William Dreams (short story)

Illustration by Gosmowdesign (2020)

William wiped his hands on the bed sheets and removed his ear plugs. The parts of his brain that would have been dormant during normal sleep were being returned to their daytime duties, having been colonised by Ingenious to boost William’s brain’s capacity. At the same time, his mind gradually emptied itself of the real-life snippets of the sick that had been captured by the city’s cameras and fed to him as he drifted into sleep. Footage his forebrain had seamlessly mixed into his dream-state simulations. He was sweating and anxious, but in those precious moments of half-sleep, he embraced the crystallising reality that came with the fading presence of Ingenious. Ingenious—the artificial intelligence city planner that controlled the traffic, prices, working hours, and more recently, air traffic and patient care.

A particularly painful memory lingered. The dream of a miserable woman in a bright yellow suit, who had been delivered home by ambulance. From sunrise to sunset she sat staring out of her window. Day after day her friend came, but she wouldn’t answer the door to him. Her suit became dirty and dull, she refused to return to work, and she faded from everyone’s thoughts except her own. Her devastation clung to the edges of his mind.

He stretched his toes to their limits and arched his back, conscious that Ingenious was turning its attention to its next co-worker in the continuous chain of dreamers. He began one of the rituals his fellow cognition colleagues had taught him, to safely disconnect the symbiotic link. He visualised the scar on his wife’s stomach and in his mind’s eye he traced the individual imperfections that made his energetic young children unique and human. Finally, he opened his eyes and studied his own body all the way down to his feet. This, he’d found, was the only way to separate his waking brain and its implants from the background noise of Ingenious. He took a long, slow breath, ended his ritual, and joined his family.

The last moments of breakfast and the hurried scurrying for school were in full flight, choreographed by Rachel in her calm and precise way. “You look tired,” she said, as William kissed her on the forehead.

He scratched his scalp. His implants were fizzing at their edges, as if a low-level irritant were running across the surface of his brain, leaking some sort of waste into his grey matter. “These things itch,” he said.

“There are rumours, you know,” she said, “rumours of deliberate decay so they can sell you their latest gizmo.”

”Rachel,” he sighed, “you shouldn’t listen to school gate gossip.”

“Wise up,” she said, shaking her head. She shouted to the twins. “C’mon, you two, we’ll be late.”

As they walked through the front door, she called over her shoulder. “They need new shoes. Sort it out, William. They’re not going without because of your laziness.”

He watched the three of them happily saunter hand-in-hand across the estate. Other memories hovered at the edge of his mind. Of a tortured old man who wandered the city, lost in loneliness. Of a young girl, riddled with cancer and surrounded by a family unable to look after her properly. He had dreamed of their pain, their recovery, and the lives they might go on to live. He had woven a fabric from their possible futures, overlaying it with his own sense of whether the death of a neglected old man was more tolerable to the city’s inhabitants than that of a child with no hope of recovery. That was his job. Ingenious used these dreamed imaginings to prioritise the city’s overloaded health care, and it made him angry that Rachel persisted in her belief that he simply slept a lot and got paid little. Surely she could see that what he did was far from relaxing, and it shouldn’t take a genius to grasp that having your precious dreamtime used by the city was a great service and not something to be ashamed of. Sadly, she didn’t value his work in any way other than the wage it brought in.

Shortly after they were out of sight, he left the flat.

Out on the streets of his wonderful city, most of the nine million occupants had integrated themselves into the micro-managed migration of the morning. It was the real-time version of other dream dances he’d had with Ingenious. Dreams where they’d teased the crowds this way and that. Dreams which Ingenious had then used to nudge the behaviour of the citizens and generate the data required for the successful curation of their capital’s commuters.

He turned left on to the main local artery and stopped abruptly. An automated podcar had rammed into the side of another right in front of him. It was mayhem. The noise of people shouting assaulted his mind. People shouldn’t shout. That was not how they were supposed to behave, but then Ingenious should have been taking care of the traffic. The chaos made him nauseous, and if he hadn’t been desperate to increase his income, he would have hurried home.

The walk along the street was difficult. His attention wavered between the thought of decaying implants and the excruciating sounds of disturbed drivers. Not that they were really drivers. Trying to protect himself from the onslaught, he hunched his shoulders and concentrated on his destination, the implant emporium on the high street. As he turned the corner, he bumped into another pedestrian and recoiled in horror. The sensors in the implants were supposed to alert them both so they could avoid one another. The physicality of this horrendous error reverberated around his body, causing him to shudder in response. His accidental assailant shook her head vigorously and ran off. And that wasn’t the only shocking thing. The street was almost empty and the shops themselves were free from customers. This was not how it was meant to be, but he had to focus on his own problems. He didn’t want to think about what might be wrong with his beloved city—and at that moment, he wasn’t being paid to think about it, either. Pushing away a creeping fear, he set his sights on the single metal door of number 7.

The door registered his implants, and opened. “Good morning,” said the old woman behind the counter. “What can I do you for?”

He smiled and tapped his head. “I need sorting out,” he said.

“Please elaborate.”

“I need more of what you gave me last time. I need to be able to sleep and wake every four hours to earn enough to keep my family fed and happy.”

She brought up his profile. “You are on three cycles a day at the moment. Is that correct?”

“Yes, once during the day and twice at night.”

 “And how is that going?”

“It’s fine. No problems at all.”

She nodded. “Well, there are plenty of your colleagues who have shifted to six cycles a day. I can certainly update you.”

“Thanks,” he said, breathing out a single steady breath. “Thank you.”

She folded her arms across her chest and moved her eyes from side-to-side as she read from the screen in front of her. “You need an upgrade,” she said. “Do you have the funds?”

 “Soon,” he said.

She frowned but said nothing. She walked to the end of the counter and beckoned him into the back room, the room he was familiar with from previous visits. “Please,” she said, pointing to the single chair. “Take a seat.”

William did as she asked and sat down. She pulled a metal hood on a pivoted arm from beside him and placed it over his head. “You know how this works,” she said. “Relax into it.”

He sat absolutely still, letting his thoughts drift on to what he was going to buy Daniel and Tara. Images filled his mind: their happy little faces among little bursts of cosy nights, immersed in the latest wraparound movies.

The old woman removed the hood. “All done,” she said. “Four-hour cycles installed.”

He stood up. “I appreciate it.”

She pursed her lips. “Don’t forget the upgrade.”

“Next month,” he said.

In the reception area, a man crouched in the corner, clutching the sides of his head. He looked up and there was terror behind his twitching bloodshot eyes. The old woman caught hold of William’s arm as he hurried past her. “One last thing,” she said. “These intense cycles might leave you strung out and your thoughts chaotic.” She glanced at the shaking man in the corner. “At least that’s what some of the others are reporting.” She pulled him closer. “Check your health every day and cease the cycles if there are any danger signs. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” he said, and smiled. “I’ll be careful.”

Back on the street, he hurried home, determined to squeeze a couple more cycles in before supper. That would be enough to buy the kids their new shoes.