Sweet Dreams

by Tricia Sullivan

  I snort. ‘I know what the Stranger is. Is that really all you’ve got? The Creeper is the Stranger?’

  ‘No, I have more. But it’s speculative. Just hear me out and keep an open mind.’

  I roll my eyes but say nothing.

  ‘As a dreamhacker, when you access someone’s dreamspace, you don’t interfere with their R.E.M. atonia. But what if you could? What if you could turn off the neural gate that controls muscle movement, so that the person’s body would respond to the conditions imposed in dreamspace? They’d be moving in reaction to the dream, acting out whatever they were experiencing there. What if you really could hack into their brain at that level while at the same time shaping their dream environment? Think of the consequences.’

  Mel on the bathroom floor, her head in the bathtub. She was hacked, her R.E.M. atonia disabled, and while I was distracted the Creeper somehow led her to the bathroom. There she was convinced by events in the dream environment to turn on the taps and submerge herself, and then . . . what? The atonia was reactivated to keep her head in the water?

  OK, it could fit. Roman’s watching me think through the whole thing. Maybe he is on to something. But I’m not about to say so without some kind of evidence. I fold my arms and wait for the hard evidence. But it doesn’t come.

  ‘So this is where I am with it,’ he says eventually. ‘But there are so many unanswered questions. Especially: how could the dreamhacker learn to do that to someone? It’s easy enough to see why they’d want to do it. All kinds of perfect crimes would become possible if you could refine the method.’

  I hate this. My dreamhacking is intended to help people improve their lives in nice, happy ways – stop smoking or drop ten pounds or resolve their childhood phobia of poodles. None of this is what I signed up for. I want to run far, far away.

  Roman says, ‘I’ve been tracking sleep crimes for a few years now and I think we’re seeing the learning curve of one or more dreamhackers reflected in the increasing sleep-related deaths around Greater London. This is one reason why we wanted to talk to you. Because you’re not the first dreamhacker, but your abilities are developing. You can do more than others who received the treatment at the same time. Maybe you’re close to being able to make people sleepwalk, too.’

  ‘What others?’ I say sharply.

  ‘Sorry?’

  He didn’t mean to say that. He’s put his foot in it now. He can’t look at me. I asked O to find the other trial participants but she never came back to me. If only I could meet my own kind . . .

  ‘I repeat: what others, Roman? If you want my cooperation, you need to level with me. Who else are you talking to? How did you find them?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to tell you. For your own protection and theirs, and for mine, if I’m honest. I’m sorry, Charlie.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re sorry.’ That’s code for: we suspect you. Who wouldn’t? Stupid damn tears are welling in my eyes now. Roman doesn’t understand. There are other people who have the same problem as me! He knows them and won’t tell me who they are. They could be my enemies but they could also be my friends. I’ve been trying to figure this all out in isolation and maybe that’s not necessary. I want to meet my people!

  ‘I don’t want you to think that I think you’ve done anything wrong, Charlie.’ He touches my arm gently. ‘If I did, I’d never speak to you off the record like this. I wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t return your bras or ask if you’re OK or lie awake worrying about you— I mean, you know. All in the line of duty.’

  ‘They’re not my bras, by the way,’ I say quickly.

  He flushes pink. I pretend not to notice.

  ‘Donato thinks I’m up to something,’ I say. ‘That means you guys are less than useless to me. Because if even a tiny bit of you thinks I’m part of the problem then your heads are up your arses. If you had any real information about who is doing this or how, then you wouldn’t be considering me a danger in any way. Straight logic, Roman. You don’t know shit. I’m calling O, make sure she got through the night OK. Stay there. I’m going on the roof.’

  I walk out amongst the pigeons in the growing light. I call O, but there’s no response. I call the Princess Grace and they put me on hold.

  I’m scared. I knew Elstree was trouble. Knew it from the way he tortured his boss with power tools and thought it was funny. And he’s wormed his way into O’s life somehow, with all this IP stuff. No wonder he came sniffing around after Bernard’s death. What if he did some kind of deal with BigSky? He may not even be acting in good faith on behalf of Bernard and Meera. Well, if he’s behind Bernard’s murder—

  No, that can’t be right. I saw Daphne hack Bernard, and she doesn’t work for BigSky.

  There’s been an attempt on my life – thwarted by Stack, bless him and his beautiful teeth. O’s in hospital so you’d think she’d be safe . . . but how can anybody be safe from getting attacked in their sleep? Whoever is doing this is the lowest of the low to prey on an elderly woman who is ill and frail. I’m getting angrier and angrier the more I think about it. And Mel. What did she ever do to anybody?

  I have to act. I never should have left O there alone. I have to go and sit watch over her. And get help, in case I fall asleep on duty. We need, like, a chain of people to watch over each other’s sleep. How am I going to explain this when even O doesn’t believe me?

  I ping Shandy but she’s still unavailable, working. I hate talking to her bots, especially Rodney. It says a lot about my state of mind that I’ve been clinging to Shandy to keep track of something like reality. If she’s out of the picture and O is in hospital and Antonio’s en route to Australia, who is left for me to lean on?

  Finally, the front desk at the hospital pick up again. A cheerful man informs me that Olivia Ogiyevich discharged herself last night.

  Knitters, cat-lovers, tea-drinkers

  I hit O’s primitive non-Spacetime phone link, but I just get a message wall. I hit her text messages, too. Nothing. Why does she have to be so old-school?

  I call Daphne’s residence, but the front desk say that O hasn’t signed in since our last visit. I make them double check but it’s no use.

  ‘She left last night,’ Muz tells me when I Spacetime him. ‘She said to bring the hog round, which I did. She signed herself out around 11 pm and drove off.’

  ‘And you let her?’

  ‘You obviously don’t know her very well.’ There’s a note of warning in Muz’s voice. Like, who the hell am I to tell him?

  ‘Did you at least follow her or find out where she was going?’

  ‘I assumed she was going home. It’s not my business where she goes.’

  ‘But Muz. She’s not home. She’s in danger. I can’t believe this.’

  ‘If she needs me, she’ll be in touch with me. That’s how it works. I don’t ask questions, and whatever happens I don’t answer to you. Goodbye, Charlie.’

  I go back into the sitting room. I tell Roman what Muz told me.

  ‘Shit,’ he says. ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘I have no fucking idea, but I’ve got to find her.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He’s on his feet.

  Words are still tumbling out of my mouth anyway: ‘I can’t sit around here theorizing with you about who did what or why or how. She’s in danger, I’m sure of it, and she’s so convinced she’s untouchable but she’s like eighty years old and frail.’

  ‘I agree, so—’

  ‘I’ll never forgive myself if something bad happens to her because of me.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll go with you.’

  ‘That’s a bad idea.’ But I take the jacket he hands me.

  He says, ‘Do you think she’s been dreamhacked?’

  ‘I don’t know. But she should be home. She took the hog. She only ever takes the hog if she’s going to see Daphne, and I’ve already checked with the residence. O hasn’t been there.’

  ‘If she’s on her vehicle, we can find her,’ Roman says. ‘We’ve had her under surveill
ance for a while. Let me talk to Donato. We’ll track her down.’

  ‘O, under surveillance? Seriously, why?’

  He shrugs. ‘It hasn’t done us much good, actually. We checked her out just to make sure she is what she says she is, and it turns out she’s a security expert with a long history in the tech industry. Because of that, she’s very good at eluding scrutiny. Her digital footprint is totally clean. But we put a tracker on her motorbike. We reckon if she’s up to anything, she’s doing it analogue-style. In person.’

  ‘But she never goes out. So how’s that strategy working out for you?’ I can’t help sneering. I’m so angry that O and I – knitters, cat-lovers, tea-drinkers that we are – are under surveillance and he doesn’t even care about Martin Elstree of the power saw.

  ‘She’s out now,’ he says.

  ‘That’s because she’s in danger, you bloody idiot! She’s probably been lured somewhere. Or . . . Or dreamhacked, like you said! She could be sleep-driving, she could be lying in a ditch as we speak.’

  ‘In Central London? Which ditch would this be?’

  ‘Shut up. You know what I mean. They are trying to get at me through her!’

  It’s too late. The words are out of my mouth. And now I sound like a Paranoid Patty.

  ‘Who? Who do you reckon are trying to get at you?’

  What kind of conspiracy theorist am I when I don’t even know who’s behind the conspiracy?

  ‘You could start with Martin Elstree, like we just bloody discussed. Oh, why do I even talk to you? I’m going to call Muz again.’

  ‘He’s on airplane mode.’

  ‘How do you— Wait, are you monitoring Muz, too?’

  Roman looks at his toes.

  ‘This is ridiculous. Why don’t you do something useful for a change? Where’s Martin Elstree right now?’

  Roman’s eyes roll up as he checks in with his surveillance bots. ‘In a meeting at his office.’

  ‘Well, just . . . I don’t know, just find O’s hog. Please. It’s important.’

  ‘I’m on it. But if you want to know what I really think—’

  I turn on my heel and glower at him. ‘Go on, then. If you have an actual idea.’

  ‘I do have an idea. The pigeons.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘O keeps racing pigeons. Unusual hobby, don’t you think? She exchanges birds with her sister in . . . where is it? Guildford?’

  ‘Dorking. How do you know they’re racing pigeons?’

  ‘She has the birdseed shipped in. She has a vet. Her sister has birds. It’s not hard to find this stuff out.’

  ‘You’re really nosey.’

  ‘So I’m told. So, Dorking, is that the only place they go? Do you know for sure?’

  ‘Oh my god. Sidney!’ It suddenly hits me.

  ‘Who is Sidney?’

  ‘A pigeon. With a tiddly backpack. He brought O a message, and I don’t think it was from Daphne because Sidney was knackered when he arrived. You’re right, Roman! It fits in with her whole low-tech approach to communications. It’s worth a try. We’ve got to release the pigeons and follow them.’

  ‘Whoa, let’s not be hasty. I need to be mindful of resources. Just think. Is there someone she trusts, somewhere she’d go if there was trouble?’

  I try to calm my mind and think. Jez certainly doesn’t qualify, and unless Muz was lying he doesn’t know anything. I shake my head.

  ‘My guess is that she knew perfectly well she’d been dreamhacked into sleepwalking but just didn’t want to tell me, so she slipped away somewhere safe. But I can’t think where that would be. I honestly don’t know her well enough.’

  ‘The question is, if Sidney is homed to O’s roof, then will he return to where he came from?’

  ‘Probably. She also has these special birds that never go out . . . or I’ve never seen them go, anyway. We can check if any of them are missing. Maybe she’s already sent a message back to Sidney’s point of origin.’

  I’m getting excited. I can do something, and I can do it while I’m awake!

  ‘We must be able to track them,’ Roman says. ‘Let me think how to do it.’

  ‘Don’t tell Donato. Please. He’ll ruin it. He hates me.’

  ‘He doesn’t hate you. He just—’

  ‘Yeah, he hates me.’

  ‘He takes a while to warm up to people. But he doesn’t hate you. He’s a professional.’

  ‘Please don’t bring him in.’

  ‘All right. For now. I was just talking to my sister. She and my brother-in-law both work as bike messengers. They use those hybrid cycles that can go just about anywhere. We’ll need to track the birds digitally and then be able to send out scouts to check out the details at their landing points. I wonder what the range on those birds is?’ It’s big, but I don’t want to tell him that because it might discourage him. I’ll try anything at this point. And Sidney’s message takes on a new significance:

  Intrusions have been traced. They have recordings and are reverse-engineering. If intruders identified, criminal charges could be forthcoming. Pls advise.

  When I first read this, I took the ‘intrusions’ to be something to do with O’s work as a security contractor. But what if it’s to do with dreamhacking? What are the ‘intrusions’? Is it me, intruding on the Dream City? Is it Daphne, intruding on sleepers? Or is it the Creeper? O got that message and then we went down to Dorking and she changed something in Daphne’s therapy schedule. Whoever sent the message is involved in all this mess, and O knew very well when I told her about Daphne killing Bernard that it was real.

  The question is, was O involved somehow in the killings – or is she also a target?

  Does everybody think I’m a muppet and is this why O doesn’t tell me anything? Feed the pigeons, make the tea, don’t worry your silly head sort of thing?

  Well, I’m not a muppet. I’d like to see Roman and Donato cope with crippling narcolepsy, extreme hair loss and demented old-lady murderers all at the same time.

  Big sky

  I shine a torch into the corners of the coop where O’s specials are kept. There were four, last I remember; now there are only three.

  ‘One of them is gone. I wonder when she did that.’

  ‘You’re sure this happened recently?’ Roman asks.

  ‘The last couple of days I honestly didn’t count. I checked their water and I fed them, but I didn’t clean the cage or handle any of them, and I couldn’t swear to how many there were. I’ve been pretty distracted.’

  ‘Try to remember. Think, Charlie.’

  ‘I am thinking! I’m not the world’s most observant person. You know how when there’s a crime and the police say, What colour and make was the car? And people go, Oh yeah, it was a silver Fiat Punto. But I’m like, Hey, there was a car or maybe a plane or a train . . . I just don’t notice stuff like that.’

  Roman shakes his head in disparagement.

  ‘I have a rich inner life,’ I add feebly.

  ‘You’re sure only one is missing?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sure. She must have let it out the day she fell. I’ve been here since she went to hospital. Unless I was asleep . . .’

  ‘What about the rest of them?’

  ‘They’re all still in, waiting to be fed.’

  ‘The ones in the big coop aren’t necessarily homed here. Some I know for sure are homed to Daphne’s place as well as here, because I recognise them. The others, I’m not sure.’

  ‘So think about what you’ve seen her do. Does she get any of the non-Daphne ones to carry messages?’

  I can feel my face making a curdling expression. ‘Maybe? I really don’t know, I never pay attention . . . I have narcolepsy . . .’ I yawn.

  ‘No, don’t get sleepy on me. Stay calm and think.’

  ‘Well, I can show you the equipment she uses for messages. Would that help?’

  ‘Yes.’

  So I show him the little nylon pouches that attach to the birds’ legs with Velcro. They are
paper-thin and flexible.

  ‘You could fit a drive in one of these pouches, easily,’ Roman says. ‘Does O have any other computers besides her main workstation?’

  ‘I don’t know and I’m not going to violate her privacy.’

  ‘OK, don’t get upset. Never mind what she uses the pouches for.’ He goes into the kitchen and sets up a workstation on the counter, pulling a security-sealed envelope out of his backpack and carefully unwrapping it. ‘I’m thinking to put the trackers in these pouches and then send out our scouts once we see where the birds are heading. I wonder if they fly after dark?’

  ‘It’s still morning – how far are we thinking they’ll need to go?’

  ‘That’s just it. We don’t know.’

  ‘Well, they can get to Dorking in a couple of hours.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Puts Transport for London to shame.’

  * * *

  It has stopped raining by the time we’ve wrangled the trackers onto each of birds and set them free. O usually lets me throw the bird up in the sky since I don’t mind them crapping on me as much as she does. It’s always fun but today feels especially excellent. I’ve spent far too much time asleep lately. Now I feel like a woman of action. Whee.

  Once they’re airborne, I run inside and watch the tracking display with Roman. He has superimposed a map of London on the skyline beyond O’s window. We are at the centre, and each bird appears as a flashing light as its tracker registers with the satellite. Anticlimactically, all of the lights blend into a single blob for quite a while as the birds circle around above O’s building. After a bit of zooming-in, Roman starts to pick out individual signals. One detaches and goes south. Four go south-east, two go south-west, and the last settles on a nearby rooftop and stays there.