The Dreamfields

by Kevin Wayne Jeter

  “All right!” shouted Ralph. He flushed with anger. “So get on with it! I’m listening.”

  General Loren made little smacking noises around the stem of his dead pipe. “I presume,” he said at last, “that Mr. Stimmitz showed you the prepared orientation tape. Good. Then you know the nature of the disaster we’re trying to prevent. Disaster is, of course, putting it weakly. If Operation Dreamwatch reaches its culmination there will be no one left afterward to call it a disaster.” One of his hands pushed through the sweat on his forehead. “Frankly, the only reason some of us are maintaining any sort of calm is that we’ve been living with the idea for a little while.”

  I think, said Ralph to himself, I’d rather live with it than be chased by it all day. “Go ahead,” he said calmly.

  After a deep, steadying breath, the general plunged in. “At this moment, the psychic energy level located in the Opwatch dreamfield is building to the point where it can be detonated. From the information we’ve been able to get hold of, it’s apparent we only have a few hours until that point is reached—”

  “Why not blow up the Thronsen Home?” interrupted Ralph. “Bomb it, as a sort of preventive strike. If the kids in there were destroyed, wouldn’t their psychic energy be gone as well? Now I know that sounds callous, but given the alternatives—”

  “No.” The general shook his head. “It’s too late for that. Most of the Thronsen children have died already—physically, because their psychic energy has already been displaced into the dreamfield, where we can’t get at it. Once that energy starts on its exponential curve, it has a life of its own. It can’t be damped by sending the watchers into the field—even if we could convince any of them to go.”

  “Wait. Wait.” Ralph pressed his fingers to his brow for a few seconds.

  “If the energy is located in the dreamfield, why should we worry about it exploding? That’s a pocket universe, separate from this one. We wouldn’t be hurt by an explosion there.”

  “Not if the dreamfield remained a separate universe. But it can be transposed into this one. Just as part of this universe, the watchers, could be inserted into the dreamfield, the dreamfield can be inserted into this universe.”

  “That’s how my brother was killed,” said Spencer. “See, the extent to which this universe and the dreamfield can be overlapped is variable. The watchers were never completely inserted into the dreamfield, but just far enough so they could see the dream sequences the kids were being put through—though that’s unimportant—and also to keep the energy level from premature detonation. Premature, that is, if your intention is to destroy the world. Anyway, the watchers were always between universes, so to speak. That’s why they couldn’t physically interact with the figures on the dreamfield. Until Mike was killed. Then the dreamfield was momentarily transposed onto the same plane as the watchers, and the field’s slithergadee was able to get at Mike.”

  So that explains it, thought Ralph. He saw again the bloodstain on the ground outside the base. The sudden transposition must have pushed us closer to our own universe—close enough to bleed into it.

  “That’s why the psychic bomb is dangerous,” continued the general. “A split second before it’s to be detonated, the entire dreamfield containing it will be inserted into this universe.”

  “Oh.” Ralph felt some space inside him diminish, as if to make room for the dreamfield’s intrusion. The inevitability of it seemed to be already darkening the earth outside the window. “You mean you brought me all the way back here just to tell me this? Somehow, that doesn’t seem, uh, kind. I could have caught it with everyone else in Las Vegas and been just as happy.”

  The general giggled, producing an unnerving effect. “Well,” he said, “there is a way to keep the psychic bomb from going off. That’s why you were brought here.”

  A small, trembling premonition moved upwards along Ralph’s spine.

  Not of danger—all time, he knew, had now moved past that point—but of a fearful responsibility with its point weighing against his breast alone. A grade-school fear resurrected, but now bigger than himself, bigger than anything— What if I screw up! he thought bleakly. The realization that there would be no one to blame him afterward didn’t help. He could barely squeeze his voice out. “What am I supposed to do?”

  The large brown hands on the desk top were white-knuckled. The general seemed petrified, his teeth clamped on his pipe in a frozen rictus.

  A small red spot of anger bloomed in the center of Ralph’s vision, blotting out the general’s face. He just realized that the whole thing depends on me. Ralph stiffened in his chair.

  “Forget him,” said Spencer. He came over and sat down on the corner of the desk. “I’m surprised the military mind was able to bear up this long. This sort of thing just isn’t in their universe.”

  “So what’s the plan?” said Ralph. “What am I supposed to do that no one else can?”

  “It’s like this. The psychic energy doesn’t automatically explode at any point of its exponential growth curve.” Spencer held his palms a few inches apart. “In fact, there’s only a limited range of the curve where it can be detonated at all. Below that range, the energy will dissipate harmlessly if a detonation attempt is made. Above that range, the energy consumes itself—burns itself out. If the detonator can be set off before the critical range of the growth curve is reached, then the psychic bomb is harmless.”

  “So where’s the detonator?”

  “It’s on the dreamfield itself. It’s the thing the watchers call the slithergadee.”

  A memory of fangs sliding in their sockets, then Ralph rose a few inches from his seat. “You mean you want me to go back on the field and—and do what to that thing?”

  Spencer pushed him back down in the chair. The general’s pipe fell from his mouth. “The Beta group,” said Spencer, “has developed a device you’ll take with you onto the field. You merely have to locate the slithergadee, adjust the device as you’ll be shown, then use it to set off the slithergadee/detonator—before the energy level’s critical range is reached. That’ll defuse the bomb.”

  “Is that all?” Ralph’s laugh came out like a gasp. “You’re crazy—that thing could be anywhere on the field. And what’s to prevent it from getting me like it did your brother?”

  “Hopefully you’ll get it before it gets you. As for locating it—the sooner you go, the better chance you’ll have.”

  No wonder the general froze up, thought Ralph. “It’s impossible,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter whether you think it’s impossible.” Spencer gripped the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “You’re the only one who can even try. Only a former watcher can be inserted into the dreamfield. There’s not enough time to prepare anybody who hasn’t been one—and you know we can’t use any of the other watchers, even if, we could convince one to go. They’re useless for daily living, let alone something like this. Face it. You’re the only one.”

  Two images rose in his’ mind. Sarah, and—incongruously—the grinning dog named Rin-Tin-Tin. At least he tried, thought Ralph. Or something like that. “All right,” he said. “I’m ready to go.”

  Chapter 16

  “It looks like a rifle.” Ralph hoisted the thing in his hands.

  Spencer nodded. “I think they did take the stock from an army carbine. Just to make it a convenient shape to hold and aim.”

  The sports-jacketed Beta group technician who had brought the device in a padded cloth bag now glanced nervously at the desk. The general was sipping at a paper cup of water held in a trembling hand. “Is everything all right?” he said. “Has Shadrach here been briefed?”

  “Metric,” corrected Spencer absently. He was studying the gunlike device intently. “Show him how to work this thing.”

  “Really very simple.” The technician tapped at it with a pencil. The whatsit—you know, the detonator for the psychic bomb—is really a concentrated energy source in itself. Kind of a small bomb to set off the larger bom
b. We haven’t been able to figure out yet how the detonator is controlled, except that it’s set off by a relatively small energy pulse. This gun will emit such a pulse—three of them, in fact, so you’ll have that many chances. Get within fifty feet of the detonator, aim the device just like a normal gun, and pull the trigger. That’s all there is to it.

  “Except—see these two dials here?” The pencil tapped at two small gauges facing upwards at the gun’s middle. “The one on the left will indicate at what level between the dreamfield and this universe the detonator actually is. We can’t determine this beforehand because the detonator apparently can be transposed independently of the dreamfield and the psychic bomb—probably as a safety measure until the moment of detonation. You must, before firing the pulse at the detonator, adjust the dial on the right—see the little knob here on the side?—to match the reading of the other dial. That will set the pulse at the same level between the field and this universe as the detonator occupies. The pulse has such a narrow ‘reality bandwidth’ that it will miss the detonator entirely if they’re not exactly in the same plane.”

  “So what you have to do,” said Spencer, “is find the slithergadee, get within fifty feet, read the dial on the left, set the one on the right to match it, aim and fire. Got it?”

  Ralph nodded. All the moisture from his mouth seemed to have travelled to his hands. “What’s this other stuff here?”

  “This clips onto your belt,” said the technician, attaching a small rectangular box to Ralph. “It’s just a battery for the gun. Then this cable runs from it and plugs into the stock. Like that. Now you’re all set.”

  He cradled the gun in his hands and headed for the door.

  “Good luck,” rattled the general’s voice behind him.

  * * *

  On the way to the line shack, with Ralph in the center of the small procession and bearing the gun like some new totem, they passed close to one of the army trucks. He peered into its open back, then halted suddenly on the path. The truck was filled with former watchers, sitting quietly on narrow wooden benches that ran the length of the vehicle. A few had fallen asleep, heads and shoulders slumped against each other, but most wore the vacant, glazed expression of people trying to notice as little as possible of whatever unpleasant experience they were undergoing.

  “Come on.” Spencer pulled at Ralph’s elbow. “Don’t waste the little time you got.”

  “Just a minute,” said Ralph. He had spotted the two watchers he had been seeking, sitting side by side in the middle of the group. “Hey, Goodell! Kathy!”

  The two leaned forward from the bench and looked down the ranks of knees at him, framed in the truck’s rear opening. “Ralph,” said Goodell, smiling weakly. “What are you doing out there?”

  “It’s too complicated to explain now.”

  “Well,” said Goodell wistfully, “isn’t this something? I guess every good arrangement has to come to an end sometime.”

  Beside him, Kathy suddenly jerked upright, as if jolted from sleep. Even her face tensed, the usual slack lines tautening from within. “Is that all you can say?” she shouted at Goodell. “They round us up and cram us into these smelly trucks and all you can say is your crummy good job is over? Is that all?” She swung and connected her small fist with Goodell’s ear. She was still shouting something as Ralph let himself be led away.

  “There’s hope for us all,” he muttered, using up the last of his capacity for amazement. Spencer and the Beta technician didn’t seem to hear him.

  They passed the saluting guard at the entrance of the line shack and hurried into its cavernous interior. Another technician was up in the control booth, looking around the little glass-enclosed area and comparing it with a booklet he held.

  “Hey!” Spencer shouted up at the booth. “Are we ready to go?”

  Somehow he had expanded to fill the hole left in the Beta organization by the general’s collapse. Perhaps he had been born to. He turned to Ralph.

  “All right, then. Grab a strap.”

  Without stopping to think, Ralph stepped into the middle of the space and with his free hand caught one of the loops dangling from the suspended cable. With a shock of recognition, he felt the familiar coldness of the metal contact against his palm.

  Spencer turned and raised his hand to signal the control booth, then lowered it. He walked quickly up to Ralph while digging something out of his pocket. Onto Ralph’s arm he buckled something that looked like a wristwatch. “I almost forgot,” he said. “This will tell you how much time you’ve got. When the needle enters the red zone, it’ll be too late—the psychic energy level will have reached the detonation range. If that happens, you’ll probably be consumed by the explosion in a few seconds. So don’t try to cut it thin. Find the slithergadee and set it off as soon as you can.” Spencer started to back away.

  “Hey,” said Ralph. “What happens to me when I trigger the detonator? Will I make it back here?”

  “We don’t know.” Spencer turned and gestured sharply to the control booth. “We’ll try to get you back—”

  There was no time for any more words. The shack faded away and in seconds he was on the dreamfield, the line snaking upwards out of his grasp.

  He dropped to his knees, gasping. The dreamfield’s sky had turned yellow, writhing with figures at the edge of perception. A cold wind stiffened the air, though the ground seemed to be shimmering with heat.

  The force that had stricken Ralph on his arrival passed, although his stomach remained coiled with nausea. He pushed himself upright with his free hand.

  The field’s remembered streets and buildings stretched out in all directions, the mirror images endlessly repeating themselves. All the shadows were burnt away by the yellow light, except one that lay like a dark cross on the streets. That shadow was cast by Muehlenfeldt’s jet, crowded in among the buildings, its enormous wings over their roofs, the cylinders of its engines reflected in the plate glass windows—some silver bird of prey frozen amidst a deserted ant heap.

  Ralph studied its blank, staring windows for a moment, then turned away and hurried down one of the streets leading from it. There was no way of telling if the slithergadee would be aboard the jet, but for now he fervently hoped it wasn’t. Somehow he felt sure Sarah wasn’t in there.

  Only dreaded things, he thought.

  He ran down the street, gripping the altered rifle in one hand, past the empty buildings and out of sight of the jet. In the middle of a crossroads he stopped and looked at the dial Spencer had strapped to his forearm. It was impossible to tell how far the tiny hand had travelled toward the red since he had left the line shack. My time sense is warped, he realized. The mounting energy on the field was disorienting him in every dimension. At his core fear mixed with the nausea. He ran on, the buildings heaving alongside him like slow waves.

  There was no sign of the slithergadee. Ralph squatted down in the middle of the street and panted. He was afraid to look at the dial now—it seemed as if hours of running had gone by, with nothing but an infinity of small-town store fronts entering his vision. They should’ve known, he thought bitterly, staring at the asphalt with his head lowered in exhaustion. They should’ve known it wouldn’t be just waiting here for me to find. Either it’s hidden where I’ll never find it, or it’s on Muehlenfeldt’s jet—and how can I get at it there?

  Something moved in the buildings to his right. He saw its motion from the corner of his eye. Gripping the gun tighter, he rose and walked slowly towards the drugstore where he had seen it.

  Inside it was dark, the racks and counters arrayed in oppressive silence.

  He walked farther into the building, until he stood in its center. As he pivoted slowly around, a figure rose from behind the cash register. “You,” it gasped, stretching an arm of fire toward him.

  He stared at the swaying apparition for several moments until he realized what it was. One of the children from the Thronsen Home, he thought, dismayed. Burning up. The dream image seemed to
be that of a boy sixteen or seventeen years old, but with the skin bursting into glowing heat. Red eyes, crazed with fever, stared at Ralph. The facial bones looked as if they were about to break through the incandescence. “You,” the image repeated, then flowed around the end of the counter and leaped at Ralph.

  Its heat scorched his face as he dodged to one side. The glowing image rolled on its shoulder and clutched at his ankle. Frantically, he kicked free and ran for the door. It’s on the same level as me, he realized. Where it can reach me.

  A pair of arms encircled his neck and he was thrown onto the sidewalk.

  Another burning face hissed above him, pressing him into the ground with its heat and weight. He brought the rifle butt against its chest and pushed it away. Its shrill cry rang after him as he got to his feet and ran down the sidewalk.

  The minds of the juvenile delinquents, with no existence now except on the dreamfield, had burnt out with the overloads of psychic energy, leaving nothing but the raw circuits of hate and fear. The street itself seemed to be on fire as more images emerged from among the buildings.

  Their garbled shouts coalesced into one sound in the air. Ralph eluded the outstretched hands of one only to be tackled around the waist by another.

  He beat at the radiant hands but more figures clutched at him, until he seemed to be at the core of some burning pit. The heat dizzied him, until the blood rushed into his head and he vomited.

  Somehow his finger found the trigger of the rifle. He pressed the altered barrel down into the massed figures scrabbling at him, and fired. A roaring noise mixed with the suddenly deafening cries of the dream figures. He fell to the ground, clutching the gun to his chest. The burning hands were no longer tearing at him.

  For a moment he was unconscious; then with one hand he lifted himself onto his side. The figures were scattering from him in all directions, heading for the darkness inside the field’s buildings. A few feet away something with the shape of a human being jerked and sputtered on the ground, dissolving into white-hot sparks.