by Sarah Noffke
“And yes, I firmly believe that finding and accessing wormholes is possible, especially with the technology you have here at the Institute. It’s is quite the marvel that this place exists and is also top secret,” Drake says.
I blink and look at Aiden. “He’s not a Dream Traveler?”
“No, he’s a scientist, physician, and professor for a university in München,” Aiden says.
“He’s a Middling. How did you think that a Middling could help us on something like this?” I say to Aiden.
“Well, Dahlia was a Middling and she was probably one of the most talented vocalists in history,” Aiden says, and I have to admit that his reasoning is correct on this.
“Oh, yes, the famous singer, Dahlia,” the old man says. “So sad to hear of her passing.”
“Dahlia was actually Ren’s life partner,” Aiden says, and I swear he sounds grossly proud of this admission.
“Don’t use that phrase. We shagged,” I say, dully.
Drake takes a small bow in my direction. “I’m sorry for your loss. She was an incredible singer, and it surprises me that she was a Middling,” he says.
“Well, she was a Middling, but we actually figured out how to convert her to Dream Traveler before her death,” Aiden says, again sounding proud. He really needs to absolve himself of that pesky emotion.
“Aiden, would you shut the fuck up,” I say, a new heat in my voice. Has the dumb scientist completely lost his git brain?
“Sorry, it’s just that—”
“Convert a Middling to Dream Traveler,” Drake says, stroking his long, gross beard. “That’s fascinating. I never thought it possible.”
“How do you know about Dream Travelers?” I say to the man who seems to be fondly musing on this information.
“Aiden of course filled me in when he recruited me. However, I have worked with a few Dream Travelers in my professional endeavors,” Drake says.
“Forget everything you’ve heard here,” I say. “Now are we any closer to creating a device to open and access portals?”
Aiden clasps his hands behind his back. “I’m happy to admit that after discussing the project with Drake, I have some new ideas. And most important, I actually think this is all possible now,” the dumb scientist says.
“Radiation is probably the biggest concern when creating this device and then using it,” Drake says. “Nevertheless, I don’t think we should be too deterred by that. My research partner has a theory regarding using negative energy—”
“Drake, I don’t care about the how. Aiden will tell you that going into long monologues about science will only lower my usually unending patience and increase the odds that I’ll murder you,” I say, cutting him off.
This is a man who is used to being rude to people, I believe by watching his mannerisms and observing the permanent frown wrinkles around his mouth. However, he’s not used to other people trumping his grumpy nature.
“Well, what you need to know is that the device is conceivable,” Aiden says, rocking forward on the balls of his toes and then back down again. “I’ll know more tomorrow, but I think opening the wormhole from the dreamscape is possible and that we can stabilize it enough for passage.”
“What you’re talking of doing is pretty radical. Is this the kind of projects the Institute regularly funds?” Drake says.
“No, and when you’re done working on this with Aiden, we are having your brain wiped clean,” I say, and turn and walk away.
Chapter Eighteen
Thanks to a nice long bit of actual sleep, I’m able to teleport once again. I still shouldn’t overdo it, but with everything finally coming together, my mind is able to rest. Tonight I will dream travel now that I’m adequately refreshed and that should really boost my reserves. Dream traveling is way more restorative than regular old Middling sleep, but the catch is that you can’t be exhausted in order to dream travel. God is always fucking everything up with rules. For instance, he gives us the fountain of youth, but makes it so we have to kill ourselves to get there. Very fucking clever.
I teleport straight into the conference room of the strategic department and startle a dozen agents when I arrive. No matter how many times I pop up beside a Lucidite, it always startles them. These bloody wankers act like people materializing out of the air is fucking unbelievable.
“For God’s sake! Do you have to do that?” a girl of around twenty says, pushing back in her seat, which is closest to me. Her nostrils are entirely too large for her nose and her eyes are an inch too far apart.
“Yes, Bessy, I do have to do that,” I say, looking down at the girl who will probably last another month as an agent. Trent is horrible at hiring agents, but hopefully that changes soon.
“My name isn’t Bessy,” she says, and stands, pulling her seat back with her against the wall, where she sits again. It would kill the whale to stand for thirty seconds. No, honestly, I’m certain it would kill this oversized troll to stand or walk far distances.
“Really?” I say in mock disbelief. “You look like a Bessy. Is your name Bertha then?”
She ties her fat arms across her chest and shakes her head. From my peripheral, the room of agents is too engrossed in our exchange to say anything. And Trent is probably at my back and he’s too much of a wimp to intervene in my bullying. There’s a reason jerks run this world. We intimidate people. It’s a great skill to have.
“Olga, Helga, Prudence, Dorcas, Uvula, Myrtle, Gus?” I say, running through the names. “Is one of those repugnant names something you answer to?”
Again she shakes her head, her chin pinned down.
“Oh, got it. You don’t have a name,” I say, nodding like this makes sense. Then I turn to the room of agents, all with their eyes on me. “Get the fuck out of here. Trent and I need to discuss real business.”
“Ren,” Trent says at my back. I turn and almost realize I’ll miss that look of disapproval on his face. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”
I study him. His slouched shoulders and untucked shirt. He’s not even trying to make a look of authority with his frayed cargo pants and the mountain of dreads which are tied up in a fucking bun on the back of his head.
Nodding, I turn back to the table. “Anyone still left sitting in this room twenty seconds from now will wake to find that they’ve stripped off all their clothes and wiped their twigs and berries against the stainless steel walls of the Institute,” I say.
And because most of the agents are ones I recruited and know I’ll use mind control to make a point, they all jump from their seats and clamber for the door. Trey forbade me to use mind control on residents of the Institute many years ago. However, I was able to use it for training purposes, which is pretty loosely defined in my opinion.
When the room is empty, I turn to Trent, who is actually smiling. Then he releases a laugh. A long one. “God, you can be damn hilarious when you want to be,” he says.
“You know that I’m not a clown put here for your amusement?” I say, pretending to be offended.
“Right,” he says, quieting his laughter. “I don’t think half the time you’re even trying to be funny, which is what makes it priceless.”
“Stop hitting on me,” I say.
He holds up his hands, his palms a shade lighter than the brown skin of his arms and hands. “Yes, of course. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says and there’s a hint of the prior laugh in his voice. Maybe the old jovial, and always obnoxious, Trent is returning.
“I quit,” I say and then nothing else.
The smile in his eyes fades. “You what?”
I roll my eyes. “Why do people have to pretend like they don’t hear things when around me?”
“You’re quitting as an agent?” he says.
“Actually, I’m quitting as a human, but that’s a longer story than we have time for. Besides, you’ll just run off and blab your big mouth. So don’t. Don’t even tell anyone that I’ve quit.
It will come out with my obituary,” I say.
“Ren, is this a joke?”
“Again, I’m not a fucking clown who plays pranks and pratfalls for your bloody amusement. This is me quitting,” I say.
“Then where’s your formal letter of resignation?” he says and now there’s a bit of mischief in his eyes.
“It’s in the bloody mail, along with a basket of fruit and a jar of fucking marmalade I made myself,” I say.
“So this is your formal resignation, is it?” he says.
“Yes, and I’ve quit once before, but this time don’t get your hopes up that I’ll be coming back. It will be nearly impossible,” I say.
Trent now studies me. He’s not as critical of a thinker as me, but no one truly is. However, Trent is smarter than most. He has a good instinct and if he’d fucking use it then this department won’t go to shit.
“All right,” he finally says, and as I suspected he’s not going to ask me why I’m leaving or where I’m going. He’s curious as hell, but he knows better than to waste his time with asking questions that I won’t answer. “So, is this when you leave me with your final words of wisdom?”
“Yeah, don’t fuck up,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets and studying the conference room. It’s enclosed in glass walls that are lit from above in neon blue lights. The room is mostly dark, but not so much that it makes one’s eyes hurt. And outside the conference room are other similar rooms used for brainstorming or researching. The whole department is like a darkroom where we develop solutions instead of photographs. It’s light and yet dark. Conducive for high cognitive thinking sessions. I designed every ounce of the space more than twenty years ago. I was a criminal. There was no way I should have been trusted with the brand new position of Head Strategist for the most powerful organization in the world, and yet Trey wouldn’t take a no from me. And the chap ended up being correct. Trey is one who heavily relies on instinct and he knew I was right for the job. But more importantly, he knew that the job was right for me. That it was going to save my life. And in so many ways, it did. But that life isn’t one I’ll miss. I was never meant to grow old saving the world. I feel that my life must take an unconventional approach. The most unconventional.
“So in a few days, maybe a week, you’re going to get a visit from Adelaide,” I say, my hands still casually in my pockets, my foot crossed over my ankle in front. “I have one last request for you and it’s that I want you to honor what she says.”
Trent half smiles. “Oh, you’re going to try and call this a request. When have you ever made requests of me?”
I tug up my wrist and eye my watch. “Honestly, Trenton, I don’t have time for semantics right now. Can you cry or whatever else you need to do to close out this farewell?”
Aiden hasn’t finished with the project. Actually, it’s not entirely certain that he’ll be successful. But I’ve learned that one needs to prepare for inevitable success. That means we don’t wait to count our chickens before they hatch. We don’t wait to have the new job before quitting the old one. A real man acts as if a victory is imminent. That’s called bloody confidence and most don’t have it because it takes risks.
“As fond of you as I am, I don’t think crying is in my future. I’m kind of tired of being melancholy anyway, so I’ll just suppose that you’re off to better things and wish you well,” he says.
Trent is trying. He’s trying to bury his demons and face that which has scarred him. But he’s still living half his life in the past, haunted by the things he saw and the ones he couldn’t prevent.
“You can’t lead them as long as you’re unwilling to let it all go,” I say, motioning to the table where the agents sit during meetings. “No, you didn’t make all the best decisions. No, you didn’t stand up right away when it came time to fight. But you know what? You survived. And you can either be better for it or you can choose to live in that moment of defeat. Or relive it, as I suspect you do too often,” I say.
“It’s just that battle… the battles, they shocked me to the core,” he says, his eyes large and tragic. “I have performance anxiety now. I doubt every decision I make. I don’t even know how to think half the time because I feel like I’ve lost my confidence in my ability to reason. But I want to live. I want to get over everything, but I don’t know how.”
“And maybe there isn’t a way. Maybe you’re doomed,” I say, my voice morose.
He nods, like he’s considered this as a real fate.
I clear my throat and reposition myself, my shoulders back and my head held high. “You know, Trent, you can stay on earth and not live. And you can die and go on to do great things. If you don’t get over your trauma, if you are forever damaged and react in certain ways because of that, it’s because you’ve made that choice. Life and the way we live it is all about how we think. If I do leave you with any last words then they are to be unconventional. Don’t just think outside the box. Throw away the fucking box and think outside a sphere that’s constantly morphing. Think so far from the norm that your ideas startle people. That’s when you know you’re thinking creatively and the creative mind is the most strategic,” I say and finish my speech by drawing out the last word.
“So does that mean that I should put on a smile and start making unconventional decisions in response to the cases? Because that would startle everyone. They all expect me to be in mourning with them. I feel like not acting on cases, versus acting and getting pulled into another trap, is what everyone thinks I should do,” he says.
“Stop making decisions based on what other people want or will think. That will only get you into trouble. My best advice has always been that what other people think of you isn’t your concern. Analyze the problems. Design solutions by working from the end. And then fucking act. Because staying in a constant state of paralysis is a surefire way of fucking up everything,” I say apathetically.
He nods slowly, his eyes distant. “I know you’re right,” he says in a tormented whisper.
“Then take my advice before the Institute loses its footing. And do it fast because I sense there’s going to be a few natural disasters and strange worldly problems on your hands soon,” I say, knowing that my plan to enter the Land of the Souls is going to fuck with the ecosystem.
“How do you know that?” he says.
“Just do,” I say and let the space go silent for a beat.
“It’s been a real honor to work under you,” Trent says, extending a hand.
“Oh, I bet you’d have liked the chance to have really worked under me,” I say, and actually smile a little.
“Ha! Yes, go out on a gay joke. That’s for the best and the way I want to remember you,” he says.
And then I actually extend my hand to Trent, shaking his briefly. That short exchange tells me that Trent really does think highly of me. As he should.
Chapter Nineteen
President Fucktard followed my orders and sent the guest list over to the Institute right after our meeting. My instinct tells me that it wasn’t coincidence that a partygoer gave the dumb presidential candidate the idea for the retina scanner. This was planted information and then the generous sum donated to Dougy’s campaign just sealed the whole thing. Of course, I worry about Trent connecting dots like this in the future, but if he takes my advice then he’ll see things holistically.
Someone who has been planning this werewolf experiment for a long time implemented the retina scanner technology knowing that it would only take a clever hack job on optometrists’ offices to get the information for security clearance. They were obviously after special records, which it sounds like detailed every aspect of certain civilian’s lives. They were looking for the right candidates. These guys were handpicked for a reason, and I’m guessing it has something to do with gene splicing. A new technology which came out of Aiden’s lab called CRISPR makes all of this a startling reality. In the past, creating a Frankenstein’s monster using wolf genetics was a laugha
ble event that one only saw in horror films. Now, thanks to fucking technology, it’s a real possibility and, I’m guessing, an inevitable future.
I won’t be here to stop this werewolf population, but at least I can find clues that Trent’s dumb agents missed. The agents Trent assigned to research the guest list weren’t able to connect any of the donors to suspects in the retina scanner robbery. It may be because the agents are failing under Trent’s rule, which is obviously too weak. Or it might also be because this suspect is well hidden. That’s why I requested a copy of the guest list, because I usually can see things others miss with their insufficient brains.
Of the three hundred guests who attended this boring political circle jerk, half of them contributed to Doug’s campaign. The guy should have won the vote just based on the amount of money he spent on the election. However, he’s such a complete failure and says the crudest things that even the majority of stupid Americans weren’t going to vote for him. That’s why we rigged the election and made him our puppet President.
I scan the list of names, my eyes taking a snapshot of all one hundred and fifty. Some of the names I recognize instantly as politicians whom the Lucidites also put into office. Others my mind attaches to celebrity status or even private corporations. It’s amazing how much information my mind retains on specific individuals. I really am an amazing specimen. The Lucidites will suffer greatly when I’m gone and therefore the world at large. I have zero remorse about abandoning this ignorant planet though.
I’m scanning through the names, not on paper, but with my photographic memory, when a new one stands out. I don’t have much information associated with this person. Really, just the university where he works and his recent involvement with the Lucidite Institute. Still, I know this is our suspect. I pull up the page of names to confirm my memory recalled it accurately. Sure enough, the name of the person who I’m certain planted the retina scanner idea in President Dougy’s brain sits on the page.
