by Sarah Noffke
“No, Doc, I don’t. She doesn’t need me and I’m fairly certain she doesn’t really need anyone,” I say. “This is a girl who has spent her entire life alone in one regard or another. I have every confidence that she’s fine growing that little monster in her womb and plotting how they are going to be a drain on my finances for the rest of their lives.”
“But have you at least spoken to her?” Dr. Raydon asks.
“No!” I fire back, an inferno erupting in my head.
“Then how do you know that she’s fine as she embarks on this incredibly scary change?” he says.
“Because I know the girl. I know her better than she knows herself. I know how she thinks and how easy it is for her to cut off emotions. I know how incredibly deluded she was to make the decision that got her pregnant. And I know that’s she’s strong enough to get through this,” I say too fast, the words seeking to tear out my throat if I don’t finally say them all.
Dr. Raydon presses back into his chair, a knowing look on his round face. “To have this level of understanding of another person is quite the gift, Ren. You do see that, don’t you?”
“I also understand how criminal minds work. So excuse me for not indulging you with your attempts to make this sound like a sentimental relationship,” I say.
The day I found out Adelaide had hidden a pregnancy from me I moved back into my former residence in the Institute. I told Dahlia that I had to fill in as interim Head Strategist until Trey occupied the position with some half-wit. I told her that intervening in the Smart Pod/Vivian case was top priority. I told her that I’d return as soon as I could. Dahlia just nodded, listening to my excuses. Not once did she object. Not once did she accuse me of running or hiding. And that’s why I love her.
Dahlia set up for Adelaide to see a doctor. She hired a midwife and made other arrangements that would ensure my spawn would be safe and taken care of. And then just like me Dahlia threw herself into her career, disclosing that her recording contract required that she spend the next month or two in New York. Maybe Dahlia would have stuck around if I did, but without me there she probably felt uncomfortable. And since I ran away she had every excuse to do the same.
I get daily reports from Dahlia’s staff on Adelaide. It involves more details than I care to know. Her activity, mood, health, and sometimes a message from her. I haven’t returned the messages nor do I have any plans to do so.
“Are you mad at Adelaide for getting pregnant?” Dr. Raydon says.
“Of course I am,” I say before I consider my answer.
“Now you probably think that you’re mad at her for being irresponsible, am I right?”
“Yes. She had her whole life ahead of her. One full of potential. Now this kid is going to ruin it for her,” I say.
“Is it also possible that you’re afraid this kid will change the relationship you and Adelaide were forming?”
“No,” I say, biting on the word.
“Because if I remember correctly, you two, against your mighty attempts to keep distance between you, were bonding.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth. I was training Adelaide, just as I have thousands of snotty teenagers,” I say.
“But none of the Dream Travelers you trained here at the Institute were your own flesh and blood and mirrored you like your daughter.”
I shoot into a standing position. “I do believe we’re over our time,” I say, my eyes firmly centered on the clock on the wall.
“No, it’s fine,” he says, waving a hand to me. “I don’t mind spending another half hour with you. I dare say we’re making progress.”
“If by progress you mean you’ve figured out how to bring my breakfast back up then sure. And I can easily believe that you have nothing better to do than ask me daft questions. I however don’t have the luxury of hanging around with you discussing absurdities. I have a fucking mole to catch and club over the head,” I say.
“Yes, best of luck with that,” the doctor sings as I exit.
Chapter Three
There are roughly two hundred residents and employees in the Lucidite Institute. Of those, I’ve cleared fifty, having firmly determined they aren’t the mole. Dr. Raydon is one of those that I’ve cleared. Trey Underwood another. And all twenty in the strategic department have passed my investigation. That was a fairly simple task because I know how my agents’ minds work. I trained my agents. Hell, I know every-fucking-thing about the people in my department. It’s how I vetted them and thereby determined they could hack an agent position.
Now the real detective work begins. There are a lot of suspicious types in the other departments and it won’t be as straightforward to investigate them and determine if they’re the mole. The clairvoyance and telepaths in the news reporting department are the sketchiest people around. And they have the ability to lock down their minds or just feed certain information to an agent detective. Conversely, the scientists are dumb little sheep that split atoms and ask big questions. And they follow their doctrine of facts while dismissing anything unexplainable. They lack the creativity to realize that that which is a mystery holds the greatest power. That’s mostly why I loathe scientists. They want answers to everything, not realizing that they’ve deluded themselves into thinking that everything has an answer. That’s the most pompous short-sighted thing a person can think. Investigating the science department will indeed not be brain surgery. However, the last thing I wish to do is pollute my body sitting in a room with a bunch of sticky, crusty scientists. And then there are the administrative positions and maintenance workers. I suspect that they’ll be the easiest to investigate and therefore shouldn’t be my problem.
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 m
e 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.”
