"All experience is the product of our thoughts; the mind is the master and foundation of what we are." β The Buddha,
Dhammapada (Path of Righteousness)
"I once dreamed that I was a butterfly, flitting and fluttering around, happy with myself and doing as I pleased. But suddenly I woke up and I was myself again. But now I wonder, am I a man who dreamed he was a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?" β Master Zhuang,
Book of Zhuangzi
"So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be." β Alfred Lord Tennyson,
In Memoriam
"An eternity of pure cerebral existence; that may seem to intellectuals as a paradise, to other people as hell." β Hans Moravec,
Mind Children: The Race Between Human and Artificial Intelligence
1. Guardian Angel
The streets were deserted. They always were. But Erynn had never gotten completely used to the stillness and silence of the city. She quickened her pace, and shivered as a sudden squall of cold, dry air gusted through the canyons of concrete and steel. The tower blocks, dark and ugly despite the bright sunshine, loomed over her like glowering giants. Behind their bleak, barren faΓ§ades, countless sleeping citizens dreamed synthetic lives.
She was greeted by the only flesh-and-blood she'd seen on the outside in... she could hardly remember how long. For the doorkeeper, it was yesterday. He was a small, joyless man whose immaculate suit and impeccable grooming unnerved her. She pictured her own pale face, lank hair and crumpled overalls slumped over a slender frame. Preening in the real world was a sign of the fanatic or the phobic, someone who never left this reality. The Overseers were getting desperate, to be hiring his kind.
"Welcome back," he said, with a hint of disapproval in his voice. Yet his eyes wandered over the slight contours of her body. They weren't much to look at but they were genuine, and rare.
"Thanks," she replied. They never spoke more than a few words. She had not even bothered to learn his name.
The technicians were friendly but clinically efficient as they attached the electrodes, inserted the probes and carried out their testing protocols before activating her implants. The procedure was tedious. For shorter excursions there was no need for such sophisticated life-support; she slept in a modest pod with just the basics. Her recent missions had been straightforward, mostly surveillance. Simple aberrations in a program were common enough and easy to correct. Yet they had to be fixed. Even small deviations could snowball if left unchecked. Nonlinear amplification was the formal term. But she preferred more challenging projects. Judging by the preparations, this one should fit the bill.
There was a flash and a blur. The white sterile walls faded, and she found herself standing in a meadow. She heard sounds in the distance, getting louder β men's laughter and the neighing and snorting of horses. She took cover in a patch of long grass. The soft blades tickled, and she realized her skin was bare save for a sliver of damask on her loins and a ribbon of fine silk across her chest. A bejeweled collar encircled her throat; golden bands enclosed her wrists and ankles.
A dozen riders passed, close enough that she could smell their steeds. They were returning from a hunt. Twenty or so young women, naked and bound, were trotting beside them, sweating and gasping in an agonized effort to keep up with their mounted captors. They were hitched in a line by the neck, and the lead girl was tethered to one of the pack animals.
Erynn lifted her head just enough to glimpse the faces of the prisoners. It took her just seconds to make her assessment. Training, experience and instinct allowed her to quickly distinguish the subtly impassive gaze of the many from the bleak stares and fearful glances of a few. Five of the girls, including the one in front, were unmistakably dreamers.
Sucking in a deep breath, Erynn stood up and waited quietly for the men to see her.
"Come forward," one of them barked. Like all of his companions he was brawny and handsome. Though his clothes were weather-worn, his face was unspoilt. Below the dull steel of his helmet, his eyes glittered ice-blue. His stubble was dark but peppered with flecks of silver. When she was close enough, he tapped his riding crop on her chin to make her raise her head. He glared at her, squinting to detect the tell-tale signs of sentience. But she was good at her job.
"Sim," he said. She sensed disappointment.
"What are you doing out here?" he demanded. "Where are you from?"
"Please, sir," she replied, lowering her eyes. "I am a poor slavegirl from Shandar."
The man chuckled, and slid his crop along her shoulder and across her breasts. He pushed the silk down to her belly and the damask down her thighs.
"Poor? I think not."
She managed a mechanical blush. That was harder than she expected. She'd materialized too close to the action. She'd not been given much time to adjust to this body.
"I belonged in the harem of the Great Prince..."
"Yes," one of the comrades interrupted. "I have tasted the pleasures of His Grandeur's seraglio. I recognize you."
"Liar," she said, without a sound.
"What are you doing out here?" demanded another of the men, who eyed her with suspicion.
"A runaway, I expect," the first man said, and the distrustful one nodded slowly, perhaps not convinced.
"I've heard it happens. There will no doubt be a sizable bounty for this beauty."
"With a bonus to be paid this very night."
The men laughed.