Extracts from the Dream Diary of Special Agent H Justin Pierce aged 34 3/4

[Session 4]

Day 18 (subjective) in the Dreamlands

Today we made landfall in Dylath-Leen. I am glad to be ashore and out of mortal danger. By which, of course, I mean sharing a cabin with Bradley in the top hammock, with only two unsturdy-looking ropes keeping him from crashing down, crushing me, and punching a hole in the bottom of this hellspawn of a ship that we're on. Wilmot got mail. Yes, a letter was waiting for him, handed over by the harbour master. It was short and terse - Wilmot would find things of mutual interest at the Inn of the Prancing Pony, at Harpers Ferry. The NOVAs went off immediately, to their embassy. We promised we'd follow later (although I have to say I was more than a bit squeamish). Captain Laroux and his merry bloodsuckers stayed on board.

We decided to take a long route to Bloodsucker House, so that we could familiarise ourselves with Dylath-Leen and make inquiries about Harper's Ferry. It's a village up the river, as it turns out. We might try and go there by coach, or by horses, or by ferryboat. Of course, talk is cheap, but whiskey costs money, and real services cost a lot more in the Dreamlands. Currencies here are strange. And we had none. So our best chance was probably to welch some cash off our Bloodsucker allies. It's not exactly as if they can take it with them to the grave.

Thus we started making our way through the crowded streets of Dylath-Leen. The city seems bathed in an eternal twilight - which suits the NOVAs perfectly fine, of course. It was hard going, and then things started happening. Chief and I lost track of Wilmot and Frost. We took a turn, which turned out to be a very wrong turn, as we hit a dead end, and were accosted by five men (I presume) in black pajamas. I'd seen their type before. Last year similarly dressed guys - dreamers all - attacked us in the forest. Back then, we fought them off, killed a couple, and captured one. But Martikian and I tossed him over the side of the airship. While it was airborne. Bye-bye, sweet dreams. I won't beat about the bush - things went badly. These guys went absolutely rabid - they were not foaming at the mouth, but they might as well have been. I got stabbed in the face, and pieces were sliced out of both of my legs (things were worse, taking into consideration that the closest medical professional - and I use the terminology casually - was Chief). I went down. I knew I should have spent some time invoking the Shield of Isis, but I did not want to let too much on. When I came to, I was hurting like hell, and the bloodsucknut Poco was standing over me. When I looked up, I definitely wanted to faint again. The alley was a slaughterhouse. Mr. Loco has defintely gone to town with these boys - throats torn out, and blood splattered all over the place. The CSI guys could have a field day on this one, analysing the bloodsplatters. "We go now," he said. Well, that's a great idea. He just picked up up, and flung me over his shoulder. No live prisoners were taken, which is a pity, because one of the goons knew me - me, as in, me on planet Earth. I would have been interested in learning more about him.

So we reached Bloodsucker Mansion without further ado. Of course, I was a bit apprehensive. No thanks to Chief's medical skills, I still had several open wounds, which, for the bloodsuckers, must be like a glass of beer to a pisshead. Ysabeau's writ carries weight around here, however, and I did not end up on the menu. We were given guest quarters, but one of the NOVAs - the one called Yune - made arrangements for me to be sent to a House of Healing (now, I remember Martikian telling me once that in certain regions of Asia, this actually is a synonym for "brothel", but I did not get my hopes up too high). The House of Healing turned out to be a temple near the waterfront, full of silver-cloth veiled women. I was still hurting like hell, but one of the acolytes (she seemed familiar, but then, all catholic nuns seem familiar to me too, mostly because of their resemblance to penguins) dressed my wounds, and showed me my room. I feel sleep overcoming me, and I cannot help but wonder, as I did when I came here - do the sleepers in Dreamlands go to some meta-Dreamlands? Do androids dream of electric sheep? Pah - Deckard had it easy.

 [Session 5]

Day 19 (subjective) in the Dreamlands

Dear diary, this day has had more twists than a 10-inch screw and I can assure you - the screw is very loose, to boot.

In the morning (or whatever passes for morning - eternal twilight here), my loyal troops come to pick me up. They find me in the gardens, near the pool, where it's nice, warm, and serene. The news is that we're supposed to sail on on the Hellship, in a couple of days local time. Which should give us enough time to pursue the odd letter that Wilmot received. I retreated to my quarters to recover my gear. Only, when I return, I find the lot of them starkers, lounging in one of the pools. Maybe this place is closer to Martikian's version of House of Healing that I thought initially. The place seems to affect the old brain-box, because my reminders of THEIR plan to hotfoot it out of Dylath-Leen to Harper's Ferry are met with blank stares. The only things missing from the scene is a whiff of ganja and the lot of them going "Relax, mohn" on me. I still had a nagging feeling in the back of my head about the acolyte who looked after me, and dragged my loyal team of crack law enforcement agents to the high priestess of the House of Healing (I managed not to address her to her face as "the Madam"). The acolyte in question was a recent arrival - mere months by the standards of this place. The Madam then had her sent for, and explained some more.

The acolyte was very troubled when she arrived - she is a dreamer, apparently, whose body was severely wounded. I knew of such things, of course - Dalton was in a vegetative state in Frisco, but was very much alive, well (and powerful) in Celephais. Professor Abbas did one better - he was dead, but continued on here. By the time I'd thought about Dalton, the penny had dropped. Sommers. I'd like to be able to say that we had a long and meaningful discussion about the issue of life, death, the soul, and the conscious spirit moving through the astral spheres, but no such luck. She had taken a vow of silence. Beverly, old girl, I sympathise with you - the bastard Dupont got you into a coma, and I have no idea what the Redneck Inbred Club did to you before that, but this vow of silence thing: lousy timing. Through asking specific questions and receiving nods and shakes of the head, we managed to piece together some story. Beverly Sommers is in a vegetative state, and she will not recover. She is a dreamer here - she managed to convey that she walked down the seven hundred steps and passed between the priests at the gate. The dream-Beverly will not go back. Another one bites the dust. Sorry, Bev, you deserved better, and I should have pulled you through. When I catch up with Dupont, I'm not just going medieval on his sorcerous ass. We are talking about DARK AGES medieval here. Or late medieval. Proper inquisition-style.

We left the temple, and traded my bow and arrows for passage on the ferry to Harper's Ferry. There were several stops, and I made a point of avoiding to tell the ferryman where we were getting off. Now is not the time to find a cure for paranoia. The ferry is an interesting vessel - it's basically a big raft, which seems to be propelled by magic, in the shape of an old man referred to as "Blue", who gets the vessel moving, and then sits down to read a book.

We're not alone, of course. There are about a dozen mounted warriors in the livery of Celephais on board with us. That makes me wonder, actually. How exactly does time flow here? Weeks can pass in the Dreamlands in the span of a day in the real world, which means that centuries would have passed in the Dreamlands since my first passage. But this Kuranes fellow is still king of Celephais. Does this mean that time does not flow in a linear fashion here? Is Kuranes some un-human thing? Or do the Dreamlands allow one to expand his (or her) subjective lifespan. I'll bet Laroux would know - I overheard one of the NOVAs saying that he'd been captain of the Red Ship for fifty years real time... It's never a good idea to let one's mind wonder, especially with Dreamlands first-timers around. I catch Frost blabbing to another party on board - consisting of a slave coffle with assorted slavers. He's talking too much, and I drag him away before he spills the beans on everything. Trust no one, Frost. It's only paranoia if absolutely, definitely no one is out to get you. The slavers get off at the first stop. That's a relief. I mean - we were on our way to Harper's Ferry, with a load of slaves (and let's be clear - I disapprove of the practice), but I would not have put it past Wilmot and, especially, Chief, to go John Brown on the peaceful legitimate slave traders. I do not need that kind of principled heroics.

We reached Harper's Ferry well after dusk (there's a diurnal pattern here, no eternal twilight), and were shown the way to the Prancing Pony by one of the natives, who looked at us as if we were aliens. Which, of course, we are, but the reason for his odd look is that fact that the Prancing Pony has been slaughtered. Burned down, actually. We poked around a bit, and discovered some sort of magical pattern on the floor. Could be a portal. But then, once more, we were surrounded.

Long story short - it's Firth and her own personal Beavis and Butthead from Thirteen. After being picked by by O-cell, Elisabeth was traded. She refused to disclose who paid what for her return, but at least Delta Green seems to have survived. I inquired about MJ-12's intention to eradicate the Greens once and for all, but hit a firewall. Firth is more interested in the here and now. Such as it is. In summary - Everything Is Connected. The rising tide of the Iron Army, led by Nyarlathotep, on behalf of his masters, the Outer God, ruled (but not governed, apparently) by Azathoth the Demon Sultan; of whom Hastur is but a servant, and the King in Yellow is, in turn, but an avatar of Hastur. Interesting tid-bits: the Iron Army's burrowers are to be stopped at the mountain passes, in order to starve the Iron Army of the source of a type of crystals, which have a very disruptive power - they allow for the creation, on a massive scale, of anachronistic weapons. I had been made aware on my earlier visit that well-versed dreamers (or sorcerers, not sure which is which) can create foreign objects, but only on a very limited scale and a great cost.  The Iron Army could bring masses of machine guns into the Dreamlands. That would be bad, because that would make Belloc quite relevant again - "Whatever happens, we have got / the Maxim Gun,  and they have not." Blood. The Modern Traveller indeed.

Conclusion: the NOVAs are on to something, but may have nefarious purposes of their own (no shit, Sherlock). It will be up to us to make sure that they do the right thing for the right reasons. and to make sure that we (or I) make the NOVAs do the right thing for the right reasons, for the right reasons, Firth, Beavis, Butthead, and a couple of other misfits from Thirteen will accompany us. And fellow travellers, of sorts. We will be catching the ferry back to Dylath-Leen in the morning, which leaves us about half a day to sell the slight increase in mortal cattle effectives to the NOVAs. This should be fun.