‘It’s not common knowledge, but the original breakthrough drug at HiberTech was a powerful dream enhancer named E-28. It was synthesised during Don Hector’s early attempts to make hibernation more useful through something known as Active Control Dreaming.’
‘I’ve not heard of that,’ I said, suddenly even more interested. The last time I was in the Birgitta and Buick dreams, I was in control – making decisions for myself, guiding the narrative.
‘Few have. HiberTech guard their secrets closely. Active Control was designed so that we could carry on our lives during the Winter. But not out here, burning fat and victim to the hunger, cold and vermin predation, but in here.’
He tapped his temple.
‘Cosy, safe and happy in a personalised dreaming environment where one would have sovereignty, a place where you could do what you wanted while still remaining fully aware, fully in control of your actions – yet fully asleep.’
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but wouldn’t Active Control be as lonely as staying up over the Winter? Worse, perhaps?’
He smiled.
‘This is where it gets good. The idea was that you could share the Dreamspace. It was going to become a place to meet, a place to socialise, a place to work and remain productive. There were plans to found the first Hiberversity. A degree in anything you chose – while you slumbered, deep in the abyss of hibernation. Education for the masses. There was even talk,’ he added, laughing, I think, at the audacity of the idea, ‘of implanting Dream Avatars in the sleeping mind in order to establish a link with the outside world. News and views as you slept, perhaps even live entertainment – and also establish a potential revenue stream by suggesting goods and services to the sleeping individual.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yup.’ Shamanic Bob grinned. ‘They wanted to monetise the Dreamstate by selling entertainment and advertising space. Is nothing sacred? What’s the matter? You look kind of . . . shocked.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I said, but it was. If what he and Zsazsa said was true, then it would explain how Mrs Nesbit got into my dreams. But they weren’t trying to entertain me, sell me thermal socks or double glazing, they were demanding information. I had another thought, this time more unpleasant – about Agent Hooke and his in-dream interrogation techniques.
‘This Dreamspace idea,’ I said, ‘did it ever work?’
‘Not really. Twenty-one years and thirty billion euros later there was still one vast and wholly intractable problem: did you just learn about Charlotte Brontë, or did you dream you learned something? The person you just met in the Dreamspace. Did they really say what you thought they said, or was that just an invention? You are invited to have an affair in the Dreamspace. Does that make it adultery? Or even consensual? And if it wasn’t consensual, then what was it? Business deals: legally binding or not? The point is, there would be no easy way of knowing whether what happened in the Dreamspace was real, and what was imagined. Ten per cent? Eighty per cent? None?’
‘I see the problem.’
‘Right,’ said Shamanic Bob, ‘because when you merge the real and the fantasy, you can never quite define the boundaries. Dreamspace was a wonderful concept, but owing to the quirky nature of a sleeping mind prone to tangential invention, doomed to failure.’
He sighed wistfully, as though this was the greatest disappointment he could imagine. A world of permanent dreaming, navigating your own way through fantastic worlds of your own creation.
‘Dreams are the one true freedom,’ continued Shamanic Bob, ‘the place where you can be yourself; do anything, be anything. The mind set free.’
‘So long as it’s Active Control,’ I said, ‘or you’re just a passenger, right?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ said Shamanic Bob with a sad smile, ‘and that’s the Night Grail we seek: a dream indistinguishable from real life. A dream where you can lose yourself, a dream where you can be anyone you want, and do anything you wish, at your own choosing.’
‘Could you dream yourself a principled and confident leading member of the Campaign for Real Sleep?’ I asked. ‘Deep undercover on a dangerous mission with the girl of your dreams?’
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘if that’s your thing. Me, I want to fly. But not like a pilot – like a bird. High on the wing above the hushed nation, chasing the spirit of freedom. Or maybe a saxophonist,’ he added, ‘playing for Holroyd Wilson, there at his last gig, before the Winter took him. Or maybe I could dream myself popular,’ he said, ‘or even respected. Or normal. That would be nice.’
Shamanic Bob came over all dreamy and his eyelids began to droop. I wasn’t sure if it was hushed reverence because we were talking about dreams, or simply because he had dozed off. Winsomniacs doze off a lot.
‘Ever dream of the blue Buick?’ I asked.
Shamanic Bob was suddenly wide awake, and a second later his bony fingers had grasped my jacket and pulled me close.
‘That’s why so many of us are scabbing* in the Twelve, friend. We heard there was this dream that was more real than real, so vivid you were there, shielding your eyes against the sun, smelling the Summer, tasting the dust on your lips. Active Control, the Night Grail we seek. Where is it? Somewhere close? Which Dormitorium?’
I had to think about this for a few moments before speaking again.
‘I’ve one last question,’ I said. ‘Can the memory of dreams ever unfold in your head retrospectively, influenced by later experiences?’
‘I’ve not experienced such a thing myself,’ he said after a moment’s thought, ‘nor heard of anyone who has – but narcosis can throw up an interesting-shaped bone from time to time. Are you sure you don’t want to get all dream-faced with us?’
‘I’m sure.’
I walked to the door, then turned. Our conversation had been followed by every winsomniac in the room. They were all watching me, dark-rimmed, wide eyes, blinking like owls.
‘Understand this,’ I said to the room in general, ‘there is no blue Buick dream, it’s definitely not Active Control, and it’s certainly not at the Sarah Siddons.’
The winsomniacs all smiled faintly and nodded their heads in a languid manner. Lloyd had said I could have four tins of Ambrosia Creamed Rice for each winsomniac I got into the Siddons. For every one that arrived, Birgitta was four hours closer to Springrise, and four hours farther from cannibalism. Ambrosia Creamed Rice, good at the best of times, had never seemed more attractive.
Fired & filing
‘ . . . The Winter Consul Service was barely four centuries old, and had changed little in that time. The origins of both porters and Consuls was the nightwatchman, a word often used to describe either trade. Life expectancy as a Consul was not high, but promotion prospects and extra cash always ensured there were more than enough recruits. There needed to be . . . ’
– from Seventeen Winters, by Consul Lance Jones
The sky had lowered while I’d been in the Wincarnis, and a stiff breeze was now stirring the snow into a cloud of flakes that swirled randomly in the air without settling. The visibility was still at least fair, although I don’t think anyone expected it to stay that way for long: Jonesy had attached a fixed line from her Sno-Trac to the large brass ring fixed to the outside of the Consulate, so she could find either if things got bad.
As I entered, there seemed to be a sense of unhurried languor inside, as though everyone were getting ready for a damp Sunday indoors. Treacle was typing out a form on a large typewriter in an unhurried manner, and Jonesy was reading a report while leaning on the desk. Fodder was standing next to the coffee machine, lost in his own thoughts, staring off into the middle distance. Probably thinking about babies. Or maybe some military defeat he’d been involved in. Or a love lost. Or steak pie with peas and chips. Actually, I had no idea. The way he looked, impossible to tell.
I heard Toccata swearing at someone down the telephone from the comfort of
her office, but now that I’d become accustomed to the idiosyncratic ways of Sector Twelve, the whole Aurora/Toccata issue hardly seemed unusual at all, and I could see why none of the crew saw any of it as particularly weird.
‘The Chief said she wants to see you,’ said Jonesy, looking up.
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now. She saw you come in, so it’s too late to sneak away. Good luck.’
I walked slowly up to Toccata’s office door, straightened my jacket and knocked politely. She bade me enter and I pushed open the door.
She was standing behind her desk, leaning on the chair-back.
‘Close the door,’ she said, and I did so.
‘Sit down.’
I did that, too.
‘You acquitted yourself well yesterday,’ she said. ‘Killing Ned Farnesworth was a foolish and impetuous move, but luckily, owing to Fodder’s considerable negotiating skills, the truce is holding.’
‘I didn’t kill him.’
She nodded quietly to herself and then held up a gold-edged gift certificate with a lot of zeros on it.
‘Then you won’t want the ten-thousand-euro reward?’
I felt, all of a sudden, conflicted. It would pay for Birgitta to see Springrise, but it somehow didn’t seem right taking it. I had an idea.
‘Can we assign it to Fodder? I think he wants to take a couple of years’ sabbatical and doesn’t have a lot of cash.’
Toccata stared at me for a while.
‘It wasn’t Debts and Nesquik that carried the truce, was it?’
‘No, ma’am.’
She pushed the certificate across the desk.
‘Sign it on the back.’
I did so and my obligation to Fodder, I felt, was at least partly resolved.
‘Now,’ said Toccata, ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m being so nice to you?’
To be honest, I hadn’t actually noticed.
‘It’s because you don’t work for us any more. I’m only hideously offensive to my own.’
I thought this might be about Aurora having completed my job application without my say-so, but it wasn’t.
‘Here,’ she said, passing me a fax. ‘Looks like your Acting Sector Chief has requested me to return you to Cardiff. They’re short staffed there, too. Unpaid leave can commence immediately; you can sit out this storm in the safety of the Siddons and once the weather breaks Jonesy will run you into Hereford and you can ride the Railplane home.’
I read the fax. It was from Vice-Consul Pryce and made reference to Logan’s death ‘at Aurora’s hands in the defence of Novice Worthing’, so at least I wasn’t being held to account for that.
‘Goodbye, Worthing. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure – but I can’t.’
I paused. Sure, this was a far riskier place than Cardiff what with volatile Chief Consuls, homicidal HiberTech agents, Wintervolk and the subzero temperatures. But I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Besides, there was Birgitta. Sure, she might be only three jam doughnuts from turning cannibal, but she was still my responsibility.
‘I’d like to stay, ma’am.’
Toccata’s eyebrow twitched.
‘You don’t want to be in Sector Twelve, I don’t want you in Sector Twelve. You’re a liability and a wild card and trouble seems to follow you like a homesick spaniel. And you’re bundling with Aurora, and no one who ever did that came to anything but grief.’
‘No, really, I feel at home here. First time since leaving the Pool. First time ever.’
‘You’re breaking my heart. Okay, let me spell it out: you’re fired. You’ve been lucky so far, but that’s going to run out, and when it does you’ll be taking good agents with you.’
She sat in her chair and stared up at me with her good eye, while the other contorted in its socket.
‘You’re done. We’re done. Go.’
I walked to the door, the heady buzz of comradeship I’d felt so strongly that morning now cracked and forlorn.
But I had an idea, and turned back.
‘You’re still here,’ she said, not looking up from her desk.
‘I think you should know,’ I said, ‘I was offered a job at HiberTech this morning.’
She slowly looked up at me and a red flush spread rapidly across her neck and cheeks. Any last vestige of friendliness she might have had seemed to vanish.
‘You wonky-faced piece of crap. You’re kidding me, right?’
‘No,’ I said, as innocently as I could. ‘Two-year contract, cash signing bonus, free puddings, apartment facing the quad – and a Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut allocation.’
‘I don’t know why they want you there, but it’s not for your charm, looks or experience. They’ll use you, spit you out spent. Working for HiberTech would be the worst career move you’ll ever make – and the last.’
‘You’re right,’ I replied, somewhat daringly, ‘I don’t want to work there. I want to stay in Sector Twelve, but if that’s the only option open to me, I’ll take it.’
Toccata put her pen down, leaned back in her chair and stared at me.
‘Well, I’ll be,’ she said, ‘you just played me. No one has ever dared play me.’ She looked almost impressed. ‘Okay, have it your own way: you’ve got a job. Filing duties for the next ninety-one days, inside the Consulate – and demoted from Deputy to Novice. There’ll be latrine duty in it somewhere, and you can do everyone’s washing and ironing. Pretty soon you’ll beg to go and work for Dowager Farnesworth. Okay, now piss off. Hang on, wait, one more thing.’
She got up, walked around the desk and punched me in the eye.
‘That’s for lying earlier.’
I got to my feet and she punched me a second time in the same place.
‘And that’s for bundling this morning with Aurora when you said you wouldn’t.’
I left the office, head spinning, but at least clear on two points: firstly, that I was getting better at dealing with the Winter, and secondly, that the tongue-coming-out warning had indeed been an empty threat.
‘How did that go?’ asked Jonesy when she found me holding a cold compress to my eye in the washrooms.
‘I was told to leave, said I didn’t want to, was fired, reinstated then demoted to Novice. But I played her so I think she now respects me.’
‘Is that why she punched you in the eye?’
‘No, that was for lying and bundling with Aurora.’
‘That’s true, then?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ she said, patting me on the arm and chuckling. ‘Toccata beat me so hard with a broom handle when I first arrived that I had concussion for a week. It’s just kind of her thing.’
‘I wish she would find some other thing.’
I went to look for Laura in the filing room, and when she saw me she offered me a seat at one of the desks.
‘So, tell me about the Gronk,’ she said excitedly, drawing up a chair herself. ‘Did you actually see her?’
I repeated the story with as much detail as I could, which wasn’t much. I’d been unconscious from the moment she arrived to the moment she left. Laura made notes, and nodded vigorously at the smallest detail, but when I’d finished she looked disappointed. It wasn’t the slam dunk she’d been hoping for.
‘So no pictures?’ she asked.
‘Not a single one.’
‘Treacle has already dismissed it as Hibernational Narcosis,’ she said with a sigh, ‘yours. He thinks you killed Lucky Ned and are now blanking it from your mind.’
‘Do I look like the sort of person who would bite off a finger?’
‘You bit off Gary Findlay’s ear.’
‘You heard about that?’
‘No secrets in the Twelve.’
‘So I’ve realised.’
She fell silen
t for a moment and stared at the floor. I looked around the room. My accelerated course at the Academy hadn’t included filing duties.
‘How does this work?’ I asked.
Laura, who seemed not to be able to feel down for more than a few moments, told me she loved filing owing to its ‘simple elegance’ and instructed me, with a worryingly high level of enthusiasm, how things should be done. Not the best or most logical way, but the SkillZero way – simple enough for everyone to use, yet complex enough to function efficiently as a usable database – and easily understandable by anyone with a pass in General Skills.
‘Shamanic Bob mentioned something called Active Control Dreaming,’ I said while we were laboriously updating minor details to the individual cards, and by a complicated series of notches and holes, allowing them to be cross-referenced in an ingenious manner.
‘Active Control is like Zebricorns and the missing 14th Ottoman,’ said Laura. ‘Myths with their roots in reality. Sure, Don Hector and HiberTech were looking into dreams you can control, but it’s difficult to gauge what success they had. After all, it’s possible you only dreamed you were controlling them.’
‘And Dreamspace?’ I asked.
‘Meeting inside dreams? Even more far-fetched. Anecdotally there were a few successes mixed heavily with an abundance of failure, but it’s a difficult area of research. Messing around with the hibernatory subconscious was never a risk-free occupation. There were stories of psychotic episodes, spontaneous sleepdeath, people supposedly trapped in the Dreamstate, stuff like that. Fortean Times talked about little else in the seventies.’
‘Trapped in the Dreamspace?’ I asked, and Laura looked at me, then shrugged.
‘It’s never been explained how the mind can return from deep hibernation; some say that the personality goes elsewhere. To a Dreamstate somewhere outside the body, perhaps – absorbed into the walls and furniture and plants.’
‘A state of displaced consciousness,’ I said, repeating what I’d heard Don Hector say in my dream. He’d been dead for two years, yet I felt part of his personality in me, alive.
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