simulated boardroom, he realised just how busy the Ghost Girl had been. How many others, he was silently relieved to note, had been as affected by the dream as he had. How many others like him that she had managed to persuade to her cause, by worming into their minds and showing them a nightmare.
And that, one day, unless they could stop it, that nightmare was going to become real.
CHAPTER 6
WORLD
White
Several days after his argument with Jospen and Cho, White sat in his room, surrounded by the detritus of his life. Clothes spilled over everything, mostly rejected. They would draw too much attention. He had a small bag packed at his feet.
In it was a battery-powered toothbrush, an ancient thing that had cost him a lot of credit and taken quite a while to find. There was also a skinsuit, which he would wear under his normal clothes â it was hard to get used to the bizarrely changeable weather in Angle Tar, and he had grown up in regulated environments. The skinsuit would cool him down if he overheated, and warm him up when it was cold. He couldnât imagine how Angle Tarain coped. In the winter, when the air was full of knives and snow fell often, their solution appeared to be to wear more and more layers of clothes until they were bundled up into balls, which hardly seemed practical if you moved about outside as much as they did.
He had also packed innocuous trousers and jackets, shirts and a style of soft boot that they tended to favour there. There was a body gel, very much in World fashion at the moment, that would help keep him clean until he could find a more permanent solution to the problem of hygiene. There was a little money that he had managed to pick up on visits there, at first because heâd found a piece or two on the ground and had been curious as to what it was; and later, after reading up about money in Life, for more practical reasons.
He took a steady breath, trying to swallow the uneasy lump in his throat.
Jospen was right. What would he do in Angle Tar? How would he survive? Would he be able to find somewhere to live, some way to earn more money? There was no plan, there was no nothing. It was impossible to plan. He didnât know what people without technology did with their lives. In World, everything was answered for you. Everything was assigned to you. No effort required. In Angle Tar, it seemed that you found your own way or died. At least most people had a family who started them off. He would have no one. He would be all alone, drowning in a culture that still thrilled and terrified him in equal measure with how alien it could be.
Angle Tar wasnât part of World. It wasnât connected to Life. It had closed its borders a hundred years ago, declaring it illegal for anyone to visit, but neither laws nor lack of transport could stop someone like him. That was what made him so dangerous.
If he wanted to, he could easily read up about Angle Tar in Life. He could look at topography, and climate. National dishes, key historical moments. Holographic renderings of a typical street scene. Every fact he could ever wish to know was there, and for most people, that was enough. But his childhood dream visits to Angle Tar left impressions that had scored burning marks across his heart and secret soul, impressions he could call up any time he was bored, upset or lonely. The dreams managed to sustain him for a while; but gradually, he found that they werenât enough any more.
And then White discovered that he could do a lot more than just dream.
He called it slipping, not knowing what else to call it. He called it that because when he had practised and practised and learned how to do it well, it had a particular feeling of slipping through a thin crack as if his skin were supple and greased. Sometimes it was harder than others, especially if he wanted to go to a place he had never been to before. Then he had to squeeze himself through the air, edging carefully through, one limb
And that, one day, unless they could stop it, that nightmare was going to become real.
CHAPTER 6
WORLD
White
Several days after his argument with Jospen and Cho, White sat in his room, surrounded by the detritus of his life. Clothes spilled over everything, mostly rejected. They would draw too much attention. He had a small bag packed at his feet.
In it was a battery-powered toothbrush, an ancient thing that had cost him a lot of credit and taken quite a while to find. There was also a skinsuit, which he would wear under his normal clothes â it was hard to get used to the bizarrely changeable weather in Angle Tar, and he had grown up in regulated environments. The skinsuit would cool him down if he overheated, and warm him up when it was cold. He couldnât imagine how Angle Tarain coped. In the winter, when the air was full of knives and snow fell often, their solution appeared to be to wear more and more layers of clothes until they were bundled up into balls, which hardly seemed practical if you moved about outside as much as they did.
He had also packed innocuous trousers and jackets, shirts and a style of soft boot that they tended to favour there. There was a body gel, very much in World fashion at the moment, that would help keep him clean until he could find a more permanent solution to the problem of hygiene. There was a little money that he had managed to pick up on visits there, at first because heâd found a piece or two on the ground and had been curious as to what it was; and later, after reading up about money in Life, for more practical reasons.
He took a steady breath, trying to swallow the uneasy lump in his throat.
Jospen was right. What would he do in Angle Tar? How would he survive? Would he be able to find somewhere to live, some way to earn more money? There was no plan, there was no nothing. It was impossible to plan. He didnât know what people without technology did with their lives. In World, everything was answered for you. Everything was assigned to you. No effort required. In Angle Tar, it seemed that you found your own way or died. At least most people had a family who started them off. He would have no one. He would be all alone, drowning in a culture that still thrilled and terrified him in equal measure with how alien it could be.
Angle Tar wasnât part of World. It wasnât connected to Life. It had closed its borders a hundred years ago, declaring it illegal for anyone to visit, but neither laws nor lack of transport could stop someone like him. That was what made him so dangerous.
If he wanted to, he could easily read up about Angle Tar in Life. He could look at topography, and climate. National dishes, key historical moments. Holographic renderings of a typical street scene. Every fact he could ever wish to know was there, and for most people, that was enough. But his childhood dream visits to Angle Tar left impressions that had scored burning marks across his heart and secret soul, impressions he could call up any time he was bored, upset or lonely. The dreams managed to sustain him for a while; but gradually, he found that they werenât enough any more.
And then White discovered that he could do a lot more than just dream.
He called it slipping, not knowing what else to call it. He called it that because when he had practised and practised and learned how to do it well, it had a particular feeling of slipping through a thin crack as if his skin were supple and greased. Sometimes it was harder than others, especially if he wanted to go to a place he had never been to before. Then he had to squeeze himself through the air, edging carefully through, one limb
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