Dreamworms Book 1: The Advent of Dreamtech by Isaac Petrov (drm ebook reader TXT) 📕

“Do brace for the count, human candidates. One… Two… Three… Four…”

Edda’s hand clutches the railing, her dream arm muscles readying for the dive, and her mind embracing every sensation with sharp savagery—the cool, hard texture of metal on her skin; the tasteless humidity as tendrils of fog reach up into the air; the weight of her own body on the slide—Ximena realizes that Edda is grounding herself into the dreamscape in anticipation of the mare’s awareness-removal attack.

“Five… Six. Do proceed.”

Edda pushes forward, and begins a long, dashing slide down the slope, her breath under rigorous control, her eyes trying to pierce the fog into which she is plunging. As the scene camera dives behind her, Ximena catches but a side glimpse of the closest mare stretching an arm towards her, and—

Whoa, Goah! Ximena and many of Miyagi’s students gasp as one as they feel the mental blow as if it were physical. Edda’s mind has been violently pushed into a blizzard of chaotic confusion as she penetrates the fog, her vertigo making Ximena cringe.

Just as Edda reaches the bottom of the slope, the surrounding fog dissipates and a clash of colors hits her eyes like a hammer on a thumb. Her body, still brimming with momentum, thrusts forward through a jungle of flowers as tall as her, and more exuberant in display than anything Ximena has ever seen in her life—or in her dreams. Vegetation eager to impress, to absorb—to mate. The rush of vertigo floods her falling body, and yet her gaze is inexorably drawn to petals with spiraling turquoises, and thick stems in dazzling shades of burgundies. She finally falls on a soft bed of sprinkling dust that explodes in hues of blue and whispers of pain. Warm, titillating pollen immediately covers her skin, overwhelming her senses, as a sudden, sharp fragrance simultaneously smashes up Edda’s nostrils, and transports Ximena in an instant into a land of forgotten memories, a past she cannot remember, and yet feels deeply as her own. A warm wind shakes the canopy of flowers as if bubbling instead of blowing, and sings wailing, wordless songs of the soul—ever changing melodies only meant to be heard once, and be forever forgotten.

Whoa, damn! A few stray tears run down Ximena’s cheeks. She shuts her eyes and counts to three. Goah, it’s impossible to focus!

But, of course, she doesn’t have Edda’s training. Nor her power of will.

Edda has been embracing each of these clashing sensations with wild eagerness, grounding herself into each new feeling before letting go of the previous one, an unbroken chain of awareness as the primary question of the Second Step echoes uninterruptedly in her mind.

Am I dreaming?

Yes!

Edda stands, shakes off the blue dust from her skin and tunic and draws a deep breath. With a shove of her mind, she dispels the soul-ripping melodies from her ears and the pungent smells from her nose.

Ah! Ximena sighs with relief. A glimpse at Mark confirms that she was not the only one overwhelmed by the sensory storm.

Edda draws another breath, and throws a calculating look back at the impossibly high slide, at its fixed position in relation to the wildly dancing vegetation. Ximena sees it now through Edda’s eyes. Of course. It is not just a slide. It is also a compass. Edda takes her bearings and begins to move swiftly towards the center of the arena—towards the exit.

Something catches Edda’s eye. Between the flowers, on her left she sees a glimpse of Valentijn van Kley, gaping around like a madman. Poor bastard… Like a mensa groping in the dark. Her thoughts flow unimpeded through the psych-link, accompanied by a distinct sense of pity. But Edda keeps trotting on regardless, sharply focused on her bearing, and quickly loses sight of him behind the foliage.

“Van Dolah!” She hears the sudden shout from her right.

Before she has time to turn her head, two bodies slam into her with simultaneous violence, and throw her tumbling across the ground.

Ximena feels Edda’s sharp pain in her own body—blissfully muted by the psych-link safety interface. Edda’s right side has been smashed by the impact, and her breasts and shoulders hit the ground hard. She raises her head, gasping for the air squeezed out of her lungs. She groans weakly and blinks up at the two figures staring down at her, as tears of pain well up in her eyes.

The Smook siblings.

Luuk’s pale blue eyes pierce Edda’s like a splinter of ice. His expression is closed, rational, almost blank. Ximena cannot read any anger in them, nor resentment, nor anything that could explain the attack. Only execution. He is looking at Edda like a lion at a hyena. He is just doing what must be done.

His sister is different. Very different. In her early twenties, she must be one or two years older than him. She is tall where he is stocky, has blonde hair—cut short—where his is dirty brown. She is pretty where he is… not. And her eyes shine with hatred, stained teeth showing beneath a wolfish smile.

“Take her out,” Luuk says, voice cool like he was commenting on the weather.

Both begin kicking her. Viciously.

Edda, creeping on the ground, screams and tries to drag herself away. Waves of unreality begin to ripple across the amphitheater, like the surf of the tide gradually engulfing a shipwrecked body. Goah, she’s waking up! Ximena thinks.

“The head,” Luuk says, as he kicks Edda’s face with all his weight. His sister joins him, giggling, and stomps on her ear as Edda instinctively curls up and tries to cover the back of her neck with her hands.

Ximena’s hands tighten into fists as the psych-link allows through a few traces of agony. She feels disgusted. The savage display of violence! “She’s going to wake up,” she mutters, eyes locked on thump after thump.

“No way,” Mark says beside her. He is frowning, head tilted away, but his eyes are as locked as Ximena’s. “Not Edda van