Inyanga's Star and Other Constellations

Huan Dreams of the Dreaming Death - 9 Million S.E.

Trigger warning: This is a story about coronavirus, and could be painful to read at times for anyone who has lost a loved one to this virus. I want to extend love to anyone who has been affected and lost someone, or suffered from the illness, lost work, missed school, felt like they missed out on life. Chances to thrive and grow may have been lost this year, and friends and family can never be replaced. We're all here for you, stay strong <3

Character Name Meanings

Huàn 换, change or 患 Huàn misfortune, trouble, danger in Mandarin

Huan's Star

The Story free from Constellation arrives every day in Huan's designated mail link space, a small one she had installed between her mail slot and coat rack to catch falling vials.

The government issued stuff is good. They want to keep us inside, because of the Dreaming Death. For two months Huan's one-bedroom has been empty, quiet, and dark.

She's saving loads of money, since she's not going anywhere, not shopping, not bathing, not doing anything with her hair, not drinking with friends, not tearing any of her dresses or wearing out any of her shoes. No need to have the light on when you're conked out on Story all day — though she does run the magic dish machina often.

No one comes over. The light of the view link flickers news into her home, the light of a Stellar flashes conversations and the faces of roaring debate — the few hours she's awake — casting the only moving shadows on Huan's wall as she holds it on the couch and disappears into it.

"It's not real," a blue face reflecting moon shine, a goddess of an avatar, said on the Stellar. "The Dreaming Death isn't real."

Huan hadn't thought so either, until they started sending her free Story. How could it be? An illness that killed like the plague, like the flu, viral hepatitis, a coronavirus, a hemorrhagic fever, and immunodeficiency virus infection put together, and made you dream of every person you gave it to? How could that be real?

Even if there was an epidemic, she hadn't thought much of it. It started outside the Solari Empire, where magic was a few megaannums behind. Of course Atalanta wouldn't be able to stop the spread or tamp down the slope of the curvature of cases.

Soliara would have no trouble, Huan had assumed.

"It's magic resistant," they said, not only the rainbow avatars on the Stellar screen in her lap, but also the newscasters projected through a link on her wall. "The death rate is higher than any illness, and health magicians have been unable to find a cure spell."

Constellation wouldn't let an opportunity to pat itself on the back even in the face of failure, though. "Despite deaths and illnesses with long-lasting damage, the company reminds viewers that an increase in the animus pool will allow the birth of new souls in the Solari empire."

Half the voices on Huan's Stellar believed, a few said they had it, and it was real. "You do dream of every person you infect, as they get sick, as they lie in a hospital bed, put on a breathing machina, as they fade and pass away."

More than one voice said they had it, they had seen the dreams, but even that didn't mean it was real. "The dream could be a spell fabrication. It could be a deception designed by Constellation to keep Julia Mars in office, keep us inside and separate from each other so we can't organize to finally take her down."

The visions could be a spell. The only thing that convinced Huan was when Constellation began to ship people Story. Whole vials of it. Every day. For free. "Constellation wants us to stay inside," said Huan's green and blue avatar, "so we don't spread the Dreaming Death."

Inside the Story dreamland it's a constant party. A night world complete with drinks, slick bodies, surreal bars flashing lights and animations, dancing star skies overhead. Streets concert hall crowded with no motos, only dancers, real bands marching brass instruments, the euphoria of bodies pushing, fronts into backs, arm connecting with torso in a tussle breaking out, bracing hands protecting lovers, and in it Huan feels real, more than real, she can feel, touch and be touched, dance on summer night roofs, meet people who like her and people who fight her, get drunk, find love.

Waking up, though, and marking down eighty-nine days locked inside, it stops feeling real. It doesn't feel like it was real afterwards, when she wakes. When she wakes it feels like she has been on lockdown for months. Maybe for nothing, if there is no Dreaming Death.

No one she knows has passed. No one in her family has gotten sick. No one she loves has suffered. Maybe it doesn't exist.

"Maybe Constellation wants us hooked on this stuff."

"Maybe Story causes the Dreaming Death."

"The people who say they have it are paid actors."

"It's all a show, it's fake, they videos of sick people are spellcast."

There's no reason for Huan's rebellion. For leaving her day's allocation of Story pills in the vial. She likes it fine, the Story. But she sees on the Stellar, the party right outside her window, the invitation out on the streets right now. The video of the world going on without her. "Everyone else is going outside."

Constellation has been levitating every single building now, to keep people inside. Levitating every home, putting every person in a home, which is lovely for the homeless, and one might wonder why it didn't happen millions of years ago, or even last year, why did it take this happening? Huan's building levitates just to make it take longer to get down, or cost more if you take a link.

The elevator down to the street takes its sweet time.

Leaving her flying complex gives her a high now. That alone. Stepping out of her portal as if she isn't supposed to. That alone gives her a high. Adrenaline races as the elevator takes her down, and she jitters and bounces on her feet until it lands.

There's the festa out there, coming into view, the elevator portal lets her out into it, and it's not unlike the festa in her head. A crowd bounces to a live beat, a brass marching band, a writhing breath wrapping dancers together, and they aren't supposed to be outside, and they aren't supposed to touch, and the Dreaming Death spreads through every contact: inhale, exhale, pores, cuts, mouths, the mouth and nose of the girl Huan's kissing outside every store. Lips, skin, fingers.

She dreams of this girl tonight, her name is Canción, her sleepwalk home safe and euphoric, her name Huan knows now.

And another she dreams of, whose back she brushed with the back of her sweaty palm who takes a boy back to her place — not inside, they stay outside for just one drink and kiss on the stairs, her name is Bay, Huan knows.

And a woman Huan doesn't recall having seen before, curled up in a ball watching a link screen and shaking. Oh, there it is. A vision: Huan passed the woman, Amafu, Huan knows her name, on her job that morning when she forgot to bubble her mouth before she ran — again. In a dream Amafu rocks and holds her knees.

It's only a dream and no one is sick, it's only a dream, it's not like anyone died. It could be a spell, a trick, an illusion.

Yet how does she know their names?

Thank you for reading this brand new Constellation! Please leave a star if you are enjoying the story. Part II is available now, happy reading!