The Dreamfields
by K.W. Jeter
This was the dream of Arthur. He thought there was come into this land griffons and serpents, and he thought they burnt and slew all the people in the land, and then he thought he fought with them, and they did him passing great harm and wounded him full sore, but at the last he slew them. When the king awaked he was passing heavy of his dream.
PART ONE
The Base
Chapter 1
Something had struck the earth and it wouldn’t stop ringing. Or so it seemed. Ralph Metric took another pull at the beer can sweating in his hand and watched the heat waves shimmer on the rocks and sand beyond the glass. Below the glaring window the air conditioner whined.
“I just think it’s kind of strange,” came Stimmitz’s voice again. It cut through the aural haze produced by Bach cantatas dribbling into the room at low volume. “Don’t you? Strange, a little?”
“Huh?” Ralph turned, from the window. A phantom desert in green and purple slowly ebbed from his vision, revealing Stimmitz sitting in the dark end of the room. On one of the bookshelves behind him the reels of his tape deck inexorably rotated.
“Strange.” The too-angular legs shifted their positions, like some part of a mantis flexing. “Don’t you think it is?”
Somehow I got lost here, thought Ralph. While I was looking out the window? I can’t even remember what we were talking about. “Strange?”
The word itself had gotten a little fuzzy from repetition, and beer. Bach, too. He discovered he was running his thumb around the top of the beer can at the same speed the tape reels were going around. He switched the beer to his other hand and slid the first into his pocket. “What’s strange?” he said.
“Oh. You know.” Stimmitz looked past Ralph towards the window.
“Operation Dreamwatch, the whole thing. The uniforms and the pretend-military bit. I mean, if they really want discipline so tight, why’d they hire people . . . like Glogolt, for Pete’s sake. That jerk’s been here longer than any of us and he still hasn’t learned how to do the regulation knot in his tie.” Stimmitz’s eyes shifted a fraction of an inch and refocused on Ralph.
“Glogolt’s got quite a stack, of deficiency notices.” Ralph interposed the beer can between Stimmitz’s eyes and his own and took another swallow.
“Yeah, but they don’t get rid of him. So they must have some kind of use for him, right? But what good is somebody like Glogolt? Or any of the people here, for that matter.”
Ralph laid the cool damp of the beer can against his cheek and said nothing. Stimmitz was poking at a group of thoughts that had been wadding up in Ralph’s gut for some time now. About the size of a basketball, thought Ralph glumly. That’s how they feel.
“I mean, this is an expensive set-up,” Stimmitz’s mouth moved again beneath his hardening eyes. “This all costs money, a lot of it. How come there’s so much Muehlenfeldt money being dumped into this project while there’s a war going on?”
“Muehlenfeldt money?” Through Ralph’s mind flashed a brief image of the distinguished Senator M. cranking a printing press in a dank basement.
“Of course. This whole thing’s bankrolled through their Ultimate Foundation.”
“So? Somebody’s got to pay for it.”
“Yeah, but why?” A slight increase in the volume of Stimmitz’s voice eclipsed the murmuring Bach cantata. “What’s the whole project doing here? What’s it for?”
“It’s for 125 dollars a week,” said Ralph with beer-laden profundity. “Plus room and board.”
“Come on.”
“Yeah, well, they told us what it’s for, didn’t they? Therapy, right? For all those messed-up little juvenile delinquents over there at the Thronsen Home.”
Stimmitz was quiet for a moment, then spoke very softly. “Do you believe that?”
A thin layer of Bach crept through the room for several seconds. “I guess so,” said Ralph finally. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“I went into Thronsen yesterday,” said Stimmitz. “Helga and I did. We cut a hole in the perimeter fence and went into the main building—”
“Hey, you’re not supposed to do that.”
Stimmitz looked annoyed, then shrugged. “Sometimes you have to do things you’re not supposed to.”
“So what’d you find?” Ralph’s curiosity had started to unfold a little.
From the tape came a soprano solo, then the chorus again, sounding as if from a great distance. “Maybe I’d better not tell you just now,” said Stimmitz. “Maybe later.”
“I hate that,” said Ralph in disgust. “I hate it when people do that. Teasing you with some crummy little secret, and then they won’t tell you.”
“You probably wouldn’t believe me, anyway. Not yet at least.” He seemed to be drawing away from the conversation. “You’re still operating out of a whole different universe.”
The last sounded like something Stimmitz had always talked about before, but to which Ralph had never paid attention. “Don’t start that.” He leaned over to deposit the beer can on a low table already crowded with empties. The can slid from his grasp and dropped the last inch to the table top. A few drops of warm fluid splashed out of the little opening and flecked his hand. “All this talk about universes—” He paused to hold down a belch, “—is just a way of avoiding the real problem.” Which is? mocked a portion of him that the beer hadn’t reached. He ignored it and headed for the bathroom. A couple more empty cans fell over on the floor as his feet hit them.
“Just remember,” said Stimmitz as Ralph crossed in front of him, “what went on today. While you were here.”
“Sure.” Ralph pushed open the door. “Remember this conversation always. Changed my whole life.”
“Seriously.” Stimmitz’s voice followed him into the smallest room of his apartment. “In case . . . uh, something happens. And I don’t get around to talking to you about this again.”
Ralph nodded and closed the door without saying anything. What was that all about? he wondered.
When he came out, the Bach cantatas tape had ended. The loose end of the tape fluttered as the take-up reel continued to spin. The chair in front of the bookshelves was empty.
Ralph went to the tape deck and switched it off. Small lights died and went out. “Stimmitz?” he said, turning around.
The room was silent except for the air conditioner. Outside the window the desert still vibrated with heat.
“Hey. Where are you? Hey, Stimmitz, where’d you go?” He pivoted slowly in the center of the room.
“What’s the matter?” Stimmitz came back into the room from the apartment’s miniscule balcony. He had been standing to one side where Ralph couldn’t see him. “What’s wrong?” he said, sliding the window shut behind himself.
“Nothing.” Ralph kneaded his forehead with one hand. Something during the last few seconds had dissipated the gassy alcoholic haze produced by the beer. Maybe his universe is catching up on me? “Just don’t—go around disappearing like that, OK?” From the floor he picked up his uniform coat with the green and gold Opwatch patch on the sleeve.
As he crossed the base, he was aware that to anybody watching from one of the apartment buildings, it would look as if he were now shimmering with heat waves, too.
That’s all right, thought Ralph. As long as you’re in phase. He trudged on towards the base’s Rec hall.