Sleeper Agent

by M. Anthony Harris

  Sleeper Agent

  M. Anthony Harris

  Copyright © 2017 by M. Anthony Harris

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “Wake him up! Whatever you do, don’t let him sleep!” I heard through a bleary stupor. I slowly realized that it was me they were talking about. Everything had the molasses-like quality that came from sleep deprivation.

  A wall of pain tore me away from the thoughts scampering through my mind. Only one thing held my attention. It was the agony of voltage coursing through me in numbers that were well over the quadruple digits.

  “That should snap him out of his stupor,” I heard over a strange wailing that I soon recognized as my own voice.

  “What did you see? Give us your intel!” one of the thugs screamed, spittle flying with the words.

  You can tell someone means business when there’s spittle flying…. My mind wandered down sleep-deprived roads.

  A fist to my gut interrupted that line of thought and brought me momentary clarity. I still didn’t know why I had been taken. I had come up with some promising answers close to seventy hours ago, but whatever conclusion I’d made had fled like my sleep.

  “Tell me exactly what you saw!” the voice behind the fist insisted.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I haven’t slept in days! I can barely remember anything! If you would please just let me sleep then maybe I wouldn’t be so freaking bleary and I might be able to actually remember whatever it is you want!” A fist to the sternum shut me up quickly.

  “Your friends can’t help you, so do yourself a favor and just give up the information already!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the haze of pain.

  “It’s like I’ve already told you! I have no clue what you are talking about. I haven’t been spying on anybody!” I shot a wad of spit at his eyes.

  My head snapped back with a solid right hook to the jaw. I nearly slipped into unconsciousness. I tried to surrender to it but was rudely shocked back to a state of hyperawareness mere seconds later as they reattached the jumper cables to the rusty metal chair and pumped me full of thousands of volts of electricity.

  My body went limp, and I felt myself being dragged away, still awake.

  “Sir, I don’t think we’ll be getting any more answers out of him right now. Let’s throw him back in the cell.”

  1

  My name is Stephen Matthews.

  Stephen spelled with a “ph” not a “v.”

  I’ve always thought that the ph made it sound more dignified. Not that you can hear the difference, but when you see it spelled with the “ph” you feel a certain gravitas that just isn’t there with the “v.”

  Anyway, I had just started my graduate degree in electrical engineering. I had bounced around on majors for my first two years like every other university student before I settled into the program. I found that I liked the straightforwardness of electrical engineering. Everything is cause and effect. Too much power and you screw things up, too little and nothing happens.

  I’ve long suspected that most engineers are the same. They may cloak things in fancy words and descriptions, but every single one of them tries to make the complicated simple.

  That’s why I think that the complexity of my dream life was a strong force in driving me to the major.

  Ever since I had been a kid—maybe around ten or eleven years old—I’ve had strangely lucid dreams, ones packed full of the strangest details. It was as if my body was asleep but my mind stayed awake.

  Another odd thing was that I was almost never the main character in my dreams. It was as if I were watching a documentary of someone else’s life. Normally they were boring films; I would dream that I was a housewife saying goodbye to her husband, sitting down with a nice cup of tea, and reading a chick-lit book while my baby still slept; or sometimes I would be an accountant in some high-end firm, working on indescribably boring financial spreadsheets. Every so often the dreams would reoccur, but that was pretty rare. One night I was a mechanic, the next the president of the United States.

  It never really crossed my mind how different it was until I, for some stupid reason—actually, a girl who was way out of my league whom, I later found out, was already dating someone—added a creative writing class. I thought it would be a piece of cake, and I could write the next great American novel and win the girl of my dreams.

  Needless to say, I did neither. I’d thought that it’d be an easy couple of credits but it actually turned out to be one of the hardest classes I’d taken.

  I found that creativity came to me as easily as a passing kidney stone. My first couple of papers didn’t do any favors for my GPA, so, to keep from floundering, I decided to write from my dreams.

  The paper on a spy that’d been working to infiltrate a militant Islamic terror cell earned me my first A in the class, and my story on the day-to-day life of the president was submitted to a writing contest by my professor.

  He said that he’d loved the time I’d put into working on the minute details and complimented me on great world-building. I was glad that he loved it because it had been one of the most tedious dreams I’d had in a long time. But I’d heard that literature professors reveled in the most tedious and pretentious of works, so, like Dickens, I left no description unturned.

  I didn’t win the writing contest, but I did land a job.

  I remember when they first approached me. It’d been about a month after my paper had placed sixth in the writing contest. I had just finished the judo course that I was taking as an elective and was sitting outside the campus cafeteria reading a textbook when an attractive lady who seemed to be five or six years older than me approached.

  She was dressed professionally in a grey skirt and blazer and had angular cheekbones that were framed by a blond bob cut. She walked as if she owned the ground under her feet. She was the type of person who made an impression everywhere she went.

  I was surprised when she passed the small group of professors—who were probably discussing ways to mess with the students and make an A average next to impossible—and headed straight toward me.

  “You’re Stephen Matthews, correct?” she asked in a no-nonsense tone. I nodded.

  “I read your story about the president, and I was impressed by your level of detail. Some of it was quite dry, and your similes are forgettable at best, but it was quite enthralling reading about the daily life and inner workings of the presidential office. It seems like you were there,” she paused, and her eyes bore into me. “You said in your interview for the piece that you’d based everything off of a dream you had?”

  “Yeah, I based it off of a dream.”

  “Would you be interested in being paid to sleep?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Would you like to be paid to sleep?”

  “Well it does sound quite tempting, but I don’t even know your name or who you work for,” I replied.

  “My name is Helena Watters, and I’m with Fredrickson Research Center, or
as we like to call it, “the Institute.” We’re currently researching lucid dreams and think that you’d be a prime candidate,” she said.

  “So, Helena, what does this job that you’re offering entail?” I asked. I noticed the slightest grimace of annoyance at my informal tone.

  “It’s exactly as I said. We’d be paying you to sleep. The days and hours would vary, but we’d work with your schedule so you can still make all of your classes, and you’d make two hundred and fifty dollars for every session. You’d work at least three sessions a week, so you could expect to be making seven hundred and fifty a week, minimum. I’m sure that’s better than whatever you’re doing now.”

  “That sounds awesome, but what would my other responsibilities be?” I asked, intrigued at the offer of gainful yet lazy work.

  “Your first responsibility would be to sleep, of course, and then we’d quiz you on what you dreamed about. You’d be asked to describe everything you saw in your dream in detail. We’d also test your limits by trying to guide you into dreaming from different perspectives,” Helena’s hands were animated with excitement. “Our goal is to understand the sleeping mind, and one day, hopefully, it’ll open up a world of possibilities. Can you imagine the possibilities that come from learning to direct one’s dreams? We could teach you one hour of language, but you could literally have all night to practice while you are sleeping. We’d be able to always be learning or improving our work by continuing it in our dreams. Just think of the possibilities!”

  “Huh,” I said, feeling dumb as I tried to grasp what she was saying. “Can I get back to you in a day or two? I want to make sure I can twist my class schedule around before I make any sort of real commitment,” I tried not to sound too excited at the opportunity.

  “That sounds good. I’ll give you a call in three days to see if you’ll join us in our adventure.”

  I gotta give it to her; she’s one heck of a sales lady. It almost seems like her major was in marketing, not whatever branch of science she’s obviously got a PhD in. But then again, from everything I’ve seen, half of science is finding grants, so they’re practically salesmen anyway, I thought before I realized what she’d said.

  “What’d you mean ‘You’ll call me’?” I asked, a little disconcerted that she already had my number.

  “Surely you realize how easy it is to get contact info online? Especially with all of the social media out there. The world is connected, and it’s easy for almost anyone to find whomever they wish. It’s not like people are covering their tracks either. Everybody puts their location in their status updates.”

  “OK, OK, sorry for asking. And of course I know that it’s easy to track what people are doing online. Even an idiot knows that,” I raised my hand in my defense. “I just thought that you needed a warrant or something to get all that info.”

  “You do realize that posting in a public forum means that all of the information you put out there will be available to the public right?” Helena grinned at my ignorance.

  Well, I hope that her grin was because she finds my naïveté endearing, I thought, embarrassed and frustrated how my face was reddening.

  “Well, anyway, I will let you know in a couple of days if I’m up for your offer.”

  “OK, be expecting a call soon, and good luck with your studies. It seems like you’ll need it,” Helena teased.

  I thought I saw a satisfied grin as she abruptly turned and walked away.

  Well, thank God, it looks like I got myself a job.

  2

  My first morning on the job, the clouds painted the sky with brushstrokes reminiscent of Van Gogh’s broad style. Pink and yellow stirred together in a wavy mixture that spilled across the sky. At six thirty, the air had late-summer crispness to it, and I hesitated for a couple of seconds, taken aback by the stunning shades of the early morning.

  Wow, this is beautiful enough to almost convince me to start waking up early all the time. Sometime later… I thought as I settled into my seat and headed to my first day of work.

  The Institute was on the south side of town, housed in a nondescript grey building. The only indication it was there was a small space on the signboard hidden between a mixture of offices for medical research collectives and low-end law firms.

  I asked the sleepy-looking receptionist for directions to the office, and she pointed the way.

  “Thanks,” I nodded gratefully.

  “No problem, dahling,” she said in a Bostonian accent.

  I found the research center soon enough. It was relatively small, housed between a minor claims law office and a dental practice, just like the receptionist had said it’d be.

  I knocked, and shortly afterwards a kind-looking older man with skin like coffee greeted me with a firm handshake. He was dressed in a grey pinstripe suit that looked like it’d been worn for years but was still somehow dignified.

  “Hello, young man. You must be Stephen. Helena was telling me about you, and if half of what she said is true, we’ll be in for a treat.”

  “Well, I hope it’s all true, or else I’ll be out of a job,” I replied with a grin, already liking the older man. “You already know my name. Would you mind telling me yours?”

  “The name’s Arthur Worth. I’m one of the lead researchers. Of course when your operation is as small as ours, almost everybody is the head of something.”

  “Is it OK if I ask how many of you guys work here? Are there many other sleep subjects? How many researchers? I looked online, but your website isn’t exactly what I would call highly detailed.”

  “Well, to answer your first question, we’ve got a couple other subjects, but due to medical confidentiality reasons, I can’t tell you about them. Sorry,” he shrugged. “Second question: Right now we have a team of fourteen or so researchers and a couple of other workers like a janitor. Most of us wear more than one hat here,” he said, pausing to hand me a bottle of water. “Dear Helena, whom you’ve already met, not only heads up all of the research, but she also does HR and is practically our CEO. I, personally, am also responsible for all of the data input, which almost sounds worse than human resources, but I don’t have to deal with people that much, so it evens out.”

  I stopped and stared as I took in the laboratory he’d led me to. It was high-tech and well-funded. It was stocked with equipment that made the techie in me drool, and behind a one-way glass panel was what looked like a cozy bedroom, not the padded chair and wires I’d imagined I’d be sleeping in.

  “Everybody, this is our newest team member, Stephen Matthews,” Arthur said. He gestured toward the three other researchers who were studying their various instruments. “You already know Helena.”

  She turned toward me and nodded.

  “And this is Safid,” Arthur pointed toward a Middle Eastern-looking man with a nicely manicured goatee who abandoned his work to welcome me.

  “And, finally, the baby of the team, Sasha.”

  She was beautiful. Her shoulder-length hair was chocolate brown, and her eyes were a mesmerizing green. She walked up to me and gave me a surprisingly firm handshake.

  “Arthur, you can’t call me the baby anymore. Our sleeper here is younger than me by at least two or three years for sure,” she said as she stuck her tongue out at the older man.

  I think we’ll get along just fine. I smiled.

  “My name is Sasha, and before you ask, yes, it’s a Russian name, and, no, I’m not Russian. Well, technically I am, but I’m American, too. My grandparents defected here at the beginning of the Cold War.”

  I found myself only half listening as she took over for Arthur and started showing me the workings of the lab. Her eyes were unfairly distracting.

  “What’s up?” she’d caught me staring.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just a little earlier than I’m used to,” I replied. I turned my head to look at the equipment, trying to hide the red that was coloring my cheeks.

  “Are you blushing? What’s her name? Is she beautiful? Should I b
e jealous?” She was immensely delighted in my obvious discomfort.

  “OK, Sasha, take it easy on the poor kid, he’ll want to quit before the day is over if you keep interrogating him like this,” Arthur said with a chuckle.

  I nodded a small thanks to him.

  She responded with an adorable pout. “Aww, Gramps, do I have to?”

  “This one will be a lot of fun,” I heard her say quietly to herself as she returned to her station.

  The company is quite pleasant, I thought.

  I snuck a final glance in Sasha’s direction, catching her in the corner of my eye. Yes, quite pleasant indeed.

  3

  “That was good. But before you go back to sleep again we’ll work on your observation skills,” Helena’s voice echoed as it piped in through the speakers. “This time, you’re going to try to direct yourself a bit more. Try to dream from another perspective, something more active. It’ll make our jobs easier. Dream that you’re doing something more exciting. It’s easier to gather more information when there’s a lot going on.”

  “OK, your highness, your wish is my command,” I goaded her.

  I heard Sasha sniggering in the background and smiled. I had quickly become friends with most of the team and particularly enjoyed her company.

  “Just shut up and get some sleep, you idiot.”

  The courtroom was packed. This was a high-profile case, and I could feel the energy that crackled in the air. A nervous drop of sweat rolled down my back, but my face betrayed nothing. I was the picture of confidence as I addressed the crowd. “And that is why he needs to be prosecuted to the full extent of the law!”