City of Slow Dreams: Chapter 15 (by Elliot Bowers)

After introducing herself to the two Ganglanders, sleep had closed over her. Her brain insisted it was time to sleep. And she was without strength enough to resist the sleep coming on. She went to her knees, leaned against the corner where a bookcase and plain wall intersected. Her large eyes gently closed as the female Ganglander came.

Lolita lifted Alia. Cradling the pale-haired elfin being, Lolita turned to Sailor and Thunderhorse, then walked toward the sofa. She sat Alia in her lap: a sleeping dreamer in Lolita’s lap. The elfin being in sky-blue nightgown curled herself and huddled against Lolita’s chest.

And Alia did dream. She dreamt, as she had during the times she had been lost in the plains and buried. She walked deeper into the dream…

Walked into her dream… She had come to the Mess Hall again—a long wide plain room meant to seat at least a hundred hungry soldiers. Thirty round brown tables were all around—with only one of the tables having three chairs available. But all the soldiers were gone. And they would never come here; they were all dead.

Alia knew this place in a general way. Something about it was wrong, though. Its location was wrong. This place, it was in the wrong place. It was not where it was supposed to be in the world…

Alia moved to take a seat. Nowhere else to seat herself save that table over there. A brown, formica-topped table with three chairs. She took a single step.

She instantly found herself at the table she was moving toward. The table with three chairs. One of the chairs was turned around, facing away from the table. And she found herself dressed as a civilian, dressed in the casual but dressy style elves preferred after assimilation into humanity: jeans that fit her just right, dark shoes, a close-fitting simple blouse. Her pale hair brushed back, relaxed and cascading softly against her blouse-covered back.

Seated where she was, Alia faced the windows—which had the darkness outside. Alia thought that to be impossible. She peered and concentrated, looking for any light. But… Nothing. No distant base lights to illuminate the nearby field, no vehicular lighting, no stars. Indeed, the Mess Hall was certainly in a wrong place.

She then thought, I do know where I am! I know with solidity! As soon as she had that recognition, all the lights went out. There was no light from the outside at all; darkness closed over everything.

Alia swiveled her head left and right, trying to see. Wondering and vaguely frightened. She would not leave this table. A spotlight shone on her.

The shone down from nowhere. This table was lit up with a bright overhead light—leaving everything else in darkness. Then Alia saw the other two occupants at the table. A human-looking female with dark hair sat to one side, facing away from the table. Her blouse-covered back to the table.

The other chair was occupied by The Cloaked Man—that curly-haired madman in slacks and tee shirt. His cape was draped over the back of the chair he occupied. And though Alia felt only a slight air current, that cape The Cloaked Man had flapped flippantly in an unseen stronger breeze.

“You think you know where you are seat-sat, do you now?” asked The Cloaked Man? He spread his arms, gesturing to everything around—even the darkness outside of the spotlight. “I got new news for you, honey-child: You do but you don’t! Et, je crois que vous-savez ce que je m’appelle…”

Alia put her hands on the formica surface of the round brown table, her pale hands seeming even more small and delicate against the brown tabletop. And the spotlight made them seem to glow.

She tried to talk. But The Cloaked Man’s rugged face put out words before she could. “If you’re trying to speak, you’re wrong! I’m Elio, never forget to remember that I will remember. And there ain’t a doggoned thing you can doddle-doo about it. Well, maybe there is, but not now.”

Swish! The Cloaked Man’s left arm snapped out—gripping the shoulder of that slim dark-haired girl who sat with her back to the table, seated toward Alia’s right. So far, that girl said nothing, sat as stiffly as the gynoid she was. The Cloaked Man shoved; the synthetic girl fell over and out of the spotlight, her body collapsing in the darkness. “Ah well, guess you’d need two more party members to pull something! That one ain’t going to help you any anymore—being defeated and all!”

Alia looked at the place where the girl once sat, then looked back at The Cloaked Man—that madman now drinking a mug of darned good coffee. “Mmmp-mmph! Darned good coffee! Damned good, in fact! I’d offer you some, but you look barely old enough to drive, let alone consume caffeine... Dang it, all you elves look like they ought to be stuck back in kiddie school.”

Alia tried to talk again, to ask about The Cloaked Man’s name change and why she was here. Her throat gave no sound. Instead, The Cloaked Man—calling himself Elio—spoke again. He put down his mug of damned good coffee and said, “I got a hankering to talk about river-bound corpses or creamed corn for some reason, but I won’t ask if you’ve seen a little man in a red suit. Then I’d have to start speaking in reversed syllables, and you wouldn’t understand a damned thing—because you’re not smart yet. Not yet, but maybe that jerk Thunderhorse will help you out.

“Why in tarnation am I telling you this? Anyway, when you wake up, maybe you will remember to forget. That case, then nothing I said here for you to hear will matter up. Right; right? Ah, what the hay, we’ve got plenty of the times to stay and whistle in the breeze… ”

As Sailor asked a few more questions to Thunderhorse, who was seated over there in an armchair, Lolita wrapped her left arm around the small being’s back—the small head leaning against the comfort of Lolita’s breasts.

Lolita felt the elfin being’s fine shoulders go tense at one point. When Alia squirmed and made slight frightened noises, Lolita readjust her hold. She stroked the long and ethereal-colored hair of the elfin child—marveling at the silken softness of the strands. She pushed some lengths of the child’s ear to reveal one of Alia’s exotically shaped ears.

Sailor reviewed some of the information he had just been told by Thunderhorse. Asking, “…So, the elves did have magical powers? I thought somethin’ like elfin magic being kiddie stories. Fairy tales from the Old Days.”

Thunderhorse, seated across the living room, raised his right finger. “Not quite that, my young friend. Of course, we could speak about the exaggerations of elves made in literature…” He smiled. “Though that would be decades of conversation. Yet even fiction can tell truths. About elves, for example. Elves do have potentials toward certain mental abilities: telekinesis, pyrokinesis, apportation, and others. This, though the Old-Days words for that would be magic.”

Sailor glimpsed left at the small pale being in Lolita’s lap; Lolita held Alia as if the elf were her child. Lolita gave a little hug to Alia, then smiled. It was a sight that held Sailor’s heart.

With an effort, he asked, “Mr. Thunderhorse, I don’t get it, then. Why did the elves go extinct? Couldn’t they just use somethin’ like that magic to just kill off all their enemies and…win the War for themselves?”

Thunderhorse shook his head. “I’m going to answer that in a roundabout way, Sailor. First up, Politics. Politics is why the elves went extinct once over, Sailor.”

Sailor asked, “What the Hell? How’s that? Politics is just for running maintenance of the town and keeping the humans happy. Right?”

Thunderhorse sighed. “I’m referring to the Old Days, Sailor. Politics was such a world-dominating force in the Old Days. Politics was made everything as the same families who ruled corporations put their favorite children into political offices. Yes, all the world was seemingly under multiple governments in the Old Days, but all of the members of government came from one worldwide elite—a single government.

“Now pay attention to what I say next; what I said seems irrelevant—but not exactly. That worldwide elite had eventually gathered most all the real political power there was to gain in the Old Days. And, such a coherent elite powerful enough to rule the world’s governments and corporations was able to convince the scattered tribes of elves to junction the fate of their race with the rest of humanity.

“To think, that those being had hidden among humanity for centuries. After elves revealed themselves, they were given the same legal status as humans. This, though they were not. And when the War came, elves fought on both sides of the War—the side of the War that replaced bodies with metal ones and the side of the War that fought against such a practice.”

Sailor shook his head, still impatient. He said, “What about the magic, Mr. Thunderhorse? Elves had magic, right? They should have, I dunno… Used their powers to regroup during the War.”

Mr. Thunderhorse continued. “Magic is not everything, Sailor. For one thing, the elves that replaced their natural bodies with metal ones—ones with synthetic faces—largely lost the ability to use most all of their magic. Metal skin is a hindrance to magic. That was especially since the titanium alloy used to make metal-type replacement bodies had traces of steel.

“About the other elves, the ones that retained their original bodies. They clad themselves in specially alloyed armor that did not contain steel. Then they tried to use magic in battles, especially during the War, but only used magic when necessary. Think about it: Why would elves invoke their natural abilities of magic when they had human weapons?

“Human weapons are wonderful substitutes for personal magic, at least the weapons available during the War. Why use fire-throwing spells when flame-throwers are faster and less tiring? Also, why use telekinesis when using burst guns is so much easier and faster? Magic can be a weapon, but the weapons of the War were faster. Just as calculators and typewriters severely reduce the need for humans to do written work by hand, technology made it easier for elves to put aside magic when using the weapons of War. You see, then? Magic-usage was largely neglected during the War because elves were the only ones capable of using it.”

Sailor nodded. “I got you on that one, Mr. Thunderhorse. Elves got lazy with their natural ability.” He then gave a rightward jerk of his head, referring to the elf seated in Lolita’s lap. Asking, “So, what now? Did ya just refurbish her like a living doll? Or something like a kid-daughter to keep around and experiment with magic?”

Lolita’s eyes and mouth snapped open, though she kept the rest of her body still as so not to disturb the small pale dreamer in her lap. Trying to keep her voice even, Lolita asked, “Experimentation on this child?” She looked at Thunderhorse, calmly reclining in the armchair across this living room. “Mr. Thunderhorse, please… This is just a little girl. And she seems so exhausted after the processes you used to refurbish and revive her. It seems so wrong, discussing what to do with her as she sleeps—as if she’s an object… An inhuman product of some sort.”

“She is not human.” More solidly and stolidly, he added, “As I said, politics defined Alia as human. She is an elf, not to be treated like a simple human being. Lolita, you are educated and intelligent. You know that elves have more levels of maturity than humans. How could you know Alia’s genotype and say she is ‘just a little girl?’ She is an elf, not at all of the human species. Elves never could interbreed with humans, their genotype is more alien to humans than that of mammals, and they are of a different evolutionary path. Note that, young miss…”

Lolita’s mouth hung open, shocked. She never heard Mr. Thunderhorse speak with such intense resolve. She had not ever heard him speak so darkly.

He must have seen the look of hurt in her ceramic eyes because he added, apologetically, “So sorry for the tone, Lolita, but the ‘little girl’ you cradle so dearly is not a little girl at all. She is an elf, and her magic must be developed. Think of it this way: Would you deny an education to a human child, or deny that child the right to play games?

“Not reawakening the magic abilities of that elf would be the equivalent of denying a human child the ability to laugh. Would you want Alia to be disabled? And would you deny Alia her heritage?”

Lolita looked down at sleeping Alia—the curled child looking so peaceful. Lolita suddenly realized that, as she spoke to Thunderhorse, she had wrapped both arms around Alia’s back protectively, out of a mental reflex. Lolita eased her hold, and Alia shifted—breathed deeply and continued to sleep.

Then Lolita looked at Thunderhorse: Lolita’s dark eyes to Thunderhorse’s brown ones. “No, Mr. Thunderhorse, I suppose I could not deny this elf what you offer. Even if it does sound largely uncaring on its face. But please, let me see her when I visit.”

Thunderhorse interlaced his fingers, leaned back in his armchair. “Of course, Lolita,” he said. Nodded twice. “Of course. Just perhaps, she may need occasional exposure to an older female figure—given her somewhat mentally regressed state. A kind of surrogate older sister or mother. The parallel I make may be close to human psychology, but perhaps it fits.”

Lolita had a connecting thought. “Can she sleep in my house? I have an entire upstairs that I do not use at all. Or…” She saw Thunderhorse shake his head. “Then, where?”

He said, “Alia is not ready for general public exposure; she would suddenly be seen as a newcomer and hustled up to the mayor’s mansion. Indeed, newcomers were once welcome in Slow Dreams. But with Elio in power, immigration is watched. And her presence would be prematurely revealed if she were put in a Ganglander’s house. Your friends are over quite often. Anyway…” There was a swish of the breeze in the room. Reality felt twisted for part of a second. Thunderhorse said, “I have a room ready for her.” He stood up from his armchair. “Sailor, Lolita, do follow me.”

They followed Thunderhorse out of the living room—through the kitchen. He took them through the short hall and toward the spare side room—next to the bathroom. He opened the door and clicked on the light. A simple little bedroom: a quilted bed, a brown dresser drawer, and a brown desk with some books. “She will sleep in here.”

Lolita carried the precious burden to the bed. Sailor pulled back the quilted cover as Lolita put Alia down, pale head and hair going against the pillow. Alia uncurled and sighed as Sailor put the cover over her shoulders. He then stood back with Lolita, said, “Cute kid.”

Sailor had to remind Lolita that they did have to patrol their territory in the afternoon. Their brains needed at least several hours’ sleep. Thunderhorse then escorted Sailor and Lolita to the front door. Lolita hesitated, then left with a wave. Sunrise was just hours away, and the two walked away along the night street.

Thunderhorse looked on until they were out of sight. Indeed, he had chosen the right ones. And likely, Alia would choose them as well. He knew she would. He closed the front door.

Hours later, morning was coming on. It was not a morning visible from the inside of the grand office, the mayor’s office in that grand house on a hill for overseeing Slow Dreams. This was just a sunrise visible from the outside. Elio was inside.

He was inside his grand, auditorium-sized and carpeted office. The flat computer screen was off and folded down onto the desk. All of those papers—all of the daily reports—were read and signed. All of last night’s work was done last night. Still, Elio was at his desk.

He was slumped over, somehow asleep. Not that Elio needed sleep; sleeping was just an act to keep those suckers of town believing that he was mortal. If Thunderhorse could pass for being human, Elio could sure as heck do similar and pretend to just be a synthetic-bodied person—and not the other-worldly being he really was.

But this sleeping bout was not done for acting’s sake. He just finished up his reports sometime last night, and then he felt so damned tired. Just so damned tired… After reading reports, configuring weather, overseeing town maintenance, running the town, Elio could not help but crossing his arms on the desk, pillow-like, and laying his curly maned head atop. His red cape was against his back, draped like a blanket. Just a nap, no one would say anything. No, really! They won’t say a darned thing! And since the start of the nap, he slept into sunrise…

Two of Elio’s athletically built guards, dressed in their beige slacks and work shirts, black shoes clicking, walked into the office. Surprised to see him asleep half an hour after sunrise. They did not know that he dreamed…

Elio was in the dream place, and it looked like the Mess Hall. And he was talking with a freaky little elf-girl. Both he and the elf-girl were seated at a brown formica table that was well-lit by a spotlight from somewhere above. The table was well-lit, but the rest of this place was in absolute darkness. He didn’t mind; neither did the little elf-girl.

He stared at the elfin being across the spotlit tabletop. In a way, the elf-thing looked cute and all, her fine facial features, petite slender size and pale hair. And she had a cuteness about her because of her outfit: the petite and doll-pale creature had on a blouse visible above the table, and with all the logic of a dream, Elio suspected she wore jeans. There was something seriously familiar about her face…

She didn’t even mind when he shoved that shut-down gynoid off its chair. And so far, he told that pointy eared little girl-creature most of what he wanted to say. In fact, he told her more than what he wanted to say. He couldn’t help it; there was just something about this place. And why was he still calling himself The Cloaked Man?

“Why can’t I shut up?” asked Elio. “Like, my freaking mouth is all jobbed up to clunk out some damned important stuff. Worse for me, it’s stuff you don’t know you wanted to hear. But, it’s high information, get me? Or don’t you get it?”

He raised his left hand, and there was suddenly a coffee mug in it again, a mug gleaming. And the coffee in the mug wasn’t just any coffee. A deep sip of the

oh-so-damned-good stuff. “Damned good coffee! Want some?” Silence. “Answer up! I don’t want to keep talking alone. You want me to keep plunking out info I don’t want to say? That it, once and for all?” Elio slapped the table three times. “I’m The Cloaked Man! You’d better figure out how to talk in this place, or I’ll get pissed!” He slapped his own face “Oh, no! Argh! Why in tarnation do I keep calling myself The Cloaked Man still? I’m Elio! No, The Cloaked Man! No, Elio…! Yes, no, something!”

That got the elf across the table to moving her little mouth. She started to talk, but the words came out backward. All the words sounding wrong. Never mind that now, then!

Elio’s body still slept at the desk. “Never mind that now, then…” he mumbled. He heard slight breathing nearby. Slight, as the breathing of his synthetic-bodied guards is slower than human breathing. “Erk?” came Elio’s surprised nonsense syllable. He sat up, brushed off his tee shirt, put his hands on the desk. “Ahem! What’s the good word, dude?” he asked, looking up at the guard.

“You were asleep, sir,” said the pale mustached guard-man, hair combed to regulation. And he had some documents in his right hand. In a voice as neat as his pressed slacks and shirt, he said, “I thought it unusual, but I stood by until you awakened just now.”

“Ah well, guess I was on stand-by, too,” said Elio. “Any old way…” He put the reports all neat and in a pile. Offered them left-handed to the guard, he said, “Okey-dokey, here are the reports. Get ’em while the oatmeal’s hot.”

The guard took the reports. Then he gave Elio the new reports for consideration. “This includes RVH extrapolation reports, sir. Of particular note is the reportage from Sailor, Kate, and Miza: Reports about an increase in RVH-syndrome cases.”

Elio took the many reports in his hands, looked them over. Each sheet was primarily covered with handwriting, neatly paragraphed information. “Hmmph…” murmured the mayor, reading those three reports first. “Hmm-hmm-hmm. Hmm-hmph; hmph-hmm!” Looking up at the man, he said, “Alrighty, I’ll consider this and respond accordingly. Not to give too much away, but I guess you could tell the boys and girls at the hospital to power up some nanobot synthesis vats.” He then thought, If human mortality gets too high, I guess we’ll have to make ’em like we did in the Old Days…

“Any other miscellaneous messages you would have me announce to people-in-general?” He said that and stood strongly, awaiting orders.

“Nah…” said the mayor. He shook his head, put his right hand to his head. He waved off the guard with his other hand. And the guard began to walk away.

The guard had then crossed the vast expanse of this auditorium-sized office and approached the double doors out. Elio back there then shouted, “Whoop, wait up a dog-slaughtering second!” The guard hesitated, listening back. “Tell the cooks that I want to eat food this evening, and prepare the basement dining hall for an evening feast. That means, the cooks are going to cook food for me.”

The guard nodded in acknowledgement. He opened these double doors, then walked out. Back at his desk over at the far end, Elio crossed his arms and leaned away from his desk. He thought on things for some seconds. Then he went to considering the reports…

Elsewhere in Slow Dreams, Ganglanders were at work in eliminating another once-human beast. “Wa-hey!” shouted Jimmy, an average-bodied Ganglander with his sharp-looking face in anger. Down on the morning residential streets of Slow Dreams, he and big Joel faced two RVHs—both Jimmy and Joel in Ganglander outfits with leather jackets zipped. And they were not backing down.

These two RVHs were particularly obnoxious-looking. One of those once-human beasts was once a man out for a jog—dressed in length shorts and a tee shirt. The other creature had been an overweight man, dressed in a big sweater and sweatpants. But having been changed, neither of those two would ever exercise again. Because, the only thing an RVH-syndrome maniac-beast cared about was causing pain and misery. The fat one and the athletic one, the two stood side by side, hunched over and breathing the heavy way such beasts did.

Simple: Joel would attack the big one. Joel, quite a sizable Ganglander, stepped forward and punched simultaneously with his right fist. The blow rocked that big blubbery thing, and it took several steps back. Joel struck with the other fist, making the thing fall on its big butt.

Joel was pulling back his left fist when the other beast attacked. The other beast, the athletic-looking one, swiped at Joel’s head with a hand barely shaped into a fist. Though strong, Joel still staggered from the blow on his jaw.

“I got him!” said Jimmy. He stepped forward, gave a quick one-two jab combination with his fists—knuckles extended. The attacks landed on the back of the RVH’s skull. Clunkle! Jimmy’s punches softened the back of the creature’s skull.

The athletic beast, the back of its skull injured, turned to glare at Jimmy. It lowered its head and leapt, butting Jimmy hard in the abdomen. Right where a Ganglander’s body had its mobility processors. Being hit there hard enough was like being butted by a bull.

Jimmy got up immediately, ready to fight again. But his mobility was somewhat compromised. He would fight on, though. Would fight on.

“You!” shouted Joel, making the athletic RVH hesitate in engaging Jimmy. “Go down, forever!” And then Joel put his fist together, forming a double fist. He raised that double fist, brought it down—hard. There was a meaty squnch when the attack hit.

That blow was done with the strength of a compact-sized construction vehicle; Joel’s double-fist had actually squashed the RVH’s head—making brain-matter splatter out the sides like grayish jelly. So damaged and headless, the body staggered about before Joel attacked again.

Joel gave the RVH such an uppercut that the once-human beast flew up and away. When it came back down again, it was a mangled mess that bled to death on the street. The athletic one was defeated.

The other one, the fat one, finally managed to stand up after it was last knocked down by Joel—its chest caved in. Its crazed eyes were on Joel. And the remains of its intelligence was set on mutilation.

Joel and Jimmy both turned to the wide bulky beast. Joel addressed it. “You are a tenacious one. Not aesthetically pleasing, but admirably tough. You seem to surpass your other once-human brethren, beast.”

Maybe some part of the thing still understood some human speech. Or maybe, it was insulted by the Ganglander’s tone. Whatever, the fat-bodied man-shaped thing grunted and made a rush at Joel—hands up like claws and yellow drool coming from the mouth.

The counter-attack was simple. Jimmy simply smashed his right fist into the thing’s face. Yes, into the thing’s face. Then he extracted his fist from the thing’s face—making for a sucking sound.

With its face sunk in, the RVH stood for some seconds. Stood as if pondering how it would now go about living with a fist-sized crater in the middle of its face. Deciding, it fell over backward. The back of its already ruined head hit the street, and it died. Clearly, Joel and Jimmy won that encounter.

Jimmy stepped back, brought down his fist and unclenched them. “We won that one. A little tougher, but still a win. Yeah!”

Joel regarded the mutilated remains of the fat RVH. Said to Jimmy, “Indeed, those last two specimens were much more tenacious. Far tougher than previous humans gone wrong. Whatever factors brought about the more tenacious RVHs are now more environmentally stable ones—very likely changes in the spiritual ambiance. What say you, Jimmy?”

Jimmy stepped away from Joel, over to where the athletic RVH lay dead. Crouching and looking down on it, he said to Joel, “Is this about that the breeze thing you and the mayor keep talking about? Whatever it is, it’s causing us trouble. I just don’t like the feeling it’s giving me, though.

Mr. Thunderhorse read on during the afternoon—in his pressed and neat gray suit. He sat in his bookcase-lined living room, reclining in the armchair. A book in his left hand as he turned pages with his right. He was reading up on legends preserved from the Old Days. This particular volume was a school textbook on philosophy.

The section he was reading was on epistemology, consideration of humanity’s perception of reality. Human perception, nothing on what other types of beings thought of reality. Thunderhorse realized that the volume was dated, but the exclusiveness of the wording was worth a snicker. The Old Days became a time period in which humanity thought itself center of all the universe.

Thunderhorse finished the ten-page article, stopped to contemplate it. The premise for the article itself failed to follow its own precedence. Humanity was not alone in perceiving reality.

He felt the slight stirring in the breeze nearby, turned his head to better sense it. It was a slightly stronger stirring than normal; that elf was finally awakening. It was nearing 1340, and she was finally waking up. Thunderhorse thought such late slumbering in a child—human or otherwise—was a bad habit. But, as she was up so late last night, it was forgivable. For now. He got up from the armchair and put the philosophy textbook back on the bookshelf behind his armchair.

This muscular inhuman being in the straightened his preternaturally and constantly neat suit, passed through the kitchen and into the short hall. He approached the center door and gave a light knock-knock.

“Aigh!” came Alia’s short shriek, and the sound of that elf in there making a surprised movement in bed. Agitated breathing. Waiting and frightened.

Thunderhorse spoke through the door. “Good afternoon to you as well, Alia…” Then he opened the door and walked in. The pale-haired petite being was sitting up in bed, and she looked on with those vast dark eyes of hers. It really was like being stared at by a life-sized toy—her being so still.

Thunderhorse took steps closer, hands behind his back. Alia’s eyes and head turned ever so slightly in watching his movement. Bedside, he looked into her eyes—peered into her being. She held the stare for some seconds, then blinked hard and looked away. Her lips moved, no sounds coming out at first. Thunderhorse waited with that grand patience of his.

She finally managed words this morning. Folding delicate hands atop her bedcovers-covered lap, she kept her eyes down. She took in a deep breath, finally said, “I should give you thanks, Mr. Thunderhorse, for providing so much. Yet, my own temporary lack of coherence in spirit must have prevented my doing so.”

“You have now what you didn’t last night,” he began. “And, your lack of maturity is largely not your own fault. You being taken from a physical body before your brain and your psyche could fully grow was one stunting of growth. Your lack of consistent companionship may be another cause. Or, would you father be to blame, given how he treated your decision to become synthetic-bodied?”

Alia’s body stiffened again, her newly synthetic insides seeming to go slightly chill. Slowly and carefully, enunciating every syllable, she asked, “My father? How could you ever come to know of him? I did not ever tell you of such things. And the only one I ever told of my first past was a friend—a gynoid. She was obliterated…

“All of my friends, in fact, obliterated. Some had been shot and blasted, their bodies in horrible shape after death. Friends mutilated by encroaching beings of hatred. Friends, eliminated by aspects of the times. All but one, who was darkened by betrayal… Time acted as the ultimate conqueror of my life. As it always shall…” Then Alia gasped a sob, a sharp pain in her soul. Swallowing hard, she turned her head right and up, looking at the big business-suited being.

He returned the stare. “We can begin to change conquest today, Alia.” Thunderhorse knelt on his right knee. “How would that sound to you? I offer you revival of you magic. The heritage of your people.”

“How could that ever come to be?” asked Alia, slightly excited or agitated. “The body you granted me for this life is merely a synthetic copy of my original—my original elfin self. Body replacement meant an immense loss and a near impossibility of magic for my kind…”

Thunderhorse bent forward with his knee, reached and gently stroked Alia’s pale hair. “Elf, I know much about your people. In fact, perhaps much more than you could know in your immediate lifetime. For instance, you didn’t even take into account what type of body you have now—when you made that last statement.

“Your synthetic body will not hinder your re-learning of magic. You have a synth-flesh body, not one of magic-trapping encasing metal. Also, the body you have now is a genotype-determined reconstruction of your original—a copy of the body your subconscious recalls.” He gave several more strokes of her hair before he stood from his kneeling position. “That said, dress and make yourself presentable, Alia. Having a realistic body again, you should return to habits of physical modesty. I’ll be waiting in the living room, preparing an initial lesson for you.” Thunderhorse said that, then he walked toward the door. Alia reached out a hand as if beseeching more information, but he just closed the brown bedroom door behind him. Footsteps of him walking away and through the house.

Alia looked at the door that Mr. Thunderhorse passed through, leaving her to wonder, How many hundreds of years gone since I was last recognized as one of my people? Her large eyes narrowed. And, should I trust that one who calls himself Thunderhorse? Betrayal is possibility with even the most sincere of friends. She sighed, removed her bedcovers, got up from this seemingly oversized bed.

It was not as if she had a full selection of choices. Mr. Thunderhorse did give her a new body and brought her out of dreams. Now he offered her a place to stay. No was not an answer she could give just now. The dresser drawer was at the corner to the right of the door—a mirror on the wall adjacent

Standing at the dresser drawer in her blue nightgown, Alia was awed at how physically at ease she felt, how easily she moved. Her new body was a synth-flesh type, felt almost as “real” as a real one—a serious change from the stiff metal-type body she had for so long. There was a tall mirror to the left. Given her small stature, the top of the mirror was twice her height.

She took off her nightgown, stood in brassiere and panties. Looked at herself in the mirror. Alia was really a small person; she looked like a human being in two-third scale. Normal human proportions, but just in elfin size.

Alia moved her fine fingers to her face—round face with high cheekbones beneath proper elfin eyes. She even touched the tops of her pointed ears. She then moved her fingers across the flatness of her abdomen. Moved her fingers along the lengths of her arms and the sides of her hips and thighs. Like real skin—even if too perfect. Absolutely no blemishes or hair save for her eyebrows and the elfin lengths of ash-blonde cascading from her scalp. As an elf should look.

Pleased, she moved to the right and opened the drawer at waist-height to herself. Several pairs of folded jeans and several blouses in one drawer. With some underwear. Not a great many outfits… She shrugged: a synthetic body only needed fresh clothes only insofar as clothes could become torn or soiled in fights. Synthetic flesh never sweats or has any scent. Anyway, how many outfits would a doll’s body need?

And now, she felt more like a toy—a four-foot doll. Her skin was rubberoid and pale, with plastic fingernails. Her eyes were now large ceramic-cased electronic eyes. Underneath her skin and artificial flesh, her insides were electromechanics. At least, with a metal body, Alia could subconsciously pretend she constantly had on a suit of close-fitting armor—though her previous body was the close-fitting armor: so close-fitting that it fit to her brain.

Mentally shaking herself, this synthetic-bodied elf dressed herself as she would with a real body. A pair of jeans fit her hips and legs. And the blouse she chose fit right. She tucked the bottom of her pale blouse into her jeans and pulled her hair free of her collar—again bringing her hair to flow down her back. Shoes? Alia knelt and opened the bottom drawer: several pairs of simple dark shoes. Of course, those fit her feet.

She picked up the nightgown and reached up to put it atop the dresser-drawer. And then she looked in the mirror: a good blouse and nice-fitting jeans, black shoes. She used her fingers to gently brush her hair into place, she finally thought she looked presentable.

Alia had her nightgown in her left hand when she walked out of the bedroom, and she closed the door. Thunderhorse said from the living room, “There is a hamper in the bathroom. The nanobots will dissolve it; you won’t need it anymore…” Alia put the nightgown in the metal hamper in the normal-looking bathroom, heard slight sounds as the nightgown was disassembled inside that machine.

She then walked through the short hallway and into the decent-sized living room—everything bathed in the gray-toned afternoon sunlight from the ever-cloudy outside. Over there by his armchair, Mr. Thunderhorse was kneeling. He was manipulating a sort of head-covering half-helmet, the helmet connected by wire to a book-shaped computer terminal and keyboard on the coffee table. That was a hypno-education unit, with the helmet modified for the child-sized elf.

Thunderhorse put the helmet on the armchair and stood by. “Ah, you look like a proper elf. So long since I ever saw one of you in preferred clothing…”

“How do you mean, Mr. Thunderhorse?” asked Alia, her head tilted to the side and voice sounding gentle-calm. “It must have been several centuries since I saw another one of my people. You must speak symbolically.”

Big Thunderhorse gave a small smile. “I do not, Alia. And let’s leave it at that for now…” He picked up the modified headset of the hypno-education unit with his right, then gestured to the chair with his left.

She sat down in it. Thunderhorse said for Alia to bare her ears. She pulled back the sides of her hair and Thunderhorse fitted the unit over head and ears. “I’m going to give you a sedative, and then we can start you on magic training,” he said.

He put a mug of something warm in Alia’s hands. She brought it to her lips and drank some. Then her brain fell into a gentle stupor of warmth. Seconds later, the computer-processed lessons began…

Elsewhere in town, Lolita and Sailor had Ganglander business. It was nearing the end of the week. Both Sailor and Lolita wanted to complete reports by the end of the week. Written reports. Elio never ordered or required reports on a regular and regulated basis. Instead, he just told his Ganglanders to report at least twice or so a month. Sailor and Lolita tried to get in written reports on their patrolling at least once a week.

So, after their afternoon patrolling shift, the two went over to Lolita’s house. They went into one of Lolita’s side-rooms: a decent working room with Lolita’s miscellaneous files and reference books, a rectangular table in the middle serving as a desk. A table-mounted and mid-wattage reading lamp atop it. There, Lolita and Sailor took off their leather jackets and put them on the backs of the chair seats. They then began to spend a sunset hour writing up what they wanted to report this week.

Reports were deliberately handwritten and general in opinion, almost essays. That was the way the mayor liked reports: written in a loose, laid-back and semi-official manner. That goes because, said the mayor once, typing typed-up reports can make folks anal—emotionally constipated.

At the end of the hour, at 1900, Sailor put down his writing stencil—which had been triggered to usage on real paper. He looked at the two lined sheets of writing, which had his name at the upper right-hand corner, the date below. And he reviewed what he wrote.

Essentially, he wrote up about the RVH increase. His main point was that there was a big increase in the number of RVH-syndrome victims. And they were getting tougher. Further, they have taken on a tendency to attacking in packs. He looked it over once more, rewrote the last page for neatness, then signed his name at the end of the last page.

Sailor looked over at Lolita, who was finishing up a last paragraph. She had written three pages so far. Sailor watched her as she wrote, her long red hair put behind her ears. Her elegant face calm and concentrating as her fine fingers penned words.

Lolita finished. She gave her report a once-over, then looked it over again. Satisfied with her report, she signed her name—stapled the pages with the stapler. Sailor did so as well, stapling his pages. Shaking himself, he asked, “Hey, what’d you write about?”

“The prime focus of my report for this week was that of the RVH syndrome rate of increase,” she began. She folded her report in three equal parts and put it down on the tabletop. Fingers atop her report, she leaned slightly forward, her eyes on Sailor’s face. “Subsequent points of what I wrote were on questions of potential causes for the RVH syndrome increase. Such as chemical or electrical changes in local environments. Not that it is too close to the explanations that Mr. Thunderhorse—or even Joel—talk about, but it is logically close enough.”

Sailor nodded as he folded his report the same way Lolita did. “Sounds about safe. Ya know, though, I want to tell Elio about what Mr. Thunderhorse said about the ‘breeze’ thing, too. But I don’t know too much about it. Don’t want to look like some kinda chump in front of the mayor and all…” Lolita reached across the rectangular table and put her right hand on Sailor’s.

Smiling and gently shaking her head. “Sailor, be assured that the mayor would not see you as a ‘chump,’ as you put it. You are good at what you do. At one point, in fact, you struggled too intensely to be too good. Do you get the meaning?”

Sailor thought of that, Lolita’s assuring eyes on him. He then stood up from the seat at this table, pocketed his report. “Yeah, guess you’re in the right on that one. Let’s go deliver these over to ’em before we have to face any freaks tonight.”

They both put on their leather jackets. Both put their folded reports in their left jeans pockets. Going through the house and leaving from the front door, Lolita opened the door. Lolita closed the door, and it automatically locked. The two headed down the newly night-gloomed suburban street—going north toward the mayor’s grand mansion on hilltop.

Several miles north through the night, and they were at the foot of the hill near the circular mountain range—the ring of mountains that surrounded Slow Dreams. All they had to do was walk up this winding road, several city blocks in length. And then they were there.

Up here on the hill, tan-clothed guards in slacks and workshirts patrolled the illuminated vast front lawn. Sailor and Lolita waved to some guards as they approached the front of the immense mansion.

Then they came to the front double doors, a male and female guard stood around. Sailor and Lolita both handed their reports to the male guard. He then said, “Lolita? Sailor? The mayor invites you to an evening meal. Of course, he said that you didn’t have to come. But, still, him being the mayor…”

Sailor knew what to say to that. He answered, “I got you. Kate told us earlier. So you coming, Lolita?”

Lolita shrugged. “Why at all not? This gives us both chance enough to talk with the mayor on the developing matters. Perhaps, first-hand discussions could work here.”

The two guards opened the double doors. And the female one, the one on the left, said, “The dining hall is on the first sub-floor. Straight ahead and left, down the middle stairwell. Several guards should be present inside.”

So the two went into the vast building-sized house. Inside, it seemed bigger. The first room they entered was the immense, carpeted and chandelier-lit expanse that was the mayor’s office—forty by thirty yards. His desk was at the far end, in fact. For an odd change, the mayor was not at his desk. They went left, past two more guards, and down the wooden stairwell.

Down here was the mayor’s grand—though almost never-used—dining hall. Seldom used as neither the mayor, Ganglanders, nor the guards needed to eat. Just ate for formality or recreation’s sake—help them feel more alive than one normally would with an artificial body.

There was a chandelier overhead. The high walls were done up with realistic oak paneling. Statues were along the walls, as were some bookcases. And the marble floor was done in a checkerboard black-and-white scheme. The mayor himself was at the head of a long table in the middle. Humans and cyborgs in tuxedoes served this evening affair.

That table in the middle was a set table for forty-seven guests. The caped man at the head seemed to be the sole guest for now, though: him dressed as usual in tee shirt and slacks with his cape at his back, a frilly napkin tucked into his shirt. He was consuming buttered rice, oatmeal, and occasionally taking vast gulps from a large mug of coffee.

Like the gulp he had just taken. Putting the mug down, the mayor exclaimed out loud, “Mmmh, mmh, mmphh! Damned good coffee! Have to love-love-love it up! Too sweet!” He looked at the two newcomers over here by the door. “Ah, there you two are! I done occupied my somewhat serious self with toping up on darned good coffee and all this. Come on! Come to the table!” He spread his arms, then began waving his hands inward—motioning for them to come over.

Walking at a measured and respectful pace, Sailor and Lolita walked over to this mayor. The two also took looks at the servants in tuxedoes. Then they sat together on the left side of the table, Elio’s right. Elio pushed aside the bowl of oatmeal, then put his hands atop the table—fingers interlaced.

Well now,” began the mayor, “I done heard and read that you two took out plenty of Randomly Violent Humans. Darned RVHs, always going randomly violent when we least need them. Like, never! You two got anything you want to add beside the bi-weekly reports you usually give up?”

Sailor looked at the mayor. Seriously saying, “Well… We just gave reports to some of your people upstairs. We wrote up about the increased RVH attacks. Something to worry about, maybe.”

Elio looked eyed Sailor, then shifted his somewhat shifty smirking look to Lolita. “Okey-dokey, you got anything to add? I mean, on the mass matter? And, you two have some damned good coffee… Et garcon, donne-moi deux autres. Tu sais ce que nous aimons!”

One of the tuxedoed men with white gloves went to a cart near the west wall. He obtained two mugs—brought them over to where the mayor and his two guests sat. Then the mayor himself poured damned good coffee into the mugs.

Sailor took a mug. Lolita took one and spoke. Saying, “Not that we expected personal audience with you, Elio, but I have thought on factors surrounding the increase in humans gone bad. It may not be just happenstance misfortune that caused what is happening more often. Perhaps, this pertains to that metaphysically pervasive factor you mentioned to us?” She sipped some coffee, her dark eyes regarding the mayor.

Elio the mad mayor leaned back, crossed his arms. “So, you’re another one who finally catches on to the idea of the breeze, eh?” He spread his arms. “Yeah, the breeze is over all of everything. Get it? It’s like an energy thing that’s slightly and partially below reality. And the breeze—that spiritual ambiance thingy—affects luck.” He shrugged. “Maybe, the breeze is so full of bad luck that it’s causing a bad increase in humans going into big craziness. Then, you have to put them in the breeze when they do…

“Not like it’s too much a problem, though. Humans can reproduce. I care about ’em and try to keep humans prospering in this here town of mine. But, if they turn into mutants, they turn into mutants. Not a grand thing I can really have done about it except let those folks down at the town hospitals do some research on the causes…

“And on that, I guess I ought to remember—to remember to—have the hospital folks configure the vats for growing humans. If the population gets too low, we’ll just have to start growing those humans in big. Like they used to do back in the City of Nebraska… By the byway, did you two ever try plain oatmeal?” From there, the evening’s discussion with the mayor discussion went into random matters.