It was a warm day in Cartersville, Alaska.
By 2067, global warming kept the area a pleasant 3° C through most
of the winter, but on this September day, the thermometers recorded nearly
25° C. Just fifty years ago, these kinds of temperatures would have
been unheard of, but in this post-Reunification town, it didn't strike
anyone as particularly unusual.
The 11:55 lunch bell jarred me from my thoughts with its prompt, familiar
buzzing. Forty-five minutes of freedom, the customary lunch break granted
as a courtesy to all the students of Cartersville Secondary School of
Science and Medicine (CSSSM), had begun for the day. I joined the throng
of students streaming out to enjoy the warm weather. Some of them would
head to McDonald's or one of the other fast-food places down Carter Road
(Lord Blake Carter established our town after the Reunification, and he
was not a particularly modest man), others to the food court in the mall
across Main Street. I myself joined a third group, this one headed across
Carter Road to the park.
Though some anal-retentive morons still insisted on driving to their designated
hangouts, I always took the student overpass to the park. After all, the
moving sidewalk conveyed pedestrians across the street in a matter of
a few eyeblinks, so why not use it? Anyway, I met up with one of my friends,
Amanda Hill, as I was stepping onto the path leading from the overpass
to the park.
"Hi Neil!" she called out, cheerful as always.
"Hi," I mumbled back. I enjoyed the occasional conversations
I had with her immensely, but we always seemed to be headed in opposite
directions whenever we met up. I kept telling myself that one day I'd
stop and talk to her for a little while, but I never actually seemed to
remember this when I saw her, so our conversations were limited to a quick
greeting, except on those rare occasions when we met up in the same place
before school. I hadn't really had a conversation with Amanda since last
year, when we were in the same Latin class.
Reflecting on this, I walked into the park, past the playground and the
first pavilion, and stopped at the edge of the Infinity Fountain. The
Fountain, like the pedestrian overpass, represents one of the more advanced
examples of modern technology built into Cartersville. It was designed
to not only provide an attractive centerpiece for the park, but also to
double as a theoretically limitless amount of picnic space.
I walked around the circular pool until I reached the gilded tile due
east of the fountain. This was one of only four points from which I could
reach the water spout in the center of the pool. Then I took a few steps
roughly northward around the circumference of the pool until I reached
the tile labeled "60" in blocky letters cut into the marble
by a water jet.
Second island on the left, I reminded myself. The Infinity Fountain doesn't
look big, but it's actually comprised of 32 infinite-area wading pools
in addition to the round fountain it would be without modern technology.
The small "islands" (concrete slabs protruding above the water
line with picnic tables on them) serve as ideal meeting-places for clubs.
The Philosophy Club (we prefer to call ourselves "The Gray Council")
was meeting at my destination. I stopped to say hello to a few of my Gothic
friends (scary-looking people, but some of them actually turn out to be
fairly decent, once you get to know them) before reaching our little island.
A couple of the other "Grays" were already there. Because of
my slightly elevated status on the Council (only the school administrators
actually call us the "Philosophy Club"), they stood up to acknowledge
me.
"You may sit," I intoned, giving my best impression
of a bored king before his lowly subjects.
"We're glad to see you too, Neil," came Galadriel Falkner's sarcastic reply. She returned
to reading The Silmarillion, a book I knew she hated. Most likely it was
something her grandmother was making her read.
I feel sorry for Galadriel sometimes, even though she doesn't like me
very much. She was raised by her grandparents, who were naturally a little
disappointed when her scholastic aptitude tests showed that she belonged
in a science and medicine school instead of an arts and literature school
like the one both of them attended. They'd even named her after a character
from Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings (my family's into Tolkien's work
too, just not nearly as much), and she'd gone and turned out to be some
kind of nerd with no appreciation of quality literature. (I once asked
her why she doesn't just go by her middle name, like me. She gave me a
look that would have caught an ant on fire.) Well, that's one good thing
about this school system: you never have to worry about parents (or grandparents)
forcing their children to learn what they can't or just plain don't want
to learn. The disadvantage is that people like my siblings and me don't
get the full educational background that we so desperately crave. I guess
you can't have it both ways.
I took my seat at the table across from Michael Lewis. He didn't look
at me, just picked up his light guitar and started picking out the melody
my arrival had interrupted. Mike (we call him that to differentiate between
him and my brother) always carried his light guitar. As a school of science
and medicine, CSSSM never had much of a music program, but occasionally
the musically inclined would get together and throw a concert for the
student body. Mike's guitar cadenzas always made the event worthwhile,
and he'd sit up on stage, blue eyes flashing (although he usually wears
gray contacts to school, he never has them in for concerts), actually
enjoying himself for once. Michael qualifies as one of the few Council
members who wear gray practically every day.
Galadriel and I sat at the table, listening to Mike's light guitar, waiting
for the others to arrive. Aurelia Magnus showed up first. Like the rest
of us, she wore gray clothing, but she hadn't put in contacts. I sat back
to watch as she walked right up behind Mike and put a hand on his shoulder.
Disharmony erupted from the guitar's reverberator (which functions something
like the soundpost in a violin) as his fingers slipped through the beams.
"O-oh, hi, Lia," Mike stammered. Lia (none of us can say her
name) has represented the second source of joy in Mike's life for a long
time, and she's always known it. "H-how are you doing?"
"Just fine, Mikey," she said with a smile. Her blue-green eyes
gleamed as she sat down next to him.
I gave her a disapproving look, but she just tossed her golden hair back
over her shoulders and laughed. I should have expected that; she always
said I have no sense of fun. Poor Mike, on the other hand, looked for
all the world like he was about to have a nervous breakdown. Luckily,
he didn't get the chance.
"Stand up!" Galadriel hissed at
us. We all snapped to our feet as a small procession approached the island.
I could see that it consisted of the rest of the Gray Council. In the
lead was my brother Michael Williams II, followed closely by his girlfriend,
Celeste. Behind them straggled the final member of the Council, Farrell
Wordsworth.
Farrell is something of an oddity. He's a computer nerd through and through
and actually has very little in common with the rest of us. Farrell was
invited to join our club because my brother thought it might prove useful
to have a walking encyclopedia around. Nevertheless, Farrell has found
his place among us, sliding remarkably easily into his role in the Gray
Council.
Celeste, on the other hand, serves no useful function whatsoever. I've
never heard her say anything intelligent at our meetings. Actually, she
rarely speaks at all. She doesn't even follow our dress code; she was
wearing a red sweater and blue jeans, even though she knew she was supposed
to wear gray like the rest of us.
Of course, none of that mattered. My brother, club president and chivalrous
protector of his girlfriend, never enforced our dress code, especially
not when it concerned Celeste. Aside from this minor flaw, my brother
stands for everything I'd like to be. He's popular and easy-going, and
all the girls seem to think he looks good (even in gray). Mike (the guitarist)
even numbers among his friends. Actually, Mike usually comes here with
him, but today he probably hoped to get a chance to actually talk to Lia.
Obviously, that didn't work out.
With a wave, Michael acknowledged us. He reached over and ruffled my hair
as we all took our seats. "As we are all here," he said, "I
see no reason not to begin." He removed the necklace with the key-of-life
charm that he always wore from his neck (a relic of a trip to Egypt that
I don't remember) signifying the beginning of the meeting. "Council
is in session," my brother intoned ceremoniously, placing the ankh
and its chain on the table in front of him. "Who wishes to begin?"
Surprisingly, Mike picked up the necklace. "Have you ever had a dream
that scared you so much, you were afraid to go back to sleep? I've been
having the same one for almost a week now. We're all together in a strange
place. Something's coming for us, and I know that it's not just a dream.
Somehow, I know it's real. I think I've been having a premonition."
We sat still for a moment, stunned. Then, the second surprise of the day:
Celeste reached out her hand, signifying that she wished to speak. "How
can you be sure?"
Mike didn't even bother to take back the necklace before answering. "Trust
me, I know."
I noticed a concerned look in Lia's eyes. Was she actually worried about
Mike? It occurred to me that this conversation would go nowhere if we
dwelled on Mike's strange dreams. "Dreams," I mused aloud, forgetting
to hold out my hand for the necklace. Michael cleared his throat in my
general direction, and I realized that I'd interrupted Celeste. Still
talking? Incredible! I focused on her words.
"I don't usually
put much stock in that mumbo-jumbo garbage, but I get the feeling that
there is something going on with you, Mike. If you really want dream interpretation,
you can find plenty of people more qualified than me," she was saying.
"I've read a little bit about dreams and premonitions, but I never
paid much attention. Or believed any of it."
I held out my hand for the key of life. "I have an interesting idea
for you to think about," I said. "What if dreams, all your dreams,
are as real as everything that happens to you?"
Galadriel, always one for contradicting me, took over, "That's an
interesting thought, Neil, quite possibly the most intelligent thing you've
said all week."
Not intended as a compliment, I thought, but I'll take what I can get.
"But, as usual, your logic is flawed. How can dreams be real? I can
assure you that if they were, you'd be dead."
I reached for the chain, but Farrell beat me to it. "Dreams are influenced
by real experiences, but they don't represent real events. Your dreams
are nothing more than random nerves firing in your brain while you sleep.
There is no scientific evidence that dreams can show you the future either."
He directed his last comment at Mike.
Sensing the beginning of a vicious argument, my brother held up his hands
for silence. Taking the ankh, he said, "Usually we talk about theories
we've spent weeks developing. Clearly, none of us have put much thought
into the subject of dreams. I suggest we find someone who has." This
was something we did every once in a while: bring someone, an outsider,
to council to offer insight into a specific subject. "Any suggestions?"
I held out my hand, but before I could take the necklace, Michael's cell
phone rang. "Just a sec, little bro, I need to take this call."
He tapped the "receive" button on his earpiece. "Hello?"
There was a short pause while he listened to the caller on the other end.
"Yes, we would like pizza. We'll take..." he looked inquiringly
at us.
"Mushroom," I said. "Three slices."
"Sounds good," said Lia, "but just two slices for me."
Mike just nodded.
"Mushroom's good," admitted Farrell. "I
think I can handle three slices."
"Pepperoni for me,"
said Galadriel, just to be contradictory. "Two slices will do fine."
Celeste smiled at my brother. If he didn't know by now….
"We'll take a large mushroom pizza and a medium, half mushroom, a quarter pepperoni,
and a quarter cheese." Another pause. "Yes, that's right, and
to drink we'll take a two-liter of cola." Michael glanced around
the table for objections. Of course there were none. "You know where
to find us."
After hanging up, My brother addressed us. "Okay, the pizza will
be here in three-and-a-half minutes. It comes to thirty dollars, including
tax, so everybody needs to pay... uh, Farrell?"
"About $4.29 each."
"Yeah. In the meantime, what is it you were going
to say, Neil?"
"I think I know someone who might be able to give us a little more information," I replied, "Can I go
see if she's available?"
"Go on, we'll wait for the pizza," my brother answered.
I slipped off to where I'd seen the Goths earlier. I was looking for Imena
Alanson.
I remembered her fascination with dreams, and if anyone knew what we needed
to hear, it was she. I approached the island where the Goths had gathered.
"Is Imena here?" I asked.
A tall, skinny girl in black pants and a red and black T-shirt stood up.
I thought I knew who she was, but she wasn't Imena. "Who wants to
know?"
I remembered her name. "Hi, Rhiamon, it's me."
"Oh, hi, Neil," she said in a friendlier tone. "Imena went over to
the swings with Lisha and a few of the others."
"Thanks,"
I said. "I'll see you later."
I waded out of the pool and replaced my shoes. I could see Imena and her
friends from where I was, so I waved and walked right over. "Imena,
I would like to ask you to do us a favor."
"Us?"
I indicated my gray clothing, and she nodded. The Gray Council's existence
is no secret among any of the students here. "Would you," I
continued, "submit to a summons to Council?" It was a rhetorical
question, and I asked it for protocol's sake only. For an outsider to
be summoned to one of our meetings is considered quite an honor -in a
geeky sort of way.
"Right now?" she asked.
I nodded, then turned and walked back the way I had come. I knew Imena
was right behind me. As we walked to the island, I gave her a very general
idea of what we needed from her. By the time we reached the island, she
was up to speed on the conversation so far, and she was more than ready
to tell us just how much we didn't know. I'm sure she would have started
immediately, but the others were still waiting for pizza.
"I don't know what's going on," my brother said as we took our seats.
"The pizza should have been here almost thirty seconds ago."
Just then, a pizza-delivery boy waded up to us, steaming pizza in hand.
"There you are," he said in a nasally voice. "I have your
pizza, and now I need your money."
"You're late," Michael said harshly, "so I believe you owe us something."
"Ah,
but you... that is, I had to bring this pizza into the Fountain, so you
must make allowance-"
"That was factored into the delivery time, so you owe us our free breadsticks." He raised a hand, cutting
off the pizza boy's nasally protests. "Now, here is the money we
owe you, and I'll take those."
The pizza boy splashed off, muttering French curses to himself. "Those
blasted French Canadians think they can get away with anything,"
noted Celeste, "just because Quebec's independent now." Celeste's
hatred of Frenchmen runs deep. It originated with a spectacular breakup
between Celeste and her boyfriend from Quebec. I almost felt sorry for
the guy, but he definitely deserved everything Celeste threw at him. That
was right before she started dating my brother, actually.
"I could put a curse on him, you know." Imena's voice interrupted my
musings. I'd entirely forgotten about her.
So had Michael, apparently. "That won't be necessary. Um, would you
care for some pizza or some breadsticks? All we have is mushroom, pepperoni,
and cheese, I'm afraid."
"Mushroom sounds excellent," Imena replied. "Sometimes I nibble on it when I'm mixing it into
potions."
I'd forgotten just how into the whole witchcraft thing Imena was. I handed
her a slice of mushroom pizza. As we ate, she gave us a quick explanation
of something we had come to see as a very complicated subject: dreams.
"We've been researching dreams almost since the earliest days,"
Imena began (I assume that by "we" she meant witches, or rather
those who think themselves witches). "Yet we've only begun to unravel
the secrets of the dream-world. When you dream, your spirit travels to
another realm, but your body remains." She looked at each of us in
turn, then leveled her gaze at me. "Dreams are real."
I almost choked on my pizza, but recovered quickly and shot a smug look
in Galadriel's direction. Ha. I was right.
Imena continued her explanation. "Everything you experience in the
dream-world is happening. However, there are a few obvious differences
in the definition of 'real' here and 'real' there. Naturally things like
death have no permanence, since dying just equates to waking up. We've
also discovered that dreams possess the property of non-continuity."
Seeing our puzzled looks, she explained. "That means that you can
go to sleep tonight and experience the dream-world as it is, as it was
any number of years ago, or even as it will be in the future."
"That's interesting," Lia noted, "but how come everyone
I meet in a dream is someone I know? Does that mean that my friends are
having the same dreams I am?"
"I'm afraid I don't know the reason for that. Like I said, we still understand very little, even after
ages of study. I can only say with certainty that everyone perceives the
dream-world differently." Imena stood. "I have told you all
I know," she said, "and it is time for me to return to what
I was doing."
My brother stood as well. "Wait, Imena. There is one thing we must
do first." He motioned for the rest of us to rise. "We bid you
farewell, and thank you for your knowledge." He paused and returned
his necklace to its proper place around his neck.
Then, the entire Council recited the traditional closing of our meetings,
the club motto: "Assume nothing. Accept nothing. Question everything."
I myself have always been quite pleased with the motto. "Assume nothing"
was the original motto, introduced with the founding of the Council by
my eldest brother Andrew. "Accept nothing." was my own contribution,
added shortly after I joined the Council. "Question everything."
is a recent addition, tacked on because Galadriel thought it sounded appropriate.
She stole it from the new Religion teacher, Mr. Johnson, who always says
"Question (or challenge, he uses them interchangeably) everything."
After Imena left, we ate in relative silence. When the meeting is over,
it's over. We don't continue our discussions past a reasonable point.
Usually. One by one, the members of the Council finished eating and went
their separate ways. I left Michael and Celeste behind as I finished my
last bit of cola. It only took me a few steps to reach the edge of the
Infinity Fountain (you can walk in forever and never reach the center,
but turn around and you'll always be right at the edge). I dried my feet
and slipped my shoes back on, then waved to Imena and her friends as I
left the park.
I still had a little while before I had to be back in class (45 minutes
is an amazingly long time when you go anywhere almost instantly), so I
stopped by the mall. I didn't see anyone I knew, so I walked through the
building and looked at the merchandise through the store windows. As I
was checking out the new games in the electronics store, a flicker of
motion caught my eye. Someone was behind me! I could see his reflection
in the mirror as he regarded me with a cold stare. I whirled around, but
there was no one there. That's strange, I thought, where did he go?
Suddenly, my vision swam. Everything blurred, and I felt as if my pupils
were wobbling in every direction, completely independent of each other.
I grabbed for a wall to steady myself. This wasn't the first time that
this had happened to me. I still don't know what it is or why it
happens, but I'd mostly learned to live with it. Unfortunately, this time
the effect didn't recede after a second or two, like it had the handful
of times it happened before. It went on for nearly a full minute, leaving
me completely disoriented. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone.
I turned and regarded my reflection critically. In the past, no one had
seemed to notice when my eyes went crazy like that, but I wanted to be
sure that no lingering effects were visible. I looked the same as I usually
did, except for my cybernetic eye implants, which had displayed silver
irises for the meeting and were now in the process of fading back to a
brownish-green. As I turned away from the window, my earpiece buzzed once.
That would be the school, warning us that our lunch break was nearly over.
I headed for the exit.
Walking away from the mall, I passed a payphone. As soon as I walked by,
it rang. I stopped abruptly. Pizza places may call students' cell phones
during lunch break and ask them if they want to order pizza, and the school
buzzes us to let us know when to return to class, but I'd never heard
of any technology that allowed people to call you as you walked past a
payphone. Besides, anyone who wanted to get in touch with me could call
my cell phone. It's probably just a prank call, I told myself, courtesy
of some bored student trying to make someone late. Still, the phone rang
insistently. Unbidden, a memory popped into my head, a scene from an old
2-D movie called The Matrix. There were ringing payphones in that movie,
and they always represented a way out. From what? I wasn't sure I wanted
to remember. R-r-ring!
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