"This cutting-edge sci-fi fantasy will blow you away."
Reviewed by Mandy Burns
Posted July 21, 2007
Science Fiction | Fantasy | Romance
Skye Brown is putting in extremely long hours working on
her new video game, RealLife, and it's taking a
toll. She's experiencing nightmares in which she wakes up
in a cold sweat while screaming her head off. She's sure
her hot DJ boyfriend, Craig, isn't happy that he's not
getting any sleep either. Skye decides to visit her old
stomping ground, the Luna nightclub, to watch Craig spin
records. Instead, she enters the VIP room only to disappear
into another place -- Moongazor Palace in Terra. When Dawn Grey picks up Mariah, the missing leader of the
Terra revolution, his anger returns in full force as the
painful memories of her betrayal affect him deeply. Her
sudden appearance at the Moongazor Palace irritates and
excites him. But when she insists her name is Skye Brown,
he remembers one of the symptoms of Moongazing is loss of
memory, so he chooses to be indifferent and speeds up the
reunion with those who fought to bring her back. Being the second book in the new Shomi imprint line,
MOONGAZER holds up to the challenge of being a cutting-edge
sci-fi fantasy. If you think the movie Matrix was
cool, this is the book for you.
SUMMARY
Imagine every night entering a nightmare world you can’t
escape and being told real life is a dream. Skye Brown has
it all: the cool job, the hot boyfriend, the apartment on
New York’s Upper West Side. But lately she can’t enjoy any
of it. She’s having dreams of a post-apocalyptic world. Of
a bleak futuristic wasteland. Of a struggle against
oppression. And she’s been told she’s a…MOONGAZER. But what is that? And what is reality? In her dreams, she’s
not Skye Brown at all, but Mariah Quinn. In her dreams
there’s Dawn, the beautiful yet haunted soldier, and Skye
is but the empty shell of a girl he once loved. And there
was a betrayal, a great betrayal. Ripped between Dark
Siders and club kids, the mundane and the mystic, Skye must
discover who she is, what she wants and who wants her. And
why. But in the glow of the moon, it’s not always easy to
recognize the face in the mirror.
ExcerptPrologueRunning. 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.
What do you think about this review?
Comments
No comments posted.
Registered users may leave comments.
Log in or register now!
|
© 2003-2024 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy