by Jim Kroepfl
I brace myself for what he thinks isn’t perfect.
“Alex, care to do the honors?”
Alex has on a black hoodie that’s got to be hot. He pulls a small metal box from his hoodie’s pocket and walks around the room, watching the gadget. He points to the smoke detector on the ceiling. Then he hands Stryker a coil of wire. Stryker easily reaches the ceiling and winds the wire around the detector.
“That’s the dummy,” Alex tells us in a whisper. “It’s a guitar string.” He reaches in his hoodie’s pocket again, pulls out a larger metal box, and gives it to Stryker. Stryker pushes up one of the ceiling tiles, slides the box on top of the tile, then eases it back into place. Alex holds up the first box and pushes the orange button, which lights up. “We are now in stealth mode, people.”
Stryker fist-bumps him. “My man.”
“What is that thing?” I ask.
“It’s a soundwave-canceling re-transmitter. It’s a great example of destructive interference.”
I look at him blankly.
“It messes with their bug.”
“Someone bugged my studio?”
“Assume that any place we have access to is being monitored,” Stryker says. “Except your bathroom.” He gives Lake a knowing look and she nods.
Anna places her hands on her hips. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“You’re so easy to approach,” Marty answers. He laughs, and Anna slugs him in the arm.
Marty knew about it, too? I know I’m the new guy, but it would’ve been nice if one of them had clued me in.
“Alex, where did you get the parts?” Jules asks.
I’d been wondering the same thing. Art supplies are one thing, but it’s not like we can just have anti-listening-device equipment delivered to our fake boarding school.
Alex shrugs. “I’m pretty good at repurposing household electronics.”
“Q.” Marty nods in approval.
“You’re all so immature,” Anna says. “This is a party. They don’t care.”
“It would be nice if you were right,” Stryker says, then turns to me. “Art, what exciting things do you have planned for us?”
“Thanks for asking, Peace. I set up this easel so everyone can take a turn at painting.”
“Talk about a wild time,” Stryker says, dryly.
“I’ve never painted on canvas before.” Lake goes over and starts examining the different brushes.
Sorry, Stryker. Point: Orfyn.
Lake is soon absorbed in swirling all shades of colors onto the canvas. I never imagined her as an abstract girl. She sets down the brush and touches her fingers to the wet paint. Within seconds, she’s using her entire hand. My jaw literally drops. Then, she touches the canvas with both hands! I think I’m in love.
“I have a better idea,” Anna says, breaking me out of my Lake trance. “How about we play One True Thing? Let’s start with Orfyn.”
Orfyn
“I don’t have a One True Thing,” I lie.
“Why don’t you tell them how you got your name?” Anna says.
I shrug, as if it’s no big deal my parents didn’t want me. “I’m an orphan.”
“That’s not the entire reason, is it?” Anna asks.
I want to give her a Shut up! look, but everyone’s eyes are on me.
“Come on, spill it,” Stryker says. “What’s said in the jungle stays in the jungle—thanks to Alex.”
“Yeah, what’s up with your name?” Alex, unlike Anna, looks genuinely curious.
“I needed something unique … for when I’m famous.” It hurts that I can’t admit I already am.
Anna crosses her arms. “But there’s more to it.”
“He’s already told us his One True Thing,” Lake says from across the room. “He’s an orphan.”
“That’s too innocent for a One True Thing,” Anna says.
“It’s true, that’s what counts.” Lake holds her eyes, and Anna is the first to look away.
The door opens, and a man in tan overalls strolls into the room, carrying a toolbox. “Sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here. I’m inspecting smoke detectors. You kids don’t mind if I do a quick check, do you?”
Marty catches my eye, confirming there’s something strange going on.
Stryker answers, “No problem, sir. Do whatever you need.”
The maintenance man double-takes Stryker in his gray-blue suit. “Ah, there it is.” He makes a big deal about pointing at the plastic circle on the ceiling.
Alex sticks his hands into his hoodie pocket.
“Hey, what’s that?” The man pulls over a chair, climbs up, and grabs at the guitar string. After he uncoils it, he places the guitar string into a plastic bag that he just happens to have on him. He points an electronic device at the smoke detector, checks the reading, and nods.
As soon as he leaves, Alex pulls out his gadget and turns it back on.
“Still think it’s all fun and games, Anna?” Stryker asks.
She glares at him, as if it’s his fault we’re being spied on.
All we wanted was a few hours alone. But they wouldn’t let us have even that. I thought I didn’t have any privacy living at St. Catherine’s, but this is different. They’re listening to everything we say. Always. It suddenly feels like a ghost has walked into the room, stealing all the warmth.
“Hey guys, I have a One True Thing,” Alex says, and we all look at him. If anyone can add a laugh when we need it, it’s Alex.
Jules gives him an encouraging smile. “Tell us.”
“My dad is the top oil producer in West Texas.”
“But you’re working on alternative energy,” Anna counters.
“Now you get my One True Thing. My dad says he’ll disown me if I succeed, but that didn’t stop him from taking their payoff.”
I may be an orphan, but Sister Mo never made me feel bad about doing what I love.
“It’s not a payoff,” Jules says. “It’s their way of thanking our parents for giving us up to science.”
“Ha!” comes from Marty, who’s got the eraser end of a pencil in his mouth and his eyes focused on his notebook.
Lake says, “That money will improve their lives. At least, it has for my family.”
It will for St. Catherine’s, too—as long as the Bishop sticks to his word.
I go to the food table. “Let’s eat. This is jerk chicken, which I just learned is one of Marty’s favorite foods. If you’ve never had it before, then you’re going to be thanking me big time.” I wave toward the chips. “This is the island version of French fries. And this—” A crash cuts off my words.
I turn to see Alex on the floor, gasping for air.
Before any of us can react, Lake is on her knees next to him, propping up his head, smearing paint every place she touches.
“What’s wrong with him?” Jules’s face is filled with horror.
“This happened to a guy at my orphanage when he ate peanuts,” I say.
“Alex didn’t eat anything,” Marty says.
“His airway isn’t blocked,” Lake says with her fingers down his throat. She tilts his head back, takes a deep breath, wraps her lips around his and breathes air into his lungs. After a couple of times, she turns to Stryker. “Get help!”
Stryker removes the box from Alex’s hoodie, points it at the ceiling, and pushes the orange button. Then he yells, “We need medical attention in the art classroom. Now!”
Even though I now know about the bugs, it’s still a shock when two men in white lab coats arrive within a minute.
“He’s having difficulty breathing,” Lake informs them.
They hurry over to Alex. Lake moves aside. One of the men flashes a light into Alex’s eyes, and the other checks his vitals. They cover Alex’s face with an oxygen mask and lift him onto a gurney. Then they wheel Alex out of the party that was his idea in the first place.
Stryker’s eyes land on
Lake. “You may have saved Alex’s life.”
A flush colors her cheeks. “A few years ago, I got certified in CPR for my babysitting certificate.”
The rest of us didn’t think to give Alex mouth-to-mouth. And Lake stayed so calm. I thought she was amazing before.
“I need to get back to work,” Anna says, as if nothing terrifying had just happened. As she passes me, she whispers, “I was once the very first person to discover an Orfyn.” Then she strolls out the door without a backward glance.
I check out the others, but no one is acting like they heard her.
“Nice party. Seriously,” Marty says as he heads out, clutching his notebook.
Within minutes, everyone else follows, leaving me alone with trays of untouched food and glasses of barely drunk drinks. I lower myself to the floor, bummed. I’d like to say it’s only because of Alex, but I’d be lying to myself. I wanted to give Lake an amazing party, and I didn’t deliver.
My eyes land on her abstract painting. She has a great sense of balance, and I love her color choices: yellows and purples and all different greens. The party wasn’t a total failure. Lake got to paint a picture for the first time—using her hands, which gives me an idea.
I grab what I need and head to her place. Nothing hangs from her door. They all put something on their handle as a signal to let each other know when they’re working and don’t want to be disturbed. I haven’t bothered, since I’m always awake during the day. I should probably talk to Bat about that. We actually have a lot to talk about in our next dream session.
I knock on Lake’s door.
When she opens it, confusion fills her face. “Hi?”
I hold up the can. “I thought you could use this. It’s walnut oil. It works as good as turpentine, but smells a whole lot better.” Bat told me it’s what the Renaissance painters used to use.
She shows me her rainbow-colored hands. “Thanks. I’ve been trying to remove this.”
“It’s oil paint. Soap and water doesn’t cut it.”
She takes the can, then looks at me expectantly while I wait for her to invite me in.
“Once your painting dries, I’ll hang it up for you,” I offer.
“It’s not worthy to be displayed.”
“You’re wrong. It has a great feel.”
Lake looks pleased, but she doesn’t invite me in. Probably not comfortable being alone with a guy in her room.
I lean against the door jamb to let her know I’m fine with talking in the hallway. “Have you heard anything about Alex?”
“I presume they’re running some tests. It’ll probably take some time.”
“Right. That makes sense.” I need to think before shooting off my mouth around Lake. “It’s weird how it came on so fast.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too. His lungs were inflating and deflating, but there didn’t seem to be any gas exchange. It’s as if his body decided not to turn oxygen into carbon dioxide, which of course is impossible.”
Yeah, my thoughts exactly.
She gives me a strained smile. “Is there anything else?”
“Want to grab something to eat?”
She looks down at her hands. “Sorry, but I need to take care of this.”
“Sure, I understand. It’s getting late.” It’s not even eight o’clock, but it has been a crazy night.
“Thanks for the walnut oil.” She sort of slams the door in my face, but it could’ve been because of her oily fingers.
That went well.
I think.
The Darwinians
“Kids get sick,” the raven-haired man says. “That’s why we have an infirmary.”
“This isn’t exactly the common cold,” the woman says.
“We’re asking one brain to handle two consciousnesses. We can’t expect everything to go according to plan. Consider the advances we’re already seeing.”
“But Alex’s situation is unexplainable. His lungs are operating as if he’s been smoking for fifty years.”
“It’s psychosomatic,” explains the white-bearded man. “His brain only thinks he has emphysema. There is no physical degeneration.”
“He can barely breathe.” She turns away and coughs.
“We are not shutting down this Program because one kid is having a temporary health issue,” the raven-haired man says.
“If his life is at stake, we should consider—”
“Out of the question,” the bearded man says.
“I suggest we cut back on his dream sessions for the time being,” the woman says. “We can medicate him to limit his REM cycles.” She places her trembling hands on the mahogany conference table. “He needs rest.”
“Not possible,” the raven-haired man says. “We need all of them working as much as they can to make a major advance and prove the Program’s success. Then, there is no limit to where we can go. Rest can wait.”
“I agree,” says the bearded man. “Continue as planned.”
“How is our Nobel for Literature?” the woman asks in between coughs.
“Cecil isn’t concerned,” the raven-haired man says, dismissively.
“Are you sure he’s paying attention to the right things?”
“This is about accelerating the future. It’s never easy, and it’s never without cost.”
“Certainly. But let’s keep them alive, shall we?” the woman says.
“Of course,” the bearded man answers, looking up at the portrait of the woman with curly, salt-and-pepper hair. “But let’s also remember who we’re committed to keep alive when you say them.”
Orfyn
In the last week of dreams, I’ve been in Bat’s basement—technically, his dead mother’s basement—and done nothing but hang out in the world’s most comfortable recliners, listening to cool music and talking about paintings. It would be great if this were my old life. But he’s supposed to be mentoring me in … something.
Lately, he’s been asking me these bizarre questions like: Why do you think Picasso was so obsessed with fawns? and Don’t you think Andy Warhol was a big phony? and Isn’t it time to bring nudes back into mainstream art? And the whole time we’re together, Bat plays this video game. His avatar, who looks like a troll version of himself, walks through a garden. That’s it. No sword fights or car chases or snipers. Just walking. It’s weird.
“You know, the other Nobels are trying to change the world,” I say.
Bat stares at me blankly, which is pretty much his normal expression.
“You’re my Mentor. We’re supposed to be advancing the state of art.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, we were brought together to beat the machines and keep humanity in art.” Saying it out loud makes it sound like I’ve lost my mind. But I’m saying this in a dream created by Bat after his brain patterns were implanted into my head. Reality isn’t in play anymore.
“Is that what they told you?” he says with the concern of someone selecting socks.
“That’s why we’re here!”
“If you say so.” He directs his avatar to circle a tree. “Is that really what you want to do?”
“No,” I admit. “I came here because I want to learn from you.”
“What do you want to learn?”
He’s got to be messing with me. “Bat, you do realize you’re my Mentor, right?”
He shrugs with the innocence of a little kid. “I don’t always grok everything that’s going on, but I know this isn’t the only world. Sometimes it takes me a while to remember there’s another one. I know the important things, though. I know you painted this.” He nods to the screens, and a new image appears: Christ, his Disciples, and the Stanley Cup.
Take This Cup.
“How … how do you have my painting?” I manage to ask.
“Didn’t you give it to me?”
“Noooo.”
“You must’ve been thinking about it.”
/>
Prickles run down my spine. “You know what I’m thinking?”
“Didn’t think so.” Bat studies my painting. “I think it’s my favorite. Really. Of all time.”
If this whole situation isn’t strange enough, he’s telling me he likes my painting over a basement full of true masterpieces. “I painted it on a brick wall in Brooklyn. It was gone that same day.”
His mouth turns down, and he shakes his head. “What a loss. Hey, want a grape soda?”
“No, I don’t want a grape soda. I want you to teach me how to be a great artist.”
“No one can teach you to be great. You’re going to be great, or you’re not.” Bat takes a long swig of soda, burps loudly, and starts typing.
As I watch his fingers race across the keyboard, a terrible thought hits me. “What did you do for a living? I mean, before.”
“Pretty sure it was games.”
“You got paid to play games?”
“I created them.”
I suddenly want to barf. “Bat, aren’t you a painter?”
He takes a moment to look around and nods in satisfaction. “I think I painted this basement.”
I want to strangle him—except his body is already dead. “During the procedure, I saw an artist painting a picture. Wasn’t that you?”
“Me? No.” He scratches at his stubble. “Maybe I commissioned it for you. You know, as a gift. Did it seem like Rauschenberg? I bet I chose Rauschenberg.”
My dream-self takes a deep breath to keep from screaming in frustration. “So, are you or are you not an artist?”
“I’ve always considered myself to be an electronic artist.”
“What does that even mean?!” I get up and wave my hand at the screens. “All you’ve done since we’ve merged is waste time playing this stupid video game. You’re supposed to be a Master and teach me how to become one.”
“My game isn’t stupid. Did you notice all the greens?”
The screens display the garden from his game, but now the view has expanded to include a forest that goes on forever. The electronic sunlight filtering through the electronic leaves highlights what has to be a hundred shades of green. It almost feels like I could walk right into it. It’s impressive, but it’s still just a game.