Row after row of translucent cylindrical chambers line the huge room, each with its arteries and nervous systems of wires pouring information, fluids, and chemicals in and out of every one. In the center of the room, two especially large, spherical chambers stand, both with trunk-like structures reaching from ceiling to floor that sprout thousands of tubes both into the chambers and into the walls. One emits a lurid crimson glow, the other, blue . . . Both pulse in time with powerful heartbeats. The red houses an adult male body, human, mature, muscular. The other contains the body of another male, this one a young child.
The monitors around the red chamber suddenly spring to life as the body within stirs. Within seconds, he has severed the wires connecting his body to the pulsing chamber. The glass cracks; clear steaming liquid cascades to the floor as he steps out, eyes still closed. He walks as if sleeping to the other chamber; the ghostly watchers try to stop him, but fall motionlessly before they even come within arms� length. He places both hands onto the blue orb; it flashes quickly, white light spreading from his fingers; eyes open simultaneously as blinding white light eclipses the room -
*****
Raeh woke up, shivering and soaked in cold sweat. Another dream. He hugged himself, rubbing his arms to get some feeling into them. Why was it so cold? It�s August it shouldn�t be cold in here why is it so damn cold! (Cold souls live in cold times...) The windows were open and a slight breeze was coming in, tugging at the sheer white curtains. He pushed back the thin snow white sheets and walked over to the windows, glancing out into the darkness. It was a new moon, and there was barely a star to be seen. That was only to be expected, though, with all of the light pollution and smog in New York. He remembered when the stars had been visible . . . But it was now 2188, and industry and energy had taken their toll.
Walking back over to the bed, he saw that some of his papers had fallen onto the ground. The wind must have blown them off of my desk. Raeh picked one up, and out of a slight, sleep-dulled curiosity, turned it over and read it. Most of the ink had run together from some previous mishap, but some of it was still legible.
�I am bleeding,
I am faded,
I have lost it all,
Even the memory . . . �
Funny. He didn�t remember writing that . . . But not remembering things was rather common. There were gaping holes in his memory, half-remembered things that left him with the cold comfort of deja vu. Like that dream.
He went back to sleep, thinking of memories.
*****
Raeh grumbled as he left Kain�s Hand Studios, dragging his feet sulkily. �That bastard Raine . . . He�s so damn stupid. I don�t understand how he ever became CEO. Idiot.� Dean Raine, CEO of the popular entertainment producer Kain�s Hand Studios, had decided that they would stop producing several of their most lucrative comic book series within the month. No one was exactly sure why; the company was in an uproar, and there was talk that the Council had discovered that they were the ones publishing the comics. Since comics were art -after all those years the publishers and creators before us struggled to have them accepted as art, and then that acceptance came at such a price-, they were banned . . . But that didn�t really stop most companies. They just distributed music, graphics, novels, and other forms of the arts underground.
The cold, omnipresent steel and glass buildings of the B-District, the Business District, reflected the fiery light of sunset throughout New York. At some angles, it was impossible to see because of the glare. The sidewalks, cars, and people were all bathed in flame. Finally, Raeh reached his car and thanked God that his windows were all tinted. It was too bright out there. That was just one of the bad things about working in the business district. He pulled out and headed toward his usual hangout.
The Silicon Chalice was one of the larger hosts to the artistic underground. There were even rumors that it hosted the radical group that called itself the Children of Eden. The club was huge; so was its cover-up. The ground floor and the first story held a restaurant; the second and third were used as office space. The real action was in the basement second floor, where their illegal DJ mixed illegal music for the -illegal- masses. Loud music, strobe lights, alcohol, and drugs were in widespread circulation down there. It was enough to cause anyone a seizure. The Chalice even hired bands to play two or three times a week. Beneath that was a gallery, and work space for painters, musicians, and other artists. There was also a huge computer lab, where graphic artists and CGI programmers worked on top of the line computers, and anyone could use them at any time. In short, it was his haven, his home away from home.
As he walked through the double doors of the huge building, Raeh felt the customary chill as the door scanner gave him the once-over. It was designed to detect possible firearms, as well as identify the patron. And when the building went into alert mode . . . Well, the scanner could become a force field that would cause some interesting effects on anyone who tried to get through without the proper gear. Door scanners were required in large outfits and not at all unusual to see, especially in New York.
Raeh flashed his ID card to the temp at the front desk, giving her a quick grin. Just walking through the door had lifted his spirits. The temp was attractive, and by the way she was batting her eyelashes at him, she knew it, too. The gleam in his sky blue eyes wasn�t only mischief . . . Maybe she�d still be there later that evening. He trotted down the stairs to the club with light feet.
As usual when the door was opened, music and the sounds of life blared through, causing Raeh temporary deafness. One of these days I�ll look back and regret blasting my eardrums out, wasting my energy ration on coming out here. But until then, I will continue my descent to deafness. Once his ears became accustomed to the din, his usual off-kilter half-grin surfaced as he strolled in, confidant in the knowledge that everyone here knew who and what he was, and that he would be treated with the respect any artist deserved. The Underground made sure that its artists and musicians were well treated, as they were a rare commodity. And since he was both artist and musician, he was doubly well respected.
He took a seat at a small round table, chrome and dented poly-something plastic that had seen too many brawls and too many heavy hands during its short but fashionable career. Still grinning, he stretched, popping stiff vertebrae in a sensation halfway between pleasure and pain. He ordered a drink -rum and coke what a joke- and leaned back, watching the people.
*****