by Sarah Noffke
“Well, remember the unbelievably impossible task you asked me to look into?” he says.
I ground my teeth together at the “remember” question. Aiden positions all questions that way knowing full well that I remember everything and loathe being spoken to like I’m one of his scientists. “So you’ve made progress with converting a Middling to a Dream Traveler?” I say, hoping the excitement doesn’t show in my voice.
“If by progress, you mean that I’m pretty sure I’ve nailed a process we can try, then totally,” he says.
“Are you sure it will work? You haven’t been working on it that long,” I say, now realizing that I have nothing to lose and yet I could definitely fuck up everything if this doesn’t go right.
“No. Each part of the protocol will need extensive testing. I created simulations, and they work, but that’s all theoretical. To really have a conversion method we’re confident will work will take years of testing. Actually, I’m entirely surprised that I found a series of methods that make any of this possible. I really went into the experiment with a great deal of skepticism,” Aiden says, his voice squeaking with excitement.
“That’s because you’re small-minded and a loser,” I say. “And we don’t have years to do testing. I want to try this on a Middling as soon as possible.”
“I really can’t allow that,” Aiden says, his voice turning unusually serious. “Testing on a Middling at this stage is premature and completely dangerous. What we have to do is isolate each of the components of the process and test them individually. Take samples which—”
“NO!” I say, my voice louder than I’ve ever heard it. I’m typically an even-toned person.
Aiden, who knows this about me, straightens reflexively. His eyes widen behind his black-rimmed glasses.
“I don’t have the time to waste experimenting. If you have something that you think could work to convert a Middling to a Dream Traveler, then I want to try it now,” I say. No one knows Dahlia is sick. We’ve kept it from everyone because it’s none of their bloody business. And of course Aiden, not understanding anything about my current affairs, is shocked that I’d take such a risk, when that’s never been my style. I’m calculated. Strategic. But I’ve had to abandon some of those practices lately and this is one of those times.
“Well, I guess if your subject signs off on the potential dangers then—”
“That’s not a problem,” I say, cutting him off again.
“But this person may only achieve dream travel briefly. And a psychic ability is unlikely to surface with only limited dream travel experience. And still the possibility of survival is a factor,” he says.
“None of that is an issue,” I say, coldly, earning another look of surprise. Dream Travelers earn their gift when the parietal lobe is strengthened by multiple occurrences of dream traveling. I know that and that’s not the goal here.
“Can I ask why you want to do this?” Aiden says, and he doesn’t sound as sheepish as he should. “If I’m conducting this conversion, I’m going to need to know more information about your purpose and your subject.”
I don’t hesitate with my answer, having expected this question. “You will get all your pretty little questions answered when the time comes. I’ll give you a full profile on my subject so that you know exactly who you’re working with.”
“That’s good because it’s going to take a round of injections using an untested drug, neural feedback, and some other more unorthodox methods,” Aiden says, and now there’s a weight to his voice, like he’s finally realized I’ve made him an accomplice to something extremely wrong.
“I’ll send over the subject’s files that have a complete work-up of their current condition and history tomorrow. Then we’ll schedule the treatments and plan out the rest,” I say, sounding cold, like I’m talking about a person I don’t know. One I don’t love.
Aiden eyes me suspiciously. “Before that. Just tell me why. Why do you want to convert a Middling to a Dream Traveler when from everything I’ve seen of your work, it goes against your moral code? You have never liked it when I meddled with memories or emotions using technology and now you’re asking me to do something far more extreme than my other experiments.”
I sigh. The truth is that eventually Aiden will know everything. I’m decompartmentalizing some of this work, but in the end he’ll have the whole picture. I might as well sketch out a small bit for now to shut him up. Anything to get him back to work. “Who can access the dreamscape?”
His eyebrows rise like he’s surprised that I’ve asked such a simple question.
“Well, Dream Travelers. Never a Middling.” He scratches his chin. “But why would you want a Middling to have access to the dreamscape? It’s just a level of consciousness. A different way to dream.”
“Exactly. The consciousness of a Dream Traveler can access the dreamscape, and what makes it unique from the physical world?” I say.
“I dunno,” he says, like I’ve stumped him, but then he recovers. “It’s much vaster than the physical world. It’s limitless. There is more one can do. More potential.”
“And with that being said, there’s a potential that a consciousness, if it goes through a certain reverse process, can survive in the dreamscape forever,” I say.
“Wait, reverse process. What does that mean?” he says.
“We aren’t to that part yet. It will be the next thing we work on, but first we focus on this conversion,” I say.
He’s silent for a moment. His eyes heavy as they stare at the ground for a long bit. “You’re right though. Under the right circumstances, I believe a consciousness could live in the dreamscape for eternity. I’ve thought about it before. But it would take a unique separation from the body. They aren’t meant to survive without each other.”
I nod, relieved that he sees the possibility too. “Yes, it would take coming back from the dead, and I’m positive there’s at least two ways of doing that.”
Chapter Nine
The squeaking noise and grinding of metal that I’ve come to associate with Trey Underwood tells me that he’s in his office as I near from the empty corridor. Pulling in a deep breath, I stop when I’m framed in the doorway. There are many hardships I’ve endured in my life. I’ve seen tragedies that would dramatically scar another human being. And yet, most of what I’ve experienced doesn’t give me nightmares or color me with fears. However, every time I look at Trey, the Head Official of the Lucidite Institute, the ache of his suffering hits me and that does keep me up at night. It’s a weight I haven’t carried for many people throughout my life, but no one else is like Trey Underwood and deserving of my empathy.
My eyes prickle when I rest them on Trey. He’s attempting to make a three-point turn, but the wheelchair is stuck in an awkward place between his gigantic desk and the shelves behind it.
“Honestly, you should just bite the bullet and opt for a smaller desk,” I say, coming around behind him and evening out the chair. It’s such an odd thing to have to do for the man who sits paralyzed, imprisoned in the wheelchair before me.
Trey looks up at me, his eyes brimming with the pain he refuses to fully accept, but smiles weakly. “Thanks,” he says, taking the wheels and positioning himself into the opening of the desk. His legs rest on the feet of the chair, frail, having lost their muscle mass. Trey was at the center of one of the more bloody battles that happened months ago. The one I refuse to dwell on. The one they are calling the Dream Traveler apocalypse. He survived, which is all that should matter, but when his mobility was stolen it created a trauma so deep inside him. Trey, the most powerful Dream Traveler I’ve ever known, is powerless now. The shock of the events and the tragedy he endured has caused him not to be able to dream travel or use any of his other powers. He is a skeleton of a man, but if anyone will rally then it will be the man sitting behind this desk.
“You know I’m never getting rid of the desk,” Trey says, sliding his hand across the top o
f the giant oak desk, like there’s a speck of dust needing to be cleaned.
He won’t get rid of the intricately carved desk that’s half the size of the room because it belonged to Flynn, his father. This is the same man who created the library which steals the breath of even those who don’t read. Flynn didn’t do anything small; hence, the Lucidite Institute, which is five stories and probably holds more power than the sun.
“No, it would be practical to opt for a smaller desk. It would be pragmatic. And you would rather hold on to sentimentality at the cost of convenience,” I say, taking the seat on the other side of the desk.
“There is great power in sentiment,” he says simply, and I have to look away because the warm pain in his green eyes isn’t something I want to witness.
“Well, the news reporting department might have cost us an advantage on a deadly case that I suspect will be massive and complicated,” I say, casually picking a piece of lint off my trousers.
From my peripheral I notice Trey drop his chin, a bit of shame starting to lace his face at the edges. In the Dream Traveler apocalypse, the Institute lost most of the news reporters. That was one of the main ways we were put at a disadvantage, because when we couldn’t see the future, then we couldn’t stop it. With only a few reporters, we are seeing fewer events worldwide and what we do see is usually too late to stop, like the massacre of the wolves.
“Yes, but soon, Roya will be back to reporting and that will help,” Trey says, and the hope he’s injecting into his tone impresses me. This is a man who won’t quit. He’s had more hardships in his life than anyone I know and yet, he never backs down from the dawning day and all the shit it is sure to throw at him.
“Oh, yeah, in about six fucking months, which does me zero good,” I say, as cranky as ever that we’re at such a disadvantage. “Really, did she have to get herself knocked up right now? Her timing is simply horrid.” Women can’t dream travel after the first trimester of pregnancy usually. And their powers diminish due to this. For the next six months, we’ve lost our best news reporter, which means we’re screwed. All because Aiden and Roya can’t keep their hands off each other.
Trey almost smiles. I see it in his eyes, but then his stone expression reappears. “You know as well as anyone that pregnancies just happen.”
And he’s referring to Adelaide, aka my major life mistake.
“So I haven’t read the report on the case you’re working,” Trey says, indicating the stack of folders on the corner of his desk. The cases just keep coming in and the strategic department keeps failing to successfully complete them. There’s little we can do when we are missing the eyes and ears of our operation.
“Werewolves,” I say.
Trey’s forehead lines with deep wrinkles. His eyes turn skinny. And a new stress writes itself on his face. “No,” he says with a hush.
“It’s only a guess, but you know how reliable my guesses are. I have little information and only the clues from the one case. However, I’m betting that a slew of more evidence will start pouring in and we will be ten steps behind. Hell, by next month we will probably all have our throats ripped out by these beasts,” I say, a hint of a laugh in my voice.
By Trey’s expression, I know he doesn’t appreciate my attempt at lightness in the face of what is certainly mortal danger.
“What are you doing to prevent this?” Trey says, sliding his hand into his silver hair and resting it there.
I push out a giant breath. “Not a bloody thing,” I say.
He grips his hair now, which pulls his forehead back a bit. “What?”
“I mean, I have eyes on a few of the packs in the area, but that’s a fairly insignificant attempt at stopping whoever is behind this. I’m keeping my eyes open for clues, but right now I have little to work with. I guess I could put reconnaissance on every single genetic lab in the world, but there’s that whole understaffing problem. So hey, we might have some rabid dog people on our hands soon. I think we should embrace this possible future,” I say, pushing what feels like a weight away from underneath my eyes.
Trey tilts his head and regards me with a studious expression. “You look tired,” he states.
“You look old, but you don’t see me pointing it out,” I fire back.
“How is Dahlia?” he says, that trademark thoughtfulness in his voice. He’s the only person at the Institute who knows about Dahlia’s condition.
“She’s nearly dead,” I say, my voice cold.
He blows out a heavy breath. “I’m sor—”
“Save it. I don’t want your apologies and you know that better than anyone,” I say, cutting him off.
“Ren, you should realize that allowing sympathy is as much for the people who care about you as it is for you. Not allowing people to be there for you is depriving them of the opportunity to—”
“I’m not in the fucking mood to care about your feelings on Dahlia’s death. I don’t want your empathy and I don’t give a fuck if that makes you feel left out,” I say, my voice higher all of a sudden.
Trey pushes back in his chair and regards me with an impassive expression. “I’ve gotten word that you’ve ordered Aiden to exclusively work on projects for you. Do you want to tell me what that’s about?”
“No, I don’t, but thanks for the opportunity to share,” I say.
“Is it related to the werewolf case?”
“No,” I say, now regarding my fingernails, my hand shaking a bit.
Trey must notice, which pisses me off. “You’re working nonstop, but from what I’ve observed, very little of it is Institute business,” he says.
“I’ve decided to go into baking. Thinking of opening up a cupcake shop when this bloody Institute explodes or is ravaged by werewolves,” I say.
“Aiden said you wanted the projects to remain classified,” Trey says.
“It’s better that way,” I return.
“I’m not going to push you on this subject right now, but I hope the next time I ask about this project you will divulge real details.”
I stand and look down at my longtime friend. “Hope is for losers. I want you to have a more determined approach,” I say. “With everything in your life,” I add a beat later.
Chapter Ten
“She’s been taking the formula I gave you six times a day?” Aiden says, tapping a pen on the file in his hands.
“Yes,” I say, because any snarky retort is beyond my efforts presently.
“And the daily meditations?” he asks, his hands vibrating with nerves. Behind the scientist’s glasses his eyes are bouncing around, from the chart in his hands to fifteen other places in the lab, which is crammed with more equipment than usual.
“Twice a day, just as you prescribed,” I say, my focus on the room on the other end of the lab.
Aiden flips erratically through the chart. “Yes, Dahlia shows she’s been successful in self-regulating her brain function. See here,” he says, handing me a piece of paper. There are two figures of her brain. The first is a rainbow of color, meaning brainwaves were fluctuating. The second scan is mostly yellow, which indicates that the numerous neurofeedback sessions were a success.
“Good,” I say simply, my eyelids feeling close to falling shut. Exhaustion tunnels from my brain down to my core, but I shake it away with a toss of my head.
Aiden notices the movement and blinks at me dully for a second. His mouth falls open, but I cut him off.
“Now what is the next step in this sorcery?” I ask.
He shrugs. The fucker with more education than ninety-nine percent of the population in the history of the world just shrugs. “We have to hope that the drugs have assisted in increasing the function of Dahlia’s parietal lobe.”
Hope. There’s that bloody word again. People love to hope. They pray and wish and bank on superstition traditions. God-fucking-forbid we actually use reason to decide how the future will turn out.
“And the isolation tank
? What’s that for?” I say, throwing a hand at the giant bathtub-looking thing in the corner. It has a lid, like it’s a pod for hatching humans.
“My findings indicate that it’s the utmost way to enhance a meditative state, which is our best bet for being successful at this point. I’m certain it will cause Dahlia’s brainwaves to transition until she reaches the right frequency of beta. However, whether she can achieve dream travel is entirely unknown at this point,” Aiden says.
“Keep your clinical cynicism to yourself,” I say, just as Dahlia exits from the back room. She’s wearing a plush robe and a look that communicates exactly how I feel. Anxious.
Aiden notices Dahlia from the corner of his vision and then takes a double glance at her. It’s hard for him to look at her. I feel that in the way his eyes pause on her face, which has hollowed out more in the last few weeks. Pale isn’t the right word for her complexion. She’s almost grayish, like the color of an over-boiled egg yolk.
I extend my hand to her as she nears; her bare feet are probably cold on the tile floor. Dahlia’s hand barely registers in mine, it’s so light and frail. Her wrists are what I notice most about her lately. The bones protrude more there, showing the veins in her arms, which still beat with blood… but not for long.
Aiden has been threatened not to show sympathy for Dahlia. That was the order when I handed him her file a few weeks ago. First his eyes grew large, his mouth popped open wide. “I didn’t know,” were the first three words out of his mouth.
“And you will tell no one,” I said. Then I snuck Dahlia into the Institute and every night the three of us have met in the lab, working through the various processes that are supposed to change Dahlia’s brain. It’s strange for her to live here in the Institute, but it’s even stranger that this is where she’ll die. The place where I imprisoned myself away from her for so long. Life isn’t funny with how it connects things. It’s methodical, and has purpose that most don’t see.
“Are you ready?” I say to Dahlia, who still has bright eyes and that pirate smile, most of the time. People like her don’t lose their spark to cancer. It’s inborn in them and can’t be stolen away.
