The levtrain sped noisily, jerking back and forth through the towering buildings of the London Metroplex. Serah closed her eyes, trying to fight back the first signs of nausea and motion sickness. This only served to emphasize the roughness of the ride. She adjusted the environmental controls above her seat, hoping a bit of circulation would help, but was met with a warm, stale, humid flow of air that smelled of industrial fumes. She instantly became nauseous, trying to keep her eyes on the floor. This increased her awareness of the blurred cityscape streaking past the window beside her. The car was definitely moving too fast.
The confines of the dream seemed obvious this time, which made it no less disturbing. Part of her expected the train to jump off its guides and slam into an inconveniently placed building somewhere. As oddly as the dreamspinner had been behaving, it was still a sure bet that the dream had something horrifying and disastrous in store for her. She thought about what Flo had said about how that much information should have driven her insane. Maybe it was already too late. Having a lucid dream under the influence of the dreamspinner was certainly not a positive sign. On the other hand, perhaps the dreamspinner had programmed this dream in such a way that she could finally gain some semblance of control over her subconscious and get some closure over the events of the past couple of days.
She sat back in her seat. Dream or not, the motion sickness was real. She debated trying to wake herself but thought better of it. It was probably best not to fight a temperamental dreamspinner. Just let it do its job, she thought, or at least what it thinks is its job. Primitive, though the machine may be, it probably still knew more about her current state of mental health than she was qualified to diagnose.
She studied her surroundings. The car was much like the ones she rode almost daily, except that it was noisier and devoid of color. Gone were the myriad advertisements and flyers, and the newsnet terminals on the backs of all the seats were dark and silent. She glanced down at the datapad in her lap. It was turned on, yet no matter what she did, the screen remained defiantly blank. The entire scene reminded her of a half-finished holopainting – all of the forms but none of the details.
She was sitting in the last rear-facing seat next to the starboard side window, as she almost always was on those days when she didn’t feel like socializing or being noticed by the billys that roamed the trains all day. As far as she could tell, the car had the correct number of seats, but none of them were occupied. Standing up, she made her way through the right-side aisle toward the center doors, reasonably sure that if the car was out of control and headed for a collision, she would wake up at the moment of impact. If she knew it was a dream and kept focused on remembering it was a dream, it would minimize the chance of her going into shock or having a heart attack.
It was a dream. Wasn’t it?
Looking out the sealed exit doors, she saw the train was traveling on a narrow bridge. The sun was setting — or rising? — over a wide span of water that spread across the horizon. However, when she looked out the car’s windows, the train was still moving through a transit tube in the middle of the city at night. She marveled at how easily her mind seemed to accept this paradox. It was strange to walk through a dream, knowing it was merely a dream. Still, if this were something therapeutic, and she was supposed to work it out for herself, the solution to this enigma eluded her.
Noticing that the motion sickness had suddenly passed, Serah turned around and saw a figure seated in the opposite corner of the car from her own seat. Had he been there all along? Why hadn’t she spotted him before? Not wanting to startle the man, she quietly stepped across the car and inched her way up the aisle. The man did not move. She carefully sat down on the seat opposite him. His eyes were transfixed on something in the blur of motion that passed by the window next to him; his face was a portrait of confused calmness.
“Dr. Halferne?” Serah asked.
The man did not move but continued to stare out the window. A slowly exhaled sigh was his only confirmation to indicate that he was aware of her presence.
“My name is Serah. Serah Wyles. I think you’ve been trying to send me a message, only you were–” She paused, wondering if telling the man he had been murdered would somehow traumatize him. Of course not; this was her dream. If anything, he was supposed to be providing the explanations. She placed her hand gently on his knee.” Dr. Halferne, I have to know what’s going on. I saw you … dead. It was just like my dream, but it wasn’t a dream. Was it?” Halferne still did not move. “Dr. Halferne?” She pleaded. Tears welled in her eyes, and she withdrew her hand from the man’s knee to wipe them.
“Professor,” Halferne said, turning his head slowly and looking at her with great sadness.
“What?” Serah asked, confused.
“Professor Halferne,” he said as if she should have known that already.
Serah laughed through her tears. “Sorry … Professor. What’s going on?” she asked.” Are you somehow doing all this?”
“No,” Halferne said, consoling her as a parent would to a child. “You are.” The words stabbed through Serah. “Perception dictates reality,” he continued. “Your dream. Your perception. I’m sorry to put you through all this, but I’m not myself, you know.”
Serah’s voice was defiant, “I don’t understand. I’ve never even seen you before yesterday. How could I have dreamed about you?”
“A wise man said that having the answer to a problem is not nearly as important…” Halferne nodded as if expecting her to complete the proverb. “…as how you approach it.”
“How you approach it?” Serah repeated.
“Not me … you,” Halferne said, disappointed. “I’m dead, remember?” He smiled.
“The man who keeps killing you in these dreams.”
“It is not a man,” Halferne said gravely. You’ve seen what it can do. What man could be capable of that?”
“But what if–” Serah cut off abruptly when the door at the opposite end of the car opened up. A black figure stepped into the aisle. This time, Serah recognized the uniform—the dreaded robes and hoods of the Couteau Foncé, Persian death commandoes, the dreaded enforcers of the Emir.
“No, Serah,” Halferne half-shouted. “You have to stop this!”
Serah leaped to her feet, “Run, Professor!” She pointed to the doorway leading into the next car.” I’m not going to let you die this time. I need answers!”
Halferne smiled peacefully. “It’s too late for that now.”
The assailant stopped, regarded Serah briefly, and slowly drew back the hood.
Underneath, she saw her own face — expressionless but undeniably evil.
“This is no good,” Halferne mumbled frantically. Just stop. You’re not approaching this the right way.”
“Get out of here, Professor! Run!”
Slowly, the doppelganger removed a gun from her holster. Serah became convinced that the imagery meant she was expected to save Halferne. She darted across the car and tackled her “other self,” grabbing desperately for the gun, half expecting it to go off, killing one of them as in some low-budget videodrama. “Tune in tomorrow to find out which perished,” she thought. Instead, they both tumbled to the floor between the rows of passenger seats, and the gun slid into the aisle a few feet away. Of course, she thought, the other cliché. Serah pounded her fists into her opponent’s – her own — face with all her might but with no effect. In one lightning-fast move, her doppelganger thrust her palm into Serah’s rib cage, pivoted, and instantly jumped to her feet, defying physics. Then, she walked over and methodically picked up the gun.
“I’m sorry, Serah. You’ve got to be the one to end this,” Halferne shouted from the other side of the car. “We shouldn’t be here.”
Serah looked up at the image of her own face. Dull, lifeless eyes slowly raised the plaser. She cursed herself for such a reckless act of heroism, then let out a scream, more of frustrated rage than fear, as she watched the trigger being pulled.
#
The skullcap slowly began to detach itself, and she felt like she could feel every nanofiber withdrawing from her brain. She knew this was impossible, of course, but that didn’t seem to matter. The room was completely dark aside from the glowing display of the dreamspinner. She didn’t care about the telemetry. She was already sure she knew what it would say. She only cared about the time. 5:15AM. She pulled the skullcap off her head and threw it across the room. She had never felt so alone in her life. She couldn’t even call Noctivo now without having to explain petabytes of information swimming around in her head that she couldn’t access. They’d probably laugh at her anyway. All she could do was wait for Erik to figure out what she was to do next.
She lay in the dark for a while, trying to coax her body into a natural, uninduced sleep as Henry had suggested, but to no avail. Her mind was still racing over the events of her last dream. She felt she had come very close to the answer, but somehow, it still managed to dance beyond her reach, like the images in the chapel before it.
Calling for the lights, she requested the NPNA newsfeed. Maybe Erik would see she was awake and would call her again. She decided that updating him on what his friends had learned would help. She went to the food dispenser and stared at the menu selector. Coffee or tea? She couldn’t decide. Even that simple decision frustrated her to the point of tears. Physically and mentally exhausted, she screamed in frustration and defiantly pounded on the dispenser’s interface panel. Then, she stormed back into the living room area and, with one grand sweep of her arms, dumped the contents of her desk onto the floor. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she grabbed her datapad and threw it across the room toward the dreamspinner at the head of her bed. The pad missed the bed by inches and, with a loud pop, shattered against the wall. Serah froze in awe, picturing Halferne similarly smashing his datapad right before…
The door chime sounded. She must have made enough noise to wake the neighbors. What would she tell them? Sorry, Mr. Fenton, but I’m going mad. I’ll try to do it quietly in the future.
The door opened, and a man stood there, staring at her. He said nothing but regarded her coldly for a few seconds. Serah felt faint, staggered back a few steps, and braced herself against the wall. The man entered, grabbed her by the arm to steady her, and silently shut the door behind them. He dragged her into the living room and threw her roughly on the couch. She just lay there, helpless, having lost all will to resist. This was it. She had lost. At least if the man killed her, the nightmares would end.
His hair was unkempt, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. He paced back and forth in front of her, rubbing his hands through his hair, occasionally glaring at her, then up at the ceiling. Serah did not attempt to speak to him.
“Finally. It’s you,” he hissed. “You’re the one behind all this. You’re the one that’s doing this!” His accent was distinctly French. He stared at her, his eyes burning with accusation.
Suddenly, she recognized him. The eyes were as unmistakable now as they were when she’d seen him glaring at her across the Nine Stones Café two days ago, right before she stumbled across Halferne’s murder. He was also most likely the shade as well. There was something in the way both looked at her. Serah tried to keep her voice calm, “Look, I don’t have any idea what you’re–”
“Shut up!” the man yelled. “This is the end!” He continued to pace a little faster now. “We chased Halferne halfway across the settled worlds, but there were still so many loose ends. Why did he come here? Who else knows? Where were the rest of his allies? Why did he come to London? Oh, that was clever. You tried to hide, but I went back. I went all the way back to Banpei Station. That’s where I found you.”
“Look, this is all a misunderstanding. If you’d just let me explain–”
“No! It’s over now! I’m ending this, and then I’d go back and find the rest of his allies.”
Serah noticed the man was drooling now — completely insane. She froze as her mind suddenly cleared, and an unexpected rush of confidence entered her. If she was going to die, she was going to go out fighting. What was there to lose at this point? “I’m impressed,” she said supportively. She knew every moment she could keep him talking was a moment she could postpone her inevitable death. Hopefully, there were enough moments left for her to think of a way to get the upper hand on a physically superior opponent. “Now, who are you?” she asked, her voice still hovering between a plea and feigned respect. “Why don’t you tell me your name? I deserve to know the name of the person who finally found me.” And most likely will be killing me, she thought.
The butt of the pistol came across the side of Serah’s head. She fell to the floor. Surprisingly, there was very little actual pain, but pinpoints of light now clouded her vision.
She thought about death. She knew it would come someday, and she always wondered what she would be feeling. Somehow, it seemed surprisingly trivial now. When it came down to it, her life, indeed all life, seemed a futile exercise in stagnation. She was outside that life now, looking at it from the perspective of a distant observer, and she saw nothing but endless repetition — no growth, no creation, no passion — nothing but constraints, patterns, and forgotten ideals. All of that had been disrupted and shattered these past three days, and in a life full of regrets, the only one that genuinely bothered her now was that it would all be ended by a madman with a gun — someone she was certain knew the answers, but wasn’t sharing any of them. Every fiber in her being, everything she learned as a journalist, had to know those answers, even if she had to die to get them. Rage and desperation overpowered her fear. She thought momentarily about her experience in the last dream but decided she was not going to die a helpless victim. Summoning every ounce of raw fury and strength left in her, she leaped from the floor, grabbed the man by the throat, and sent them both tumbling backward. They hit the floor together, just like they did in the dream…
… except that the man held on to the gun as he fell. She rammed her knee into his groin, rolled her body over to trap his wrist, and beat blindly into his face with her fist.
The man screamed and, with his free arm, shoved her off of him with little difficulty. He was on his feet a split second later, blood gushing from his nose and mouth. He spun around and leveled the gun squarely between her eyes.
She heard two shots before succumbing to the darkness.
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