by Jim Kroepfl
“Dr. Weiss, what is this?”
She glances up with a perplexed look and comes over. “It’s the first part of an Emily Dickenson poem. I wonder who put it there.” She reaches into her lab coat’s pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lights one, and draws in a deep breath. She studies the picture while polluting the air with bitter-smelling smoke. “I think I’ll keep it here for the time being. Now, please prepare tissue samples from the specimens in the cooler.”
I’m considering the presence of the poem as progress. It’s only a matter of time before Sophie accepts that she’s merged with me. I approach the cooler with a new bounce to my step, open the stainless steel door, and gasp. On the metal shelf are six gray, slimy brains. Human brains.
“If working with acute slices is going to be a problem, there’s a long line of students who would be happy to take your place,” Sophie says.
Her threat reminds me where I am. These are dream-brains. Once I get accustomed to doing it in our dream sessions, dissecting real human brains will be a cinch. “Sorry, Dr. Weiss. That was unprofessional. It won’t happen again.”
She appraises me until even I’m questioning if I deserve this fake position. She finally releases me from her scrutiny and takes a deep pull from her cigarette. Thankfully, I can’t get lung cancer from second-hand dream-smoke.
“Brain slices maintain many aspects of in vivo biology, including functional synaptic circuitry,” Sophie explains. “This makes them ideal platforms for dissection, letting us witness the development and degradation of the molecular pathways and real-time neuronal dysfunction.”
“So, you’re saying they’re still alive outside of their body.”
I wait for her to make the connection to her own existence.
“Not precisely, but brain slices do behave as if they are part of a living organ for six to twelve hours post-removal. Three slides per sample.” She starts heading back to her desk. “Please.”
“Do you mind showing me how to prepare them?”
“I would expect a graduate student to understand basic research techniques.” She leaves me and sits in front of what was considered a modern computer in the 1980s.
Until Sophie understands who I am, I can only do my best. Besides, I’m not going to ruin the integrity of her research. We’re in a dream. I search through drawers and find a box of latex gloves and a scalpel. After gloving up, I gingerly pick up one of the brains, set it on the counter, and begin to mouth-breathe to overcome its dead organ smell.
I inspect the human brain to determine where to cut first, and …
I blink a few times, clearing the sleep from my eyes before turning to the clock on the night stand. It felt like we’d only been working three or four hours, but my “afternoon nap” lasted for seven, confirming that time is altered in the dreamstate. I stretch with pleasure. Facing the risks to become the Nobel for Chemistry was inconsequential compared to the benefits. People my age would never have the opportunity to learn how to prepare brain tissue samples from an esteemed neurologist. Admittedly, we had a slight issue when she noticed the scalpel in my hand. I’m not a grad student. How am I expected to know to use a microtone to slice brains?
I’m supposed to inform the Darwinians about everything that occurs in the dreamspace. I should probably tell them the truth about Sophie, but I’m observing moments when it appears she’s figuring it out. And it’s not preventing her from teaching me what I need to know to become an accomplished researcher. As long as we’re progressing, I don’t see the harm in giving her more time.
Lake
My second-story window looks onto The Flem’s gardens, and I can picture what they must have looked like before they were overgrown with weeds. My room is sunny and efficient. I even have a separate living area and a kitchen, so I don’t have to eat every meal in the dreary dining hall. I’m going to ask for a few items to make my place feel more like home, like a drawing of a DNA strand similar to the one I have in my bedroom.
A knock pulls me from my new view of The Flem. When I open the door, awaiting me is Stryker, looking even more gorgeous than I recall.
“You did it!” I throw my arms around his neck.
He holds his arms rigidly at his sides.
I let go, embarrassed. I’m not normally that expressive. Stryker’s prediction of what would happen if he failed must have impacted me more than I thought. “Sorry. I’m just relieved you merged.”
“You and me both. You really helped.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, and I can’t help thinking that he’s worried I’ll start kissing his fingertips or something.
I clear my throat. “Is Bjorn what you expected?”
Stryker’s eyes flick to the ceiling, and he touches his ear. “Are you up for a walk?”
We’re being monitored on this floor, too? I had assumed it was only while we were Candidates. Suddenly, it feels like I’ve been unwillingly cast in one of those reality shows where they put together the people most likely not to get along as roommates and then broadcast their terrible behavior.
“I was just thinking I’d like to take a closer look at the gardens.” Did that sound contrived? And will I be scrutinizing everything I say for the next five years? “Give me a second. I need to grab a hat.”
We head outside, no longer barred by locked doors. The Darwinians kept their word, as I expected. The air is deliciously warm, and the light breeze caresses my skin. Already, I feel lighter than helium. I steal a glance at Stryker’s chiseled profile. If I’m going to live with strangers, I could do worse than him. And I suppose I’ll get accustomed to being constantly monitored.
Eventually.
Hopefully.
“I want to thank you for what you did for me,” Stryker says, shortening his stride to match mine.
“If you hadn’t convinced them to let us take that walk, I would have never figured out what it was we were doing wrong.”
Stryker nods. “We make a good team.”
A flush blooms, which always makes my face look like a tomato. I duck my head until my cheeks cool. I’d suspected the Stryker I first encountered wasn’t how he typically acts, but I didn’t expect him to be this nice.
“You still haven’t told me what you think about Bjorn,” I ask.
“He’s brilliant. Definitely intense. I’m pleased. He’s going to be able to teach me the things I need to know.”
I’d describe Sophie similarly, once she settles into her new life and realizes who I am. And as a bonus, we’ll have a mother-daughter relationship, which is something I’ve been missing for years.
“What will you and Bjorn be working on?” I ask.
“We’re going to end gun-related violence.”
My eyebrows shoot up. His appearance suggests that his life has been consumed with sailing in New England and snowboarding in Aspen with friends named Chaz and Bronwyn, not hanging out in places with drive-by shootings.
“Why gun violence?” I ask in as neutral a tone as I can manage.
“It’s a senseless crime.” His voice crackles with anger.
I stop and place a hand on his arm. “Stryker, did something happen to you?”
He flinches, and I retract my hand. I attribute his reaction to my violation of his personal space—again—until I see his jaw clench and unclench.
After an awkwardly long time, he asks, “What’s Sophie like?”
There’s a story here, but I let it go because I haven’t been forthcoming about my past, either. I also haven’t been candid about Sophie’s confusion. “Like Bjorn, she’s definitely intense.”
“And.”
“And what?”
“What is it you’re not telling me?”
How did he know? He could be testing me to see if I’m hiding anything, which I am. Although, it would be helpful to obtain a second perspective to determine if my logic is sound. I rub my finger against my thumb’s scar. Do I dare confide in him?
“I’ll m
ake you a deal,” Stryker says. “I’ll tell you a secret about Bjorn so you’ll have something on me, too.”
The process of trying to achieve peace may be very different than what I’d imagined. “You go first.”
“Bjorn changed his mind at the last minute, and they merged him anyway.”
I gasp. “They killed him against his will?”
“He was weeks away from dying, so it was going to happen either way.” Stryker runs his fingers through his hair. “Bjorn says he’s come to terms with it, but there are moments when I’m not so sure.”
So, Stryker has someone existing in his brain who may not want to be there, while my Mentor doesn’t understand she only lives in my consciousness. I’m not sure which is worse.
“It appears we’re both facing challenges we didn’t anticipate.” I let out a deep breath. “Sophie believes I’m her lab assistant.” I proceed to tell him about my past two dream sessions.
Stryker kicks the dirt with his expensive-looking, leather shoe. “When I said we’re a team, I didn’t expect to be on the losing side.”
“We’re not going to lose. They’ll both adjust. It might just take a little time, but thanks to us, they have another lifetime of time.”
We silently wade through the thigh-high grasses and weeds, lost in our thoughts. Admittedly, my own doubts keep trying to sabotage my positive thinking, which I cannot allow to occur. Sophie will figure it out. Sophie will figure it out. Sophie will—
“Are you going to tell her the truth?” Stryker asks.
I explain my theory of how she needs to come to terms with it on her own.
“I think you should listen to your intuition on this one. Sophie could be subconsciously telling you what she needs.”
I mull over his words as I head to the bench at the far end of the overgrown rose garden. I’ve always liked to believe that when an idea that’s beyond my own knowledge and experience appears, it’s coming from my mom. It’s comforting to know that Sophie may be subconsciously guiding me, too.
Stryker lounges on the bench. His legs go on forever. He rests his arms across the back of the bench, grazing my shoulders. Was that intentional? He’s never given any indication he wants to be more than friends, but we have been preoccupied with trying to keep our positions as Nobels. I’ve never had the time for a boyfriend. Stryker is brilliant, and we’ve already formed a bond. He’s also hot. Maybe it’s finally time.
My eyes land on the tangled mess of vegetation around us. This place must have been beautiful when it was a functioning boarding school. “My Grandma Bee grows roses. I created a natural fertilizer for her that’s had amazing results.” Stimulating conversation, Lake. Next, why don’t you tell him how the best fertilizer has the perfect balance of only three elements?
“You should try it on these roses,” he says.
I didn’t expect him to care about something as trivial as flowers. I smile at the thought. “Maybe I will.”
“Are you going to tell them about Sophie?” he asks, concluding my one minute of relaxation.
“Not unless I have to.”
“Don’t you think this is something they should be aware of?”
A river of guilt flows through me. “Why are you suddenly on their side?”
“Believe me, I’m not. But it’s prudent to understand motivations. Tell me where you’re going with this.”
I kick off my flip-flops and run my purple-polished toes through the grass. “What’s the harm if Sophie keeps thinking of me as her lab assistant? She’s teaching me what I need to know. And even though she doesn’t realize she’s doing it in a dream, Deborah confirmed that Sophie is continuing the work she planned to explore with me, so it’s not inhibiting our discovering the cure.” When I say it out loud, it sounds justifiable. Stryker nods, which helps make me feel more confident in my decision.
“I see you’ve already identified the weakness in their controls: they can’t ask the Mentors about what happens in our dreams.” He closes his eyes and angles his face toward the sun. His skin is flawless, like he’s been airbrushed for a Ralph Lauren ad.
I realize I’m gawking and avert my eyes. This garden could use some serious weeding.
“Have you considered what might happen if they find out you’re not being entirely truthful?” Stryker brushes a mosquito off my arm, which feels intimate, especially after how he’s reacted each time I’ve touched him.
“Lake?”
I clear my throat. “They won’t know if I don’t tell them.”
He looks into my eyes, and I notice light brown flecks in his dark irises. “Do you play chess?” he asks.
Not quite what I expected him to say. “I was the Pittsburgh Chess League Champion in eighth grade.”
“Then you understand the key to chess is to think ten moves ahead.” He smiles conspiratorially. “I’m very good at chess.”
“Why are you bringing this up now?”
“Don’t tell any of the Nobels about Sophie.”
“You don’t trust our class?”
“One of them might be a spy for the Darwinians.”
Despite the sun’s warmth, I shiver. His imagination is working overtime again. Yet I find myself thinking about them, trying to fit each Nobel into that role. Could one of them really be spying for the Darwinians? I watch a bee visit one leggy plant after another until I’m ready to respond. “I’m not admitting you’re right, but if there is a spy, who do you think it is?”
“I don’t want to damn anyone until I’ve had more time to study them.”
“I take it you don’t have any facts to support your theory.”
“True, but it’s what I would do if I were them.”
Is Stryker a chess master, or is he simply paranoid? It suddenly occurs to me that I didn’t consider everyone. “How do I know you’re not the spy?”
He leans down and whispers, “Now you get it. You don’t.”
If Stryker truly believes we shouldn’t trust anyone, then I should be questioning his sudden friendship. “Why do you care about Sophie and me, anyway? What I do doesn’t affect your work.”
“It’s in all our best interests to make sure there are no problems. If the Darwinians are satisfied with our results, they’ll keep treating us as honored guests. If issues start to arise … ” Stryker shrugs. “Right now, there are only six of us to make disappear.”
The Darwinians
“We have six functioning Nobels,” the raven-haired man says, proudly.
“The Nobel for Art merged faster than all of the others.” The woman releases a violent cough.
“Which means we now have to spread our resources even thinner,” the bearded man says.
“Interestingly, Kevin is the only one able to maintain a normal sleep cycle.”
The bearded man snorts. “That’s because Bartholomew and he have nothing worthy to work on.”
“He prefers to go by Bat,” the woman says.
“Does it really matter? This is an exercise in futility. It dilutes our scientific mission.”
“Let’s remember, we needed his grant,” the raven-haired man says.
“Which is the only reason I agreed to it. And if that gamer wants to spend the next sixty years trapped in the mind of a hoodlum, who am I to judge?”
“They’re both a bit more than that,” the woman says. “It may be time to establish measures of success for Art. I recommend we assign Deborah to him.”
“No,” the bearded man decides. “We need to keep her focused on our Nobel for Chemistry, and the other two Nobels. I won’t approve shifting our people’s time to debrief a vandal.” He takes a sip of water from a crystal goblet. “We’re on the verge of making monumental advances that will elevate the human condition. We’re reaching for the stars, and we can’t be distracted with these subjective pursuits. We owe it to the future. We owe it to Sophie.”
The woman leans forward in her chair. “But what if we could transf
er the ability to create the kind of art that alters the way society thinks. The implications would be—”
“It is not a practical science from which humanity can benefit,” he declares.
The woman closes her eyes in exasperation. The raven-haired man sighs.
The woman puts on a tight smile. “You might remember, Reginald, that Alfred Nobel excluded Mathematics from the Nobel prizes because he didn’t believe it was practical. Math!”
“Point noted, but I’m still against it.”
The raven-haired man looks at the woman. “When do you want to schedule your procedure?”
“Not quite yet,” she answers. “I won’t put a member of my family at risk until I’m certain it’s safe.”
Orfyn
The Nobels’ rec room is totally rigged out: ginormous TV, ping pong and pool tables, foosball, and all the latest video games. The kids at St. Catherine’s would love a place like this. The only thing missing is the fun vibe. I don’t get why whoever remodeled this old school made everything so white. This room should make them feel like they can kick back. I might have to do something about it.
Of the six of them, my eyes are drawn to the girl with long, red hair that reminds me of a New York sunset. But I’m not as ready to jump into their circle of brilliance as I first thought. They’re all geniuses, and they’ve merged with someone equally as smart, if not more. I thought I’d end up with the same advantage, but I’m starting to have some serious doubts about the guy who’s now living in my brain.
The girl I’d been eyeing notices me standing in the doorway. “Who are you?”
Everyone’s heads turn, and their expressions make it obvious I wasn’t expected.