Excerpt
January prepared to enter the dreamstate right after their luncheon over Paris. The weather was cold but fine, with few clouds and a steady wind.
She locked her cabin and started to strip, removing her corset (bloody thing, she thought, thanking the Multiplicity of Realities for not requiring her to use this contraption as her other selves) and lying down on her bunk. She closed her eyes and started to breathe slowly.
First, she visualised a white rose, blossoming slowly, unfolding extremely thin, marbled blue-veined petals. The rose swam in her field of vision, shrinking until turning into a cameo. January reached out for it, making the object disappear in her hand.
Then she saw the door.
It was a door like any other, and yet it wasn't. Every time she dives into the dreamstate she faces a different door. The process can be controlled up to a point, but she can't always tell where and when she will end up.
This time, one thing was certain: she wouldn't be back to her Twentieth Century body, not while the male vessel of her consciousness was undergoing surgery. For that reason, she wouldn't be able to project her consciousness upon other realities. But she might be able to open a window, if not a door.
So. She saw a blue window.
January suddenly remembered that this was a window from her childhood (but which childhood?). Blue wood with wooden slats: old, smelling of dust and a bit musty. She could see light on the other side, streaming faintly through.
She touched the wood, caressing the slats without hurry – time in the House doesn't run as it does in the Multiplicity of Realities. As always, the feeling was a bit strange, because in that space outside space the Oneironaut doesn't exist in the flesh, but rather in what the Book of Oneiric Rules call the "essence". It was too abstract for her, since she felt pretty much as if she had a body, so she didn't dwell much on this.
Then she opened the window, just enough to peek through. She knew there was a way out, but she wasn't about to go alone.
In this mode, January was a kind of spectator in the landscape of another reality. Almost as if she was in a theatre. So, she watched.
She started to see scenes from another life. But not hers: Dr. Jones'.
At first, she didn't quite understand what she was looking at – until not only her eyes but also her mind, still very much attuned to her male counterpart, adjusted. And she understood: she was indeed in a theatre, but one that was bigger, much better illuminated than those she was accustomed to. There was music playing, loud music. Incredibly loud music, and somewhat dissonant. Yet, she found it appealing, maybe because her male version used to listen to this kind of music. It was called rock and roll.
The stage was filled with musicians and instruments, all of which were illuminated from above, with lights of many colours: green, blue, red, yellow, some of them waving like palm fronds, some pulsing in rhythm with the music.
Then, someone else entered the stage. A tall, very white man dressed in extravagant clothes, even for the future. Was it a man, though? The figure was so wavy and sinewy, and he also walked on high heels, swaying his hips wildly.
But the face. The face was unmistakable. She would recognise it everywhere. Everywhen.
Dr. Jones.
