Awoken (The Lucidites Book 1)

by Sarah Noffke

  I wash my clothes and hang them on a towel rack to dry while I shower. When I’m done I wrap my towel around me and go to work drying my clothes under the automatic dryers. This takes forever. I stop when my jeans are almost dry and turn my attention to getting ready. I’m pushing the comb through my hair when a voice echoes over an intercom, “Dinner will be served on the first level in the main hall in ten minutes.”

  What time is it? Haven’t I traveled overnight? Shouldn’t it be late morning or at least early afternoon? The Institute must be in a different time zone. Begrudgingly I throw on my partially wet jeans and start for the door. If anything I can hope to be the first person to dinner. I’ll eat and leave before anyone else has a chance.

  Thankfully I manage to get into the elevator alone. Most of the others are socializing and changing into their green scrubs. Losers.

  The elevator stops at level two and a few people file into the silver compartment. It proceeds to level one.

  “I’m sure they’ll have options for you,” a guy says to a girl as we exit.

  I stay within earshot, curious to know what they’re talking about.

  “They’ll know, better than anyone, the strict diet one must have in order to dream travel properly.”

  “I know,” the girl whines behind her scraggly brown hair. “It’s just I’m used to having a certain type of goat cheese and that’s not something that’s readily available. It really gives me the best results.”

  I cringe at the sound of the girl’s whiny voice. She’s around my age, but dainty and prissy—a repulsive combination. Her vacant, light blue eyes keep looking up from the floor to her companion’s as if searching for consolation from her dietary concerns.

  Get a life.

  We file into the dining area. With each step I take into the large room the odd sensation of déjà vu sinks in deeper. I’ve been here before. The fluorescent lights. Wall-to-wall blue carpet. I’ve dreamed of this room. It isn’t from the recurring dream about reaching the Institute. It’s a different one I’d never given much thought to. In it I stood in a line and once at the front I scribbled my name on a list. I’ve done this a dozen times in my dreams over the last few weeks. Was this the list of challengers? Was this another message planted in my subconscious by the Lucidites? It’s hard to trust people who don’t allow me to think for myself.

  Feeling violated on a level I don’t fully comprehend, I survey the room. Several buffet stations line the perimeter. Round tables with white covers fill the interior of the space. Each place setting holds a large goblet of ice water, a napkin, and utensils.

  I pick up a plate at the first station. In front of me stand more than a few rows of berries. The mountains of berries are radiant in color as well as in design. I’ve never seen such a wonderful display of fruit. Around the berries sit brightly colored melons, ripe bananas, shiny apples, and the most pristine oranges I’ve ever laid eyes on. I take nothing from this table. Instead I charge off. Berries piled high and artfully arranged makes my head burn with anger for some reason. Everything makes me mad at the moment.

  The next table consists of only breads: croissants, sourdough rolls, baguettes, hoagies, and a dozen other types. I pick up the least exciting one I can find.

  I pass a carving station, reeking of flesh. Kids are lined up, eyeing chucks of meat with hungry eyes. Suppressing the powerful gag reflex which is churning up my esophagus, I charge as far away as possible from that area. The last thing I need right now is to vomit in front of these people.

  At the next station, the aroma of milky cheeses is overwhelming. There are over a dozen varieties. Some are soft, others hard. Labels indicate the names of each of the varieties, over half of which I’ve never heard of and can’t pronounce. Picking up a slice from the nearest two I charge off. My anger deepens now that I realize Goat Girl is probably going to get the kind of cheese she wants.

  I find an empty table at the back of the room. I poke at my food, molding it with each prod of my fork. I’m not really hungry, but rather jetlagged. Maybe that’s the reason for my sour mood. Then again it could be the false pretenses used to lure me here. Being humiliated in front of everyone in the auditorium for Ren’s entertainment is just the icing on this awful cake. I crumble a piece of bread in my hand.

  “Mind if I sit down?” someone says behind me.

  The word “no” has all but escaped my lips when I realize I recognize the voice. Curious, I turn to find Aiden, the guy who saved my life, precariously balancing two plates on each arm. His lanky, pale arms provide enough surface area for all the porcelain white plates, but their contents make them teeter dangerously. Giving him a furtive glance, I shake my head. I’m in no mood for company. I’m just about to say so when I get a flash. It streaks across my vision quickly, the way it always does. It’s a picture of one of the plates falling from his grasp.

  “Watch out!” I exclaim. In one movement I stand, dart forward, and grab the plate just as it’s falling. I set it down on the table with a sigh. Aiden clumsily lays down his other three plates, spilling rolls and pats of butter.

  His bright blue eyes light up. He gapes at me. “You grabbed that plate before it started to fall.”

  I swallow, turning back towards the table. “No, I just got it as it was falling.”

  As he sits down next to me, the corners of his long mouth suppress a smile like he knows a secret. “No, I saw it happen. You knew.” Aiden spreads a pat of butter on his roll and says, “Oh, and nice reflexes.”

  “Thanks.” I look down at my plate. My reflexes had been quick, more so than normal.

  “So that’s your talent, is it? You see stuff in the future?”

  “Just stupid stuff like plates falling,” I say, sticking a piece of bread into my mouth.

  “Saved me from looking like a fool,” he says, taking a sip of water.

  “Then we’re even.”

  “Nope, I saved your life. You owe me big,” Aiden teases, flashing a smile.

  I tense and try to pull my gaze from his too-white teeth. My eyes roam over his dark brown hair, spiky in some places and limp in others, as though he ran out of hair gel or got distracted. The black rectangular glasses he wears frame blue eyes that are just as bright and astonishing as when I first saw them. On his tall, lanky frame hangs a white lab coat on top of a black Fall Out Boy T-shirt.

  “So you work here?” I ask.

  “I wouldn’t call it work.” He laughs playfully.

  “‘K,” I say and pretend to ignore him.

  Silence.

  “I’m the Head Scientist for the Institute,” Aiden finally says.

  “Aren’t you kind of young to be a scientist, let alone the Head Scientist?” I can’t help but ask.

  “It’s all about how you define young.”

  I sigh, feeling the jetlag tunnel in my brain. “I define it by the number of years one has been a resident of earth. Where are you from?”

  He laughs and takes a bite. “Earth, mostly,” he says, giving me a sideways grin. “But those numbers of years are relative, depending on the person.”

  I push my plate away. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Aiden nods, an understanding look in his eyes. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch up. I realize you’re new to this whole thing.”

  “I guess all the other Lucidites in here were given a manual at birth. Mine must have been lost in the mail,” I say, swallowing down my frustration.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He shifts in his seat and gives me an uneasy glance. “I apologize.”

  I remain silent.

  “Some Lucidites choose to accelerate their careers, since we have the opportunity to utilize our dream time for learning and acquiring skills,” he explains matter-of-factly. “I was raised by devoted Lucidites and began dream traveling fairly young. My parents required me to spend my nights reading, studying, and training. Their expectations in all aspects of my education were high. I had my masters by the time I was your age, and now
that I’m about to turn eighteen, I’ve almost completed my doctorate.”

  “What?!” I almost choke on the water I’m drinking. “You have a PhD?”

  “Actually, I’m ABD—all but dissertation. I expect it to be done soon though.”

  “Well, you must be kind of smart then.”

  “I have my moments,” he says playfully. “Really most of my success is due to the excellent teachers I’ve had. For instance, I learned the theory of relativity from the very best.” He grins.

  “You’re not implying…?”

  “I am,” he says.

  “Einstein? That’s who you learned the theory of relativity from?”

  Aiden nods. “As well as other stuff.” His blue eyes flash with confidence behind his glasses.

  I gulp down the rest of my water feeling impressed, but not wanting to show it. “Is every Lucidite a super star genius then?” The knot rises in my throat as I realize how far behind the pack I’ll be.

  “Nah, same principles of motivation apply to Dream Travelers as well as normal folk. Some people spend their nights studying and applying themselves to a subject or talent. Some people spend their nights hanging out by the pool in the Bahamas. And still others spend their nights watching Doctor Who or sci-fi movies.” He’s already polished off an entire plate of food and places it to the side. “Everyone’s different and therein lies the beauty.”

  Although I hate to admit it, I’m buzzing with more questions. Before I have a chance to ask anything else a loud ring emanates from his pants pocket. Aiden purses his lips, disappointment written on his face. He retrieves his phone and holds up one finger. “Pardon me.” He puts the phone to his ear and says, “Aiden here.” Someone on the other side speaks hurriedly, but I can’t make out their words. He glances at me briefly with a smile. “Hmmm, that’s very interesting indeed.” His gaze falls to the table as the voice on the other end continues. “And you say this just started?” He pauses, looking disconcerted. “An hour or so ago?” His eyes flick to mine and he gives a sly expression. My heart races suddenly. “That’s fascinating. I’ll be right there.” Aiden shuts off the phone and stands up from the table.

  “Sorry, I enjoyed our chat, but I’ve got to run,” he says. “I’m fairly certain I’ll be seeing you around.” He winks and then strolls away.

  By the time I finish eating, my mood has softened. I’m intrigued with everything Aiden has told me. If what he said is true then I have some underdeveloped potential I should start exploring. Unfocused but motivated, I head back to my bunk.

  A schedule for tomorrow’s tasks has been posted. It reads:

  8 a.m. – Task 1: Ganzfeld, Room 444

  10 a.m. – Task 2: PK Party, Room 200

  12 p.m. – Lunch

  1 p.m. – Task 3: Calisthenics, Gymnasium

  3 p.m. – Task 4: Kung Fu, Studio 3

  6 p.m. – Dinner

  9 p.m. – Task 5: Dream Travel

  We’re being tested on kung fu? That’s just one more item on the long list of things that don’t make sense in this place. I don’t care to compete or be graded on these tasks. Honestly, I don’t want to be the challenger. Still I’d rather not be known as an epic failure. I’ve already had enough embarrassment in the last twelve hours. I make up my mind to give the tasks my best effort. Besides, if even a few of the potential challengers are half as talented and prepared as Aiden then they’ll outscore me without even trying.

  A couple of kids sit on bunks playing cards in the corner. I ignore them and climb into my bed, pulling the covers over my head. The thing Aiden said about Einstein is still stirring in me. Hell, everything he said is racing around my brain, but one thing in particular has given me an idea. However, I’m not real confident in my dream travel abilities just yet, and where I want to take my consciousness fills me with nervous tension. I’m not sure of the risks, but I do know I don’t have much to lose.

  I clear my mind and the fear edges away. My breath slows, steadies. Everything I know about this person flips through my head like a picture book: his look, his voice, his talents, his influence. When I run out of ideas, I repeat the ones I already thought about. More than anything I concentrate. I don’t let go and allow myself to be forced into a dream. Instead I force the dream. I create the perimeters. I instruct my consciousness where I intend to go. The neural pathways in my brain shift. I feel it as I focus and I know something’s changing. I’m changing.

  Minutes pass. Maybe hours. At some point during this focus I’m dumped out of a window and fall through a silver tunnel. I actually drop this time. I’m not driving the subway train like before. I’m descending. The wind sweeps by me gradually and then rushes as I gain speed. My stomach meets my throat and they both twist together, intertwined. Free falling isn’t a freeing feeling. It assaults my senses. Rips my mind of any peace. Each second I know I’m getting closer to a hard surface, one where my body will plummet to its death. I need to wake up out of this illusion, or disillusion. Something’s wrong.

  The intention to pull out of this dream travel is halfcocked when I suddenly stop falling and turn through a tunnel. I’m moving like before, like I’m driving at lightning speed. The silver tunnel rushes by. I turn again and again. And then I really do fall. Fortunately it isn’t far, but enough to make me scream. Two men stand in front of me in a courtyard.

  I clap a hand to my mouth. “Sorry.”

  The men exchange words, bounce on their toes. Neither turns and acknowledges me. I lower the transparent hand covering my mouth. Fumbling backward I whisper, “I’ll just be leaving.”

  No doubt they’re wondering where I came from and formulating a plan to kill me. I take another step back, preparing to dream travel before they attack. Then one of the men bounces and shoots a punch at the other man, who deflects it easily. What are they doing? Are they about to fight each other?

  The smaller of the two men says something I can’t hear. He turns and faces me. I straighten, rigid. With a graceful elegance he strides toward me. I throw my hands over my face, ready to defend myself against his attack. It doesn’t come. Instead he pivots and stands at my side. I remain paralyzed. All focus seeps out of my brain. The fear takes over. The dark-haired man beside me says, “Begin.” The other man launches into a series of moves.

  I figure out three important things all at once: 1) I’ve just time traveled. 2) These people, from the past, can’t see me. 3) I’m about to learn kung fu from Bruce Lee.

  Chapter Six

  Mesmerized, I watch as Bruce Lee instructs this gentleman on what he calls Jeet Kun Do. I do my best to memorize the different moves. Even though I know they can’t see me, I’m still too shy to try the moves myself. When their lesson is over I travel to a different time with Mr. Lee. As the confidence in me builds, I get up the nerve and begin to practice alongside him. Each time the lesson ends I travel again until hours later I’m jolted awake by an annoying bell. Ding! Ding! Ding!

  I bolt upright in bed, ramming my head into the bunk above me. The bell, our wake-up call, rudely pulls me back to my present reality where kids groggily awaken from their own dream travels.

  The deep eyes and focused expression of the mentor I spent my night with are fresh in my memory. My first hour with Mr. Lee had been awkward. The second overwhelming. The third intense. And by the fourth, I was enchanted, in awe, completely and utterly inspired by the presence of this man who moved with grace and power. Maybe it was because I was isolated in my own time dimension where no one could see or judge me, but last night, once I got used to the situation, I was more myself than I ever remembered. My mentor’s humble demeanor stripped away my armor, leaving me a bundle of potential.

  Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, I start for the bathroom. I half expect my body to be sore from the thousands of punches, blocks, and kicks I practiced. In my one night with Bruce Lee I learned speed and non-telegraphic punches, striking with efficiency, directness, and simplicity, stop kicks and hits, multiple ways to attack, the various
ranges of combat, and a poetic philosophy which wove through the martial art.

  “Empty your mind,” Mr. Lee chanted with confidence. “Be formless, shapeless, like water. If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle and it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot it becomes the teapot. That water can flow, or it can crash. Be water, my friend.”

  My throat itched when Mr. Lee’s words sunk into my consciousness. I’d always known we were pure energy. For how long had I been a stagnant puddle, allowing sediments of dirt to settle within me? Wasn’t it time I embraced my potential and became flexible and free flowing? A true force?

  ♦

  An uneasy sensation settles in my stomach as I think about the tasks ahead of me. What kinds of skills would the person to challenge Zhuang excel at? It’s odd that the Head Officials are putting us through an obstacle course. Apparently, I’m alone in this perspective. Everyone else appears excited and privileged to be at the Institute. This is what I gathered from eavesdropping on a group of girls in the bathroom.

  The windowless room for the first task is full when I arrive. It resembles a waiting room in a doctor’s office and no one who’s waiting seems excited anymore. They all look like they’re about to have a lobotomy. Tension drapes over shoulders, drips down long faces, creases foreheads.

  I pluck a magazine from a coffee table and take the first available seat. From behind my Psychology Today I scan the room. Three doors are on one wall and three other doors sit opposite. At the far end of the room is a counter. Sitting behind it is a woman with short, curly red hair. She’s far away in thought as she types at a computer.