The Dream Machine

Slim eased up on him, arm cocked back, black pistol in hand. A look of surprise flashed across the guard’s face then suddenly vanished. There was only an empty blankness as his body slipped to the floor.

Ray Calvins automatically took the guards feet. “Over there is a janitor’s closet.”

Slim nodded. Between the two of them they managed to quietly convey the guard’s limp mass over to the closet. Propping the door of the closet open with his foot, Slim, Ray and the guard disappeared inside. A moment later, Slim emerged wearing the guard’s tan uniform. Ray slipped out behind him dressed in a similar olive uniform.

Cradling his cache of secret documents, Slim slipped nimbly down the hall, feet padding gently over the cheap carpeting while Ray followed. They reached the end of the hall and came to a sturdy door. On the door was a yellow sign that said in big black letters ‘END OF ART. GRAV. NO GRAV. BEYOND THIS POINT’. Ray took out his micro propeller, unfolded its blades and strapped it securely to his back. Slim had never liked the micro props; he preferred to use velocity. One hard push with good, steady aim was all that was needed. Slim opened the door.

Immediately, they began to drift upwards. Slim quickly caught himself on one of the handholds, and secured himself against the wall. Ray activated his microprop and hovered in the air, stable. Slim took a minute to survey the launch platform. Four neat rockets lined up side by side. Seven guards. Slim loaded his micro-blaster.

Roughly an hour later, coming in over the tops of the redwood trees, Slim sighted a nice clearing in the forest, suitable as a micro-prop landing site. The rocket they would silently ditch into the ocean. But for now he pulled open the hatch and motioned Ray over.

Slim maneuvered through the large open spaces between the tall trees as he aimed for the clearing he had sighted earlier. He descended lower and lower and finally increased power to the prop and set himself down gently on the forest floor. He quickly turned off the prop and began removing his high altitude suit. He detached the helmet and stood still for a moment, listening. Almost no sound. A small cacophony of birdsong reached his ears. A bit of wind slicing through the giant trees. It was early morning San Francisco time, and a bit of fog rolled along the ground. He finished changing.

He took out the papers he had smuggled out of the lunar base and poured over the list of code names. Jack Dancy. Robin Smiggs. Oland Bjornsson. Mauve Ryder. Harry Cayma. These were the covernames that hid the true identities of the Federated Agents active in the San Francisco Bay area. And one by one he would have to take them out.

As he rode the bus back to his hide out in the Mission District, Slim set about memorizing the faces printed on the document, and attaching these faces to names. Should he happen to come upon one of them in the course of everyday life...well, it was a dirty business, alright. But the war between the Federated States and the Resistance was an all or nothing affair. One of them would perish.

The bus let him off a few blocks from his modest one-room hideout. He buzzed himself in, mounted a few flights of stairs, and pulled open the door. After he closed the door he secured a number of locks, both sophisticated and delicate, and unrefined and strong. He padded across the single room to his kitchenette, set a pot of coffee and checked his watch. It read 11:45 A.M. Now he looked up to check the clock hanging above his kitchenette. It read 7:27 A.M. He had to be at work at 8:30. He had just enough time. When he got back, the coffee would just be ready to drink. It was better than any of the stuff he could get in the waking world and he looked forward to it.

Slim undressed and headed for the large white machine mounted at the far end of the room. It was the most prominent feature of the one room apartment by far, dominating the few chairs and tables that were scattered haphazardly around it. Slim opened the glass and steel door and leaned back against the padded support girdle. He shut the door and pressed the single large button mounted on the interior of the machine. For a moment, nothing happened, then Slim started to feel very tired. He drifted off for a while, and then started to re-emerge into the world. As he came back, the features of the room outside seemed to morph. The apartment got bigger, rooms split off from others and new walls came into being. Slim sleepily pulled his eyes fully open. A tone sounded in the machine and outside an alarm clock started to ring. 7:30 sharp. Slim pushed open the door of his Ace Products Dream Machine, gingerly pulled himself from the sleep chamber and steadied himself against the chassis. He shut the door behind him, exited his bedroom and went to the kitchen to put on a new, different pot of coffee, and this stuff was much lower grade. But it would do the trick.

Slim showered quickly and began to throw on his work clothes, struggling with the complicated series of loops that would secure his tie. He felt better in a high-altitude suit than he did in a suit and tie. He was better at wearing them, and better at taking them on and off than he was a suit and tie. But what could one do? One had to work. At least he was able to spend a roughly equal amount time Resisting the Federated States during his sleeping hours as he was working for them during his waking hours, in the capacity of a forensics technician at the San Francisco Police Department. Slim picked up his briefcase and hurried out the door. He would be late for his bus.

On the bus, Slim read the paper eagerly. It was a game of his to see how well his fabricated experience matched up with the real deal. Each night, he calibrated the machine to mirror as closely as possible real actions that had been taken by the Resistance that day. This information was then incorporated into his dream experience and became actionable. That was the fun part- it was as close to reality as one could get without risking life and limb. Slim hated working for The Man, but it was enough to secretly, and harmlessly, do battle with Him each night. Slim sighed, looked up from the paper, and out the window at the passing streets, buildings, and cars- the flow that incessantly streamed around the upsets and vicissitudes of life. No matter what regime- the flow found a way.

Out of the corner of his eye, Slim noticed a reflected face in the window looking his direction. He turned and the face looked away. She looked so familiar! The bus came to a stop and he recognized the police department building outside. Where do I know her from? he asked himself as he exited the bus. He couldn’t place her.

Sunlight began to peek over the tall buildings and light up the crowded sidewalk as he navigated through the steady stream of pedestrians. He checked his watch. 8:17. He would just make it, but he would have to move fast. He picked up his pace. A large man in an overcoat headed in the opposite direction bumped against him and Slim tottered over. Before he fell, another large man caught him. The first man in the overcoat then grasped his arm with a vice-like grip.

“Slim Abernathy?” the man in the overcoat asked.

“That’s me,” said Slim slowly. “What’s the problem officer?”

“I’m no officer,” the man opened his badge case. Federated Agent. “If you’ll come with us, please.”

A dark hover car with tinted windows descended from above them and parked near the curb. The two men, each with a firm hand on one of Slim’s arms, led him to the car. The man in the overcoat opened the door, pressed Slim inside and followed. The other man opened the front passenger door, sat down and turned to face Slim, a pistol in his hand. The car lifted off, smoothly overcoming the tops of buildings and floating over the city.

“What’s this about?” asked Slim.

“Shut up,” said the man with the pistol. “Search him,” he said to the man in the overcoat. “No questions until we’ve reached headquarters. You just keep quiet and cooperate. If you do that- cooperate- then everything will turn out fine for you. Ok?”

Slim nodded. The man in the overcoat finished frisking him and, satisfied, took his hands from Slim and leaned back against his seat. He closed his eyes. The man with the pistol kept it trained on Slim.

After ten minutes, Slim looked out the window of the hover car and observed the dense tree-lined streets of Berkeley. A few minutes later and they were above Oakland. The car began to descend. It slowed almost to a halt above the landing pad of a highrise building, and then slowly touched down. The man in the overcoat pulled Slim from the car, cuffed him, and pushed him forward towards a bank of elevator doors.

After a moment, the door of one of the elevators slid aside and Slim was pushed in by the man in the overcoat. They descended slowly. Slim noted the floor when they finally stopped. Sixty-seven. The door opened and the agent propelled Slim out into a large room populated by carpeted cubicles. Office workers strode rapidly around them as they moved along the side of the room and phones rang out constantly. They mounted a flight of stairs and the agent pulled open the door to an office.

“Behave yourself,” he warned. He pushed Slim into the office and closed the door behind him.

At the end of the office was a short mustachioed man wearing a pin-stripe suit. He had tired, weary eyes and was skimming through a manilla file. Further behind his desk was a thin, bespectacled man, waiting attentively with his hands on his lap. The short man looked up from his file, moving his tired eyes over Slim.

“Sit down,” the man said.

Slim approached a thinly padded plastic chair and eased himself down cautiously. He did not take his eyes from the man and the man did not take his eyes from him. After a moment studying Slim, the man looked back down at his file and began to speak.

“Francis ‘Slim’ Abernathy, that your name?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Slim.

“Employed at the forensics department of the San Francisco Police Department?”

“That’s right. As a technician.”

“Ok, Francis. I’m Inspector Morgan.” He looked up from the file. “Where were you this morning, Mr. Abernathy?”

“At home. In my dream machine until 7:27. Then I was on my way to work.”

“So you were not, in fact, making your way down from Muir woods via Sausalito, after murdering five employees of the Federated States and hijacking a ship?”

Slim was surprised, but nonplussed. “No, sir. You must have some wires crossed. Some sort of mix-up. You see, that was a dream, programmed into my Ace Products B190. I was home, asleep in the dream machine. I guess your scanners picked up that activity and mistakenly classified it as genuine.”

Morgan smiled and turned to the man behind him. “You hear that?”

“I sure did,” said the man, returning Morgan’s smile.

“This is, uh, Mr. Quan. He’s legal counsel. You’re in a lot of trouble, Mr. Abernathy.”

“How so? I told you already. You’ve had a mix up. I was in the machine. Just go look at the log.”

“We’ve looked into that already, Mr. Abernathy. Fact is, though I suppose you’ll deny it up and down, that you were in fact not dreaming. In fact, Mr. Abernathy, you are dreaming right now.”

Slim was perplexed. “How’s that again?”

Morgan smiled wider. “You’re the one that’s all mixed up, Francis. I wonder if you genuinely believe this story, or if you’ve had it put over on you. But, let me assure you, we are most definitely in the dream space provided by Ace Products. You are an undercover agent for the Resistance, whether you like it or not.”

“So what does that make you?” asked Slim.

“That information, unfortunately, is classified.” Morgan continued to grin at Slim.

“Well, Inspector, I don’t like it. I don’t believe it. You’ve got a mix up. And now I’d like to go.”

“Not possible. You’re in custody and we’re holding you,” Morgan informed him.

“Well, then, I’d like my phone call.”

Morgan turned to Quan and raised his eyebrows.

“He’s entitled to one,” Quan informed him.

Morgan grunted, but picked up his phone and slammed it on the edge of his desk. “Here you go. Make it quick,” he said acidly.

“I will, don’t worry,” said Slim slyly.

He picked up the phone and deposited it in his lap. He picked up the receiver and dialed a number he had dialed many times before. When he had first received his B190 he had called the number as many as a dozen times in one week. He still remembered it clearly. 650-419-HELP. Whether he was in a dream or in the waking world, the number went to the same place. The line rang a few times and then an assertive female voice answered.

“Ace Products Customer Service, how may I help you?”

“Hello. My name is Francis Abernathy. My account number is one six nine seven five four one nine oh one. I may be having a problem with my B190 dream machine.”

“Ok, Mr. Abernathy, we’d be happy to assist you in any way we can.”

“Thanks,” said Slim. “Could you please connect me to your legal department?”

“That’s no problem, Mr. Abernathy. One moment.” The line went dead and some muzak began to play. After a few moments the line picked up again. “Legal Department, this is Tom Reeves speaking.”

“Hello, Mr. Reeves. My name is Francis Abernathy. I was using one of your B190 Dream Machines last night. I woke up this morning. Everything seemed fine. Only now I’ve been taken into Federal custody on charges based on the dream I had.”

“Ah,” said the voice knowingly. “Okay, that’s no problem Mr. Abernathy. Let me speak to the person in charge over there.”

Slim handed to phone to Morgan. “They want to speak to you,” Slim said.

“Give it to Quan,” said Morgan dryly.

Quan accepted to phone and listened intently mumbling “Ah” and “I see” periodically. “Ok then, Mr. Reeves. I’ll inform him.” Quan handed the phone back to Slim. Morgan looked over at Quan, dumbfounded and mouthed something to him. Quan shrugged.

“Hello,” said Slim.

“Ok, Mr. Abernathy, you’re all set. You’ll be out of there in no time. If you have any other issues, please give us a call back and thank you for using Ace Products. Goodbye.”

“Thanks. Goodbye,” said Slim. He hung up the phone and replaced it on Morgan’s desk.

“Well?” said Morgan to Quan.

“I’ve been informed by Mr. Reeves, a lawyer with Ace Products, that we’re legally bound to release Mr. Abernathy. If he isn’t released in short order, they’ll file an injunction at court and also a civil lawsuit for damages.”

“What? You’re kidding me, Quan. Explain.”

“The thing is, Inspector, as it was explained to me, if Mr. Abernathy really is in a dream, then of course we can’t hold him. We are on Ace Products property and must abide by their rules, whether we are simulacra or recognized legal entities. Simply put, we have no jurisdiction in dream space.”

“And if we’re in the waking world?” asked Slim, smiling at Morgan.

“If we’re in the waking world,” continued Quan, “then Mr. Abernathy has of course committed no crime, as he has stated. We have nothing on him.”

“So you see, Inspector,” said Slim, “whether you’re right, and we’re in a dream, or I’m right, and this is the waking world, you have no grounds to detain me. You’ll have to let me go.” Slim stood up from his chair and turned towards the door, buttoning his suit.

“Wait,” said Morgan. Slim turned to face him. “I don’t know if you really believe this story of yours or not-” he licked his lips. “But you have to admit, you have remarkable composure for an ordinary citizen in your situation, do you not? Isn’t your handling of this situation evidence of some training?” Morgan eyed him seriously.

“I suppose that’s possible, Inspector,” Slim replied. “But I know my life.”

“Do you?” Morgan asked. “How long have you had that B190?”

“Over five years,” Slim replied.

“So, ask yourself, in five years, is it possible that you’ve somehow been turned around? Been mixed up? Lost track of your senses? Of what’s real and what’s not?”

Slim said nothing. He passed out of the office and left Morgan and Quan sitting silently, looking after him. He shut the door behind him and faced the man in the overcoat.

“Well,” said Slim. “I suppose we have to say goodbye. Will you give me a ride back to The City? I’m late for work.”

The man in the overcoat frowned, opened the office door, poked his head through and exchanged some words with the Inspector. Slim could not hear what passed between them, but he could hear the frustration in the Inspector’s voice. The man in the overcoat withdrew and turned back to Slim.

“Can’t do it, boss. But we’ll comp you for a BART ride and give you a number where your employer can confirm the nature of your absence.”

“Fine with me,” Slim said. He took a few dollars that the man in the overcoat had counted out from his wallet and made his way back through the cubicles and over to the bank of elevators. He pressed the button for down, waited for a moment, entered the elevator and slipped down to ground level.

Once back over the bay on the BART train, Slim purposefully missed the stop by his office and instead got off at the 16th Street Mission. He rapidly ascended the escalators to surface level and crossed the dozen or so blocks back to his apartment in record time. On the way, he dialed the Ace Products number again and requested a repair technician be sent sent to his apartment immediately.

Outside his apartment building, he immediately spotted the distinctive white and yellow Ace Products van, its technician loitering on the corner, waiting for him.

“You guys sure are quick,” he shouted.

‘Are you Mr. Abernathy?” the female technician called out to him. “Oh, it’s you-”

As Slim approached her face grew more familiar until he recognized her as the woman who had been looking at him on the bus.

“Hello, Mr. Abernathy,” she said. “How can I assist you today?”

Slim studied her cautiously. What could this mean? Simple coincidence? He decided it must be that.

“I’ve been having a serious problem with my B190,” he explained as he led her to the building’s entrance. He punched in his code and they ascended the stairs to his floor. “The dream has been leaking out somehow. It’s been picked up by Federated Intelligence, who have mistaken it for genuine waking experiences.”

“I see,” said the technician. “This the first time anything like that has happened?”

“Yes, and before that I had some problems, but they were always garden variety. I’ve never heard of anything like this before. Come across anything similar?”

“You name the problem, I’ve seen it,” she said as he unlocked the door to his apartment. “This particular one...well it’s cropped up a few times. Only recently. But it’s becoming more frequent.”

Slim felt reassured. He led her through his sparse living room and opened the door to his bedroom. The technician passed by and approached the B190.

“Nice machine,” she said. “Kept up with your maintenance schedule? Any modifications I should know about?”

“Maintenance has been fine,” Slim said. “And no modifications. It’s all stock.”

“Good,” the technician said. “Ok, I’m going to do a bit of disassembly and find out what’s going on. Might take a while, feel free to watch or go about your business. I’ll come let you know when I’m finished.”

“Thanks,” said Slim. He exited the bedroom and put on a pot of coffee. Then he phoned his work, gave them the Federated Intelligence number, explained the serious nature of his problem and agreed to take a vacation day. He sat in his living room, sipping his coffee and looking idly out of his window. A thought occurred to him and he got up and headed back to the bedroom.

The technician had removed most of the panelling from the machine and was now probing its guts. Wires and circuit boards hung limply from the machine’s skeleton.

“Let me ask you a question,” Slim said to her.

“Go for it.”

“In your opinion, is what we are experiencing now real life or a dream?”

The technician stopped her work and sat silently for a moment. She placed her flashlight and multi-meter on the floor and removed her gloves.

“I’m not sure, honestly,” she said.

“Why not?” asked Slim.

“It’s become harder and harder for me to separate the two. But, right now I’m a technician,” she paused and looked up at Slim. “And you have a regular job, right?”

Slim nodded.

“So I think this is real life. If it were a dream, either for you or for me, we would have more exciting lives. Adventurers of some sort. Or spies. In my other life I’m basically just rich. That’s all. But here we are- just living out regular, boring, routine lives. So this must be reality.”

“How long have you had your dream machine?” asked Slim.

“Eight years.”

“And how long have you had this feeling?” he asked.

“About two maybe,” the technician turned back to her work. “I don’t mind it really. The dream life is good. And my real life is pretty good, too. So, basically, I’m content, even if I’ve forgotten which is which. How about you?”

“I was sure this morning, that this was real,” Slim said. “But now I’m not so sure anymore. As the day has progressed I’ve become more doubtful. Now that I think about it, the separation between the two has blurred. And I can’t remember what exactly separated them.”

“Well, at least let’s get this problem taken care of. A blurring concept of reality is one thing, but leakage and Federated Intelligence picking up your signals is another. At least if this problem is fixed, you won’t face any erroneous legal repercussions. Both of your lives will continue as before, separate. Not conjoined.”

“That would be a good start,” Slim said. “In any case,” he said, bringing out a pen and a scrap of paper, “could you write down your direct line? In case I have any future problems of a similar nature it’d be nice to have one technician already familiar with my case.”

The technician nodded. “I’ve already been assigned to your case. It’s a priority service call.” She wrote her name and direct line on the scrap of paper and handed it back to Slim.

“Thanks,” said Slim. He left the bedroom and left the technician to her work. Taking up his former post in front of the window, Slim gazed out over his district and sipped his coffee contentedly. He was finally enjoying his day off from work. A day in reality, or a dream, whatever it is. But he could suspend his job as a Resistance agent, and suspend his job as a forensics technician for the time being. He could just be himself, sitting at the window, drinking coffee and enjoying a view.

About an hour later, the technician emerged from his bedroom. “Well, I think we have it all taken care of, Mr. Abernathy. Should be ready to go.”

“Can I use it now?”

“Yes. In fact, I would recommend it. We can see if it fixes the problem right away.”

“Sure,” said Slim. “That makes sense. And I’d like to get this situation with the authorities cleared up right away.”

“Well, good luck, Slim,” she said, her hand extended. He took it and they shook. “With any luck, we won’t see each other again for a while. But if I notice anything funny in my other life I’ll be sure to keep you updated.”

“Thanks,” he said, leading her to the door. She departed and Slim locked the door behind her. He was eager to test out the machine, but first he gave himself a tour of his apartment, wandering through the kitchen, the living room and its adjoined study, the dining area, taking note of his furniture, the paint, mementos and photographs placed here and there, attempting to determine the validity of this existence. He couldn’t pin down anything concrete. Unsatisfied, but still determined, he crossed the threshold into his bedroom.

The machine stood there, gleaming and white, as it had the past five years, a permanent presence in both his waking life and dream life. It was the only thing, aside from Slim himself, that carried over, back and forth. He gingerly opened the steel and glass door. He stepped inside and lowered himself against the padded support girdle. He sighted the big button overhead and pressed it down firmly.

Slim closed his eyes and felt sleep taking him, down and down as he spiraled into his other life. Things went black and then he began to rise once more into consciousness. Once more, the rooms of his apartment began to crowd together, until they finally collapsed into a single space. Slim became more alert, and his furniture morphed and rearranged. The hands of the clock above his kitchenette spun rapidly. Finally, the change was over. Slim reached out for the handle to the dream machine’s door. He reached, and reached. Then he opened his eyes. The dream machine was gone.

He sat bolt upright out of his bed, a sickening wave of panic enveloping him. His bed? He examined it. Completely unfamiliar. For the past five years he had slept exclusively in his B190 dream machine. He hadn’t had a bed in years. He scanned the four walls of the small room, hoping he had been thrown clear of the machine somehow. The walls were clear. No trace of the machine. He catapulted out of his new bed and opened the complicated locks on his door. He swung it open. No sign of the technician.

For a moment he could not think. He remembered the coffee he had put on the last time he had been here. He went over to the kitchenette and spied the pot half full, brown drips still falling from the percolator. He grabbed a mug and filled it. Drinking rapidly, he paced around the room like a madman. Or was he mad? What had happened was inexplicable. They really screwed up this time, Slim thought.

He went to his phone and dialed the familiar number, 650-419-HELP. Dream world or real, the voice on the other end would figure out his problem. They better, he thought. Or else they would be facing a lawsuit. The line rang a couple of times while Slim waited anxiously. Then it clicked.

“Hello?” came a feeble voice.

“Hello, I’m looking for Ace Products,” said Slim rapidly.

“Oh, I’m afraid you have the wrong number,” said the voice.

“Oh. Sorry,” said Slim.

He hung up the phone and then redialed the number, 650-419-HELP, this time making sure each number was punched firmly in the center, one by one. The phone rang a few times.

“Hello?” came the same voice from before. Slim slammed down the phone.

No time to waste. He knew exactly where he wanted to go. He had to go down to Palo Alto, to the Ace Products headquarters building and their flagship store. That was the only way to know for sure if Ace had been...what? Erased? But he knew that the flagship store was still there. In fact, it had very recently been expanded and completely remodeled. He would take CalTrain.

Slim scrambled around his apartment, trying to remember what, in this life, he should be packing. For sure the micro prop. He grabbed that. And also the documents he had taken from the Luna station. Take those. He also took his pistol, his watch, his apartment keys and the slip of paper with the technician’s number on it and- he froze. He held the scrap of paper between his fingers. It wasn’t supposed to be in this world. He paused for another moment, then put it out of his mind, unlocked the complicated mechanisms on his door, and headed out towards the train station.

He was nearly a dozen blocks away, so Slim headed towards the station at a rapid pace. As he turned a corner, he bumped up against a large man clad in an overcoat. He swallowed, looked up and saw the familiar face.

“You know the drill,” the agent said as the dark hover car descended to the curb beside them.

Drawing back, he hit the man hard on the side of the abdomen. The bigger man doubled over in pain. The hover car’s door opened and the man’s partner emerged, his pistol levelled at Slim.

“Get down now!” the man commanded. Slim hesitated.

The bigger man in the overcoat spoke, regaining his composure. “Come on, pal. You know that we’ll get you. Might as well just come along quietly.”

Slim considered his options. Between the hover car and the man’s pistol, he couldn’t see himself getting away. And he had managed to slither away from them last time. Why not this time? Slim put his hands on his head.

“That’s the stuff,” said the bigger man as he slapped Slim’s hands into a pair of cuffs.

He lowered Slim’s head through the door and seated him on the far side. His partner regained his position in the front passenger seat, and, once again, held the pistol level at Slim’s chest.

“You fellas are wasting your time,” Slim said.

“Oh?” said the one in the overcoat. “How do you figure that?”

“Like I told your boss, there was a mix-up. It’s been confirmed! It’s all fixed.”

“It’s all fixed, alright,” said the man in the overcoat.

“How do you mean?”

The man in the overcoat glanced down at him, frowning. “We ain’t supposed to talk. Wait until we get to the Federated Intelligence building. You can sort everything out with the Inspector, all right?”

“All right,” said Slim.

The shorter man with the pistol grinned at him. Ten minutes later they were once again hovering down onto the roof of the Federated Intelligence building. Slim was led out of the car and over to the bank of elevators. They slipped down into the building and got off at floor sixty-seven. The doors opened to reveal the same scene as last time. Busy, typical, wall-to-wall carpeted office. Men and women hurrying here and there and the constant sound of telephones.

They marched across the room, up the stairs, the big agent uncuffed him and pulled open the door to Inspector Morgan’s office. Slim went straight in and sat down in the thinly padded chair. Quan sat off behind Morgan’s desk, pleasant and professional. Morgan looked up from the file he was flipping through, his tired eyes settling on Slim.

“Hello again, Abernathy,” said Morgan.

“Inspector,” said Slim.

“What are you doing back here so quick?” the Inspector asked with a smile on his lips.

“Dunno. Your flunkies picked me up. I don’t know what else you think you have on me, Inspector, or how this is going to turn out any differently than last time.”

Morgan turned to Quan and smiled. “Hear that?” he said. He turned back to Slim. “Nice bluff, Slim, but you know very well the situation has changed. We’ve taken care of the Ace Products problem.”

“Taken care of? How so?”

“They don’t exist anymore. In fact, as far as you should be concerned, they never have. Company’s been totally erased. And you’ll never see another dream machine again, understand? So wherever ‘here’ is, that’s where you’re stuck, permanently.”

Slim muttered under his breath and then looked up at Quan. “I’d like my phone call.”

“Sure,” said Morgan. “Here, be my guest.” He put the phone down at the edge of the desk. “Who are ya gonna call, Slim? Your girlfriend?” He laughed and Slim looked up, nervous, full of adrenaline and sweating.

He reached for the slip of paper in his pocket. He pulled it out, gathered the phone in his lap and punched in the number. 415-617-4842. He put the receiver up to his ear while the other line rang. Finally it was picked up and a familiar female voice answered.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” said Slim.

“I was expecting your call. How are you finding everything?” she said.

“Not too good. What’d you do to my machine?” he asked.

“Experimental procedure. But the details are classified. Anyways, you could have avoided it. I knew you recognized me on the bus. But you were too panicked later to put two and two together.”

Slim sat back in the chair and bit his lip. “Mauve. Your name is Mauve Ryder,” he concluded.

“Bingo. You let your guard down. You were so sure of yourself. You should have been more careful.”

“I still don’t understand. That was a dream. This was real. You shouldn’t have crossed over.”

The voice on the other end laughed. “But, you see, Slim, the dream machine never existed. This might as well be some crazy fantasy you dreamed up in your head. There’s no objectivity to it. I’m Mauve Ryder and you’re Francis Abernathy and that’s it.”

“Thanks for clearing that up,” said Slim.

“You’re welcome, Abernathy. Gotta go,” Mauve said.

“Goodbye,” said Slim, utterly resigned to his fate. He hung up the phone and put it back on Morgan’s desk.

Morgan eyed him with concern. “We all straight, Abernathy? You got that all cleared up?”

Slim nodded. “You monsters,” he said. “No wonder we came up with those machines. We were so eager to get away from you. Get back at you.”

Morgan wagged his finger. “Now, now. We can’t have any more of that talk, Slim. You have to accept your single reality from now on. And in that reality, you’re charged with murder, terrorism, hijacking, and assaulting a Federated Agent. That’s quite a bit of time, and when you finish it, you won’t be waking up to go back to some white-collar job. You’ll be in the ground. Unless-” he waited for Slim to answer.

“Unless I cooperate,” Slim finished.

“That’s right,” said Morgan.

“Well, you might as well take me away and lock me up. Because I’m not cooperating,” Slim said forcefully.

“We’ll see about that. We’ll see how much prison softens you up and then we’ll try-” Morgan was cut off by a violent shaking. The room shuddered, knocking books off of shelves, the phone off of Morgan’s desk and Quan’s glasses from his face. Morgan clutched his desk. The shaking subsided and Morgan turned to Quan.

“What was that?” he asked. “Earthquake?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Quan.

Shouts came from outside Morgan’s office. Then silence. Morgan approached the door cautiously, and pulled it open. A billow of smoke flooded the room and Morgan carefully progressed into the office. All was still for a moment, and then Slim heard two small ‘ping’ sounds. The smoke broke, and a man clad in a high-altitude suit rushed into the room, pistol raised. The man looked around quickly, raised the pistol towards Quan and fired two shots. Quan opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. He looked at his chest, back up to the man in the high-altitude suit and slumped to the floor.

The man in the suit approached Slim and looked down at him. He flipped up the visor on the high-altitude helmet. Under the visor was the smiling face of Ray Calvins.

“Jesus!” exclaimed Slim. “Jesus Christ I am glad you’re here.”

“And I’m glad I managed to find you,” he said as he threw him a high altitude suit. “Come on, you’ll dress in the car.”

They rushed from the office, Ray leading Slim through the smoke filled office and over to the bank of elevators. One door was jammed open with a section of two-by-four. Ray ripped the plank from between the doors, pulled Slim into the compartment and pressed the button that would take them to the roof. The elevator moved up at an agonizing pace. Slim took the opportunity to change out of his street clothes, quickly putting on the high-altitude suit that he was so skilled at manipulating. Ray handed him his pistol. The elevator doors opened.

Before the guards on the roof could even raise their pistols, they were down, full of holes. Ray and Slim advanced to the waiting hovercar. Slim got in the passenger seat. Ray took the driver’s seat and they took off, racing away from the smoking remnants of the Federated Intelligence building.

Slim sighed, amazed he was free and gaining altitude. He turned to Ray. “You won’t believe what I’ve been through.”

“Tell me about it,” said Ray coolly. “Although I mean that rhetorically. I’m sure we’ve been through near the same ordeal. Taken in for questioning. Put in your call to Ace Products like you’re supposed to. Then they send you a phoney technician.”

“Yes,” said Slim, sitting up straight.

“Yeah,” said Ray, “except after the technician got done, I took off through the window with my micro prop. You know who the technician was?” he smiled at Slim. “Robin Smiggs. One of the names on the list.”

“Mine was Mauve Ryder,” said Slim.

“Yeah, we were so convinced that we knew which lives were real and which were false, we didn’t pay close enough attention.”

“Maybe we don’t really know which is which.”

“Maybe we don’t,” said Ray. “But, listen to this. In this world, I’ve done some reading. Supposedly, the Federated States has a secret project in the works. A project having to do dreams. Manipulating realities” He looked at Slim seriously. “Want to make a guess as to where it’s located?”

“A station nearby Luna.” Slim didn’t have to guess.

“That’s right,” confirmed Ray. Now he was piloting over to the San Francisco International Airport. Of course, being in a Federated Intelligence hovercar, he had no trouble getting permission to land. He piloted the hover car over the far side of the field, towards a hanger.

“I have one question,” said Slim. “Does it put separate realities together, or does it split up a singular reality into two?”

“You mean, before we entered that station, did the dream machines exist? Had we been using them beforehand? Or did it just seem that way after we got on the ship?”

“That’s right,” affirmed Slim.

“I don’t know,” said Ray. He parked the hovercar in front of the hanger. “Either way, I can see the benefit for the Federated States.”

“That’s assuming, of course, that this is a genuine reality,” said Slim.

Ray slipped his visor down and pressed his com button. “Well, the way I see it, we take a ship back up to Luna. Find out if we have regular lives. If we do, great, we wake up in the dream machines. If we don’t then great, we’ll keep on fighting the Federated States, knowing that we escaped their clutches.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Slim said. “Beats going into the office, anyways.

“I guess so,” said Ray, almost laughing through his com.

They exited the hover car, attached their micro props and sped off towards the rows of rockets, gleaming in the sun.