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

scans the colorful rows where the Lundev crowd stares back at him with sassy curiosity, in marked contrast with the deferential respect emanating from the GIA section. His eyes seem to linger longer on Mark. “How charmingly diverse.”

“We were about to dive into the Third Step of the Path of Light.”

“Third step, splendid,” he says as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “So I didn’t miss the climax of the Three Trials of Worth and Soul.” He walks past a mildly perplexed Ank towards the part of the hemicycle filled to the brim with blue and white uniforms. As he approaches, a spot reverentially opens for him on the first row.

From the opposite side of the auditorium, Ximena follows his every move—his every gesture—with awestruck eyes, like she is in the presence of royalty. Professor Jean-Jacques Smith, who by the age of forty had already reached the very top of the ranks of Academia of the Goah’s Imperia of the Americas. Not once, but twice: he is both a Doctor of Economics and of Historical Sciences, and the youngest member ever accepted to the Council of the University of Townsend. Since Ximena began her PhD, she has been hitting his papers time and time again; he really knows his subject. Oh, and to top it all, he is second dowry to the Pontifex herself, which probably helped him pursue a parallel—and successful—career in aws Head. Already a grand censor! And nobody expects him to stop there.

“Eighteenth of December, if memory serves well?” he says, as he sits.

“Spot on,” Miyagi says. “Do I have your permission, Grand Censor Smith, to resume the seminar?”

“Oh please,” he waves a polite hand at him. “Act as if I wasn’t here. And I beg of you, my dear professor, don’t be using my full title now. Grand Censor Smith is so,” he laughs, “bloated.” He puts a playful hand on his prominent belly. “I don’t need to be reminded how grand I’m becoming.” He laughs again.

“Sure, then Censor Smith it is. I was about to show our students the daylight events in Lunteren on that Saturday 18th of December 2399. We’ve been so immersed in the dreamscape side of things—with aliens, trials and what not—that we risk forgetting that, at the end of the day, it is in the real world where we all take a dump. And what is history, but a long account of shit happenings? I hope you can excuse my language, Censor Smith.”

“Very florid metaphor,” he chuckles affably. “But please, curse away. We’re all adults here.”

“Thanks. Ank, please,” he nods at the woman, “bring it up.”

Ank waves a finger at Bob—the wudai machine standing next to her—and a scene appears frozen in midair across the auditorium.

“Oh, this is remarkable,” Censor Smith says, as his admiring eyes study the ultra-realistic projection: a large red-bricked building, two-stories high, wide and with a large open field on its front where cheerful children play soccer. A school. Centrally located, judging from the traffic of strollers on the sidewalk, and bicycles on the street—Ximena can even see the receding back of a horse carriage turning a corner. “Is this the dream sensorial you are seeking official GIA approval for, Professor Miyagi?”

“Well, in a way.” Miyagi puts his hands in his pockets. “These are the raw sections I am producing in collaboration with the Lundev’s History Department. They are for academic purposes, like…” he chuckles, puts a hand out and waves a finger across the rows of students. “But, in essence, you are of course right. For the general public I’m keen to cut and paste the more, er, commercial parts into a nice, tight historical drama. Bring history to the people, right? It will be very educative.”

“And lucrative, I presume?”

“I very much hope so,” Miyagi chuckles again. “Especially if your office permits its publication in the GIA. Such a vast market.”

“Oh, Professor,” his smile widens, “this is no moment to speak business. I come to your,” he gestures at the part of the amphitheater where Ximena sits embedded in Lundev students, “Global Program not as Censor, but as Professor of History, and of course as guardian to the academic wellbeing of the souls entrusted to my university.” He looks back and meets the devoted look of dozens of students in their neat white-and-blues. He turns back to Miyagi and points a finger at the school floating in midair. “So, what are we watching here?”

“Ah, yes. The De Bron School, in Lunteren.” Miyagi slowly begins to pace the stage. “But before we begin today’s seminar, I wanted to hear your opinion, people. Mere curiosity, please indulge me. Ank, could you please move the camera to the man exiting the building?”

Ximena turns her attention to the figure coming out into the midday sun. The scene zooms in until he floats full-body like a distracted giant, carrying papers and notebooks under his arm.

“Ah! Here he is,” Miyagi says. “Elder van Dolah. Or Meester Willem, as he was called by his pupils.”

Willem is of the thin and tall type—one of those annoying people that never gains weight, whatever rubbish they eat. His skin is white, a healthy pinch of red on his cheeks. Long, untidy brown hair, intelligent brown eyes, thin glasses. His long tunic seems warm, comfortable—and a tasteless clash of colors faded by usage beyond reason.

“Look at him. He is your age, give or take. Do you find him physically attractive?”

The students exchange glances, waiting for a reaction. Cody O’Higgin, Ximena’s fellow GIA student, finally speaks up: “Uh, I think he’s okay looking, Professor. A bit dorky.”

“Nah, I think he’s really cute,” Lora says. “Throw on a nice, tight outfit, and he’d be a sex magnet.”

“Yeah,” Mark says next to Ximena, “he’s got that sexy intellectual thing going for him.”

Murmurs of agreement spread across the benches.

Mark leans towards Ximena, locks his blue eyes into hers, and whispers in mischievous tone, “There’s something about smart people that makes me want to nail them, you know what I mean?”

Ximena