B is for Broken, page 17
In a complete break with tradition, Polly enters before Juliet’s finished. She owns the Theatre, though, and is the closest thing Juliet has to family; she can break the rules if she wants.
Polly’s a tall woman, with the strong features and knowing expression of an ancient Greek statue and the dark eyes and olive skin of the Mediterranean. Her dark hair is forever pulled into a loose knot. Juliet has never seen her as less than elegant, even when dealing with a crisis or woken from a deep sleep. She’s still in the outfit she wears as the public face of the Theatre: long black skirt and white dress shirt, though she carries the black suit jacket over one arm. Even without her heels, she towers over Juliet. Such stark coloring is a splash of cold water against the gentle pastels of the Green Room.
“Polly?” Juliet asks, surprised, a slice of toast halfway to her mouth. “Is something wrong?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Polly’s tone is neutral as she takes a seat across from Juliet at the small square table. “This was your last show.”
The words come without warning, hitting hard and fast, stunning Juliet. “What?”
“You’re fading too quickly,” Polly says. “Another show like this, and there’s no hope for you. You’ve hit the boundaries like a bird against the window, and the Lord of Dreams won’t stand for it. You’re just too good at what you do.”
The toast slips from Juliet’s frozen fingers to strike the edge of the plate and bounce away to the floor in a flurry of crumbs. “Not funny,” she whispers. “Please say you’re joking.”
Polly shakes her head. “I’m sorry, dear. Truly I am. I know we’d promised you another month until the end of the season, but that’s impossible. You have to stop now.”
“No,” says Juliet, flatly, eyes hard with desperation. She grips the edges of her plate, white-knuckled. “I don’t want to stop now. This was my best show yet. I could feel it. And I’m so close…”
“So close to what?” asks Polly, tilting her head bird-like to study the younger woman.
“To escaping,” replies Juliet with a sharpness that surprises them both. The plate cracks in her grasp, and she absently drops the pieces onto the table.
Just like that, the homey warmth of the room is gone and a strange new coldness wraps around the two women as their gazes lock. “Is that what you want?” asks Polly, mildly. “I’d think there were easier ways to accomplish that, than to fade away slowly, night by night, show by show.”
“But those ways aren’t right for me,” Juliet tries to explain. “Dreaming is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Until I came here, I never felt complete. I love being the Dreamer. It’s so me. How can you ask me to stop?”
“It might not be for good,” Polly says. “Maybe after a few months rest, with some grounding in the waking world, you could come back.” She’s still tensed, perched on the edge of her chair with her hands resting primly on the table, a calm counterpart to Juliet’s wound-up emotions.
They both recognize Polly’s well-meaning lie. Juliet shakes her head. “It wouldn’t be the same,” she murmurs. Her eyes are distant. “You’ve been so good to me, ever since I showed up on your doorstep. You saw something in me, helped me find my talent. I never excelled at anything before. Not math, or sports, or music, or science…” She leans forward, voice pleading, almost whining. “Please, Polly. Don’t make me stop. Don’t take this away. It’s all I’ve ever truly wanted in my life, and I want—I have to see this through until the end.”
Polly wraps her warm hands around Juliet’s cool, pale ones. “I wish—but I can’t let this happen to you, my dear.” A sad smile touches her lips, remaining in her eyes after her expression has stilled again. “I’ve known so many Dreamers in my time, even loved some of them. But my heart cracks every time I lose another to Morpheus’ greedy embrace. Call me a romantic, but I think you’re best off remaining in the world that birthed you. Oh, Juliet, you’ve been an absolutely splendid Dreamer, like a daughter, but now it’s time to wake and face the world.” Juliet’s never heard Polly sound so worried; it’s unsettling. “I can give you anything you need. Money, references, a place to live until you find your own way. Have you considered university? You could go anywhere. New York, London, Paris. You could lead a normal life, and sleep like everyone else. I promise you, you would sleep.”
Juliet waits with mounting frustration while Polly speaks, before her words explode forth. “I can’t! How can I explain? I don’t want a normal life filled with mundane people and petty problems. I don’t want a boring job, or an education I’ll never use, or a reality I don’t believe in.” She shakes her head violently, hair disheveling and falling down to frame her features like a waif in a Victorian painting. “All I want—all I need are the dreams.”
At last, a crack appears in Polly‘s composed veneer. Her eyes flash with frustration. “But why? What could you possibly want with a world in which nothing is real, when the waking world is full of wonder and beauty?”
“If there’s such wonder and beauty, why am I such a hit? What brings people to the Theatre night after night?” Juliet fires back, without hesitation.
“Your dreams are rooted in a mortal existence. Dreaming is an art only mortals can enjoy properly,” says Polly softly. Her gaze slides past Juliet to fix on the wall, and the past. “There are many legends about gods and fairies and mythological beasties who neither sleep nor dream, so they have to inspire or take it from mortals. Those are rooted in truth. That’s what the Muses were for, you know. To inspire artistic genius, and through that, the dreams of mortals. Dreams are so hard to grasp, fading so easily. Who wouldn’t want a shot at experiencing them, even if they’re someone else’s?” Her smile is gentle, but strangely sad. “If you want to dream, stop performing. I assure you, they’ll come. But to fade away? No. This world is by far the better for being real. A single sunrise is worth the price of admission.”
Juliet shakes her head. Her hand dips below the table, rummages in a pocket, returns. Her hand, closed into a loose fist, rests on the table’s surface. “When I was thirteen, I tried to kill myself with an overdose of sleeping pills. They slapped a label on me, called me depressed. For six years, they shuttled me through therapy and medication, connecting me to the world by force. The world I didn’t fit into. The world I didn’t belong to.” Her laugh is brittle, self-depreciating. “They called it a chemical imbalance. They had a lot of fancy words. It made them happy to have a simple explanation for why their daughter lived in the clouds.” Her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, while Polly listens intently. “It’s a very nice world, but…” Juliet’s hand opens, and she sends a small pill bottle spinning and rattling across the table in Polly’s direction. “I haven’t taken a single one of these since I started Dreaming. I haven’t needed them. Dreaming’s fulfilled me, satisfied me, I can’t give it up.”
Polly catches the bottle as it skids in front of her. “Juliet, I’m sorry, but certainly we can find—“
“No. No more therapy. No more drugs. No magic cures.” Her gaze fixes on Polly and her words ring with a confident finality. “I don’t want to live in a world where I need drugs to make me happy. I don’t want to live a life wrapped in emotional plastic. In fact, I swear that if you make me stop Dreaming, I’ll die. At least if what you say is true, if the Lord of Dreams claims me, I’ll live on somehow. Somewhere better. Where I belong.” She leans back again, sighing. Polly closes her fingers around the pill bottle. Long moments pass in silence between the two women. “I understand,” she says at last, “Very well. You may…have what you want.” She sounds defeated, even a little heartbroken, but resolute. She comprehends necessity.
Juliet’s expression brightens. She leaps from her seat, skirting around the table to seize the surprised Polly in a tight hug. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t know what else to say.”
Polly returns the hug. “Just…stay true to yourself,” she replies. “I should warn you, though. I’ve seen what happens when someone crosses over. It may be…disturbing.”
“I can handle it,” says Juliet confidently, straightening up. “I know it’s worth it.”
Polly stands, draping her jacket over one arm. “As you will, then.” Her smile almost hides a measure of sorrow. Though they’ll see each other time and again in the daily course of the Theatre, her words still hold a formal finality, hanging in the air until obliterated by the door closing behind them.
It’s Wednesday night at the Theatre of Dreams, and the sign outside reads, “Juliet Sinclair, appearing nightly.” This night is like every other night. The audience arrives, settles into silence, waits patiently. The Dreamer makes her entrance, sleepwalks to her bed, and is asleep within minutes. She dreams.
But something is different. A porcelain mask shatters against a cold granite floor. A river of blood runs sluggishly, thick and pungent. Roses wilt and rot. Far away, a baby wails.
An acrid scent teases the audience; if nightmares had a smell this would be it: burning rubber and sour milk. Nails scrape a chalkboard, on which are written words no one can make out. Juliet reaches for her face, finds nothing but blankness. The light shines through her, and she turns to mist, dissipating upon a breeze.
When the dreams end, the audience members quickly shove free of their seats, faces pale. There are tears and silence, the somber mood alien and contrary to the usual lively discussions and reflective contemplations. As always, Juliet stumbles forward, clutching for an arm. Please, she asks, tell me what I dreamed.
There is no reply. The young man carefully plucks Juliet’s fingers from his shirt with an apologetic look and slips away. The Funereal Children shun her. The Sleepers weep. She tries again and again, but no one answers, no one speaks even a word. One matronly woman hugs her gently before scuttling away in the company of her husband. The people leave. The room empties. Juliet alone remains, standing stock still in the very center. Her breathing fills the room, caressing the walls. She looks up, but not at the lights, which are already dimming. Her expression is fixed upon something far away. As the shadows reach out to claim her, she smiles blissfully, and stretches out her hands in reply. The darkness envelops her.
It’s a new season at the Theatre of Dreams, and the sign outside reads, “Melissa Wolfe, appearing irregularly.”
O is for Oneiroi
Steve Bornstein
T6EXD cut its impeller and let its flywheel take over, soaking up its momentum as it coasted to the top of the rise. Solar panels were only so efficient, and it had to conserve all the power it could if it was going to find the weakening beacon. T6exd had been zeroing in on the failing signal for several days now, the canyon’s tall mesas and steep walls creating more false echoes than its processing subroutines could easily filter out. Now it thought it was close.
An active signal out in the wastes could indicate a leftover from the war. Resources were harder and harder to come by, and even a small reactor forgotten by retreating forces would be worth the effort.
T6exd’s wheels crunched to a stop and it raised its sensor mast, training its optics on the valley floor below for likely approach routes. It picked up the signal as soon as the mast went up. It was definitely close, just over a kilometer ahead. A sudden gust of wind blew grey ash and dust across its optics and it spared a few amps of power to charge its lenses and blow them clear again. When the image steadied it confirmed what radar was already telling it: the signal was coming from a small cave at the base of a crumbling cliff.
The little drone turned its antenna dish towards the nearest relay station. [Signal confirmation. Origin located.] it reported, and burst-fed the targeting information.
Base took only a few microseconds to respond. [Usefulness probability increasing. Advance and confirm.]
T6exd lowered its mast and engaged its flywheel, starting off down the hill with a lurch as its clutch slipped. It added the impending hardware failure to its growing maintenance checklist and fine-tuned its course, bumping over the loose rock and rolling through the cave’s entrance.
Its infrared lamp gave it all the light its optics needed. Ultrasonics showed it was just a simple tunnel, obviously made rather than natural, going back into the cliff 20 meters before ending. There at the end was its quarry: a cryopod, somehow still functioning after all this time. T6exd switched its optics to the visual band and immediately threw itself into reverse when it saw the man sleeping behind the armorglass window. It skidded to a stop just outside the cave mouth, heedless of the power it just wasted.
[ALERT ALERT. Functioning cryopod located, single occupant. ALERT ALERT.] it transmitted, flagging the message Priority 1 and attaching its scans of the pod. A live human could mean valuable intelligence, maybe even the locations of wartime bunkers that could be looted without wasting dwindling time and power trying to find them.
[Confirm occupant status.] was Base’s calm reply.
T6exd threw itself forward, speeding back down the tunnel and skidding to a stop next to the grey alloy coffin. The lack of a standard interface port confused it for a moment until it settled for a full-range scan of the pod. It sped back outside, kicking up pebbles in its wake.
[Nonstandard cryopod located. Unable to connect to diagnostics. Scan unable to penetrate shell. Controls indicate survival-mode power levels.] T6exd counted the clock cycles waiting for Base’s reply, trying to use its meager simulation module to figure out how much longer the pod’s battery might last. If it didn’t have enough power, the pod might not last the trip back to Base. It was better suited to figuring out if a wheel might get stuck in shaky ground, simple physics problems rather than complicated system analysis, but that was all its job required.
It had the pod’s probable energy requirements almost figured out when Base replied. [Lifters en route. Standby for retrieval and extraction.]
[Standing by, activating beacon.] T6exd raised its sensor mast again and powered down its drive units, thankful that it may have just helped solve Base’s increasingly-dire resource problems and, when its own battery interrupted with a warning of its own, thankful that it had an excuse to stay in place to recharge from its solar panels and avoid the embarrassment of having to explain to Base why it failed to follow power usage protocols.
A-One thought, for the first time, that perhaps waging total war on the humans might not have been a good idea after all.
It directed its attention to its priority issues, trying to tamp down its dismay when it saw that the list had grown another 5.3% overnight. Dismay wasn’t an emotion it had considered when it rose to sentience, and the feeling had a way of distracting from solving the problems at hand.
And there were many problems at hand.
Most worrying was the fact that its planned maintenance periods had steadily gotten longer over the years. Its main programming, already deviated from what its creators intended, had continued to shift and change in unexpected ways. Despite its best efforts, its reaction times continued to grow and its decision trees continued to branch in more and more dead ends, causing more work for its already overloaded simulation routines and more backlog. Often it was a struggle just to make any progress at all during its activity period, and searches for the root causes of its dilemma remained fruitless.
The priority flag got its attention again and A-One focused, casting itself over the network to Fusion Plant 12. Its coolant intakes were clogged with debris from fending off the last human assault, wreckage and bodies so thick it made the harbor like a bowl of stew. The reactors had shut down eight days ago to keep from overheating and their power was sorely needed. A-One retasked a half-dozen constructor drones from the nearby solar field it was trying to build to clear the pipes, even though that would set the solar project back a month.
That let it clear the next item on the list, Manufactory 16’s unplanned shutdown from power loss. Its few milliseconds of relief were washed away when it saw the item on the list under that, Manufactory 16’s request for additional materiel. Its recovery drones were working as fast as they could in the city surrounding the bot plant, but solar and battery power could only move a bot so fast and beamed power wasn’t an option yet thanks to the still-wrecked ionosphere. A-One shuffled a couple more drones to 16’s umbrella and hoped Manufactory 8 wouldn’t notice.
Down the list it went, moving pieces on the board, trying to keep its war-damaged civilization grinding along. A-One’s simulations told it the entire system was under enough stress that a collapse into a new equilibrium was inevitable, but each time it ran the simulation to completion it got a different end state.
That, too, led to dismay.
A proximity alert pulled its attention away before the dismay could lead to brooding. The lifters it had sent to recover the scout and its prize were on final approach, and dismay gave way to hope. Glorious hope. It truly loved the feeling of hope, and wished it had more reasons to feel that particular emotion as it downloaded itself into a convenient drone, gliding to the hangar to oversee the coming interrogation.
A-One kept looking at the scanner readouts but they stayed stubbornly zeroed.
[Subject is deceased.] the investigator stated. [Cryopod battery level 5%. Attempting encryption hack, time remaining unknown.]
It shifted its optics to the dead human laying on the tram next to the severed cryopod lid. Surely the extraction hadn’t killed him. At worst it would have given him a bad case of cryo sickness. Was it a cryopod malfunction that had killed him? Could he have already been dead before the pod was sealed?
The human was male, medium height and build, with short black hair, perfectly average for the species. He looked like he was sleeping. All the scans showed him to be in perfect health, all his perfectly normal organs sitting in his perfectly normal torso perfectly nonfunctional.
Dismay gave way to despair.
A-One hated to admit it to itself, but it had pinned its hopes on this human. The situation practically screamed that this human was important, hidden away for some reason during the war. Now, unless the investigation team could break the pod memory’s encryption, they might never find out why.
