Dream Thief

by Stephen Lawhead

  Copyright Page

  Dream Thief

  Copyright© 1983 by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ePub ISBN: 978-0-9567731-1-1

  Mobi ISBN: 978-0-9567731-0-4

  Published electronically by Lawhead Books

  Visit www.stephenlawhead.com

  Cover design by Lina Bronson

  Cover photo from NASA Science Photo Library

  Interior design by Rickhardt Capidamonte for BookNook.biz.

  Digital Editions (Kindle™, iPad™, Nook™ and others) produced by: BookNook.biz.

  Other books by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The Dragon King Trilogy

  In the Hall of the Dragon King

  The Warlords of Nin

  The Sword and the Flame

  The Empyrion Saga

  The Search for Fierra

  The Siege of Dome

  The Pendragon Cycle

  Taliesin

  Merlin

  Arthur

  Pendragon

  Grail

  Avalon

  The Song of Albion

  The Paradise War

  The Silver Hand

  The Endless Knot

  Byzantium

  The Celtic Crusades

  The Iron Lance

  The Black Rood

  The Mystic Rose

  Patrick

  The King Raven Trilogy

  Hood

  Scarlet

  Tuck

  Bright Empires

  The Skin Map

  The Bone House (2011)

  Dream Thief

  by

  Stephen R. Lawhead

  Dedication

  For Harold

  Foreword to the 2010 electronic edition

  THE READING OF SCIENCE FICTION written in years past is a reasonably entertaining activity. What did the author get right? What did he miss completely?

  The re-reading of my own novel, written in 1983 when I was living in Lincoln, Nebraska and trying desperately to support my young family by writing three books a year and whatever magazine articles I could sell, has been both interesting and humbling. Somehow I did manage to predict a few things that eventually came to pass—a ‘wafer screen’, for example, equivalent to the current flat screen we all have on our computers and televisions. Others were missed entirely, of course. The worldwide web, smart phones, the nutritional benefit of chocolate: who knew?

  With the publication of this novel as an e-book, I have been given the opportunity to clean up the grammar and syntax, check facts easily with Google and Wikipedia, even to improve the dialogue and round out the characters. In the event, I have done none of these things, preferring instead to publish the book as an artifact that must submit to the judgment of you, the reader.

  The greatest temptation for an easy search-and-replace change existed with respect to Hocking, a sinister character whose physical disabilities and adaptive technologies immediately call to mind the great physicist Stephen Hawking whose work—whose very presence in the world, in fact—was unknown to me or many outside British physics in 1983. What an unfortunate, and somewhat eerie, coincidence to christen my villain ‘Hocking’ (whose actual namesake was a psychology teacher of my acquaintance). Nevertheless, I have elected to retain his name along with all the other unfortunate miscalculations, mistakes, and misdemeanors that may be present in the work.

  After the publication of Dream Thief and then the twin volumes of the Empyrion series, I moved away from science fiction and into mythic and historical fiction. Twenty-seven years later I have returned to science fiction—sort of—in the BRIGHT EMPIRES series. Now, a technology that none of us would have dreamed of in 1983 makes it possible to bring back into print this volume which will, I hope, be enjoyed by readers of a new generation.

  Stephen Lawhead

  Oxford

  2010

  Epigraph

  The center of every man’s existence is a dream.

  —G. K. Chesterton

  GOTHAM

  1

  THE MAN IS SLEEPING. The huddled mass of nerves and sinews rests easily on the bed; outwardly there is no movement. Inwardly, the brain hums with random activity. A maintenance force continually monitors the man’s internal activity by way of a vast trunkline of nerves.

  At rest the network is dark. Momentary sparks of electrical impulses shunt their messages to and fro along the axons. At the outer fringes, the individual beads of light link up and begin their journey up the spinal column like midnight trains heading for the city. Eventually they arrive and send their impulses off into the tangled circuitry of the brain where each flash, briefly noted, dies out. Except for these momentary pinpoint flares, the system is dark and quiet.

  Gradually, the sparks increase their activity; more messages are coming in, flooding the circuits. The lines begin to hum, glowing with energy. Impulses of light speed to their destination deep within the labyrinth, illuminating their passage. Soon the darkened webwork is alive with light—arcing, tingling, pulsing, throbbing with electricity. The man is waking.

  THE DREAMS HAD BEEN at Spence again. He could feel their lingering presence like a dimly remembered whisper. They were unsettling in a vague sort of way. Nothing he could put a finger on—haunting. There was a word that seemed to fit. He felt haunted.

  Now, nine weeks into the project, he was not so sure he wanted to finish. That was a strange thought. For almost three years he had worked for nothing else but the chance to test his theories in the most highly respected advancement center: the orbiting space lab GM. It had taken him a year to write the grant proposal alone. And he was here; against considerable odds his project had been chosen. To back out now would be professional suicide.

  Spence raised his head carefully from his pillow. He removed the scanning cap—a thin, plastic helmet lined with neural sensors—and placed it on its hook over the couch. He wondered how the night’s scan had gone, but realized he was feeling less and less interested than before. When he had started the project, his first thought was to run to the control room to see his scan as soon as he awoke. Now he seldom bothered, although he still occasionally wondered. He shrugged and stumbled into the tiny sanibooth to begin his morning routine.

  He emerged from his quarters and hurried off to the commissary without stopping by the control room. I’ll check in later, he thought, not really caring if he did. He headed down the axial and joined the flow of traffic. The space station, even one the immense size of GM—or Gotham as it was called by those who considered it home—was beginning to wear on him. He glanced around at his colleagues, and at the well-scrubbed faces of the student cadets, and knew that he was in the presence of the brightest minds on any planet. But he watched as the cadets followed one another dumbly into Von Braun Hall and thought, There must be something more. Knowledge was supposed to set one free, wasn’t it? Spence did not feel very free.

  He suddenly felt an urge to lose himself among the eager students, and so allowed himself to be pushed into the lecture hall. When the line stopped moving he flopped into a cushioned chair. The overhead lights dimmed and the automatic transcriber poked its hood up from the seat directly in front of him. He absentmindedly flicked a switch at the arm of his chair which sent the hood sliding back into its receptacle. Unlike everyone else around him, Spence had no intention of taking notes.

  He swiveled his head to his left and was shocked to find himself sitting next to a skeleton. The skeleton’s sunken eyes blinked brightly back at him and the thin skin of its face tightened in a grimace. On anyone else it would have been a hearty grin.

  “My name is Hocking,” said the apparition.

  “I’m Reston.” Spence’s mouth was dry and he licked his lips, trying not to stare.

  Hocking’s body was painfu
lly thin. Bones jutted out at sharp angles, and his head wobbled uncertainly on his too-slender neck. Why isn’t the man in a hospital bed somewhere? wondered Spence. He looked too weak to endure even sitting through the lecture.

  Hocking rested in the hi-tech comfort of a pneumochair; his body, which could not have weighed more than eighty pounds, sank into the supporting cushions. He looked like a mummy in a sarcophagus. A thin tangle of wires made its way out of the base of Hocking’s skull and disappeared into the headplate of the chair. Obviously mind-controlled, Spence considered; the chair probably monitored its occupant’s vital signs as well.

  “What level are you?” Spence heard his voice asking. It was an automatic question, one that opened every conversation between Gotham’s inhabitants.

  “A-level. Sector 1.” Hocking blinked. Spence was immediately impressed. He had never heard of anyone reaching that designation. To most people it was merely a theoretical possibility. “How about you?” Hocking nodded slightly in his direction. Spence hesitated. Ordinarily he would have been proud to share his designation, but it was embarrassing to him now.

  “Oh, I’m C-level,” he said, and let it go at that. Spence knew that most of his countrymen never progressed beyond the lower sectors of E-level. Even those allowed aboard advancement centers were mostly D-level—although none were ever below Sector 2.

  Spence realized he was staring again. Hocking shifted his weight awkwardly in the chair. It was clear that he suffered from some neuromuscular ailment—he had no muscle control at all, or at least very little. “I’m sorry,” Spence said at last. “It’s just that I’ve never met an A-level before. You must be very proud of yourself.” He knew it sounded foolish, but the words were already out.

  “It has its advantages,” Hocking replied. He flashed his grimace again. “I’ve not met many Cs.”

  It was impossible for Spence to determine if the skeleton was joking or not. True, Cs were a rarity, and Bs were almost nonexistent, but on Gotham there were plenty of both. Before he had time to wonder further, Hocking spoke again.

  “What is your specialty, Reston?”

  “I sleep,” said Spence sarcastically.

  “And do you dream?”

  Spence prickled at the notion that this specter might know something about his special problem. He also noticed that Hocking’s voice came not from his throat but from a source at either side of his head. The chair amplified his voice as he spoke. This colored Hocking’s speech with an eerie cast, as it overlapped his natural voice somewhat and gave Spence the impression that Hocking was speaking a duet with himself. Hocking noticed his glance, and his voice automatically lowered a tone. Hocking had only to think and some need was accomplished. Having never actually seen one of the rare and expensive biorobotic devices, Spence wondered what else the chair could do.

  THE LECTURE BEGAN AND ended much as lectures do. Spence remembered nothing of it, except the feeling all through that the person sitting next to him was watching him, appraising him, sizing him up for some unknown purpose. Spence squirmed in his seat uncomfortably.

  When at last the lecture was over, he stood up, turning to tell Hocking that he would see him again. On an orbiting university, no matter how huge, one always ran into the same people. But as he turned, he realized Hocking was already gone. He thought he glimpsed the back of the white ovoid chair in the flood that moved out the doors of the lecture hall, but he was not sure.

  Spence wandered along to the commissary nearby. One was conveniently located on every level of the station since scientists hated to be more than a few steps away from their coffee. He fell into the short line and picked up one of the blue circular trays and a matching plastic mug.

  He slid into a booth at the far side of the dining area and dosed his hot black liquid with a liberal amount of sweetener. His mind drifted back to the day he left Earth. He could still see his father beaming at him through the tears and he smelled the soft citrus scent of oranges in the air. They were sitting at a table beneath an orange tree in the courtyard of the visitor’s center at the GM ground base.

  “Just relax and don’t tense up,” his father was saying. “You won’t black out that way. Don’t forget to…”

  “I won’t forget. I don’t have to fly the shuttle, you know. Besides, it isn’t like it used to be.”

  “I wish your mother could see you. She would be so proud.”

  “I know, Dad. I know.”

  “Do you think you could write now and then? I know I don’t know much about what you’re doing—your research and all— but I like to know how you are. You’re all I’ve got now …”

  “The effect of long-term space travel on human brain functions and sleep patterns. I’m part of the LTST project. I told you. I’ll be fine—it’s a small city up there. And you have Kate. She’s here.”

  “You and Kate. That’s all.”

  “I’ll try to write, but you know how I am.”

  “Just a line or two now and then so I’ll know how you are.”

  A loudspeaker hidden in the branches of the tree crackled out, “GM shuttle Colossus now ready for boarding. Passengers, please take your places in the boarding area.”

  The two men looked at each other. It was then Spence saw his father cry. “Hey, I’ll miss you, too. Dad,” he said, his voice flat and unnatural. “I’ll be back in ten months and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Goodbye, Son,” his father sniffed. Twin tracks of moisture glistened on his face. They hugged each other awkwardly, and Spence walked away.

  Spence still saw the tears and his father standing in his shirt sleeves under the orange tree, looking old and shaken and alone.

  AN UNBROKEN HORIZON OF gently rolling hills stretched out as far as Spence could see. They were soft hills of early spring; the air held a raw chill under gray overcast skies. Silhouetted in the distance, Spence could see people moving among the hills with heavy burdens. He walked closer for a better look.

  The people were old—men and women working together— peasants dressed in tatters. They wore no shoes, though some of them had wrapped rags stuffed with straw around their feet to keep out the cold. In their long bony hands the peasants held wattle baskets filled with stones. Those with full baskets were walking stoically toward a dirt road, single file, with their burdens on their shoulders. The baskets were obviously heavy; some of the peasants strained under the weight.

  Spence was overcome with pity for these unfortunate people. He turned to those working around him, pulling stones from the soil. The stones were white as mushrooms, and big as loaves of bread. Spence bent down to help a struggling old woman lift her heavy load. He pleaded with her to rest, but his words were unheeded. The woman neither looked at him nor made any sign that she had heard him.

  He ran from one to another trying to help them, but always with the same result—no one seemed to notice him in any way.

  Spence sat down, brooding over his ineffectiveness. He noticed the air was deathly silent, and when he looked up all the peasants were gone. They had left the field and were moving along the road. He was all alone. Suddenly, he felt a tremble in the earth and at his feet a white stone slowly surfaced from beneath the ground. As he looked around other stones erupted from the soil like miniature volcanoes. Spence became frightened and began running across the field to catch up with the last of the retreating figures.

  When he caught up with the peasants they were standing atop the high bank of a river, its dark, muddy water swirling below. The workers were dumping the rocks into the water. He rushed up, breathless, just in time to see the last few peasants empty their baskets. To his horror, he saw that the baskets contained not stones now, but heads. He stepped closer as the last heads tumbled into the water. In grim fascination he recognized Hocking, and Tickler, and then with a shock he saw his own.

  “ARE YOU DREAMING. SPENCER?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it the same dream? The same as before?”

  “It is. But it’s o
ver now.”

  “You may sleep a little longer and then awaken when you hear the tone.”

  A HIGH-PITCHED ELECTRONIC TONE awakened Spence from a deep sleep. He spun around in the chair and glanced at the digiton above the console. He had been asleep only twenty minutes. Tickler was still nowhere in sight. He rubbed his face with his hands and wondered idly where his assistant managed to hide whenever he needed him. He rose from the chair and stretched.

  Soon Tickler came bustling into the room. He was all apologies. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting. Dr. Reston. Have you been here long?”

  “Oh, about an hour, I guess …” Spence yawned.

  “I was, uh, detained.” Tickler’s sharp features gleamed with a slight perspiration. It was clear that he was worked up over something. Spence decided it was too late to start another session that day.

  “I think we’ll try it again tonight. I won’t need you ‘til then. I suppose you have something to do elsewhere?”

  Tickler looked at him, his head cocked to one side as if examining some new variety of mushroom spore. “I suppose.” He scratched his chin. “Yes, no problem. Tonight, then.”

  Spence handed him a sheaf of folded printouts which he required to be deciphered and charted in a thick logbook—a purely meaningless task, since the same computer that spit out the information could chart it as well. But Spence preferred the personal touch.

  “Thanks,” he said without meaning it. Tickler took the printouts to an adjacent room and set to work. Spence watched the back of his head as he weaved over the printouts and then left the lab.

  Spence made his way down to Central Park—the vast circular expanse of tropical plants and trees grown to help recycle the carbon dioxide of Gotham’s fifteen thousand inhabitants. The park formed a living green belt around the entire station and provided a natural setting for relaxation and recreation. The place was usually crowded, though quiet, with people seeking refuge from the tyranny of duralum-and-plastic interiors. He had nothing else in mind other than to lose himself among the ferns and shrubbery and let the day go.

  His first thought upon reaching the garden level was that he had discovered a fine time to come—the section was virtually empty. He saw only a few strolling couples and a handful of administrative types sitting on benches. He took a deep breath. The atmosphere was warm and moist, reeking of soil and roots, vegetation and water: artificially controlled, he knew, but he could not help thinking that this was exactly as it would be back on Earth.