Dreams Must Die

by J. M. Porup

  Shade shook his head. I am a Dreamer Prime. I cannot hear you.

  The man stood and stripped off his blue jumpsuit. He stood there, naked, and held out the garment to Shade.

  Shade removed his own soiled garment and swapped it with the worker. He zipped up the IF uniform, and it shrank to fit him, skintight. The head lamp he left in a nearby recycling receptacle.

  He asked the man one more question. The worker indicated the ground in reply, then finished putting on Shade’s stained and tattered jumpsuit.

  Shade picked up the hard hat and put it on. The lunch pail dangled from his fingertips, bounced against his thigh. He lay a hand on the dreamer’s shoulder.

  Dream, my friend, he thought. Even though it be the last think you ever do—dream!

  The man nodded, tears coursing down his cheeks.

  Shade considered directing the man to the grate. He would be safe below. Ennst could even unplugg him.

  But his friends were long gone. They would not have waited around for him. This dreamer, once below, could wander down there for days, only to have his brain explode, leaving a skeleton behind in the sewers.

  No. Shade would either be successful—and soon—and this man and his dream would be free, or all would be lost, and nothing he could do for the man would make any difference.

  The two men smiled at each other.

  Goodbye, Shade thought, and strode into the street.

  Shade kept his eyes to the ground, his mind blank, and walked along the sidewalk like he belonged there. A couple of Information Factory workers straggled out of a factory at the end of the street. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a pair of Dream Police cruisers turn the corner, machine guns at ready.

  Shade kept his head down, did his best to look tired. As tired as he felt. Thirty-six hours on the run—when did he last sleep?

  Just another IF worker on his way back to bunk. No one special. Not worth looking at.

  The cruisers floated down the street, lights flashing.

  They weren’t running away. They weren’t attacking, either. Was his disguise working? Shade hoped so. If he ran, he’d give himself away. The cruisers slowed alongside him.

  Oh shit. They must be trying to head-hop into his mind right now.

  Quick, you have to reply! Show them some kind of facade. But how? There was no way to actually let them into his mind. Would they recognize him as a Prime?

  Shade assembled a fake mental dossier, pretending to be a local IF worker—a made-up name polished with confident veneer. He head-hopped into their minds and gave them the details.

  Much to Shade’s surprise, the cops continued down the street. It worked! Then another thought: If it were me in that patrol car, looking for the most wanted man on the planet, I’d be checking every dossier with IF Central…

  And when IF Central realized the dossier was fake? There’d be a lot of dossiers to process, but with every IF Factory Worker tasked with finding him… He didn’t want to be here when that happened.

  A moving box trundled by. He hailed it with his mind. The box halted, the doors slid open, and he got in and took a seat.

  Two tired-looking IF workers sat across from Shade. Beside him sat a woman in a Euthenasia & Recycling uniform. Shade painted a mental veneer of physical exhaustion and slumped back into his seat. He hoped it would be enough to deter any idle chatter. He closed his eyes and rested his chin on his chest.

  At the interchange, the others got out. Shade followed. He waited for them to board. Then he hailed another, heading he had no idea where.

  Unable to invite others into his mind, unable to be fully part of the Collective, he felt like a cripple. What was the ancient word? Deaf.

  Yes. He felt deaf.

  He boarded the second train. It was full. Fifty pairs of eyes recording everything they saw. Shade hunched in a corner, hard hat low over his face, arms bent forward over his lunch pail.

  Where was the train going? A glance out the window told him nothing. The Crust stretched black and barren as far as the eye could see.

  They descended. The others made slight, unconscious moves to gather their things. They were all getting off. And that meant—

  No. Central Station? The last place he wanted to go. Thousands of eyes recording his every move.

  How much longer did he have? he wondered. And what was he going to do when they found him? Confront the Collective? Burst into song in Central Station?

  It sounded idiotic. He was supposed to sing—and somehow the world was going to change?

  Why had he ever agreed to do this? He couldn’t transform the entire Collective, somehow merge the worlds of Work and Play, whatever the king’s dream had been. Who did he think he was, anyway? Sure, the Dream Police in the sewers had run away with their fingers in their ears. The Collective wasn’t stupid. They’d be designing and manufacturing earplugs at that very moment. Then what was he going to do?

  Your dream is strong, a voice said inside his head.

  The voice! It had come back! What did it mean? Who was talking to him?

  I am your song, the voice said. Your voice. What you truly are.

  Shade chuckled to himself. And what am I? A fool?

  No, the voice said. You are a messenger. A dreamer. Now abandon your fear and let your voice sing free!

  I’m not ready. I don’t feel in control.

  That’s the point, the voice said. Control is an illusion. You must let go. The song will sing itself. You are merely the instrument. Only then will the song be true.

  The voice fell silent, and Shade mulled this over. It made no sense.

  The train settled onto the Crust in the midst of hundreds of other trains, and the doors in the floor hissed open.

  Shade followed the other commuters down onto the platform. He knew this corner of the station. The adjacent train would take him home.

  Home.

  Well, what had once been home. His bunk. He could never go back there. Now home was—what, exactly?

  Your dream, the voice said. I am your home.

  And Shade knew this to be true.

  Still, it felt natural to let his feet carry him across the platform and up the boarding ladder onto the adjacent train. He could roam the station, pick a different train, of course, but he had to weigh the risk of being identified by a trainful of dozens of commuters or a stationful of thousands of eyes. He preferred the former.

  Shade slumped once more into his seat, and did his best to project quiet confidence and a desire for nothing more than his daily six.

  The train filled, the doors closed, and they took off. It was not long, though, before a ripple ran through the carriage. Heads turned, passengers glared at each other. Shade did the same.

  In unison, their gaze came to rest on him. They stared at him not with the hate he’d been expecting, hoping for, even, but with the clinical dispassion of a man about to kill a nine-legged cockroach.

  Maybe they didn’t hate him after all, Shade thought. Maybe the hatred was his own, and he was projecting that onto the Collective.

  The train changed course.

  Heading for Dream Police HQ, most likely. Where hundreds of armed police would do everything within their power to silence him forever.

  They’ve found me. They’re going to kill me. Worse, they’re going to kill my dream—I’ll never sing again!

  Without thinking, Shade screamed, both with his lungs and inside his head.

  The scream radiated throughout the carriage. The others covered their ears with their hands, shut their eyes and winced in pain. Shade leaped up, seized the emergency brake with his mind and pulled.

  The train dropped straight down. The other passengers clutched their seats, nearby poles. A few flailed against the ceiling.

  The Crust approached fast. A parachute opened above them, flinging everyone back to their seats, or to the ground. The injured writhed and grimaced, but did not dare moan.

  Shade took another breath and screamed again, concentrating a
ll his mental energy on broadcasting that terrible sound.

  But the others straggled to their feet, threw him out of their minds, stuck their fingers in their ears and lurched toward him.

  His only hope was to escape across the Crust, find some way back beneath the surface undetected. The others stumbled toward him, and Shade screamed again, but this time it had no effect.

  Shade disconnected one of the train’s parachute lines with his mind, overriding the safety catch. The train tilted, sending the others sprawling backward.

  Twenty meters to the ground.

  Ten.

  Five.

  He took a deep breath, braced himself and disconnected the parachute completely. The train plummeted. He popped open the emergency exit in the back window with his mind and leaped from the train.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Shade landed on his feet, tumbling forward to shake off the blow. Behind him, the train slammed into the Crust.

  He had never been out on the Crust before. Who had? Few nodes had reason to come out here, after all. Ancient dead things crunchd under foot. The grey clouds of eternal nuclear winter glowered down at him, almost daring him to linger. The radiation here was many times worse than below, in the City of Dreams. The fallout could kill a man after only a day or two of exposure.

  The train lay bent and broken behind him. In every direction, blankness. Emptiness.

  Wait. There.

  A drainage ditch flared open a couple hundred meters away. Once inside, there would be thousands of points of egress on hundreds of levels, where sewer and other branch lines intersected with the main pipe. It would be difficult—although not impossible—for the Collective to track him. They could position nodes at every exit, but if he was quick he might get there first. And if not, it was unlikely any nearby nodes would be police—or armed.

  Shade jogged toward the ditch. A shadow flickered above him, and by instinct he leaped sideways. The flying train crunched down where he had stood.

  He clenched his fists and screamed again, but the train lifted once more into the air. The Collective as a whole must be controlling the train now. His puny scream would have no effect.

  Shade ran.

  The train came down again, missing him by centimeters. He jumped as randomly as he dared, left and right, even backward to keep the Collective guessing.

  Only a few more meters and he’d be in the drainage ditch.

  The shadow loomed once more above him. He leaped head first into the drain opening, felt the train smack against the soles of his feet.

  The blow sent him sprawling. Shade paused, panting. Behind him, the train crunched down on the drain opening. It did not move. He’d disposed of his head lamp in the alley to be less conspicuous, and now crouched in complete blackness. He would have to hurry.

  He scuttled down the drain pipe, and found himself splashing in puddles of water.

  What if—?

  Suppressing his fear, he leaped feet first down the pipe, and rode for ten minutes, at ever-increasing speeds, until he hit a dry patch.

  A light illuminated this kink in the pipe. A watertight hatch stood to one side.

  Shade considered. He’d made good time from the surface. He was probably fifty or so levels below ground. He’d also no doubt passed many unlit exit points without realizing it. He wondered why this hatch was lit and the others weren’t. Perhaps it was a major entry/exit point. That meant it was more likely to be defended. He could keep going. But who knew when he’d next find a chance like this? He might even wind up back in the Dream Mines if he wasn’t careful, and find his timer ticking down again. He peered at the hatch.

  Keep going? Or stay here?

  No time, Shade thought. And decided.

  First he checked his appearance. He was soaked to the skin in radioactive sludge. He’d lost his hard hat and lunch pail. No longer the tired commuter, he looked more like a dirty drain worker called upon to clear a blockage.

  It happened occasionally, he knew. The story would have to do.

  Here’s hoping there’s no one on the other side of that door.

  He spun the hatch, took a deep breath. And pushed it open.

  No one there. No greeting party. Yes! He had beaten the Collective this time. Good.

  Shade stepped through, closed the hatch door behind him, and spun the wheel.

  Something cold and hard pressed against the back of his skull.

  A gun.

  “Turn around,” a squawk box barked. “Slowly.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Shade turned, hands in the air.

  Two young Dream Police stood there, guns pointed at his belly. Rookies. Shade didn’t recognize either of them. They both wore double dream shields. Squawk boxes clung to their throats.

  Shade projected himself into their minds. hi how’s it’s going nice weather we’ve been having lately huh just cleaning out the drains uh what’s with the guns?

  They threw him out.

  “Nice try,” the squawk boxes crackled. “We know who you are. One more thought and you’re dead.”

  They both checked their dream shields. Maximum power, Shade noted. Integrity complete.

  But…they weren’t wearing earplugs.

  “Dreamer Prime,” squawked a rookie. “Previously found guilty. Sentence was ChemLob. Execute sentence?”

  A pause. The guns both pointed at Shade’s head. He had only a second or two and he would be dead—or ChemLobbed. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

  He sighed. It was time to die. For his dream to die.

  Or… said the voice in his head.

  Or sing.

  That’s what you came here for. Remember?

  But I’m not ready!

  You’ll never be ready. What have you got to lose?

  The squawk boxes crackled in unison. “Node Shade, you are guilty of crimes against humanity. Sentence is death.”

  The two cops cocked their guns.

  Song welled inside of Shade. He had no other choice. That made it easy. He opened his mouth and let his song pour forth.

  “What—what are you doing?” screamed the squawk boxes. The guns shook in the cops’ hands. Bullets splattered around Shade, missing him.

  The song soared in power, silencing the cops’ complaint. They dropped their guns, covered their ears with their hands, but it was too late. They slumped to their knees.

  Time to go.

  His song bridled at this, but obeyed—although Shade could tell this obedience would not last much longer.

  The song faded. Shade closed his lips. The men stared up at him, eyes wide, hands together, guns at their feet. He waved a hand in front of their faces.

  Nothing.

  He stepped around them, strode down the corridor. He checked behind him. The men had not moved.

  Shade fled into the World of Work.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The garret was dark, and filthy from the refuse of a thousand fleeing dreamers. Shade reexamined the place. Only a few weeks ago he had confronted that premeditated dreamer—the Helper, the one Kann had shot. Her blood still stained the floor.

  He left the lights off. Little traffic filled the street. Once his eyes adjusted, he found the bed and sprawled on the dusty sheets.

  The bed was dirty and uncomfortable. But it was all he had left.

  After fleeing the awe-struck rookies, Shade had taken to the shadows. Even a single pair of eyes would be enough to bring down the wrath of the Collective.

  He had made it to the garret unobserved, and popped the last of the food and water pills in his jumpsuit pocket. He wondered what Maude and Buck and Ennst were doing right now. If they were safe. Waiting, perhaps, to hear news of him.

  Now what? he wondered. He stared at the darkened ceiling. A spider with sixteen legs crept along a web, where a fly buzzed, entangling itself further with each desperate attempt to free itself.

  The reaction of the rookies had surprised him. That awe. Of what—of him? Was that even p
ossible? He had expected to die at that moment. He’d sung in desperation—and won!

  What if he could do the same to the whole Collective? Was his dream really that powerful? Could he bring the entire mass of humanity, ten billion nodes, to their knees?

  But he was tired. So tired. How many days had it been since he last slept? It seemed like a lifetime ago. His eyes flickered shut. If only he could rest, if only he could think clearly, then he would know what to do.

  Sleep, his song said. Let us dream.

  His eyes flew open. To dream! How many dreamers had he caught and ChemLobbed while they slept, the jabber in their veins before they knew what had happened? If he slept…if he dreamed…now…and they found him…

  Sleep, his song crooned again. You must drink from the wellspring each night for your dreams to remain strong.

  But he was wide awake now. He folded his hands under the back of his head. Would they be able to track him, find him? Would he betray himself like before, broadcast his location without even realizing it? Some kind of subconscious desire to be caught and punished?

  He bit his lip. What options did he have left?

  To confront the Collective now, when he was tired, unready.

  You will never be ready, his dream whispered.

  But I thought you wanted me to go to sleep.

  I am your song, the voice said. I am the What and the Why, but you are the Who and the When and the How.

  But I’ll never be ready! he protested. Not now, not ever! How can I infect the entire Collective? Who am I to do this thing?

  The voice did not reply.

  Break it down, he thought. The question was: What was his maximum broadcast radius? How far could he head-hop and still be contagious? For most dreamers, a couple of kilometers. For a Prime, maybe a a score of clicks. In order for him to be successful, he’d have to broadcast to the entire world at the same time.

  Was that even possible? To infect ten billion nodes at once?

  What a thought. Humanity awe-struck at his song.

  That assumed they all reacted the same way, of course. And ten billion people was a lot of people—if even a small fraction of that number remained uninfected, the Collective would find a away to fight back, to destroy him, and, failing that, destroy the entire world rather than relinquish control.