Dreamnet

By Ian Dean

The ice caps have melted more quickly than expected, and coastal cities have been lost to 50-foot tides. Global politics are unstable, countries face civil wars, kids go to virtual schools, drones have replaced many jobs, and the next storm may sink New York City. In 2081, everyone is seeking an escape from an ever more chaotic reality, and the dream-sharing network, DreamNet, thrives. When F.B.I. Cyber Defense agent Song Atoroshi is asked to meet DreamNet’s elderly creator, Charles Lenderson, a chain of events is set into motion that will change the popular, decades-old and revolutionary network far more than any update ever would. Charles, a man lost in his memories and who has locked himself away in an abandoned New York penthouse, has written some final changes for his system in order to cement his legacy. But he needs Song's help getting the update past his old company, and she soon finds herself approaching a temporal singularity, where multiple pasts and all possible futures will collide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387051007

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DreamNet

Written by Ian Dean

Illustrations by Molly Dean

Copyright © 2017 Ian Dean

DreamNet

Digital First Edition - 2017

By Ian Dean

ISBN: 978-1-387-05100-7

No part of this book, including its images, may be reproduced without written consent from the author.

This edition published using Lulu.com

Visit www.valice.net for more information on this book and others

For Dad,

and all else we may lose

to the tides of time

Nova:Users:gekko:Desktop:dreamnet:DN1.jpg

1: Alpha Waves

Scattering particles of prismatic water droplets, sliding down glass in seemingly random patterns, forming contrails of clear liquid that will dictate the direction of the next few gravity-defying water domes held together with surface tension. It was chaos theory, evident in every microsecond of existence, holding together the universe in anti-law and nonconformity.

Song Atoroshi had it on her mind as she gazed out of her twentieth floor apartment’s windswept windowpane. Theories about existence itself had always fascinated her as a child, the small lessons of reality given to her by her father always lingering in her imagination. She had the ability to break down into numbers all that her eyes observed at any given moment.

Somehow, the idea of a physical universe baffled a few people now and then. Song could remember seeing such theoretical-anythings frequent her father’s workplace, and their ideas often rubbed off on her young, impressionable mind. While most children imagined fantastical worlds in their youth, Song invented entire reasons for being, bending reality itself into a game of past and future heroes protecting the thin, breakable fabric of what was real; the outer layer on a drop of rain.

She remembered that day at the beach, and how her father held up a handful of sand and let it pour around his fingers. Uncountable tiny crystals of ground quartz, forming a mathematical nightmare so complex, that…

It would take a super computer just to process the information, he explained. So don’t pay any serious attention to anyone who tells you that our universe is only a simulation in a virtual world. It would require a computer far bigger than Earth to handle the calculations of every living thing, every single chemical reaction. Our reality is a special place, so…

A chemical change took place inside her head, bringing her out of her memories and back to the present as synapses were stimulated by sights and sounds of the hourly news blast and the realities they shared.

Focusing in as she rested on her bed and a police hover-copter flew by her window on patrol, she was dragged back into the world of chaos.

Coming up this hour on GNG, a woman’s voice exclaimed with an enthusiastic boldness to lure the viewers in. Hunger crises continue at Dutch climate refugee camps in Belgium and Germany, updates on the civil wars in Niger and Turkey, and what you should know about this year’s American Midwest’s storm season, which has only just begun and has already claimed hundreds of lives. It all starts right here after the break.

The commercials came on, their bright and flashy colors and eternally hopeful demeanors always a stark contrast to the stories that preceded them. The first was another minute-long DreamNet spot, advertising some new portable model and how its battery life was double that of its competitors. A happy family appeared at the end, no doubt glad to be able to escape the world for an extra day while on the road.

Song put her palm out and flicked her index finger up, changing to the local news—though it currently had a story that was anything but local.

Amid recorded feed of uniformed colonists opening freshly delivered crates and removing metal halos as relieved smiles appeared across their faces, one of the anchors spoke, The twenty-four Martian colonists received their personal DreamNet systems today. And although they are now outdated models and the colonists will only be able to join an intranet system, this will mark the first time that DreamNet has been used on a world other than Earth. Certainly a historic moment.

That it is, Evan’s co-anchor Lizbeth replied as the camera trained in on her. Today in Pittsburgh, the annual Mayoral Gala is underway despite the weather, and celebrity natives have descended on VersaCarbon Center for the evening. Cameron managed to get a few interviews with…

A buzzing went straight into Song’s ear, and she muted the television by forming a grabbing motion in the air just as a well-known singer appeared on the screen. She picked up her glass phone, looked at the caller ID, and tapped the green icon to answer it.

Marcus? Song asked with a yawn.

Hey, how’s the cold? Feeling well enough to share face? This is kind of important.

Um, no, not really. I look like crap.

You are going to be in work tomorrow, right?

Yeah, should be. If this really is important, at least take the cig out of your mouth so I can understand every word.

All right, fine. After one last audible suckling and puff, Marcus continued, Listen. Got a strange bit of email in my DreamNet box. Thing’s barely ever got anything in it. But it’s for you.

For me? Why… why didn’t they just use reg email? Song replied, rubbing her forehead as she walked towards her window.

Not sure. Again, it’s Dream-mail, so no attachments. I would’ve just forwarded it to you right away, but I recognized the sender and wanted to tell you to be ready to see it in your inbox. It’s from J-Sonders. At Dream-dot-net. It should be authentic, but, I dunno, it’s such a casual message.

Sonders… Um, Jessica Sonders? She works with Lenderson, right?

Somewhere in New York. Right in his penthouse. I mean, damn, straight from the legend’s secretary. Anyway, I just sent it. Normally I hate anything that has to do with gossip, but do tell me everything tomorrow.

Yeah… Thanks. See you, Marcus.

After he disconnected, Song checked her email on her phone.

FWD: I’m looking for Ms. Atoroshi

Original Sender: [e-mail]

Hello, Mr. Cormish. I represent Charles Lenderson. Please notify your partner or simply forward this email to her. Charles would like to set up a meeting with Ms. Atoroshi as soon as time permits.

Thank you,

Jessica Sonders

This Dream-mail was translated to UTF-8. Characters may have altered.

How the hell did they know I work with Marcus… Song muttered under her breath as she stood pondering the text.

She returned to bed and took her Paper off the nightstand. Pressing the single analog button in its lower left corner made it rigid and brought up the display over its textured surface. She flipped it to landscape and rested it on her lap, her first impulse to reply immediately. But as the digital keyboard waited under her fingers, she struggled to think of a response.

She was still sick, after all, and she felt like she had no obligation to do anything remotely work related. She turned off the millimeter-thin tablet and exchanged it with yet another tissue to tend to her nose with.

An individual like Charles Lenderson, seeking out a meeting with an FBI agent. Song contended that it could be to privately report corporate espionage of some manner, but if his secretary had originally been looking for Song’s persona in DreamNet itself, then it implied that her presence was being requested in the mass digital world.

But she had not been in the place of interconnected dreams for many years now. She still wasn’t supposed to go back, and her doctor had ordered that other, less involved cyber-diving be kept at a minimum as well.

And yet, this was Charles Lenderson. A living legend—one her father once worked for. Was that the reason she was being sought out? Maybe it was merely a personal request, and had nothing to do with her professional life. Song decided to give it a day to think it over, perhaps seeking out some perspective at work with Marcus tomorrow.

A game of phone solitaire later, she turned off the flat-glass TV, exposing the custard drywall behind it, and quickly fell into a NyQuil-induced, mostly dreamless sleep.

After awakening with a slight medicinal hangover, Song performed her early afternoon routine a touch sloppily, summoned her car with her phone from the breakfast table, and headed out to her glossy white coupe, waiting patiently and quietly in the loading lot outside the garage.

The late April air was still a bit nippy, and a light fog had rolled in, bringing with it a smattering of drizzle. With her car’s navigation set to her workplace, she let it do the driving while she caught up on the news on her phone and downed a thermos of more coffee.

On the way, she passed by a car accident, already cordoned off by four white police drones that projected pulsing blue and red holographic lines. The driver, a young man speaking on his cell phone and now quite distressed, waited in the weather for the police to arrive.

Cars that drove themselves never had accidents, but every now and then, a teenager behind the seat—typically without a license to manually drive the vehicle—would feel the impulse to give the wheel a try.

Song’s car pulled through the secured gate at the FBI’s Cyber Defense East Division, located in the heart of the city, and the smallest of the nearby towers. She gave the everyday greetings to the guard at the gate and those she passed on the way to the office, and prepared for another day at work. In at two, dinner at six, and out at ten.

Her workplace was a buzzing hive of constant activity, intercepting and investigating hundreds of threats a day to the country’s vast electronic backbone. Its power plants and grid, the airports, the stock market, and major web servers all worked an average 364.9 days of the year, due to the efforts of Song and her countless coworkers.

Soon after she entered the chamber—the enormous center of the operation under the tower that was both wider than the building above and EMP-hardened, she was again in her comfort zone. Here, she felt alive, accomplished, and pleasantly forgotten in the din of hundreds of voices, thousands of blinking lights, and billions of pixels covering the many glass screens. Most served as work terminals, some as televisions tuned to news channels, and a few were merely digital clocks.

After passing the kitchen, Song settled into one of the chamber’s few non-hot bunk chairs, indicative of her position, held snug between three messy desks on one side of the twin cubicle. Like any other day, Marcus was five minutes early, and already nearly finished checking his work emails on the other side of the shareable glass monitor between them.

A few threats out of the Heilongjiang autonomous zone today to watch out for, Marcus said and ate the last quarter of his bagel in a single bite. Some radicals still pissed we’re not supporting the rebels. Already tried a DoS attack on the Pentagon today.

Not a big surprise. It’s their civil war’s tenth anniversary. I can still remember when all of China’s cyberspace went dark that first week.

We’re gettin’ old. Anyway, only other thing of note is a few non-specific threats to DreamNet from some Irish religious group. That’s my end, of course. Hell of a night in the ‘scape, by the way.

Oh yeah? What happened?

Another logic bomb in NA West, in its main city. I switched in just as it ended. Disconnected five percent of the users.

Is that part of the Ireland thing?

No, they haven’t used logic bombs in the past. So, in I go, to keep the peace as much as I can, helping the local detectives and everything.

You’re the one that volunteers to work sixteen a day.

Yeah—more money to have fun with when I’m bored, right? So, Song, dinner tonight? Nothing fancy, just the diner again.

Sure, I didn’t have anything planned.

You respond to that email yet?

Didn’t know what to say. Still wasn’t right in the head, anyway.

Best part of getting sick is the drugs. I’ll try to find a few things on any of Ms. Sonders’ DreamNet activity. That’s obviously where she was looking for you. What will you do if they want your help inside the ‘scape?

I don’t know. I’m not supposed to go in yet. Doctor still says I should only spend an hour a day in virtual chat rooms, and to avoid DreamNet entirely, even if I started taking meds again.

Still sounds like bullshit to me. I know it’s documented, yeah—and people have it, sure. But there has to be some simple reason and cure for it. I mean, come on, how can you not tell when you’re dreaming? As real and clear as DreamNet has become, still…

You know it’s more complicated than that. It applies to any virtual environment, and lucid dreaming, which I can’t normally do. Things just… start to feel too detached after a while. The first night my dad had me try a Lucidia, I nearly flung myself off the bed. He tells me it’s just bugs in the software, and his boss will work to get them out. Never happened.

Yeah… never mind. I must sound like a jackass again. You do good work in the real world, that’s all that matters. Even though DreamNet and the real world might as well be the same for me at this point anyway.

Song, Marcus, Ross Engerton, the division’s chief, greeted the two as he stopped at the cubicle. You feeling better?

I’ll make it, Song assured with a faint smile. What’s this about China today? Any leads on where the attacks are originating?

Not yet. If it’s anything like previous ones, they might not even be coming out of China. You gotten in touch with Tammith recently?

It’s still been weeks since we last spoke. She was worried about her parents. Says the war could get intense again in a few months.

Well, I’d start looking in San Francisco. That’s where we nailed down the first group. Still working on how they’re getting into the country.

Honestly, they were probably here before the Heilongjiang militia even made itself known, Marcus noted.

I’ll start my search in the usual forums, sir, Song told her boss.

Good. Get me something by dinner if you can.

Anyway, check this out… Marcus said a few minutes after the two were alone again. While we’re on religion…

He touched a news article on his personal screen, and then with his other hand, touched the glass between them, copying it over and flipping it for Song to read. The headline read, Vatican Receives first DreamNet Halos: Pope Plans inaugural virtual address next Sunday.

Yeah, I heard. They planned it for Easter, but there was a delay in setting up the network. Changing times.

I’ll show up just to see what he looks like in avatar form. Actually, I have to be there, anyway. Security detail. The server lag is going to be hell, I know it. The rest of the DreamNet guys are already prepared for the fallout of a logic bomb going off in a packed virtual St. Peters.

Their conversations petered out as they both became engrossed in their work. Keypads became ablaze with activity, as touch screen monitors were swiped and prodded a dozen times a minute. There were threats to be analyzed and attacks to intercept—all part of guarding the eastern seaboard. What happened in the digital realm affected everything. National defense began online, with frontline agents that had no reason to ever hold a gun.

It was six by the time Song had made her first significant discovery on the Pentagon denial of service attempt, but it was a good start. Satisfied, she gave into Marcus’s hunger pangs, and the two slipped outside. On the way, Song got another glimpse at the photo in the hallway of the earliest cyber defense team, working in Pittsburgh nearly a century ago.

The Lucid Diner, right across the street, had been in business for fifty years. A small establishment at the ground floor of one of the city’s oldest towers, it had gone with a retro-science fiction look, of what people in the early 21st century might’ve imagined the future to be like.

Clean with chrome finishing, it presented in a small package a look both forward and back, blending together on its walls important printed articles on scientific advancements over the last hundred years and posters for seminal movies of the century’s earlier years. Coworkers frequented the diner for a quick meal, and perhaps for its history. The story went that it changed its name after Charles Lenderson himself once stopped in and drew a prototype DreamNet halo on one of its cocktail napkins.

Ms. Sonders, Marcus said and slid over his Paper to Song, hosting a profile picture of the thirty-year-old brunette. She’s never seen in public on the ‘scape, no surprise there. Probably spends most of her time with Charles in personal dreamspace. I can postulate all night, but I think you could come up with your own ideas about what a girl like her does in the old man’s dreams as he sleeps in some lonely New York tower.

Oh, please. It’s hard to imagine someone like him taking advantage of a secretary like that.

Why’s it hard? He’s never been married, from what I remember.

God, you’re so cynical, Marcus.

He finished the rest of his milkshake, ‘lit’ his cigarette, and took a hearty drag as its red LED glowed. He breathed out some vapor and sunk into his bar stool, reducing his height by a few inches to match Song’s.

Life’s cynical.

You got any actual info on her or what?

About why she or Charles wants to talk? No. They’re secretive. My grandpa was a self-proclaimed Howard Hughes historian. He’d see the parallels. Hell, there are rumors he lives in a penthouse. If you don’t want to go into DreamNet to meet, tell them you’re not a suitable candidate. Not like they can do anything about it. They’ll just have to find someone else.

I could just suggest you to them.

Me? I don’t want any part in whatever they’re cooking up. Probably some corporate whistleblower crap.

Charles retired twenty years ago. He doesn’t really represent the company anymore.

I did verify the email, and Jessica seems clean. Who knows, it could just be something simple. I’d message her back, but not mention your little, um, problem just yet.

You can come off as really insensitive, you know?

I’ve been told. So how’s the family doing?

Right, now you try to turn it around after the deer in the headlights routine. Have you ever even said the word ‘sorry’ before?

"Sorry. Guess I’ve never cared much about hurt feelings. Most people I know ignore them. But, really, I am interested. You’re seeing them for your mom’s birthday, right? I’d kind of like to meet your family one day. Is it just going to be you and your brothers again?"

Yoko’s supposed to be coming this time.

You’re both close, aren’t you? Even when you’re an ocean across?

Yeah. I miss her. I don’t know, it feels like time’s starting to slip away. She’s already a couple years from graduating.

College?

High school, Song sighed audibly.

They still cram over there, like in the old days?

I guess so. Japan’s culture really hasn’t changed much. Same old social pressures. But at least she’s getting a good education.

And at least you’ve got siblings. My lousy parents gave up after me. It’s hard enough just to get into a relationship, and then you’re going to have one kid? And somehow they’re still married.

Have you been bitter about that your entire life?

Damn right, Marcus muttered and pocketed his cigarette. And for different reasons throughout. The last one will be having to deal with them getting old by myself, and then probably me, dying alone.

Come on, that won’t happen to a nice guy like you.

I probably will. Just thinking about committing to someone… I dunno, I don’t even think about it. Can’t stand still for a minute. Gotta keep my mind occupied, fresh. Guess that’s why I work so many hours, some in my sleep. Don’t even know what to do with the free time I do get.

Find a hobby.

Yeah. Sure. Come on, Ross is probably already looking for us.

They paid their bills and walked back to work at sunset, children and most of their parents home for the day, giving the two the street.

Before they headed inside, Song took in a final view of the day’s lit sky, the clouds overhead in hues of pink and orange. And that’s when it happened, for the first time in a year—and many years after her last use of a DreamNet halo. A small tear in the sky appeared, faint and brief like the microscopic dust on the surface of an eye.

Damn, she whispered to herself. Tch. Still…

Song? Marcus called back from the door.

Coming.

Despite her efforts, the sky tear symptom had lingered, a harmless annoyance that was symbolic of something societally far greater.

2: False Awakenings

From the inside, you wouldn’t know DreamNet was so unstable recently, Marcus groaned as he checked over a database of server error logs. Damn thing’s looking like Swiss cheese.

"Could you fix the holes if the company let you?"

"I could try, sure, but I’m not doing that kind of high level crap on a government paycheck. The guys that are supposed to be doing the repair work earn three times what I do. I just report what I see inside and out of the system, you know, to protect people. I guess."

Has a system crash ever happened?

The instabilities haven’t gotten that bad yet. But they’re starting to pile on. Worst thing that’s ever happened were a few rounds of mass disconnects that led to sleep paralysis in some couple thousand people. No major harm—but who knows. The way the halos work, they could fry gray matter if they generated enough corrupted feedback.

I still think you’re in the wrong career, Marcus…

Just ‘cause I’ve learned a few things from experience? Not like I know how DreamNet really works. Linking millions of minds to create an organic world can’t be easy. Only guess I have for the holes is something about our brains slowly being degraded by the same chemicals that give us dreams. If I could find out what kind of hardware runs the servers…

Glued to his screens, he mumbled a few more sentences incoherently before getting back in the zone. Song swiveled in her chair and looked up at the central clock; it was nearly ten, close to the end of their shift. Agents had come and gone all day, but the activity barely wavered. Time zones, day and night, and sleep cycles didn’t exist on a global cyber scale.

Ever find anything out on the China thing? Marcus asked.

My only good lead was a dead end. Bust of a day.

It happens. You should check out this one… Oh, crap.

What? she asked as he hammered on his keyboard.

We got mass disconnects in NA Northeast.

We saw it already, another agent said as he ran past.

And no one tells me? Marcus replied as he and Song stood and took notice of a half dozen of their coworkers leaving their chairs and heading for the sleep room. Five minutes left, and then this…

Let them handle it, then.

Screw it. We’ve never detected one this quickly. I’m going in.

He ran off to join the others, Song following behind at a tepid pace. When she arrived at the room with eight halo-equipped beds on a metal platform behind soundproof glass, four agents were already asleep in their work suit pajamas. One bed was empty, and the last was being fought over.

I’ve been trying to make a personal observation of bomb effects for weeks, a younger, shorter agent demanded as he looked up to a taller man.

Not happening. Go back and work on this from your desk.

You two are wasting time, Marcus said impatiently.

This guy won’t listen to me! the agent replied.

Marcus looked over the taller man’s face for a moment. It’s Foster, right? With Homeland Security? This is new.

We’re taking these attacks more seriously, Mr. Cormish. They want my team to start doing more to prevent them.

All right, all right, no time to argue about this. Hodges, go use my terminal, it’s already got all the windows open on DreamNet consoles.

But—

What the hell you waiting for?

Damn it…

As he sulked off, Marcus asked Foster, So, you ever been inside? I mean, I assume you have all the training, right?

The Homeland Security representative simply glared at him.

Song. Marcus turned back to her as she waited in the doorway. Close that on your way out, would you? Go stake out some chat rooms for a few minutes before you leave. See you tomorrow.

She wished she had something to say, but after a few seconds, she gave him a nod, closed the sliding glass door, and watched him hop onto the plain white sheet mattress, where he slid himself under the halo.

Over the span of ten seconds, he closed his eyes, his body went still, and he drifted off as his mind was softly forced directly into a sleeping state, the rapid eye movement proceeding as normal. He would enter a shared virtual world shortly, his other work environment, and one in which Song could no longer visit.

She knew Marcus didn’t care too much about the extended hours—in another four, he’d be working a normal night in the Dreamscape in any case. Having her own place to be, she made the long walk back to her desk, where Hodges Miller had grudgingly taken up her partner’s vacated seat.

There’s not much to see by the time we arrive, right? Song asked him. He says it’s mostly just questioning and looking at the scarring.

It’s the principle, Hodges grumbled forcefully as he hit the keys. Foster just comes in, pulls me off the bed, like he owns it…

We work with DHS full time here; you should be used to it. I know you’re the tech guru, but don’t go doing anything to me while I’m in.

Song pulled at her desk drawer and took out a small visor. Hodges darted his eyes back and forth rather nervously a few times as he continued to work, which Song picked up on.

Really? What, you think I’m going to act out or something?

I, uh… No, of course not.

I’ll be in some rudimentary virtual chatroom. No need to look at me like I’m on the verge of a psychotic episode.

I’ll, um, I’ll make sure no one bothers you.

As Ross went around the chamber with a coffee mug in his hands, rather jokingly reminding the DreamNet agents to stay professional, Song slipped on the visor and signed into her virtual identity.

It had been a while since she last entered the VuSocial network. She began in a black space occupied only by a three-dimensional avatar version of herself and a message box asking to confirm the appearance, as over a month had passed since her last login.

She looked at it for a moment, thinking about any possible changes to make while reminding herself that she was still at work. Song had never been particularly fond of her own looks, but she also never bothered with making any digital personas that weren’t a near-reflection.

Short black hair, a dark coat one size too large, a subtly striped skirt down to the knees or dark gray not-too-tight pants. And short black boots or basic sneakers of the same color. Never heels.

She gave her jacket a new shade of blue and jumped into one of the busier lobbies. Arriving in a quaint medieval field at night, she looked about at the fantastical landscape filled with villager sprites, the open chat rooms highlighted in a faint glow. The marketplace was the forum, the castle for live current events, and the forest for private get-togethers. Floating over the castle was a list of trending words and subjects, numbers by each for the amount of users discussing each topic and the breadth of the conversations.

She tapped at the castle and was transported inside, right to the central hive room of hundreds of wooden doors in cold, gray stone, across multiple floors. Song felt a little dizzy looking up, but subdued any nausea and brought up an overlay of which rooms seemed to be hosting the most intelligent conversations about DreamNet at the moment, by frequent users who were each currently awake in a much older system.

She touched a door from afar to see that one of its forty-eight slots was still open, and then went in. After a brief Connecting… screen, the room quickly rendered its high-definition models and textures as people appeared and sound came in on mid-sentences. She was in some designer’s version of a castle common room, with moonlight pouring in through open archways and hitting modern digital paintings lining the walls. A soundless fireplace flickered by one of the long tables filled with atmosphere food.

The other forty-seven people were in the chairs, on the floor, leaning against the walls, and mostly had private conversations with one another, with names hovering above their avatars in their selected colors. Bringing no attention to herself, Song took a seat and scooted into one of the spots at the absurdly long table to listen to a group discussion.

News is finally reporting on it, a wizard boy announced in an adult’s voice as he looked over and poked at a browser window in front of him. Sounds like a big one. Guess you weren’t lying, Brander.

A man with a mercenary appearance, leading the talk at the end of the table, replied, Told you. I saw it go off, woke up, and came here.

How close were you to it? a female warrior asked him.

I dunno, maybe fifty feet. Only saw it for a second. And damn, heh, they weren’t kidding. It was like looking at pure chaos, you know?

Crazy assholes, the wizard replied.

This is the first time they’ve targeted the Northeast server, right? a young man with comically large glasses asked him.

I think so. Never heard of one hitting it before.

If I may ask, Song spoke up before they changed the subject, what did it look like, exactly, if you can explain chaos?

Uh, well, there was a swirling pure white vortex, loud banging, then stuff just started being created at random and it kept getting bigger. That’s about it. When I woke up, my heart was really pounding.

Why were you in bed so early? the warrior wondered.

I work early. I deliver tea first thing in the morning. So this kinda pisses me off, ‘cause I feel like it will be hours before I can sleep again.

That’s a nice name, Sonata, the glasses guy commented.

Song quickly deflected the compliment by adding, Do any of you use NA North? It’s been hit the most. I believe.

I do, a bandit avatar replied. And yeah, seven times now? But not as bad each time, never came close to disconnecting many people. That’s probably why they target it more, but the global mod guy’s been good at containing the logic bombs before they go really out of control.

I’m thinking of switching over, the warrior replied. He doesn’t put up with it and has the best record of minimizing the bombs.

Better to expect smaller booms than be surprised by a big one, huh? Brander noted and fell back into his chair tiredly. "Man, I’m never going to get rid of that feeling… Just, god awful shit…"

You mean being forced to wake up like that? the wizard said.

Yeah, like having night terrors as a kid. And I had some bad ones. Parents bought me a Lucidia just so I could control them.

What was that like, right before you woke up? Song asked.

Like falling, and complete confusion.

It’s just high-tech vandalism, petty crime, the warrior bemoaned. If Acayla is still the one behind the bombs, I don’t know what she’s even trying to say or prove anymore. I just want to sleep, you know?

You could just stick to your own space, the bandit suggested.

Teh, I got bored with that years ago. I’m not creative enough. My own dreams suck, always about boring crap going on in my old house.

Who’s the global moderator for NA North? Song questioned.

Erik… something, the bandit replied. He’s a cool Russian guy.

Speaking of Russia, did you see those new pictures of that crash? the wizard asked everyone. Right on a beach and everything.

Oh, yeah, Brander said and brought up his internal browser. How do you even overshoot a runway anymore? Send me a link.

The text New Topic: Flight 7640 popped up above automatically, but Song felt that she had learned something to perhaps pass onto Marcus.

All right, then. Thanks. See ya, she told the others and promptly disconnected before they could respond.

She returned to the real world and removed the visor, feeling only a little nauseous from her brief stay in the digital realm.

Learn anything in those five minutes? Hodges asked her.

Not really. I mean, I’m not a DreamNet agent, so there’s not much I can do anyway, but… Hey, do we ever talk to inner-server staff?

After logic bombs and other big problems, yes.

What about the people in charge of NA North?

Ah, no, I don’t think so. Its servers are based in Canada, though. We don’t really have much jurisdiction on that server.

I’m not talking about arresting anyone, just questioning a guy who has kept a ‘scape going through more logic bombs than anyone else.

Yeah, well, there’s still a mindset to just focus on our own servers.

Song thought for a moment, and then got up to talk to Ross before heading out. He was on his wired office phone, shuffling around as he shared a few vulgarities with the other end, likely someone on DreamNet’s internal security. He often tangled with the company and its policies, while running an agency where a third of the force worked in the Dreamscape.

She knocked on the doorframe as he finished the call, asking them to stop wasting his time and start being more forthcoming with user logs. The system anonymity was still an issue with each agency that policed its servers.

Ms. Atoroshi, simply saying goodnight, I hope? Ross sighed.

Quick question. Have we considered working closely, proactively, with server staff? I mean, we’re either doing what Marcus is right now, or wandering around the Dreamscape when these bombs go off.

This isn’t your field, why are you interested all of a sudden?

It’s still my job to follow developments. And the way things are going, DreamNet might be fully integrating into the rest of cyberspace. It got email just five years ago, and now they’re perfecting web browsing. So these logic bombs could start affecting more than just dreams.

Right, right… Cause more disruptions in other networks, Ross replied and cleared his throat. Close the door for a sec.

Song did so and approached the desk.

The company discourages feds from getting too close to their employees, especially the admins. It’s not like we haven’t tried in the past, either. They don’t want it, and their customers don’t want it.

So is it just another case of technology outpacing policy?

Well, they actually make kind of a good point here. We’re talking about authoritative powers, the government, trying to police people as they sleep. Ross came a little closer and emphasized, Like thought police.

But it’s a public environment, and these logic bombs—any forced awakening does cause some distress, sometimes even harm, right?

It’s difficult to prove anything. What’s natural and organic, what’s software and hardware, the intent? DreamNet is a mess of human minds creating imagery, and programs connecting and clarifying them. I wish I could explain this better to you, but it’s difficult when… Well.

I still think I can overcome my, ah, problem. I want to keep being useful. If DreamNet gets that big… I just don’t want to become a relic, sir.

Ha, relic. Fossil, dinosaur. Like we belong millions of years in the past, too stupid to understand anything all of a sudden. I wouldn’t still be here if I couldn’t adapt. Look at this place, he gestured to the window, out at the bustling chamber. "It was once a few guys in a room trying to stay a step ahead of email viruses. I’ve been through a dozen policy changes since I started, but I refuse to go extinct. And now, I really do sound old.

Anyway, you’ve done good work. You’re reserved, observant. An introvert, sure, but if someone gives you a challenge, you get determined. Look, I know you’d like to work with Marcus in the ‘scape—you two are partners in any case, but I can’t bring you in unless you pass the tests.

I feel like I’m improving.

You can. My brother did. He didn’t know he had Sobel-Kraun’s until he tried a Lucidia in college. And now, I met him for a golf game just last night. If he can get a birdie in the Dreamscape and wake up in the morning remembering his real world game is still lousy, there’s hope.

I was going to try my mother’s halo when I visited in a few weeks. It’s not nearly as sharp as the new models, should be a good place to start.

Any lucid dreams on your own yet?

Mm, no, but I still do the exercises when I can remember to.

You’ll be much more prepared after you have a few unassisted.

Anyway, that’s all I wanted to ask about. Maybe give Marcus a note for me—he should try to get in touch with NA North’s global mod, since he’s weathered more of the bombs than anyone else in the company.

I’ll pass along the suggestion.

Song stood for a second longer, wondering whether or not to bring up the email from Ms. Sonders, but settled with, Goodnight, then.

See you tomorrow.

On her way out, she again took a quick look at the photograph on the wall of the original team, who had worked long ago in an age of ray tubes, floppy disks, and primitive GUIs. And they had come from an age of room-sized computers and punch cards. How inconceivable it would be to them to see how much technology had changed and integrated since those early years, and yet, the jobs they filled had remained nearly the same.

That night, at home in bed, Song took out her Paper, bent it into a classic laptop form, and used the imitation ink keyboard to search for Erik DreamNet North. In the background, the news report on the recent logic bomb played, showing a computer-generated simulation of the explosion, the afflicted areas, and the mass disconnects it caused—video and image recording in DreamNet was still a long way off, if not impossible.

This bomb generated a bizarre creature after its detonation, one anchor explained. "This has been seen before, but there is still no discernible pattern on what triggers such an occurrence. Witnesses outside of the blast radius who remained in the server describe a Godzilla-like monster rampaging through the city, destroying buildings and possibly damaging memory sectors. DreamNet has said that the threat was quickly contained and ongoing repairs should clean up any lasting tears."

Truly the makings of nightmares, Richard, the co-anchor replied. Thankfully, no one has been hurt in these attacks.

Song looked back down at her results and clicked through the top few pages. She learned that she was looking for an Erik Vasinov, and that he had been with the company for nearly eight years.

More impressively, he essentially worked inside of a North American server farm from Russia, and held a degree in virtual environment engineering. But other than a few profile pages and a rarely updated social wall, there wasn’t much on him.

Song knew that server staff tended to be private people, as the nature of their work had to represent differing beliefs and politics. Anything he did in real life that was brought out into the open could easily brand him with partisan views and biases. In some ways, moderators and admins lorded over more people than the presidents of smaller countries.

Her phone rang. She muted the television and looked at the number glowing in a slow pulse on her tablet screen. She recognized it. Keeping the phone on her bed, she tapped the green button on its glass surface, sending the voice on the other end straight into her ear.

Song? It’s Chen. It’s been a while. How are you?

I’m fine. What’s up? I haven’t heard from you in about a month.

I know, sorry, been busy. You still living in that old apartment?

Um, yeah… I know it’s only eight on the west coat, but why are you calling so late? I’m not at work anymore.

That’s okay. Hey, I was in the server when it happened, on my usual rounds—I was just passing through. I saw the bomb for a few seconds before I woke up. I think it’s a new type.

You were in Northeast? Marcus was still working it when I left.

Tell him I said hi. But I’m calling because I have a small favor to ask. Something I just thought of, actually. Might not lead anywhere. When you go in tomorrow, could you check the local time signatures of the bomb detonation? I don’t think they’d be in our central database.

You mean when the corrupted data packets hit our own halos?

Yes. You have access to that information, right?

Well, yeah…

I want to compare the time difference, how long it took them to propagate through the network. Even just a few nanoseconds difference might tell us something.

Are you trying to triangulate the source of the attack?

It’s kind of like that. We have to start getting on top of these bombs as much as we legally are able. Think more creatively, maybe try out a few old world ideas on them.

I just spoke with my boss today. I hadn’t even really considered the legal problems with getting into DreamNet control centers.

For a few moments, she heard only breathing. Then Chen finally replied, There is a way around that, Song. Mr. Engerton might not know about them. Or he does, but he was never one to bend the rules.

What are you saying? Have you been in a control center?

Ah, I’ll tell you about it discreetly if you ever go back in. Send me those timestamps, and I’ll buy you lunch next time I’m in Pittsburgh.

I’ll see what I can do.

Thanks. And I’ll let you know if I find anything out.

She hung up, leaving Song feeling a bit uneasy. Her college friend had rarely spoken so forthrightly; she was often chatty, padding meaningful conversation with small talk. But it wasn’t unusual for her or someone from her division to make requests of their fellow agents on the other coast, and Chen herself was known to be enthusiastic of her own new ideas.

Song shrugged it off, expecting a typical Chen email filled with gratitude the next day. Reminded of the one awaiting a reply, she sorted through her new arrivals and went back to the blank draft.

REPLY: I’m looking for Ms. Atoroshi

Original Sender: [e-mail]

Ms. Sonders, sorry for the delay. I was sick when I first received your email, and admittedly had to think it over as well. While I am very curious concerning Mr. Lenderson’s request, I would need to know more before any possible contact with him. Also, I can’t currently go into DreamNet, if this is relevant. If you only wished to get in touch with me, or need an acknowledgment of interest, you have it now. This is my personal email, please use it as our primary form of contact.

Regards,

Song Atoroshi

Suddenly tired, she closed her eyes before she sent it out. Shortly thereafter, the lights faded, and Song drifted off to sleep—and later had the first dream that she could remember upon waking for several weeks.

She was small, and held her father’s hand on a cold and gray day at the beach, as waves crashed onto the shore. Her red raincoat was loose and fluttering in the strong, deafening wind that muffled her father’s voice as it tried to send another lesson into her ears.

She turned around to see the old house, plucked from the landlocked neighborhood it belonged in. When she looked back, she watched her father wade into the water as it soaked into his suit, his back facing her. She yelled out, but he quickly disappeared into waves as the wind muffled more sound, forming loud distortions as if a squall had hit a microphone.

And then the phone’s clock alarm went off.

3: Tactile Response

May 30th, 2059

Greensburg, Pennsylvania

The alarm clock buzzed loudly and obnoxiously, its volume turned up to its maximum to give the extra push needed to get Song out of bed.

She hit it, slithered out from under the covers, changed, and brushed her hair. Friday, the last day of school, had arrived at last. No more getting up at six thirty in the morning, at least for the next two months.

Then she heard her parents arguing already, at the very start of the day. This was looking to be a poor one, but perhaps the oncoming summer vacation would at least balance it out by dusk. Steadily, she went down the stairs, passing by her pink backpack hanging near the door.

Her parents never shouted, no matter how intense their verbal duels could become. Rather, there was a subdued anger, and a growing divide and misunderstanding between them that was kept in control by the two, each a professional in both their workplaces and their parenting.

But at ten years old, Song already understood that they no longer loved one another. They had now fought both themselves and inevitability for years for the sake of their children. Yet despite their efforts, the quarrels had spilled over into the expected quietness of morning breakfast, where young minds prepared to absorb the day’s lessons.

Thomas, still in his pajamas, looked at Song and back to his parents several times as he ate his cereal. The older brother by a year, his first grade adventure was coming to an end just as Song was finishing with the school entirely. Sitting near him and halfway done with a Poptart was Clark, who had completed kindergarten a few weeks ago, and still seemed oblivious to the fights—or was far too carefree to worry about them just yet.

What are they going on about now? Song whispered to Thomas.

He shrugged and replied, Something about school, I think.

Did you get bad grades?

Thomas shook his head defiantly. "They said your name…"

What are we going to do, Hirito? You know she can’t… It’ll make her sick. I just don’t… I don’t understand why they keep doing this.

You know why. It’s rational. They can’t afford to keep schools open, when two-thirds of kids don’t even go to them anymore.

Who’s sick? Song asked the two.

Ah… her father tapped his fingers and turned to her. I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear this kind of talk first thing in the morning…

What’s going on? Song asked her parents nervously as they both turned to her, and recalled the previous time they had looked at her as they did now—right before telling her that her grandmother had died.

Song, dear… Her mother placed her hands on the back of one of the breakfast nook’s teal wooden chairs. They decided to close down the middle school. You won’t be going to it after all.

Why would… Why is it closing?

Because… evidently they aren’t important anymore, her voice cracked. Going out into the world and meeting people is dead, obsolete.

Vivian, please, don’t act like this.

I don’t… Song murmured.

Here, Vivian grabbed her tablet from the counter and pushed it across the table to Song. "That’s why."

Will you stop it? Hirito demanded. Talk to her, not at her!

Song picked up the tablet as her parents exchanged a few more words and looked at the local news article about the city deciding to close Greensburg-Salem, and how students and their families would be eased into the transition to online and virtual classrooms.

My school isn’t being closed, is it? Thomas wondered.

No, Vivian nearly snapped. I… No, dear, it isn’t. Yet.

Where’s the nearest middle school now? Song replied.

Pittsburgh. And they’re probably closing that one in a year or two.

Song, listen, her father asked. Your mother is… passionate about this, so I’ll explain what’s happening. A hundred students left that school this year. Remember all the closed up classrooms we saw when we looked at it last month? I had doubts that you’d even make it to seventh grade.

So they’re closing it?

They have to. The city can’t afford to keep it running, it makes no sense when most children don’t go to the school anymore.

And everyone who disagrees gets left behind, her mother argued. It doesn’t matter how the parents or their kids feel. Remember this as you get older, Song: we’ve all become slaves to progress. There was nothing ever good about the way things used to be, no. Why would we ever want our children to leave the house and make friends?

Vivian, you know they’ll probably turn it into a community center like most other old schools. No one is taking away her bike, or her friends.

But what about Kirsten, and Mimi? Song asked sadly. We were going to go there together…

Your friends will be in the virtual school, and you can sign up for the same classes together, her father tried to convince her of the benefits.

But I get dizzy…

I know people who have worked on the school program, Song. I’ve toured the campuses they helped create. They’re great, very detail—

Dad, I get sick! I can’t do a whole school day in a virtual world.

Then we’ll try some medicine. Non-prescription, nothing strong.

Damn it! Vivian protested. Will you listen to her for once? She can’t do it. You know how much I hate this, but if this is happening, she’ll use a computer. I’m not having her medicated just to attend a fake school.

Then she won’t get a proper education, and her friends will exist only as text messages in class. Is that a better alternative?

I don’t want to hear anymore, Song said angrily and gulped down the last of her juice. I’m going to the bus stop.

Song, wait, her mother called to her as she grabbed her backpack. I’ll drive you down there. Today is… It’s special. Song watched as she turned to her father and added, "It’s your last day of school, after all."

Vivian… he sighed.

Thomas, get dressed. Hurry up.

He quietly put his bowl in the sink, ran up the stairs, and came down again a minute later. Their mother led them out to her minivan, morning dew covering her white roses in front of the old two-story colonial house.

Mommy… Thomas spoke up after he and Song slid into the backseats. Why do you and Daddy fight all the time?

She turned around in her seat and replied sternly, I never want either of you to think any of it’s your fault, or that I hate him. He’s a good, caring father to the three of you and a hard worker. But…

You’re not in love anymore, Song finished for her.

Oh, honey…

It’s okay, Mom. Kirsten’s parents got divorced, and she says they’re happier now—that they smile again.

Her mother choked in air and held back tears before replying, We love you, and we always will. But everything’s changing, so fast, and your father and I… We don’t always agree on if it’s making the world better.

We have to go… I don’t want to be late.

Her mother nodded, pressed the power button, and looked at Song in the rearview mirror. You’ve really grown up, sweetheart. ///

Song? Marcus’s voice came into existence again. Yoo-who. Hey.

She closed the picture her mother had sent to her personal email in a brief letter about her upcoming birthday. She was relieved that her monitor was facing away from Marcus as he tapped on their glass barrier, so he couldn’t have seen the fifth grade class photo that her mother had dug up.

Do you want to hear how it went last night or not?

What, the um… logic bomb? Anything out of the ordinary?

Nah, same typical lack of evidence. They’re getting nasty, though—digital scarring was deep this time. Just thought you’d want to hear about that pompous ass Foster. God help us if the other Homeland Security guys are like him. Sounded like he was on some old-fashioned American crusade. He might as well have dreamed up a giant flag to impale terrorists with.

Come on, he couldn’t have been that bad. We see him all the time in real life. Seems like a relatively normal person.

Some people can’t control their dream-selves too well. Guy was a damn jingo all night. I mean, it’s just funny, because if this is Acayla’s work again, then he’s trying to do some shock and awe bullshit against a Jamaican girl-lover and her army of hippies. Seriously, he needs to go back to basic or something. He was far from, ah, subtle.

File a report, then. If he’s half as bad as you say, a few complaints have probably already been registered.

I know, I know. Really, I think he does just need better training. I remember my first day working in the ‘scape, trying to question people. I couldn’t take it seriously, either. Every trait that’s hidden in your mind comes out, and then you have to work to shove it back again.

… I think I might need some training soon myself.

Huh? Wait, you’re actually thinking of going in?

I don’t know yet. I’ve been wondering about it for a while now, and if Charles actually wants to employ me somehow, it might be inside.

Oh, crap, I forgot. Ah, the Sonders lady replied to your… reply. To me. Inside the ‘scape, I mean—more dream-mail.

Why would she do that? I gave her my email…

Dunno. She must have her reasons, suspicious as they may be. Hold on, let me log in… Marcus said and went to the DreamNet home page, which showed upcoming events and server status notifications.

Is it meant just for me? I don’t know how I feel if these keep going through you, and you’re reading them…

Hey, I’m not comfortable with it, either. I skimmed over this one, since it was longer and it’s for you in the first place. Then again, I don’t think someone like her would let me see anything too confidential.

Marcus accessed his account, bringing up a graphic of his default avatar appearance: an even more droll version of him with a flat expression and a brown trench coat reminiscent of a private eye get-up in movies from the previous century. He found the email and forwarded it to Song.

It didn’t come through, she said after a few seconds.

Oh, I sent it to your personal one. There’s a reason for that.

She sighed just a bit as she went back to the email website she had just closed and logged back in. The forwarded message waited at the top.

FWD: For Ms. Atoroshi

Original Sender: [e-mail]

Hello, Mr. Cormish. Please forward this message to Song.

Charles was glad to hear you’re interested. As you may know, I currently live and work in New York City, and due to heavy travel restrictions (that aid Charles’ privacy measures), I will work to expedite a meeting with him. I cannot give you our address or travel instructions through this email.

The link below will lead you to a page of security questions. The page will only show if accessed on a secure, private, and residential network. Upon completion of the questions, you will be provided an email address to contact. Simply sending a greeting will be enough to receive a response. Charles is looking forward to meeting you. You may bring your partner, but the conversation you will have with Charles is strictly confidential.

indi.go/mask/fjk93haayb3nqpq

Thank you,

Jessica Sonders

"You considered this too long?" Song asked Marcus.

"Well, all that formal crap made it seem longer. What, you’re mad at me for not reading your email now?"

Anything special about this indigo-mask site?

It’s just a good concealment site, hard to decrypt. Careful with the link. Clicking it from work might kill the page, even if it wouldn’t load.

So she wants to give me a private email address…

Good chance it might be Charles’. When are you going to bring this up to the boss? You… are going to, right?

Yeah, of course. I just wouldn’t have anything to report, yet.

Considering who we’re dealing with here, I don’t think Ross would hesitate on clearing us for New York. Could end up being nothing or just some personal nostalgia trip, but either way, Ross would want to know what the fourth richest man in the world wants with you.

He would’ve known my dad, but I don’t think they were close. It might equate to some trust, but I doubt this is anything personal.

Well, whatever. Going to get some dinner.

I’ll catch up, need to take care of something.

On his way out, Marcus passed by Foster walking in the opposite direction and joked, Hey, make your country proud yet?

Shut up, he grumbled in response.

Song got into the local server logs, which had timestamps down to the nanosecond for when each DreamNet packet corrupted by the logic bomb arrived at the chamber’s units. She copied the arrival times of the first ten into an email and sent them, hoping they were enough to work off of. Chen replied before Song went to dinner, thanking her for the numbers.

When she arrived at her apartment lobby that Thursday night, she noticed that one of the white LED panels on the grid of resident mailboxes was glowing, indicating a new delivery. She was halfway to the elevator before she realized that it was her box.

She received physical mail so rarely, that she approached it with suspicion and opened it slowly, as if expecting a waiting bomb. Inside was a large white envelope with a cushiony bubble wrap interior. Judging by its weight, she expected it to be a piece of computer hardware.

Alone in the lobby, she slid her handbag to the ground and opened the envelope. Inside was something she hadn’t touched in many years—a book, this one a hardcover with a dust jacket. The corner of a note attached to the first page was sticking