Dreaming the Perpetual Dream Read online

  “It would at least behoove you to acknowledge me,” the words said, in a strangely tinny masculine tone. “There was a time when our views were of equal importance, even in your eyes.”

  In the same moment that Link realized he was still in the otherworldly setting, he realized that the body he was inhabiting was turning around. There was another fleeting sensation of his own body, lying somewhere far away, and the slippery sense that now would be a good time to open his eyes.

  Link drifted in the dream, watching the view change as the eyes he was looking through turned to the voice he could suddenly understand. Another voice erupted, more masculine and less tinny; and Link heard it from within, like he was accustomed to hearing his own.

  “That was before you betrayed me,” it said. “That was before you tried to take control of my fleet.”

  “Admiral.” The tinny voice came again, as Link got a look at what was speaking. “You are not in charge or in possession of this fleet. There is—”

  It looked almost completely human, other than the dull metallic covering that served as its skin. All one color, the metal appeared soft and pliable; only that and its eyes gave it away as something less than natural. Its eyes were shaped like a person’s, but were illuminated by the soft blue glow of active electricity. The way it moved was smooth and deliberate, while its face was expressing emotion and depth as clearly as its voice had been. Link found himself marveling at the creature, even as he reminded himself that it was only a dream.

  In a flash, the body he was inhabiting moved. One arm stayed at his side, while the other snatched a sidearm from his hip. A silent burst of purple lightning erupted from the barrel, too fast to see and too bright to miss; and the creature exploded into a dozen pieces. Shards of metal and glass littered the floor as it collapsed, and bare sparking wires danced in the burst remains. The lump smoked and sputtered for a moment after it fell, to finally lie silent and fully extinguished.

  Link felt his eyes go wide in wonder, and he smiled.

  “Wow,” he said, aloud.

  The body he was in took a step back, surprised at the exclamation. Link swirled in his own confused bewilderment; the sound that had escaped those lips had not been the word he had uttered, but he had understood it as if it had the same meaning. It was all too much for him; the next time he became aware of soft sheets, Link dove at that awareness with all he had.

  The last glimpse he had was of a half-dozen tiny trundling machines, appearing from hidden panels to converge on the pieces of robot that lay on the floor.

  THREE

  Sweat had moistened the sheets to the point of causing him discomfort, and it was suddenly easier to get out of bed than it had been in some time. His own body seemed awkward and unwieldy, his breathing jagged and shallow. Link put the dream from his mind as best he could, standing beside his bed and staring blankly at the clock on his nightstand.

  The strange scene had played out in moments, a few minutes at most. It was nearly noon, according to the digital display. Link let befuddlement cloud his thoughts, felt his face scrunch with it as he watched the minute tick one digit closer to twelve o’clock. A dull ache had started in his head while he slept, and it took him another full minute to do the morning math.

  “Caffeine,” Link muttered under his breath. “Must have caffeine.”

  He laughed aloud, at his own struggled sentence. Link thought of the comic book heroes he had loved as a kid, and how they would state their intentions at a time when it seemed they should be focusing on the task at hand. When a building began falling or someone needed to be saved, a thought or speech bubble always seemed to accompany the action that stretched the limits of their super abilities.

  “Got to...hold up...this building,” or, “got to...save the...girl” sounded way more impressive than his mantra, but Link had to power through both the task at hand and the lack of super powers. His struggle seemed both genuine and comical to him, at the same time.

  “Must...have...caffeine,” he repeated, turning on the machine and watching it warm up with great intensity. Although he drank a lot of coffee, it was seldom all at once; Link had purchased a coffee maker that would make him a fresh cup every time, the way he consumed it. When it notified him that it was ready to brew, he selected a roast and slid the little plastic cup filled with grounds into place.

  “Must...have...caffeine,” he muttered again, closing the lid on the device and pressing a button. He stared at it while it brewed, watching the stream of darkened liquid shoot into the cup until it had stopped completely. To further entertain himself, he shuffled like a zombie to the refrigerator and pulled it slowly open.

  “Must...have...caffeine,” he said to the creamer, as he pulled it from the cold. He said it again as he was pouring, and once more while he stirred. Link’s mantra had gone from superhero self-talk to undead moan in a half dozen repetitions, and he smiled while he sipped at last.

  Almost immediately, the headache began to go away. His eyes widened, his thoughts cleared, and Link let the smile fall from his face.

  Carrying the cup into the bedroom, he stood over the bed and looked down at it almost disdainfully. He sipped the warm brew while he went over the dream in his mind, and was nearly halfway done drinking it when he set it on the nightstand.

  Stripping the sheets and replacing them with fresh ones was done in that same distracted state of mind, and he didn’t stop to think of why he would do it now until it was done. Link’s eyes went from the remaining coffee to the freshly made bed three or four times before he realized that he was making a decision. Doffing his pajamas, he slipped between the sheets and rested his head on a clean and crisp pillowcase.

  Link sighed deeply, and let his eyes drift closed. Darkness greeted him, but he opened his eyes before it could entangle him deeply. That coffee was getting cold, and the pills were right there; it seemed only obvious that he should take one with the other, and either wake up completely or drift off entirely.

  Sitting up in bed, he twisted the cap off the bottle and palmed one of the tiny mind-benders. It sat on his tongue until the coffee washed it away, down his throat to join the remains of the other in his belly. Link lay back and closed his eyes once more, waiting for the wakefulness.

  While he waited, Link thought of the way he had been breathing in his dream. He felt the darkness seeping in, felt the warm sleepy tendrils burrow into his brain, and tried to imitate the pattern. It felt difficult and natural at the same time somehow, and it was a few minutes before he noticed a shift in his consciousness.

  Darkness reigned, still; yet the thoughts echoing in that darkness were not his own. Link knew the patterns of his own mind, had watched them play out in that darkness as they shifted slowly over the years. In those last moments before he fell asleep, an urgency to do all the things he had been too timid to do that day would habitually fill his mind. It was no use to remind himself that it was too late, that the opportunities had existed in the moment and had passed; the only way to dupe his mind into sleeping would be to promise it that he would seize every opportunity tomorrow.

  The next morning, he always woke to a different mind. Memories he hadn’t thought of since childhood would surface, a sadness that he couldn’t define would settle in, and it was all he could do to get himself out of bed in the morning. Somewhere in his sleep he had always lost the confidence that he mustered up the night before, and it was all he could do to make it through even the least demanding parts of his day.

  This darkness was different. It was full of fury, and fire. It spoke to him of injustice, but not in a way that beat him down to nothing; Link felt an anger burning within him like he had never known, and the need to rise up and use it to change the world.

  Link opened his eyes, sat up swiftly.

  The room was dark, but there was no mistaking it for his own. Several dull green lights were visible, scattered throughout the inky blacknes
s. A low steady thrumming sound filled his ears, and his body seemed to vibrate with it; he found it soothing rather than distracting, and had to listen closely to actually hear it. As he tried to listen, one of the green lights went blue. It began to move closer, and a voice sounded when it came near.

  “Admiral,” it said. “You are in a designated sleep period. You are advised to lie back, and close your eyes. Interrupting the sleep cycle is not conducive to optimal waking performance.”

  Narrowing his eyes in the darkness, Link could make out the form vaguely in the light it cast on itself. It was a twin to the machine he had seen earlier, distinctly human and robotic at the same time. Its voice was different than before, monotonous and mechanical.

  Link laughed, moved his arms around like a puppet whose strings had been severed. The motions were useless and powerful at the same time, and he saw that his bare arms were thick with muscle. He peered at the light, raised an eyebrow in its direction.

  “Admiral?” Link laughed again. “Did you call me Admiral?”

  There was no response at first. Link continued leaning forward slightly, and felt his eyes go wide as the blue light shifted to green once more. When the response came, the voice was different and familiar all at once. There was texture and emotion to it, despite it having a distinctly tinny quality. It was the voice that had been speaking to him before, in the other dream.

  “Is it you?” it said. “Have I found The Link?”

  Link felt his eyes go even wider, at the sound of his name.

  “Yes,” he breathed. “I am Link.”

  It sounded strange, after he said it; so he amended the statement.

  “I mean, my name is Link,” he said, awkwardly. “I’m probably not the only one, though I don’t think it’s the most common name. Actually, it’s a nickname. My real name is—”

  “You have to help me,” the voice said, cutting him off. “The man whose body you are inhabiting is preparing to kill half of the fleet. After one horrific decimation, he is determined to follow through with yet another. The first cost us our planet, and I fear that the next could lead to our extinction. You have to help me.”

  Link watched the light, willing his eyes to adjust as the speaker went on. When he didn’t respond immediately, the voice came again.

  “You have to help me,” it insisted, once more.

  Link laughed, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  “What a weird dream,” he muttered, as the darkness took him.

  FOUR

  Now that he knew what kind of effect the pills had on his dreams, Link saw no reason to waste them on his waking hours. The drudgery of cubicle life was best served through a dim fog, in his experience; the aftermath of sleeping through the chemically induced sensory overload cast that dim fog like nothing else. His challenge was not in completing his work load; it was in making that work load last an entire eight hours. Sometimes he made mistakes, deliberately, so he could correct them later; it gave him something to do, with some of that time. He didn’t like standing around the water cooler and talking about television, like his co-workers; so he surfed the internet between tasks, and looked for opportunities to meet people he might connect with.

  It was not just unusual for someone to pop their head into his space, as much as they did it to each other; it was hard for him to remember it ever happening before.

  “Hey,” said the head, when it popped in.

  A pretty face was attached to it, tanned with a smattering of freckles about a slightly upturned nose and across her high cheeks. Her eyes were like her hair, dark in color while reflecting every nearby light at every angle. She seemed to pick up the light and carry it with her, while radiating it outward at the same time. A body followed the face into his cubicle, and the space was suddenly filled with her scent and presence.

  “Is it Lincoln?” she asked, smiling. “Is that right?”

  The smile lit up the tiny enclosed area, and Link found it too bright in his cubicle to string together the words to tell her that the friends he didn’t have called him Link.

  Dumbly, he nodded.

  “I’m Sherry,” she said.

  Link nodded again. He knew that. He also knew it would be a bit creepy to say so, and there were still no clever groupings of words leaping to mind; so he remained silent.

  “There’s a Christmas party on Saturday,” she said, holding something out to him. “Are you going to be able to make it?”

  There was a word, somewhere in the blinding brilliance. Link grabbed at it, vocalized it as triumphantly as possible.

  “Uh...”

  She watched him reach further, and must have seen him fail. Leaning forward, Sherry put the thing she had been holding on his desk. She flashed him with one last smile, and left him to breathe in whatever part of her lingered after she left. After several stunned minutes Link reached out, and picked up the printed flyer.

  ‘DID YOU KNOW THAT OVER SEVENTY PERCENT OF YOUR CO-WORKERS DON’T HAVE FAMILY NEARBY?’

  The first line jumped out at him, and Link shrugged in answer.

  “So?” he muttered. “Who needs family?”

  The flyer went on, in all caps.

  ‘IN A RECENT OFFICE POLL, MANY OF YOU RESPONDED THAT YOU WOULD BE ALONE FOR THE HOLIDAYS. SEVERAL PEOPLE SAID THEY WOULD BE AVAILABLE TO WORK, AT NORMAL SALARY, EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE BEING GIVEN PAID TIME OFF.’

  There was a line of sideways frowning faces, made from punctuation marks. Under that was another batch of text, still boldly capitalized.

  ‘MANAGEMENT WOULD LIKE TO SHOW OUR APPRECIATION FOR YOUR HARD WORK AND DEDICATION THROUGHOUT THE YEAR. THAT’S WHY WE ARE THROWING A CHRISTMAS EVE OFFICE PARTY!’

  The day and time were in smaller print, at the bottom of the page. Under that, it offered two ways to RSVP: Link felt his eyes go wide as he read the last line.

  It was Sherry’s e-mail address and mobile phone number.

  Rather than think back over all the times he had promised himself that he would ask for that information in the past, Link simply wasted no time in adding the number to his meager list of contacts. He even started to type out a couple of texts to her without any intention of finishing or sending them.

  After awhile, he went back to work. His paced his duties so he would be neither the fastest nor the slowest person entering similar data, so he might continue his lifelong deliberate practice of living somewhere in the middle. Link hated to call it mediocrity, since so many people seemed to hover right around where he did; instead he thought of it as home.

  Again, best seen through the forgiving filter of a dim fog.

  Looking at the flyer was pointless, and a little annoying; although neither thought kept him from glancing at it between batches of work. Each time his eyes landed on it, Link grew slightly more irritated. He hated it when people used all capital letters to express themselves, and the only thing he hated more than emoticons were imitation emoticons made from punctuation marks.

  Still, Sherry had been on his radar since her first day. She had started below him, only to work her way into his position and then past it. Now she was lower management, which had put her more out of reach than ever. Saying hello to her had gone from a simple cubicle pop-in to an office visit in a day, and Link remained convinced that it had been the day he was finally going to pop in.

  He found himself staring at the flyer again, thinking maybe people who used capital letters too much were not so bad after all. Then it was as though someone else had control of his hands, and suddenly Link was typing another message to her number.

  ‘Hi Sherry,’ it said. ‘I’ll see you at the party.’

  Link pressed send, his heart pounding in his chest. A moment later he smacked his forehead with the flat of one hand, and typed another message.

  ‘This is Lincoln, BTW.’

  When he pressed the icon to ship off the me
ssage, a little bubble popped up to show him that she was preparing to respond.

  Link felt his heart beating even faster.

  ‘Great, Lincoln!’ popped up, finally. ‘See you there!’

  Without thinking, he shot off another message.

  ‘My friends call me Link.’

  He felt like a complete idiot the moment he sent it, and locked his phone to blank the screen and stew in his stupidity.

  The phone buzzed on his desk.

  Link snatched it up, and pressed the home button.

  ‘Link it is,’ she had written. ‘See you at the party!’

  He nearly hopped to his feet and whooped. Instead Link silently opened his phone, sighed with relief, and edged a little further out on the limb he was on.

  ‘Save me a dance?’

  Before he could reconsider, he stabbed at the phone and sent the message. A slow steady flush crept up the back of his neck; by the time the phone buzzed again, Link felt like his skull was on fire.

  ‘I don’t think it’s that kind of party.’

  Link frowned, reading it, and felt the burn. Of course it wasn’t that kind of party. What was this, high school? He read the message over and over, shaking his head at his own bumbling.

  Another message popped up while he read it over, below the first, and his eyebrows shot up.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  A wide grin spread across his face, and Link had to bite his forearm to keep from letting out that whoop from earlier when the phone buzzed one last time.

  ‘You’re cute.’

  Spending the rest of the day correcting his own absent-minded and now unintentional mistakes was worth it. Instead of annoying Link, it amused him. He still finished everything he needed to get done before it was time to go home, like he always did. There were messages on his phone to read over and over again, and that seemed to pass the time like nothing else.

  When the clock released him at last, Link found he was not looking forward to going home and spending the evening with Sherry’s messages. His thoughts shifted as soon as he got in his car, and Link found himself looking forward to nice sheets and another experiment in sleeping with the wakeful drug.