by J. M. Porup
Worse, he had no way of raising the issue with the Collective without exposing himself at the same time. And that assumed he’d even be able to communicate with the Collective—some thoughts of his, it seemed, they either simply couldn’t hear, or chose to ignore.
Again he weighed the evidence, and the conclusion was inescapable. The Prime had done something to him. He, Jimmy Shade, Dream Police, hater of dreams and dreamers—and yes, he hated them, and the Collective could no longer stop him from hating them—had become a dreamer himself.
Yes. He knew what hate was now. Love remained a mystery…but hate? He was a master.
Each time he and Kann ran down another delinquent dreamer, he could taste their dying dreams. He’d replaced his dream shield with a new one, double-checked it for any sign of damage, but even at maximum strength it was unable to filter out the horror of a dream’s dying breath.
Or was it just his imagination, his own dream imagining what it must feel like?
This doubt, this uncertainty, tormented him. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to do his job—any hesitation would attract attention.
When the night was over, he could barely keep his eyes open.
Kann massaged Shade’s shoulder with a heavy hand. Good work today, man.
Yeah, thanks, he mumbled inside his friend’s head. Save the world one dreamer at a time.
Close call there, Kann added. Glad it turned out alright.
Shade rubbed his forehead. Yeah, Kann. So am I. He looked up, forced a grin. So am I.
They parted, as always, at central station, flying trains and moving boxes taking them their separate ways.
Shade shuffled from train to box, from box to train again. His feet were taking him, not home to his bunk and the six hours in twenty-four he most dreaded, but back to Dream Police Central. To HQ.
To Boss.
Shade was afraid. No. Not afraid. Terrified. How could he go home? His bunk meant darkness, sleep—and dreams. And what then?
What then?
The only solution he could think of was to never sleep. But he knew that was impossible. There must be some other way. To cure himself of this infection without ChemLob or unplugging.
YOU MUST REST TO BETTER SERVE THE COLLECTIVE, the Collective gently scolded.
Shade made noises of agreement in his head, and the Collective went away, oblivious, apparently, to his suffering.
Before he could wonder how odd this was, he stood at Boss’s bedside, and knocked on his superior officer’s mental door.
Come in, Shade, Boss growled. He sat behind his desk as always, a burning stick between his lips.
Shade entered the small office and took a seat.
Boss regarded him for a long moment from under heavy eyelids. He blew smoke into the air.
Coupla tough days, Shade. You look beat. Why don’t you go home, get your beauty six?
Shade cleared his throat. Bit of a scare today, Boss.
I was there, Boss said. I saw it through your eyes. Felt everything you felt.
Shade swallowed. Everything? Did he know? Could he guess? He hung his head. Dreamer almost got me, sir.
Be more careful next time, Shade. Never get too close to a dreamer. Not even for a moment. They will hurt you if you let them.
Boss picked up a thin yellow twig, sharpened the point, made some marks on a piece of paper.
Sir? Boss, that is… Shade stammered.
His vestigial remnant of a superior officer looked up at him. What is it, Shade? Something else bothering you?
Shade nodded. Yes, sir. The words tumbled from his head in a jumbled mass. Is there a way, he asked, a way—a way to kill a dream without hurting the dreamer? That is, without using ChemLob or an unplugger?
Boss tapped the yellow twig against his blotter. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap. The noise echoed in both their skulls.
You know, Boss said, as we all know, no third way exists. He leaned forward, propped his chin on his fist. This is about that dreamer. The Helper. It wasn’t a question.
Shade looked down at his boots. I didn’t like we had to kill her, sir.
Boss sighed. Your compassion is admirable, Shade. That’s what the Collective is about, after all. Compassion. About loving our neighbor as ourselves. The Collective congratulates you on this outpouring of feeling for the infected.
Shade shifted in his chair. It creaked. He could think of nothing to say in reply, so he just nodded.
Boss leaned forward across his desk. Smoke from the burning stick trickled toward the ceiling. I didn’t like we had to kill her either, Shade.
He looked up. You—you mean—I mean, that is, you didn’t?
Boss shook his head. No. Of course not. How could I like such a thing? But you know as well as I do, it’s them or us. Dreams like hers could destroy us all. The Collective. Humanity. Everything we’ve built. Boss threw up his hands. What if a dream infected the Collective, Shade? he asked. Imagine the consequences!
Shade chewed his lip. What’s so bad about dreams, anyway?
Boss’s eyes flew open in his bed. In his mind, he pushed back from his desk. So bad about dreams? So bad about dreams???
I know, I know…
So bad about dreams? You, Shade. You, a Dream Policeman. And you stand here asking me, what’s so bad about dreams?
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—
But Boss’s eyes burned with an intensity that Shade had never seen before, burned with the intensity of ten billion minds.
Dreams are false, Shade. Dreams are lies. Too easily they become nightmares. They tempt you with something you desire, but never give it to you. Dreams are a mirage in the desert to lure unwary travelers, leading them to their doom. Boss shook his head. So bad about dreams, Shade? Dreams make monsters of us all. If I hadn’t been present at your trial, I’d think you were a dreamer yourself.
Shade opened his mouth and laughed, a short sharp bark. And stopped.
Boss stared at him. What in the name of the Collective was that, Shade?
I don’t know, Boss. He massaged the bridge of his nose. I haven’t been feeling too well lately. Maybe I’m coming down with a cold or something. Bad case of the NWB’s going around. The Nuclear Winter Blues.
Well don’t do it again. You know as well as I do that speech is forbidden. Mouth noises of any kind.
Shade wanted to go, to turn and flee, run from Boss’s probing mind. But he had one more question he had to ask, and he could not go until he had asked it—how come the Collective couldn’t detect his dream?
About… he said, and gulped. He tried again. About the Dreamer Prime, sir.
What about him?
How did he remain hidden for so long?
Boss nodded his head. That’s a good question, Shade. And one, I might add, the Collective has spent a good deal of time considering. We’ve been hunting dreamers for—how many thousands of years now? But no matter what we do, we can never seem to exterminate the vermin. End the plague. Where do Primes come from? Why are they so hard to find? Have we really killed the last one? Boss shrugged. I don’t know, Shade. We don’t know. Nobody knows.
Shade straightened his jumpsuit. His errand, it seemed, had been futile.
Thank you, sir. He turned to go.
And Shade?
Sir?
Go home, Shade. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better.
Sleep.
The last thing Shade wanted to do.
Five hours until it was time to go to work again. Five hours before it would be his duty to kill dreams and maim dreamers.
He crept into his dormitory and wedged himself into his bunk. What else could he do? Any other course of action would attract attention. They would probe his mind again, and maybe this time they would find his secret.
But sleep?
He folded his arms behind his head and opened his eyes as wide as he could. His head felt like a stone. This was what, his second night without sleep? His eyes felt dry, and he blinked.
O
nce.
Twice.
They stayed shut.
His breathing slowed, became regular.
Wake up! he screamed at himself. Splash a water pill on your face! Eat a handful of caffeine pills. Whatever you have to do to stay awake! Who knew what dreams might come?
But the other voice inside him spoke. I’m so tired. I don’t care anymore.
What was this voice? Who was it? Where was it coming from?
Shade rolled over on his side, or tried to. His shoulder jammed against bunk 12. So…tired…
Why, if I don’t get some sleep, the voice continued, I might as well be unplugged.
Unplugged!
No. Nothing worse than that. He struggled to wake up, fought to open his eyes, claw his way back to consciousness, but only felt himself falling backward into darkness.
The music returned, swirling in his ears, and the kaleidescope painted his eyelids with hot many-colored ecstasy.
As he fell, the music and the colors surged, the joy mingled with terror, and what remained of his conscious mind wanted to know, What happens when you hit bottom? What dreams are waiting for us there?
Jimmy Shade had no answer.
He fell for a long time.
Chapter Four
Shade woke, his jumpsuit drenched in sweat. An alarm blared in his head. The wake up call. He gulped for air.
The music faded in his ears, the colors dimmed and disappeared. He opened his eyes. The grey and dirty world greeted him once more, and the first thing he thought was:
Come back!
He had dreamed.
And he had dreamed, as he had feared, of Linda. For an eternity, it seemed to him, they had lived and loved, the music surrounding them at every step. To wake up—wrenched from that happiness—was torture.
The second thing he thought was: it wasn’t really Linda. It was a noxious lie, a mirage, a diseased fantasy he could never have—like Boss said. Linda lived in a padded cell in the Hall of Dreams.
She is dead to the world. She is dead to you.
The third thing he thought was: I don’t care. Visiting her in his dreams—living with her there—had been the most glorious experience of his life. He was already impatient for his next six-hour break.
What do I have to do to keep on dreaming?
The last thing he thought, as consciousness sank its hooks into him once more, was: This dream is powerful. Terror shook him. If he wasn’t careful, it would overwhelm every aspect of his life. I have to live in the real world. This dream will enslave me, beggar me, and, finally, kill me, if I let it.
How can I get rid of this dream so it never comes back?
Terror turned to sorrow, a sadness unlike anything he had ever known. But to live without his dream! Without Linda! Why couldn’t he be with her every night, and with the Collective every day? They couldn’t tell. They might never even know.
But I would know.
And somehow they would find out. Of this he felt sure. The thought of hiding something from the Collective, of living always in fear of discovery, was more than he could bear.
They haven’t found us so far, have they? The voice inside him reasoned. And besides, what’s so wrong with dreams, anyway?
Weren’t you paying attention yesterday when we talked to Boss?
The voice did not answer.
Shade rubbed his face with both hands. What had he just experienced? What was going on?
And what was he going to do about it?
The desire and longing and sorrow and joy and despair crashed over him again, and he groaned. These were dangerous and powerful emotions, he know, long since outlawed. Feelings were irrelevant. Emotions were irrelevant—were what caused the War. What almost destroyed humanity, and could destroy humanity still.
Panic rose in Shade’s throat. Because of him, the world could end!
That’s ridiculous, the voice said. Just because you have a dream, the world is going to end?
Shade struggled for a long moment with the voice that now dwelt inside his skull. Who’s in charge here? he demanded.
But the voice, again, said nothing.
That’s right, he thought, with more confidence this time. I’m in charge here, not you. And I’ll thank you to remember it.
Victorious, he considered his next step.
Somehow he had to kill the dream, get rid of it. Excise it from his brain. But how in the name of the Collective was he going to do that?
He needed more information. He formulated a query, and was about to submit it to the Collective, when the voice inside him said, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.
You are me, Shade thought, and ground his teeth. Who else would you be?
But the voice, once more, said nothing.
He swore. The voice was right. Nothing would more surely convict him of dreaming than querying the entire Collective on how to excise an unwanted dream.
Especially since Boss had told him not six hours ago that there were no others ways to cure a dreamer other than ChemLob and unplugging.
Now what was he going to do?
Without knocking, Kann popped into Shade’s mind. Hey there, sleepyhead. We got dreams to kill!
Shade forced a mental smile. He hoped Kann couldn’t see the mess, the chaos that filled his mind.
On my way, bro. See you down at the station.
Bring your extra bandoleer, Kann said, as he faded away. Big nest of dreamers to clean out today!
Shade reached for his bandoleer, drew a ChemLob jabber. He felt its cool weight in his palm. He knew what he had to do now. Although that didn’t make it any easier.
He uncapped the jabber and placed it against his neck. The needle extended, pricked his skin, entered his vein. Then he closed his eyes, thumb on the plunger.
Ready.
He was a dreamer. He, Jimmy Shade, Dream Policeman, was a dreamer. And he had sworn an oath to kill dreams and capture dreamers—for the sake of humanity. It was time for him to do his duty. At least after the ChemLob kicked in and his frontal lobes were gone, he’d be a useful member of society once more.
He could only hope that would be enough for the Collective. That they didn’t decide to unplugg him as well.
Set.
His thumb pushed down.
But in that moment the dream returned, a tinkling of bells and swirls of color and Linda’s bright laugh, her body, her warmth, her smell…he hesitated, the jabber at his neck.
He would do anything to keep dreaming of Linda, anything, even risk life itself. Even go against the will of the Collective. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself, and he loathed himself for his weakness.
These two opposite forces strove for mastery inside Jimmy Shade, neither gaining the upper hand. The jabber trembled at his neck, jammed tight against his throat, but Shade could not make his thumb depress the plunger.
Just when he thought he might go mad, the voice inside him said, The Dreamer Prime.
What about him?
The Dreamer Prime, the voice said. Go ask the Prime.
Shade reflected, thumb still at ready. He needed answers, but his questions were dangerous. The Collective couldn’t answer them—or if they could, they weren’t telling. Any further queries in that direction would be proof of his guilt.
The Prime will know what to do, the voice whispered.
The Prime. Locked away in the Hall of Dreams, trussed in a dream jacket, scheduled for unplugging once the Collective was done interrogating him…the man was mad himself, or soon would be.
Got a better idea, chum?
Shade sighed. He withdrew the jabber, recapped it, and put it away.
How could he get to the Hall of Dreams without attracting attention? That was, at least on the face of it, an insurmountable obstacle. The Collective knew where every node was at any given moment. Information Factory workers processed his sensory data. They could see everything he saw. Feel everything he felt. Know everything he thought.
They don
’t know we’re having this conversation, do they? the voice asked.
That’s true, Shade thought, or I’d be unplugged by now.
But how long is that going to last? And even if he could somehow get to the Hall of Dreams without anyone noticing, his own eyes would record everything he did. The Collective had only to go back and examine that data. He’d wind up in the Hall of Dreams for sure.
Yo, Shade, Kann shouted in his head. Shadey Boy…shift’s about to start. Get a move on, buddy! Got a world to save here, can’t do it by my lonesome!
Coming! Shade called back.
It was a long shot, he realized. In fact, it was probably impossible. But what other choice did he have? He had to find a way to free himself from his dream. It was his only hope for remaining an undamaged part of the Collective.
But what excuse could he give for not going to work? If he was discovered, how would he explain his presence in the Hall of Dreams? He was not an interrogator. He had no business there.
His throat felt suddenly sore. Odd, he’d been fine until just—
Without warning, three Dream Police physicians dropped into his mind.
This won’t take a moment, one said. He tapped into Shade’s nervous system, while another explored Shade’s throat and chest, and a third took his temperature.
I don’t feel so good, Shade mumbled. And in that moment he felt genuinely ill.
Fever, commented the second physician. Sore throat. Upper respiratory tract infection. He clucked his tongue. NWBs, most likely. More time in your tanning booth, plenty of water pills, stay off your feet.
The doctor clicked on the tanning booth. A bank of lights in the bottom of bunk 12 glowed blue. A mask descended to cover Shade’s eyes.
The three men bowed in unison.
But I’ve got to go to work! Shade croaked.
Boss chimed in. Not with the NWBs, you don’t. Get better. Then you can come back and help us kill dreams.
Shadey Boy! Kann added, and laughed. Double my workload, willya?
Shade let out a sigh. He’d been holding his breath without realizing it. He nodded, and Boss and the three doctors departed.
What had just happened? He had fooled the Collective’s physicians—even Boss! The sore throat was gone now, as quickly as it had come. He felt fine. How in the name of the Collective had he done that?
