Robert A. Metzger - Perchance to Dream.pdf - Robert A. Metzger - allforjesus2001

FUTURES

NATURE

Vol 438

17 November 2005

Perchance to dream

Out of sight, out of mind.

Robert A. Metzger

in the lowest rungs of a Dreaming World,

where the resource-challenged can only

afford photon-based goods.

“Stealth suits are 20 years extinct,

Grandpa,” he says, waving a hand at me.

“Isolation, anonymity, individualism, all

such sad Dreams.”

My suit might be 20 years old, but it gets

the job done. I run a diagnostic. I am emit-

ting nothing but a blast of infrared

through my rear radiator fins, my ultra-

violet ionizers at exhaust ports shedding

any leaking DNA, and biometric compen-

sators continually randomizing my move-

ments. The motes of inquiring dust that

choke this tunnel, transmitting torrents of

data between them, nibble at my suit,

questioning, probing, but my suit informs

them that there is nothing there.

I am not like this boy, like any others on

the seventh level. I am not a consumer of

photons and Dreams. I am the last from a

world now gone. I am flesh and blood, and

I am invisible.

And yet this boy can somehow see me.

How?

My suit accesses the boy, allowing me to

see through his Ocs. There is no such

thing as privacy in the Dreaming World —

privacy inhibits the flow of commerce and

Dreams. Perspective slips as I enter into

the boy, his hands are now mine, adorned

with jewels, gold rings, skin plastered with

morphing displays, sleeves of silk covering

my arms. This is the world he experiences.

About me swirls frenzied motion and

colours, bustling bodies loaded down with

packages, bright sun above, shops adorned

with wrought iron beckoning, and every-

where blossoming wisteria.

In front of me stands an old man —

nearly naked, cloth tied around his waist,

a white beard, aged yellow, hanging mid-

way down his chest, his skin wrinkled,

nearly translucent, thick blue veins visible

across his bald head.

“I’m in full stealth,” says the old man

standing in front of me. “I’m not a part of

your Dreaming World. I’m hidden and

safe.” He grins. He has no teeth. His eyes

sparkle like diamonds, the Ocs wedged

behind his corneas glistening. He is

Dreaming of stealth suits. I reach

for the old man, taking one of his

gnarled hands. “You shouldn’t be

out here, all alone Grandpa,” I

hear myself say.

Then I blink and am back in

my own skull, the boy holding

my hand. “My stealth suit?” I ask,

not understanding how it could

be gone, as I look down at my

nearly naked body. “I was going

to make a trade on the third level

for food,” I say.

“There is no third level,

Grandpa,” he says, and sweeps a

hand in front of me. “Only here.

Everything else is a Dream.”

I remember, knowing what he

says is true, the confusion lifting

a bit.

“Time to get you home,

Grandpa,” he says.

I nod, hoping that I will find my

stealth suit there. We walk down

the street, the warm sun shining

down on us, the shops beckoning,

full of wonderful Dreams for sale.

The wisteria is in full bloom.

There is a place to trade, on the third level,

antique hardware in exchange for real

food. But first I must walk this stretch of

the seventh level in order to reach the Up-

Tu be. The haze is thick, inquiry motes

swirling about me. I let them ask their

questions but, as if in response, I inform

them that they sample nothing but air. I

study everything from long wavelength

radio to short ultraviolet spikes, sniffing

the pheromone bouquet and sampling the

organic debris. I do not transmit, do not

even reflect. I am operating in full stealth,

invisible to the Dreamers about me, those

inhabiting virtual worlds. Shops adorned

with wrought iron and blossoming wiste-

ria line the street, screaming with a full

spectrum onslaught, begging me to enter

and sample their virtual goods. Above

hangs a golden sun. The street is undoubt-

edly thick with people, but I choose not to

experience them, my stealth suit not only

rendering me invisible, but also guiding

me around people without the need of

conscious intervention.

I am not a Dreamer. I am

awake, safe in my stealth suit, iso-

lated from the fantasy that has

consumed the world.

“You in full stealth again,

Grandpa?”

I focus, narrowing input to the

merely visible, nulling the infor-

mational torrent, blossoming wis-

teria and wrought iron fading

away as I drop the suit’s human

filter. In front of me stands a boy,

naked, dirty, brown hair hanging

in tangles. His eyes sparkle

like diamonds, the Ocs wedged

behind his corneas both spewing

and gulping data — his gateway

to Dream-generated worlds. He

stands before me on the narrow

sidewalk, naked people shuffling

by us like water flowing around

two rocks in a steam. The shops

along this stretch of tunnel are

choked with bodies, and nothing

else — the only goods available on

this level virtual — photons being

the most cost-effective consumer

objects. I look up. There is no sun,

just a warren of steel strut and old

plumbing hanging from cracked

concrete. Flickering fluorescents

cast everything in harsh light. We

are seven levels below the surface,

■

Robert A. Metzger is a hard-SF

writer and a research scientist in

the area of semiconductor thin

films from North Carolina. His

latest novel, released by Ace in

2005, is

Cusp

394

Nature Publishing Group

Robert A. Metzger - Perchance to Dream.pdf

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