Dreams Must Die

by J. M. Porup

  And Boss, in real life, lay in a hospital bed with his neck broken. He’d been chasing a rogue dreamer through a hydroponic garden some years back, and the glass floor had collapsed beneath their feet. Boss and the dreamer had fallen twenty-five stories. The dreamer died. Boss had survived, even volunteered to be recycled. But the Collective decided he could still be useful as an advisory node.

  Shade entered Boss’s mind and sat down on the opposite side of the desk. All the mental powers of mankind at the Collective’s disposal for thousands of years, Shade mused, but still no cure for a broken neck. Really, come to think of it, there’d been no scientific or technological advances of any kind since the Collective arose. He wondered why that was—but stopped himself. That was not an approved thought.

  Ceremonial or not, Boss got right to the point. We’ve found a Prime.

  A what?

  You heard me.

  Shade tilted back until the chair squeaked. Primes were the source of all dreams. The dreamers he spent his nights ChemLobbing could all trace their infection back to a Prime. But we haven’t caught a Prime in…

  Like I said. We found him. Now we’ve got to go catch him. Boss blew a smoke ring and it hung in the air between them. Preferably without anyone getting hurt.

  Where? Shade thought. I mean, how? I mean—

  Information Factory 1Q79A5. The Prime’s working undercover.

  As an IF worker?

  The Collective processed ten billion minds’ worth of stimulation every day. A large portion of humanity was dedicated to the sole purpose of handling that information, categorizing it, grading it, and storing it. Nothing was ever thrown away, and the processed data was then warehoused in compressed chunks deep in the minds of the Collective’s nodes.

  This was the secret to the Collective’s power: distributed decision-making coupled with distributed processing. By focusing lesser nodes on processing raw sensory input, more talented nodes—like Shade himself—were free to devote their complete energies to more specialized labor.

  He may even now be aware of our surveillance, Boss thought. Get moving.

  Without saying another word, he data-dumped the rest of the details into Shade’s mind, and departed.

  Shade eliminated his waste into a tube built into his bunk. No need to get dressed; he saved valuable time, as did all nodes, by never showering or taking off his clothes. Water was too precious. A new self-cleaning jumpsuit was issued to him once a week.

  He checked his weapons—a standard-issue automatic pistol on one hip, unplugger on the other—slung a bandoleer of ChemLob jabbers over one shoulder, and descended the bunk ladder to the floor. Across the city, two dozen other Dream Police, including Kann, were doing the same thing.

  On the elevator ride back to the surface of the Crust, Shade wondered how long it had been since they last captured a Prime. Twenty years? More? He consulted the data Boss had given him, but it was not there.

  THIRTY-THREE YEARS, the Collective replied.

  What minds possessed that tidbit of data? he wondered. It was odd, having your brain full of random pieces of information—other people’s memories, shreds of raw and processed data.

  WHAT IS ODD ABOUT IT? The Collective demanded. WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT? Ten billion minds peered at Shade in suspicion. HAVE YOU BEEN DREAMING, NODE SHADE?

  Without warning, the Collective formed a tribunal and entered Shade’s mind.

  The hum of humanity filled his skull. But he had nothing to hide. He relaxed and let them poke around.

  After a moment, the judgment: NOT GUILTY.

  Shade closed his eyes, bowed his head. In the future I will be more careful what I think.

  SEE THAT YOU DO.

  Unshaken by this well-deserved trial, Shade exited the elevator, halted at the sub-Crust waiting area, and summoned a flying train. The train landed on the Crust above his head, the hatches popped open, and he climbed up into the cabin.

  How did we find him? Shade asked, taking a seat. And why are Primes so hard to find, anyway?

  A long pause. For a moment Shade wondered if the Collective had somehow not heard him.

  WE HEARD YOU. WE DO NOT KNOW THE ANSWER.

  This astonished Shade. But the Collective is great! he protested. The Collective knows everything!

  DREAMERS PRIME REMAIN A MYSTERY. EVEN TO US. A slight pause, then: BE CAREFUL, NODE SHADE. PRIMES ARE DANGEROUS. THEY WILL DO ANYTHING TO DESTROY US.

  But why? Shade asked. Why do dreamers hate us so much?

  THE TIME FOR DREAMING IS OVER, the Collective boomed. NOW WE ALL MUST WORK.

  Shade, Kann and the other Dream Police converged on the gates of the Information Factory. They all wore double dream shields set to maximum, as Boss had instructed in his data dump.

  The factory stood at the end of a dark street just below the Crust surface. It was an immense structure, built to house the thousand of IF workers who labored daily to process the world’s data. It was hard, sweaty work, sitting in an ergonomic recliner with your eyes shut, unmoving, wrangling data for eighteen hours at a stretch. They’d depart for home, bleary-eyed, the blue collars of their jumpsuits stained with sweat from the exertion, and caked with dust from lying still for such long periods of time.

  Fresh-looking IF workers, lunch pails in hand and hard hats on their heads, lined up to one side of the street, and waited for the shift change. The lunch pails contained a week’s supply of food, water and caffeine pills; in the event of an emergency, IF workers would be called on to work overtime for many days in a row. The hard hats were an essential protective feature—overworked IF workers’ heads had been known to literally explode. The hard hats prevented the resulting shower of blood and bone from distracting other IF workers from the task at hand.

  Of course, factories and offices were redundant. Thought connected every corner of the globe. In theory, IF workers could work just as well from their bunks at home.

  In practice, however, the Collective had found that physical proximity encouraged higher productivity. Thoughts could and did travel instantaneously around the planet, but the signal was stronger the closer you got to your target. Even Shade reported to work every day down at Dream Police Headquarters.

  Shade nodded to the other Dream Police as they arrived. When they were all in position, on either side of the factory gates, Boss called a meeting in his mind.

  They crowded into that small room, banging their knees against the metal desk. Shade leaned back against the windows that looked out of Boss’s eyes, the shuttered venetian blinds crackling and crunching against his weight. The acrid smoke from Boss’s burning stick made him cough.

  We all know why we’re here, Boss said.

  They nodded.

  You don’t need me to tell you this, Boss said, looking at them from under dropping eyebrows. You know already. But I’ll say it because it’s worth repeating.

  He paused. They all knew the words before Boss thought them, but got satisfaction in hearing him say it anyway.

  Dreams are in decline. Few of us can remember the last time we caught a Prime. And in all that time, there have been no new dreams. This is without precedent.

  Boss met their gaze one by one.

  This could be the defining moment of human history. He jammed his finger down on his desk so hard the metal surface rang. When dreams are finally eradicated, the Collective will be free to devote its entire energy to the salvation of mankind.

  A cop Shade didn’t know raised his hand. But where do Primes come from, Boss?

  Kann laughed. The City of Dreams, of course.

  A myth to scare little nodes with, I’m afraid, Boss said. The truth is we don’t know. But wherever they come from, this could be the last one.

  Seems almost a shame to unplugg him, thought another cop. Now we’ll never know.

  Boss nodded. Which is why we aren’t going to unplugg him. We’re going to put him in a dream jacket and study him. Dissect him, if we have to. So we can understand his disease before
it goes extinct.

  He pushed back his chair, stood up and saluted them. Make me proud, boys. Make the Collective proud.

  The factory whistle blew. Shift change. The IF workers streamed through the gates, hard hats askew, lunch pails limp in their tired hands.

  Shade head-hopped among them, felt their weariness. They had earned their daily six. With a pang of regret, he realized he’d be seeing many of them soon. No doubt a large percentage had been unwittingly infected by the Dreamer Prime, and he and Kann would be ChemLobbing them soon.

  At his side, Kann quivered with excitement. You understand what this means?

  Another long night tomorrow.

  Kann laughed inside his head. No, man! We could be heroes! The nodes that saved the Collective!

  The waiting shift workers filed into the Information Factory, to take up the burden their departing colleagues had put down. The ergonomic chairs were probably still warm from the last shift. The workers walked with a sense of urgency. The fate of humanity depended on every node doing his part, and they knew it.

  The workers noticed the police but thought nothing of their presence. The Collective had already informed all nearby nodes of the operation.

  Every node except the Prime.

  Primes, for reasons unknown, could broadcast their thoughts—and of course dreams—but not receive them. Their own minds remained a brick wall. Shade wondered how the Prime was able to fake it in the factory.

  The departing workers thinned to a trickle. Soon the black lead-lined street was empty again.

  Where’s our guy? one of the other cops asked.

  Here he comes! Boss replied, flitting through their heads, seeing with their eyes. Double check those dream shields, people!

  Shade darted a hand to his skintight coverall. He checked both dials. Intensity? Maximum. Integrity? Unbreached. As long as the fabric did not tear, he would be immune to dream infection. The slightest scratch, though, and he could wind up in the Hall of Dreams. Like poor Frank. It was a grave occupational hazard.

  A man appeared at the gates, whistling. Whistling! It was like he was announcing his guilt. Mouth and throat noises were forbidden, even in the case of upper respiratory tract infection, such as a cold or flu.

  Human speech, of course, had been prohibited for thousands of years, ever since the Collective came into being. Aural data took ten times longer to process. Communication by pure thought—an ideal humanity had long ago achieved—allowed intimacy and compassion without the intermediary of spoken language.

  Shade studied the man once more. He looked no different from the other workers. He sauntered toward them, one hand in his pocket, his hard hat cocked at a jaunty angle, the empty lunch pail slapping against his thigh.

  The police tensed. They turned on their squawk boxes, square speakers strapped around their necks. Kann had picked up a couple dozen sets on his way to the factory, dusted them off. Shade had never used a squawk box before, but he knew they would translate his thoughts into spoken language, so that they could communicate with the Prime.

  They could, of course, allow the man to head-hop into their minds. A dream shield filtered dreams, but allowed conscious thoughts to penetrate. But letting a Prime into your mind, even when wearing a dream shield, was risky. No one wanted to wind up in the Hall of Dreams with Frank.

  Put your hands in the air, or we’ll shoot! the Collective thought, and two dozen squawk boxes translated the words into speech.

  The noise was harsh and grating in Shade’s ears, and he flinched. He understood spoken language, of course—the words, after all, were the same the Collective used in pure thought, unchanged for thousands of years—but it was odd to hear the words spoken out loud.

  In unison they pointed their guns at the slight figure.

  The Prime seemed taken aback. i don’t understand i’m tired i’ve had a long day must rest to better serve the collective you must have the wrong guy

  “One more thought and you’re a dead man!” the squawk boxes screeched.

  The man shrugged and put his hands in the air. His lunch pail smacked against the side of his hard hat.

  Not giving it away, Kann thought with a chuckle.

  The Prime turned his head and looked straight at Kann, as though he had heard this thought, but said nothing.

  Surround and capture, Boss said, repeating what they already knew.

  They advanced, one foot in front of the other, a circle of Dream Police converging on the man. Kann held a dream jacket ready in one hand.

  “One of you has been chosen,” the man said, out loud this time, and they paused, shaken by the unexpected sound of the man’s voice. It was soft and sweet, the words of someone practiced in the ways of auditory communication. None of them had ever heard the sound of human speech before.

  The man swiveled his head from side to side, studying the police in his field of vision.

  The Collective examined the man from every set of eyes, from every possible angle. IF workers half a world away processed the sensory data, submitted their report to the Collective.

  Is he armed?

  A knife?

  They saw none.

  Any sharp objects?

  CONCLUSION: NO DANGER. Dreams could not be transmitted by word of mouth, only by thought.

  The police crept closer. The man remained motionless. He stood just out of arm’s reach.

  Now! Boss thought.

  Twenty men tackled the Prime. But in the instant before they touched him, he turned, looked Shade in the eyes, and said, “Do you love her?”

  And winked.

  Shade jumped back, as thought stung by acid rain. The reaction was instinctive; once out of the fray, the Collective kept him apart.

  The melee wound down. The Prime offered no resistance, just lay there and let the police stomp on him. Soon he was stretched out on the ground, trussed from scalp to toes in the dream jacket.

  A tribunal assembled, found the man guilty, and sentenced him to incarceration in the Hall of Dreams.

  But Shade paid little attention to the proceedings. He was lost in his own disturbing thoughts.

  Hey Shade, man, you alright? Kann stood at his side.

  I dunno. I feel…funny.

  Funny how? Kann stepped into Shade’s mind and poked around. Looking good to me, bro.

  I suppose. Shade touched a finger to his temple. What did he mean by that, do you think?

  Mean by what?

  What the Prime said. You know, out loud.

  Kann replayed the memory in their minds.

  “’i don’t understand i’m tired i’ve had a long day must rest to better serve the collective you must have the wrong man’.”

  No. After that.

  “’One of you has been chosen’? You mean that bit?”

  No! Shade thought, in mounting frustration. “’Do you love her?’”

  Kann gave him a strange look. He didn’t say that.

  Sure he did.

  His partner lay a hand on his arm. Did you let him into your mind? Did he head-hop?

  Of course not! Shade pulled away. He said—

  Linda.

  Do you love her?

  Linda. Linda. Linda.

  Gone. Taken from him. Infected by a dreamer. Unplugged. As good as dead. Worse.

  Why wasn’t the Collective suppressing this memory? Memories only cause pain. Why were they letting him suffer?

  What’s wrong? Kann asked.

  You mean you don’t know? You can’t tell? My mind is your mind. We are One. We are All. We are the Collective.

  Of course we are, Kann replied, as though he’d only heard half the thought. He fumbled with the dials on Shade’s dream shields. Maximum strength. Unbreached.

  Shade let out a shuddering sigh.

  Scare me there, man, Kann thought. You’re the last person in the world I’d want to have to unplugg.

  Shade mustered a smile. The feeling’s mutual. I’m fine.

  But as they waited for the Hall
of Dreams ambulance to arrive, and take away the Prime, he realized that he was not fine.

  Something was wrong. Shade could feel—everything. Think—anything. And the Collective did nothing to stop him.

  I don’t want this freedom! Take it from me! he cried.

  But not even Kann heard this wild yell.

  The wrongness feeling grew.

  Why aren’t you stopping me? he begged the Collective. But no answer came. Couldn’t they hear him? What was going on?

  Linda. Do you love her?

  I-I do, he thought. Then, with more confidence, I do. I do love her.

  I miss you, Linda. The dreamers got you and I can’t forget you, can’t forget what we had together.

  I am We. We are All. We are the Collective, he chanted in his head, trying to summon those billions of minds. But the turmoil in Shade’s head remained his and his alone.

  He felt dizzy. His stomach hurt. Nausea twisted his guts. A growing pain stabbed at his skull.

  Still no one noticed. He expected—wanted—hoped—that ten billion minds would crowd into his head at any moment and relieve him of the terrible burden of his own thoughts, his own feelings. For his own good. For the good of humanity.

  The slightest fever or indigestion and the whole world knew about it. How can they not know this?

  I am—I am We. We—We are… he thought again. But the words echoed hollow inside his head.

  The ambulance arrived. Two burly paramedics in dream shields hefted the limp body into the back of their moving box and took the Prime away.

  The last glimpse Shade had of the man, the dreamer peered out the window at him, a thin smile on his lips.

  Four hours left to sleep, Kann thought. Reckon we’ve earned them, Boss?

  A chuckle. You know you have. Take two more and get your six. After what you just did, you deserve a treat.

  Boss entered their minds and slapped them on their backs. You boys are heroes, you know that?

  Of course, the concept of a hero was antiquated. Individual bravery and judgment were irrelevant. All actions of a node were sanctioned by the Collective. Calling Shade a hero would be like calling your finger a hero, or your knee. The body acts as a whole. So also the Collective.