Dream Thieves

' Knowledge combined with helplessness causes people the greatest pain '

~ Herodotus

'…The ancient city of Falhard was burning. Fire consumed the marble walls of the Emperor's palace, greedily devouring houses, stables, and taverns. Residents, like tiny black ants, streamed through every gateway, carrying on their backs all their possessions. Most carried burdens far greater than their own body weight. No wonder. The city had always been the center of the known world, facilitating trade and life in general.

Not today.

Elements of the world known to Alexandre Lucius Herrano were crumbling with each collapsing building. The city, the home, the dreams, the memories, the career. Everything was connected to this place. A place that would most likely turn into a great pile of charred ruins within the next few hours.

Of course, there were also positive aspects to the situation. Most likely, no one will bother collecting the overdue taxes, and with a bit of luck, most of the creditors who for weeks, day in, day out, had been waiting with the stubbornness worthy of guards' gargoyles outside the door of the small office on the second floor of the Pen and Image tavern, will scurry off into the world, forgetting about a certain detective, deeply in debt. The system collapsed, and Herrano had contributed to it. Now he was happy…'

***

'I have it! I'll start like Hitchcock. I'll shake the foundations of the world. A great fire. A city that an emperor, like Nero, obsessed with megalomania, sacrifices to perpetuate his name. Or rather… Not an emperor. An ordinary, ordinary subordinate whose dream is to break the vicious cycle of connections and subordination. The only way to break the cycle is to destroy his surroundings! That's the idea!'

I woke up with a start. Drizzled with sweat. Like every morning, I sprang from my small bed, strewn with colorful pillows. Truth be told, most people I knew wouldn't call it a bed. It didn't fit the plastic stereotypes created by the waterfalls of advertising. It was more like a den, a bed tucked away in the corner of a cluttered room. True, I'd recently purchased a thick and rather comfortable mattress, but to compete with the title of bed, it still lacked at least four kitschy, pale blue legs.

My attention quickly wandered past that thought and turned to sleep. My muse had arrived tonight. It wasn't a dream, of course. Despite my best efforts and the multitude of Indian dreamcatchers hanging above the den, I'd never managed to remember a single detail of Morpheus's gifts. Yes, I'd dreamed. I was certain of that, and my certainty was confirmed by the scattered bedding and the experimental recordings of the mumblings and gibberish that escaped my lips at night. I simply had no memory for dreams.

The muse always appeared with the first rays of artificial sunlight illuminating the darkness of the building. I lived high up, on the eightieth floor. I could afford the luxury of my own sky and a sun programmed independently of the floor's central control panel.

It meant that the first thoughts that popped into my head always revolved around some particular scene, event. Most often, these thoughts became the beginning of a new novel or chapter. This was the case with 'Requiem for the People' and 'Dream,' which secured me a high position on the Hoshi Corporation's writing ladder.

Today she came again, and it was a sign that, despite certain changes, I hadn't lost my talent. Unlike millions of ordinary people, I was still a creator, and no contract could take that away from me.

I climbed over the stack of old books blocking my path to my desk. Squeezing between two cabinets, I glanced at the wall screen. As if to spite me, a new message notification had just flashed on its hundred-inch monitor. I didn't have time for this. Unwritten ideas had an unpleasant tendency to fade away, and I couldn't let that happen.

I was working on an old computer, disconnected from the global internet. I didn't like being interrupted while I was working, and all the advertisements, news feeds, and communication programs that stubbornly slipped through security and appeared on the screen at the most inopportune moments drove me crazy. I dusted the keyboard and cleaned the monitor. But something didn't feel right. Something was missing.

My workspace had always been a kind of sanctuary. The corner of the room and two bookshelves filled with pre-war books created a mini-room, separated from the rest of the world by an invisible barrier. More importantly, it was devoid of all the seemingly unnecessary objects that took up most of the rest of the apartment. This was also the only window I had.

A window with a view straight onto Central Park, with its boats and gondolas slowly sailing along the network of canals, always bathed in pleasant shade. In the evenings, the system lit a star-studded holo-sky, and lanterns glowed among the ancient trees. Every time I looked out the window, I dreamed of being a young, poor, yet promising writer who had come to pre-war Paris, or perhaps Venice, to test his mettle.

The dreams were beautiful, but the reality was far more brutal.

Sure, I was wealthy enough to afford the luxury of this particular floor—incidentally, one of the most "spiritual" floors in the Blocks—however, I could only afford a cubicle squeezed right up to the ceiling, between the elevators and the corporate temple of post-Confucianism. Fortunately, the apartment was perfectly soundproofed.

After a moment of careful observation, I realized what was missing. I never started writing without a cup of hot coffee. Never. It was the most important of habits, and yet habit is second nature to a human being.

"Alfred, coffee!" my voice sounded hollow and somehow alien in the empty apartment.

I hated talking to the System, but I really didn't want to make the long trek to the kitchen again. Especially since my fingertips were itching, which meant the Idea was waiting to be put to paper.

"Mr. Adrian, the coffee is ready." The robot's voice, coming from near the floor, sounded like a malfunctioning lawnmower. I never found enough time to adjust the mini-speaker. Besides, it didn't bother me.

As usual, he reached the desk by familiar paths, bringing a blue mug of aromatic liquid. He was the only being besides me allowed to enter, or in his case, to roll into the sanctuary.

"I would like to remind you that you have an appointment with Miss Joanna today, and that you have received a new message. "

"Yes, yes," I muttered, leaning over the keyboard, "I'll deal with it later.

Everything was ready. All that mattered was the story.

" ***

'…The village inn didn't offer a particularly extensive menu. Porridge, stew, scrambled eggs, and beer. There was plenty of it anyway. Especially after the column of refugees had marched from the capital. It was strange that anything remained.

Herrano had been wandering the wastelands of the Empire for three days. Who would have thought that in the chaos that followed the fall of the City, anyone would have time to pursue an insignificant rogue? Well, apparently he wasn't as unimportant as he thought.

He sat in a darker corner of the room, carefully observing the entrance. He would have preferred not to show himself to people until he reached the provincial border, but unfortunately, the former inhabitants of the capital had killed or scared away all the local animals, and if he didn't want to starve, he had to resupply.' He cursed under his breath. Every minute he stayed there increased the risk of being pursued.

He didn't know exactly who was chasing him, or why. Well... he could guess why. After all, he was one of the people who had brought about the collapse of the system. He smiled at the thought of the burning City. He just didn't know who he owed the pack of hunters to. He could have pointed the finger at the Emperor, but he probably had bigger worries on his mind. No matter, the most important thing was getting to Havra. There, he could wait with Janeis. He could always trust her...'

***

I arranged to meet Joanna at the Saturn Cowboy Bar. An honest bar where the green-skinned Old Shatterhand served almost purple steaks while mocking the blue Indian. I always liked this place. It contrasted wonderfully with the gray, uniform mush of the commercial city. Sometimes it seemed to me that the owner had adopted this style to spite the floor planners. The entire building, both inside and out, was a thorn in the side of the corporation.

After the last bust two or three months ago, it seemed that commercialism would prevail. Fortunately, the owner didn't give up and renovated the place, in an even more kitschy style.

Joanna, of course, showed up exactly on time. She was never late. Sometimes it seemed to me that everything was done according to some predetermined plan. But somehow I loved her company. Plus, she was a good listener, and when she wasn't busy with work, she was an excellent companion.

"How's the new book?" We both hated unnecessary chit-chat. "

I quit my job yesterday." I smiled broadly, watching the shocked expression spread across her face. Moments like these are precious. They should be remembered for later.

"What?"

She slumped limply into a chair. Instinctively, she brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. I loved that blond hair of hers. It was probably the only thing she couldn't fully control.

"I quit my job. I broke off my contract with Hoshi," I repeated, smiling teasingly.

She frowned. A white paper handkerchief appeared out of nowhere in her hands. Her fate, and mine, was already decided. During arguments, Joanna always tore her sisters to shreds.

"Are you crazy? Why? What's going on with that disheveled head of yours? "

Clearly, her orderly reality couldn't cope with such a catastrophe.

"How are you going to pay for your apartment? What about life? Do you know how much it costs not to work? What have you done!"

She screamed at me like that for several minutes, and I said nothing, staring at her as if spellbound. A whole range of emotions flashed across her beautiful, classic face. Surprise, anger, rage, concern, and finally, disappointment. That last bit stung a bit.

"And what are you going to do now?" She finished her tirade and stared at the remains of her tissue.

"What do you think?" I asked innocently. "Keep writing, of course. I just want to write what I choose.

" "But Adam let you write exactly what you wanted. Even Requiem for the People went through without any revisions...

Adam, my publisher... a phenomenon in the city. He always annoyed everyone, choosing people the public hated. Sometimes it seemed to me that he did certain things just to spite himself."

"Adam, yes," I interrupted her, as this was shaping up to be another story about the media's reception of my previous book.

Joanna worked at one of Poznań's most widely read online newspapers. She ran the "Culture of New Poznań" section and had access to most of the new books and short stories appearing in the city. The fact that they mostly presented modern trash on par with a mediocre soap opera didn't stop her from pretending to be a serious literary critic.

Her newspaper was the only one to praise Requiem. I won't deny that this was largely her doing. Other media outlets reported the scandal, the demonization of reality, and the disregard for the reader. The readers thought otherwise, and thanks to their generosity, I moved to the eightieth floor.

"Unfortunately," I continued, my thoughts interrupted, "Adam has fallen from grace, and the new publisher, a plaster-like Japanese man named Toshimura, has his mind muddled by commercialism." Would you believe me that he said the publishing house was changing its profile a bit and now I had to write something popular?

She believed me.

"Couldn't you just bend for once? For this one book? Then you'd write something in your own style." With every word, her anger left her. It spilled over into me.

"Bend???" I couldn't believe she'd asked that question. "And what?! Produce another flat, plotless... piece of crap?

" The word 'novel' wouldn't come out of my throat.

"Indulge in the philosophy of the masses? Add your own spoonful of pulp to this cauldron of absolute blandness? Can't you see that? They want to murder the people who can still create something constructive."

The words poured out of me like a waterfall.

"Look around! Only a few people can create anything anymore. Only writers. They're the only ones who haven't been chained up yet. The music's over." It's been replaced by programs that allow a bunch of amateurs to combine any sample and create a pseudo-hit.

"Painting and graphic design have long since succumbed to the pressure of fashions created at the highest levels. Film has been subjected to absolute control. Censorship, critics... If you make something unusual, if you're lucky, you can expect it to be shown somewhere downstairs. They control almost everything now. They tell you how to dress, how to eat, what to buy, where to travel. The only thing they can't impose on you is your dreams. And you know, for us, they are the inspiration."

She listened. She watched me thrash around, agitated with righteous anger, and... she smiled understandingly. She listened, but I saw no understanding in her eyes. She liked her stable life from seven to five. Weekly candlelit dinners. A morning dose of news chaff washed down with synthesized coffee. That one oddity in me was quite enough for her. Only this strangeness has always stuck to a certain framework, and now. Now everything has changed.

I think she felt a little betrayed by my reluctance to comply. I think she always hoped that one day I would too.

The blue Winnetou brought the food we'd ordered. Perhaps it was my imagination, but when he looked at me, a look of disgust crossed his face. The lines of the phosphorescent war painting screamed… 'You're a strange guy, turning down that kind of money!'

I fell silent, embarrassed by his gaze and her silence.

"Nothing will change," I said placatingly. "After all, my talent and skills won't disappear when my contract ends. I'll still write, just as a freelancer."

She smiled sadly, and her voice sent a shiver of anxiety through me.

"Yes, Adrian. Nothing will change."

After dinner, we said our goodbyes hastily, and she hurried off to her office. She still had a lot of work on her plate today. That's what she said. As she said goodbye, she smiled a little brighter and said she wouldn't be coming over tonight. I had the impression it wasn't just today.

I was walking back slowly. Lost in thought, I wandered through the floors. I was right, and it was evident on every corner. Huge neon advertisements chased me wherever I went. Moisturizing creams rubbed onto the perfect, holographic skin of models, a new sound synthesizer that lets you feel music with every cell of your body, a super program for animation enthusiasts that practically creates short films on its own… garbage. Finally, I reached my apartment, where I was greeted by the morning news. I didn't have the strength to face it.

"Alfred! Sleep!" I growled in an undefined direction. The system would grasp the meaning of my command anyway. Its creators had seen to that.

I threw myself on my bed. I have to write the ending tomorrow.

A moment later, I heard a soft, relaxing melody, and the room filled with the sweet scent of a sleeping pill. As usual, Morpheus opened his arms, cradling me in absolute darkness.

***

'…Janeis betrayed him. He understood nothing. A pack of thugs waited by her tower, murder in their eyes and purses full at their belts. Apparently, the Dreamstone he'd stolen from the imperial treasury was worth far more than the paltry five thousand gold coins the Magus had offered.

They were hot on his heels. First, he fled through the city streets, where he was certain he could lose them. He failed. They were like hounds, tirelessly pursuing their prey. Then he galloped into the hills. He was in too much of a hurry, and the gods favored such unlucky men. His horse sprained a leg after the first two miles.

He ran into the rocky labyrinth, relying on luck and his innate sense of direction. He hoped the cave dwellers would find the pursuers before they caught his scent. Legends said cavemen were omnivores.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by an inhuman howl…

It was hot. Too hot. Even sitting with the window wide open, I felt like a tourist in a Dantean hell. The park was absolutely still. The wind had died two hours ago. People had fled even earlier. Most likely, the environmental control system had failed on the entire floor. Just like my inspiration.

My mind was as empty as interstellar space. Maybe not. At least there were isolated particles circulating there; there was nothing in my head.

For the thousandth time, I deleted the line I'd just conceived. The idea was somewhere out there, buried deep. But it wouldn't come out. I wanted to scream. And just yesterday, everything had been so obvious. All the scenes fit together like the pieces of a complex puzzle. Now the final piece was missing, the one that should have completed the whole. Without it, everything else made no sense.

I'd been sitting at the keyboard all afternoon, and it had already lasted over six hours. I even stooped to turning on the news, searching for any kind of inspiration. This mistake cost me tens of millions of irretrievably lost brain cells.

And nothing.

Resigned, I crawled to the darkest corner of the room, only to die of boredom there, to the sounds of a string quartet. I ordered the system to turn off my private sun, which didn't change the temperature, but at least gave my body a false hope of a cool night. A notification about a missed message flashed stubbornly in the darkness.

A vision of a mountain of information lurking on the other side of the screen, ready to hog my attention for hours on end on some unimportant errand.

On the other hand, what else could I do? The Muse was still absent.

"Alfred, play the message," I sighed, discouraged.

Silence.

"Alfred? I repeat, play the message!" I muttered louder, certain that the strange virus plaguing the floor's central computer had apparently also infected poor old Alfred.

To my surprise, my obedient servant replied in his still flat voice.

"The message was not created in audio mode."

I managed an effort to raise my eyebrows and lazily rolled over. Golden letters flickered on the screen.

"Message 1:

From: Hoshi.com Network Palace

. In connection with the notice submitted by Mr. Adrian Welt (hereinafter referred to as the Writer) to the board of directors of Hoshi.com corporation (hereinafter referred to as the Board), pursuant to the Thirteenth Amendment to the corporate intellectual property law of the State of Greater Poland, the Board declares that:

a) All rights to remuneration from reprints, sales, or film adaptations of the Writer's novels remain the property of the Board.

b) Pursuant to the agreement, in the event of any disputes, the parties will comply with the decision of the Corporate Intellectual Property Court.

Pursuant to the agreement, paragraph 3, art. 13, the Management Board, as of 12.07.2029, cancels the Writer's right to use the corporate subliminal database 'Creative Dreams'.

Toshimura'