In Dreams Read online

  -NH

  BEGIN TRANSMISSION

  Almost to the booth. Just a few more corners. Just a few more minutes. Then I'll no longer be afraid. Then I'll be a free man. And all I've got to do is kill myself.

  I glance down at my watch. 11:45? Crap. None of that'll happen if I don't hurry. With a stumble, I take off down the street.

  The Dis Precinct radiates around me. A flash of florescence, a buzz of wires, a choir of pitches calling to the masses -- I scurry through it all, a mad dash through paradise. Through the towering steel monoliths. Through the flood of harmonies. Through the odoriferous pleasures. All under a metal sky. And the crowds of people around me, the droning masses, they are in love with this mix. And why shouldn't they be? It's New Babel's beloved Pleasure Quarters. Nowhere else can you get a whiff of freedom at the low, low price of your soul. But right now, all these dreamers are just getting in my way.

  I step through the steam peeling from the sewer grates and turn the corner. Damn. A queue of some 30 bobs are already lining the walkway.

  Clomping up to the back of the human centipede, I can't even see the front. Disappearing around the corner of a line of cinder-block buildings, this centipede is dead. Its spirit is lax -- heads down, arms in, no talking, no life. It's not moving at all.

  I roll out a sigh. "This is going to take forever."

  I glance at my watch again. Panic grips my chest. Squeeze.

  What I wouldn't give for a handful of Woebegones right now. To take off the nerves. To make it all all right.™

  No. This is the only option. It's either this procedure or turn myself in. Turn myself in for a lifetime of hell.

  Sucking down a gulp of air, calming my heart, it hits me -- something reeks. A stale, citrus stench. Body odor. With each breath I get a lung-full of it. On about the fourth one, I realize the curdling fumes are coming from the bob in front of me.

  "Crap."

  The bob hunches before me, his tired black hoodie pulled up. He lifts a shaking knuckle to his ghostly face and scratch-scratch-scratches. He looks like all the other bobs in line really -- someone I don't want to be with.

  This is not what I imagined when I decided to do this procedure. This wait. This lot. This smell. I think about leaving, think about making a break for it. I mean, there's another booth on 32nd but my watch says... 11:50? There's just no way I can make it by 12:45. I'm stuck here. Could this go any worse?

  I then get an eyeful of something white. Silky. A flash of flesh.

  Spinning, my eyes snap onto a woman strutting down the walkway. The T-shaped strip of leather stretched from crotch to chest is barely enough to cover her private bits. With each step, she bounces. With each step, I hope something slips.

  A few feet behind her, next to a rainbow billboard banana, I find a store sign glowing in ruby red neon: Attire de Hérétique. Below it, a twiggy woman cruises out of an old brass revolving door. She's wearing some of that fashion, only a thin band of clothing covering her crotch. Her top flaps free and bare.

  What I wouldn't give for a Takemura Cam-plant right now. The one with the 3D reproduction module. 23x zoom. Infrared. Heat detection. Complete Immersion Recording Experience.™

  “D-D-Disgraceful isn't it?” a voice says.

  With a blink, my grin fades. With a blink, I'm back in the steaming fluorescence of Dis. Guess who's staring at me?

  “It-it-it's amazing how society can get so sick that anything can become acceptable,” says my stinky neighbor.

  I grunt and my eyes flick back to the centipede. After a blink they grow big and start to water.

  We've only moved a foot. Oh God! And that took what? Ten minutes? There's no way I'm going to make it.

  Right then the line moves. Scoot, shuffle, clop -- the centipede crawls forward around the last of the block buildings.

  On this new street, the massive glass cloudpokers on either side of us turn our little path into a valley. Gleaming glass windows to our right, twisted steel slabs to our left, and all along each panel, a synthetic sun reflects.

  The line is dead again. I can see the end of it now. Another forty or so wait on the edge of oblivion.

  “You've got to be kidding me," I say. "Does everyone in the whole city have to use this booth?”

  What I wouldn't give to be slapping a batch of Jet Lax Patches on these saps right now. Before you can say laxative, Jet Lax will get you going lickity-split.™

  Then I spot something even worse than a line this long. Something even worse than my neighbor. Something that could ruin everything -- my day, my plan, my life.

  A bobbing crowd of people swarms upon the queue on the horizon.

  Sigh.

  “Goddamn protestors."

  *** Subliminal Encryption ***

  In trouble?

  Legal? Moral? Other?

  We are your only hope.

  Don't let the risk of becoming an Undesirable throw you into a life of misery.

  Now you can get help.

  A procedure is quick and painless.

  You need this.

  You want this.

  It's your right.

  The path to a better life.

  Only at your local ASP booth.

  Visit yours today.

  Brought to you by Phoenix Preparatory Services.

  *** End ***

  The inevitable is coming. I see it a dozen yards away. That swarming, squirming mass. Judgment. Distrust. Condemnation.

  And all I want is to do this quietly, to go unnoticed. Typical.

  From the sea of anger, flimsy signs wobble and wave. The crowd surges. Their fists ebb. Curled nostrils, pinched brows, mouths wide and canines glinting. They stand as one -- fists held high, confident stares, we know better than you.

  "Why do people have to do th-th-this?” the sap asks, eyes pointed straight at me. “What's wrong with getting a proce-proce-proce--"

  "Procedure?"

  "Ye-ye-yes. Why do they have to hate?”

  “Ah, let 'em." I swipe the air, a big dismissive whack. "I should've figured there would be one of these groups here.”

  “W-w-why?” He actually looks concerned when he says that.

  “Nothing. It's just that's how well my life is going today.”

  “Ma-maybe we should reschedule the proce-proce-proce--"

  "Spit it out, man!"

  "--should try again later?”

  In a sneer, I say, “That sounds like a great idea. You do that.”

  His eyes still are all concerned when he asks, “What about you?”

  Sigh. All my hints, my tone, my demeanor, whoosh, right over his head.

  “Naw." I shrug. "I love a good pep rally.”

  He stands and stares, a blank, gaping look.

  “Never mind. It's just I don't got much of a choice.”

  His head perks up. “What do you me-me-mean?”

  Crap. I really shouldn't have said that.

  Through a mouthful of Ers and Ums I say, “Nothing.”

  "Oh, co-co-come on. I bet my story is wo-wo-worse."

  He won't let me be, will he? Then I get an idea. He wants to know why I'm here, right? Well, then, I'll just let him have it. I'll give him the cold, hard truth.

  I swivel, stare deep into those glossy pits and say, "I'm supposed to be in jail."

  His rattled grin freezes. "What?"

  “Actually, I'm supposed to turn myself in...oh...42 minutes.”

  I can see in his dipping brow his imagination running wild underneath. What had I done? Rob a bank? Kill someone? Tear that tag off my mattress that says DO NOT REMOVE? Unfortunately, it's nothing all that exciting. But I let him run with it.

  For a good minute, he doesn't open his mouth. For a good minute, it looks like I got my peace and quiet. But then something worse than bad happens. He opens those flaked lips and says, "Well, if you c-c-can stick it out, I-I-I can too."

  Figures.

  We do the centipede shuffle forward. Left. Stop. Right.
Stop. Shuffle. Scoot. Groan.

  I can make out the snarls and jeers of the crowd now. Two or three dozen conservative working class stiffs -- hair up, buttoned-down, shirts in. Tinted grays, wrinkle-free, bland and blimpy -- ordinary working bobs and janes really. Well, except for the signs and anger they are holding.

  A few of them are trying the good Samaritan route -- coming up, looking real friendly with big watery eyes, trickling sympathetic sorrow. But most of the crowd takes the easy path -- condemning what they don't understand, spitting, jeering and shouting. Hey, it's easier to hate.

  The heads in line stay down. They don't acknowledge the Samaritans. They don't look at the hecklers. They just eye over their shoelaces.

  I tell myself to ignore these freaks, these zealots, these unhappy outcasts. Inside, my stomach is knotting.

  As the dozens of protesters stew, a contingent of automated booth guards harrumph up to the crowd. Under their spiffy suits of gold and green, I can see that they are recommissioned Enforcers. Probably from the R10 series by the glint of their silvery skulls. Their plated noggins show no configuration of emotion though. But my guess is that they don't want to be there. Hell, I don't.

  Shuffle, halt, rumble -- the centipede ripples forward.

  The crowd is too close now. Their scent is stale like wet dirt. But now, at least, I'm closer to the booth.

  Behind the frowns, behind the swell of fists, there it is. As if made out of one huge hunk of pearly, semi-transparent plastoid, the booth glitters like some kind of porcelain Shinto shrine. A holy glow radiates from its smooth curves and flowing angles in the false sun. A temple of glitter. A house of glass.

  Along the booth's crest are the yellow digits of a clock. 12:04. I still got time. Or at least I tell myself that.

  Scoot. Stop. Roar.

  We are close enough now to be the target of the protestors' wrath, close enough to feel the spittle.

  Twisted scowls. Probing eyes. The instigators begin to pelt us with profanity.

  "Pussies," one screams.

  "Wackos,” yells another.

  "Candy asses,” someone cries.

  I shake my head a dozen no's, but hold my tongue from saying them. A wave of protestors undulates toward our line, threatening to crash against us. A single hand bursts out of the sea to grab me, but a guard whips out a baton and cracks it on the knuckles.

  Finally it looks like they are quieting down. For a second I think they'll leave us alone. But the way everyone looks back, the way they part like the red sea, the way they pay no attention to me, tells me I'm wrong. Something is coming. Something big.

  Thump. The ground shakes. Thump. My heart quivers. Thump. That opening in the crowd gets wider.

  In the gap a large shadow moves. In the gap I spot two squinting eyes. That big something is here.

  A hulking slab of meat emerges from the waves. No neck to his head, no fat to his frame, the single flexed muscle is frowning. Twitching, he throbs at every angle.

  Stomping down a thick leather boot, he pushes in front of our line. He completely blocks out the booth. Bristling with hair, towering over all, he is probably twice the size of any of us in line. No one in their right mind would want to touch him, and he knows it.

  “Wonderful,” I mumble.

  A booth guard grinds up to him. “Citizen, you cannot block the line.”

  The bot looks like a dinky tin toy next to the man. And that man, he doesn't even bother looking down at it, doesn't even speak. He simply stands there. Silent. Firm. Wide.

  I know the only way this can go is worse. And just that second, it does.

  From the crowd, a stiff toothpick climbs up to the guy. The toothpick is the kind of bob I could take in an instant. But with Mister Brick Wall standing next to him, I don't think anyone in this whole crowd would dare even sneeze on him.

  My neighbor sighs a fetid gale. “Th-they're not going to let us through.”

  For once, I have to agree with him. This doesn't look good.

  “You must move, citizens," the bot whirs. "This is an obstruction of our services.”

  The flesh mountain tilts his head ever so slightly towards the bot. “Someone must stop them,” he says in a near infrasonic frequency. "We will not move."

  “I will use force if necessary,” the bot whirs.

  “Do what you must.”

  In a slow blink, the man lifts his eyes back to the crowd, back to lids half-raised. That's when two more hecklers stand up next to him.

  My throat clenches. My heart pounds. There's no time for this. But there that mound stands. And here I fume, only yards away from the booth. Shit.

  It's usually at these stressful moments in life we do something stupid. And well, that's exactly what I do.

  With a grunt that comes out more a whimper, I step up to the mountain. Just standing in his shadow I get the chills. I look up and see the bottom of his chiseled chin, all hairy and scruff.

  "Listen buddy," I say so choked up that my heart is louder than my words. "I've got no beef with any of you. But I kind have got a problem here. I really need to use this booth. In a bit of a hurry, you see."

  The statue doesn't move. I don't even think he can hear me all the way up there. My heart pounds even faster. It can't take much more of this.

  Shaking my head, sucking my teeth, all I can do is say, "Whatever."

  I turn back to the line and step-step back. But before I can get back my place, the other dozen bobs behind me close up the gap.

  Jaw dropping, I say, "Come on guys."

  But they just shake their heads, a choreographed troupe of no's.

  "You got to be kidding me."

  The clock now glows 12:17. My heart, well, it's pounding so fast, I'm beginning to shake.

  "What the fuck is wrong with all of you?"

  I sneer at the cowards. Their eyes dip to the pavement. Then I turn to the protestors. I unroll a big finger and aim it at them.

  "I'm just going about my own business, and all of you are here poking your nose in, fucking things up. What has all this got to do with me? Nothing. This is about you. About how this reflects badly on you. It isn't about us. About our well being. You don't care about any of us. If you truly did, if you ever had, none of us would even need to be in line here. So just let me through, you fucking hypocrites."

  So choked up, so filled with anger, I do the dumbest thing yet. That shaking finger of mine, that wobbling bone wand, I lash it out. I lash it out and poke the mountain in the stomach.

  Suddenly, everyone turns quiet.

  The centipede creeps back.

  The protestors, they just stand there. Look with pinched eyes. Look with clenched fists. A cold, uneasy silence.

  Shit. What I wouldn't give for a 529 Pure Turbine Plasma Pistol right now. The one with the extra melting action. Chars at a rate of five people per second. The one man army.™

  Tilt-tilt-tilt, I peak up at the mountain. His eyes, the angled, clenched orbs are covered in shadows, covered in wrinkles, covered, but the anger oh so clear.

  My heart wheezes and stops. Silence. I can only pray what's going to happen won't. Unfortunately, life is never that user-friendly.

  From no where, a stone zips through the air. It rips a strip of skin from my cheek.

  Covering the blood, covering the stinging flap of skin, I look out.

  The faces are quiet.

  The faces aren't moving.

  The faces are clenched and showing teeth.

  Then it happens. The crowd explodes in a roar and a blur of fists and feet.

  The world is turned upside down. Handfuls of trash, chunks of cement, everything of everything, is flung through the air. And behind this, the masses rush in.

  I lose track of the sky, the ground. Pain thumps me left and right. A hard something splits my side open, peals back the skin. A crunching gravely thing hammers my hand. The bones snap, shatter, splinter. Pulsating and throbbing, I crumple to the pavement.

  Oh shit.r />
  Oh shit.

  Oh shit.

  As I clutch my knees, a vibration shivers the asphalt. In a drunken beat, the ground shakes, thump, thump, thump. Through the shuffling shoes, past bleeding faces, I see mechanical feet break through the crowd in formation.

  Grunts and grumbles, screams and profanities, the shadows and bodies lift above me. I can feel the clawing hands upon me being ripped away. Bodies fly to the concrete and don't stand up.

  After a moment I unravel. Cracking skulls, silencing voices, using more force than necessary, the guards are controlling the mob.

  Following one last oh shit, I stand.

  Practically no one is left on their feet other than the bots. Well, them and one last thug. One last thug flinging something through the air!

  That something is a gray chunk of granite. Red beams strobe from its cracks and twisted wires as it twirls through the sky. Clanking against the door of the ASP booth, it thuds to the ground. Something on it is beeping.

  “Bomb,” someone shrieks.

  The broken crowd picks itself up and scatters. A dozen screams. A hundred stumbling footfalls. One mess of blurred, bloodied faces.

  One of the security bots trucks up to the flashing stone. Its face plates flip and fold in concentration as it instantly starts to disarm the device.

  My neighbor tugs at my good arm. I can't believe I hadn't lost him through what just happened. Only I could have this kind of luck. But to be honest, I'm glad he doesn't look hurt.

  “Are you O-O-OK?” he asks.

  But I'm too focused on the bot. Too focused on the booth. Too focused on what this could mean.

  Screech. The bot rises, the cement clump in a shiny claw, light no longer coming from it.

  “Clear,” it says.

  With a bolt of pain shooting from toes to fingers, I stand. Through a grimace I beam. “I'm great now.”

  “What?” my neighbor asks.

  I launch a finger out. “Look. The line is gone.”

  In front of us, the centipede has been squashed flat, bodies laying here, others running there, blood and flesh painted throughout. In the distance the booth shines. And no one waits in front of it.

  "At least all this nonsense was good for something," I say.