.”

  “Pressure?” retorted Proto. “I’m like braised brisket—best under pressure.”

  Dahlia scoffed a laugh out.

  “So, come supervise!” Proto entreated grandiosely. “As long as you don’t mind watching me fail miserably.”

  “Not at all, Braised Brisket! I could use a good laugh,” she replied.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “There’s that Kate again.” He wagged a finger.

  “Indeed. Rather shrewish of me,” acknowledged Dahlia grimly. “But who knows? Maybe you won’t fail utterly and lamentably. Maybe . . . you’ll get lucky!” Her eyes sparkled like the bare sky.

  “Well, I’ll allow you to come then,” said Mayger. “But who is this Kate? She sounds like Karen only meaner. Should I avoid her?”

  “Meaner than Karen? Not possible,” Proto was about to respond.

  Then, he realized Mayger was referring to “Karen” in the abstract, and not to Proto’s first major girlfriend, Karen Black. She’d won him over, head over heels. In more than one way, she’d been his first.

  Then, a few weeks into their relationship—when he’d been midway through making her a mixtape summing up his feelings for her, as one does at that time in life—he’d found out she’d told the world she’d only pretended to like him so he’d give her a Muse concert ticket.

  That was the extent of Proto’s experience with teenage romance.

  “Avoid her? Probably, unless you want a bruised head,” he replied instead, rubbing his skull again.

  “I always wear protection.” Mayger patted the pomaded pink solidity atop his head.

  “You would,” said Dahlia. “Anyway, shall we? All this foreplay is killing me.”

  “Come!” Mayger waved ahead and strode down the misty blue hallway.

  “That’s more like it. Straight to the action. In medias res!” declared Dahlia to Proto. “What can I say, I have classical tastes.”

  “I could tell by your toga,” replied Proto.

  “I told you, it’s a chiton.” She banged him on the head again with her book.

  “Now I’ll definitely need that help remembering,” he mused, rubbing the location of his second bruise.

  “Focus on your visit, Sir! I’ll be watching closely.” She donned her monocle and winked. “Also, remind me to get you a chiton.”

  Then, she lifted her book and resumed reading as they walked. Somehow, she managed to follow Mayger without once looking up until he turned to a sliding white door and tapped it.

  The door slid open, and Mayger waved Proto onward. “After you.”

  Nodding, Proto started to head inside the mirky corridor, then paused. “Anything I should know before we go in?”

  “Probably,” shrugged Mayger. “But don’t ask me what. I wasn’t there for the shadowcasting. I’m just the substitute.”

  “Perfect.” Proto advanced into the grey passage.

  “Oh. It’s that one!” he heard Dahlia call from outside the passage. Her voice sounded vague and faraway, almost like he was underwater. “Well, won’t this be interesting!”

  He wanted to turn around and ask what she was talking about. But, even now, he was crossing the threshold into the dream realm, and another voice was intruding on his attention.

  “They’re saying the invasion will come next week, you know.”

  Proto felt momentarily bleary and disoriented, like he’d just awoken from sleepwalking and found himself in an unfamiliar room of an unfamiliar house (which, indeed, had happened to him once).

  Specifically, he stood in a small dining room with a quaint Victorian table and sideboard. Seated at one of several exquisitely carved chairs was Yemos—Proto’s boyhood friend, who had lived down the road on Cherry Blossom Lane.

  Proto generally had seen Yemos every month or two. The man always had weathered the years well—he’d barely looked a day older in his mid-twenties than at eighteen, apart from his neater hair and increased musculature.

  So it was puzzling and disquieting for Proto to see a man with Yemos’ face looking almost forty, with hints of grey along his dark brown temples. Some lines of care showed on his forehead. His elbows were resting on the table, and his interlocked fingers were in front of his face. He was wearing a mildly futuristic military uniform.

  It occurred to Proto that there was nothing stopping a dreamer from imagining himself older than he was. It certainly was no more farfetched than imagining oneself as a starship commander or a fairy.

  And, given how Dahlia had reacted—“Oh, it’s that one!”—he felt sure that Yemos must be the dreamer. She’d seen him in the Shadowcaster, after all.

  “But you’d already heard that, I’m sure,” Yemos went on, looking up from his brooding.

  Proto searched for a response. The problem was, he not only didn’t know the question’s context; he had no idea who he was in this dream. Looking down, he saw that his hands were worn and thickly muscled. He also was wearing a military uniform similar to Yemos’.

  Proto looked over his shoulder. There was no trace of Dahlia or Mayger.

  Well, he’d just have to ad lib for now. “Yes, not long ago,” he nodded. He pulled a chair and sat down.

  “If I were you, I’d leave the city by tonight. Gonna get awfully congested once the news gets out,” said Yemos.

  “And what about you?” asked Proto, scanning their surroundings and struggling to piece together what was going on.

  “Well, that’s the big question, isn’t it?” replied Yemos.

  Proto didn’t know what to say to that. So he just leaned over the table and tried to look suitably thoughtful.

  As he did so, he caught a glimpse of movement to his side—his face, passing in front of a mirror within the sideboard’s china cabinet. Blond hair, narrow blue eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a mature face still fresh with vigor. It was the face of Yemos’ twin younger brother, Mannus.

  Proto had been close friends with both, though a bit less with Mannus. The younger brother often had hung out with a different crowd, especially after he’d started playing college football. But he’d always been a nice sort. If he’d been in a 1980s teen movie, he would’ve worn a varsity jacket, sauntered around with a tousled blond smile, and protected the protagonist from bullies.

  “So you haven’t decided yet,” replied Proto—that is, Mannus. This seemed like a safe reply.

  “I should think not,” said Yemos. “Or else you’d be the first to know. For obvious reasons.”

  Proto wanted to roll his eyes. Not so obvious from where I’m sitting! Instead, he said, “Well, why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking about all this?”

  “About the same that I was thinking last night,” said Yemos. “Options 1, 2 and 3 are all equally unappealing.”

  This was getting ridiculous. How many times would he have to prompt this guy for a more detailed explanation?

  “Remind me,” said Proto-Mannus, “which options were 1, 2 and 3.”

  “Do I really have to say it again?” sighed Yemos, as mists swirled up to just below the tabletop. “Alright.”

  “Option 1 is, Ausrine and I run off together. We escape the invasion. We avoid dying in defense of a government that’s betrayed us. The problem is, given her health condition, she needs weekly treatments. And the only places that offer those treatments, I’d be caught in a heartbeat and court-martialed as a deserter. So there’s nowhere to run.”

  “Well,” said Proto slowly, “that seems to rule out option 1, doesn’t it?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” frowned Yemos, as the mists rose to chest level. “Since Ausrine could still get that surgery. Simple procedure, and the problem’s gone forever. We could run wherever we wanted and live a happy little life together, in some nook in the middle of nowhere.”

  Proto resisted the urge to reply and waited.

  “Of course, if she gets the surgery, she can’t have kids. Which has always been her dream, even though she’s denying it now,” added Yemos. “She’s urging me to do this. She’d rather be the one who has to sacrifice here.” He shook his head.

  Proto nodded. “Option 2?” he asked after a moment.

  “Option 2 is, I accept that promotion I was offered last week. I get transferred to the command center at Vesper. By the time the invasion comes, I’m long gone. Safe in the best-defended place on the continent.”

  “The problem is, then Ausrine is stuck here for the invasion,” said Yemos. “I mean, she could leave. But all the other cities where her treatment is available are sealed off, without me there to give her access. So she’d need to get that surgery, then find some little village to run to. And if she’s doing that, we may as well choose option 1 and run away together.”

  “In other words,” concluded Yemos, “under option 1 or 2, it ends up being Ausrine who has to sacrifice.”

  Proto studied the look on Yemos’ face—wistfulness, mingled with . . . self-disgust? Tiredness?

  “So,” Proto said, feeling a sudden rush of certainty, “we both know neither of those is really an option.”

  Yemos grimly met his gaze. “Yes. Yes, I came to the same conclusion overnight. Option 1 is the closest thing to a happy ending. But it’s still wrong, I think.”

  “Then what’s option 3?” asked Proto.

  Yemos looked at him. “Are you really asking me to tell you?”

  The mist crept above Proto’s lips. He felt a rush of dizziness as he inhaled it, like carbon monoxide were replacing the oxygen in his lungs. Except instead of passing out, he was on the verge of waking up.

  Anxiously, he tilted his head back above the mist. Time for a gamble.

  “Let me make the sacrifice,” said Proto—that is, Mannus. He wasn’t sure what that would entail. But something in Yemos’ tone made him sure this was right. “I’ll do it.”

  Yemos smiled sadly and placed his head in his hands. This had the effect of hiding him almost entirely, given how high the mists were.

  The voice that eventually emerged from that grey obscurity seemed far away. “I’m glad you’re offering. It reassures me that my brother is the man I’ve always believed him to be. A man who’s worthy of the life that lies before him.”

  Proto was close to responding when he noticed the mists beginning to sink. He paused and waited as Yemos’ hair came back into view, followed by his downcast eyes, then his rueful smile.

  “You would take my place. You’d lead the missile defense,” said Yemos. “Yes, I know you’re more than capable. And I know the Commander would let you. He’s always liked you. The men like you. And you’re one of them.” He looked away, as the mists continued receding beneath the table. “No. You’re who they want to be.”

  Proto-Mannus waved dismissively. He felt he’d gotten a vague sense of the background story now. “Whatever. I don’t know about all that. But it should be me. You and Ausrine go off and have your happy ending. You have to help her. I’ll be just fine here.”

  Midway through this response, Yemos had looked at him sharply. The mists abruptly had swelled back upward. “‘You and Ausrine.’ The way you say that.” He squinted at Proto. “You have a noble heart. But there’s noble, and then there’s . . . ” He shook his head.

  The mists kept rising, as Proto searched in vain for a fitting reply.

  “I know why you’re offering this, and I’m not going to accept it . . . !” came Yemos’ voice, as though from far away.

  Proto stood and took a deep breath while he still could, watching the mist swirling up toward his lips. He struggled to figure out why Yemos would react this way. But his mind was a blank.

  “Mannus?” called Yemos, unseen and barely audible now.

  And the pale mist kept ascending, from breast level to neck level. Proto stood on his tiptoes.

  this? Read on to find out!