FUTURES NATURE|Vol 438|17 November 2005 Perchance to dream Out of sight, out of mind. My suit accesses the boy, allowing me to in the lowest rungs of a Dreaming World, Robert A. Metzger see through his Ocs. There is no such where the resource-challenged can only thing as privacy in the Dreaming World — afford photon-based goods. There is a place to trade, on the third level, privacy inhibits the flow of commerce and “Stealth suits are 20 years extinct, antique hardware in exchange for real Dreams. Perspective slips as I enter into Grandpa,” he says, waving a hand at me. food. But first I must walk this stretch of the boy, his hands are now mine, adorned “Isolation, anonymity, individualism, all the seventh level in order to reach the Up- with jewels, gold rings, skin plastered with such sad Dreams.” Tube. The haze is thick, inquiry motes morphing displays, sleeves of silk covering My suit might be 20 years old, but it gets swirling about me. I let them ask their my arms. This is the world he experiences. the job done. I run a diagnostic. I am emit- questions but, as if in response, I inform About me swirls frenzied motion and ting nothing but a blast of infrared them that they sample nothing but air. I colours, bustling bodies loaded down with through my rear radiator fins, my ultra- study everything from long wavelength packages, bright sun above, shops adorned violet ionizers at exhaust ports shedding radio to short ultraviolet spikes, sniffing with wrought iron beckoning, and every- any leaking DNA, and biometric compen- the pheromone bouquet and sampling the where blossoming wisteria. sators continually randomizing my move- organic debris. I do not transmit, do not In front of me stands an old man — ments. The motes of inquiring dust that even reflect. I am operating in full stealth, nearly naked, cloth tied around his waist, choke this tunnel, transmitting torrents of invisible to the Dreamers about me, those a white beard, aged yellow, hanging mid- data between them, nibble at my suit, inhabiting virtual worlds. Shops adorned way down his chest, his skin wrinkled, questioning, probing, but my suit informs with wrought iron and blossoming wiste- nearly translucent, thick blue veins visible them that there is nothing there. ria line the street, screaming with a full across his bald head. I am not like this boy, like any others on spectrum onslaught, begging me to enter “I’m in full stealth,” says the old man the seventh level. I am not a consumer of and sample their virtual goods. Above standing in front of me. “I’m not a part of photons and Dreams. I am the last from a hangs a golden sun. The street is undoubt- your Dreaming World. I’m hidden and world now gone. I am flesh and blood, and edly thick with people, but I choose not to safe.” He grins. He has no teeth. His eyes I am invisible. experience them, my stealth suit not only sparkle like diamonds, the Ocs wedged And yet this boy can somehow see me. rendering me invisible, but also guiding behind his corneas glistening. He is How? me around people without the need of Dreaming of stealth suits. I reach conscious intervention. JACEY for the old man, taking one of his I am not a Dreamer. I am gnarled hands. “You shouldn’t be awake, safe in my stealth suit, iso- out here, all alone Grandpa,” I lated from the fantasy that has hear myself say. consumed the world. Then I blink and am back in “You in full stealth again, my own skull, the boy holding Grandpa?” my hand. “My stealth suit?” I ask, I focus, narrowing input to the not understanding how it could merely visible, nulling the infor- be gone, as I look down at my mational torrent, blossoming wis- nearly naked body. “I was going teria and wrought iron fading to make a trade on the third level away as I drop the suit’s human for food,” I say. filter. In front of me stands a boy, “There is no third level, naked, dirty, brown hair hanging Grandpa,” he says, and sweeps a in tangles. His eyes sparkle hand in front of me. “Only here. like diamonds, the Ocs wedged Everything else is a Dream.” behind his corneas both spewing I remember, knowing what he and gulping data — his gateway says is true, the confusion lifting to Dream-generated worlds. He a bit. stands before me on the narrow “Time to get you home, sidewalk, naked people shuffling Grandpa,” he says. by us like water flowing around FUTURES I nod, hoping that I will find my two rocks in a steam. The shops stealth suit there. We walk down along this stretch of tunnel are the street, the warm sun shining choked with bodies, and nothing down on us, the shops beckoning, else — the only goods available on full of wonderful Dreams for sale. this level virtual — photons being The wisteria is in full bloom. ■ the most cost-effective consumer objects. I look up. There is no sun, Robert A. Metzger is a hard-SF just a warren of steel strut and old writer and a research scientist in plumbing hanging from cracked the area of semiconductor thin concrete. Flickering fluorescents films from North Carolina. His cast everything in harsh light. We latest novel, released by Ace in 2005, is Cusp. are seven levels below the surface, 394 ©2005 Nature Publishing Group