fears. And his fear is personified here at my feet.
Two children, a boy a few years younger than me and a little girl. Blood trickling down their faces. Their eyes staring up, empty.
Dead.
The entire dreamscape rumbles with Representative Belles’s grief. The world darkens. This is enough to rip him from his reverie, just like the pain pulls Mom out of hers.
But while I share the representative’s fear of war, I do not know these children dead at my feet. And not knowing them reminds me that this isn’t real.
I close my eyes again, concentrating. I sweep my arms out, and the air smells sweeter, like citrus. I bring up a warm breeze. I take away all sound, then concentrate on the soft whispers coming in through the sensory chamber Representative Belles’s is in. Leaves clattering. Branches creaking.
When I open my eyes, Santiago Belles stands before an old man.
“Abuélo,” he says, wonderingly. He casts his eyes back, and even though he looks right at me, he doesn’t really see. His brain wants to be in this dream, the one with his grandfather. His face melts, and he looks younger as he turns back to the man beside the orange tree. Behind them, an entire grove rises.
“I fought in the Secessionary War,” the dream-grandfather says.
Crap. I don’t need his own dream kicking him back into a nightmare. I start to intervene, but then the grandfather continues.
“Fought for the losing side. Least, that’s what they told me. But I didn’t really fight for either side.” The old man looks Representative Belles square in the eyes. “I fought for my family.” He taps the representative in the chest, just over his heart. “Nothing more important than family. You gonna fight for something, you fight for something that you’re willing to die for. I wasn’t willing to die for my government, Secessionary or UC. But I was willing to die for the people I love.”
I choke down a snort of derision. Idealistic mantras like that are what made the Secessionary War so bad. All you have to do is look at the hole where Valletta once stood or the broken arch of the Azure Window to know that. The old buildings in the country still carry the scars of battle, two decades later. Preventing another war like that is exactly the reason why I’m in Representative Belles’s mind in the first place.
It’s harder to enhance the dreams of someone I don’t know, especially when fighting against the worry of war, but I work with what I have. Focusing my mind on the sensory details already present, I make the smells stronger, the music louder. I add warmth from the Spanish sun, birds chirping and locusts humming. I focus on the grandfather, giving him specific details, wrinkles from every old face I’ve seen, clothes that smell of detergent and dirt and sweat.
As the dreamscape around me grows clearer, I slip further away from it. The mind is a magical thing, I’m discovering. A dreamscape is made of thought and is wider than the sky, able to grow large enough to fit not just our own world, but every possibility and impossibility beyond it. Once I quit thinking of it as being forced into the laws of physics, it’s easy to manipulate the dreamscape into anything I want. I don’t know how I know all this, no more than I understand how I know things when I dream. I just do.
I throw up my hand, and a wall rises between the orange grove and me. Behind the wall, I start creating the world I need in Representative Belles’s mind.
A filing cabinet first, then a desk. This is work; Representative Belles’s mind is my office.
Filing cabinets are hardly ever used any more—most records are on the interface. But the only really secure information isn’t stored on the interface system—its hard copies kept under lock and key, just like Mom’s research in the secured databank in England.
Representative Belles’s mind opens up to me as I slide open the top drawer of the filing cabinet. The tabs
Two children, a boy a few years younger than me and a little girl. Blood trickling down their faces. Their eyes staring up, empty.
Dead.
The entire dreamscape rumbles with Representative Belles’s grief. The world darkens. This is enough to rip him from his reverie, just like the pain pulls Mom out of hers.
But while I share the representative’s fear of war, I do not know these children dead at my feet. And not knowing them reminds me that this isn’t real.
I close my eyes again, concentrating. I sweep my arms out, and the air smells sweeter, like citrus. I bring up a warm breeze. I take away all sound, then concentrate on the soft whispers coming in through the sensory chamber Representative Belles’s is in. Leaves clattering. Branches creaking.
When I open my eyes, Santiago Belles stands before an old man.
“Abuélo,” he says, wonderingly. He casts his eyes back, and even though he looks right at me, he doesn’t really see. His brain wants to be in this dream, the one with his grandfather. His face melts, and he looks younger as he turns back to the man beside the orange tree. Behind them, an entire grove rises.
“I fought in the Secessionary War,” the dream-grandfather says.
Crap. I don’t need his own dream kicking him back into a nightmare. I start to intervene, but then the grandfather continues.
“Fought for the losing side. Least, that’s what they told me. But I didn’t really fight for either side.” The old man looks Representative Belles square in the eyes. “I fought for my family.” He taps the representative in the chest, just over his heart. “Nothing more important than family. You gonna fight for something, you fight for something that you’re willing to die for. I wasn’t willing to die for my government, Secessionary or UC. But I was willing to die for the people I love.”
I choke down a snort of derision. Idealistic mantras like that are what made the Secessionary War so bad. All you have to do is look at the hole where Valletta once stood or the broken arch of the Azure Window to know that. The old buildings in the country still carry the scars of battle, two decades later. Preventing another war like that is exactly the reason why I’m in Representative Belles’s mind in the first place.
It’s harder to enhance the dreams of someone I don’t know, especially when fighting against the worry of war, but I work with what I have. Focusing my mind on the sensory details already present, I make the smells stronger, the music louder. I add warmth from the Spanish sun, birds chirping and locusts humming. I focus on the grandfather, giving him specific details, wrinkles from every old face I’ve seen, clothes that smell of detergent and dirt and sweat.
As the dreamscape around me grows clearer, I slip further away from it. The mind is a magical thing, I’m discovering. A dreamscape is made of thought and is wider than the sky, able to grow large enough to fit not just our own world, but every possibility and impossibility beyond it. Once I quit thinking of it as being forced into the laws of physics, it’s easy to manipulate the dreamscape into anything I want. I don’t know how I know all this, no more than I understand how I know things when I dream. I just do.
I throw up my hand, and a wall rises between the orange grove and me. Behind the wall, I start creating the world I need in Representative Belles’s mind.
A filing cabinet first, then a desk. This is work; Representative Belles’s mind is my office.
Filing cabinets are hardly ever used any more—most records are on the interface. But the only really secure information isn’t stored on the interface system—its hard copies kept under lock and key, just like Mom’s research in the secured databank in England.
Representative Belles’s mind opens up to me as I slide open the top drawer of the filing cabinet. The tabs
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