Dream thief

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  He stepped hesitantly through the portal and looked around. The Zandersons' quarters were quite plush; much more luxurious than his own Spartan accommodations.

  "It's shocking, I know. But it can't be helped, I'm afraid." She followed his gaze around the large, spacious rooms. "The director does live well-too well, perhaps."

  "Oh, I don't know," said Spence. "It's a tough job. He needs a place like this to unwind. You can't do that in a cubbyhole."

  "Still, I feel guilty sometimes. Look at this-carpet on the floors yet! It must have cost a fortune to lug that up here. And leather furniture!"

  "I like it. It's beautiful."

  "Sure, it's beautiful. Go ahead and take a seat. I won't be a minute."

  Spence settled himself into the soft leather cushions at one end of a long handsome couch. He rubbed his hand absently over the dark, polished grain of the leather and wondered how long it had been since he had felt anything so fine, so natural.

  Next to him on a low teak table sat a star globe with an Earth the size of a grapefruit surrounded by a transparent shell upon which were painted the major stars of the galaxy. It was an exquisite antique.

  Next to the globe was a picture in a walnut frame. A striking, dark-haired woman smiled out from the picture and Spence realized at once where Ari had come by her good looks. But there was an unsettling quality about the picture. The woman's eyes were not focused on the camera. They held a distant, aloof look almost a vacant stare. Though the woman smiled warmly, her smile did not light up those cold, empty eyes. It was as if two separate pictures had been somehow overlapped. Two very different moods had been captured in that single photographic moment, and the effect was chilling.

  Ari returned and saw him studying the picture. She placed the tray of tea things on the table, and began to pour.

  "Your mother?" he asked, still looking at the photograph. "Yes," said Ari. She did not look up.

  "I don't think I've ever met her. Is she here?" "No, she's not-"

  "Prefers the Earth beneath her feet, is that it?"

  "Mother…" Ari started, and then hesitated. She glanced at Spence and then looked away. "Mother isn't with us anymore." "I'm sorry… I didn't know." He raised his mug to his lips and sipped. "Ow!"

  "Oh, careful! It's hot. I should have warned you. Did you burn yourself?"

  "I'll live."

  An uneasy silence settled over the room. Spence shifted nervously in his seat.

  "I wanted to come up here in the worst way," said Ari after a while. "I thought it would be an adventure."

  "Disappointed?" "A little."

  "I know what you mean-it's like an enormous office building, only you can never go outside."

  "You're right. If not for the garden, I don't know what I'd do.

  Well, I'd go berserk; I know I would."

  "You could leave any time you wanted, couldn't you? Why do you stay?"

  "Daddy. He needs me. Besides, this being my first jump, I could never let it be said that the director's daughter couldn't even endure one tour of duty."

  "You'll get used to it. Everyone does."

  "Not everyone. I've already seen several who haven't. It's a frightening thing."

  Spence found the conversation had wandered too close to a topic he did not wish to explore. He changed the subject. "Good tea."

  "Thank you." She bent her head and sipped from her steaming mug. He watched the delicate curve of her neck and the way the light reflecting off the table filled the hollow of her throat. Her blond curls swung down as she drank and she tossed them back with an easy, practiced flip. Their eyes met. Spence looked away.

  "I should be going. I have to get back to work. I sat around in sick bay a little longer than I should have, I think."

  "Very well, but you must promise to come again. Soon."

  "I will." He rose to his feet and headed for the door.

  Ari followed him and said as the panel slid open, "Spence, I almost forgot. We're having a function here tomorrow evening- I mean, second shift. You're invited."

  "I am? Since when?"

  "Since right now. I'm inviting you. It's just a few of the faculty and research people. Daddy thinks it's a good idea for the two groups to mix. You'll fit right in."

  "I don't know. I'll think about it." He stepped through the portal.

  "Please come. I'll expect you-" The sliding panel cut her short and Spence headed back to the lab.

  He thrust his hands deep into the side pockets of his jumpsuit and ambled along with his head down. Soon he was lost in thought over his inexplicable behavior in the cargo bay. Assuming that the physician was right-and there was no reason to doubt him-what had he been doing down there? Why couldn't he remember?

  I'm cracking up. I am losing my mind.

  9

  … ARE YOU RELAXED, SPENCER?" "Yes."

  "I am going to give you a new suggestion. Are you ready?" "Yes. "

  "I want you to think about the color blue. Do you under stand? Think of all the things that are blue and that suggest the color blue to you. The color blue, Spencer. Blue." …

  THE WIND HAD RISEN out of the east and Spence turned his face into it. It blew cold and the sky above glowered down in a fierce blue-black rage. Close by he heard the chop of water as waves dashed themselves against rocks in the shallows. He turned to the sound and saw the ocean stretching out to the horizon, blue under the dark blue clouds.

  He looked into the clear blue water and saw small silver-blue fish darting by in schools, speeding like tiny rockets away into deeper space. Suddenly Spence was with them. He felt himself sinking into the water as around him the fish flashed through the blue half-light of their frigid world. He could see their silver sides zig-zagging off into the murky distance. He could see their large, round eyes staring at him as they fled.

  Down and down he sank. Slowly-like a coin spinning over and over to rest finally upon the silt at the ocean's bottom. He felt the ocean floor rise up beneath his feet, and as he touched down he realized he was not in the water at all. He raised his eyes and saw that he had dropped into an enormous cavern whose high vaulted roof arched away into blue shadows.

  Curiously formed projections sprouted from the floor and dangled from the ceiling. These were translucent and faintly luminous, glowing with a cool greenish-blue inner light. He walked a few hesitant steps among them as among the timbers of a silent forest, his footsteps echoing back to him from the dark depths of the cave.

  He became aware of another sound which seemed to come humming up from beneath the floor, through his feet and into his bones, a grinding sound which grew louder as he descended deeper into the tunnel.

  Spence walked among the glowing stalagmites following the sound. Soon he heard a rhythmic thrumming as if the Earth were churning, grinding the great stone roots of the mountains to dust. The sound grew until it filled the cavern: he walked on as if drawn to its source. His stomach vibrated with the rumble and he smelled a sharp, bitter scent in the dank air of the cave.

  Far ahead he saw a pulsing blue light illuminating a far wall of the cave. He felt something gritty on his lips. He raised a hand to his face and saw that it was covered with a fine blue powder. The grit fell down upon him in a gentle rain, drifting like fine snow, covering his clothing and hair.

  Then he was standing on the brink of a vast chasm which split the cavern floor. The rumble had grown to thunder, deafening him as raking light flashed blue lightning around him. The gritty powder rose like smoke from a pit as he gazed into the chasm.

  Something was moving in the churning depths of the holeas if some enormous beast were thrashing out its life in agony. In the darkness he made out a roiling black mass heaving and subsiding, groaning and shuddering amidst the roar.

  Now jagged flashes of blue lightning tore through the darkness, illuminating the pit. Clinging to the rocks he lowered himself to peer over the edge deep into the chaos below. In the piercing glare of the lightning bolts he saw strange shapes tumbling and tumbling
, grinding against one another, crushing each other and sending up an endless cloud of powdery blue grit like a velvet mist.

  Another flash peeled away the darkness and he saw clearly into the tumbling mass below. Some of the shapes were elongated and curved, others round and bulky as boulders, still others long and thin. In that instant he realized what it was that filled the huge stone caldron: bones. The gigantic bones of prehistoric monsters whirled below him in perpetual motion-a disjointed dance macabre.

  In that instant of recognition he felt his grip on the rocks give way and he fell. He twisted in the air and his hands clawed for a scrabbling hold on the smooth rock face, but it was too late. He plunged screaming into the grinding, churning dance of the bones. …

  SPENCE CAME TO HIMSELF sitting upright on the couch. The trailing echo of his scream still rang in the darkened chamber like a fading memory. But the dream had vanished like a vapor. It was gone and he could remember nothing but the terror that had awakened him.

  Presently the lights began to come up faintly. He guessed that Tickler stood behind the glass and heard the scream.

  "Tickler," he called.

  "Yes, sir?" His assistant's voice grated metallically through the overhead speakers.

  "Did I scream just now?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Did you hear anything unusual-a scream, a yell? Anything like that?"

  "When, Dr. Reston?"

  "Just now. When I woke up."

  "No, sir. The alarm went off in the control booth, so I turned on the lights. That is the procedure."

  "You're quite right. Thank you." His heart was still beating rapidly. He could feel the tension in his shoulders and neck. His hands still clutched the sides of the cav couch in a death grip. He felt certain the scream had been real, that it was not merely part of his dream.

  But why would Tickler lie about a thing like that? Perhaps he had not been in the booth when Spence screamed, or perhaps he was covering up the fact that he had himself dozed off at his post. Possibly. But it was not like Tickler.

  Spence rose and stretched and made his way into the control room. Tickler was just winding the scan onto a spool. Spence watched him finish and place a seal on the loose end.

  "Will that be all for now?" Tickler asked.

  "Yes; you may go. I won't be needing anything further this shift, but tell Kurt when he comes in that I'd like the log posted and I'd like to see the averages for the last three sessions."

  "The averages?"

  "Yes. Just as soon as he gets them finished."

  "But we have never-"

  "Don't argue, Tickler. Please, just do as I say. I know it's a little extra work. But that's what we have an assistant for, isn't it?"

  "Very well, I'll tell him."

  Tickler turned brusquely and went out. I wonder what's eating him this time? With Tickler it was always something.

  Spence brushed the thought from his mind and left the control booth, crossed the lab, and entered his quarters. Despite the night's sleep he did not feel at all rested. He felt as though he had run several miles or climbed a sheer rock cliff. His muscles were tense and knotty and he could smell that he had sweated through his underclothes.

  He thought to sanitize and change, but then had a better idea: the exerdome. Why not? He could use the exercise. Maybe he would find a threesome who needed a fourth for a game of pidg.

  As he donned his silvered mylar exersuit it occurred to him that perhaps his problems stemmed from stress and overwork. He had exercised little since coming to Gotham; except for his occasional rambles through the garden and a swim now and then, he had indulged in no physically strenuous activity. A fast game of pidg or a few laps around the dome would loosen him up and relax him.

  He took a main axial to the low-gray central tower of the city. Nearly weightless, he sprang four meters from the corridor to the lift and stepped onto a disc, pulling up the handgrips as it engaged the belt. Up he rose to the dome. He could hear laughter and shouts pinging down the metal tube from above. It reminded him of going swimming as a boy and hearing the sounds of happy frolic ringing from the pool a long way off.

  When the lift gate opened he stepped off onto the spongy surface of the dome-or rather bounced off with the first step, for he was now completely weightless. He spun awkwardly for a moment before remembering to pull in his arms and legs to regain control. He brought his knees up to his chest and, when he floated near enough to the curved surface once again, thrust his legs down. He arrowed off the side of the dome and flew straightway toward the center. High above him a net stretched across the observation portion of the dome to keep errant human missiles from colliding with the tempered glass.

  Beyond the netting he could see a bright mist of stars hanging in their inky void. Lower, he could see the upside-down crescent of the moon and the smaller blue thumbnail slice of the Earth. Spence flew into the netting, tucked his head down, and landed on his back. He pulled himself across the net to a near wall.

  Above him a group of cadets performed an intricate display of aerial acrobatics-doing flips and somersaults across the center of the dome. Around the perimeter several joggers sped along the track; another group ran perpendicular to the first. A couple of fluffy pidg birds floated down near the lift platform. No one seemed interested in getting up a game, so Spence swam to the edge of the net and walked up the great bulging sphere of the dome to the red strip designated as the track.

  The track's surface bore a slightly irregular, bumpy grain which gave a runner that little extra bit of traction needed to get moving in zero gravity. Spence carefully set his feet on the track and then started walking smoothly, with exaggerated care; one false step and he would go spinning off toward the center of the dome. But he maintained his concentration and increased the pace, feeling the illusion of weight return to him. Actually it was only momentum he felt, and which held him to the track. Soon he was running easily around the inner wall of the dome.

  He caught the other joggers on the track and fell into pace with them. In the rhythm of running his muscles relaxed and the tension flowed from him. Automatically his body took over and his mind turned once again to the enigma of his dreams.

  That he dreamed was certain. His REM line on the scan showed plainly what he knew instinctively, and if he required further proof the emotional residue-that silt left behind when the angry waters had raced on-was real enough. Not to remember a dream was normal enough; one remembered only the tiniest fraction of one's dreams over a lifetime. They simply flitted by in the night-spun out of the stuff of the subconscious and reabsorbed into the fabric of the psyche upon waking.

  But blackouts were not normal. Spence felt as if whole chunks of his life were missing. There were gaps in his memory which he could not cross, dark curtains behind which he could not see. That scared him.

  More than the nightmares, more than the cargo bay incident, he feared the helplessness, the utter defenselessness of not knowing what was happening to him. The carefully reasoned and researched framework of his life teetered precariously, threatening to topple completely, and he did not know what to do about it.

  He lowered his head and spurted past the others. His lungs burned and sweat stung his eyes, but he continued running faster and faster as if to escape the fear which came swimming out of the darkness of the star-spangled night beyond the netting. Closing his eves he thrust the fear from him as if it were a solid object he could throw aside. …

  AFTER HIS RUN SPENCE lay motionless in the center of the dome, turning slowly on his own axis like a minor planet. The warm glow of exertion throbbed through his limbs. He had reached that blissful state of exhaustion where body and spirit were reconciled one to the other and the universe hummed with peace.

  He listened to the play of others and watched through halfclosed lids as the red line of the track circled him aimlessly. It was, he thought, a tribute to the supreme egotism of the mind that he seemed completely stationary while the entire space city of Gotham revolv
ed around him. Around and around it went, spinning in its own lazy orbit-now the black mirror of the observation bubble, now the red line of the track.

  The red line of the track. Something about that seemed important. Spence jerked his head up and sent himself floundering away at an obtuse angle. In the same instant it came to him: the red line of the track was the red line of his sleep scan. He had meant to check it, but had forgotten, or the thought had been driven from his mind by the circumstances of his latest blackout.

  Suddenly it seemed more important than ever. He dove for the nearest wall and then propelled himself toward the lift platform. He raced back to the lab with his heart pounding and the certainty drumming in his brain that he was very close to finding an answer to the riddle of his dreams.

  10

  … SPENCE SNAPPED THE SEAL and unrolled the strip to the beginning, watching meters and meters of paper tape unwind through his fingers. At the start of the tape he saw the date and time notation: EST 5/15/42 10:17 GM. The scan continued for nine and three-quarter hours without interruption. Each peak and every valley, every blip of an alpha spark or beta flash was duly recorded. He saw the minute fluctuations in cerebral blood flow; the rise and fall of body temperature, heart rate, and thyroid activity; the intermittent REM flutters. He saw, in short, the even, rhythmic progress of his night's sleep. His every moment was accounted for. Undeniably so-he held the evidence in his own hands.

  But it was not enough. He turned to the cabinet where all the spools were kept. There were dozens of them, each one containing the polysomnographic information of one night's sleep session. He lifted the row containing the scans of the last week. He checked each one. They were all there, labeled and sealed correctly.

  He checked the week before that and the next one, too. All was in order. Tickler was as precise as he was stuffy. Spence knew that if he looked at every spool over the last ten weeks he would find them in order. Still, a small gray shadow of doubt clung to his mind.