Free Dream Paris by Tony Ballantyne

were planning something.
    “Stand still,” said Francis. He walked forward, wire jumping and jerking in the water behind him, scattering crystal drops. There was something odd about that wire. The monkeys on the bank observed his approach. Some of them retreated. One or two of the braver ones came forward, retreated, came forward. They were chattering and hooting. Challenging him. Still Francis walked on, coming to the edge of the canal. He looked at the crowd of monkeys, picked one of them out. Monkey and man faced-off.
    “Get out of my way,” growled Francis. The monkey flinched, then slowly turned around and patted away, hands and feet, as if it was bored, as if it had better things to do.
    Francis began to try to climb from the canal, but the heavy pack dragged him backwards. I waded forward and helped to push him onto the sweet grass of the bank, the wire sharp on my face. I examined it for a moment: the wire looked different somehow, here in the Dream World. But I was getting wet, and so I climbed out and joined Francis at the focus of the semicircle of monkeys, lurking just out of range.
    “You just have to identify the alpha male,” said Francis, with some satisfaction. “Best him, and the others will retreat.”
    We walked forwards, and the monkeys parted to allow us to pass. Francis wore a smug expression, like I should be grateful. Like it took a man to sort out the problem. In his eyes, it took an alpha male to deal with another alpha male. Typical alpha thinking, in other words. None of them ever stop to wonder what things would be like if there were no alpha males.
    We descended the bank onto a derelict Dream London street.
    “Look,” I said pointing to a line of bullet holes punctuating the brickwork of the nearest houses, the jagged teeth of shattered windows sharp in the daylight. The ground was scattered with ash and rubble.
    “That’s regular artillery,” said Francis, thoughtfully, examining the bullet holes. I wasn’t really listening, my attention had been caught by a view down the long alley between two houses. There, framed against the butterscotch sky, was something I did not expect to see in Dream London…
    It looked like someone had taken the Eiffel Tower and covered it with canvas, then set fire to it. The skeleton of twisted and blackened iron girders emerged from the burned skin. The tower had died in agony, the top of it twisted around and down so that it almost touched the elongated tiled rooftops of the surrounding houses. It almost seemed to be looking at us.
    “Are we in Dream Paris already?” wondered Francis.
    “No, look.”
    I pointed to a half-burned news kiosk. The rain sodden papers and magazines that had survived were definitely written in English. The Illustrated Dream London News , Arse and Titbits , Aardvark Fancier.
    Francis had crossed the road, the wire dancing behind him. He rubbed the ash from a street sign.
    “Barking Road.” He looked at me. “Which way do we go, Anna? Should we take a closer look at the burnt-out Eiffel Tower?”
    I shivered at the thought.
    “I don’t think so. You can get lost in Dream London streets. I suppose if we follow the canal we’ll be heading towards the sea…”
    We walked down the road, more of the oddly changed wire trailing behind Francis. The backpack whirred with each step that he took, dispensing another length of the trail back home. I kept turning to look at the wire, observing how it ran up the green bank, seeing where it vanished over the top. How long before I returned this way, perhaps with my parents, heading for home? What was it that was so strange about the wire now? I reached out to touch it, but Francis interrupted my thoughts.
    “There’s been a battle fought here,” he said, thoughtfully, stirring a brass rifle cartridge with his toe. It rolled across the pavement, fell clinking from the kerb. “And recently.”
    I looked around. “Where are the people who lived here?”
    “Most of them will have