by Sarah Noffke
“It’s simple, little Lyzie. I’m the best. And he knows it.”
“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” she says, her voice an octave under yelling.
“Oh, you don’t love my little nickname for you anymore, do you?”
“You know I never liked it,” she says, her expression pinched.
“I most likely won’t remember your preferences on the name calling, so don’t be offended when I call you it again. Or do. Doesn’t really matter to me,” Ren says, a hint of pleasure in his voice.
“Oh, just do what you were brought here for,” my mother says, sweeping past me, pulling the double doors closed behind her.
I turn and look at Ren directly. Menacing isn’t exactly the right word for him. He’s that, but he’s also thoughtful in his approach. Theatrical. And he does something most of the people I know don’t: he says exactly what he wants.
He eyes me like I’m a dirty puddle he’s trying to figure out how to cross. “Oh, why can’t I get away from teenagers? I bloody hate teenagers.”
“Well, I’m mature for my age,” I say.
“That makes one of us. So you’re one of the Defects. Interesting thing that’s happened in this valley. Note to self, don’t drink the water here,” he says.
“Do you think you can help us? That’s why you’re here, right?”
He takes a seat in the armchair and indicates I should take a seat on the couch opposite him. When I’m settled he gives me something that almost classifies as a smile. “No, I’m not here to help you get your gift. I’m here to assess you and give a report. What valuable information I provide may or may not help. Who knows, really?”
I deflate with a sigh. “Well, when you say this is happening in this valley, do you mean it isn’t happening elsewhere?”
A small smile quirks up the corner of his mouth. “As sheltered as your mother, aren’t you, poor dear?”
I only stare back at him, his dark green eyes like that of St. Augustine grass.
“No,” he finally says. “This epidemic appears to be confined to this valley, as far as I can tell.”
“Are you religious?”
“What an abrupt and personal question,” he says, shaking his head at me.
“Well, you don’t have to answer it,” I say, feeling sudden embarrassment burn my insides.
“Of course I don’t.”
“Do you think the gods are punishing us?”
“To be quite honest, I don’t think the gods or God or any other holy entity gives two cents about us,” he says.
“You’re the angry type, aren’t you?”
“You’re the honest type, aren’t you?”
I shrug.
“All righty, missy, let’s get down to business. Here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to ask you a few questions. Got it?”
I nod.
“Oh good, it gives brief responses. That will help.” Ren leans back, crosses his ankle over his knee, and stares at the ceiling casually. “Do you hear voices?” he asks.
“No.”
“Do you see things which aren’t real?” he asks.
“No.”
“Get flashes?”
“No.”
“Control people with your mind?”
“No,” I say again.
“Have objects moved mysteriously around you?”
“No.”
“You really aren’t much fun at all, are you?” he says.
I squint at him. “I’m loads of fun.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure you think so.”
I shake my head at him. I’ve never met someone with his audacity.
“All right, you failed that phase of testing and have graduated to the next loser round,” he says.
“I’m not a loser.”
“No, no, of course you’re not,” he says dismissively. He slips a device the size of the palm of his hand out of his inside jacket pocket. With a switch the device makes a low buzz.
“What’s that?”
“A frequency recorder. It’s science.” He says it like it’s a dirty thing. “And it’s an upgraded model so I’m probably getting all sorts of radiation.”
“Why are you using it then?”
“Well, the daft scientist who gave it to me is probably right that it will make the assessments I have to do a whole lot easier.” He pauses and only stares at me for a few seconds, an intensity in his eyes. “Did you get that message I just sent you?”
“What?” I say, dumbfounded.
“The telepathic message I just sent you. Did you hear it in your head?”
“No.”
Ren slips a gold ring off his finger. It’s clunky. Lays it on the table next to him. “Can you move that with your mind?” he asks, his voice flat.
I stare at it for over a minute. “No.”
He eyes the device and then slides it back into his pocket.
“Did you really think under these stressful circumstances I’m suddenly going to use my hidden gift for a stranger?” I ask.
“I knew for a fact you wouldn’t be able to. I’m studying your approach,” he says, slipping his ring back on. “And in my extremely intelligent opinion there’s no chance your gift is going to surface. What I don’t get is why you appear to have the instinct but there’s no power behind it.”
“What?”
He rolls his eyes. Takes an impatient breath. “Dream Travelers have a certain level of frequency they exude when using their powers, but yours is on par with a Middling.”
“What?” I say again. “That’s bizarre.”
“No, let’s be honest. It’s sad.” He sits forward and looks at me sideways. “Tell me, have you suffered any traumas?”
“No.”
“Depressed?”
“No.”
“Suicidal thoughts?”
“Gods no.”
“Well, I’m momentarily stumped, but if it makes you feel better you’re exactly like all the Defects I’ve assessed. At least you have people to share your woes with,” he says.
“Do you think upping the injections will help?”
“Injections?” he asks, confusion suddenly covering his features.
“The meds they’ve been giving us,” I say.
“Oh yes, I heard about those. Medical science isn’t my forte, thank god,” he says, looking repulsed. “I don’t know if these meds can help, but if I become extremely bored toddling around this place I might look into it.”
“What am I supposed to do until then?”
“I don’t know, you can play hopscotch for all I bloody care. That’s none of my concern,” he says, looking tired. “I’m only supposed to assess you and a few other snots and report if any gifts surface. Right now my job is easy. You’re all appropriately named. Defects.”
I stay seated as he makes for the door. He turns just before he leaves. “So, what’s Em short for?”
My brow knits with momentary confusion. “Nothing. I’m just Em.”
“Really?” he says, an unconvinced tone in his voice. “Your mother’s not the type to name someone ‘just Em.’”
“What does that mean?” I say.
“Bloody hell if I know, but it sure is curious.”
Chapter Eight
My favorite night of the week. Thursday. The night I don’t have to wear the clunky sleep cuff on my wrist all night. I don’t have to fall into dream-filled sleep. I’m allowed to do what I was born to do: dream travel.
A blanket of wind strokes my face as I slip into the silver tunnel, the transport to the other dimension. Of course, every sensation is a purely cognitive one, since my body comfortably rests in my bed while my subconscious soars through space on its way to the set meeting place. Whatever happens to me in dream travel, however, will mark my physical body.
Rapid, automatic turns in the wormhole catch my breath. It’s always amazed me that the gods instilled a silent knowledge within Dream Travelers which allows us to navigate to any place and time by only thinking of i
t. And without fail my subconscious pops me out of the tunnel and into the location I intended.
Helen, the coordinator for dream travel events, stands at the entrance to Carnegie Hall with her usual clipboard.
“Em Fuller,” she says, checking off my name as I approach her. The foyer is full of Dream Traveler Reverians, and with a quick glance at her clipboard I confirm what I feared: I’m one of the last to arrive. “You’re in the Zankel Hall tonight, with most of the other adolescents,” she says, words crisp and precise.
I nod, staring momentarily at her white curls which are all uniform, making a flawless beehive. I’ve always wondered how long it took the Middling who styles her hair to achieve such perfection.
“Thank you,” I say and pull open the brass door. My eyes are swept up to the gold and white arched ceiling. It’s so bright and soft, reminding me of sunlight. Under my feet green marble stretches the length of the foyer.
His impatient sigh freezes me. Tentatively I bring my eyes up to find my father, arms crossed, feet apart, standing squarely in the hallway, a look of utter annoyance on his face. “Hello, Father,” I say with a slight curtsy.
“Em, what are most of the Reverians here doing right now?”
Past him I watch people file in the direction of their assigned halls. Most probably want to get a good seat.
“Attending this week’s lecture,” I say, unable to meet his stern blue eyes.
“Does anyone look to be studying the architecture of Carnegie Hall?” he says.
I pretend to watch the people moving with purpose behind him. “No, Father. They all appear intent on getting to their seat.”
“And aren’t you?”
My eyes fall to his polished black shoes. I hate how subservient he makes me. Hate it. “I am,” I say with half my voice.
“You’re privileged to have President Vider as your speaker tonight. It disappoints me that you’re not the first one in your hall, ready to absorb all the wisdom you could learn from him.”
I raise my head and find the courage to look at my father directly. “Oh, I’m certain there’s a great deal I could learn from him,” I say, thinking of Rogue and the secrets I know he’s hiding that are connected to the President.
My father jerks his chin down, his forehead and angry eyes pinned on me. “Em, what was that thought you just had about Rogue Vider?”
Terror sends a shiver down my neck and chest, emptying me of all breath. My teeth suddenly chatter and I know by my father’s expression that he’s spied my nervousness. I will my eyes to blink. I will my shoulders to loosen. I will my breath to return to my body. How could I have let my anger overwhelm me so much to drop my defense against my father’s telepathy? I know better. Tutu taught me how to direct my thoughts when in his company and still I’ve failed at a crucial time.
I suck in an unsteady breath. “I still miss him, that’s all,” I say, the quiver in my voice obvious. “The mention of his father brought back a rush of memories. It was quite unexpected for me actually. I haven’t thought of Rogue in so long, but still—”
“Allowing your thoughts to be occupied by someone who’s dead is beyond ridiculous,” my father says with a disapproving sneer. “Again it appears that many of your shortcomings are the result of bad decisions. Focus on yourself, Em. Not others. We are the best when we serve others by serving ourselves.”
“Yes, Father,” I say, my nerves still vibrating up and down my chest, making my heartbeat unsteady.
“Now, get out of my sight and don’t embarrass me in front of President Vider.”
“Yes, Father,” I say, rushing past him, catching the hint of the musty cologne he’s worn for as long as I can remember.
I slide into Zankel Hall. The lights over the podium in the middle of the stage are still dim. Thank the gods I’m not late. The auditorium is full. Most of my peers are here. The other two halls probably house most of the other adult Dream Travelers. Our population has remained modest enough that we usually fit inside most venues for our lectures.
I’m halfway down the aisle when a hand reaches out and grabs my wrist. Still unnerved by my encounter with my father, I jump and almost yelp. Zack gives me a curious look from his seat, his fingers still wrapped around my wrist.
“I saved you a seat,” he whispers.
I nod, one of relief. “Right. Thanks,” I say, scooching around his long legs and to the seat on his other side. “Good thinking getting an aisle seat,” I whisper at his shoulder.
He’s staring straight ahead, but a smile graces his lips. “Knew you’d be late and I’d have to pull you in.”
“I bet you get tired of rescuing me,” I say, watching his face. Watching for a hint of expression.
“Are you trying to goad me into saying that I enjoy rescuing you?” he says, eyes still fixed on the stage, attention at the ready.
I slide down in my seat. “I’d never expect you to say something so absurd.” I might wish, but... From my slouched position, I lean over closer to Zack’s shoulder, my face almost touching his starched jacket sleeve. “So, pretty amazing about you-know-who…”
He closes his eyes. Shakes his head. “I don’t think we should talk about that here,” he says from the corner of his mouth.
“Well, I haven’t seen you since then, so excuse me for taking the first opportunity I had,” I say, rolling my eyes at him.
Zack finally turns and looks at me. As usual his hair is parted on the side, slicked back—the hairstyle all men wear in our culture. He wears it best. “I came by last night to see you, but you were in a meeting.”
“Yeah, being a Defect keeps me awfully busy,” I say. “Met with the new Skills Assessor.”
He gives a defeated sigh. “Well, Dee answered the door. She ordered me to take her to the summer solstice ball.”
My initial reaction, a yelp of horror, is quickly masked by a fake laugh, which is too embarrassingly loud. As a result I receive a dozen angry glances from the silent crowd in front of me.
“Em…” Zack says, a pleading in his voice.
“Sorry,” I say, my face burning hot with humiliation and then something else. Jealously, I think.
“No you’re not. You think this is entertaining.”
“No, I think it’s disgusting and also absolutely not any of my business. And besides, my father thinks you two make a smart match. Isn’t that what you want? To please my father? Mr. Chief of Staff?” I say in a dull voice.
“Well, yes, but…”
“Most of the guys are drawn to her. Why not you too?”
“She’s just not who I want,” he says, again staring at the stage with deliberate force.
“Well, you can’t marry your dream job. But you can marry to get that job,” I say, punching him in the arm.
He grabs my hand as it connects with his arm and pushes it away. “That’s what you think I want?”
I shrug, a little put off by his bad attitude tonight. “Of course I do.”
“Shhhh,” he says just as the lights dim overhead and a spotlight shines on the podium.
Chapter Nine
“Do you want to know what most Americans want?” President Vider says, launching into his speech quickly after his introduction. No one answers the question. “They want to be protected. Inside their homes they want the protection of walls, the comfort of electricity, the knowledge that a government will build their roads and educate their children. But they also want more. They want a superpower that can step in and save them. They want superheroes. People who can do for them what they can’t do for themselves. The America here, where I stand,” he says, pointing at the stage, his movements sharp, demanding, “it doesn’t work. It doesn’t give its people what they really want. The America inside our borders does. Don’t you see? We aren’t in America, it is in us. Austin Valley is the unofficial fifty-first state. The first republic under this nation to do right by the people. To give them what they want.”
President Vider steps away from the podium, and the
red handkerchief tucked inside the breast pocket of his black pin-striped suit catches my attention. “What is our crime rate? Zero. What is our life expectancy? Decades past the average based on the races. What are our earnings? Double that of the average American. And why?” he asks, drawing out the last word, triumph prematurely creeping into his tone.
Again no one answers. President Vider walks to the end of the stage on my side of the hall. His black slicked back hair catches the spotlight as he walks. Rogue has his nose. His dark olive skin. His green eyes. His height. His arrogance. They both share that flare of Spanish descent, making them stand out in our mostly Caucasian population.
“We have built a system that works. One that draws upon the greatness of the Dream Traveler race and uses the excellent efforts of the Middlings. We’ve found a way to make the races work together for the betterment of society,” he says, his voice carrying with it an unmistakable draw. A persuasion hidden in each of his words, like a subliminal message. Every time I’ve been in his presence I’ve watched him hypnotize those around him with his words. Not me though. I’ve never trusted him. Never been able to stand his gaze lingering on me.
“Do you know that other Dream Travelers hide within the population? Pretend not to exist with their superiority? They suppress it. What good does that do anyone?” He shakes his head, mouth pinched. “Within our borders we are proud and the people who serve us know our capabilities. This makes them proud. And, in turn, we protect the Middlings, as the gods once told us was our role as the golden race. This role is one with a burden. One that carries a great weight. And only people with our talents can handle such a task.”
Around the room almost everyone is leaning forward. I jerk my eyes in Zack’s direction. He shares their same posture, hanging on the President’s every word. Etching it into his brain as scripture. I admit President Vider is compelling, more so than any other Reverian; even so, I’m not perched on the edge of my seat. For some reason his spell doesn’t completely work on me. As I scan Zankel Hall I silently wish it did. I wish I were more like my peers.
