Taking chemistry to fill a science option was the worst choice I ever made. I wish I’d realized it sooner and saved myself a trip to the dean’s office. But I also didn’t know I was going to die today.

  The door of the office swung open, and, in a shiver-inducing voice, the dean said, “Come in, Mr. Gordon.”

  I wanted to put on a rebellious smirk but nothing came. I was just tired. It was already an hour later than our scheduled appointment, and the dean was going to make me late for work. Hanging my head, I stepped into the office. My loose-laced snow boots thumped on the linoleum.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Gordon,” the dean said. He said behind his desk, an old thing made of dark wood. It contrasted poorly with the back wall, which was also covered in dark shelves and trinkets. Models of atoms or something. It was too bland, and it made it nearly impossible to tell the foreground apart from the background. If it was a film set, someone would’ve gotten fired.

  I sat down in a chair and looked at the dean, then heaved a sigh. “Sir, I—”

  “Levi Gordon.” He pronounced my name, drawing out all the vowels unnecessarily, then clicked his tongue. I’d never met him before, but I didn’t like him. He continued, “I take it you know why you’re here. Poor grades, that I can stomach. No matter how much I might not like it when an arts major comes into my faculty and shoots for only Cs, this is not why you’re here.”

  “I got the email, sir.”

  “Wonderful. Then we’re on the same page. Would you care to enlighten me, Mr. Gordon, as to why your lab report was the exact same as Ms. Hall’s?”

  “That’s what I was going to tell you, sir. Uh…doctor. Professor.” I looked down, searching for a name plaque on the table, but there was none. Nothing to break up the dark monotony of the table. “She asked me for my lab report, sir, because she missed the lab. And yeah, yeah, I know we’re not supposed to share it, but she said her grandmother died, and—”

  “Her grandmother died three years ago. You could try a little harder, Mr. Gordon, if you’re going to lie to me.”

  My eyes widened. “I’m not lying! That’s what she said. Look, let me pull up our chat. She said exactly that.” I tugged my phone out of my pocket, fumbling with the button on my jeans, swiped a few times with trembling fingers and messed up my pin twice, before finally opening Discord. I scrolled until I found our DMs.

  “She…blocked me.” My chest deflated. What the fuck, Ashley. “And deleted all her messages.” Yeah, nothing on the internet was gone forever, but I couldn’t exactly do anything about it at the moment. And by the time I got hold of those messages, it’d be too late. Maybe it could go to court—

  Who was I kidding? Like this was ever going to court. I didn’t have the money for that. My parents were a twelve hour drive away, divorced, and they weren’t faring any better than my financially unstable ass.

  The dean, seemingly ignoring my comments, continued, “If she copied the report you sent her, as you claimed, then why did she submit it before you? I can see the submission dates on your dropbox, Mr. Gordon.”

  “Can you stop saying my name…” I trailed off. “Sir, I couldn’t submit that night, because I was working.” A four hour evening shift at the ski hill, an hour drive each way. I could’ve gotten a job in town, but there wasn’t much available for film majors, and I’d always been good at skiing. Racing off jumps, soaring through the air, followed by the surging pulse of adrenaline when your stomach rose and you hit the ground. It seemed like a good gig at the time, though it wasn’t nearly as fun as I had hoped.

  “One would think that you would prioritize your studies.”

  One would think that I wouldn't want to graduate with crippling debt. “Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again, but I swear to you that—”

  “You know how this looks, don’t you, Mr. Gordon? This is academic misconduct of the highest degree, and I’m not inclined to show a slacker like you any leeway.”

  “Slacker?” I tilted my head. I’ll have you know, Mr. Dean, that I have a four-point-oh in all my film classes.

  Did I like them that much more? Not particularly. The more I learned about the industry, the more disillusioned I became, but that was a story for another time. I’d picked it, because what else was I gonna do? No matter how frustrated some courses made me…well, it turned out I had a bit of a furious desire to rub it in their noses and pass anyway.

  But the desire was fading by the second.

  “I said what I said, Mr. Gordon. Why do you look so upset, hm? You got caught cheating. You thought you’d get away with it, but you won’t. Kids these days, every one of them thinks they’re the most important person on the planet.” After an unnecessarily long pause, he added, “It’s not like you were getting a proper job with that degree, anyway.”

  He clicked his tongue again, then pushed a form across the table. In the harsh lighting of the table lamp, it nearly glowed, and it stung my eyes.

  “Sign the form,” said the dean. “Pack up your dorm, Mr. Gordon, empty your locker, and get out of my sight.”

  I didn’t have a dorm or a locker (I was renting a cheap place a forty-five-minute walk from the uni with two frat boys who were actually slackers and a third football jock, but it was less expensive than dorms so it was a win) but I didn’t correct the dean. I just signed the form, then stood up and walked away.

  As soon as I got outside the office, I leaned against the wall. The sun had set an hour ago, and a blizzard was raging outside. I opened my phone again. There was a text from work, demanding where I was. Yesterday, I’d told them I might be a little late, ‘cause I had a meeting with the dean (I hadn’t said what for) but not an hour late, and that was if I could get there in time. With this storm, the highways would be a mess.

  Stuck in traffic, I replied.

  Turn around, came the reply, almost immediately. This is Joe. You’re done. Second time this month you’ve been late, and now on the busiest day of the year??? We’re getting a couple feet of snow, and we needed you on the slopes three hours ago.

  I rubbed my forehead, fingers numb, barely processing what I’d just read. I wanted to reply with something like ‘That’s not fair, I cleared it with Linda yesterday,’ but that wouldn’t work with Joe. I had cleared it with Linda yesterday, and everything would’ve been fine if it hadn’t been for the dean’s tardiness. I would’ve been a few minutes late at most.

  Before I could type anything I’d regret, I heard footsteps clomp up beside me. Dress shoes. I glanced to the side. “Hey, Dr. Doyle,” I said. “Don’t see you in sciences much.” He was a film professor, though sometimes he helped out with other arts courses. He was one of the only tolerable professors.

  “Don’t see you in sciences much, either,” Dr. Doyle said.

  “You heard, too, didn’t you?”

  Dr. Doyle nodded. “Listened to the whole conversation from across the hall. Tough go, Levi.” He breathed a trembling exhale. “For the record, I believe you. Had that Hall girl in first year, one of her options. She was a real piece of work. But her parents donated most of the funding for Hall Hall.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  We both chuckled at the new building’s absurd name. I shouldn’t have laughed. I don’t even know why I did. I probably hadn’t really accepted my reality yet.

  “Professor…am I really meant for nothing? Maybe I should just head up north, try to get a job in the oilfield.” I could always try to learn trades, couldn’t I?

  There I was again. Clinging on to some idea or another, always some spark, always thinking of a way to move forward. Stupid.

  “That’s up to you.” Dr. Doyle put a hand on my shoulder. “I think you just need some time. You’ll figure it out.”

  I paused, then finally said, “Yeah. Thanks, professor. Really. But…I gotta go.”

  A few minutes later, I stepped outside, pulling my coat on. My eyelids almost froze shut as soon as the cold wind hit me, but I kept trudging, plowing through the snow. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and wandered, heading the opposite direction from where our four-man rented basement was.

  Even in my pockets, my fingers were starting to sting from the cold, even with my gloves, and it was then that I considered pulling out my phone again, maybe texting some of my old high school friends, seeing what they were up to. But they’d all moved on. We hadn’t talked in years, and we were scattered across the country. There was no point.

  I kept trudging. One step after another. Just keep moving, I told myself.

  I wish I could say I died doing something cool. Something tragically inspiring, like saving a cat from the street or something. Well, it involved roads, that much was true.

  I reached a crosswalk at an intersection that really should’ve been a flyover, given how fast the roads were, and waited for the walk signal, just itching to keep moving. The road was shiny with ice, and the flashing streetlights made my head swim. And to think it was only six o’clock.

  When I had a walk hand, I began crossing, blinking my eyes to keep the snow out. It didn’t help much, but—

  Wait. Those headlights weren’t slowing down. Tires screeched, anti-lock brakes thrummed, rubber skidded on ice, but it wasn’t enough.

  The last thing I saw was the silver grille of a pickup truck, a flash of light, then darkness.

  ~ ~ ~

  When I opened my eyes, the blizzard had stopped, and it was bright out. I blinked. Had I slept all night? Had I survived that? I’d just gone unconscious, and I’d just been flung off the road?

  I blinked. The snow was gone, and…that wasn’t a cloudy sky. That was a gray tent. Had someone put up a tent around me?

  I was on my back, and I was staring straight up at the ceiling, but there was no evidence of the road or the snow. I should have been covered in snow.

  I tried to sit up, and that was when my heart began racing. My hands and feet were tied down, and I couldn’t move. My backpack was gone. I craned my neck up as far as I could, but a leather strap bit into my forehead, keeping me mostly still. Still, I caught a glimpse of my body.

  It wasn’t mine. It wore a loincloth and nothing else. It had tanned skin and ropey muscles, and my god was it skinny. Ribs were poking out from its sides like it hadn’t eaten in weeks, and immediately, a jolt of pain gnawed at this body’s stomach.

  Suddenly, everything became real. I was hungry. A lock of greasy black hair flopped into my face, which I tried to blow away, but couldn’t.

  “What the hell…” I breathed. “Hey! Anyone! Help!”

  I thrashed, trying to break out of my bonds, struggling against the ropes. My wrists had rubbed raw before I even arrived, and by the putrid stink of the tent, I guessed I had been tied down here for a while. I planned on struggling until my wrists and ankles bled, but within seconds, the flap of the tent folded open, revealing a blue…summer sky? There was green grass and leaf-laden trees outside.

  Worse, there was an enormous, misty shadow of a planet on the horizon. A purplish-blue gas giant, like if this place was orbiting Jupiter.

  My stomach dropped and I fell still. This wasn’t Earth. An icy chill numbed me as my brain ran in circles, trying to process everything.

  Three men marched into the tent, wearing chainmail armour overtop gambesons. The armour was dented and rusty, and their clothes had seen better days. And was that blood on the hem of the closest man’s gambeson?

  I almost certainly hadn’t walked onto the set of a medieval movie. It was too good. There was almost always something wrong with the sets, when Dr. Doyle had brought me to see a movie in-production in the mountains. It was just…so faintly fake. This wasn’t.

  Campfire smoke wafted through the tent flap, horses whinnied, metal clinked, and men chattered in a way you just couldn’t simulate. A whiff of urine, alcohol, and sweat stung my nostrils.

  “Where am I?” I gasped, in a voice that wasn’t my own, but at the same time, felt like something I’d been hearing all my life.

  “You were right, Ticks,” the man in the lead said softly to one of the other soldiers. “He is an Atoning.” He had tanned skin, like my new body, and long black hair, but it was hard to tell with the two others. They wore helmets with an eye guard that reminded me of the few Viking or Saxon helmets I’d seen back on Earth. It was hard to make out their facial features.

  The man in the lead continued, “At least you stopped thrashing around like a madman. A few more hours, and we would’ve put you out of your misery.”

  I blinked. “Excuse me. Uh…can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”

  The man leaned over me. I was on some sort of wooden table, and it put me close enough to smell his breath, which I wished I hadn’t.

  “You’re an Atoning,” he said. “A lost soul wandering, having taken over a body that’s not your own—worse, a body that’s military property. That’s theft. A crime, if you hear me.”

  The man spoke with an accent that sounded vaguely British, but I’d never been the best at guessing accents, and he looked to be in his late thirties. If I had to guess by looks, he was European of some sort, maybe Spanish or Italian. But that probably didn’t mean anything here.

  I shifted my shoulders, trying to get a little farther away from the man’s breath, then said, “I don’t understand…”

  “No, they usually don’t,” the man said. “Problem is, most of the Atoning didn’t mean to do it. It just happened. You died wherever you came from, your soul didn’t. But it still happened, and it’s still a crime. You took over the body of one of my brothers, destroyed what remained of his soul.”

  “I’m military property? What military? Whose military? How can a soldier be property?”

  “You’re a Dupe. Du-pli-cate,” he said, enunciating every syllable with force. “Artificially bred for war. Created for battle, and better yet, manufactured with the [Soldier] class.” The way he said [Soldier] made a chill run down my spine. “Problem is, artificially creating men who can access the System tends to make some of them go loopy. One in ten Dupes go crazy at some point in their lives, and on rare occasions, a lost soul from worlds beyond takes over his body.”

  The man turned his shoulder toward me slightly, allowing me to see my reflection in the polished pauldron of his armour.

  My face was the exact same as his, only younger. About ten years younger, with gaunt, sunken cheeks and massive bags under my eyes. It put me at roughly the same age as I had been back on Earth—twenty-ish.

  “How…?” I breathed.

  The other soldiers pulled off their helmets, revealing identical faces, about the same age as mine. Maybe a few years older.

  “You can call me Galliard, and I’m the commander of this little washed-up fringe battalion,” the man in the lead said. He tilted his head to the side. “You are nowhere, and quite frankly, you’re less than nothing.” He motioned to the side. “This is Ticks, a man-at-arms, and that’s Shave, a sergeant. You stole the body of Lemming—a man-at-arms.”

  “Lemming? What—”

  “Or if you prefer your identification number, DD Three-Thirty-Three.”

  I blinked. “No, you can’t—”

  “You have a choice, boy,” Galliard said, his voice booming through the tent. “Either twenty years of labour—likely the mines, Atoning always get sent to the mines—or continue service in the army. If you make it to the end of your ten years, you get set free, like all Dupes, with a slightly reduced salary and pension. But it’ll be enough to make your way in the world, get your feet beneath you. So? What’ll it be?”

  “I—” I scrunched my eyebrows. So much to choose, no time to consider it all. Everything was happening so quickly. “What’s it like in the mines?”

  “I’d be surprised if you made it a year in your condition. They say we’re making that up because we need to maintain our ranks, and that we’re trying to scare you, but we’re all Dupes here. I wouldn’t lie to a brother.”

  “And in the army?”

  Galliard grimaced. “Depends. How lucky are you?”

  Considering how unlucky I’d been over the past few days, I’d say that my odds weren’t great. But if both had a high risk of death…

  Did I really want to be toiling away in a mine for the rest of my life? Whether I was soldier material or not, it didn’t sound right.

  I wrenched my quick breaths under control, then pressed my lips together. But from the way Galliard was staring at me, I got the sense I didn’t have much time to choose. Staying here was my only reasonable chance.

  “I—I’ll continue to serve.”

  “Very good. Cut him free,” Galliard instructed Shave and Ticks. “Show him the ropes and get a meal in his belly.” Then, he leaned back over me. “Welcome to the 294th Infantry, lad. And good luck.”