by Sarah Noffke
I pause at the door to Scapes Escapes, my old department room. I took pity on Trey and assumed my old position as Head Strategist. It’s only in an interim capacity. And I only agreed because I recognize how desperate the situation is with Vivian planning a secret diabolical takeover of the American home. Furthermore, I only agreed to take the position if at my discretion I could work as the agent on this case, which we’re calling Smart Pod Takeover since that’s apparently the role of the devices in homes. To take over minds using voice control. We don’t know any more than that. Vivian’s powers of voice control will no doubt echo through the little handy devices that some techy father thought would be fun technology to add to his entertainment center. And once installed, the thing will listen and then give orders. And who knows what she plans to do to people, but anyone who would recruit an army of assassins can’t have a wholesome agenda. So I wasn’t lying when I told Dr. Raydon that I didn’t have the time to leave the Institute. I’m giving orders on hundreds of cases, managing a dozen agents, investigating a mole, and trying to cut the head off of Medusa aka Vivian.
I check my watch before tapping the button for the department room. I’m right on time as usual. The motorized door slides back into the wall and I rush into the room, head held high, footsteps thundering. This type of entrance always sets the tone for these meetings, thereby setting all my agents on edge. An alert agent is one who’s thinking and observing; anything less results in a dead agent.
All noises in the room are instantly sucked away as everyone’s attention centers on me. I clear the short hallway and halt in my usual position after a few strides. Around a large oval table twenty agents between the ages of eighteen and thirty stare back at me. It’s not that older Dream Travelers don’t make good agents, it’s that they either burn out or die on the job. It’s a dangerous position and so I do lose a fair percentage of agents each year. However, the biggest reason for turnover is that most people want to know what a typical life feels like. They desire a life where they aren’t on call or having to take orders from an abusive boss. Most of my agents last about five years before they decide a mortgage and breeding sounds like a fun idea. It’s a rule that those are two things my agents can’t have. And yes, I broke my own rules but they don’t apply to me. That’s my fucking privilege as the Head Strategist.
People with no lives make the best agents. They aren’t distracted by responsibility. While in my service their thoughts belong to me and that’s the precise reason I’ve been so successful in this position. And it’s the reason that the Head Strategists who tried to take over for me all failed. They treated these agents like people. Maybe they even had lives of their own. When you treat people like humans then they start acting like humans, employing feelings and making mistakes. Treat people like machines and they perform in a way that brings about consistent results, not polluted by emotions. Intervening on a hundred potential disasters a day takes great planning and the skill of hardwired soldiers.
“Inside this fucking metal box that all you rats call home is a bloody mole,” I say so loud that the newest recruit jumps slightly. She still isn’t used to my endearing nature. Several agents exchange nervous glances. “None of you is the traitor, hence the reason that I’m disclosing this information to you.” I begin striding around the table clockwise, my hands clasped behind my back. “If you have a spy amongst your community the last thing you do is give them any signs that you’re aware of their existence,” I say and stop. Then I slam my hand down beside a guy with a nose ring and a name that makes me want to take the privilege away from parents to name their children. “Bird boy, I have a question for you,” I say, leaning down low, the reflection of his shiny nose ring catching my attention briefly.
“Raven, sir,” he says.
I grimace. It’s a common joke amongst my agents that they correct me every single time I mess up their name or call them something belligerent. It’s almost kind of cute and as they know, it encourages the name calling. I might have ripped the human out of these people but I left their sense of humor intact. Sometimes it’s the only thing that will keep an agent sane.
“Right, right,” I say. “How are you like a writing desk? From my perspective you’re flat and shallow and lacking a complex composition, but still in search of one.”
His crooked teeth show when he flashes a grin. “You had a question for me, sir,” he says.
Pigeon boy has been an agent for only one year and already he has the confidence of many senior agents. It’s impressive really, and also highly irritating.
“I did have a question. Let’s play a game. Let’s pretend that you run this bloody department. There’s a mole reporting the activity of the Lucidites to an extremely bad villain. What would you do?” I say.
He tilts his head to the side, thinking. I hate it when people have to do that, take the time to think.
“Come on, pigeon brain, I haven’t got all day,” I say.
“Well, I, Raven Ottomon the second, would send my agents out to question each of the residents of the Institute,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest.
“That’s the worst idea ever,” a guy on the far side of the table says.
I flip my head up to see the boy with skin as dark as chocolate leaning back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face.
“And why is that, dread boy?” I say, angling to the guy who has decided that wearing his shoulder-length hair in strings of thick ropes isn’t completely gross.
“I prefer to go by Trent, sir,” he says.
“And I’d prefer not to look at your face, but Trey says I can’t fire you. Apparently a perk of dating his son. Good thinking. Sleeping your way to the top,” I say.
Trent chuckles, unoffended. “As you were saying, sir, the last thing you want is to question people openly thereby giving the spy a chance to hide evidence and arrange their story.”
“So, it’s your department for the day, what do you do?” I say.
“I send the eyes of my agents out around the Institute to observe. I assign a certain number of residents to each agent and that way they can focus their attention and look for behavior that is suspicious. I’d have my agents track the communications of these residents, get permission to search their computer history in the labs, and watch for interactions they have with outsiders. Because that’s the key to finding this person. The tipoff that a person is a mole isn’t when they’re collecting information but when they’re handing it off.”
I narrow my eyes at the agent. “Well, then how about we go with your strategy and if it works then you can stick around for another month or two. If it fails and we don’t find the rat using this strategy then you’re fired. How does that sound?”
“It will work,” he says, his typical confidence in his voice. Trent is my best agent and the reason for that is simple. He thinks from the end. A strategic mind only considers things in a way that presents real solutions. They don’t consider what-ifs. It’s about seeing what you want and working backward. Most take a problem and look for a solution. Solutions aren’t discovered, they’re bloody created.
“There’s one hundred employees in the administrative, healthcare, facility, and infirmary departments,” I say, pointing to the file sitting in the middle of the table. It’s where I leave my notes for after the meeting. The one with detailed assignments for each agent. “In there you’ll find the five residents you’ve each been assigned to watch. Do not under any circumstance make what you’re doing known to them. Being inconspicuous is of chief priority in this. Report any suspicious act—”
“Wait,” Trent says, daring to cut me off.
I stop and regard him with an angry stare.
“If you’ve already made assignments then that’s not my plan we’re following but rather yours,” he says.
“Very good, Tiny Tim,” I say.
“Name’s Trent, sir, and I’ve been working here for almost two years.”
“Feels like longer
,” I say with a bored sigh.
“So, I guessed your plan, didn’t I?” he says, looking confident. “And also, if it’s your plan then if it doesn’t work, I shouldn’t be fired.”
“As I was saying, you all will follow your five leads,” I say.
“What about the rest of the employees in the Institute? The scientists and news reporters?” Trent asks.
“Leave them to me,” I say.
“You’re taking on fifty employees, but only giving us each five?” he says.
“Yes, and I’m certain you all will screw up the assignments I’ve given you while I’m finding the fucking culprit,” I say as I exit the department room.
Chapter Four
The walls of the residence where I lived for the better part of my life hold a strange comfort. For almost two decades I lived in the executive housing in the Lucidite Institute. And although I swore I’d never again imprison myself in this windowless dwelling, here I am. The walls are bare now, not punctuated with artwork or bookshelves like they were before. Presently, I just have my luggage and the worn plaid armchair. That piece of furniture, like me, has moved around. And like me, the majority of its years were spent in this eight-hundred-square-foot, three-room space. I never minded that these living quarters in the Institute were half the space of my flat in London. What I minded most was the dull lighting and lack of windows. I never got used to it. I always woke up missing the presence of the sun marking the start of a new day.
The knock at my door produces a growl from my mouth. The executive housing in the Institute can only be accessed by other Head Officials or housekeeping. Not one of those people do I wish to stomach right now. Well, ever.
“I’m not home,” I yell, narrowing my eyes at the file on my desk. I’ve been working for twenty hours straight. Soon I plan to dream travel back to this spot and work for another eight hours. That was the schedule I kept before as Head Strategist. There’s a reason I left the job. It’s demanding. But there’s now an excellent reason why I’ve returned to this job.
The knock sounds again. People really are persistent. It’s annoying and a trait that should be discouraged in those with a low IQ.
“Aiden, I don’t have your Legos nor have I seen them,” I say.
“Open up, Ren,” Trey says from the other side of the door.
“How about you leave me be so I can keep your precious Institute from being blown to smithereens by a treacherous villain?” I say.
Again he knocks.
“For fuck sake,” I say, bolting to a standing position. I whip the door back as I simultaneously yell, “What?” I say it as if I’m going to be face to face with Trey, who is my height. Trey isn’t standing in my doorway giving me his typical expression of waning tolerance. It takes my eyes a moment to register who I’m actually seeing. I bring my gaze down low to the girl before me who is a head shorter. Adelaide’s lips are pressed together, her bloodshot eyes contrasting boldly with the green of her irises. Her hands are wrapped around her stomach, almost in a protective stance. I turn my head to the side, having caught Trey in my peripheral. He’s leaning against the wall, no shame on his face.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I say, restraining myself from launching a fist at his face. Then I remind myself that I don’t know how to punch properly and Trey’s pain isn’t worth me breaking my fingers again.
“I’m trying to help you,” he says. From the look on his face I realize that a) he doesn’t believe his life is in danger, and b) he actually thinks this bold move will help me.
“I don’t need your help,” I say.
“I realize that I’m interfering and—”
“Oh good, I don’t have to spell that out for you,” I say, cutting Trey off. “And just so you know, I will fucking make your residents burn the Institute down for this.”
“I asked for his help,” the mistake-maker says. I keep my eyes off Adelaide, unable to stomach the sight of the girl.
“I don’t care what she asked for, Trey. You have no right to drag her here,” I say, realizing Adelaide would have had to take the submarine to the Institute since dream travel is too risky at this stage of her pregnancy.
“It’s my job to ensure the well-being of my employees, Ren,” Trey says. “And that means helping them with situations that they’re avoiding.”
“I’m not fucking avoiding anything,” I burst out, livid at the accusations so plainly being made in front of Adelaide. I had no idea Trey wanted me to kill him. I take a steadying breath before continuing. “I’m trying to work a bloody level five case, run your strategic department, and find a mole that’s infiltrated your Institute because you’ve been too busy playing fucking house. Maybe stop interfering in the lives of Lucidites and start doing your bloody job as Head Official.”
“Ren, nothing matters more than family,” Trey says.
“Look…” I begin but pause when Aiden and Roya enter the executive wing, stupid grins on their git faces as they laugh about something, probably fart noises or body odor. They straighten and lose their cheery expressions as soon as they see us. Roya’s eyes snap onto Adelaide and then swivel up to meet mine.
“Hey, Ren. Is this your—”
“Mind your own fucking business,” I say, cutting off Roya’s question. I then step back and throw a finger at Adelaide. “Get in here,” I say, finally looking at her.
***
I’m staring at the wall, arms crossed, when Adelaide finally stops pacing.
“Why?” I say and leave the question hanging in the air, knowing she’s smart enough to figure it out.
I hear her footsteps first and then she marches up close so she’s right in front of me. “Because you’re avoiding me,” she says.
“I’m working,” I say, my voice louder than I intended. I roll with it. “How do you think I afford that flat in London? How do you think Dahlia pays for that mansion in Los Angeles? And who do you think pays all of your medical bills?”
“I never asked for anything,” she says in a hush.
“No, but you have expectations,” I say, turning away from her.
“I do have expectations, but they are connected to having your attention. Or information. Or a relationship. But you think I give a shit about your money. I’d rather have none of it and have just you. I’d rather know you. Spend time with you,” Adelaide says, and I loathe the way she says such things in such a steady tone. I hate that she says such things period.
She’s found a spot in front of me again which I would have thought impossible with her wide clearance.
“Adelaide, you know I don’t have time for these things,” I say.
“I know that you’re afraid of these things,” she says.
“Don’t pretend that you’re my therapist,” I say.
“What does he say about this all?”
“He says I should run away and join the fucking circus,” I say. “I’m considering the idea.”
“You abandoned me,” she says. Adelaide’s voice sounds desperate now, although I have felt that emotion in her since I saw her a few minutes ago. She was just trying to hide it.
“I have a responsibility to the Lucidite Institute,” I say with an irked sigh.
“And Dahlia? Where’s she been since she found out I was pregnant?” Adelaide says.
“Oh, well she probably ran away. That’s what she does when the going gets tough. She runs,” I say. “But you knew that already.”
Adelaide rubs her hands over a belly that has maybe doubled in size in the last month. Or maybe I just wasn’t used to seeing it in tight-fitting clothes. Nevertheless, it looks so much bigger than I remember even from a month ago.
“You haven’t returned any of my messages,” she says.
“I didn’t get them,” I lie.
In response she narrows her eyes at me. “You could have come home, at least once or twice a week or something. It’s so much easier for you than most to travel an
d yet you make commuting seem so difficult,” she says.
“I really couldn’t return,” I say.
“Really? For over a month! You’re avoiding me because you’re mad,” she says.
“I’m not mad.”
“Then you’re disappointed,” Adelaide says.
“I’m not disappointed.”
“Fine! You’re repulsed.”
“Adelaide, I’m busy. That is all,” I say. This whole conversation is so bizarre. I hardly know the girl in front of me, and yet I know her better than anyone on this planet. I know how she thinks because of the powers we share. I know her struggles. And it’s bloody ridiculous that she seems to think that because of all that that I’m emotionally obligated to her. She’s confronting me with bogus expectations that I’ve failed to meet when that deal was never made.
“Just tell me why you can’t even look at me,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.
I regard her now. Trying to really make myself look at her face. Nothing else. Just her face. The part of her that I can stand. “I just don’t get how you could do this,” I say, throwing a hand in the direction of her stomach.
