Quin growled under his breath as he removed his shoes and dumped water out of them. This was the fourth time today that he had landed in a swamp stinking of sulfur and overrun with swamp rats, and it was not doing anything for his mood. How many different species of swamp rat did the Oliphants need to breed? There were white ones in the first swamp, purple ones in the second swamp, ones the size of a mid-sized human in the third—and in the most recent one—fire! They could breathe fire! It was enough to drive a man batty—or ratty.
“You’re back!” John’s voice echoed through the room, startling Quin out of his annoyed reverie.
“What are you doing here?” Quin asked, his voice as deep and threatening as he could make it. He did not have the energy to deal with John’s chipperness today.
“Just came to say hi, old friend!” John said cheerfully. His tie today was half pink and half blue, with a large hippopotamus-like creature in the center of it.
“Well, I say bye,” Quin retorted. Wet feet, burned pants, soaked in sweat, and operating on far too little sleep, Quin could think of a dozen places he would rather be right now, and none of them involved John.
“Now, now,” John said, his pleasant attitude unrelenting. “No need to get snippy with me, Grouchy MacGroucherson. I only wanted to see how you were doing. You’re soaked, I see. More swamps? Maybe you’d like some company on the next one?” He held up a pair of work boots. “Look what I brought!”
“Who’d you borrow those from?” Quin asked. The shoes looked a couple sizes too large for John.
“Oh, they’re Pete’s,” John replied cheerfully. “So which Door is next?”
Quin carefully rolled the Door into its cylinder and typed a few notes into the computer. It spat out a sticker. He slapped it on the tube, which he tossed into the “Completed” bin.
“You’re not supposed to go with me,” Quin replied. “It’s against regulation. You’ll probably just cause problems.”
“Come on,” John wheedled. “I’ll be fine. I’ve gone through Doors hundreds of times!”
“Aren’t you supposed to be working on something else?” Quin tried again.
“My team is putting together that device you suggested,” John said. “And I’m on break!”
Quin shook his head. He was too tired to argue.
“That one.” He pointed to the next in the bin. John pulled it out and began to unreel it, while Quin reset the hover cam that would follow him through.
“I’m ready!” John exclaimed, after taking off his shoes and slipping on Pete’s. They were too big, but John was able to tighten the laces so they wouldn’t fall off.
Quin stepped through the Door.
He stood on a ledge overlooking a massive mountain range with higher peaks than he had ever seen, each with strange, jagged edges. The sun sat low on the horizon, and dozens of different colors streaked across the expanse of sky—marigold and blood orange, buttercup yellow and violent red—and then it all blurred and blended together where the sunset met the night in deep blues and indigos, spotted only by the glittering white of barely visible stars.
The mountains themselves were shades of periwinkle and forest greens, and rose and fell as far as Quin could see. Tall trees stretched into the air, giving the mountains additional shape and depth, and he could just barely see a waterfall crashing down the side of one of the great hills. A grey mist hovered in the valleys and wind rushed past undeterred.
He moved forward, almost enthralled by the scene before him. A sense of peace and calm settled into his chest, and a feeling of relaxation pervaded even his most worried thoughts.
“It’s beautiful,” John breathed, standing next to him.
But something wasn’t right. Quin frowned, closing his eyes. He slowly breathed the air, and listened. He almost hadn’t heard it under the rushing of the wind, but there it was—a low rumble, like thunder, except that there were no visible storms brewing. He looked all around, searching for the source of the sound but could see nothing. Then the ground beneath his feet began to shake and tremble.
They stood on pebbles and dirt—only now the pebbles bounced and shifted as the ground growled and roared.
“Uh oh,” John said, taking a step back. The ledge they stood on shifted slightly.
“Get back to the Door!” Quin yelled. He ran backwards, but his feet kept slipping, slipping, as the ledge tilted and angled down, away from the Door. “Go!”
John took a flying leap and landed in a heap right next to the Door.
“Go!” Quin shouted again, and the next thing he knew, he was alone and John had disappeared. Quin stumbled and fell, the ground falling, sliding beneath his feet. He took a deep breath and leaped as the ledge collapsed out from under him. His fingers grasped the empty air where the rock had been, and then the rock itself; he hung, swinging wildly, trying to get himself under control. Breathe deep, focus on the objective—the Door.
Slowly, he pulled himself up until his chin was just over the top of the ledge. The Door was within touching distance, if only he could get himself up onto the ledge. He stretched out one arm as far as it could go and stuck his hand through the Door. There, he felt another hand grab it and pull, pull, pull, and ever so slowly Quin struggled up and over the ledge.
He glanced over his shoulder one more time and saw that it wasn’t only his mountain that had moved—they had all moved. The shuddering and groaning grew only louder, and Quin knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that this world, no matter how beautiful, was dying.
He lurched forward in a controlled roll and landed on the floor of the Archaeology Room.
“Thanks,” he gasped.
“Good thing I was there,” John said, a small frown on his face. “We really should have teams doing this, not individuals doing it alone. I’ll talk to Mr. Drake.”
Quin nodded and took inventory of his body. Both feet, both legs, both hands and arms, and a head. He was fine. But that was the closest he had come to death in a long time. A burst of energy rushed through him and he felt a small smile grow on his face. He had enjoyed it. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet and typed into the computer: “WARNING: DO NOT ENTER. DEAD PLANET.”
It printed out a little sticker as John reeled up the Door.
“I think I might need a break,” Quin said, and strode out of the room.
• • • • •
He stared at the unlit cigarette in his hand. He shouldn’t smoke it. He hadn’t smoked in years. He knew he shouldn’t but somehow everything was awful, even though it wasn’t. He had a good job, good friends, and was even on speaking terms with his dad. He was learning new things daily, he got to explore new places and see new things, but he wasn’t content, and he was annoyed at himself because of it. He should be happy. He should be grateful. He should be fulfilled.
But right now, he kind of hated everything.
He almost wished he had fallen off that cliff.
At least he had the common sense to contemplate smoking in a rather private location. He stood behind the Globe in one of the gardens, surrounded by tall carefully manicured bushes. Someone could probably see him from the top floors of the Globe, but they wouldn’t be able to see the poison stick he twirled in his fingers.
“You Quin Black?”
Quin quickly hid the cigarette in the pocket of his jacket and looked up. “Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Mason,” the woman replied. Her dark hair was piled up on her head in elegant braids, and she was broad shouldered and well-muscled. In fact, he thought she might be quite an adversary if they ever had reason to fight. A man, shorter than her but equally as muscular, stood next to her.
“What can I do for you?”
“I need you to come with me, please,” she replied.
“I’m working,” he answered.
“Don’t look like you’re working to me,” her friend added. “Looks like you’re smoking.”
“I’m on break and have to go back,” Quin replied. “Can this wait?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mason replied. “You owe my employer a lot of money.”
Quin frowned. “I don’t owe anybody money.”
“If you won’t come,” she said, “we’ll have to make you.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Quin said.
“If that’s what you want.” Mason held a small tube up to her lips and blew. Quin felt a small prick in his neck.
“What did you—” he started to say, but then the world got fuzzy and blurry and bubbly and black.
• • • • •
When Quin woke up he was on the floor. His hands were untied and his head throbbed. A bit of sunlight came shining in the window. He seemed to be propped up on some kind of couch.
“Awake already?” a voice asked.
He squinted up to see Mason towering over him. “Most people take another two hours to process that much tranq. You’ve only been out for about 45 minutes.”
“It’s my superpower,” he muttered, trying to take better notes of his surroundings. It looked like a normal living room—probably in a rough part of town going by the bars on the front door—but it appeared to have a kitchen and a bathroom, and he could see a row of houses through the window, so he hadn’t been dragged into the woods somewhere.
“Are you ready to talk?” she asked.
“Fine,” Quin replied.
“You owe us money,” Mason said.
“What for?” Quin asked.
“Did you or did you not sign up to play a game of White Rabbit last night?”
Quin frowned.
“And did you or did you not walk out in the middle of the game?”
Quin’s frown deepened.
“And did you or did you not wager ten thousand dollars that you would win?”
“There was an explosion,” Quin said. “You expected people to stay even though there was an explosion?”
“You wagered ten thousand dollars and walked out on the game,” Mason said. “It’s called gambling for a reason, and it’s not designed to be fair.”
Quin shifted his weight so he was in more of an upright position and rubbed his eyes. This was insane, ridiculous. But he kind of understood. Their property had been destroyed, they had to rebuild, and the best place to get money was from losers like him.
“I’m not paying,” he said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You will pay, or we’ll make you,” she said.
“How are you going to do that?”
She shrugged. “You don’t need all of your fingers, do you? Maybe a couple toes.”
“We can sell ‘em on the black market,” her friend suggested, laughing.
Mason shook her head at him. “No,” she said, “that’s not funny.” She turned her attention back to Quin. “So what’ll it be—limbs or money?”
“Limbs, I guess,” he replied. That would be a lot cheaper to fix—he had health insurance. “But there’s nothing stopping me from walking out. You didn’t even tie me up.”
She showed him her gun. “I’ll shoot you in the back.”
“I see.” Quin knew he could handle her if he wanted to, and probably anyone else that was here too. But he was curious—would she actually follow through with cutting off a limb? “Limbs, then,” he said.
Mason slid a knife out of her pocket. A little frown had appeared on her forehead, like she hadn’t expected this kind of reaction. She grabbed Quin’s hand and placed it on the arm of the couch. He didn’t resist. She held the knife over his pinky finger, hovering. He didn’t flinch, didn’t resist.
“Is there something wrong with you?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Probably. You did catch me thinking about smoking.”
“You’re not even fazed at the thought of losing a finger.”
He shrugged again. “Nope.”
“Mason, Mason,” a voice said from the stairwell. “What are you doing?”
A man stepped into view—Nasty Nash himself. He had a scar down his face that was neatly stitched up. “You can’t go carving up Quin Black for a measly ten grand. Don’t be stupid. Someone would notice.” He turned his face towards Quin. “I’m Andrew Nash—you might know me as Nasty Nash.”
“Ah yes,” Quin replied. “Pleasure to officially meet you.”
Mason stepped back away from Quin and slipped the knife into her pocket. She seemed agitated, probably because her boss had interrupted her rather pathetic attempt to extort money from Quin.
“So I understand you owe me money,” Nash began, “but I also understand that it was due to some very unfortunate circumstances.”
“I don’t think I owe you money—”
“Ah but you do,” Nash interrupted. “The rules of the game state that if you leave the table for any reason, you are responsible for payment in full. But I understand that the circumstances were, in fact, unfortunate, and you had a difficult decision to make—stay at the table and get caught by police, or leave. So I’m willing to offer you a deal.”
Quin thought for a moment. A deal with Nash was probably a bad idea, but depending on what it was, it would probably get him out of this while also making his life a tad bit more interesting. Anything would be better than the boredom he was suffering right now. “What are you offering?”
“I have a small problem,” Nash said. “Well, I have several problems, but most of them are not your concern. This problem involves some items I recently acquired from a lovely old woman who owed me money and had refused to pay multiple times. She finally offered these items as an alternative form of payment, and being that I am a generous and compassionate man, I agreed. However, I am in need of some assistance in exploring them.”
“Exploring?”
Nash gestured to Mason who gave him an irritated expression. “Go get them, please.”
“We can’t trust him,” she argued.
“I know,” Nash replied. “Go get them.”
Mason disappeared into the kitchen and returned with three very battered looking cylinders. They were brownish grey—the same type Quin had been working with at the Globe. Whether they actually had Doors stored in them or not remained to be seen.
“I see,” Quin said. “You want me to find out what is on the other side of those Doors.”
“Yes.”
“Why not send one of your henchmen—Mason, here, for example?”
“She might find something so wonderful that she wouldn’t come back,” Nash said.
“Or she might die.” Quin added, thinking it through a little more. “And you might miss her but you wouldn’t miss me.”
“Too true. But the truth is, I can’t trust anyone like I can trust you.”
“What makes you think you can trust me? Even if I go and come back, I could lie to you about what’s on the other side.”
“You have a job and a career,” Nash said. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “You also gamble illegally and owe me ten thousand dollars. If you go through the Doors and die—well, I don’t care. If you go through and then come back and lie to me about it, then you will lose that career and all of your friends.” He handed the paper to Quin. It was a photograph of Quin playing White Rabbit. Nash handed him a second photo. It was of him from several years ago, also playing White Rabbit. Together, the photos were very incriminating, implying that his choice to play White Rabbit last night was not just a one-time bad choice, but a regular habit. He was good, Quin had to give him that.
“I see,” Quin said.
“I shouldn’t think that it would be much of a decision,” Nash said. “From what I hear, you’re quite good at popping through Doors, making an assessment, and coming back. What’s the hold-up?”
Quin shrugged. “I guess there isn’t any.” He did this every day. Three Doors were nothing. And it would be a lot cheaper than paying the ten grand Nash was asking, or getting into a fight that left multiple people injured. Or having limbs removed, for that matter. “Only that I have to get back to work. They’ll miss me.”
Nash looked at Quin. “Will they though?”
Quin thought about it. He was locked away in a tiny room, in the back of the building, sorting uncategorized Doors, and he had been doing this for days. The only person who came to visit him was John, and if he had a busy afternoon, he might not even notice Quin was missing. Plus, this was a much more interesting task than his forays through confiscated Doors—even if he was technically doing the same thing.
“Eh,” Quin grunted. “Let’s do it.”
“Fantastic,” Nash replied. “But there is one more thing.”
Quin sighed. There always was.
“Just to make sure you actually come back, you’ll be taking my daughter with you.”