“So” I stammered, untempered emotions leaking into my voice through my hitched breath “you are telling me that my most paranoid fears were not paranoid enough and my situation on Earth Prime is waaaaay more fucked than I thought.” I summarized, considering who and by whom and to whom my fucks would be given or taken away if the man’s words were true. By all that is holy he talks like I do and he makes a lot of sense.

Add one to the ‘this is real’ column tally; I never make so much sense unless I prep a speech.

What if this old dude is prepped for this? What if this is a real Earth-Prime dwelling dude telling me the truth?

The things my unconscious mind created delighted me. They had been known to distract me. When I was a child I used to go back to sleep in the morning to try to finish the dream where I was sprinting down the road until I took off into the setting sun. The man’s revelation had felt like that.

Idly, I wondered if my dreaming, concussions, or self-medication were most responsible for blurring the courtyard walls. All the space around me swam like blurry ribbons in my vision.

“Tom,” the old man said. “My name is Gwuther. You can locate me on Earth Prime at the Good People’s Rest Home for the Unfortunate and Impecunious in the Capital City of Brazilia. Remember this and test your experience in the dream against the light of day.”

I could hear the capital letters in the man’s voice, and his kind and patient words were getting under my skin. I laughed, and not kindly. I shouldn’t be stressed in my own dream. “Well, Gwuther of the Old Folks Home for the Insecure and Uncertain in Brazilia, Brazil. You say I started a fund for all of the totally-real-and-definitely-not-figments-of-my-dreams women who ‘join’ me here. How much do they make?”

He smiled, his damn patience and tolerance continuing to annoy me. “Are you asking for their yearly gross, lifetime gross, or your total payout over the lifetime of the child? Are you sure you want to know?”

I shook my head. There’s one in the ‘this is real’ column tally. I would definitely have arranged for different payout amounts for different circumstances.

While I was processing that thought, he continued. “My name is Gwuther and I live at the Good People’s Rest Home for the Unfortunate and Impecunious. Please, remember to ask your computer about me when you wake up. I can be found. You can remember the truths you learned here. Please.”

By the end, his good humor had fled, replaced by a gravity that I couldn’t ignore. Somewhere in the exchange, the worst of my anxiety had lifted. In its place was an equanimity that I hoped would survive the rest of the dream.

“Assuming this is real, which it almost certainly is not. How did you end up here?” I asked, indulging the world that (most likely) my subconscious had created for me.

He leaned back in his chair and sipped his own drink for a moment. I watched his shoulders relax down into the lounge chair on which he sat. “I was chosen from among the few hundred thousand on the ‘Stream who have unlocked the psychic abilities to maintain a cohesive presence in this dream space.”

Oh god, he was prepped for this. My paranoia is never enough. I thought.

He was here in front of me and I hadn’t detected any falsehood or dissembling from him, so rather than stew in the unasked question, I just asked it. “If you were chosen for this task, how were you prepared for it?”

He laughed and relaxed into a smile.

“My life has been preparing me for this task for my entire life.” He intoned.

This asshole, I thought to myself with a chuckle. I booed and winked at him. Gwuther laughed good-naturedly and continued. “I was certified as an expert in five categories: your personal history, dream projection, social cues, emotional self-control, and decision making under duress. ‘Stream expert-level certification in those categories took about 5000 hours over five years of my life over which time I contributed around 900,000 words to demonstrating and validating my credentials.”

By the end of his recitation I was just staring at him. “You claim this was all done over the Valuestream.”

He nodded.

“And you,” I continued, stumbling as my credulity was strained further, “you, do you represent only yourself or are you a part of a larger entity?” I asked.

“The Good Folk’s Rest Home for the Unfortunate and Impecunious in the Capitol City of Brazilia is run by Valuestream’s charity and through my seat on the client union’s executive board I was put in contact with the Valuestream Executive Council on Information Security.” He laughed. “I’m sure you know them better than I do given that your research still dominates the ‘stream they are running and maintaining.” His good humor continued as he laughed again.

“What you may not know is that the information in your brain, the capacity to create the ‘Stream as a whole, along with all of the unpublished research that you have hinted at… in the opinion of the InfoSec Council you are the biggest risk of catastrophic exposure.”

He chuckled again, levity now tempered by seriousness. “A good third of the Councilmembers think the most likely way for the ‘Stream to end is if you give away some master codes whose existence you have kept secret.” He turned back to me, all seriousness now. “Please never do that.”

It was all sounding so reasonable. That was the trouble with dreams. They sucked you in, fractal tunnels of experience designed to unravel the stress and trauma of your day.

Now that you mention it, it has been a bit of a day.

First the concussion and then the announcement.

The announcement that left us with so many questions.

“So Gwuther. I have a question for you.” I paused, considering. If he is who he says he is, he is an invaluable source of information about Grace. Cal might have been the one to finish her, but her code was built on the ‘Stream.

“If I had weak evidence suggesting an intelligent computer had been built on the ‘Stream and used by someone without my sense of restraint, would that mean anything to the InfoSec Council you represent?

He nodded, answering. “It would mean that you need to be reminded of the data breach we detected after the Kansas City conference where your AI project broke through. Everything you completed that week was leaked by a collaborator recording their experience.”

I shook.

I remembered Kansas City.

There was no doubt it was a real memory. In that moment there could be no doubt.

I remembered the camaraderie. The drinks, the pizzas ordered from every joint within a five mile radius so that we could run a thousand person comparison test.

I remembered the first time the code compiled and the first question I asked after the whole thing compiled without error the first time.

I remembered running down a hallway swathed in corporate wallpaper. I could smell the gunpowder and fear.

I remembered blood. I was looking at the base of a hotel door and watching blood seep through the gap between the door and the floor.

I remembered a voice that was simultaneously Grace’s voice and somehow younger.

The memories faded and I as I came to; I was still in the courtyard of the dream garden. Gwuther and I made eye contact before he glanced up to the cloudy. “I was online that horrible day. I watched the news break and then get covered up.”

He snorted, “That was the day the President did an impression of…” he sighed, “You know, it doesn’t matter. He distracted the news cycle long enough for all of the tape to get pulled. By the time the ‘Stream got their act together the massacre was already fake news.”

He pulled his feet off of the lounge and turned to face me. “Your AI was copied. We still don’t know exactly who has it, but there is reason to suspect that there are at least 3 organizations who benefited. They demonstrate a capability surge that we associate with expanded AI capacity. It is as near certain as it can be that they stole the code for your AI.”

My worst paranoia wasn’t paranoid enough.

“There’s more though, Tom. There’s more I have to tell you.” He sighed. “Tell me what you remember about the glacier.”