Free Angels and Exiles by Yves Meynard Page A

sounds are muffled to a chaotic background percussion track, the bright lights filtered by the polarized windows. They travel so swiftly and in such a complicated course the brain balks at the idea that the streets and buildings are fixed; so much easier to assume this vehicle is the unmoving centre of all things, while the brightly lit outside swirls and jitters by. There comes upon Kel—youngest of the trio, born long after the Eldred had landed—a familiar feeling: that all of Yerusalom is a stage set, that the Eldred have recruited humanity for some absurdist play of theirs, incomprehensible to human minds. He has a vision of himself as a Pierrot wandering through a maze of streets, questing in vain for his Columbine, who lies all tangled up in her strings within some prodigious attic, beyond a door it costs a lifetime’s earnings even to open a crack. . . . Not a bad image, that; should they use it in their next dream? He will at least suggest it—but right now he should be concerned only with the dream they are going to perform when they reach the Proxima Theater. Assuming they do manage to get there in time for the competition. Seated at his left, Harold stares ahead blindly, weeping pale-blue tears.

    The performer’s doors of the Proxima Theater are closed when the three dreamweavers rush out of the red-class taxicab. They run across the street, their coats flapping behind them, ascend the three steps, slam their bare hands onto the doors with desperate cries. Kel wails in frustration; Ras gives Edge Nain a murderous look. Edge Nain has been praying, deep in his heart. And so it does not truly surprise him when the doors suddenly yield, swing inward, let them in. The trio stagger into the backstage lobby of the Proxima. The entry fee is deducted from their accounts; and, starting this instant, every additional minute they remain within the building will cost them 1.8 assets.
    In the lobby stand nearly a dozen groups of dreamweavers. Most are made up of three or four people; one group boasts nine members, while two flamboyant individuals are going it alone. An Eldred carrying a palm-node greets the trio; by the pattern of jewels embedded among her scales, they think to recognize her as one they have dealt with before, whom they learned to call Sumyuru.
    Sumyuru: “Friends, you have come to participate in the competition?”
    Ras: “Yes, we have. We’re registered under ‘Brothers of Enceladus’. Are we too late?”
    Sumyuru raises a hand and spreads her six digits, the Eldred equivalent of a smile, or so it is believed. “No. There was a small delay on our part, and you are still on time. I have confirmed your participation. In one minute we will announce the order in which the performances will be given. There will be a ten-minute period to rehearse, after which all performers will be required to enter the auditorium and attend the others’ performances. If you wish, mood-enhancers and hallucinogens are available at self-service dispensers; rates are posted above the machines.”
    Kel shakes his big-boned head in contempt. He has a pathological aversion to drugs, believes only in the purity of the dreamweaving experience. While Ras and Edge Nain are not so puritanical as he, neither of them considers using the proffered substances. They see one of the soloists at the drug dispensers, obviously mentally trying out combinations, checking the total price. He comes to a decision, punches in his choices, and four varicoloured pills drop into his outstretched hand.
    Kel: “That fool’s going to burn out every neuron in his brain. I can’t let him do this.”
    Before the other two can hold him back, Kel strides over to the soloist, urges him not to take the drugs. The other becomes instantly suspicious, demands to know why Kel is so concerned about his welfare. Next instant, before any answer can be given, he takes a swing at Kel, who ducks back and retreats toward his friends, under a torrent of