The Dreamfields

by Kevin Wayne Jeter

  “Have you ever looked at pictures of rich people? Really looked? I don’t mean people who just have some money, but the ones who have so much they’re like whole nations inside their own skins. The ones with the power. Have you ever noticed something odd about the way they look?”

  “Maybe,” said Ralph carefully.

  Spencer’s voice became taut as a wire. “If beings from another star wanted to take over this world, use it for something without our knowing, who would they take the place of, substitute themselves for? Any dumb schmuck out on the street? No—the super-rich. The ones with the power.”

  “You gotta be putting me on,” said Ralph. “I mean, I used to read all that science fiction stuff, too, but I never let it affect my thinking.”

  Casually, Spencer tilted his head to one side. “Accounts for a lot of twentieth-century history.”

  “Maybe, but I still don’t believe it.” He had almost convinced himself that Spencer had been kidding him.

  “Okay, so you explain why the ones with all the money look different from the rest of us. Think they eat the stuff or something?”

  Through the window over the sink, Ralph could see the sky beginning to lighten. He exhaled and rubbed his eyes. “This is more than I can take right now. I have to get some sleep.” He got up and headed for the front room.

  “My brother used to say that the only reason anybody slept more than four hours a day was because they had nothing better to do.” Spencer picked up the soldering iron and switched it on.

  And look where it got him, thought Ralph. He was almost irritable enough from fatigue to say it out loud, but refrained. With his shoes off, he nested the blankets around himself on the sofa and fell asleep.

  * * *

  A dream filled with great sliding fangs chased him back into consciousness. He opened his eyes and let the sight of the cluttered room press back the darkness inside.

  Spencer wasn’t in the apartment. A note was taped to the refrigerator.

  Ralph—

  Back in a bit. Feel free to eat whatever you find.

  —S.

  While one hand scraped the crusts from the corners of his eyes, Ralph held the note with the other, read it, and tossed it on the kitchen table. Yawning, he shuffled back to the refrigerator and pulled out another nearly empty milk carton. Half a loaf of rye bread was already on the table, nestled among the electronic parts. He sat down and started to eat, propping his head up with one hand.

  Must be noon at least, he thought, watching a dusty shaft of light fall into the room. As a child he had always felt a sense of uneasiness or dread—even sin—at getting up so late. Probably worried that the rest of the world was going to sneak something past me. The feeling had dissipated while at the base.

  He took another slice of bread, got up, and sat on the edge of the sink.

  Through the window he could see another apartment building and a section of street with cars parked along it. Somewhere near the RWP headquarters, his parents’ Ford was still waiting for him. I should go get it, he thought suddenly. I should get out of here as fast as I can.

  Things had gone so fast yesterday that he had been sucked along with the Alpha Fraction’s momentum without thinking. But in this harsh, still light, a part of him was scared. A premonition of pain and trouble increasing with no end, except death, in sight. Get out, he thought again, gazing at the street.

  Not yet, he told himself. He went back to the table and drank the rest of the milk straight from the carton. There would be, he knew deep within himself, time enough for giving up later, after everything possible had gone wrong. Right now it all still felt too good to be awake and plotting in L.A. As far, he thought, from the base and its sleepwalking death as I can get.

  He heard the apartment’s door open. “Spencer?” he called as he headed for the other room.

  It wasn’t. Sarah, carrying a large brown paper bag, pushed the door shut behind herself with her foot. “Hi,” she said casually. Balancing the bag in the crook of one arm, she brushed her hair to one side of her face with her free hand. “Where’s Spencer?”

  “Out some place.” Ralph shrugged. “His note said he’d be back in a little while.”

  She nodded and walked past him into the kitchen. Setting the bag amid the clutter on the table, she began distributing the groceries inside it to the cupboards and refrigerator.

  From the doorway, Ralph watched her in silence for a few moments.

  When she bent down to put some cans in one of the cupbards below the counter, her long golden hair fell forward over her shoulders. She brushed it back with the same motion of her hand and slight toss of her head. He wondered why something about that should disturb him, until he remembered. The first time he had seen her do it was out in the desert, when she had straightened up, holding the camera. The bloodstain had been right at her feet.

  “You people must be rich or something,” said Ralph finally. “Spending all your time on this Alpha Fraction stuff and still being able to buy groceries.”

  Sarah glanced at him sharply while her hands folded the empty paper bag into a flat square. “We don’t spend all our time on it,” she said.

  “Spencer is the only one who doesn’t have a job. The rest of us pay his rent and buy his food so he can spend his time building the electronic equipment we’re going to use. He’s pretty good at that stuff—he built the alarm bypass his brother used to get into the Thronsen Home.” She turned away and slid the folded bag into the little space between the refrigerator and the counter.

  “Do you make much money as a photographer?”

  Her brow creased as she stared at him. “I run a turret lathe,” she said. “At one of the Army contractors downtown. Where’d you get the idea I was a photographer?”

  “Maybe,” he said, “from when I saw you out by the Opwatch base. Taking pictures of that spot on the ground.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She crossed the kitchen and pushed past him, but he caught her by one wrist. Angrily, she jerked her hand free, pivoted in the middle of the front room, and glared at him. The pieces of paper tacked to the wall fluttered.

  “Look.” She put fists on hips. “It’s none of your business, okay? Just forget about it.”

  Ralph leaned back against the inside of the kitchen doorway. “I thought we were all supposed to be on the same team now.”

  The anger flared in her eyes. “All right,” she said quietly. “That’s why I’m asking you not to tell the others. Believe me.”

  He watched as she turned and left, pulling the door shut behind her.

  The sound of her footsteps faded. I don’t believe her, he thought.

  Distractedly, he studied the space she had occupied in the middle of the room and wondered how he was going to tell the other members of the fraction.

  The door swung open again and Sarah walked back into the apartment.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, standing only a couple of feet away from Ralph. “I shouldn’t have blown up at you—maybe it’s because of all the pressure we’re under. I guess I didn’t like the idea of being spied on.”

  “What were you doing out there, though?” said Ralph. “And why didn’t you tell the others?”

  She took a deep breath before speaking. “I was out in the desert because I’d had a feeling about Mike—I knew something had happened to him. I got that crummy old camera from a pawn shop and drove out near the base. It didn’t take me long to find the bloodstain. I’ve got kind of a knack for finding things. Or at least things that concern people important to me. It was only after I got back to L.A. and had the pictures developed that I realized they couldn’t help anything. I couldn’t even explain them, and it was too late to do anything for Mike.”

  “Wouldn’t the others have understood if you’d told them?”

  “I wasn’t worried about Spencer and Mendel.” She paused for a moment. “It’s Gunther that scares me. Something’s happening to him. We all thought he was stable, but the
tension seems to be pushing him back into his army memories. He was given a psychiatric discharge before he joined the RWP.”

  Ralph nodded, remembering the stories he’d heard of certain wards in the veterans’ hospitals where they kept the ones who’d been totally consumed by war’s guilt and horror. Even from over a viewscreen it had been too much for some. So that’s what’s wrong with Gunther, thought Ralph. You can see it in him— all the burning villages and towns, and the screaming South American children compressed in his gut.

  “That’s why I didn’t tell them,” said Sarah. “I was afraid Gunther might go off the deep end if he thought that one of us had betrayed something he identified with. No telling what he might do.”

  “All right,” said Ralph. “I won’t tell the others.” He turned away. A few seconds later, he heard the door open and close again, and he was alone, wondering how important Michael Stimmitz had been to her.

  Some time later, Spencer returned. He was carrying a small box that rattled and clinked with some type of electronics’ gear. “I phoned Mendel,” he said. “It’s all set for tonight.” He went into the kitchen and set the box down on the table. “Anything happen while I was out?”

  “Sarah came by with some groceries,” said Ralph.

  Chapter 10

  The moon shone above the blue mercury-vapor street lamps.

  Sandwiched between Mendel at the wheel of the van and Spencer on the other side, Ralph watched the L.A. streets flick past. In the rearview mirror, he could see the rows of electronic equipment banked along the van’s interior walls. Mendel steered hard around a corner and all three sets of shoulders bumped into one another.

  “Okay,” said Spencer, straightening up. “Now here’s the deal. We’ve already managed to get a tap on the computer terminal at the Opwatch recruiting office. It’s what’s called a vector tap—that’s like a long-range bug without wires. We’ve gotten a printout of all of the Opwatch programs on the duplicate terminal here in the van. Got the picture so far? Now, everything we’ve gotten through the tap up to this point hasn’t been very revealing—mostly just material requisition records and stuff like that. But we’ve discovered the existence of a Master Historical Program, Limited Access, which should contain the data we’re looking for. That’s what you’re going to help us get.”

  “What do you need me for?” said Ralph. “As long as you’ve got a tap on their computer, why not just pull out what you need, like the other programs?”

  “Ah. Not so easy.” Spencer shook his head. “There’s a lock on that program. Limited access, right? Before the Master Historical Program can go through the Opwatch computer, and then into our tap terminal, the locking device has to be deactivated.”

  “And you want me to do that?” Ralph stared at him. “You think I’m a cat burglar or something? I can’t sneak in there and flip the switch or whatever it is any better than one of you could.”

  “Wrong. You’re the only one who can.” Spencer grinned. “The program lock isn’t in the Opwatch recruiting office.”

  Ralph felt exasperated. “Then what are we going there for?” he demanded. “And what’s so special that only I can do?”

  “The program lock isn’t in the recruiting office,” said Spencer. “And it is. They’re got a field projection device there, a miniature version of the ones out on the base. The little one in the office creates a separate dreamfield of about three square meters. The locking device for the Master Historical Program is in that space, that pocket universe.”

  “Wait a minute. How could that work? I thought the dreamfield was a projection of the people who are hooked into it through their subconscious. Like the kids out in the Thronsen Home. So who’s dreaming this little field?”

  “The computer.” Spencer looked pleased. “Ingenious, really. One of its programs is a continuous analogue of a human dream. It’s as if part of the computer is actually dreaming of a nine-by-nine-foot room with the program locking device in it. To deactivate the lock, you have to get into that little dreamfield.”

  “And I suppose you’ve figured out a way to get in,” said Ralph.

  Spencer pulled a scuffed-looking briefcase from beneath the van’s seat.

  He snapped its latches and set it open on his lap. Inside was a flat rectangular box made of gray metal. Two copper wires emerged from the sides and were formed into loops, resting atop a black plastic knob.

  “This,” said Spencer, “is the way in. It’s a miniaturized version of the line shack out at the Opwatch base. It’s got enough power to put one person into a small field like the one we’re talking about. All you have to do is hold these two loops and turn the—”

  “Hold it.” Ralph drew away from him. “What do you mean, you? Are you planning on me doing this?”

  “You have to. You’re the only one who can.”

  “How come? Why can’t somebody else do it?”

  “Dammit,” muttered Mendel, hunched over the steering wheel. “Show a little backbone.”

  Spencer’s grin had evaporated. “Uh, we found out something about what happens when you hire on as a watcher for Operation Dream watch; something they don’t tell you about. Some kind of surreptitious alteration, using microwave energy, is made in your brain chemistry, in order for it to be possible for you to go out on the dreamfield. They do it to you while you’re sleeping. Without that change, the insertion device—the line shack—doesn’t work at all. Mike was going to be the one who entered this little dreamfield and unlocked the program, but he was killed before I had the equipment ready. That’s why you have to go instead.”

  Ralph felt something slide sickeningly under his gut. They did something to me, he thought. Without my even knowing it. Something in my brain is different. That’ll teach me. “Well,” he said weakly. “I guess I don’t have that much to lose. But I don’t know anything about computers—how am I supposed to get the damn thing unlocked?”

  “There’s a radio circuit built in here.” Spencer lifted the device out of the briefcase. “See? A signal can still get into a field that small. I’ll be able to give you instructions.”

  All three of them lurched forward as Mendel brought the van to a halt.

  The empty briefcase slid from Spencer’s lap and fell to the floor.

  “Sorry,” said Mendel, shutting off the headlights. “There’s Sarah.”

  After a few seconds of peering into the darkness in front of them, Ralph could perceive the outlines of a car. It was several yards ahead of them in a corner of a deserted parking lot. One of its doors opened and Sarah’s silhouette headed toward them. She was carrying a small bundle in one hand.

  Mendel and Spencer got out of the van as the figure approached. Ralph followed them and stood, tensed against the coldness of the night air. For the first time, he noticed the towering building the lot surrounded. The Muehlenfeldt Center, thought Ralph. It hung over them like a sheer mountain face, though its base seemed more than a mile away. The rest of L.A. was faraway and silent.

  “It’s all set,” said Sarah. “The service elevator’s unlocked. That goes straight to the sixtieth floor. Here.” She held the bundle out to Ralph. “Put this on.”

  He shook it out and saw that it was a pair of dark-colored coveralls.

  ZENITH JANITORIAL SERVICE was lettered on the back.

  “Where’s Gunther?” said Mendel.

  “There was a note on his door,” said Sarah. “He’ll be here in a little bit.”

  Ralph fastened the last button on the coveralls, then shook his pants leg farther down inside them. He listened to Spencer’s instructions, then, without saying anything—all his muscles felt tight but somehow good—he stepped out into the lot’s blue illumination and headed for the tower.

  * * *

  “Hey, this is a broom closet.” Ralph released the switch on the bottom of the device and waited for Spencer to answer. He had been ignored by the real janitors on his way up to this level and had had no trouble finding the right door. Now he stood in
the little room’s darkness, surrounded by faintly odorous mops and cleaning compounds. His shin hit a metal bucket on wheels and something inside it clattered.

  The device he carried in his hands snarled, then a tinny version of Spencer’s voice emerged. “ . . . course it’s a broom closet. Here it’s a broom closet. Stop wasting time.”

  Ralph squatted down and balanced the device on his knee like a tray.

  He grasped the two coils of wire in his hands and twisted the knob in the center with one finger and thumb. He felt a tiny sensation he recognized from the times at the base’s line shack, and the space became filled with a dim fluorescent light.

  Setting the device on the floor—carpeted now instead of bare cement—he looked around. The room was the same size but the mops and cleaning supplies were gone. In their place was only a small panel jutting out from one wall, with a metal chair in front of it.

  He picked up the device and sat down in the chair with it in his lap.

  “Okay,” he said, thumbing the switch on the bottom. “Here it is.”

  Somewhere, he thought, a computer is dreaming all this. The idea seemed to chill the room.

  Spencer’s voice crackled into the silence. “All right. Give me the layout.”

  Carefully, starting from one corner of the panel, Ralph described the controls. When he was done he sat back and waited.

  After several minutes, Spencer spoke again. “Most of those dials are dummies,” came the voice from the flat metal box. “Some of them are alarm triggers. Here’s the real ones you’ll have to adjust. Count over three from the top right-hand corner. The second red one. Turn it . . .”

  The directions went on for some time. Between the turning of knobs on the panel and other adjustments, there was no time to think. Finally, Spencer’s instructions ceased and Ralph sat back in the chair, lifting his hands from the panel.

  “Looks good,” said Spencer. “Our tap on their computer shows the unlocking process nearly completed without any slips. Two last adjustments, though. These two knobs are spring-loaded, so you’ll have to hold them in the positions I give you until the Master Historical Program has finished printing out.”