by Isaac Petrov
“And what’s in for you?” Edda asks. “What do you want in exchange?”
“Edda!” Aline mutters, and pulls from her hand, as if warning her.
“Your compliance, Redeemed van Dolah. Your obedience. We shall dictate policies, and you shall execute them to the utmost of your abilities. Which are considerable—a factor you have also been selected for.”
“Which policies?” Elder Luuk asks.
“I do feel your skepticism,” Rew says. “But do not fear. You humans and us marai ultimately want the same: for humankind to flourish anew. To fill the world like you did centuries ago. And to keep it this time.”
“Sure, sure,” Edda says, ignoring the insistent pulling of Aline. “But what do you want us to do for you?”
“I cannot give you details, Redeemed van Dolah. Our policies are flexible, and shall adapt to your own successes. But do not fear. Our instructions shall remain compatible with your private desires. It is in our interest that you accomplish your own goals and put yourself in a position of influence. Only then you shall serve us with maximum efficacy.”
“So, you scratch our backs, and we scratch yours?” Elder Luuk asks.
“Indeed.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “I’m in.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, yeah?” Edda says. “What if even with those magical powers of yours we can’t make, uh, whatever it is we need to do?”
“If you do fail yourselves, then you are of no use to us. You would then be free to return to your inner despair in peace, without further obligation towards us.”
“It’s a no brainer.” Elder Luuk shrugs and turns towards Edda. “There’s no downside.”
“No downside, yeah?” Edda squints at Rew. “Except that we might be sealing a pact with the devil.”
Those words hit a nerve. The body language of forty-seven youngsters changes abruptly. They seem more aware of their featureless surroundings, more defensive. Expressions have tensed noticeably. Even a mind as rational as Gotthard’s seems touched by irrational fear. No, he thinks, that’s superstition. And to be honest, what’s the alternative? He’s got to take every chance, even if…
“I’m in,” Gotthard says. “And if you’re the devil, Elder Rew, I’m still willing to accept your conditions.”
A murmur of voices crisscrosses the group, many of assent, some of doubt. “I’m in,” Rutger says. Others join. “I’m in.” “Me too.”
They must be truly desperate, Ximena thinks, if they are willing to gamble their souls.
And yet, not everybody seems convinced, not by far. About half of those present, including Edda and Aline, remain silent—a long silence of uncertainty, mistrust written on their faces.
“This is a dream,” Edda says, staring at the palm of her hands. She raises her eyes at Rew. “You’re not real.”
“I am most certainly real, Redeemed van Dolah. Real in my world. Real in your dreams. And I am really most impressed with your innate awareness—indeed, you are dreaming. We all are. This is a permascape, a shared dream. Every marai you see, and every human, is real. Only the dream is not.”
“I want to believe you, Elder Rew,” Aline says, after swapping a glance with Edda. “And that’s why I can’t. Without evidence, I can only trust my hope, and hope is a lousy source of truth.”
“Show us your powers of influence,” Edda says. “Convince us. I want to be convinced.”
“I did indeed expect a degree of resistance,” Rew says. “It’s in your nature. Thus, I have arranged for a demonstration.”
Rew raises an appendage-finger and the empty infinite flat landscape, flying saucer and all, vanish as if made of smoke. Even Ximena jumps at the sudden transition. But the people remain. They are now in an enormous room, surrounded by the luxury of another age: a massive round table of the most noble of woods surrounded by chairs that would not have been out of place in Versailles, a fire roaring on a stone hearth as high as a person, and enormous stained-glass windows, paintings and tapestries depicting preindustrial scenes of aristocracy and rural glory.
“Be welcome to the colonial palace of Fulda,” Rew says. “The center of power of your country. Naturally, still a permascape. But we shall bring a special guest to our dream. A human of power, unaware of our intentions. One of my Walkers, Qoh,” Rew extends an arm towards one of the eleven mares standing behind her, who bows in acknowledgment, “shall operate as thread-maker.”
Qoh disappears.
“I have personally been conditioning the subject for this demonstration in several previous sessions. Today, I shall apply maximum persuasion, enough—I do hope—to tilt the balance. I do urge you all to witness the exchange in silence. Without training, any out-of-place word might doom my persuasion efforts.”
The only door to the room opens and a woman in her twenties barges in, her expression filled with impatience, and her gait with authority. She is stretching out her robe—made of a glossy purple fabric—with harsh strokes, as if she had just put it on. “What’s so urgent?” she says, her voice annoyed and creaky.
Ximena realizes that she can feel her irritation—frustration, rather. The psych-link has been rechanneled to her, obviously. She can hear the exhalations and chuckles of her fellow students as the source of the woman’s irritation becomes apparent—there is an underlying, more primitive emotion at play, more powerful: arousal. The woman is horny as hell, probably an echo of the dream she has just been pulled out from by the mare Qoh. A glimpse of a wet embrace flashes through the psych-link. Ximena is hetero, and yet the woman’s longing for the nude hips of her lover… her warm thighs… Whoa! It makes her own cheeks warm. And not just her cheeks. It’s a goahdamn powerful beast, the psych-link, she must admit.
“I do apologize, Consul Levinsohn,” Rew says. “It is indeed a matter of urgency.” She is standing next to the woman, and has changed form, resembling a tall male human courtier, groomed hairstyle and all, although this courtier has expressionless white eyes. And yet, for whatever reason, that doesn’t bother the consul.
“Who are these?” The consul is sweeping her eyes across Gotthard, Edda and the rest of the people scattered around the luxurious room. Most of them are staring back at her with fascinated anticipation, except the few white-eyed that don’t seem to care.
“Nobody of concern, Consul Levinsohn,” Rew says. Ximena feels that the woman trusts the alien advisor. She wonders how Rew earned that trust—surely not easily. “I do urge you to make an urgent decision regarding the location of the Century Festival.”
“Come on,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You called for that? There’s still plenty of time until New Year’s Eve.”
“I do fear that is not accurate, Consul Levinsohn. The end of the year—or rather, the century—is a mere fortnight away, and preparations do need to be made in haste. I shall remind the consul that there is great symbolic importance to the venue of—”
The consul laughs acrimoniously. “And that right there is the problem, Chancellor. Everyone and their dog is getting on my nerves with the Century Festival. Goah, who cares where the final countdown is broadcasted from? Yes, I know, I know—everybody cares, Goah be merciful. The Praetor of Rhenania has even sent envoys and gifts.”
“I do appreciate the political significance of this decision. Thus, my advice to select a remote area, and so avoid the jealousy of any significant party.”
“Yes, I see your point. But I’m not convinced. If I select a Rhenanian colony, the praetor has promised to cut his karma allotment for the next two years—the imperator would appreciate that, and perhaps even the Pontifex. And since Imperator Cisek is almost twenty-seven…”
The train of thoughts and machinations of the consul feels like a roller coaster to the complacent academic mind of Ximena. Then the consul stops talking and grimaces, gripped by a sudden sense of disgust, like she was smelling a putrid corpse, but without the actual smell. Ximena must cover her mouth. Mark sits back, obviously feeling unwell.
“I
f I may offer insight, Consul Levinsohn, Rhenania is an influential and rich province already—the envy of Germania. I do fear the other provinces shall feel threatened were you to select a Rhenanian colony for the Century Festival. May I humbly suggest an alternative,” the revolting sensation disappears as quickly as it came, and a sense of relief and peace takes its place, “the Dutch province?”
“The Dutch province… Hmm…” The sensation evolves into a pleasant warm fuzziness in the consul’s innards. “Could be, could be…”
“Peripheral. Remote. And, of most relevance to your political interests, mostly harmless. Especially the coastal regions.”
“Remind me, Chancellor, what’s the name of that land at the end of the Rhine? The one you mentioned last time?”
“Geldershire, Consul Levinsohn. An ideal choice.”
“Geldershire, yes.” Ximena’s eyes open involuntarily as she feels the consul’s arousal—which was still lingering in the background of her psyche—raise with sudden intensity. The consul wets her lips. Even Ximena feels uncomfortably conscious of Mark’s masculine presence next to her. “Never been there.”
“Exactly my point, Consul Levinsohn. Nobody that matters to your ambitions has ever been to Geldershire.”
“But if I go with this… Geldershire, that would disappoint everybody.”
“Not quite, I do believe, Consul Levinsohn. They shall certainly complain, but they would be secretly pleased that a rival is not favored in their stead. The balance of influence would remain intact.”
“Hmm, Geldershire…” As the consul utters these words, Ximena feels her libido pushing through the roof. The consul takes a deep breath and straightens her robes. “I really need to return to my chambers. Very well, Chancellor. The Century Festival shall take place in Geldershire’s capital colony. What’s the name again?”
“Oosterbeek, Consul Levinsohn. A wise choice—”
“No!” Ximena jumps at the unexpected exclamation from the back of the room. It is Edda, walking towards the Consul. Everybody else—both in the scene and the amphitheater—is staring at her wide-eyed. “Forgive me for my boldness, Consul.” Edda bows awkwardly. “I know I’m out of place, but the selection of Oosterbeek would be a costly mistake.”
“Who is this?” Consul Levinsohn’s eyes scan Edda’s white garments and then turns her head towards Rew.
“Do excuse my impetuous… underling, Consul Levinsohn. Redeemed van Dolah is indeed speaking out of turn.”
Edda clears her throat. “I am, uh, the chancellor’s expert on Geldershire matters, Consul. And I’d be a poor expert if I failed to warn you.”
Consul Levinsohn studies her for a long moment. “Fine. Say what you have to say. Why is selecting Geldershire such a mistake?”
“Not Geldershire, Consul. On the contrary, I concur two hundred percent with the chancellor. Geldershire is the perfect place to hold the Century Festival, yeah? But Oosterbeek is to Geldershire what Rhenania is to Germania. Plus, it is also the residence of Geldershire’s Aedil. How would the other aedils of Germania feel? There’s no need to pick favorites if you can choose an even more remote colony.”
“I see.” Consul Levinsohn smiles at her, her eyes scanning the feminine shapes under Edda’s tunic. “And I am sure you have a suggestion?”
“Lunteren, Consul. Lunteren. Lunteren is the place. Fish, steel, and beautiful sunsets. At the fringe of the fringe, Lunteren is the place nobody cares about.”
“Lunteren.” Consul Levinsohn nods slowly, takes a step forward and rubs a finger on Edda’s exposed neck. “Sounds like a fascinating place.” Her smile broadens. “Care to accompany me to my chambers and tell me more about it?”
Edda seems momentarily at a loss, but then puts a playful hand on her hips and smiles back. “Anything you desire, Consul.”
END OF DREAMWORMS EPISODE I
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Nine
Pontifex’s Day
The auditorium darkens as the next section of the dreamsenso comes up, floating vividly above and across the amphitheater. A landscape lights up from above, a roughly almond-shaped collection of a thousand colonial houses—spacious double-story buildings, most with garden patches around them, like a jigsaw of maroon roofs mixed with vegetable green. The chaotic network of narrow, red-bricked streets hints at the legacy of a town settled for uncountable generations.
“Lunteren,” Professor Miyagi says. “Meticulously recreated as it was a hundred years ago, before the Dreamwars: a sleepy colony prospering contentedly at the margins of aws Imperia.”
From this height, a few hundred yards over the red-tiled roofs, Lunteren appears seamlessly embedded into its natural environment. To the east, right on the edge of the colony, a large dense forest; farmlands extending far to the north and south; the sea to the west, not farther than fifteen walking minutes, with a large sandy beach and an active harbor. The afternoon is advancing; the sun sends traces of gold over the sparkling waves and the fishing boats and merchant barges that unload their catch and wares onto horse carts.
The scene slides lower, towards Lunteren. Ximena squints at the movement in the streets. Yes, they are teeming with colonists. As the dreamsenso point of view approaches the ground, the air fills with animated chatter, noise and music. And orange. Plenty of orange. Most colonists are wearing orange-tinted tunics, and those with hats, the oldest among them, have decorated them with orange-colored motifs: feathers, orange leaves—even carrots and small pumpkins. This must be a festivity, Ximena thinks.
“Thirteenth of December,” Miyagi says. “Pontifex’s Day. A tradition in the Dutch Province. Everybody is out on the street, sharing and trading junk.” Ximena can see him pacing below the scene. “Lots of fun, apparently. And all for the glory of the Pontifex in Townsend, who brings them peace and prosperity.” Ximena feels a pinch of pride. The Goah’s Imperia of the Americas are still nominally under the sovereignty of the Pontifex. A symbolic and religious role nowadays, of course. But Ximena, like most of Pontifex Fahey’s subjects, still prays for her health and wise guidance every day.
Like a placid pigeon, the scene lands in the middle of a busy street where people walk leisurely in small family groups. No horses nor carts on the road, not even bicycles. The public space belongs to the people today. Music hammers the air, loud and rhythmic. People laugh, children run, and everybody—absolutely everybody—dances.
Decorated tables have been set up on both sides of the street, in front of each house, as if an extension of the front yards. Old, used every-day objects—toys, pottery, books, radios, tools, clothes, anything and everything—are put on display for trading. Bright orange-themed decorations cover the tables, and strongly scented delicacies on beautiful large ceramic plates lure neighbors and fellow colonists. The spiced aroma waters Ximena’s mouth. A member or two of each family stands by the tables to greet passersby, while the rest of the family roams the colony, dancing and filling large bags with bargains.
The scene closes in on a particular house on the south side of the street. It is not so busy here, towards the eastern edge of the colony. Two teenage girls dressed in ornate, orange tunics stand by the gleaming orange table gesticulating excitedly, one black and tall, the other white and short: Edda and Aline.
“This is the Speeses’ residence on the Miel Way,” Miyagi says. “Edda lives nearby, up the street.” He points with a finger to where the crowd grows thicker. “Let’s watch.”
The teenage girls chat with discreet but excited voices, too enthralled in their conversation to mind the world around them.
“That’s not proof enough,” Aline is saying, trying to keep a calm, controlled voice, although her eyes beam with the same intensity as Edda’s.
“But we had the same exact dream, yeah?” Edda is pulling Al
ine from the sleeves. “We saw the same exact alien floating out of the same exact spaceship, Goah’s Mercy. Promising the same goahdamn… powers, yeah?”
“A shared dream. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Edda shakes her head and scoffs. “We shared the same fucking dream, Goah’s Mercy!”
“I know, I know. But that’s my point. A shared dream is… wow! Rare enough. I… I still have problems accepting it. But aliens? Aliens that are trying to save us from,” she shrugs, “whatever? Nah, that’s too much to take, sister.”
“Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, yeah?”
“Yes! Nicely put.”
“Not my line. And a pile of bull! What more evidence do you need than the fact we did share a dream, huh?”
A sudden, shrill bleep makes Edda and Aline—and Ximena—jump in place.
“ATTENTION, LUNTEREN!” A loud female voice echoes deafeningly off the house walls along the street. “STOP YOUR CHORES, AND LISTEN.”
Aline swaps a stupefied glance with Edda. Ximena pinpoints the source of the commotion on a small loudspeaker set up on the top of a power pole down the street.
Another loud bleep makes Ximena cover her ears in reflex.
“ATTENTION, LUNTEREN! THIS IS YOUR QUAESTOR SPEAKING. ATTENTION, THIS IS NOT A REGULAR CALL TO SERVICE. I BRING NEWS OF THE HIGHEST RELEVANCE TO OUR COLONY.”
Yes, it is Marjolein Mathus. But Ximena can hardly recognize her voice, so exultant, shaking with raw emotion.
“AFTER MONTHS OF TIRELESS REQUESTS TO MY SUPERIORS, MY INSISTENCE HAS FINALLY BORNE FRUIT, GOAH BE PRAISED. REJOICE, LUNTEREN! FOR I HAVE JUST RECEIVED RADIO NOTIFICATION FROM FULDA, DIRECTLY FROM OUR CONSUL’S OFFICE, THAT OUR COLONY HAS BEEN BLESSED TO HOST THE OFFICIAL NEW YEAR’S FESTIVAL!”
