Ren The Complete Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

  Again Lucien runs past us, hopefully headed for the street. “Nib nob! Arg!” he says, as he sprints by in his birthday suit.

  “English,” I say to my pops. “Can you teach him some bloody English words?”

  Pops peers around me, keeping his eyes on Lucien. “Oh, he’ll learn when he’s ready,” he says.

  “Pops, he can’t communicate with anyone in the house.”

  Pops now looks me over, as though seeing me for the first time. “You look tired, son. When was the last time you got some rest?”

  “Nineteen eighty-one,” I say, mostly meaning it.

  “It’s that job of yours. You should think about quitting. Spending this time with Dahlia. You know, before—”

  “I need to work right now,” I say, cutting him off. He hasn’t let up on this campaign to get me to quit for months.

  “Working isn’t as important as being with someone—”

  “Dahlia and I have plenty of time together. Now and in the future,” I say, again interrupting him.

  “Ren, I can’t help but feel you’re in denial.”

  “No, Pops, you don’t get it and I can’t fully explain it to you because it’s complicated and I’m not ready to divulge details to you,” I say.

  “Ren—”

  “Just let up on me and do your bloody job,” I say, throwing my arm behind me where Lucien is climbing up a marble statue of a Trojan horse, trying to mount it. He twists around and looks at me. Then like a puppy finding a new toy he jumps off the large statue and runs in my direction.

  “Poppy!” he yells clear and loud. Lucien stops at my feet, looking up at me with that inquisitive expression he always gives me.

  “Ren,” I correct him.

  “Poppy!” he repeats.

  “Did you teach him that?” I say to Pops.

  “As we previously discussed, I’m not teaching him anything. Remember?” Pops says, crossing his arms in front of his chest, a proud smile focused on the boy at my feet.

  I turn back on Lucien. “Ren. Call me Ren. Or better yet, don’t call me at all.” Then I say to Pops, “Put some clothes on the little monster, would you?” And I turn at once and head for the stairs.

  ***

  I take the stairs one at a time, my leg only lifting my foot enough to drag it across the steps. The railing I actually use, knowing that if my balance wavers then I’ll tumble backwards. I’m too tired for what I have to do next but every part of my plan has to be done right. I cast a glance back down the stairs when I’m at the top. I had felt my pops’s eyes on my back during my long trek. He’s staring at me with a heavy look. One that says how I should feel but I don’t because it’s not the time for that. There will be an opportunity for grief and it will be short-lived.

  A chill that prickles my fingers meets my skin when I push our bedroom door back. Dahlia has preferred the space cold. She says it makes her want to actually stay in bed, as she’s been ordered to do. I admit that the cold makes me want to crawl under the blankets and spend eternity cuddled against her.

  “Hi there,” she says, pushing up away from her pillow and sleep. Her brown hair has lost its normal shine, but she’s still beautiful. Bone thin and pale as the moon, she’s as radiant as ever. Nothing could steal that from her because her beauty is within her. It’s a part of her soul.

  “Hi,” I say, that one word making my throat ache. Does she look skinnier than she was this morning? Maybe it’s just the long day of treatments and pain, which is sketched across her sunken eyes. The cancer slipped quietly into her body years ago and by the time it made its presence known it had taken a lease on every part of her. She never had a chance and we knew it from the beginning. Her work, this career as the most famous vocalist in history, was both her greatest success and her very undoing. It was her commitment to the stage that kept her out of the doctor’s office. It’s the reason she’s dying now. That she won’t beat this. It’s the reason we didn’t catch it earlier. And it’s totally fine. I don’t look at her dying in each of these moments like I did with my mum. I know better now. If the last year taught me anything it’s that the greatest traumas can lead to the greatest opportunities. And a strategic man such as myself isn’t going to let God win this time. He thinks he can take people from my life and I’ll accept it. However, I’ve got secrets that even he doesn’t know. He left his blueprints to this world out and that was a big mistake.

  “Did you eat today?” I say, nearing our bed.

  She nods slowly, as though answering the question while still trying to remember the truth.

  “Did you?” she says, pulling the comforter closer to her chin to warm her from the chill in the room.

  “Sure,” I say. The bed sags gently from my weight when I sit.

  “You look like hell,” she says, reaching out and touching my stubbled cheek.

  I smile against her fingers.

  “You do too.”

  “What did you do today?” she says and I know she’s craving the information. This isn’t a woman who would watch television even if she’s imprisoned in a bed. But her eyes have worsened to the point that reading is too difficult. Not working is harder for Dahlia to accept than that soon she’ll be gone from this earth. I know she’d rather work until the end, but her voice is damaged. It would be worse if she’d elected to do chemotherapy but she’s vain and didn’t want to lose her hair.

  “Let’s see,” I say, actually having to think to recall the last twelve hours. “Oh, I picked the President of the United States, rigged the election, and got the ass of a tiny monster’s bare butt burned into my visual cortex due to seeing it too often.”

  “Is the President a nice man?” she says.

  “He’s the worst,” I say.

  Dahlia shrugs and the effort it takes her looks like enough to take her out.

  “I’m working on something,” I say, having kept all my plans to myself all this time, although I know she could sense I was figuring something out.

  “Like a model airplane or fixing up an old car?” she says, her voice always light.

  “Yes, but in my spare time I’ve been working on another side project,” I say.

  “Do tell,” she says, not at all curious, actually looking close to falling back asleep.

  “Not yet. It’s going to be a surprise. But I have an order for you until its reveal,” I say.

  “Eat my vegetables and respond to that mountain of fan mail that keeps pouring in,” she says.

  I shake my head. “Don’t die.”

  And now the faint smile drops from her face. “Well, I’ve been trying. Since the moment God put me on this earth, I’ve been trying not to die. But I’m thinking of cutting back on the effort soon.”

  I reach out and cup her hands in mine. They’re cold and sharp in places. “I feared that, which is why I’m telling you not to give up. Not yet,” I say.

  Her eyes take on the color of the blue pillow behind her like a chameleon.

  “Dahlia, if you die then you’re going to fuck up everything. I’ve been working too hard to have you spoil all my plans by dying.”

  “Okay. I’ll try,” she says and I know if anyone can give the reaper a chase it’s the woman beside me. She has a tenacious spirit that is unmatched. She is and will always be the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met.

  “Now move your fat ass over,” I say, turning on my side as I slide under the covers. I pull my body snug against hers as she makes a space for me on the bed and rolls over on her side. Then with my last remaining bit of energy I secure Dahlia snug into me, my arms wrapped tight around her tiny frame. And then with my suit and my loafers still on I drop into a blackness of sleep.

  Chapter Four

  A child with a head of black hair fiddles with a bundle of wires when I cruise into Aiden’s lab.

  He looks up at me when I pass him. “You the mean man,” he says, pointing up at me.

  I pause and regard the little jerk with a half-smile. “I am,” I say as he throws his
hand into a bowl of nuts and bolts. Aiden refuses to give his kid real toys. He thinks he’s making him smarter but refuses to realize that bad genetics can’t be undone.

  “That’s what Mommy says,” he says. The boy is about the age of Lucien but appears to be able to actually construct sentences. Must be a fluke.

  “I’m sure your mommy says all sorts of things about me. They are all true. I’m your worst nightmare,” I say.

  Like I’ve said nothing at all, the little mistake thrusts his hand back into the bowl of metal.

  “You are supposed to be sorting those, Max,” Aiden says, strolling over, an iPad in his hands.

  “No!” the little shit says adamantly.

  “Really got a control on your mini idiot, don’t you,” I say to Aiden.

  He shakes his head and runs his hand through his disorganized black hair. “No, this guy doesn’t do a thing I say,” he admits.

  “Sounds like he’s smarter than I thought,” I say.

  “How’s your grandson?” Aiden says, ignoring my quip.

  “Who cares,” I say, walking forward, away from the mutant making a racket. Aiden follows like the good chimp that he is.

  “What brings you into my lair?” he says.

  I stare around at the lab littered with disgusting technology. I can’t believe I’m here willingly about to ask for Aiden’s help.

  “I need you to create some technology for me,” I say in a rush.

  His mouth springs up into a repulsive grin. “Well, I didn’t realize it was my birthday!”

  “That’s because you’re a git who can’t remember to take your pants down to piss,” I say.

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I meant that this sounds like a real treat. Creating technology at your request.”

  I lower my chin and regard him with a long cold stare. “You are possibly the lamest human being to ever exist.”

  Because his parents instilled a lack of social skills in him, he waves me off with his hand. “So what can I do for you?” he says.

  “I need you to create the drug or device or process for turning a Middling into a Dream Traveler. And I need it in the next few days. Pronto,” I say.

  He laughs. It’s loud and makes me want to kill him on the spot. I’ll have to wait until he’s done a few jobs for me first. Then I can finally reward this world by taking him out. It will be my last bit of charity.

  “From my research I think it will be a combination of process and drugs, but that’s what I need you for,” I say, dismissing his constant laughter.

  He sticks the iPad on the nearby counter. “I do believe Ren Lewis just said he needs me.”

  “Aiden, I need you to make a life decision right now.” I point at his son, still playing at the front of the lab. “Do you want that mistake over there to grow up without a father?”

  He looks to actually reflect on the question, like a dumbass. “Well, no,” he finally says.

  “Then do what I say and stop saying things that make me want to murder you. Got it?” I say.

  His lips purse casually and he nods. “I can try.”

  “You try and we will see how long you last,” I say.

  “But to be honest, what you’re asking for is impossible. Middlings and Dream Travelers are two different races. You can’t make a Caucasian into a Native American,” he says.

  “See, this is your problem. You’re so limited in your thinking. You’re always spouting the word ‘can’t.’ No wonder you’re such a bloody loser,” I say.

  “Ren, I’m a scientist. If I say something can’t be done it’s simply because I’m fully aware of the capabilities and limitations available to us,” he says.

  “You have read textbooks and your thinking is extremely one-dimensional. In order for you to be able to accomplish what I’m asking I’m going to need you to take on a more holistic perspective. You’ll need to pull your view of this world up to an aerial view and see things from the fifth dimension,” I say.

  A smile quirks up his lips. “You just used a physics term.”

  “Shut the fuck up. I want you to clear your schedule because I have a series of important projects that I want to be your priority. This is the first one,” I say.

  “Well, not only can I not do that, but again what you’re asking for is impossible,” he says.

  “Aiden”—I say his name stressing the first letter—“don’t make me use mind control on you to do this because I will. I’m asking as a personal request that you do a few projects.”

  The lab rat shows his surprise easily. “Wow. You’ve never asked for a favor. I guess I could farm some of my projects out to my staff,” he says.

  “Now, let’s start with you not thinking of this as a favor. I’m going to push you to create technology that will revolutionize this world but it must remain classified. Is that clear?” I say.

  “Sure,” he squeaks.

  “Now, we know that it’s the parietal lobe that differentiates us from Middlings,” I say.

  “Yes, it increases the frequency of our beta waves, which is partly responsible for our ability to dream travel, but creating the psychic ability that goes along with it, that’s the largest complication,” he says.

  “That would be stimulated by the repetitive experiences of dream traveling and it’s not my concern actually,” I say.

  “Well, but still, altering a Middling’s brain chemistry isn’t something I think science can do in the regard you’re asking. This is a matter of DNA,” he says.

  “Which is why I’m asking you to figure out how to patch or rework or whatever it takes. My research shows that theoretically speaking, a drug could be synthesized that makes a Middling’s brain mimic the way ours acts in order to create the dream travel experience,” I say.

  He strokes his chin. Takes a cursory glance at the beast still playing in the corner and then looks at me. “You know, I think you’re actually right. Through a compilation of neurofeedback, drugs, and possibly some devices that change the frequency of alpha, beta, gamma, delta, and theta waves, it might be possible. It could help a Middling access the dreamscape but I’m not sure what else it could do or if the effects would be long lasting,” he says.

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along, Negative Nancy. I want you to get to work on this straightaway and work on nothing else until it’s done. Time is a matter of fatal importance. Got it?” I say, taking a half turn to leave.

  “Yeah. Sure,” he says, already off in thought, his brain trying to figure out the various strategies that will have to be employed to accomplish this. “However, there is one possible problem to this all,” he says under his breath.

  “What is it?” I say tersely.

  “It could potentially kill the Middling that we do this to,” he says.

  “That’s not a problem,” I say and turn and leave.

  Chapter Five

  The Lucidite Institute is a five-story metal building with stainless steel walls and fully motorized doors and advanced technology loaded into every single space. That isn’t the impressive part of this place. It isn’t even that the building resides at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean and is only accessible by submarine or advanced dream travel practices.

  The button for the door before me shines blue, meaning the room is unlocked. It clicks with a gentle chirp when I press it with my thumb. The smell of polished wood and ancient papers greets me first. The five-story library buried at the back of the Institute is the most impressive part of this compound. It was a later addition to the building, which was originally created by the United States government. But Flynn, the founder of the Lucidites and also Trey Underwood’s father, stole the building from the greedy government and sent them away after wiping their memories clean. He then renovated the Institute with technology that most still don’t know exists, since science was his passion. But he wanted the Institute to have a warm place within it, one where Lucidites could escape the cold of the steel and the stupefying technology. So he creat
ed this library, but as was typical of Flynn Underwood, he went over the top with his plans when constructing this space.

  I ignore the librarian, who greets me from the counter with an unnecessary smile. I don’t even grace her with a single glance when I walk forward, my loafers making a soft clapping sound on the black and white marble floor. From the base of the staircase I can see all the way to the fifth level; the library is open and lofty. And at the tip top the glass dome ceiling of the library shines bright with the radiant blue of the Pacific Ocean. I pass a giant fireplace as tall as me on my way to the third level. This library isn’t like any place on earth that I’ve ever been to. It feels utterly perfect because no details were overlooked in its creation. And this library, I’m certain, will offer me the next set of answers I’m looking for.

  Too often when people are searching for answers they keep thinking about the bloody how. How will they accomplish their goal? How will they get from point A to point B? And real idiots wonder how it will make them feel. These fuckers get scared of things before they happen because the problem is daunting and failure is something they are all too well acquainted with. I’m not a man of faith. I’m a man who knows that this bloody universe was built on laws. And I need to know more about these laws, so that I can break them. I know to accomplish that I can’t go looking for these laws, which have no doubt been documented in various textbooks. That’s what a fucking loser would do. I know that the most efficient approach is to focus on the end results. The “how” will appear if my attention is only on the goal. That’s a law of the universe and it does involve a bit of faith, but as a man of strategy I know that working backwards from a solution is how most are successful.