Dreaming Again

by Jack Dann

  AFTERWORD

  I was deep into researching my big fat history of Sydney when I saw version one of Dreaming Down-Under. I shouldn’t have picked it up. I should have kept on at my research into the sand dunes of Surry Hills, but I am a bad, naughty, easily distracted author, and such a hefty tome, promising hours of enjoyable time-suckage, was too much for me. I think I read it in about two days, during which time nothing else got done.

  It set me to thinking about writing my own bit of spec fie, which I soon started, as an alternative to playing computer games to wind down at the end of the day. Long story short, that brief, unintended experimentation eventually saw publication world wide as the Axis of Time series. Since that day, I’ve always felt I owed a debt to Dreaming and the authors who worked so hard to drag me away from my paying gig as a serious, nonfiction guy.

  And so here I am, paying that off. The setting for the story, you’ll see when you read it, was directly influenced by my research for Leviathan.

  The other thing that was a bit spesh about this story for me was that I wrote it in close collaboration with some of my readers, specifically with the ‘Burgers’, the regular inhabitants of the toxic swamp that is my personal blog, Cheeseburger Gothic (birmo.journalspace.com). I’ve always been comfortable having a lot of contact with my readers and the Burger operates as a sort of friendly tavern where anyone can pop in for a brew and a chat.

  Over the years I’ve gained a lot from having those scurvy dogs at my back. I’ve run a lot of ideas for my books and even my journalism past them and have been blown away by how generous and useful have been their suggestions and offerings and tip-offs about raids by the Feds.

  I’d wanted some way of paying them back as well, and Heere Be Monsters is it. I cannot claim sole authorship of the story, which is a ripping little zombie yarn by the way, because at every turn the Burgers were there with their own helpful thoughts and contributions. They can all claim to be coauthors, and as such we’ve decided to donate our story fee to research into sexually transmitted disease amongst koalas. They’re randy little buggers and they just can’t help themselves. So are the koalas.

  Some time after this book is published I’ll post up the various drafts of Monsters, and anyone who cares to check them out can do so. You might even find the evolution as fascinating as I did.

  — John Birmingham

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  PURGATORY

  ROWENA CORY DANIELLS

  ROWENA CORY DANIELLS writes for both children and adults and has been involved with speculative fiction as a fan, bookshop owner, small press assistant, graphic artist, and writer for over thirty years. With her writing group, ROR, she has sold a children’s series to ABC Books. Rowena’s book The Evil Overlord is the third of The Lost Shimmaron series. Her Last T’En fantasy trilogy appeared in Australia, the United States, and Germany. Over the years Rowena has served on both state and national bodies to promote writing and the speculative fiction genre. In her spare time she married, had six children, and spent five years studying each of these martial arts: Tae Kwon Do, Aikido and laido, the art of the Samurai sword.

  Here Daniells investigates a killer virus that could cure us all by Christmas…

  I loved long weekends. Not because I took time off, but because it meant the rest of my team left me alone to work without interruption. Not this long weekend. This time I was going to put my future on the line to prove our antiviral worked and I was going to break the Code of Research Ethics by administering it to my partner, Nathan.

  I’d come in early Saturday morning to combine the antiviral with a primitive head-cold virus that I’d synthesised, modifying it to create the perfect carrying agent for my antiviral. The head-cold was designed to strike rapidly and be highly contagious. Dating from last century, I doubted anyone would have immunity.

  And I was going to infect Nathan against his will.

  I felt only a twinge of guilt. After all, we’d created the antiviral to destroy a virus that had caused the deaths of millions. Infecting Nathan without his informed consent was morally and ethically wrong but if I didn’t do something I’d lose him. And I couldn’t bear to lose Nathan after losing Ebony.

  A river of grief travelled its familiar path through my body, swamping all other emotion. I accepted it willingly. They’d offered me therapy to lessen the loss of my infant daughter but I’d refused because I believed this dishonoured her memory.

  I would have tested the antiviral on myself if it had been possible but I was one of the ten percent who were naturally immune. In the computer simulations the antiviral worked in approximately two hours but we couldn’t test it on lab animals because the virus interfered with brain function in a very specific way, so specific that only human testing would reveal if it had been destroyed. So it had to be Nathan.

  After adding the antiviral and its carrier agent to my favourite perfume oil, I slipped it into my satchel. This one dose was enough to start a chain reaction. Once Nathan inhaled it and became contagious, the head-cold carrier would pass through the population like the proverbial winter flu. The majority of the infected population would be cured by Christmas.

  Christmas!

  My laughter echoed off the tiled walls. The hysterical note frightened me and I broke off mid peal, standing there in the sudden silence fighting a sense of dislocation.

  The antiviral should have been tested on foreign prisoners. After all, they’d forfeited their rights by infiltrating our society to disrupt it, unconcerned by the loss of human life. Since they were motivated by religious mania, testing the antiviral on them would be satisfyingly ironic. But getting permission to use foreign prisoners would mean approaching the Council of Social Engineers and, because of the ramifications, they would debate it and by the time they made their decision, Nathan would be irrevocably lost to me. His aberrant behaviour was killing my love for him by degrees. He’d become so detached, there were times when he was a stranger. I’d told myself his actions were prompted by the virus but logic and emotion are distant cousins.

  This had to be done.

  I locked up, using my thumbprint to enforce the security code. Already, I was anticipating how I would approach Nathan. First I’d tell him we’d made a breakthrough and then I’d lie to him. I hated the thought, but I had no choice.

  As I approached the last checkpoint of Facility Security I told myself no one could possibly guess what I meant to do, but I felt sick. I’d make a terrible spy.

  Jarden straightened at his post. One of the many human backups to the Security System, he must have been annoyed to learn he was rostered on over the long weekend. Not clever enough to reach Careerist status, he had to be satisfied with a Sinecure, a make-work job. The credit he earned at his Sinecure provided the extras of life. In a society where housing, food and medical care were the right of every citizen, it was the extras that gave people status.

  ‘Going home early, Lilli, that’s not like you,’ Jarden teased. ‘I thought you were a workaholic’

  ‘I’ve seen the light.’

  ‘What, converting to Catholic Romanticism?’

  ‘God forbid!’

  We both laughed and I headed for the monorail. Like me, Jarden was one of the natural immunes. It was odd but intelligence didn’t protect one from the virus’s effects. Nathan was brilliant but because he was infected he would argue that he didn’t need to be cured, trapped in the virus’s delusional loop. Only when he was back to normal and completely rational would he thank me. And then he would be his old self. I’d missed him terribly these last five years.

  When Nathan first started exhibiting symptoms, I didn’t understand what was happening. His attack had blossomed into a full blown infection in a matter of days, prompting me to pursue this area of research. The discovery that religious mania was a communicable disease had made headlines across the world and caused a great deal of anger, hence the Facility Security.

  The tricky thing about viruses was that we could produce a vaccine bu
t it was only useful if people were not infected and it turned out everyone was, even the immunes were carriers. In the vulnerable ninety percent, the virus was latent until triggered and the trigger was stress. Who lived a stress free life?

  Yes, I was breaking my professional code of ethics by curing Nathan without his consent. But conviction filled me. This antiviral would save so much unnecessary suffering and death. It was the goal of every citizen to contribute to our country and I was no exception.

  The monorail travelled along the ridge, down to where our pole-house stood on a steep spur overlooking Greater Brisbane. It was midday and the city’s solar panels turned their faces to the sun like obedient sunflowers. Since Nathan and I were both Careerist we could afford to pay for these inspiring views. Nathan was an Installation Artist. Anyone with the brains could study and become a Careerist in their chosen field, but only those with real talent could become Artistic Careerists. They were valued because they held up a mirror, helping society see itself warts and all. Nowadays Artistic Careerists had the acclaim that sportsmen and women had once experienced. I knew, because history had been one of my obligatory humanities subjects. Back then it had struck me as bizarre how a whole society could share a mass delusion over the outcome of a football match. We’d come a long way, so it came as a shock when religious mania reared its ugly head; that it could affect Nathan made it personal for me.

  When I first met him he’d already attained Careerist Celebrity Status and I had only just achieved my official Careerist accreditation. The discovery of the true source of religious mania had made everyone at the Facility Research Celebrities. I’d shunned the attention. My goal was results.

  When I jumped off the monorail the heat hit me. Inside, with our smart-architecture, it would be pleasantly cool. I approached my front gate where bougainvillea trailed defiant red arcs across the driveway. With no private vehicles, this cement drive was an anachronism from before the Decline, before the Council of Engineers saved us from ourselves.

  I dodged the bougainvillea thinking I must give the bush a trim. We’d put it in when we first came here, just before Ebony was born. The plant had thrived in these six years, unlike our poor little girl.

  We’d felt betrayed when we discovered there were some things the marvels of modern medicine could not prevent.

  Breathless, I ran down the drive and across the front veranda to the door. ‘I’m home early, Aunty Flo. Where’s Nate?’

  ‘Nathan is in the studio,’ the smart-house replied, sounding just like a maiden aunt from an Agatha Christie novel. Nathan had chosen its persona. It had amused him back when he’d had a sense of humour, and I hadn’t the heart to change it.

  ‘Begin recording Aunty Flo. This is to be sent to my work colleagues at the Facility.’ I wanted Tri and Yasmin to have a copy of what happened this afternoon so we could review it together on Tuesday. ‘Hi Guys. I can’t wait any longer so I’m giving Nathan the antiviral. The time is noon, Saturday. Wish me luck. Oh, and for the record, this was done without Yasmin’s authority. I take all responsibility.’

  ‘Do you wish to send this recording now?’

  ‘No, keep recording. Send it Tuesday morning.’ They were simple creatures, smart-houses. We’d had to edit Aunty Flo’s safety margins to avoid misunderstandings in Nathan’s studio.

  The door opened and I stepped inside, kicking off my outdoor shoes and dumping my satchel on the antique hall stand. Glancing to the stand’s mirror I caught sight of myself. I was windswept from my run down the street, hair coming loose from the ponytail and brushing my shoulders, eyes alert with excitement like a kid on Christmas morning.

  Christmas again. We hadn’t given up our holidays when we discarded religion.

  According to the Social Engineers, religion was a primitive people’s insurance policy. Where once people had implored the gods to keep their crops safe from pestilence, we genetically modified our food to be pest resistant. We should have been beyond superstition, yet we suffered from a resurgence of religious bigotry. The Social Engineers had been tolerant at first, but this last year they had begun to crack down on extremism.

  Well, now I had the cure. I put a dab of perfume behind my ears and between my breasts. It was vanilla, my favourite. Nathan would not suspect a thing. Again, I felt that pang of betrayal.

  Ready to do battle, I headed for the studio.

  Peer Gynt’s In the Halls of the Mountain King thundered through the house. Nathan always played dramatic classical music when he was working. I used to find it endearing. Now it annoyed me.

  The first two months after Ebony died he didn’t work at all and I’d feared something in him had died with her. Then he discovered the Catholic Romanticists and began his CR Period. His pieces had sold really well at first because of the novelty value and the power of his creativity. This very power had helped trigger converts in a society grown desperate for meaning. But, as the burgeoning religious movement gained momentum, costing people their Sinecures, Careers and lovers, resentment built and the Social Engineers had suggested that Nathan refrain from exhibiting or selling his work. He resented this fiercely.

  Since his infection had become full blown five years ago I’d bided my time, hoping he would work his way through it. I missed the old Nathan, desperately.

  My stomach churned with excitement. If this worked, apart from Tri and Yasmin, no one needed to know that I’d compromised my professional ethics. Nathan could announce that he’d had a change of heart and we’d move on, sadder and wiser, but together again.

  I relished the cool of the polished boards on my bare feet as I went down the long hall. The studio stretched across the back of the house. With huge windows along three sides it looked through the bush canopy to the city. It was like living in a tree house. When I’d originally seen this room I’d thought it was the perfect place to raise a child. Ebony had been a month short of her first birthday when she died, just old enough to appreciate the brilliant lorikeets that came down to feed in the native trees.

  Once again, I experienced that terrible sense of loss. And yet again, I savoured it. After six months the Counsellor had advised us to have another child. As we were both Careerists we had a licence for two, but by then Nathan had discovered Catholic Romanticism and didn’t want to bring a child into a godless world. That had really annoyed me but I’d been close to making my first breakthrough about the true nature of religious fervour and was willing to give him more time. Now five years had passed and I was needy for another child.

  Brilliant, tree-dappled light streamed into the studio, blinding me after the darkness of the hall. I blinked. Where was he?

  There on the floor. Was he hurt? My heart lurched as I tried to make sense of what I saw. My partner lay stretched out, arms flung to each side, legs crossed at the ankle, naked on a life-size canvas. About fifteen centimetres deep, it was an impressionable-canvas, an innovative piece of technology he had designed, and he had already begun to sink into it. Later he would sculpt the form and set it with hard-light.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I had to shout to be heard over the music’s crescendo.

  He jerked and turned his head to look up at me. For a heartbeat he didn’t recognise me, then he frowned impatiently. I’d disturbed his work. Even wilfully ignorant as I was of Catholic Romanticist Lore, I recognised his subject. A powerful spasm of primitive anger flashed through me.

  ‘Music off, Aunty Flo,’ I ordered. Sudden silence resounded in my ears. After a couple of heartbeats, I heard the birds singing in the treetops through the wide open windows. ‘I came home to share my good news with you, Nate.’

  ‘I have good news, too,’ he said, making a visible effort to be sociable. We’d been going through the motions, hoping we could regain that old love for a long time now. It was painful. He managed a smile. ‘The CRs have contacts in the Alliance of First World Nations. They’re going to smuggle my new exhibition out so it will be seen. The Voice of our Times cannot be Silenced.’ He’d started tal
king in capitals when he’d converted to Catholic Romanticism. I hated it.

  ‘We’ve made a breakthrough on the antiviral,’ I blurted.

  ‘Oh?’ He’d grown cautious after learning that we’d pinned down the viral sequence that induced religious mania. Naturally, because he was infected, he refused to believe it was a physical illness. The virus must have lain dormant until his immune system wavered under the onslaught of Ebony’s sudden decline and death. In the first extreme phase he’d insisted she visited him as an angel. His withdrawal from reality had left me to mourn her passing alone and, when I realised what had happened to him, I mourned the loss of what we’d once shared.

  I licked my lips and crouched so that we were about an arm’s length apart, him lying naked on the impressionable-canvas, me kneeling like a penitent on the floor. I picked my words with care. ‘Nathan, I want you to know that I love you dearly, even after everything we’ve been through since Ebony died. And that is why I’d like to kiss and make up.’

  Liar. Trickster. Firmly, I silenced the inner voice.

  He sat up, pulling his back and arms free from the canvas with an audible sucking noise. His interest in my offer was obvious. We both glanced to his groin and smiled.

  I leant forward. Let him kiss me, let him nuzzle my neck and breasts, let him inhale the antiviral. I was certain the virus would be eradicated but I didn’t know how this would affect him while it was happening, or how he would rationalise the sudden change. What ever happened, I would be by his side.

  Our lips touched. Savouring the sensation, I prayed that I would soon have my old lover back. I cradled his head, feeling the Nodals on his temples. He’d had them implanted before I met him, back when this new technology had been used only by Psychological Resonance Interfacers. Back then, I’d admired him for his innovation. The Nodals allowed him to download emotion and impression directly into his impressionable-canvases. Now, even people on basic Sinecures had Nodals implanted to heighten their appreciation of all forms of art. I’d refused. My mind was private.