by J. M. Porup
“But I thought you said we were out of reach down here,” Linda said.
“We are just at their maximum range,” Buck explained. “Dream Police travelling non-stop from the Crust could make it here in thirty-six hours. But there’s always a chance that a fast moving hit squad could get here faster. Booby traps seem like a reasonable defensive measure.” He shone his head lamp down the tunnel. “Now, if you’ll allow me?”
Zune gave a mock bow, swept a hand at the tunnel opening. The other actors did the same.
Buck entered the tunnel. They counted to ten, waited another few seconds, then followed.
In the darkness, far ahead, Buck cried out.
“What is it?” Linda shouted. “Are you alright?”
They halted, the sound of their breathing loud in their ears.
“Nothing,” came Buck’s voice. “I’m fine.”
They squeezed forward through the gap, peering ahead with their head lamps, but found nothing. Maude was barely able to fit her great bulk through the space. Once they trod on some hollow wooden boards. An axe glinted on the wall, attached to a long pole. Shade wondered what other kind of booby traps might be hidden there in the darkness.
A blaze of light blinded them. They entered a new room, a great chamber. Buck flicked a switch, and the light became almost unbearable.
Crates of supplies lined one wall. Statues and paintings filled the room, twisted skeletons littering the floor. A dozen tunnels exited the chamber from every point of the compass.
Linda massaged her lower back. “Won’t the Collective be able to track us here from our power consumption? Or just turn off our energy?” She indicated the lights above their heads.
“Relax,” Buck said. “There are massive storage batteries beneath the floor. Enough electricity to last a lifetime, and then some.”
Zune snorted. “Yeah, well, considering how short our lives are likely to be.”
“We aren’t going to die,” Buck snapped. “I told you, the Collective can’t make it down this far.”
“Yay.” Zune twirled his finger in the air.
“Why don’t you go practice a new play or something?”
“What for?” The actor swept a hand at the ancient bones that littered the cavernous space. “Who’s going to be our audience? A bunch of dead kings, by the looks of things?”
“He’s got a point, you know,” Maude said. All eyes turned to her.
Buck raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” she said, blushing at the attention, “We’re safe down here. Maybe. We hope.” She lifted her giant shoulders, let them fall. “That’s it? We’re buried alive. We might as well be dead.”
“While there is life, there is hope,” Buck said. He rested a hand on Shade’s shoulder. “And Jimmy Shade here is that hope.”
Shade jerked away. “Me? What are you talking about?”
Zune’s mouths opened in surprise. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Saying what?” Shade asked.
Linda touched his cheek. “You have to go back topside,” she whispered. “You have to bring them your song. It’s our only chance.”
Shade glared at them. “You want me to…to infect the Collective? With my dream?”
Buck nodded. “The fate of the Dream World depends on you.”
Shade shook his head. “No. I won’t do it.”
Maude sang a few bars of the “Ode to Joy.”
The hairs on the back of Shade’s head stood up. Imagine if the entire Collective could hear that music…
“Remember how you felt?” she asked. “When you first heard that song?”
He shuddered. His mouth was dry. The others crowded around him.
“No,” he whispered.
Linda’s eyes widened. “No…what?”
“I won’t do it. I won’t go topside. I won’t destroy the Collective.”
“You wouldn’t destroy the Collective,” Buck said. “You would reunite two warring parts of humanity, long separated.”
Again Shade shook his head. “I don’t care what fancy words you come up with. It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. I will not do it. You can kill me if you want to.” He threw up his arms to block a blow.
This last to Zune, who bared both sets of teeth and balled up his fists.
“You would let all of us die?” Linda asked.
“We’re safe down here. Remember?” Shade said. “Buck said so. Ask him. There he is. Ask him!”
She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips. “A dream without an audience is living death. Can’t you feel that? Don’t you know that’s the truth?”
Shade pursed his lips. “Yes,” he said at last. “It is the truth.”
Linda kissed his chin. “Then you’ll do it?” she whispered. “You’ll go up there? Share your dream with the rest of humanity?”
“No. I will not. Sometimes we must sacrifice our dreams for the greater good.”
“Sacrifice?” Zama exclaimed. “What about our sacrifice? What about—”
“You kill the host, the parasites die too,” Shade said. “Besides,” he added, as her hand drew away, “I’m no Prime. I’m unplugged. Remember? How am I supposed to spread a dream to the whole Collective? I’d infect half a dozen nodes within hearing range and the rest would squash me flat.”
The others rocked back on their heels. “He’s right,” Zune said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Then I guess we—”
“Actually,” Ennst said, “it would work.”
“How’s that?” Buck asked.
The scientist plucked at his hair. “Simply put, we replugg Shade.”
Shade chuckled. “There is no such thing as replugging.”
Ennst cleared his throat, held up the black case he’d been carrying with him ever since the massacre.
“Which is…?”
“A new technology I’ve been working on. A replugger.”
They all gaped.
“A what?”
Ennst put the case on the ground. He opened it and took out a familiar tool.
“Officer Shade,” he said. “Recognize this?”
Shade took the offered weapon. He examined it. “Looks like a standard-issue Dream Police unplugger.”
Ennst turned to the others. “Let’s remember, for a moment, how Primes are created. Anyone?”
“A partial unplugg,” Maude volunteered. “Remove the receiving tentacles so that the dreamer isn’t overwhelmed by the Collective when they go topside.”
“Plus Primes are always new arrivals,” added Buck. “dreamers who we’ve helped escape. They have to go back topside before three days are out. They don’t have time to develop their dreams. This limits their power.”
“But what if,” Ennst said, and his eyes glistened, “what if we could replugg a dreamer? Inject them once more into the Collective? How much more powerful would they be than a Prime? Especially,” and he turned back to Shade, “if the dream is as powerful as yours?”
Shade goggled at them. “You want to turn me into a Prime?”
“More than a Prime,” Ennst said. “Better than a Prime. The most powerful Prime who has ever existed.”
“But that’s crazy, I—”
“Wait!” Zune shouted with both mouths.
They all turned to look at him.
“You’re forgetting something,” he said, and crossed his arms.
“What’s that?” Buck asked.
“Where are you going to get an implant to replugg him with?” He gestured at the others. “Even if you had a volunteer, which I doubt you’d get, we’re all unplugged already. No implant to donate. So sorry.”
Ennst lowered his eyes. “We would have to…borrow one from an existing node.”
“But who is going to let us—” Shade said, and stopped.
“A node down here in the catacombs. A node coming to kill us. A Dream Police.” Zune rubbed his hands together. “I am going to enjoy this.”
“You’re
serious?” Shade looked around at them. “And how do you plan to capture and unplugg a member of the Dream Police?”
Buck fingered a horn, looked at him out of the corner of his eyes. “We can probably think of something.”
“The booby traps!” Zama exclaimed.
“A counterattack!” Zune said. “Turn the tables! Kill some Dream Police! Destroy the Collective!” He turned to Shade. “I love it! Let’s do it!”
Shade stepped away from the actor’s slobbering mouths. “I am not going to destroy the Collective, and that’s final.”
“Well why the hell not?”
“Because I love the Collective!” Shade said. “And I have a hard time understanding why you don’t!”
Zune grabbed Shade by his jumpsuit and shook him. “Because they want to kill my dream, you stupid cop!”
Shade lowered his head. He struggled to remain calm. “If I replugg,” he said, “and return to the Collective, my song could destroy humanity.”
Zune let go. “Not humanity. Just the Collective.”
The same thing. But instead Shade said, “Or I stay here, refuse to replugg, and by inaction dreams are exterminated forever.”
Ennst nodded. “That is a fair summary of the situation. Yes.”
“I’ll go,” Zune said.
They all turned. “I’m sorry?” Ennst said.
“If Shade won’t do it, replugg me.”
“I don’t think you understand,” Ennst began.
“Sure I do,” the actor said, and struck a pose, fists on his hips. “Replugg me and I’ll go back topside. Infect the Collective with my dream and destroy them all.”
Ennst said, “Your dream is a strong one, brother Zune. But is it enough to conquer the entire Collective?” He turned to the others. “I have heard Shade’s song. As have you all. His dream is greater than any I have ever seen. Or heard. Can any of you claim to equal him?” He looked at Zune. “Can you?”
“But what can it hurt?” Zune insisted. “Shade refuses to go. The alternative is we all die. One of us should at least try.”
“That would only make things worse,” Ennst said.
“How so?” Zama asked.
The scientist hefted the replugger in his hand. “We only get one shot at this. They don’t know where we are. If we fail, the booby traps won’t work a second time. Then where will we hide? Where will we go? How are we going to get ourselves a live implant to work with?”
Zune scowled, but said nothing.
A new thought occurred to Shade. Another way out. Could he—was it possible? He tried to conceal his excitement. “So I could—”, he began, “that is, I could rejoin the Collective? What if I simply refused to sing? I could become a useful member of society once again!”
Zune groaned, but Buck cut him off with a hairy hand. To Ennst he said, “Can he do that?”
Ennst put a hand on Shade’s shoulder. “What you want is no longer possible. Replugging creates a Prime. That has been the goal of my research all these years. I snip off the receiving tentacle as part of replugging. That’s why you would never be a complete node.”
“But why can’t you give me a complete implant?” Shade asked. “Why do you have to maim the receiving tentacle?”
“For the same reason we always do that with Primes,” Ennst said, “the Collective would shout you down. Prevent you from spreading your dream.”
“But suppose that’s what I want?” Shade asked. Held his breath.
Ennst shook his head. “I am dreamer, too. I will help you become a Prime, if you wish—and it must be your voluntary choice—but I will not allow you to replugg with a whole implant. That would be suicide for me and every other dreamer left on Earth.” He swept a hand at Buck and Maude and the rest. “Assuming there are any other dreamers left.”
Shade’s hopes had been lifted only to be dashed. He hung his head, slumped down against the wall.
Ennst squatted beside him. “You can never go back to what you used to be. You can become something new—something different—something great—or,” and he shrugged. “You can die.”
Shade pushed Ennst away and curled up in a ball. “Then let me die,” he said.
“Fucking cop! Can you believe this? He cares more for the Collective than he does for his own dream!”
“That’s right,” Shade whispered. “I do.”
“Great,” said Zune. He picked up a femur bone and smashed it against the wall. “Just great. How do we know the Collective didn’t send him down here on purpose to kill us all?”
“That seems unlikely,” Ennst said.
“And what of the king’s dream?” Buck asked.
“What of it?” Zune said. “The king is dead.” He glared at Shade. “And so, apparently, is his dream.” He spat. “Plus the rest of us, too.”
Without another word, the actor stomped off.
“Now what?” Zama asked.
Buck shrugged. “We wait.”
“For what?”
“For Shade to change his mind.”
Maude and Linda glanced at each other. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then we die.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Weeks passed.
Maude continued Shade’s singing lessons. They had nothing else to do, and the soundproof room just off the King’s Chamber allowed them to sing without fear of discovery.
“You have talent,” Maude said, “but you still have much to learn.”
Shade sang all that he felt, and she guided him as he groped forward into the unknown, searching for the words, the notes, the music to convey what they all felt and hoped and feared.
At times he wondered what the point was. They were going to die or be killed. He would be forgotten. No memory of his song would survive. It would be as though he had never existed.
But still he sang.
Linda painted dark figures on the wall, disturbing shapes Shade did not comprehend.
One night she said to him, “You love me more than your dream.”
He thought about that. Then reached for her.
“You’re right. I do.”
She sighed. “I was afraid of that,” she said, and padded off to sleep on the other side of the chamber.
Buck sculpted intricate monuments from the bones of the dead kings, only to knock them down again.
“What does it matter?” he grumbled. “What does any of it matter? Who will see my work when I am gone?”
Ennst worked in a corner with a sharpened yellow twig and a piece of paper. He covered the sheet with squiggles. “Looking for another solution,” he told Shade. “Maybe Zune’s right. Maybe there’s a way to amplify a weaker dream. Maybe someone else could go.”
But he found no solution.
The actors rehearsed a new play. To Shade it seemed they were only going through the motions, without gusto, or even any interest in the proceedings.
“What good is it?” Zune complained. “Who will see our performance? The five of you?”
Buck sighed. “We’re all you got.”
Zune scowled with both mouths, but said nothing.
Then one day, he was gone.
They woke to find him missing. Zune did not show for his breakfast food pill, and without him the actors could not continue their rehearsal. They slumped against the wall, speaking among themselves.
“Where would he go?” Maude asked.
“Maybe he fell down one of the booby traps,” Shade suggested.
Buck had shown him some of the booby traps. A regular feature in every entryway was a deep pit. Shade had tossed a knucklebone into one, waited for the echo of the bone hitting bottom, but no sound ever came.
“He’s not stupid,” Buck said. “And we all have head lamps.”
They checked the booby traps anyway. Nothing. They shone their lights down the pits. No sign of Zune. They returned to the King’s Chamber.
Zama stirred from his lethargy when he saw them. “I don’t think he fell down a booby trap.”
“Then…what?”
“Zune got up in the middle of the night. Said he had to go use the bathroom.”
A toilet had been installed over a deep pit, presumably by some ancient king of dreams.
Buck clucked his tongue. “You see him come back?”
The actor shook his head.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
Zama bit his lip. “I think he went looking for an audience.”
Linda stared at him. “He wouldn’t!”
Zama shrugged. “I dunno. But it’s what I think. And you know as well as I do what that means.”
Maude said, “The Collective is coming.”
“But wait,” Shade said. “I don’t understand. Zune goes to the surface, finds some Dream Police. Tells them what? ‘You want to watch my play?’ They’d shoot him on sight!”
Buck stroked his goatee. “Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?” Shade asked.
“He knows about the replugger. Maybe he wants to get back into the Collective.”
“Zune?” Zama cackled. “He hates the Collective!”
Buck furrowed his brows. “It’s like he said the other day. Remember?”
Zama scratched his donkey ears. “’We can have a dream with no audience or an audience with no dream.’”
“’Which is worse?’” another actor added. “Remember he said that? ‘Which is worse?’”
“The Collective is coming,” Shade repeated. “The only question left is, what are we going to do about it?”
“You mean, what kind of party decorations are we going to use?” Zama asked.
Shade flushed. “No, I mean do we run? Do we hide? What?”
Buck turned to face Shade. “Our options haven’t changed. But Zune’s departures forces our hand. Your hand.”
“To…force me to replugg?”
“He’s going to lure them down here. Of course he is. It’s the only thing he has to bargain with. And then?” He held his hairy arms out wide. “We’re going to have a bunch of dead Dream Police on our hands very soon, and a hot implant ready to be replugged.” Buck stopped, put a hand on Shade’s shoulder. “But only if you’re willing to be replugged.”
Shade shook his head. “I’m not.”
The goat-man’s face was grim. “No more second chances.” He breathed in Shade’s face. “Boom. Then we’re done. Got it?”