by Angels
Indeed, it happens to the soloist who goes fourth, just before them. As he steps upon the stage Kel heaves a sigh: the man is shaking all over, in the grip of the drugs’ side effects. When he starts his dream, it comes blaring out, distorted and incoherent. This might have been intentional, but it is clear to the trio that it is not: merely from the images in the overture, they can see the dreamweaver is trying for a pastel fantasy, a type well-suited for solo performances. But the drugs are now altering his metabolism too swiftly for the inducer to adjust. His fear of failure is so strong it affects everything he weaves: Edge Nain tastes it in the back of his throat; Ras hears it as a ghostly wail; Kel sees it in the corners of his eyes. Then the third team’s dream begins to insinuate itself into this one: as the protagonist gazes through a window at the shining wonderland beyond, incongruous eidetic flashes rip through the visual field and pulses of terror, too sharp to be filtered by the inducer’s emotion dampers, lash the audience’s brainstems. The soloist’s thoughts, unspoken, are painfully obvious: They were so much better than me, how can I have a chance?
Edge Nain pulls himself partly away from the dream, cranes back his head, looking up over his shoulder at the box where the Eldred audience is seated. The dream blurs his vision so he cannot clearly focus on reality; still, he can discern paired gleams in the dimness: reflections of the theatre lights upon the glossy black spheres the Eldred have for eyes. Can’t they put an end to this performance? The weaver’s concentration is shredding away, the drugs still roiling in his system; if it keeps up like this, he will soon need medical attention.
Ras, under his breath: “No! You had a way out, you little fucker, you could have brought it back under control, don’t you know anything?”
The dream has gone utterly sour; the soloist is no longer in conscious control of it: icons from his undermind are pouring out, personal archetypes of his fears and self-loathing. It is an ugly thing to experience, for all that it reveals of the human soul. Someone, a woman, shouts: “Stop it!” Kel grasps Edge Nain’s wrist, says: “I can’t go, he’ll never let me. But someone should. . . .”
And then it is all over; with a final dissonant ugliness, the dream collapses. The weaver is on his knees, hand clutching the inducer, white-knuckled. He lets go of the machine, tries to crawl off the stage, halts at the edge of the stairs, and starts retching. A woman from the second team comes to him, drags him off and out of the auditorium.
An Eldred’s hissing voice: “Fifth competitors: Brothers of Enceladus.”
The trio stands up, files onto the stage. They purge their minds of everything except the dream they are about to weave: they can spare no more pity for the failed soloist, nor any fear for themselves.
The inducer is a silvery machine, a slim pillar a metre and a half high, with a dozen fragile sharp-tipped spines extending outward from its top. Another marvel of Eldred technology, another gift from the stars. Each of the three grasps a spine, and then all feel themselves drawn into the dream as the inducer powers up.
Dreamweaving is typically a collaborative experience; using several participants brings greater depth to the experience, though it demands a severe mental discipline. While techniques vary widely—this is a very new art form, still in its infancy—most often sensory and intellectual cues are divided among the weavers, one handling sight, another sound and touch, a third emotional overtones, and so forth. Edge Nain, Ras, and Kel, the Brothers of Enceladus, work this way. Edge Nain has the additional responsibility of keeping things on track; it is to him the other two must defer if an uncertainty arises in the unfolding of the dream.
But this time he will have no need to intervene; honed by hundreds of hours of rehearsal, given additional intensity by the pressures on them, the dream unfolds precisely as they envisioned it.
It is a fantasia, midway between a free-form improvisation and a classically developed thematic dream. Sets of images recur throughout, giving it an identifiable texture; the initial situation is allowed to fade away, but reappears more and more frequently as the dream progresses, and eventually can be seen to be resolving, revealing the overall shape of the dream.
It is a strong dream, built on pain and wonder. Yerusalom is the setting for it, but at a remove: everything happens as if within a great luminous structure, which only alludes to the buildings of the city. Images recur throughout: a weeping girl wearing a bonnet of green felt; a proud warrior standing desperate against the twilight of his race; a bright concourse strewn with flowers and bloody skulls. It is a complicated story the three dreamweavers tell, which seems to meander into a hundred dead ends, yet always returns to its main thrust.
When the bitter tale concludes, there comes a feeling of dissolution, and the dream’s focus widens. Is this Yerusalom where the whole tale took place, its own world embedded in reality? Or are we still dreaming, finding within the dream a city much like the one where we live and strive, questing for our heart’s desire, praying for it to be granted?
Hands release the spines of the inducer; Edge Nain speaks the disengagement command, and the machine powers down. The audience emerges from the dream. It was all told within four and a half minutes, though, as in the manner of the best dreams, it seemed to stretch out for hours. The Brothers’ fans whoop and yell. Edge Nain can see them all with the surprising clarity that comes after an extended weaving session. This portly man dressed as a financier, always reserved and stiff-backed, indulging a secret vice perhaps; the tattooed gaggle of couriers desperate to be seen in company with the Brothers; those two girls who used to share Kel’s bed, and whom he won’t look in the eye nowadays; and others. . . . The rest of the audience is applauding, even the other groups’ supporters; heckling at dreamweavings is frowned upon. To Edge Nain the applause seems somewhat half-hearted, but he knows, he knows they were good. Really good. Perhaps that last flourish was judged clever, but affected? Yet it could be said it is the whole point of the dream; he had hoped people would pick up on that. His eyes rise to the Eldred’s balcony. They, unlike the audience, sit immobile. He had been hoping for some reaction, however slight. . . . The Brothers file back to their seats, settle back to go through the remaining six dreams. Edge Nain grasps his comrades’ hands and smiles brightly at them. Sweet Jesu has granted his prayer that they be allowed within the theatre, and the prayer that they work well together. Edge Nain prays one last time, but it is meant more as a form of thanks: Whatever happens now, let us accept it in peace, please, Sweet Jesu.
The six other dreams all pass in a blur, and then it is time to leave the auditorium and await the results. The dreamweavers gather in the backstage lobby; tension runs high, manifesting in some as ebullient good spirits and fellowship, in others as bitter hostility. The soloist who collapsed cannot be seen. Edge Nain asks the woman who helped him what happened.
She: “I don’t know. I got him out of the auditorium and left him sitting on that chair over there, then I went back in.”
Edge Nain: “You didn’t call for medical assistance?”
She: “What, on my money?”
Edge Nain is silent. He considers stepping out into the street. Waiting here is ten times more expensive than waiting out in the street—but he cannot make himself leave the confines of the lobby, and no one else can either.
Time passes. It cannot be more than ten minutes, Edge Nain thinks, and is astonished to realize they have been waiting for over an hour.
Then a door opens, and three Eldred come out. In the lead, an Eldred who looks like none Edge Nain has ever seen; she is barely ornamented, and the jewels and wires on her face are nearly as dark as her scales. The Eldred speaks a few words, but Edge Nain cannot hear them well; he is seeing that the Eldred is beckoning to them, the Brothers of Enceladus, asking them to follow her. He finds he has trouble breathing. All this time preparing for graceful failure—he had never expected to win.
The Eldred ushers them into a small room panelled in some dark shimmering stuff, looking like gaso
line rainbows filmed in black and white. They are offered seats and take them while the Eldred remains standing.
There are some uncomfortable seconds of silence. Finally it is Kel who dares to speak, asking a question as inane as it is inescapable: “Well, did we win?”
“Yes. The soloist who preceded you placed a close second, but, even if he had not died, you would still have won.”
Edge Nain shivers and gazes at the floor. “Sweet Jesu, I’m sorry,” says Kel, as if whispering a confession. “I didn’t try hard enough. I should have . . . ” Ras stops him, gripping his shoulder and squeezing hard enough to cause pain; Kel barely flinches.
Ras: “He made his choice, brother. He made his choice, and what happened was his own fault.”
Kel: “If we’d gone with him outside, we could have called an ambulance. He could be alive now.”
Ras: “We’d played ambulance once already, and it’s too expensive a game for my tastes. Life is money, and I don’t care to be terminated because I’ve wasted my assets on Yerusalom’s failures. Just grow up, Kel.”
Edge Nain rises and stands before his friends; both of them look up at him. Kel’s retort dies on his lips, and Ras withdraws his hand from the younger man’s shoulder.
Edge Nain: “We saved one life tonight. We’re not doctors; we’re not Sweet Jesu. We’re dreamweavers. I don’t regret helping Harold—but, Kel, Ras is right that we can’t afford to do this kind of good. . . .”
His words trail off because, as a matter of fact, they probably could afford it now. . . . All three turn their heads to look at the Eldred who has remained apart from the scene, and who now inclines her head while rotating her upper body slightly: the body language for a polite request.
The Eldred: “Please take a refreshment from the minibar; the first one is complimentary.”
Ras sighs nervously, stands up, goes to a small cube in a corner of the room, and opens its door. After a brief scan of its contents, he takes a small bottle. Kel, who has joined him, picks a bigger one. Edge Nain will take nothing. All three sit back down. Ras and Kel sip at their drinks; Edge Nain fidgets, waiting for their host to speak. She—always she, for though the Eldred are a hermaphroditic species, they will only use the feminine pronoun when referring to themselves—watches them in silence, holding herself erect but tilted slightly forward, in a position believed to connote benign attentiveness. Suddenly she turns around, opens the door to the room. The three dreamweavers do not see the lobby, but instead the naked sky. The room is an elevator then, and they have reached the top of the building.
The Eldred commands: “Follow me.”
The trio file out of the room after her, Kel clutching his unfinished bottle. The top of the building is so high it feels as though one’s gaze can encompass the four corners of the Earth. Around them stretch the self-lit, self-constructed edifices of Yerusalom. City from the stars, having come up of itself around the Eldred landing ships that planted its seeds in the hard stony ground. A hundred shades of light, carrying its own darkness within it. Above it all, the roof of the sky, black and spangled with stars, like a circular tent, its fabric pricked with holes.
The Eldred: “Your performance was quite moving. We will pay you two hundred fifty thousand assets each; the work will be made available at theatres throughout the city, and trailers will be broadcast on all major entertainment channels. As far as royalties go, you will receive the standard 8.3 percent of all net profits—divided into three equal shares. This verbal agreement is binding upon the moment of your formal acceptance; printed documents will be issued on an on-demand basis, for a fee. Does this satisfy you?”
Kel murmurs something indistinct. Edge Nain is silent.
Ras asks: “Then . . . you won’t record us?”
“Oh, you already have been recorded. While you waited in the room, you were anaesthetized, taken to the laboratories, and your personalities were recorded in full detail. Twenty-four hours have passed since you left the auditorium.”
Ras nervously adjusts his clothing. He feels cheated, like a child promised marvels to keep him quiet. He who wished more than anything to be preserved for the future, who dreamed of one day basking in the knowledge that his very essence was kept by the Eldred, suddenly wonders why he ever yearned for this. He had dreamed with mingled terror and desire of great scanning engines, complicated procedures. . . . Now it has all been done, without the slightest awareness on his part.
And yet, and yet, what is he thinking? He has achieved what thousands of other artists have tried for in vain: he himself, not just his art, will be remembered throughout the centuries and millennia. . . . In the bad old days before the Eldred came, fame was a thing bestowed at random, withdrawn almost before it had been granted. An artist’s identity always vanished behind his public image; authenticity itself had been reduced to a set of standard poses. He, Ras the dreamweaver, has been recorded, and as long as Eldred civilization endures, the image of his soul will accompany it, ready to be replayed. There is nothing closer to true immortality; for all that he in this body will die and rot, his soul in the Eldred’s pattern-storage will endure eternal. . . . Why then this despair that tightens his throat and brings tears to his eyes?
Kel is saying: “Well . . . I guess this is okay by me. Thank you . . . ah . . . how should we call you?”
The Eldred makes a sound they have never heard, a low buzz, almost synthetic. Then she says: “Since you are all so unhappy, I will allow you to call me by my human name of Satan.”
Edge Nain: “I beg your pardon?”
His two partners, he notes, are as surprised as he. Of course, “Satan” is in some ways a trite name: millions of humans call the Eldred “Snakes,” millions more equate them to demons. Eldred, who are known to use several names depending on context, have on occasion chosen surprising human cognomens. But still, why that name?
She: “Satan. The fount of evil, the breeder of lies. Also, the staunch ally of humankind against an indifferent god. It is an appropriate name.”
Kel’s mouth is drooping at the corners, like a little child about to weep. He complains: “What are you trying to say?”
“My choice was determinant in the competition; and I chose you above all the others because your performance demonstrated, among other things, that you would not be content with what we offered. You”—pointing at Ras—“have gained the brand of immortality we promise, but I can read the disappointment on your face; and I will tell you furthermore that although we recorded all three of you, the available space is not unlimited. We will be forced to discard two of the three recordings and commit only one to long-term storage. I cannot promise you will be the one we keep.”
She points to Edge Nain: “You did not truly want to win, did you? Now that you have reached your goal, you do not know what to do.”
Edge Nain corrects her: “I did not expect to win. But I am glad we did.”
“No, you are not. You are lying to yourself. And you”—her clawed finger points to Kel—“have realized that although your art is successful as a mating display, it was not reproductive prowess that you craved, after all.”
Kel splutters and coughs; theatrically or not, Edge Nain cannot tell. He speaks up to forestall Kel’s angry words, which he can sense coming.
“Hold on. Never mind whether you’re correct about us or not. Why would our discontent make us win?”
Satan: “Why do you think we record you in the first place?”
Ras answers, hesitant: “Because you seek to understand humans. Isn’t that why you gave us dream-inducers? Because we reveal more of ourselves in the dreams we make?”
“We gave humans dream-inducer technology because we wished to record artists working in a fresh, untainted medium, but this is no longer a major focus of our attempt to understand humans. Most of your race believe that artists are more deeply in touch with the human condition, so initially we expended considerable effort to record t
hem. The return on investment was disappointing. We have recorded tens of thousands of humans, from all places and social statuses. It is our consensus opinion that any one of the fifteen million indentured labourers of southeast Asia comes much closer to the essence of the human condition than do any of the artists in Yerusalom. Most of us feel that artists have no depth to them at all, only a mild form of mental illness.”
Edge Nain, taken aback, asks: “Then why do you still sample us? Why all these competitions, all the wealth you shower down?”
Satan leans to one side, against the railing, and rotates a knee outward. This form of body language the trio have never seen. Perhaps it means nothing special.
She answers: “Market research has its own inertia. The total amount invested was relatively small and had the potential for a large payoff: it was a worthwhile risk.”
Ras quotes: “‘The Universe is commerce.’”
Edge Nain: “And why, then, are you telling us all this? When the Eldred have never told us exactly what they seek on Earth?”
She: “We never sought your art; we sought to understand you only insofar as we must evaluate your future commercial status. We gave you seed technologies to accelerate your technological development, to send you out into your solar system. In two or three hundred years, you might become worthwhile trading partners; not before. And the reason why I tell you these things is because I have become convinced—you, in fact, have finished convincing me—that our presence on your planet has already distorted you beyond reasonable bounds. I believe we will destroy you, ruin any hope of bloom for your civilization.”
Kel speaks at last, in a voice thready with outrage: “But that’s nonsense: you’ve given us so much! We’ve learned from you. Earth is better off than it was before. You talk of indentured labourers, but they’re being freed even as we speak. How can wealth be bad? All the people in Yerusalom, the artists, the scientists . . . we’ve benefited from your knowledge, and the rest of Earth has too. And humanity hasn’t really changed much. It’s adapted, that’s all.”
