Finally!
She hastily takes off her robes and lies on the copper-like shiny surface of the wu-sarc. The metallic-looking material immediately reshapes to fit her body, engulfing her in a familiar wave of release and comfort. Her body relaxes in an instant. She cannot avoid a last peek at the bedside table. The time on the clock changes.
16:59.
Ximena shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to rein in a sudden surge of nerves, and speaks the mental command: Wu-sarc, activate.
A frenzy of vegetation erupts from the bottom of the sarcophagus. A myriad of ivy-looking tendrils crawl up its walls like worms escaping an earthquake, and cover her body in warmth and darkness.
Ximena takes another, deeper breath to exhale the last figments of stress.
State REM-phase duration, a deep female voice speaks inside her mind.
Ten wake-hours, Ximena replies in her thoughts.
The tendrils around her body tighten with comforting familiarity. She can almost feel the dream juice rubbing against her skin, running through her bloodstream, penetrating her brain, releasing her from reality. The wu-sarc is truly a wonder of alien technology, the dream of every dreamer.
The University of Townsend is the most important center of knowledge of the Goah’s Imperia of the Americas, and the day Ximena was accepted as a student of history was the happiest in her life. A huge honor. The first of the Epullan family ever to attend the university of the capital of the GIA. But today, any lingering happiness is rashly consumed by an overwhelming anxiety.
She runs desperately through the busy halls of the University of Townsend. Not the real brick-and-mortar one, of course. That one is several thousand miles north, in the midst of the North American landmass. She doubts the real campus is in much use anymore, except for some fringe operations like those invaluable historical archives she would give her right arm to be granted access to. The real University of Townsend is not really real. It is a permascape construct in the dreamnet, as most human institutions are in the twenty-sixth century. A dream, if you like, inside an inconceivably larger dream shared by all humanity.
Ximena dodges student after student, their dream avatars robed in the obligatory white-and-blue colors of the university. Her own academic robes, identical to those of her fellow students, flap behind her haste in an accurate rendition of reality. Sometimes the permascape seems more real than the wake.
Sometimes.
When Ximena reaches the main hall—an open court surrounded by balustrades and columns several floors high—she jumps into the air and flies straight to the fourth floor: the History Department. It is not permitted to fly in the main building, but, honestly, today she just doesn’t care.
The main department hallway is empty; the only thing visible is a gate made of intricate iron with Gothic motifs. And this gate was not here yesterday. A signpost placed nearby reads: “Access restricted to Global Program participants.” And behind it, a second, more prominent sign flashes angrily in midair: “WARNING! You are leaving the Goah’s Imperia of the Americas.”
Ximena’s heart leaps. The gate is closed.
A lone university steward guards the entrance. He is not a real person, of course, but just a character designed by some dreamtech engineer and yet more realistic than even the latest AI prototypes that Botswana spits out for the space habitats. But then, human-like dream characters are only natural, aren’t they? After all, everything in the permascape is being rendered by the melding of millions of human minds.
“Can’t pass,” the steward says, raising his eyes at her with a very convincing bored expression. He even appears to be chewing gum.
“I’m in the Global Program,” she says, and points a hasty finger at the first signpost. “Ximena Epullan. You can check!”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The steward taps an old-fashioned watch on his left wrist. “Seminar’s started.”
“No.” She shakes off a wave of desperation. “It can’t have.”
The steward gives her a sideways smirk and keeps chewing in silence.
“No.” She walks past him, up to the gate, and begins pounding on it. “No, no, NO!”
The steward ignores her.
“Please, PLEASE,” Ximena pounds the gate with both hands. She turns to the steward, who shakes his head and scoffs. “Please,” she whispers, desperation filling her like sea water in the lungs of a drowning sailor.
She stops pounding and falls on her knees.
It’s over.
Ximena is not the type to cry—the Epullan are a tough lot—but here, on her knees at the edge of her shattered future, she feels entitled to shed a few dream tears. What will she tell Papá and Mamá? That she was late to her destiny? How long until she can look Abuelo in the eyes again?
The gate moves almost imperceptibly, pushed from the other side, without noise, until a sudden stream of natural light shines along the widening slit.
It’s opening! Ximena jumps to her feet, takes the opening crevice with her hands, and pulls with all her strength. Goah’s Mercy, will they allow me in?
“Hmm, thank you, dear,” a woman’s voice says, tinted with strain. A sweet, elegant voice; the cleanest, purest Hansasian accent she has ever heard. “This gate is sooo heavy. You GIA lot sure have a developed sense of the dramatic.”
As the gap increases, Ximena turns to the woman, her eyes widening with wonder.
A Neanderthal woman! An honest-to-Goah Neanderthal, brow ridge and all, right in front of her!
She blinks in a futile effort to avoid gaping at her narrow forehead. Neanderthals are supposed to be a bit… brutish. Dim, even. But this smiling, broad-faced woman in her fifties radiates sophistication. Short, brown hair, neatly pulled back, her avatar dressed with the elegant casualness Ximena has only seen in Hansasian sensorials. Why so surprised? Of course you would expect Nubarian Neanderthals in Hansasia, and most definitely in the Lundev, right by the Portal.
The Neanderthal woman’s smile widens, too gracious to let Ximena’s obvious reaction affect her affability. “Ximena Epullan, I presume?”
