Chapter 8
After three hours of loitering around the room attempting to mingle and make polite conversation, finally they had got the attention they needed, face to face with Alan Keele, board director for Neuroxx and Doctor Lisbeth Kincaid, head of the Rever institute, both of whom were wearing their most passive-aggressive smiles as they shook hands with Dom and the others. It was a delicate dance of thinly-veiled loathing, and one you got used to in the world of corporate espionage Dom Cobb had inhabited for the best part of his life (not counting the many years spent in Limbo).
"It is an absolute pleasure, really Mr Cobb, it is," Doctor Kincaid's clipped, formal British was almost sincere. "Your work in extraction is entirely unparalleled. I don't even exaggerate. You are the best of the best and we talk about you often at Rever. It's a shame you're still in the pocket of that bloodthirsty sociopath."
"Yeah, have you ever thought about looking elsewhere?" Mr Keele chipped in "The Rever Sleep Clinic is at the forefront of latest developments, and always seeking new consultants. If you ever wanted to do something better, make a difference, contribute to the advancement of our species you really need to look around a little. I think you'll find here at Neuroxx, and of course, our little pet project," he squeezed Doctor Kincaid's shoulder, she winced uncomfortably "Your particular giftings would really be an asset. How much does Saito pay you?"
The thing about being the best in the world was it was almost too easy to sidle up to your targets and persuade them that you were the right way to go. It was about give and take. You couldn't give too much without seeming off, that was just common sense. Even Ariadne knew that and aside from inception, her only experience of this world was from spy movies.
Not even interesting spy movies, since, as Eames pointed out, the only ones with corporate espionage in were really, really boring.
"That's confidential information," Dom replied.
"That low?" Kincaid laughed. "Only a few years back you were the biggest thing in extraction, now look at you. No offence, but the company you keep is," she looked Eames up and down and he smiled a particularly fake smile "Wanting." Her eyes glossed over Ariadne and she shrugged. "Still, you are of course entitled to your team, interesting though your choices may be."
"Ariadne is an excellent architect, and there is no one better than Eames when it comes to forgery," Dom protested, compelled to defend his friends.
"Forgery being the technical name for impersonation within a dream?" Mr Keele inquired, uncertainty flickering on his face "If I'm not mistaken."
"That is precisely what it is," Eames replied "Though I generally use it in both senses of the word. I do a marvellous Renoir, you know."
"I'm sure." Keele was unimpressed "Professor Miles. You've been in this from the start. Have you ever considered applying to something more your level, leaving the pure architecture behind, coming to join us here at Rever, I mean? We can talk salary privately, if you like. You, Mr. Cobb...and Arthur."
The way he spoke the name was suspicious, distrustful. Possibly because, like Eames, it was the only name Arthur was known by, his professional alias, a handle. In the extraction world, Arthur's involvement usually connoted reliability. If he'd been involved in the logistics of a job, chances were that job would go well, and if there was a mistake, it would be unforeseen circumstances, like Mal, or a high-speed freight train tearing its way through the city. Unfortunately, the price of his anonymity was suspicion from people that mattered. People like this liked to know who they were dealing with. A nom-de-plume was rarely reassuring.
"If you aren't too busy with Saito's amateur problems…" Kincaid smiled sweetly "You're so much better than this. You can be here, at the forefront of medical development. You can contribute to the future of mankind in a better way than whatever you do for that selfish git."
"I'll...uh, we'll need to discuss this, but I should think it'd be fine." Dom shrugged, downplaying his interest, feigning curious professional interest, but nothing more. Nothing personal. "Our schedule's clear right now, right Arthur?"
Arthur nodded "I think so."
"Would you care to step into the office and talk further?" Mr Keel suggested, and the three lucky few shared a glance, shrugged, emptied their champagne glasses, placing them on a table to the side, and followed him. Their new 'employer'. Their target.
Their mission.
‡
So. This was nice.
It really was. Now he didn't have to do all the heavy lifting and could leave the basic work to those new and improved shiny deluxe team, while he sat back and took five minutes to figure out how on earth he could wing this one so that Dream of the sodding Endless would give him a nightmare-free life for the rest of his days.
Probably wasn't meant to be. Probably it was written, somewhere all high and mighty and authoritative, that John Constantine had to have a deep, angst death and pain sort of life. And it was true his nightmares had been indicators of disturbances in the flow of synchronicity before now, underlying problems the universe decided to make him fix. They had been minorly useful. Still, you didn't exactly want to be waking up screaming every night, it wasn't much fun. Really put a dampener on the whole sleep thing other people seemed so fond of.
And that was the issue. Rever were removing poor bastards from dreams entirely. Which, while he could understand it being a sympathetic cause, there was something inherently wrong about it. Raising the question; why was it so obviously wrong for a bunch of corporate tossers to meddle with people's heads, but not for an ancient immortal-ish being? Where did you draw the line? It was a difficult one, and honestly, if he wasn't being paid, and if there wasn't a kid involved, he would leave it for said almighty wankstain to clean up. But no, Rever had to play it that way, didn't they? Their type always did. No sense of self-preservation, honestly.
There was also the minor matter of the mysterious-as-fuck supernatural entity pulling the strings, which was where the case became clear-cut and he was compelled to intervene.
Why did this happen every time?
Because? Reasons?
None. Sod all. It was just because someone up there liked messing with him, jerking him about like a puppet; and rule number one - nobody fucks around with John Constantine. Since the matter was not just some uppity cunts getting ideas about meddling with dreams, there was a out-and-out underhanded war beginning, it fell into the broad spectrum of his expertise.
Still. He'd leave as much of the legwork to the happy-go-lucky dream brigade, and piggyback on their hard-work to get the results he needed. So long as it ended happily, they wouldn't mind, would they?
Of course, when had it ever ended happily?
He could count those rare occurrences on one hand; if that hand was a closed fist, that is. At some point during the postscript, just as the epilogue was finishing its dues, someone would cock it all up and that would be the end of his jolly little holiday, replaced instead by dead friends and uncalled for magic.
What did he know so far?
Number one: a fifteen-year old, Jack Naseby, had been suffering from severe nightmares (not the only one) and his dear old dad, being reasonably well-off thanks to yours truly's stolen cash, paid for him to be treated in a private sleep clinic. Almost serves him right for what happened next. Almost, but not quite.
Two: said kid comes back in a coma, unable to sleep at all. Which, technically, fulfils the brief given only now he isn't talking. Just staring at the wall and watching paint dry. Dad gets worried, remembers that weirdo he used to hang out with and occasionally shag (though he mentions none of this to his wife Doreen), and calls him up with the promise of full repayment. Refuses to pay interest, tight bastard.
Three: why would a sleep clinic be marketing something so blatantly unsuccessful? How were they spinning that one? Apparently Jack was an outlier and should not be considered an example of their real work. Which is fucking terrifying on a number of levels. What, then, is their real work? They answer in psychobabble nobody can understand, meaningless bullshit you can't help but tune out to. That's not suspicious at all.
Four: their premises reek of old magic. Makes sense. What else would be interested in something so bloody boring? Dream-lord can't intervene because there are 'Rules', or some shit, sends some extractors in instead. They know bugger all about the supernatural, with the exception of the academic type. But they're exactly the type of people Rever wants on its books. They can get in with very little risk to themselves. Can probably deal with it themselves.
And finally
Five: there is definitely enough in that ponce's wallet to pay for drinks tonight.
Chas'd be pleased.
Speaking of…
"Oi, Constantine you wanker, I'm parked over here!"
There he was. Putting his hands in his coat pockets, the notorious figure of probable impending doom headed for the taxi and got into the back seat. His friend snorted, evidently put out at having to wait around outside some posh get-together while Constantine was definitely up to something shady. Chas was annoyed because once again, he was left ferrying John around when he could be watching the footie or doing basically anything else. It was his night off-
"For fuck's sake, my soddin' night off! I could be watchin' the footie! Come on, I thought we were mates."
Constantine smiled a slow, lazy grin "Relax, old son. I just had a nice little chat with a bloke who didn't take good enough care of his cash," With a magician's flair, he produced the leather wallet, with the eighty, ninety, one hundred quid inside it. "See? Now: fancy a drink?"
Chas laughed "I s'pose. They'll probably have the match on anyway. Been awhile since you came out for a pint, what with all..." the driver became uncomfortable, shifting in his seat. Memories he'd rather not remember were clearly going through the process of being, well, remembered. Bad times. Chaos. The manipulative machinations of the man in the back seat. Swathes upon swathes of dead friends and demons. "Y'know, that weird shit you-" he cut off, narrowing his eyebrows suspiciously. "This is part of that, ain't it? You didn't go to that party to nick some poor bugger's dosh, you went coz you're in the middle of one of your fuckin' god knows whats, ain't yer?"
Reluctantly, Constantine nodded, put out by how obvious the whole thing was, really. "Alright, Chas, you got me, top marks. Congratufuckinglations."
"Don't you fuckin' patronise me!" Chas snapped "I know what yer like, Constantine. Leave me the fuck out of it."
Silence. Then, mustering up a wicked grin, John leaned into the front of the cab and lit a cigarette "We still on for that drink then?"
"'ey, there's a no smokin' rule in these things, I'm gonna get it in the-" Chas rolled his eyes. It was hopeless to argue "Course we are."
John was, actually, relieved. His friendship with Chas had been strained, disintegrating to animosity at times, but it had, against all probabilities, lasted. Having been friends for so long, going all the way back to before Newcastle, underneath the obnoxious banter, there was a deep respect which, while frequently frayed and scornful, did actually exist on occasion. Only on occasion, mind. Most of the time it was nothing more than memories and alcohol. They had very little actually in common. But they were friends after all. Best mates.
They said you chose your friends. That wasn't quite true. Life sort of chose them for you. You took a turn on the synchronicity highway and found yourself lodging with that bloke from the pub, and his mental mum, and a bloody monkey (another story). And then you were friends.
And then that was that.
"So? What is it this time?" Chas said, starting the cab up quickly "Demons? Is it-" he sounded frightened. Of course he was. There were old memories, bad memories, memories of what happened when John Constantine involved himself with Hell. I know, mate the magician thought Same.
"No." Chas visibly relaxed "Just some nasty stuck up twats pissing about removing people's dreams." He didn't mention the supernatural force behind it all. For all he knew, it might be demons, but there was no need to go upsetting Chas about it, was there now?
After all, he didn't want to go losing his one and only living friend.
Right. Time to go and get pissed.
‡
You're dreaming.
Dreams are the most valuable things for humanity, truly golden pockets of unreality self-contained in sleep. They are a golden honey-trap, in which it is easy to become lost. That is why, like all the Endless save Death and Destiny, Dream cannot be fully trusted.
The Dreaming is not a safe place.
One can excuse Rever, perhaps, for removing people from it. Protecting them. Perhaps it is a precursor to something else.
If you can prevent someone from entering the Dreaming, you can prevent them from entering the Sunless Lands, so you can halt death. Removing people from the Dreaming as prototype, as experiment. Cut them off from Dream.
Cut them off from Death.
Interestingly, a group of people searching for immortality attempted to capture Death, once.
Instead, they got Dream. Fortunately. A lucky escape indeed. So if Death knew she was involved, that people were messing with her little brother on her account…
They might be able to do it, to keep her at bay.
Until the light dies.
Until they go into the Sunless Lands.
You are dreaming. You are alive.
Until the light dies.
