Doorway to Dreams

This story was my entry for the Parsec competition for Confluence 2010, on the theme Color of Silence. I had a very hard time coming up with anything that fit the theme so didn't end up with a lot of time to polish, besides their being a word count limit shorter than I can normally manage, so this was well outside my comfort zone in writing, but it pushed me to be creative and I think I at least managed that: certainly something very different than my novels! Enjoy!

Doorway to Dreams

Valorie wandered across the cracked surface of the Unreal, crunching the world. The damage had permeated every facet of every place by the battle’s end, but the wound in the Unreal was finally closed. The Unreal beasts had returned from the real world to dreams and nightmares. Now it was time to mend her own places.

Her familiar places in the Unreal weren’t quite Valorie’s own design. The originals from which they had been modeled had been introduced to her by the masters: Xalaphon’s arsenal, Yekellan’s vast castle--though she had turned one of the rooms within it into her own under his tutelage--Confillar’s grove. Still, she had added or changed, removed or modified to make her own versions, partial copies yet separate and distinct from the originals. The masters could visit their versions, she hers, and never would they meet save by mutual consent.

None of them was free of the damage. As if the wound made by the Dark Magician was a crack in a vast crystal, it spidered out in all directions endlessly, until the crystalline structure must crumble into dust. Well, not quite. The Unreal wasn’t solid. During the battles, it had acted more like liquid, pouring itself out into the real world, the nightmares foremost to trample everything in their path. And broken or whole, it would always be there for those who could find it.

The grove had the same trampled feel as the real land. Even the bird song was off, discontinuous, its harmonies in discord with each other and with the quiet setting. The grassy knoll was cracked if still green, and her sight slid through the cracks to see the real world as if it lay beneath. Valorie’s body lay still and limp in the real. Though she knew it was always so while she Walked, she rarely saw it. The mind rebelled to see the self, but the cracked Unreal couldn’t fully hold her mind. Her watcher, Master Confillar today, stirred in reaction, perhaps at some twitch of her body, or perhaps at being watched himself. Val forced her attention back to the Unreal. The grove had mended those parts she had noted as broken: a start; but it would be awhile before she could find every cracked leaf, every misdirected breeze. Finding peaceful solitude amidst its unnatural imperfections would be many visits in coming.

Valorie shifted her attention to her room in Yekellan’s castle with a thought and found herself standing amidst rose and indigo chaos. Her bower, he had called it, but she wondered if he thought of it as something else. Yekellan had taught Val to change the world in her mind, how to change her clothes to fit the setting instead of bringing along those her body wore in the real. He had even taught her to be things she was not, including animals and trees. He had taught her many basics of the Unreal, but he had expressed a preference for teaching her more worldly things, and she had quickly found a new master.

Tiptoeing in soft slippers, Valorie made her way across the chipped tile and felted rugs.

Yekellan had as much as admitted, later, that he had brought a dream image of her to a replica of her bower. The dream image wasn’t her, but the thought of him fantasizing, magically experiencing time with her sent a shiver along her spine and broke her concentration. She left the shattered room in disarray.

As Val left, stepping through the doorway into her favorite picnic site, she shivered again. Only after she had settled into the new vision, herself a tree at the edge of the clearing, did she consider what she had experienced in that fraction of time in the doorway. It wasn’t exactly a crack, or if a crack then one patched in shimmering silk: cool, smooth, and filled with discordant tones that echoed in her bones.

The picnic scene was barely more than an echo of the original grove on which it had been modeled. A few minor flaws had crept in from the Dark Master’s interference: a discontinuity in the plaid of the blanket, some autumn leaves in the perpetual spring setting, a chill breeze that should have been warm with the promise of summer. Val set them to repairing themselves, but her thoughts returned to the doorway.

What she had sensed in the doorway wasn’t a crack, she became sure with time. Nor could it be a patch. It was her bower, her doorway. Even if Yekellan repaired the whole of the castle, it would only be a repair to his own version, not hers, which would remain a wreck until she fixed it. She pushed the disturbing questions away. Perhaps Master Confillar would have an answer.

Before leaving, Valorie plucked a blue flower that should have been yellow, and returned to her body.

"You knew the damage could take many forms," Confillar said.

"What?"

Valorie sat up and looked at the flower. No longer distinctly blue, nor yellow as she had hoped, it had wilted to gray in her hand. She shivered once more. "It should have been whole," she told him. "I thought it might fix when I brought it back, not die."

"Many forms, not for you to worry about."

She thought about the strangeness in the doorway but, certain he would say the same again, Val said nothing more.

#


"You’re afraid to tell me about your troubles? You’re so bold otherwise," Honorr complained.

Val denied the accusation. "I just don’t want to trouble you when you can’t help."

"You’re so sure I can’t help," he pouted.

They walked in silence for some minutes, ostensibly on guard duty though it had been more than a week since the last of the Unreal beasts had been sighted. All indications were that the beasts had been sent to oblivion and harmless nightmares, and the Dark Magician fled to the lifeless hills. The patrols continued only while the masters thought the Dark Magician could return.

"It’s just a thing of the Unreal. Nothing for us to worry about."

"You say that as if that’s what you’ve been told, not what you believe."

"The masters said the damage will take many forms."

"The same masters who told you the Moon Dance was a real magic spell?" Honorr grumped, but a smile escaped his lips as Valorie grinned. "Okay, so you turned it around on them and made it Unreal, after all. The point is, sometimes your understanding and instincts are better than their training."

They continued their last round in silence. To ease the tension and keep awake, Honorr swung his sword at a couple of the deeper shadows, laughed at a scurry of small feet fleeing the movement. He would be happy enough to see his recently gained weapons skills rust.

Their replacements greeted them with a wave. Honorr returned it and directed Valorie right off the path into the woods for privacy.

"So, what does your instinct tell you?" he asked before she recovered from her astonishment.

Valorie nodded. "That something is still wrong. Maybe the Magician left something behind."

"A way for the nightmares to become real again?"

"I don’t know. Maybe just something to keep us from fixing what’s left."

"Can you do something about it?"

"I don’t know, but I think I can find it, then the masters can fix it."

"So what’s stopping you?"

"I need someone to sit and Watch while I’m looking, and none of the other Walkers will do it since the masters didn’t approve."

"Does it have to be a Walker?"

"You’d have to stay all night. Everyone knows the Walkers do it, but it might ruin your rep with the ladies."

"I will know I just Watched, and you’re the only lady I care about just now."

"Then let no one disturb my body, and I will Walk. If I’m still gone with the dawn, do all that you can to wake me."

Honorr laid out his great coat and she settled onto it. Even as he sat beside her to wait, her eyes closed, her body went limp, and her search began.

#


Valorie went first to the bower. It remained in disarray, as if a sharp ax had been taken to the whole of the room. Pink bed curtains hung upside down. The headboard was out of alignment with the foot. A once beautiful silver gown lay across a chair in a patchwork of textures and clashing shades of aqua and gray. She turned quickly away, her eyes feeling twisted as if the whole world were skewed.

The doorway immediately drew her attention. It looked normal enough, with the gray stone of the castle hall visible beyond it, but even from several paces away, she sense the disturbance like quicksilver and silk against her bare skin.

Val took a step toward it and found herself instantly in the doorway, drawn there as by a spider’s thread. It was a dark thought, but she smiled. A spider’s web could also be followed. Val reached for it, seeking where it was strongest. Like working her way from the loose outer rings of a web to the more densely woven center, she sought the gray discontinuity.

As she took another step, the sensation started slipping away, but in the next moment she found it again, not just impinging on her senses, but encompassing her, smooth and cold against her skin as if she were clothed with it. She clung to that feeling and dissolved into chaos.

#


Up was echoes, down a scream. The cardinal directions swirled around her like a blizzard, brushing her with silver and gold threads of hope and despair. Valorie herself was neither plant nor animal, nor even a rock or wandering stream. Briefly she was almost one or another, but most often she seemed to be a song being sung. She flowed continually from some unseen mouth (it seemed to have violet lips) and circled around instruments that played neither melody nor harmony but emitted the stench of refuse piles or the perfume of meadow flowers as she was sent spinning into the chorus.

Valorie tried to grasp for anything familiar but her senses were detached from her missing limbs, and a song could hold onto nothing. She spotted a hand like her old one, saw it repeated like an echo in the same pose, a quill between her spread fingers composing without composer or paper. She tried to follow the echoes but was sung instead across a hill of curiosity. That, too, had something familiar to it and she managed to sustain it into an arpeggio until her eyes ached from the roller coaster ride and she had to let go once again.

She tried to remember why she was here, what she had been looking for, but a song didn’t think for itself and the effort only scattered the notes into a cacophony of colors.

#


Honorr wrapped the tails of his coat and Valorie’s over them both as the night deepened and chilled. The rising moon brought a light breeze that stole all heat from his body. It also shook the leaves and spooked the birds, whose plaintive songs suddenly seemed to fill the night.

The time of battle had made Honorr familiar with the woods and the night and the cold. He tensed at something low and hard beneath the woodland’s natural music, some heavier tread.

As quietly as he could, Honorr stood. The moon put the world into silhouette, black and gray, and Honorr knew to trust better his ears and other senses than his eyes. Yes, a metallic click, a shift of stiffened leather not his own. Making sure he remained in shadow, Honorr slowly drew his sword. Valorie’s legs were in the moonlight, her coat a smooth gray in sharp contrast to the course textures of old leaves. The forest sounds seemed to fade as the thumping of his heart boomed loud.

Movement caught his eye: Valorie, slipping into the shadows... No! Being dragged! He dashed toward her head, knowing someone must be there but seeing nothing. "Leave her be!" he shouted, thrusting his sword into the black void. The tip caught something hard and he stumbled back as a blade flashed near his head.

"You won’t touch her!" he shouted, charging forward again, his blade swinging wide. It was no proper way to fight, but it ensured a connect if the thief was close enough. The blade banged against a shape and an "Oof" said Honorr had connected. He charged again, stumbled over feet and landed hard on a body.

For a moment they struggled, swinging blindly, catching leather armor, a pieces of hand or face, and finally a solid blow. The stranger in the dark offered a weak grunt and Honorr pulled him into the moonlight to tie him up, wondering if there were more waiting and watching in the dark.

#


"Why do you limit yourself? The Unreal has no limits but those we ourselves impose."

It could not be said that she heard the words. Perhaps someone was singing them through her, trying to create her as his own song, but it was more as if she read them as notes floating by on a scroll, heavy and black as a tune of bases and barrel drums.

"Let your mind experience it. Enjoy the freedom it offers," the argument continued.

"Chaos is not freedom," she tried to send back with her own tones. "It’s insanity. It lacks meaning or purpose." Her song, though, was pale as fog over a sunset, and the mountains of logic were hiding behind clouds of fear.

It was all illusion of course. She knew that she still Walked in the Unreal and Unreal was no more than illusion until she could take some element of it back to the real as knowledge, insight, or some physical object. Fear, though, felt real enough, and she had forgotten where reality was, was losing even her melody.

"Do you give up so easily, my pupil?" she saw scribbled across some ears, perhaps her own. The new score was full of dissonant cords from burning forests.

The words had meaning of a sort and that was more than she had before so she followed along. Perhaps the Unreal offered a lesson. She tried to keep up as they jammed and this time found a chord that fit.

"You remember. If you can’t control it, move with it," a voice scrawled across a roll of flowery blue wallpaper. "Find the rhythm and the flow."

She imagined herself laying back though she had no sense of up and down, forward or back. The maelstrom continued around her but she did remember the early lesson, to move with the forces she couldn’t control until she found a place to plant her feet, until she found herself.

"Wake up, wake up," floated past, lost behind an engine blast, the upshift of a revving motor like red and gold sparks across her vision.
#


Honorr carried Valorie back to the camp swearing loudly and shouting repeatedly for help as the sun rose. Chilled despite his efforts to keep them both warm, he carried her flopping in his arms. Still she refused to wake. Neither a slap nor a kiss had done better. He was sure a fellow Walker could have done more, surely the reason Walkers were usually chosen as Watchers, but he had wanted to help and she had foolishly allowed it.

"What has she done?" the master demanded as Honorr wondered when he would reach the camp. "This way, this way, you turned off your course. What has she done?"

"She went to search. She was certain something was wrong with the Unreal."

"I feared as much. We suspected a trap, which was why I warned her away."

"You didn’t warn her," Honorr growled. "You said it was nothing to worry about!"

"Nothing for her to worry about."

"Well, you didn’t make the difference clear to her! Now you can worry about her!"

"Until she gives some sign, we, too, can only wait."

#


Valorie felt the instructor approaching, almost familiar, a solid presence that had Walked with her in the Unreal before.

"Move with me. Wrap yourself around me. I will guide you." They weren't quite spoken and she heard no voice, but they reached her as clear words, almost real.

Val imagined reaching a hand out, certain he would know the way out of the chaos, certain it was his own creation.

"That’s right, closer, closer. You were always a quick student. Better than the others at noticing the details. Your castle varies very little from my own."

It had to have a pattern, a meaning, some purpose, Val told herself when the familiar presence had allowed her to regain a measure of calm. He remained an unseen figure, no more than a style at the base of the kaleidoscope, a pattern in the random notes of a calliope, yet even a madman had some direction, some perception of the world that drove him.

"You insisted, a perfect copy, save the one room."

"I could hardly design a woman’s bower. It needed... What are you doing?"

Madness night be creative, but it could not change the very fabric of the Unreal. Those with the training and talent could control their own places. Valorie could make even this into her own place if she could find the way and hold her mind together long enough.

"I’m floating in your dream, your nightmare, relaxing, as you said, finding the flow."

Chaos shifted around her but Walking required concentration and just as she could block out forest sounds or a distant party, she could ignore the madness, ignore even her own lack of shape or form. If she had nothing, she could start anew, build her Unreal body anew. In that moment of understanding, Valorie envisioned a clean, empty room, peaceful and silent, waiting to be filled with her own dreams.

"We’re nearly there," she heard distinctly, the message filling her mind, trying to push out all coherent thought, trying to fill even her empty room with his presence. "Nearly together, where we can find freedom."

"Freedom, yes," she said, working again toward the empty, silent room, certain she could find herself there, build her own place.

"Wait! You must experience the ultimate merge of sound and color, darkness and light. We will merge so completely in all our senses that we will be a single entity, Walk in each others places as our own."

"Trade places even?"

"You understand, my perfect pupil."

"But darkness cannot replace light, nor sound silence. I have no desire to smell with my eyes nor see with my ears. Insanity can't find peace in the sanity of another, only bring them both madness."

"In the Unreal, anything is possible, if you will only allow it!" the muddy colors of an old palate exploded around her. A battle of bands tried to wrap her mind in its chaos once more.

"I prefer that up be up," she conveyed as music swirled on a paint brush and bright colors drifting on an ill-defined melody.

He grabbed for her one last time, a screech of anger, a last attempt to sing her as his own song, mold himself permanently into her mind.

Gripping the new doorway with one of the hands she'd seen earlier, she paused, wondering if any part of her old teacher’s mind was still sane. "I finished the lesson you refused to teach, that all the masters refused to teach. They each taught me their song. Now I have learned to paint my own."

#


"A flower wilting and a doorway changed by other than the Walker aren’t the same thing," Confillar pointed out. "Only the Magician has ever been able to affect the places of others."

"How else to make a flower wilt that was fresh in my vision? I saw them as the same."

"Bright insight on your part, not an obvious relationship to the rest of us, even the masters. You should learn to speak up."

"What will happen to Master Yekellan?"

"Likely the madness you encountered was the result of his body failing, the ultimate risk of Walking untended. Even the one who attacked Honorr apparently didn’t know where his master’s body lay."

"Didn’t trust his own people?"

"Or the Watcher fled and couldn’t get back before some wildcat pulled it away and mauled it. That’s why he wanted your body, knew his master would need one, to claim as his own."

Scratches and other verbal doodles

“What is ‘scratch’ anyway?”

“Nothing. Or at least, only what you can get from fround so hard you can barely scratch the surface. I suppose it means starting fra farm on land that hasn’t the first seed planted, the first row hoed,”

“Hard row to hoe?”

“Exactly. so starting from scratch is starting literally from the ground up, though these days i suppose it’s from the ground down, since everything allowed up is already up as high as it can go.”

“Hardly that. just where it’s easy, where all the infrastructure, people, equipment are all in easy reach. The places not claimed for nature and ecosystem preservation but not city, no one bothers. Requires thought and planning.”

“Can’t have that can we?”

They both laughed.
#

What about us though? City life is okay. All the conveniences if also all the noise and chaos. Half the people aren’t outside long enough to notice if it’s smoggy sky overhead or sun replacement tunnel lighting. Still have to push the sun baths on some people, for the vitamins, but I like it out here, and so do the dogs.”

---------
This scene started as just speculation about the phrase used in the previous one, but as they tend to do, took on a life of its own, prodding character attitudes and potential settings and plot bits as well as reflecting my view of some related topics.

Comments on Chapter 21 part 1

I had a lot of trouble with this section (Chapter 21 part 1 of Cerelian Gold) and have fiddled with it many times. Part of it is the seduction attempt. How would Dilven try to seduce her in a way that would be in his character (mostly badly); how would Candice react to his efforts, especially in a state of exhaustion aggravated by drugs and stress; and how do I get the right combination to get to the next piece of the story? And wrapped up in that is how far to take it for the audience? I try to recall how much is implied, how much described, how much done with and without description in books I like, movies I like, how much I could stand family members and friends reading of my imagination... (I've read books that go lots further than I opted for, providing much fuel for my already vivid imagination). In this case, I couldn't take it too far because I've set Candice up to not handle it well, and her role isn't done yet. I've also played with the idea of making Dilven better at it, but that would require I know how it could be done... and come up with the right lines for an alien on top of that!

thoughts on a scene

i finally came up with a true scene for the tale. I have no idea where it will take me but I think it offers several directions and hints at some past events that I havne't yet thought through. My first reactions (I wrote it in pen) when i took it as far as i could at the time that it was very contemporary and could easily be a scene in a contemporary book, but if I recall, that's fairly common for my SF drafts, and it helps ensure real characters that readers can relate to, even if the story goes elsewhere before it's really written.

I have no idea where the names came from. Probably something I've heard on t.v. lately, which adds to the contemporary feel.

"Sary, where are ou going?"

"For a walk, do you mind?"

"It wasn't an accusation."

"Wasn't it? Just becasue you've exprssed affection doesn't mean i't your concern how I epend my time."

"i just woory when I don't know where you are."

"Worry implies a right to know. You don't have that right unless I choose to give it to you. Worry about keeping me happy when we're together. The rest of my time is my buinesss. Unless you don't trust me?"

His eyes went down' and he bit his lip, knowing enough not to admit that, at least. Nor, however, did he deny it an she was in no mood to be tolerant.

"Is that it, jealous already?"

"No. Of course not. I don't worry about you having an affair. i know-"

"You obviously know nothing, Jack," she said, knowing he hated to be called that. "An affair? An affair is what established couples do outside the lines. You and me don't have any lines to be outside."

"But you said-"

"I said I appreciated your interest and would be willing to date. That's all I said and that's all I meant. That was concession enough when we work together on some project at least once a week and often more besides seeing each other outside of work. if you can't deal with-"

"I'mnot a child, Sary. I just care about you. Our date-"

"Will be the last if you push me again, Jack. I'm not so old-fashioned I intend to let even a husband run my life, much less a boy friend." She turned away from him before he could object and the dogs growled at him when he moved as if he might block her path. In her mind, she'd made a great concession to refer to him, still, as a boyfriend. She wasn't going to waste the pleasant weather arguing with him when he should instead simply have apologised for going too far/presuming too much, and let it drop.

--notes--

Why is she so testy or is he being possessive/stalker-like? What other trust issues might be going on here? Is good weather rare where they are at? Why? What kind of work do they do together? Setting? visual elements of the characters? Sensory input?

Title idea: Start from Scratch

What would be starting? What might Scratch represent?

Intellectual vs technical in science fiction

I guess he didn’t want any advertising for his book because the paragraphs about them wouldn’t copy, but you can read those bits at http://www.concatenation.org/articles/hocking~science~sf.html. They weren’t the bits that interested me, anyway, as much as his clear misunderstanding of the quotes he included in his write up.

“Science fiction comes in so many flavours that defining 'science fiction' is problematic. One aspect of our understanding of SF is that it should be technically accurate.
But is this more important than the story? Should it be compromised to tell a story? asks author and psychologist Ian Hocking” is the blurb at the start of the story.

Ian Hocking makes some good points about the value of some degree of accuracy, and the often misleading results when journalists misrepresent medical findings and translate it into incorrect or misleading advice to their readers (A relationship may not be cause and effect). (Scientists would like to see some of the same correctness in science fiction, knowing that science fiction readers often become science students and ultimately scientists, and benefit from realistic portrayals of current science knowledge.)

“But should science fiction be held to such standards?” he counters, “I would argue not. Because, first and foremost, the responsibility of a storyteller is to tell a story. If the storyteller is primarily concerned with edification -- rather than letting this grow organically from the story -- then an alternative form of dissemination, such as the essay or the documentary, might be more appropriate.”

Hocking further explains: “Perhaps SF is seen as too challenging. My own view, however, is that science fiction is commonly conceived as tedious unless one is interested in gadgets, time paradoxes, poor characterization and the willfully obscure. As an SF writer, I would not agree that this conception is an accurate one, but it does appear to describe the common reaction.”

His further arguments, however, take on a rather sideways perspective. Hocking uses a quote by Ben Bova from an essay on the Cassandra Effect in SF, where Bova assesses that few people read SF because “Perhaps the problem lies with the visual entertainment media: movies and TV. Let's face it, most of Hollywood's "sci-fi" has its origins in comic strips, not actual published science fiction. Many people don't realize that the "sci-fi flicks" on both big and small screens are a far cry from the intellectual and emotional depth of real science fiction.”

Hocking says of this: “I find this problematic in the context of creating fiction. A story is a series of moments that, through the interactions of their meaning, create emotions in the reader. Intellectual depth, it would appear, works at a level incommensurate with the story. Sure, we can be entertained by a bit of techno-jargon, we can go 'Ahhh,' when the author explains how a nifty camouflage suit can lower the wearer's refractive index to zero, rendering them invisible. But this not the story. It is, yes, part of the support structure of the story, but it represents a reduction of forward motion while what the reader should really care about - the characters and what happens to them - is put on hold.”

In my view, Ian Hocking has missed Bova’s point entirely. Hocking equates “intellectual” with technobabble, just because sometimes the technobabble is technically correct and well-researched. I accept that technostuff, accurate or totally made-up, can be problematic, that the story should take priority, and that technobabble) can just slow the story down and discourages readers who have no interest in gadgetry. it’s a problem not exclusive to science fiction, either: look at the spy tales of Clancy). He argues reasonably that “You shouldn't have to be interested in the space stuff to an enjoy an SF story any more than you need to have an intrinsic interest in African territorial jurisdiction to enjoy Casablanca.”

But Hocking misses the point that intellectual and technobabble have nothing to do with each other and may even be contradictory, if the technology stuff is handled badly. A little bit of technology and a lot of ethics, social, or emotional questions surrounding the use of the specified technology and its impact on individual lives--all the makings of “intellectual depth”-- can be the meat of a genuinely good story. No technobabble is needed beyond character’s understandable and realistic dialog. Tolkien put a lot of work into researching the Lord of the Rings and the story is enriched by the language and legends portrayed, truly an intellectual work in many respects, but LoR isn’t an academic study in the those languages and legends, the inclusion as part of the lives of the characters doesn’t make the tale harder to read, and yet the reader still wants “Frodo to reach Mount Doom and you worry for the tragic figure of Gollum.”

Hocking does offer some good advice, even if he got there through a sideways logic: “I guess I've come to this conclusion through the editing process. I've learned that what makes a scene good isn't the tech; it's the meaning conjured by the characters, their struggles, the conflict, and the wider narrative. When working to improve a piece of fiction, you can fiddle with the meaning (I'm using this word in a broad sense that encompasses 'emotion', 'affect', 'interest' and so on) or you can fiddle with the technical stuff. At the end of the day, it's the sharpening of meaning that improves the work by any real margin.”

traitors and other subplots

A few too many distractions to have made much progress on the new tale, but here's a few more thoughts in that direction. The mind thing is more of SF than Fantasy, but we can still use some of the examples from fantasy of what makes a great, popular, saleable story. Really, it's not just limited to fantasy either:

Interesting side characters as well as protagonist

A classic story line often helps: girl meets boy, one saves the other, not necessarily appreciated, understanding develops, romance develops, then other stuff. Well, as a side story anyway. How about the core story though: good versus evil. Evil should have representative bodies doing dastardly deeds, preferably at least representatives on site, face-to-face, which is why traitors in the midst is a common sub=plot, to give a visible baddie. I didn't do that in Cerel Gold, but maybe I could try that here. Note to self: need scenes with the traitor playing good guy, and others hinting that he (or she) may be something other than it appears. It will be more subtle and mysterious if there are other side characters hiding things (ala mystery suspects).

The traitor needs to be working for someone, something related to the mind control ability or telepathy or related skills.

I'll see if I can keep it on Earth. otherwise I'll get tempted to place it on one of my already existing planets, and that has too many in-built rules already established. the goal here is to start from scratch. The future, but not so far in the future as space travel, then? (At our current rate, that could still be a long long long way in the future, alas, but I won't go that far. Some of the world should be identifiable unless I go for post apocalypse or some such other theme, and those are a breed unto themselves. But far enough in the future that country boundaries don't mean the same thing, that technology has changed again and impacted the biology/ecology, like some suspect of autism's increasing occurances.

Well, that's enough for tonight. If any of my fellow writers are insprited to write a scene, please share. What I've provided so far is still fuel for a million different books and stories and comparability encourages readers.

Tip: Technology will always be ahead

Don't try to keep up with technology. These days, only the rich and those who have to keep up in one field for their career can hope to stay up-to-date on technical things. So long as the version you have does what you need it to, hand onto it. I upgraded my computer only when it got to the point that the most advanced software it could handle was still too old to go to a lot of the web sites I needed for e-mail, agent hunting and other important online activities. I saw it comeing, was able to save for it, and could afford a good, up-to-date replacement. I've had to replace the hard drive on this, my second computer, once, and plan on holding onto it awhile longer, though i can see the signs of needing a new one and have started to save accordingly.

Besides the obvious of not spending money that you don't have to, waiting has several advantages, especially though not only with technical things.
: With technical things, prices are prone to come down.
: time to save up for big expenses means the opportunity to buy the best, longest-lasting and most up-to-date version so that it is longer before another is needed.
: time to consider what is really needed and buy the right thing.
: the longer it lasts, the more value it has, cost per day as you might say.