Dreambox Junkies

by Richard Laymon

  “When was this worldcopy made?” Paulie asked.

  “At four twenty-three p.m. on Tuesday February Seventh."

  Oh my God, Paulie thought. The other day. When I was asleep. Just as I suspected. “And the user ... Janko Brauch ... he dreamt himself back in time and changed history, saved us from himself? Why? Out of remorse?"

  “Presumably."

  “So that's the only reason we're here, myself and Frances? Because of Janko Brauch?"

  “That would seem to be the case, Mr. Rayle,” said the Viking. “Although in boxworlds generated within this world, copied from it, yourself and Ms Rayle are, of course, extant subjects."

  “But those worlds will all be wiped out when this one reverts."

  “Indeed.” The Viking's tone was suitably sombre. “Their realitude is contingent upon ours ... or rather, yours, my own ontostatus being slightly more problematical."

  Ruth had come down the stairs. She was standing beside Sesha, holding Kali. The sight of them tore at Paulie's heart. Ruth was looking to him for some kind of explanation. She was scared and she wanted reassurance. What could he say? Ruth, being grounded, blessed with true existence in the real world, would survive the reversion, but her life would then recommence upon a course so different it would be tantamount to death for this GroundRuth. In the new, reverted boxworld there would be no Paulie Rayle for Ruth to meet—he would have died when she was a child—and, while she might well have given birth in Groundworld, there would be no Kali as such.

  And Paulie and Frances Rayle? Ungrounded humiliants, conjured up out of corpses by the mind of Janko Brauch. Not the nicest discovery to make about oneself. Of course, there was always the possibility that Janko Brauch would do it all over again, dream them back to life, start the puppet-play a second time, or an umpteenth time. Maybe this whole farce had happened before?

  Paulie felt nausea.

  “It's a new type of ad,” he explained to Ruth, talking fast to keep the despair out of his voice. “Holographic. He looks real but he isn't, he's just a projection. Nothing to worry about."

  Ruth was staring at Xabier, still frozen with his buzzgun, and only now did Paulie notice that both Xabier and Felipe had lost their facial features. They were bland, faceless dummies, like lifesize toys or cheap shop-window models. Paulie couldn't think how to explain away this development, so he just tried his best to convey to Ruth a sense that none of this was really too out of the ordinary, providing you were up on all the latest technotrends. He forced a smile. “Bit creepy, isn't it?” Inside, he felt rage. At the Viking? At Janko Brauch? He wasn't sure. To the Viking, he said, “So you don't feel sorry for us? Not even for my daughter, three months old?"

  “Please do not expect too much of a mere boxworld janitory program."

  Paulie could have punched this boxworld janitory program equipped with an answer for everything. But the Viking was exceptionally burly, and Paulie knew that even if he could pry loose the pistol from Xabier's fingers and pump that big barrel chest full of buzzslugs it would achieve nothing.

  “Well, come on, then.” Paulie raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. “Get it over with ... at least have that much decency."

  Goodbye, Ruth, he thought. Frances. Tears clouded his eyes.

  So, he mused bleakly, I finally get to learn the truth.

  His heart hurt like it was being skewered.

  Goodbye Kali.

  “Mr. Rayle, could you describe to me exactly how it feels to be vouchsafed this awareness of your existential plight?” Like some NeTV newsjockey with heavyweight pretensions, the Viking inclined his head and, keenly, awaited a response.

  Paulie's mind was a blank. “Can you repeat the question?"

  “Certainly. Could you describe to me, Mr. Rayle, exactly how it feels to be..."

  “Who wants to know?” Paulie demanded. “What's the purpose of this?"

  “The United Nations Commission for the Study of the Ethical Dimension of Dreambox Use has legislated for the installation, in a small but representative proportion of Dreamboxes, of datagathering adjuncts. This encounter is being recorded. All information gleaned on the topic of humiliant subjective experience will be transmitted to UNCSEDDU for incorporation in its database.” The Viking paused. “May I stress that Bengt & Anderssen have no choice but to comply with this UN directive, and thus are are in no way responsible for this unfortunately protracted boxworld reversion process; the standard B&A reversion routine is instantaneous and fully humiliant-friendly. Should it transpire that humiliant suffering is ruled to possess such realitude as to call for the granting of protective rights, then Bengt & Anderssen extend our deepest sympathies to all concerned. In the interim, we advise full and honest co-operation with the UN adjunct. It is, in part, on the basis of your answers to its questions that a ruling will be formulated. Mr. Rayle, would you like me to repeat the question again?"

  “Will somebody just please tell me what the fucking hell's going on?” Ruth's brittle voice made Kali cry.

  Acidly, Paulie remarked to the Viking, “This is a bit of an unkind way of going about things, wouldn't you say?"

  “The blame lies with the software house contracted to produce the adjunct. I understand that there were time constraints. Bengt & Anderssen cannot fairly be held to account for..."

  “So how many questions are there in all?"

  “Twenty-three.” The Viking turned to Frances. “And you, Ms Rayle ... could you also provide a set of replies?"

  Frances was watching. That was all she had been doing, throughout, observing, as though sympathetic but not personally involved. It was beginning to annoy Paulie, quite unable to conceal all the proliferating symptoms of his terror, while Frances just looked on, laid-back, detached, without even so much as a bead of sweat breaking out on her brow.

  “And when we've finished answering the questions,” Paulie wanted to know, “what happens then?"

  “Reversion,” the Viking said simply.

  Paulie thought, Back to the grave for Frances and me.

  He said, “And the others? They'll be brought back into line with their true, Groundworld selves?"

  The Viking nodded. “Correct, sir."

  Paulie felt like saying to Sesha Roffey, Well, didn't I tell you? I was right about this world of ours, wasn't I? The erotoroutine, everything. You wouldn't listen. You wouldn't believe me.

  But it would do no good—she would go on believing that this was the real world and he was a stupid Dreambox junkie and the Viking was a weird holo ad. And perhaps, Paulie considered, that was a good thing. She would not be anticipating the reversion, and therefore, like Ruth, like Kali, she would not suffer. He wondered where Sesha Roffey would find herself in the new scheme of things. For there would be no Frances, no Institute of Psychotrichology, no job. Her life would be decidedly different, as was her true Groundworld life.

  Unless and until Janko Brauch brought this world back into being...

  “Look, Paulie, what's going on?” Ruth was still scared, and doing her best to comfort Kali.

  Frances collapsed.

  “Frances!” Sesha Roffey darted forward. “Help her someone!"

  The Socratosine hypo protruded from a small holster on Xabier's belt. Paulie grabbed it but, before he could work out how to use it, Sesha had snatched it from him. She was about to shoot Frances in the arm when all at once, with the grace of an angel, Frances floated to her feet and said, “Thank you, Processia, but that won't be necessary."

  Like a very small girl, Ruth was gazing at Frances.

  And then Paulie heard Ruth say, very quietly, “Mother....?"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter 25

  The Bengt & Anderssen Dreambox janitory program in the guise of a boilersuited Viking gave expression to a mild measure of impatience by simulating throat clearance. “If you could please return your attention to the UNCSEDDU verbal questionnaire, Mr. and Ms. Rayle?"

  But the Viking was beginn
ing to dematerialize: one horn of his helmet had coarsened, degraded into pointillistic pixels, and also one leg, from knee to ankle, plus a corner of his galvanized toolbox—now two corners, now three. And Paulie noticed that the beautiful house around them, Frances's house, was no longer such a flawlessly-rendered pseudoenvironment; by the moment it was shedding its textures, eschewing aspect after aspect of its former authenticity, degenerating further and further into the crude approximation of a cartoon.

  Frances held Ruth in her arms. Ruth was crying on her shoulder. Kali's baby face was slowly scrungeing up, making ready to burst into tears. Paulie caught the eye of Sesha Roffey. She gave him a beats-me-too shrug; her tiny gesture of human solidarity in the face of all this grotesquerie touched him deeply, and he felt bad for ever having judged her uncharitably.

  “Now, Mr. Rayle,” the Viking pressed on doggedly in his pantomime lilt, “could you describe to me exactly how it feels to be vouchsafed this awareness of your existential plight?"

  Instead of answering the question, Paulie put one of his own, “Why are you disappearing?"

  “I am ceasing to manifest? That would be because the BeaBox Ninety requires maximum battery power for the reversion procedure. I am afraid we are out of time. Further delay will compel a complete repetition of the basic worldcopying process, incurring unacceptable inconvenience for the user. Bengt & Andersson have a reputation for reliability second to none, and are legally permitted to abandon UNCSEDDU questioning if and when it interferes with the reasonable maintenance of a positive percept-profile in today's overcrowded market.” The last three words came out reedy and hollow, like from a trashy toy; the Viking was barely more than a vestige now. “Bengt & Anderssen wish me to convey to you their sincerest apolllllllllllllllllll...” The word trailed off ludicrously as the remaining aggregate of pixels dissipated into a fine fog before departing the scene entirely.

  Turning to Frances, Paulie asked, “How can you be Ruth's mother? This is ridiculous."

  Inside his head, he heard her say, “Don't be afraid, Paulie."

  “Well what you're doing now doesn't help,” he told her. “I'd rather you spoke to me in the normal way, by vocalizing, if that's not too much trouble?"

  Smiling sympathetically, Frances said, “I'm sorry.” She was stroking Ruth's hair. Ruth was still sobbing and snuffling, but Kali's little face had unscrunged. Her eyes were wide and alert.

  Again, Paulie demanded of his ex-wife, “How can you be Ruth's mother?"

  “I am many things. I have many names."

  “Have you the power to prevent this world from reverting?” He too could have done with a hug from Frances, a nice fierce motherly protective hug. “I'm sure you can appreciate my confusion? And imagine how Sesha here must be feeling."

  “I still don't understand about Janko Brauch,” Sesha Roffey put in. She was maintaining an incredible degree of composure; indeed, she displayed all of the coolness one might expect from Frances's nominated successor as head of PsyTri. “In fact I can't see how any of this can really be happening. I mean, the house ... neat effect, but I just don't get it. And where's Xabier's face?"

  “Xabier,” Frances said quietly. “Felipe."

  The facial features of both men promptly grew back, causing them to blink and start violently. A glance from Frances and they relaxed. A little dazedly, they put away their buzzpistols. Felipe murmured something in Spanish, and Xabier admitted, “I cannot comprehend the current situation."

  Frances spoke briefly, softly to the two men in their own language, and they immediately fell silent, as though their duties included curtailment of curiosity wherever appropriate.

  To Frances, Paulie said, “Is this really Janko Brauch's boxworld? Or am I the dreamer?” Like Sesha Roffey, he couldn't figure out the Janko Brauch connection. The late singer-songwriter had been to Paulie barely more than a name. Why, Paulie asked himself, should I choose, at whatever mental level, to grant Janko Brauch this key role in my boxlife? Why should I have conjured up this scenario in which he kills and resurrects me? If Janko Brauch's boxworld is merely a subsidiary of my own, if I am dreaming him dreaming me, what on earth could I be playing at? “Can you take us back to Groundworld?” he asked the being that Frances had become. “Is it over now? Are we saved? Is this the wonderful happy ending my mind has dreamt up for us all?"

  “Concerned about your stool consistency?"

  The words were uttered by Xabier, in slick, smooth ad agency English, as though he had chosen this of all moments to demonstrate a hitherto hidden talent for mimicry. “Colour? Texture?” He grimaced sympathetically. “Abnormalities in terms of ... well, hey, let's not beat about the bush ... in terms of odour? Problem, huh? And let me guess ... you find diagnostic paper too rough ... am I right? Well, why not install a CoproCare Plus Home Faecal Analyzer and flush away that toilet-bowl torment....” The ad spiel terminated abruptly as Xabier, assuming an expression of good-natured disdain and a whole new voice of greater depth and authority, shook his head dismissively. “That's all very well and good ... and don't get me wrong, the CoproCare Plus is a darn cool piece of kit ... but,” he winced, “it's just a tad on the pricey side. The Plimpton Anal Output Inspector, on the other hand, offers comparable performance at a considerably more competit ... compet ... com...” At last Xabier's true demeanour succeeded in reasserting itself. In rapid Spanish, he addressed Frances, cursing, gesticulating, indicating his Mindseye implant scar.

  Paulie wasn't unduly surprised by this new-found ability on the part of pirate ads not merely to gatecrash and annoy, but to actively puppet a Mindseye wearer. And not just a single ad but a pair of rival, competing morphomercials. No let-up in the ad war, not even at the end of the world. Zombimercials, he thought. That's what they'll be calling them. Only not in this realitude, they won't. For this world is about to de-exist.

  “Paulie!"

  Ruth was looking at him over Frances's shoulder. Such an odd, unnerving look. Unnerving for its total lack of bewilderment; this was absolutely not Ruth as he knew her. This knowing, burdened, haunted, sad-eyed transRuth.

  “What is it?” Paulie asked her, suddenly very frightened.

  Sesha Roffey was staring. And so were Xabier and Felipe. Even little Kali was staring at him. Because, Paulie Rayle discovered to his horror, something was befalling him. As with the big Bengt & Anderssen Viking, he was leaving the scene, albeit in an even weirder way. He wasn't fading, losing resolution—instead, the entire front half of his body had been shaved from sight. Like Humberto Sfat's entropic tomcat, he was hollow, an empty shell: Paulie Rayle on the outside; on the inside, smooth neutral grey. A jelly mould in the shape of Paulie Rayle. Additionally—and this was the truly bizarre aspect—when he felt for his face, it wasn't there, yet he could still see his hollow hand reaching into his hollow skull. He was still able to see and hear and think. How could that be?

  “Make him real,” said Ruth to Frances. “You're the Goddess ... make him real!"

  Frances hesitated, seemingly at a loss.

  Strange, Paulie mused. How peculiar for an angel, indeed, a veritable Goddess, to be stumped, unable to assist.

  He found that musing now required considerable effort. Not that his current straits were causing him any physical pain. Psychologically, though, the experience was deeply unpleasant.

  “MAKE HIM REAL!"

  Ruth's screamed plea startled little Kali, set their tiny daughter shrieking with fear.

  Stepping forward, Frances turned and fitted herself into the hollow half-shell that represented Paulie Rayle.

  * * * *

  Ruth Deitch awoke.

  Her body tingled from the caressing cocoon of the bliss belly. Bathed in sweat, heart galloping, she lay there, the tiny Fetch light on her Dreambox barely discernible in the welcome winter sunshine streaming in through the cottage window.

  Once again, she had failed. How many more times would she have to try?

  She listened out for Kali. Still asleep, little love. Either
her baby had woken for a moment before dozing off again, and the box, registering the cry, had fetched Ruth out prematurely; or else, Ruth thought, I've used up all my time, been dreaming for as long as is consonant with keeping your health.

  Either way, the dream had failed. She had not brought Paulie up to this level of realitude. Or he would be here with her, now. Here with her, and with his child.

  For Paul Rayle was the father of Kali; the DNA left no room for doubt. Poor, long-deceased Paulie Rayle. Every single healthy cryostored, pre-UMS spermatozoon from the samples he and all those other good, caring men had donated more than a decade and a half ago to BIRTHRIGHT, the ethical partnerless parenthood charity, had now been raffled off; and she, Ruth Deitch, had been the last lucky winner. And how incredibly, incredibly lucky she was. She had wanted a child, not a clone. But in this polluted, poisoned world of Universal Male Sterility, such a wish was for most no more than a boxdream.

  The agreement was that the donor remained anonymous. Yet Kali was so beautiful, such a gorgeous little thing that Ruth had found herself desperately wanting another child by this man. She had got the crazy idea into her head that, if she could track him down, there might still be a very, very, very slight chance of his producing more sperm. Although well aware of her straw-clutching, she'd gone ahead and had a DNA trace carried out. And anyone else might have given up on making the grim discovery that Paul Rayle had died so many years ago, killed along with his wife by a stupid drug-driving rock singer named Janko Brauch. Anyone else might, at that juncture, have come to their senses. Especially when they ought to have been concentrating their imaginatory powers upon matters more pressing, such as saving the world through SAGRADA.