The Dream Thief

by Leann M Rettell

  With a thought, he let go of his singularity and fell out of her mind. The pain spiked in his skull. He returned to a world filled with a chaos of sound. He heard a woman’s scream. A man’s voice shouting, “Stop or else!”

  “Malcolm!” It was a woman’s voice: Debbie.

  The world fought to return to focus. Colors and lights swirled, trying to become shapes. Before they could complete, he heard a sound: a loud boom ricocheting like a thousand echoes. Then without warning, he felt a new pain. This pain was sharp and piercing; At the same time, numb and cold hit him in the forehead. It knocked him backward. His arms fell limp at his sides, and whatever he held in his arms released and crashed with him. He fell backward as if in slow motion. Through it all he heard anguish, pure and complete. “No! Malcolm, no!”

  The pain disappeared, and he flew. Thought became meaningless. There was no pain or worry. Up was down and down was up. Black was white and white was black. A perfect nothingness and exquisite connection to all things. In a moment, he was no longer alone. Was it one or many with him? He didn't know, but it laughed with the sound of a million voices. The laughter filled him with complete happiness. He had done well. All he had to do now was answer questions.

  He didn't want to answer any questions, nothing mattered anymore, not as long as he was there, with them.

  But answer he did. He answered question after question, but he couldn’t recall anything later. They said he had to go back. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. He had to. There was no choice. They had given him a new mission. He felt himself floating—no, falling—down and down and down.

  He should have been scared, but love filled him, blocking out the faintest wisps of fear. The wind whirled around him like a high-pitched breeze. With a thunderous boom, he stopped, hitting something hard. Pain shocked through him, there and then in a thought. Blinding light followed.

  Open your eyes, the chorus of voices said inside his head.

  He did. The light hurt, but he covered his eyes and sat. After his eyes adjusted, the pyramid rose high in the background, full and beautiful in the distance. Cairo, he was in Cairo. He had regenerated.

  All the memories came pouring back, but as usual, the memory of the chorus of voices faded already. In another second, he wouldn't remember. He moved to a mid-crouch to stand, but then he stopped, staring in shock. There, between his legs—parts! Man parts! His stomach growled, loud and angry. He was hungry. He was hungry for food, and he could eat it. At the thought, his mouth watered. Was it true? Could it possibly be true? He struggled to his feet and felt a gnawing sensation low in his belly. He relaxed and a stream of urine spewed from his new part. He laughed in utter joy.

  He was human. Just human. On his feet, he tried to run super speed to the spot where he had buried some supplies, but he couldn't. That also meant he had to dig the hole, naked, under the burning sun. But who cared? He was human!

  Finding his bag, he dressed and pulled out the satellite phone, thankful for the strange powerful, expensive device he’d purchased. He dialed the local cab company he’d programmed into the phone.

  The cab pulled up, and after tossing the bag inside, he looked up at the sky, smiling at the clouds which he could’ve worn gazed back, and whispered to the voices he couldn’t quite remember, “Thank you.”

  Since it was one a.m. in Egypt, he caught a flight the following morning. Thirty hours later, he stepped into Eye of the Beholder. Debbie looked up from the check-out counter, ran toward him, and threw herself into his arms. “Malcolm! Oh my god, you’re alive! What happened?”

  “I regenerated. What happened with you? Dharma?”

  Still not letting go of him, she told him. “Dharma’s husband came in. Then when you grabbed her. I don’t know, you both went wonky.”

  “Wonky?”

  “Shaking, eyes rolled back in your heads. It only lasted a few seconds, but then, bam, you were out. Dharma freaked out. Screamed over and over. When you wouldn't let her go, James shot you.” She shuddered at the memory, “When you fell backward, your body,” she stepped back to look at him, touching his face and chest, as if making sure he was real, "it disappeared. Like turned to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust kind of stuff. After that, Dharma came to. It took a while. James pointed the gun at me. Threatened to call the cops, but you disappearing freaked him out too.”

  “What about Dharma? Were we successful?”

  Debbie smiled. For the first time since his regeneration, he started to relax.

  “I guess whenever you joined her mind, she connected with yours too. She told us that she believed you. She saw it—the end of the world. But it didn't matter anymore. All her memories of that experiment were gone, but even if they weren’t, she knew she had to stop. We spent the evening destroying all evidence of her experiments so she would never pick it up again. Let’s say Avient Pharmaceuticals better be up to date on their fire insurance. What about you? Why the hell haven’t I heard from you before now?”

  In his stupidity, he hadn't saved any phone number, save for the cab company, and he had no way of reaching anyone. “Later! Did any of the dream thieves show up? Did you warn her to watch out?”

  “When everything settled, I called Stephanie’s number. Someone else answered. Obadiah. He said to tell you he’d transported to Cos. He’s the new Librarian. He called everything off. Dharma is safe.”

  Relief flooded over him in a wave as his eyes stung. They’d stopped that future, saved Dharma, and Aelia couldn’t harm anyone else. Soon he would call his brother and fill him in on everything.

  Malcolm brought his mouth down on Debbie’s, devouring her with a kiss. At that moment, his stomach growled. She stepped back, giggling, and then her eyes opened wide. She stared at him, the question on her face.

  He nodded. “I’m all human.”

  Her eyes lit up. “All human?"

  Malcolm laughed deep in his throat. “After we eat, I’ll show you just how human.”

  Epilogue

  Caelieus

  In the beginning, there was pain. Pain with no beginning and no end.

  Pain was every thought, every feeling, every moment.

  There was no light or color or sound. Pain was all. It fired along every nerve: lightning striking the skin in a continuous stream, a thousand hot pokers stabbing into viscera. Or was it whips, chains, throwing knives? The pain was the universe, and yet it was nothing, for nothing could adequately describe the pain. It was never-ending, eternal, a constant changing chaos. Sometimes he thought there might be something or someone there, but there was nothing that could penetrate beyond the pain. Perhaps words or a light or a touch? But no, nothing. Time held no meaning. He could have been lost in the abyss of pain for a second or a millennia. It went on and on without release.

  Then finally, more pain came at what he thought might be his neck, a fresh flow of something. He couldn't say if it was fire or ice, only liquid of some kind, maybe blood? As the pain began, so it ended.

  In a flash, a breath, a heartbeat.

  The ground gave way beneath him; he fell, or maybe he was flying: faster and faster, up was down, and down was up. Again, time didn’t mean a thing. Then, he was no longer alone but couldn’t remember anyone else there before. Hadn’t he always been alone? He didn’t think so, but then he realized another had been with him. He couldn’t say if only one other being had been with him, or two, or thousands, or every soul in the universe. They loved him, and wanted him, and saved him for a grand purpose. He held onto that feeling now. When the confusion grew and he got scared, he remembered something: ultimate safety. He wanted to stay but couldn’t. It wasn’t time, not yet, like so many times before. He didn’t understand why it wasn’t time. He was there. They were there. They were together. Why should he have to leave?

  He felt alone again, and his heart broke. He, she, it, them, sent waves of love toward him, easing his sorrow. He would go back. There will be more pain they said, but not like before. There will be hate. There will be sorrow. The
re will be fear and confusion. But there will be love too. There will be hope. There will be peace. There will be happiness. It wasn’t all bad. He had to make things better. It was his purpose.

  He fell again, but they were with him. They fell with him. They loved him and assured him everything would be okay, but he had to answer questions. He didn’t want to, but they told him he had to. They spoke, but not in words or any language he had yet encountered. Their words embodied the language of the soul. No word, or sound, or feeling could ever hope to come close to the power of one syllable of their language. He answered, question after question.

  As soon as he answered, he forgot the previous question and his answer. The falling sped up, faster and faster. It went from a sense of falling, to wind against resistance, then heat. Why did it always have to be this way? He asked it, them, but then he didn’t remember what was always what way. They laughed, a musical sound, like every bell, horn, and string instrument playing together in perfect harmony. He didn’t remember their answer, only the sudden stopping. It might have hurt.

  There was more pain. They had promised pain, but as soon as he thought this is pain, it disappeared. He laid on the ground until thought became coherent. He could feel again. Something firm beneath him, fuzzy. No, what was the word? Itchy. At another part of his body, he felt something firmer, quite annoying. Could he move? He didn’t know, but the knowledge came. At first he moved the toes on one foot, then the whole foot. Did he have two feet? He did, and two legs, too, along with fingers, hands, arms, and shoulders. The firmer part behind him dug into his back—painful. Something hurt in his chest, a burning pressure. He opened his mouth and inhaled. Breathing, he needed air. His chest moved up and down with each exquisite breath. There was light amongst shade behind his eyelids. They opened and immediately shut again. The bright sun blinded him, stinging his eyes. As a reflex, his hand sprung from lying beside him to shield his face. He tried opening his eyes again but with his hand as a shade. It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust. Blue. That was the first color. It was the sky, clear and blue, far, far above him.

  He didn’t know how he knew it was blue or that it was the sky, but he did. He rolled to his side, pushing himself up to a sitting position. A rock protruded from the ground where his left shoulder had been. That’s what had hurt him. The pain from the gray, irregular shaped, hard thing had already receded. The rock was surrounded by green—little green strands poking from the dirt. Grass. It was called grass, and dirt was brown. The stimulation was overwhelming. Thoughts, feelings, and knowledge poured forth like a tsunami of information. Did he know what a tsunami was? Yes, he did, and those he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t sure what that meant. He took another few breaths after his chest burned again. He kept forgetting to breathe.

  The next thing to spring to his attention was his body. He was naked. What did naked mean? No clothes. He wasn’t wearing clothes. What were clothes? Then visions of pants, shirts, and shoes floated in his mind. He didn’t have names for them, not then, only what they looked like. He had toes, with toenails, feet, and legs with hair. But in between his legs—nothing. Smooth skin. This didn’t seem right to him. His mind pictured another limb, shorter, without a hand, and a sack of some kind or, instead, a slit in the skin, but those were absent. His stomach was flat with little bulges of muscle. His chest had a tiny amount of hair, black and curly. He had muscular arms with long fingers.

  Looking away from his body, he scanned around and saw tall rocks. No that wasn’t right—mountains, covered in grass. No, not grass, moss. There were rolling valleys and mountains as far as the eye could see, but here and there littered like confetti are mini-mountains shaped like big heads. They had a similar shape as him. Some he could see clearly, but many, many others were almost unrecognizable, like any other large boulder, nothing at all special about them.

  He wanted to see them, so he got to his feet. His muscles quivered, and he had to hold his hands out to steady himself. It didn’t work. He fell, and pain trickled at his knee. The rock at his back had cut him where he’d landed on it. The broken skin sealed itself back together. This, like the smooth skin between his legs, wasn’t like it should be, like a human. He remembered he wasn’t human, but not what he was. When he stood again, a large black beast towered before him. He jumped back several feet, feeling a pounding in his chest. He inspected the hairy chest as the pounding rushed from underneath his skin, trying to see if something was hitting him, but no, it was his heart. He remembered what a heart was.

  His gaze flew back up to the beast, which stood before him, still, unmoving, not breathing. Wait, it wasn't a beast. It was metal, black metal, with round, rubber wheels and glass eyes. No, not eyes, a windshield and headlights. A car. What did you do with a car? You drove a car. Do I know how to drive a car? Yes, he did.

  There was not another person or any animals; nothing else was around. Where was the owner of this car? The driver’s side door stood open. He slid inside. The seat irritated against the skin of his buttocks, hot, and he stuck to the leather. He pulled the door closed with a loud bang. The sound of the whistling wind blowing through the mountains vanished. He hadn’t been aware of the sound before. His breathing was the only sound inside the hot, humid car. He wondered again where the driver had gone, but then another thought came to him. Maybe this was his car. Beside him in the, he searched for the word, passenger seat, was a bag. No. There was a better word: suitcase. He slid it onto its side, then unzipped the case. It made a strange, zzzzuuuuup sound. He enjoyed that sound. He opened and closed it several times.

  Inside the suitcase were clothes, as he pulled each item from the suitcase their names came to him along with a memory of how to put them on. Shirts, not one kind of shirt, but many. There were some button-ups, some polo shirts, and t-shirts along with pants, jeans, and sweat pants. He saw underwear, not-boxers. No, these over here were called boxers. Socks. He tried them first on his hands but then realized where to put them. He bent down, putting those on first. His feet were uncomfortable. Cold, that was the word. As he sat up, his reflection peered back at him from the rearview mirror. His eyes were oval and brown with golden flecks. His nose was a little big for his face but matched his chin. A strong chin was how it would be described. His hair was dark brown with golden streaks, and his skin was a medium tan color. He had teeth, those were white, white and straight.

  He wanted clothes on. He picked the polo shirt and the jeans. He remembered to put the boxers on before the jeans, and then he found shoes. There were dress shoes and tennis shoes. He grabbed the tennis ones and wondered if he played tennis.

  Inside the suitcase were little crystal tubes filled with a thick liquid. They were sealed shut with a cork. He pulled it and stuck his finger inside. The liquid was thick and sweet, very sweet. Syrup, that was the word. He put it to his lips, tilted his head back, and swallowed it down. It oozed its way down his throat but tasted good. He felt better after drinking it and wished he had more. The bag didn't hold much except clothes and shoes, a weird stick with bristles at the end, a toothbrush, and paste. Another glass bottle held some interesting smelling stuff that puffed out when he pressed the top of the bottle. Cologne. What was that for again? He couldn't drink it. That much he knew, but for the life of him, he didn't know what he was supposed to do with it.

  For the life of me. What a weird phrase. Where did it come from? There was something more with this suitcase. He touched and prodded until he found a hidden compartment. Inside were several pieces of paper inside an envelope. He opened it, and on each of the pages were small things written in black. Letters. Did he know what they said?

  Yes, it said “birth certificate.” Several of them did, all with different names. There were other papers wrapped in a blue book. On the front in gold letters read “Passport.” He opened one and gazed at his picture. The name read Jace Lee Reed. Was that his name? He didn't recognize it. He recognized his face, on some level, but the name, not one bit. He flipped through the other passpor
ts. Some had his picture with different names and others had another man's picture. Was this other man supposed to be here? Is this his car? If so, where had he gone? Was the stranger supposed to tell me who I am or take me somewhere new? He stared out of the windshield, but still, he was the only person there. He didn't know, but whoever the man was, he wasn't here anymore.

  He needed identification, the word came to him, and money. In another folder, a large manila envelope held a stack full of bills and little plastic cards with different names on them. He found Jace Lee Reed’s birth certificate, credit cards, and passport. The rest he put back into the hidden pouch and closed the suitcase.

  As he turned his head, a flash caught his eye. It was a piece of metal reflecting from the sun. A key, with the name Altiplanico. In a little drawer was a paper filled with lines going everywhere. A map. He studied it and figured out the location of Altiplanico.

  He turned the keys in the ignition, and the engine growled. All the little phrases sprang to mind. It was hard to put them in any sort of order. He pulled the stick to D. “D for drive,” he told himself, hearing his voice for the first time. It was smooth, baritone, and silky. He pulled out of the parking spot. Driving came naturally. More naturally than breathing, which he still had to remind himself to do every so often.

  Fifteen minutes, that's how long it took him to get to Altiplanico. The room number was on the key. He found nothing and no one inside the hotel room, no other suitcase, no note, no other man. Only a wet towel, hung over the shower wall. Now that he was moving, things and words came back to him faster. He knew words like door, floors, bed, shower, towel without having to think about it. He considered taking a shower, but he wasn't dirty. He had regenerated, wasn't that right? He needed to leave. He knew that without knowing. Where to go, he had no idea, but deep inside him, something buzzed. It wasn't the beat of his heart, or the movement of air. It was something driving him. Something important. Something he had to do. It was an internal alarm buzzing. But before he could go to the airport he had to write this down before he forgot. But he didn't know what that meant or what to do about it.