Dreamworms Book 1: The Advent of Dreamtech

by Isaac Petrov

  “Boooring,” a man in his twenties in the first row says, and turns his smirk at his fellow students.

  “I know, Erik” Edda says, her eyes piercing his. “It’s boring because it’s all a lie. And lies are always so boringly simplistic.”

  Silence falls on the class as the students exchange wide-eyed glances. Even Ximena frowns. A lie? Other than the colorful language, Edda has pretty much nailed the essence of the period between the second collapse and the Dreamwars.

  “A lie?” Erik seems as baffled as Ximena.

  Edda smiles and points at the blackboard. “The history you’ve been taught—all horseshit, yeah?”

  “But… It was you who taught us!” Erik says.

  “Yeah, I know. That’s because that’s the history I’ve been taught myself. Also lies. And it gets worse. Neither I nor your other teachers know the truth, nor how to get at it. Every book written since Fahey is just… propaganda. Like a fairy tales’ and they lived happily ever after.”

  “Then,” Erik spreads his hands, “how can you tell it’s a lie?”

  “Because it’s been done before. Countless times, by every dictator and tyrant since the first word was sculpted on stone. And no matter what they want us to believe, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, turning the most benign of rulers into tyrants bent to change the past to control the future.”

  “Juf Edda,” a young woman says, raising a hand as she speaks, “are you implying that aws Head is, uh…”

  “Corrupt,” Edda says. “I’m not implying it. I’m saying it.”

  Ximena leans back. Strong words. Almost heretic. She raises her head at her fellow GIA students at the other end of the small amphitheater to find some mouths covered by scandalized hands.

  “What do you know?” Edda points a finger at her equally shocked students. “I mean, really know, huh? How to clear a field?” She points a finger at Erik. “Or gather clams in the low tide?” She points at the young woman. “And live happily-ever-after under a regime that has brainwashed you so completely, that you will voluntarily let them kill you when you reach twenty-seven years of age, yeah? Wonderful.”

  Many students’ jaws have dropped. Nobody looks bored now.

  “But,” Erik begins, “Dem—”

  “Dem is an invention of aws Head, mensas. To keep us all nicely in place, content and ignorant. Did you know that there are books that my family keeps at home,” she points out the window, “that you are not allowed to read? Even us teachers are encouraged not to, but we keep them around just in case we ever need old knowledge.”

  Erik scoffs. “Who wants to read, anyway?” Some students laugh at his comment.

  “Did you know that there were other religions before Goah? Other gods? Of course you don’t, because no one’s ever told you. So convenient. We all know there’s only one god, yeah? And Fahey is aws Prophet. Let me ask you something, mensas. Do you think the Romans worshiped Goah?”

  “Didn’t they?” Erik looks genuinely confused.

  “We are about to enter a new century. In just two weeks. A very round number, twenty-four hundred. Did you ever stop for a second to ask yourself what happened twenty-four hundred years ago?”

  “I know that one,” Erik says. “That’s when Goah created the world.”

  “Pure sin,” Edda says, shaking her head. She sighs. “We’ll leave that for another day. My point is that before Goah, there were centuries of history, of tyrants and democracies, of empires and republics, of slavery and freedom, all hidden from you. For a reason.”

  “Who cares what happened hundreds of years ago?” Erik says. “How’s that gonna help me feed my family?”

  “Pretty, Erik. Exactly like aws Head wants you to stay. Illiterate and stupid. A model colonist.”

  Erik’s pale face turns red. “Juf- Juf Edda, I—”

  “I’m trying to make you see that we’ve been here before. Tyrannies hiding the truth from the people, to claw on to their power. Do you mensas think it’s okay that I have books you’re not allowed to read?”

  Her students stare at her in silence, eyes blank.

  “Am I better than you? Just because I’m a teacher? A specialist? Don’t aws Compacts give you all the same Sacred Rights and freedoms that I possess?”

  Some students, including the young woman, nod slowly. Others, including Erik, exchange puzzled glances with their neighbors.

  “What aws Head doesn’t know, is that their efforts to suppress the truth are doomed. The changing winds of propaganda cannot hold long against the static certainty of truth. And then, as history shows over and over again—take, say, the French and American revolutions, or the Soviet Union—repression can only hold so long before cynicism turns into activism. And activism into change. Regime change.”

  “And what’s the truth, Juf Edda?” the young woman asks.

  “The truth,” she shifts from one foot to another, “is that Dem has been eradicated.”

  “But if—” Erik tries to speak, but Edda raises her voice.

  “The truth,” Edda’s eyes shine with defiance, “is that Joyousday Houses are slaughterhouses, designed by aws Head to keep us ignorant and complacent.”

  Most students gasp—both Edda’s students in the school class, and Miyagi’s in the GIA section of the amphitheater. This can’t be right, Ximena thinks, still gaping at Edda, and then throws a wondering glimpse at Professor Miyagi, sitting below, on the front row next to the stage. This is not the Edda van Dolah we’ve all been brought up with. She sounds like, er, a conspiranoid lunatic.

  “Mensas,” Edda says, “there’s no right more sacred in aws Compacts than life itself, and aws Head is stamping on it every day with the Joyousday. With the truth in our hands,” she reaches out, hands cupped like she was carrying water, “how can we trust aws Head to fight for our Sacred Rights?”

  “That’s a lie, Juf Edda!” Erik stands. He turns to the class. “Don’t listen to her, a demon has taken her tongue.”

  “Shut up, Erik,” the young woman says. “Since when can farmers call teachers liars? This is Juf Edda, Goah’s Mercy.”

  “Erik,” Edda says with a conciliatory tone. “You are free to leave if you don’t like what I have to offer.” She puts a hand on her chest and then stretches it at him.

  “Fine,” he says, and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  The rest of the students shift in their place with unease and turn their attention to Edda. Some stare with eager eyes, others look at Edda’s feet, blinking in confusion.

  “Pure sin,” Edda says, shaking her head. Then she smiles at her gaping students. “Don’t mind him. To be free, you must first really want it. Freedom is a matter of will.” She turns her head towards the door. “Sad truth is, some people are born to be slaves.”

  “Okay,” Professor Miyagi has frozen the scene in place and is walking towards the amphitheater’s flank opposite to Ximena, where murmurs and discussions among the GIA students are turning louder by the minute. He smiles politely. “What’s up?” He points a finger. “Cody?”

  “Uh, I beg your pardon, Professor,” Cody O’Higgin says, standing and smiling apologetically. “We were wondering about the sources.”

  “The sources?”

  “Yes, Professor. Van Dolah’s… attitude and ideas,” he is frowning, without giving up the smile, “her message to her students. Is this your—with all due respect, Professor—personal interpretation?”

  “Of course not. I leave no space for interpretations in my work. All you see has at the very least one reputable source, and often more. This lesson we just watched was mentioned in the first De Vroome’s Interview, and in more detail on surviving correspondence from two of Edda’s students. There’s also a written complaint raised to aws Head office in Lunteren this same day. And guess who signed it?” He points a finger at the frozen classroom door. “All references are available to you for your inspection in the Global Program’s sensonet archives.”

  “Y
es, Professor. Er…” He seems about to say something else, but then he sits. “Thank you.”

  A female student sitting on the front row of the GIA section stands. “Professor, where is Censor Smith?”

  Good question, Ximena thinks.

  Miyagi points a finger at her. Her name pops up over her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know, Mallory. He sent his excuses.”

  “Is he coming?” Mallory pulls back her brown hair and turns her head at her fellow GIA students. Many nod back gestures of support.

  “Yes. He said as soon as possible. But you know how it is with permascapes. He had to attend some real world business, so with time dilation and all that,” he shrugs, “it might take a while until he shows up. Why?”

  “Uh, well…” She hesitates. A student sitting next to her whispers something at her, and another one behind taps her shoulder in solidarity.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Miyagi says, spreading his hands. “This is a safe space, people.”

  “It’s just that,” Mallory avoids meeting his gaze, “we would like to hear his opinion about, uh…” her voice breaks.

  “About what?”

  “About Van Dolah.”

  Miyagi frowns. “I can’t… follow. I can guarantee you that Grand Censor Jean-Jacques Smith knows as much about Edda van Dolah as I do. Well, perhaps not as much,” he chuckles, “but he is Professor of History in the Townsend.”

  “Yes, sure. But I’m not sure he knows what Edda is, hmm, saying here. He might not approve.”

  “Oh, I see. Ha! Sorry,” he raises an apologetic hand, “I realize now that the historical Edda might not be the shiny, spotless hero you people are used to digesting at the GIA.”

  Digesting, Ximena snorts at the word. It sounds so… condescending. Almost insulting. Before she can think of what she is doing, she is standing up. “Pro- Professor Miyagi,” she calls, and clears her throat as he turns around towards her. Mark is staring up at Ximena like she just turned into a toad. “Sorry, uh,” she blinks as she feels warmth rushing to her cheeks, “may I request a recess until Censor Smith arrives?”

  Miyagi smiles briskly and says, “You may, of course. But I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you. It would be a logistical nightmare, believe me, the waking until he arrives, the gathering you all back here… No, I’m sorry, but the show must go on.” He chuckles lightheartedly. “Come on, people,” he turns towards the rest of the Townsend students and spreads his hands, “we’re all historians here, aren’t we? Historians! When has a scientist ever felt uncomfortable with the truth?” He sighs, paces across the stage in silence, and then looks up at the Townsend lot. “I suggest you all take this opportunity to learn how to take crude facts with duly professional distance,” he turns his head and gives Ximena a pointed glance, “and leave your prejudices at home.”

  Prejudices, Ximena cringes at the word. Yes, definitely insulting. Professor Miyagi speaks like Lundev were Goah’s gift to the worlds, and Townsend just a second-rate school. She sits, folds her arms, and throws a murderous glare at the smirking Mark.

  “Now,” he claps noisily, like trying to wake up a cranky child, “cheer up, people. Let’s get the ball rolling down the Path of Light, all right? Who wants to watch humanity’s first crash course on the second step?”

  Sixteen

  Questions and Awareness

  “That same night,” Miyagi says, pacing the stage, “the twenty-four remaining human candidates are starting the next lesson. But while Aline, Pieter, Gotthard and the rest must all share a mare instructor, Edda has Rew all for herself. And you know what?”

  He stops, hands on hips, and smiles at his audience.

  “Nobody really knows why!” He chuckles. “Oh, of course there are theories. But why Rew took such a personal interest in Edda van Dolah is,” he shrugs with theatrical exaggeration, “unknown. She must have seen something in her, obviously. But so she did in all her other candidates. Anyway, my dear historians-to-be, let this be an illustration of how history cannot answer all the questions. Ours is a science condemned to navigate around the gaps left by lack of sources, myths, personal opinions and propaganda. And that’s okay.”

  He takes a few more steps in silence, head sunk as if lost in thought. Ximena suspects it is all for show—he is a public figure after all and knows his way on stage well.

  “Now, I have a question for you.” He moves a finger slowly across the amphitheater. Yes, definitely show. “I produced the dreamtech lessons for a more, er, commercial version of the dreamsenso. But truth is, they are of limited historic interest. I can summarize the next one simply by saying: the mare Rew trained Edda van Dolah on the second step, and then she faced the second trial with the other remaining human candidates.” He spreads his hands. “Done. Is that okay with you, people? Should I skip Rew’s lucid dreaming lesson?”

  A loud roar of protests engulfs the auditorium. Mark is shouting ‘NO!’ at the top of his lungs next to her, as are most of the students. Miyagi smiles, pleased. Oh, Goah. Ximena rolls her eyes. Showman through and through.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says, smirking. And gives Ank a curt nod.

  The auditorium darkens.

  A sunny scene pops up with sudden radiance, forcing the students to squint. It is a dream landscape, viewed from high in the air, and lit by an unnaturally small, red sun. As the students’ eyes adapt, they begin to discern far below an orange-yellow desert, fiercely bright in the sun, that extends all the way to the horizon. A massive, abrupt mountain range crosses the desert in a zig-zag, and unnatural rock formations sculpt the slopes and peaks. The scene glides towards the higher rocks on the higher mountains.

  Some students murmur and point at a lone human figure in the middle of a wide natural rock bridge that spans two of the highest peaks. It’s Edda, Ximena recognizes as the scene glides closer, wearing a short, white summer gown. She is standing at the edge and stares serenely down at the sand abyss below. Ximena leans back at the sudden surge of vertigo. The chasm is several miles high!

  Edda watches with calm curiosity the mysterious giant pyramids scattered all over the sand like islands on an archipelago, enormous structures made of copper-colored metal that feel as old as the mountains themselves.

  “Aren’t you afraid?” Rew asks. She is standing next to Edda, in her natural, vaguely humanoid form: tall, thin, and eerily white.

  “Why should I be?” Edda replies, while moving her uncovered arms in the warm breeze. She seems to enjoy the sensation.

  “The altitude—most humans would respect the void.”

  Edda gazes down again. “It is very high. I should care, yeah?” She has turned to ask Rew with the familiarity of an old friend.

  “I do believe you should. Ten miles high over certain death deserves… attention.”

  She keeps her eyes locked down, with more curiosity than discomfort.

  “What are those?” She points her finger at the dozens of ancient pyramids that seem to own the desert, their enormous scale obvious even from this height.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “Why?”

  “These buildings… So large and old… What is their purpose? Who built them? Why here?”

  “So many questions. That is very good, Redeemed van Dolah. So it begins.”

  “What begins?” Edda stares into Rew’s blank eyes.

  “Awareness—questions lead to awareness.”

  “Questions lead to awareness,” Mark repeats slowly, almost reverentially. Ximena looks at him with curiosity. His eyes are locked on the scene like he is having a religious experience. “The litany of the second step.”

  “Awareness… of what?” Edda asks with a frown.

  “First the questions, then the awareness.” Rew gently touches the side of her head with one of the three narrow appendage-like ends of her arm. “More questions. What else do you see,” she waves her arm around the landscape, “that is worthy of your curiosity?”

  Edda scans
her surroundings again.

  Her eyes widen, as if she had just arrived there. Then she looks down—miles down—and for the first time a surge of vertigo flows through the psych-link, melding harmonically with Ximena’s own.

  “The height is scary,” Edda says, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. A flock of bird-like creatures passes by miles below, so far away that it is impossible to discern the species. Her breath quickens. “Why wasn’t I anxious before? What is this place?”

  “More questions,” Rew says.

  She takes her eyes off the abyss, and steps away from the edge. “Where’s home? How did I reach this place? Did I fly like the people in the golden age, in a machine?”

  “You are doing well, Redeemed van Dolah. More questions.”

  “This doesn’t make sense,” she says, her frown deepening. “What’s the meaning of all this?” She turns to Rew, who remains silent, and simply stares back at her with intensely white eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Awareness.” Her psychic voice reverberates a notch louder. “All your questions lead to the one, simple, elegant answer.”

  “What answer?”

  “The only answer, Redeemed van Dolah.” Once again Rew gives Edda’s head a gentle touch with her appendage. “Do explore the questions. Do reflect.”

  Edda’s eyes wander over the desert, the pyramids, the rocks, Rew herself, as her thoughts, initially tumbling in chaotic chunks through the psych-link, begin to slow and crystallize into concepts, into reason.

  She turns to Rew with an expression of triumph. “I’m dreaming!”

  “Awareness,” Rew says, and clumsily gives Edda a very human nod.