by Wendy Devore
After breakfast, I popped my head into the lab, but it was empty. Without anything to do, I returned to my room and called my sister.
“Oh, my God, Katie, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Michelle demanded the moment she picked up the call.
“I’m okay. I had a massive migraine yesterday, and I’m still dreaming, but I’m better today.”
“Wait, what—you had a migraine before you dreamed? Kate, are you sure you’re all right?”
“I probably shouldn’t share the details…”
“I signed that stupid NDA too, you know.”
“Yeah, I know, but better safe than sorry.”
“You could have called sooner,” she said. “I’ve been glued to my phone since you left.”
“I’ve only been gone two days,” I chided, trying to be reassuring.
“They’ve been two really long days.” She began to cough. “Hold on,” she said, gasping, “I need my inhaler.” I heard her set the phone down, then rustling and bumping. “Okay,” she said a bit breathlessly. “Can you believe this stuff?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The smog. It’s so weird.”
I glanced up to see the filtered sunlight streaming through my high window. Now that she mentioned it, the light did have a funny orange cast that I hadn’t noticed earlier.
“What is it, a heat wave? Smoke from a forest fire? I’m like the pet lab rat. They don’t let me out.”
“No, it’s not the heat, and there aren’t wildfires. There’s something else going on. Some kind of weird atmospheric inversion or something the meteorologists can’t seem to explain. We’re on our third Spare-the-Air day. The unhealthy air quality levels are off the chart. It’s as thick as pea soup out there. Seriously, I can hardly breathe.”
“Really?” I scratched my head and wondered if my sister’s inhaler was expired. She hadn’t needed it in years. And I hadn’t noticed any air quality issues the day before I’d started this job.
“They’re saying it’s worse than the smog during the seventies. I’m running the A/C twenty-four-seven just to try to filter the air to keep it breathable.”
“Michelle! Our electric bill is going to be astronomical.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Michelle replied. I could practically hear the enormous grin on her face. “There was a deposit in our joint checking account this week. Apparently from your new employer. They paid you nearly fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Wow,” I gasped. They were paying me for a month of work I’d yet to complete. And the amount was staggering—it would keep our bills paid for months. Hazard pay, I thought. “Have you told Mom about this?”
She hesitated before replying. “No. Mom’s been going over the books, and this year’s harvest is going to be a disaster for them. It’s just been one weather catastrophe after another. They’ve never had such a bad year. I didn’t want to pile on more worry.”
“Yeah, me neither. Listen—I’ve been warned twice now that my communications are monitored, so I’m going to try my best not to use my phone. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me often. Would you send a check to Mom and Dad? But until I know more about what’s going on here, please don’t say anything to them. I’m not sure how I would even begin to explain this….”
Our conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Gotta run,” I whispered. “Duty calls. Or, at least it knocks.”
“Okay,” Michelle replied. “Be good. And, Kate? Be careful.”
I opened the door of my room to Andrew waiting impatiently. His face was drawn and pale. “Hey,” he said brusquely. “Ready? It’s time to get started.”
And then I made the mistake of glancing at his mouth.
The phantom feeling of his breath on my cheek—and those lips! I could actually feel them; the intense heat as they pressed urgently against mine, the familiar line of his teeth. The taste of his tongue. The rush of euphoria that overtook me was both alarming and rapturous. The sudden sensation of standing naked before him was so intense that for a moment, I was certain he could see it, too. I clutched the doorframe hard enough to turn my fingertips white and forced myself to breathe.
“Kathryn, are you well?”
Clinical and succinct, his actual voice was startling enough to break the spell. Blessedly, the physical echoes of my dream faded. I deliberately loosened my grip on the doorframe. Not a dream, I reminded myself. If they were right, I actually had been making out with my boss. Just not here.
I nodded and stepped out of the room, careful to look away. The residual buzz coursing through my body triggered merely by his proximity was nearly unbearable. I closed the door and followed him through the hallway, careful to stay a half step behind him. I kept my eyes glued to the floor, praying that this dream was one whose aftereffects would dull quickly.
“I heard about Lily,” I said. “I’m sorry—”
“Amir has been attempting to analyze the EEG recording of our slice shift from yesterday,” Andrew interrupted as if I hadn’t even spoken. “We have been trying to separate common patterns that correspond to the shared experience, as well as understand the abnormality in your EEG during convergence. So far he hasn’t been able to massage the data to pull out anything interesting at all. I think you should take a look at the readings to see if you can find anything. And then, we’ll proceed to extraction.”
I gulped uncomfortably. “You mean you need me to figure out how to intentionally remove myself from a slice? Today?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
My pulse quickened and I clenched my sweaty palms. I forced a few deep, calming breaths and tried not to panic.
“But I have no idea how to do that. Do you have a plan?”
“I think I know where to start,” he said. “Once we have isolated the data that corresponds to the slice shift, the next step will be comparing that to your dream ‘windows.’”
Amir set me up at my own workstation, which already contained the EEG recordings from my two sessions with Andrew, as well as reams of other paired brain wave sessions, presumably from Andrew and Lily. Amir helped me punch through the facility’s formidable firewall to download a copy of my code from Stanford’s repository, including the routines and algorithms I’d been working on for my PhD thesis. I began to analyze the data. As usual, once I became engrossed in my work, the hours flew by.
Amir delivered a plate of surprisingly tasty yellow chicken curry to my desk for lunch, and I scarfed it down in front of the computer.
I pushed away from my screen and rubbed my eyes. Across the room, Amir and Andrew looked up.
“Anything?” Andrew asked hopefully.
“Well, maybe…” I said.
He and Amir quickly hurried to my workstation. I punched a few keys and a graph animated onscreen.
“Here,” I said, and pointed. “And here. There is definite spike at this point in these readings. I believe,” I said with certainty, “this is what’s keeping you in sync, and keeping you in the other reality.”
“And did you compare the data recorded during your slices? Anything anomalous?” Andrew asked, clearly excited.
“No, not really,” I said. “I don’t really see how this will help.”
“Your thesis research,” Amir said, “your plan was always to analyze your own sleep disorder, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, can you compare this to readings taken during your dreams?” Amir suggested.
“I have some really early EEGs from when I was younger, but I don’t have anything recent—not since I learned to wake myself up.”
“Well, then,” Andrew reasoned. “Seems like the next thing we need to understand is the nature of your dream states. Time to get on that.”
“Uh, okay,” I said with uncertainty. “You know I can’t just turn them on, right?”
“But you have had success avoiding them?”
“Yes…”
“Then we’ll just have
to apply all your triggers, get you wired up, and put you to bed.”
After spending most of my life trying to repress these nightmares, rolling out the red carpet to dreamland seemed like a spectacularly bad idea.
“Tonight?” I replied nervously.
“No time to waste!” Andrew insisted. “What do you do to keep the dreams at bay?”
“Well, obviously, meditation is the big gun. Stress and sleep deprivation seem to contribute. Oh, and alcohol. I don’t drink.”
Amir grinned, slapping his hand against the desktop. “Smokin’! But you know the old man’s policies about bringing the sauce into the facility. How about we head to town and grab some brewskis and a couple of Paxti’s deep-dish pies? Everyone loves Chicago pizza, right?”
I shuddered at the mere mention of Chicago.
Andrew’s jaw was set. “I’ll deal with any repercussions. Besides, I have something a little more clinical in mind.”
Amir shut down his workstation and bounded out of his chair. “Then count me out. If we’re taking a night off, I’ll spend it jammin’ on Warcraft without you two lame-os.”
Amir’s absence left the lab feeling conspicuously empty. “Can Janine sit in with us?” I asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid she’s otherwise obligated.”
I sighed. I’d been careful not to look directly at Andrew all day. So far, I’d avoided any embarrassing flashbacks. I groaned inwardly at the irony—I was actually hoping for the imminent nightmare to be some horrible cataclysmic disaster, rather than endure another romantic interlude with my boss. I gulped and resigned myself to the experiment. The faster I could get this assignment completed, the faster it would get me out of this lunacy. And admittedly, the prospect of finally getting some more recent EEG readings during a dream was tantalizing.
I tried to ignore the clammy sensation under my armpits and picked at my cuticles to avoid looking at him. “So, we’re doing this, then.”
“We are doing this. Eat a light dinner, and don’t meditate. I’ll make a supply run and meet you back here in an hour. What do you drink?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I have no idea. I wasn’t kidding. I really don’t do alcohol.”
Andrew rose and headed to the door. “I’ve got this covered.”
I waited in the empty lab, rocking back and forth in one of the plush leather chairs. My dinner, which I’d barely tasted, refused to settle in my churning stomach. I pulled out my phone and tried to distract myself by reading net news. The headline article reported that the air quality index had reached the “very unhealthy” level, with recommendations to avoid outdoor exposure. Definitely not helping. I put away my phone.
At last, Andrew badged into the lab, dimming the lights as he entered the room. Two champagne flutes dangled from one hand and a pair of bottles nestled under his arm. I thought I’d feel relief, but instead tension descended over me like a thick, suffocating blanket.
My voice cracked when I spoke. “What are we drinking?”
He gave me another one of those inscrutable stares, and I quickly dropped my gaze.
“Pink champagne. I have a feeling you’ll take to this.”
I tilted my head to the side, but he offered no explanation. He removed the foil and loosened the wire cage. The pop of the cork echoed in the empty lab. He poured a glass and set it before me. The bubbly pink liquid fizzed loudly in the near silence. I raised my glass and sniffed, startled by the distinct aroma of strawberries. The tiny bubbles tickled my nose, and I quickly suppressed a smile, vowing to remain all business.
Andrew touched his fingertips to his lips before hesitantly lifting his flute. “To…big things.”
I risked a quick glance. His usual impassivity seemed to be cracking—his slack expression and slumped shoulders triggered a surge of sympathy. The man had watched his friend die today. I couldn’t actually imagine how painful that must have been.
I clinked my glass somberly and took a tentative sip. I was prepared to hate it, but the wine had a pleasant flavor. It had none of the sweetness I expected, but instead brought to mind creamy baked custard and tart cherries. No one had ever told me that wine could taste like this.
The awkward silence continued, and I nervously gulped down the rest of the glass. I racked my brain for some neutral topic of conversation.
“The wine is good,” I muttered.
He leaned back in his chair, staring intently at the tiny bubbles rising from the bottom of his glass. “I knew you’d like it.”
I took another sip. “What is it, again?”
“Heidsieck rosé. It’s nice, isn’t it? A solid French champagne. The 2006 vintage runs about one hundred and fifty dollars a bottle.”
I choked on my bubbly. “What? A hundred and fifty dollars for wine? That’s more money than I spend on two weeks’ groceries!”
Andrew smirked. “Then enjoy it while you can.” He topped off my glass.
The growing tendrils of intoxication set in faster than I expected and created a pleasant floating sensation in my head. A warm haze of alcohol-fueled contentment washed over me, and my unease began to drift away on the wings of the effervescent pink bubbles. My shoulders relaxed and I took another swig of champagne. Without thinking, my gaze flickered toward him. A huge sigh of relief escaped me as I realized that he was no longer triggering any nightmare side effects.
“Other than your taste for pricey wine, I know almost nothing about you.”
“I’m not sure that’s entirely accurate,” Andrew said obliquely.
I had no idea what he was talking about. I tried again.
“Have you always been interested in biomedicine?”
He finished his drink and poured another. “My bachelor’s degree is in electrical and computer engineering from UC Berkeley, and my MD-PhD in medical engineering and medical physics is from MIT. You could say I have interests in multiple fields,” Andrew answered.
I did the math as quickly as my already alcohol-impaired brain would allow. He’d likely been at Cal for four years, five or six at MIT. That course of study would have required at least ten years in college, plus a residency; that would put his age somewhere north of thirty.
The conversation petered out again, and I racked my brain for a safe topic. “What do you do for fun?”
His eyes locked on mine, and the intensity of his gaze made me want to squirm in my seat. I couldn’t read his expression at all, and before he answered, he expertly refilled my glass. “I don’t get out much,” he finally confessed. “My work is my life, quite literally.”
“Surely you have a hobby or a girlfriend or…something?”
The slightest hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. “That’s a very forward question, Kathryn.” He took another drink of wine, as if fortifying himself before answering. “Like everyone else, I live at Albaion; it keeps me closer to the things that interest me most.” A dark shadow fell over his brow and he looked away. “I used to practice martial arts, though I’ve lost my best sparring partner.”
I looked down too, knowing that I’d hit a nerve. I guessed his training partner had been Lily.
An hour ago, a social faux pas like this would have rendered me embarrassed and tongue-tied, but the delightful floaty feeling made my awkwardness seem somehow insignificant. I sipped more wine and tried to think of a question that had nothing to do with work or death.
“So…what is the craziest thing you have ever done?”
For a moment, I was certain he wouldn’t answer. Then the corners of Andrew’s eyes crinkled in a genuinely bemused grin. “You mean other than hanging out in alternate dimensions?” He chuckled. “The craziest thing I’ve ever done…” He thought for a moment. “When I was twenty, my mother and I went on safari to Africa.”
“That is amazing,” I replied. “But it doesn’t sound crazy.”
“My mother wanted to see the big silverback gorillas. She was an avid photographer, so we traveled to Uganda to track rare mountain gorillas.”
&
nbsp; “Again, cool, but not crazy…” I pointed out.
“Africa is an amazing place. Beautiful, but also wild in a way that feels distinctly dangerous. One day, after we had been trekking through the jungle for a couple of hours, I asked one of our guides if the AK-47 he was carrying was to protect us from the gorillas. Without even the hint of irony, he said that the weapons were to protect us from the guerrillas.”
An icy shiver ran down my spine.
“We were fine; we eventually found the troupe and my mother shot some amazing photographs, one of which ended up in National Geographic. But two weeks later, in that same forest, a group of tourists were confronted by a mob of soldiers—Hutu rebels, the same crew that carried out mass killings in Rwanda. Eight tourists were murdered, including two of the Americans and all the Brits. If our trip had happened just a few weeks later—” Andrew paused.
I grimaced; I thought about how a near miss in this reality might not translate to such good fortune in other slices.
“Ah, but your glass is empty again,” he remarked, pouring the last drops into my glass.
“Yours is, too,” I pointed out.
“So it is,” he mused. He reached for the second bottle, removed the foil with a flourish and deftly untwisted the wire cage. The cork blew off with incredible velocity, soaring straight upward. I watched in fascination as it ricocheted from the high ceiling and came tumbling back down, bouncing harmlessly off the top of Andrew’s head.
An inadvertent giggle escaped my throat, and I quickly clamped my hand over my mouth. Andrew vigorously massaged his scalp, his expression careening toward furious. But then he looked up, blinked hard, and unleashed a jubilant laugh. The effect was transformative, and it took all my determination to stop staring. I hoped the flush I felt creeping into my cheeks was counteracted by the dim lighting of the room.
“Are you all right?” I giggled again.
“I think I’ll live,” he said, grinning.
A moment of vertigo overtook me. I stared down at the lively little pink bubbles. Maybe I needed to slow down. Or was it something else? I set my wineglass carefully on the table.
