developing gray matter and instigated phantasmagorical dream states. Mac said that despite headaches, earbleeds, and night terrors, it beat sitting in a classroom all the livelong day.
In this particular nightmare, Dred reverted to his six year old self, clad in Babar the Elephant pajamas and lost in a wood steaming with magenta mist. The mist parted and Dad glided down from the canopy and landed softly. He wore his battle ensemble—a tight black jumpsuit, half mask, winged gloves, knee-high boots, and a black cape. The mask accentuated the regal cruelty of his diamond-hard eyes, hawkish nose, and thin, cold lips. The ensemble’s designers, Dr. Bravery and Dr. Navarro, guaranteed the fabric was flameproof, bulletproof, and capable of absorbing sufficient kinetic energy to withstand a collision with a two-ton truck. Best of all, it shifted color at Lear’s will, should he have need of camouflage. Their father’s dirty little secret? Dad didn’t really need the suit, he simply enjoyed the look.
Dad loomed, the height and mass of a Greek titan—Kronos, devourer of his own progeny. He placed his hands on his hips. “My waking self hasn’t twigged to your shenanigans. I feel sorry for you when my subconscious and I put two and two together.”
The boy tried to speak, but he was six and paralyzed with horror.
“It’s my fault. I’ve failed to instill a healthy respect in you kids. No true sons of mine would dare keep secrets from their daddy. No true sons of mine would be idiotic enough to muck around with time and space.” Dad shook his head and from beneath the folds of his cape produced the gray corpse of Arthur Navarro. He gripped it by the neck as one might a chicken carcass. “Causality, son. Causality!” His voice thundered. Arthur’s eyes popped open.
Dred mewled. The only thing left for the boy to do was wet himself.
The magenta mist darkened around Dad until his eyes blazed hellishly at the crown of a column of smoke. “Uncle Andronicus and Mr. Shrike are on the hunt. Gods have mercy should they turn their attention to you. My advice? Placate Nestor. Do something to amaze the family. Cross the threshold. Get back into our good graces before we realize you’ve fallen from them.” Dad’s form expanded into a whirlwind. The forest shook and branches crashed to earth and the universe dissolved.
Wind battered the tent. Dred tore free of the Dreamtime mechanism and sat on the edge of his cot. Sadly, he had indeed wet his nightclothes. Hands trembling, he unstrung a yak hide pouch stashed under his pillow. The pouch contained a mixture he referred to as Paan, although this variation substituted a rare species of lotus and an equally rare blend of hashish. These he rolled into a leaf and either smoked or chewed depending on the circumstances. On this occasion he smoked. The drug had an immediate salutary effect; chiefly, banishing the image of Dad from his consciousness.
Across the way, Mac snored softly, nestled in a beehive headset that emitted a soft red glow of Athena’s war eye as it transmitted the Iliad and the Odyssey in Greek to his brain. His arms and legs jerked occasionally and he muttered protests. Mac refused to speak of nightmares. When the subject arose, he thinned his lips in a reflexive gesture of their father’s, and claimed his recollections of Dreamtime were of a smooth, bottomless void. He subscribed to the John Wayne aesthetic of manly stoicism. Conversely, Dred seldom resisted the urge to divulge his dreams to sum and sundry, eagerly soliciting interpretations from complete strangers.
Dred changed clothes, pulled on his favorite mukluks and anorak, and left the tent and his slumbering brother.
Dawn light tinted the glacier pink and blue. The tents and the men and dogs cast long, jagged shadows. Hastened, no doubt, by the arrival of an officer of Sword Enterprises, today would be the day the research team redoubled its efforts and breached a deep pocket within the glacier. Dr.
In this particular nightmare, Dred reverted to his six year old self, clad in Babar the Elephant pajamas and lost in a wood steaming with magenta mist. The mist parted and Dad glided down from the canopy and landed softly. He wore his battle ensemble—a tight black jumpsuit, half mask, winged gloves, knee-high boots, and a black cape. The mask accentuated the regal cruelty of his diamond-hard eyes, hawkish nose, and thin, cold lips. The ensemble’s designers, Dr. Bravery and Dr. Navarro, guaranteed the fabric was flameproof, bulletproof, and capable of absorbing sufficient kinetic energy to withstand a collision with a two-ton truck. Best of all, it shifted color at Lear’s will, should he have need of camouflage. Their father’s dirty little secret? Dad didn’t really need the suit, he simply enjoyed the look.
Dad loomed, the height and mass of a Greek titan—Kronos, devourer of his own progeny. He placed his hands on his hips. “My waking self hasn’t twigged to your shenanigans. I feel sorry for you when my subconscious and I put two and two together.”
The boy tried to speak, but he was six and paralyzed with horror.
“It’s my fault. I’ve failed to instill a healthy respect in you kids. No true sons of mine would dare keep secrets from their daddy. No true sons of mine would be idiotic enough to muck around with time and space.” Dad shook his head and from beneath the folds of his cape produced the gray corpse of Arthur Navarro. He gripped it by the neck as one might a chicken carcass. “Causality, son. Causality!” His voice thundered. Arthur’s eyes popped open.
Dred mewled. The only thing left for the boy to do was wet himself.
The magenta mist darkened around Dad until his eyes blazed hellishly at the crown of a column of smoke. “Uncle Andronicus and Mr. Shrike are on the hunt. Gods have mercy should they turn their attention to you. My advice? Placate Nestor. Do something to amaze the family. Cross the threshold. Get back into our good graces before we realize you’ve fallen from them.” Dad’s form expanded into a whirlwind. The forest shook and branches crashed to earth and the universe dissolved.
Wind battered the tent. Dred tore free of the Dreamtime mechanism and sat on the edge of his cot. Sadly, he had indeed wet his nightclothes. Hands trembling, he unstrung a yak hide pouch stashed under his pillow. The pouch contained a mixture he referred to as Paan, although this variation substituted a rare species of lotus and an equally rare blend of hashish. These he rolled into a leaf and either smoked or chewed depending on the circumstances. On this occasion he smoked. The drug had an immediate salutary effect; chiefly, banishing the image of Dad from his consciousness.
Across the way, Mac snored softly, nestled in a beehive headset that emitted a soft red glow of Athena’s war eye as it transmitted the Iliad and the Odyssey in Greek to his brain. His arms and legs jerked occasionally and he muttered protests. Mac refused to speak of nightmares. When the subject arose, he thinned his lips in a reflexive gesture of their father’s, and claimed his recollections of Dreamtime were of a smooth, bottomless void. He subscribed to the John Wayne aesthetic of manly stoicism. Conversely, Dred seldom resisted the urge to divulge his dreams to sum and sundry, eagerly soliciting interpretations from complete strangers.
Dred changed clothes, pulled on his favorite mukluks and anorak, and left the tent and his slumbering brother.
Dawn light tinted the glacier pink and blue. The tents and the men and dogs cast long, jagged shadows. Hastened, no doubt, by the arrival of an officer of Sword Enterprises, today would be the day the research team redoubled its efforts and breached a deep pocket within the glacier. Dr.
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