Dreamworms Book 1: The Advent of Dreamtech

by Isaac Petrov

  “Crafted dreams?” Ximena finds Gorrobor’s voice strangely unsettling.

  “Indeed, Master.”

  “Strong halos…” Gorrobor remains silent a few moments, eyes locked on Rew. “Can humans walk, Human Whisperer?”

  “The potential is there, Master. Some, the highly talented, do often tread the Path of Light by accident, without realizing it. I do intend to initiate the selected humans into the Paths.”

  Yog’s three bodies move a tiny step forward. She seems hardly able to contain herself, but manages to keep a disciplined silence.

  “Do elaborate how walking humans can support the Reseeding effort, Human Whisperer.”

  “Yes, Master. I shall recruit humans as our agents.”

  “Agents.” One of Gorrobor’s bulbous eyes turns to observe Yog. “I can sense Overseer Yog’s anxiety. Indeed, providing humans with the power of the Paths appears… risky. But I do find the concept intriguing. Do elaborate, Human Whisperer.”

  “Yes, Master. Each human, even their cubs, are human whisperers by their own nature—they must empathize with their peers to survive, and can be highly manipulative—more than even the best of us could ever become after centuries of training. More than even me. They possess an uncanny capacity for deception that is beyond our reach. I shall enrich the Reseeding effort’s arsenal with its most potent weapon yet: human Walkers of the Mind. Walkers with the capacity to purposefully deceive. We shall then deploy such weapons immediately, forcefully, effectively—before humanity’s end.”

  A few moments of silence follow Rew’s words. All the mares are facing Gorrobor now.

  “A refreshing perspective,” the colossal alien finally says. “Risky,” she looks at Yog. “Promising,” she looks at Rew. “And yet, perhaps not even worth considering, unless humans do show a bare minimum ability to walk the Paths. How can you know they can?” Her eyes drill into Rew.

  “I have already seen it. One of my candidates did achieve will-control on her first session, without practice—she was not even conscious of my true presence.”

  Gorrobor stares in silence, as if in disbelief.

  “As I did report before,” Rew continues, “one of my selection criteria has been the brightness of human halos. Here in Diamar there is an exceptional concentration—I do trust them to possess enough talent to walk the Paths.”

  Gorrobor turns both eyes to Yog. “I am going to allow this… experiment, Overseer Yog.”

  “Yes, Master Gorrobor.” She bows. “Do I have your permission for a suggestion?”

  “Do proceed.”

  “Yes, Master Gorrobor.” She bows again. “I do request additional powers over Walker Rew’s activities, to better oversee the considerable risk.”

  Rew’s head wobbles slightly. “I fear I must protest, Master. Yog does lack the vision to fulfill—”

  “Overseer Yog,” Gorrobor interrupts. “Do mind your tone, Walker Rew.”

  Rew lowers her head. “Yes, Master.”

  “Overseer Yog shall attend your instruction personally in full overseeing authority.” Gorrobor turns her protuberant eyes to the three bodies. “Overseer Yog, it shall be your duty to restrict the risks as you deem fit.”

  “Yes, Master Gorrobor.”

  “Furthermore, I do wish only a minimum number of humans to be initiated in the Path in the Shadow.”

  “But Master Gorrobor,” Rew says, “I fear instruction in the Path of Light shall be insufficient. Without traversion, or persuasion, their power shall be too constrained.”

  “I do realize that, Human Whisperer, and yet the risk of sharing such knowledge with humans cannot be disdained. Thus, I do wish to limit the risk exposure by first assessing the reliability of this new weapon. You shall select the most promising candidates, and grant access to the Path in the Shadow to just one or two humans, which Overseer Yog can then keep under constant surveillance. So shall we know for certain if this weapon can be deployed safely, or else be safely disposed of.”

  Gorrobor disappears without awaiting a reply.

  Rew and Yog turn to face each other.

  “Your hunger for control is putting our future at risk, Overseer,” Rew says. “We cannot afford time-wasting power gestures.”

  Yog raises her heads. “I do not appreciate your defiance, Walker. This,” Yog’s three bodies gesture with their hands’ appendages, “effort of yours is distracting; and dangerous. Master Gorrobor shall see it soon enough. Then I shall send you to the hibernation ships.”

  The three bodies of Yog disappear without further words.

  Rew remains on the infinite landscape. Alone.

  Eight

  First Contact

  “The date,” Miyagi raises his arms with theatrical exaggeration, “is the 12th of December 2399.”

  “Yeah, baby,” Mark says next to Ximena, and winks at her. “Finally!”

  Ximena is curious. She doesn’t know much about First Contact, nor about the Three Trials of Worth and Soul. Her instructors skimmed over the details, and rightly so. What’s the big deal, other than the fun factor? Christopher Columbus’s arrival to the West Indies and First Contact with the natives would have surely been entertaining—except to the natives themselves, of course—but of little immediate consequence. History didn’t begin its relentless shift until Columbus returned to Europe, and greedy or pious eyes turned to the West. That was what mattered.

  “I got all the juicy details neatly packed for you,” Miyagi says, to the cheers of many, including some of her fellow GIA students. “There were forty-eight direct human witnesses, some of whom survived the Dreamwars to tell their account of the event. And here is the result. I hope you like it. Ah, wait!” He raises a hand to stop the spontaneous claps and whistles. “Sorry, one thing you need to know before we begin. About the dreamsenso psych-link. It’s a tough bitch to produce, excuse my language. Requires a gifted dreamtech engineer,” he extends a hand at the elegantly dressed Ank sitting on the front bench, who nods in acknowledgment, “to record and edit into the sensorial the thoughts and feelings recreated by very talented actors. And expensive, the goahdamn divas. But, hey, only the best for The Rise and Fall of The Juf, right? Oh, sorry!” Again, he raises his hand to stop the incipient cheering. “I got sidetracked by…” He smiles and shakes his head. “What I wanted to say is that I made an exception with this scene and did not psych-link it to Edda van Dolah this time, although she is one of the forty-eight witnesses. I decided that we need to broaden our perspective and gain more historical context, all right? Context is everything in history, remember, so I chose somebody else to psych-link you guys to—somebody outside of Edda’s immediate orbit. Ank, please.”

  The auditorium darkens to black skies and an infinite flat landscape of dark polished stone. Ximena recognizes the featureless place immediately—just a few minutes ago, Rew and Yog were at each other’s throats in just such a place. But there are no aliens now.

  Instead, there are people.

  Forty-eight young women and men to be exact, dressed in the robes and tunics of the Goahn period. They are staring at each other with perplexed expressions, like they just arrived, and scan the surrounding nothingness with confused frowns.

  These are probably the humans selected by the mare Rew, Ximena thinks, and wonders if forty-eight is a round number for the aliens. Mares have three appendages that function as fingers do on humans, perhaps they count in base six?

  As Ximena studies the scene floating over the amphitheater, the camera viewpoint slides closer to the group of youngsters, until it finally settles near a particularly attractive teenager. He is sixteen or seventeen, light brown skin, black curled hair—probably North African ancestry, Ximena thinks.

  Gotthard.

  The name comes to Ximena as if by magic—the psych-link, of course, she realizes. So, this boy is going to be their point of view… Why? Why did Miyagi choose him specifically? Who was he? His full name fills her mind as if she were remembering her own: Gotthard Kraker. Kraker. The
name does indeed ring a bell. What was his role in history? Well, she’ll find out soon enough. Good that she made it to Miyagi’s seminar—she definitely needs a lesson on recent history.

  “Rutger!” Gotthard shouts, and trots towards another boy standing with baffled eyes not far away.

  The boy—Rutger—turns to the sound of his name. He is white, tall, and thin, and wears glasses. His long brown hair matches his eyes, that soften with relief on seeing Gotthard.

  “Gotts!” he says. “What’s going on?” Ximena smiles at the sight of the two boys. They must be among the best dressed of all present—both wear robes of the finest-looking fabric. And the thick belt around Rutger’s waist is spectacular. Other people wear much simpler tunics, some even washed-out work pants.

  “Don’t know, mensa,” Gotthard says with a shrug, and turns to look at the other people, who roam around with the same expression as children on their first school day. “Edda!”

  “What?”

  “Edda van Dolah. There.” Gotthard points his finger at the black girl in the distance, who is talking animatedly to Aline and two strongly built young men. “With Speese and the rat boys.”

  “And Valentijn van Kley is there, with her sister, see? But most I’ve never seen before.”

  Some people shout a warning, and point at something in the sky. Gotthard and Rutger raise their heads. Yes, Ximena sees it as well: a pulsating light that moves against the starless night sky at incredible speed.

  “What…?!” Rutger says.

  Gotthard remains silent, head moving right to left as he follows the dashing sight across the firmament. Ximena feels his curiosity echo inside her, harmonizing with his sense of awe at the marvels of nature.

  “A shooting star?” Rutger asks.

  “Shooting stars don’t pulse,” Gotthard says.

  The light stops its darting movement, and stays hanging in the air, perfectly still, flashing slow pulses of white light.

  “Whoa!” Gotthard says, as Ximena feels his mind instantly reassessing the evidence. “Definitely not a shooting star! That thing stopping its movement like that is impossible. Infinite deceleration requires infinite power. Or that thing is massless…”

  “It’s getting bigger,” Rutger says, a pinch of nervousness in his voice. “It’s getting closer.”

  The talking of the surrounding people becomes louder as they realize the same. Forty-eight heads turned towards the light, as its brightness slowly dissolves into shape. It is something flat and curved, descending slowly towards them, in eerie silence, lights flashing in orderly patterns around its perfectly spherical perimeter.

  Ximena laughs at the sight of the thing descending from the sky. Mark gives her an amused glance and chuckles as well.

  “It’s a flying saucer!” Gotthard says, wide-eyed. “An honest-to-Goah flying saucer.” He smiles and shakes his head with wonder. “Goah’s Mercy, what a cliché.”

  “Aliens?” Rutger says, a pinch of anxiety in his voice.

  “Think so.” Gotthard keeps his eyes locked on the object as it descends vertically on an empty spot not far away from the group. “And my karma is on little green men, if you want to bet. Either the old sci-fi magazines were spot on, or these mensas have a developed sense of humor—and know us very well.”

  Complete silence envelops the group as everybody stares at the saucer, floating perfectly still a few yards over the ground. Four poles emerge from the perimeter of the floating saucer and extend uniformly until they touch the ground.

  “They’re here,” Gotthard says. He is not afraid, Ximena notes. Not the same way as Rutger or others appear to be. Gotthard is fascinated, filled to the brim with curiosity. No force on Earth would move him away from this place now.

  A door—rectangular shape and all—slides open on the side of the saucer facing them. There are only shadows beyond.

  Gotthard takes a step forward, eyes not daring to blink. “Show yourself,” he mutters.

  A thin ramp slides slowly out of the bottom of the door until it touches the ground. All eyes return to the door. There is a hint of movement behind it, in the shadows.

  “Show yourself!” His lips curve in a faint smile.

  An elongated white humanoid shape walks out the door onto the ramp, moving slowly and intentionally. A mare, who stays there for a few moments, regarding the humans below in silence with those uncanny white eyes. And being regarded in return.

  “Not little,” Gotthard whispers at Rutger. “Not green. But otherwise, it doesn’t disappoint.”

  “Greetings, earthlings.” The mare communicates without moving her black mouth, her voice reverberates, feminine and elegant, directly inside Gotthard’s mind. “I am an alien from outer space, and I come in peace.”

  “In peace,” Rutger says, daring a smile. Other people around them murmur words of relief.

  “You may call me Rew,” the mare says, raising an arm and awkwardly extending the three finger-appendages in distinct angles. “Live long and prosper.”

  Rutger frowns. “Isn’t that what the Klingons say on the Tuesday evening radio show?”

  “The Vulcans,” Gotthard says, eyes locked on the mare. “Hush now.”

  “We are the marai,” the alien continues. “We did settle near your world over ten thousand years ago. Since then, we have been with you, every night, here,” Rew points an extremity at her own head, “in your dreams.”

  “Dreams…?” Rutger turns to Gotthard. “Did it say dreams?”

  “Shh, listen.”

  “You never knew—how could you, with your primitive senses?—but we have been visiting your dreams for millennia. It is through dreams that we influence your destiny. We did guide you through the chokes of your history. We did plant the notion of farming in your ancestor’s minds, of domestication of lesser beings. Of writing, when you were ready. You thrived. You took Earth. And then you lost it.”

  Rew floats down along the ramp in silence, reaches the ground, and keeps moving towards the group of attentive youths. Another mare exits the flying saucer’s opening and floats down with Rew’s same awkward gait. And then another mare comes out, indistinguishable from the others. And another. Until a row of mares—eleven in total—walk in a line and form a row behind Rew, who has stopped just a few yards away from the group.

  “We did fail you,” Rew says, and bows her head deeply for a long moment. “A terrible failure with dreadful consequences for your race.” She stands tall and moves her gaze across the group. Gotthard shudders as his eyes meet the alien’s. “We could not stop you from unbalancing your world. We did miscalculate the intensity of your predations, and Earth’s capacity to resist them. A grave miscalculation that triggered the most hideous suffering on your race. And on ours. We did fail you.” Rew bows again.

  Rutger turns to Gotthard as if to say something, but desists at the intensity of Gotthard’s expression. He is absorbing every word uttered by the alien as if they were Goah’s awsself.

  “We did hope that humankind would recuperate in time,” Rew continues, “as it has done countless times before. But, alas, your recovery remains fragile. Your lifespans are too short, insufficient to maintain a resilient civilization, insufficient to escape the extinction sink it is falling into. Humankind cannot regain control over its own destiny as a species. And so, after millennia of subtle guidance, we marai are forced to reveal ourselves,” Rew extends her extremities in a very human gesture, “and take direct ownership over your fate.”

  “Are you invaders?” a stocky man in his early twenties asks. A farmer, obviously, in view of those brown pants beneath the short working tunic. Ximena feels Gotthard’s innate aversion to the lowborn. He speaks matter-of-factly, without fear. Out of place.

  Rew turns to face the man, who holds her gaze with defiant blue eyes. “We are not, Elder Luuk. We are shepherds.”

  “You know my name?!”

  Rew keeps her eerie white eyes fixed on the man’s for a short while. Then she says, “I do, Elder Luuk.
I do know each of you.” She slides her gaze across the forty-eight youngsters. “I met you already. In your dreams.”

  “Why are we here?” The stocky farmer—Elder Luuk—asks. “Why us?”

  “I do know your desires, Elder Luuk. I do know the deepest needs of each and every one of you. You do burn inside from longing. Alas, you shall never be satisfied. Society resists your wishes—unmoved, merciless. You are all wounded by desperation.”

  Nobody interrupts her words. Not even Elder Luuk. Some have gasped, as if suddenly realizing they are naked. Ximena feels Gotthard’s inner passion as he swaps a glance with Rutger. He for one is not afraid of exposure. Only careful.

  “You are here,” Rew continues, “because your non-conformist cravings are powerful. You do want to change your world. So do we.” She turns her white, lifeless eyes to the stocky man. “You shall be our agents, Elder Luuk. Our agents of change. If you so desire.”

  “What if we don’t?” Elder Luuk asks.

  “Then you shall return to your world in peace. And desperation. But if you stay with us, if you do yield your will to ours, we shall grant you the power to achieve your every goal.”

  “Which power?” a girl asks from behind Gotthard. Ximena turns her head. It is Edda, her eyes drilling the aliens’.

  “The ultimate power, Redeemed Van Dolah,” Rew says. “The power to penetrate others’ minds, and to influence them decisively. The power to truly persuade. The right idea, in the right mind, at the right time, and you shall accomplish anything. With our rigorous guidance, your history shall fly forward, free from the shackles of tradition.”

  Usually Gotthard is quite the cynic—Ximena begins to get him already—and yet, somehow, he feels in his guts that Rew is speaking the truth. Ximena can feel his lust rising like the Pacific tide—thick and relentless. He wants so much to believe the alien. He needs that power. Oh, what he could accomplish. With that power they would finally have to listen, those narrow-minded fools. They would see as clearly as he does. They would have no choice but to mobilize all the resources of Goah’s Imperia for a new space program, jumping from horses to rockets, even if half the planet starves to death. Because the alternative… The alternative is inconceivable.