Dream War

by Stephen Prosapio

  Imbo gazed out the window as he spoke. “Well, I met this—this—thing, this guy, in my dreams. I thought at first I was just lucid dreaming, but now I’m sure that the explanation isn’t so simple.”

  “Tell me about it, Joe.”

  “He took the form of my deceased uncle, but he called himself ‘Luzveyn Dred,’” Joe said as though he were pronouncing a difficult Eastern European word. He continued, “Luzveyn Dred told me about a place that exists apart from the one we can see while we’re awake. That dimension runs parallel to our world, and, according to him, connects to our dreams. He also said that he could summon people from their dreams.”

  Lopez utilized one of his most effective techniques for extracting information. He said nothing.

  “Luzveyn Dred took me to this place – it’s called the ‘Spatium Quartus,’” Joe said softly. “Something just didn’t feel right.”

  “What was this place like, Joe?”

  “It started out nice, comfortable. We were on a veranda of a villa that overlooked the sea. Luzveyn Dred said that he wants us, all of OIA, to work for him. When I resisted, he got angry. The setting changed to a rocky terrain and lightning in a dark sky…”

  “Well, Joe, I for one believe you. But couldn’t a case be made that what happened was no more than just a crazy dream? Couldn’t this be explained away by an improperly digested meal and too many books on Carl Jung?”

  Imbo didn’t flinch and didn’t smile. If anything, the dark circles beneath his eyes became more pronounced as his skin became a more pale shade of white.

  “Luzveyn Dred told me you would ask those questions.” His voice cracked and then lowered an octave. “He wanted me to ask you a question in return.”

  “Shoot, Joey.”

  Imbo enunciated each word. “Did you enjoy your time in the cornfield?”

  It felt like someone had punched Lopez in the gut. He’d told no one about that dream, not even Bonnie. No one.

  In the hallway, people walked by the office speaking in confident tones. The OIA was an organization on the way up, and the employees could feel the excitement. Lopez sat at his desk envious of their naiveté.

  “Okay Joe, you’ve got my attention.”

  “After that,sir, he just told me to tell you to observe what happens next very carefully.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Lopez asked.

  “That’s all he said. ‘Observe the coming events.’”

  Thoughts of the swirling hole and lightning strikes in Emilia Libera’s dream had bothered Lopez all weekend. Now, the disturbing memory came back full force.

  “Joe, lemme ask you something.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Did anything out of the ordinary occur during your dream links with the Red Brigades?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The shortness of the agent’s breath and the tonal quality of the reply suggested that he was holding something back.

  “Dammit, Joe, you know what I mean.”

  It almost felt like he was extracting information from Imbo’s subconscious the way he did in dreams.

  “Well, sir, we helped rescue the general, and I contributed to that.”

  Imbo was stalling.

  “Yeah? Get to the point, Joe.”

  Imbo looked down at his folded hands. “Honestly, sir, I don’t recall anything of the dream links. The only thing I can remember is, before we started, you informing us of our mission objectives. Then, I remember Hyde telling us we had three days off.”

  “You don’t recall the details of your missions? You don’t remember the Dozier case?”

  “No, sir,” Imbo said, “but it’s worse than that. I don’t remember New Year’s Eve, Christmas, shit – my birthday was two weeks ago, and I can’t even tell you what my kids gave me.”

  “Joe, I think we need to get you a CAT scan, pronto.”

  Imbo shook his head.

  “There’s more, sir.” His expression hinted signs of guilt.

  Lopez focused his attention on the man’s breathing and pulse points. His training had practically turned him into a flesh-based lie detector. He stared at Imbo and nodded for him to continue.

  “A little over a year ago, my grandpa passed away. Last night, in a dream, he told me I wasn’t safe and warned that our whole organization was in grave danger. When I asked why, he gave me a silver coin. At that moment, I realized that my grandpa was dead and I became lucid in my dream…but I woke up.”

  Lopez chuckled. “Joey, even the best of us wake up occasionally when we become lucid, it’s nothing—”

  “Hector, this was in my palm.” Imbo opened his hand to reveal a silver medallion with the image of a man on horseback, sword raised to the heavens.

  “Sir, this is the medallion that my Nono gave me in my dream.”

  *****

  “Agent Henderson, nice work on the Dozier case,” Lopez said from behind his desk.

  They sat in Lopez’s office. CAT scans on Joe Imbo had come back normal.

  Bob Henderson smiled weakly. “Thanks, boss. It was a team effort. We all worked hard on it.”

  “What would you say was the hardest part of the job?”

  Henderson scratched the back of his neck and ran his hand across the top of his head. The hair was growing back thick since he’d again shaved it bald a month prior. It looked like he didn’t know what to say.

  “I mean, at times you really thought this was a shitty assignment didn’t you?” Lopez didn’t know how else to lead the horse to water—to remind Henderson about their conversation just days before.

  “No, no, not at all, Hector.” Henderson’s voice betrayed doubt.

  Lopez decided to be blunt. “If you had to Henderson, would you say this operation was like spending time in a cathouse or an outhouse?”

  Henderson’s blank face told Lopez everything he needed to know. Henderson was suffering from the same missing memories as Joe Imbo; he just wouldn’t admit it.

  The following day, after Agent Prie confided that he couldn’t recall anything that happened in his life between Dozier’s kidnapping and rescue, Lopez met with Hyde and Moats. He briefed them and requested that operations be suspended pending an investigation.

  Hyde and Moats disagreed and began an inquiry that ran concurrent with normal operations. For a short while, it appeared they’d made the right decision.

  A week later, victim of a massive aortic aneurysm in his sleep, agent Joe Imbo was admitted to the hospital in a coma. Without ever regaining consciousness, Imbo died.

  *****

  Moats sat with his legs crossed in Hyde’s office. “Hector, I’m not tryin’ to shove this under the covers. I’m not even saying I’m certain it’s a coincidence, but it is possible the timing of Imbo’s death is coincidental.”

  “So, a week after waking up with a coin his dead grandfather gave him in a dream, an agent in the prime of life dies of a heart aneurysm. Meanwhile, my team can’t remember anything from the last operation, but we’re going to pretend that it’s business as usual?” Lopez asked.

  Moats shrugged and looked at Hyde. “Henderson told me that he remembers the Dozier rescue.”

  “With all due respect,” Lopez said, “we both know that Henderson is afraid he’ll lose his job if he admits that he doesn’t have complete recall.”

  “Senior Agent Lopez,” Hyde began sounding official, “based on our success, the CIA’s Deputy Director now tracks our progress on a weekly basis. Perhaps I should inform my boss that we have shut down our operations because of poor memories, a bad heart, and a coin we know nothing about?”

  Hyde had the damnedest way of making people see that even the clearest path was lined with clouds.

  “What happened to the idea of ‘complete recall’ of dream links, otherwise people may die?” Lopez asked.

  “Hector, they remembered their dream links. They filed their reports. We captured the Red Brigades,” Hyde said.

  “And what about next time?” Lopez
asked to nothing but silent stares. “Look, I’m telling you something’s not right about these Red Brigade folks—”

  “Leave that to us.” Moats said with a confidence that seemed too cocky.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Lopez asked.

  “Not that it concerns you, Senior Agent, but my group is dealing with the Red Brigades. They’re not going to get away with what they’ve done.”

  “You’re implanting on them?” Lopez asked, his voice rising.

  Moats nodded.

  “What possible benefit is that to the security of the United States?” Lopez asked.

  Silence.

  Lopez glared at Moats. “That’s nothing but pure revenge!”

  Moats’s face turned a deep crimson. He looked back and forth between Lopez and Hyde. “Those goddamned scumbags are already turning on each other. We’re getting information about all kinds of terrorist activity. We may even do off with the person who authorized their execution of Prime Minister Moro!”

  Lopez rose from his chair so fast it almost flipped backwards. “You do whatever you want. I’m not going through NOCTURN again until this is settled. I’m going to tell my men what’s happened and suggest they suspend their dream links.”

  Moats exploded from his seat and towered over Lopez. “Try it and you’ll be one sorry sonofabitch—”

  “Gentlemen, calm, please,” Hyde shouted. He stood behind his desk, motioning them back down.

  Eyes locked, Lopez and Moats simultaneously found their chairs.

  “Hector,” Hyde said, exhaling, “Perhaps someone from the outside, from another organization, linked to Agent Imbo’s dream. We have our top people developing dream-blocking technology to ensure that no one can invade our dreams. That process will take time, and we don’t need a panic here in the meantime. I want you to take a few days away. I will tell the men that you are ill and not to be disturbed.”

  “I don’t need a timeout.”

  “Senior Agent Lopez, that choice is no longer yours to make,” Hyde said. “I am going to request additional resources for our investigation, but we will proceed with our operations. We will move forward very carefully.”

  “Because that’s what’s best for the two of you and your careers?”

  “That will be all, Senior Agent,” Hyde said.

  Lopez had already gotten up from his chair and was on his way out of the office.

  Dr. Hyde avoided suspending Lopez by putting him on an OIA site restriction. He could not enter headquarters or contact anyone for a week. It would matter little.

  It was to be the final day of operation for the Oneirology Institute of America.

  *****

  A few minutes after midnight, while lucid dream exercising, Lopez ran his normal route along Oceanside Beach. Street signs changed from one name to another, and he ran past more than one famous person. These signals reminded him that he was dreaming. Often during his dream runs, Lopez entertained himself by controlling his surroundings; he would manipulate the sunlight, change the hue of the surf, and play with the colors of his surroundings. His favorite color palate consisted of a corn-tortilla colored sky, above an ocean of salsa sauce, with margarita lime waves crashing onto a white beach. However, after the meeting with Hyde and Moats, he was in no mood for food, or fun.

  As he passed beneath the Oceanside pier just north of Mission Avenue, the waves retracted farther into a choppy, gray ocean. Dark storm clouds rolled in. Above, a bolt of lightning sizzled across the night sky.

  Lopez skidded to a stop and attempted to make the sun return. Nothing happened. He walked away from the pier, when he heard a woman’s voice from behind.

  “Is it you?”

  He turned and saw nothing. Since his final conversation with Imbo, he’d been more anxious while dreaming. Lopez took two steps back in his original direction, still attempting to bring back light to the dream.

  “He was right. It is you!”

  Lopez spun. A female figure emerged from under the pier.

  Emilia Libera, of the Red Brigades!

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Lopez asked walking toward her.

  “If you really want to know,” the ugly woman said, “come and see!”

  She turned and darted beneath the pier to the other side. Lopez followed in pursuit, but before he reached the pier, everything underneath it turned black. Later he would make excuses to himself, but down deep his instincts told him to let her go.

  As he passed under the pier, a force propelled him forward, downward. He plummeted in darkness through a tunnel for the span of nearly a minute.

  Then, as though nothing had happened, he ran out from the opposite end of the pier.

  Lopez heard the clang of a bell.

  “Welcome, Hector.” The raspy male voice spoke his name with authority.

  I’m at home in my own bed, Lopez thought. Wake up!

  Nothing. He tried again.

  “Hector, you are not where you think you are. Come and see!”

  Something’s holding me here.

  Lopez broke into a sprint. As his feet trudged through the semi-soft sand, he again tried to wake up. Unlike the previous nightmare, he was not confused. He knew that this wasn’t a mission; it was his own dream.

  “Do not run, Hector. We need to talk.”

  The ocean waves disappeared. The sea was dead calm for a moment, and then it began to churn and boil. Scalding coils of steam rose like snakes as the ocean receded.

  En masse, the sand began shifting backwards. Lopez’s legs thudded down on the wet sand, but he made no progress. He started moving in reverse.

  “Hector, do not be afraid. I merely wish to talk.”

  Sand kernels jumped up from the vibrations as the beach moved in conveyor-belt fashion toward the pier. Lopez stopped trying to flee and stared as a wave of sand granules propelled him up a handicap ramp, around to the pier walkway, and across the wooden planks.

  The voice floated from where the long platform met the sea. “As I told you, Hector, you are not where you think you are!”

  A brooding sea surrounded the pier—the heat escaping upward around him. It felt as though he was on a spoon above a simmering pot, and sliding toward the edge. Nearing the end of the darkened pier, the sand transport slowed. Lopez stopped ten feet away from a figure that stepped from the shadows. When he saw the face, his jaw dropped. It was his abuelito, his grandfather who had died when Lopez was twelve-years old.

  “What? How?” Lopez stammered.

  A wry smile spread across the figure’s wrinkled face. “Do not be alarmed. I chose this form because I did not want you to be frightened of me. I mean you no harm—no harm at all.”

  “You don’t want me to fear you? Then, what’s with the dark skies and boiling ocean?”

  “Hector, there is a difference between fear and respect. I need you to know that I’m not to be taken lightly.” The voice was hoarse, not at all like his abuelito’s.

  “So you might just have Emilia Libera jump out and attack me whenever you want?”

  “No, no. Do not be afraid. I merely used her image to get you into that portal to my dimension.”

  “Good to know. So, what is this place?”

  “This dimension is called the Spatium Quartus. It exists parallel to your dimension.”

  “So are you a Jedi knight or a Cylon?”

  Lopez thought he saw the image flicker, like a torch in a strong wind, but he could have imagined it.

  “I am known as Luzveyn Dred.”

  Lopez was in no mood for chit chat. “Why am I here?”

  “Hector, I need your help. I connect to your world, your people, through your dreams. The more focused my power in them, the greater a force I can become in your world.”

  Lopez squinted. “Why would your having power in our world be a good thing?”

  “We need not discuss that, Hector. Instead, let us focus on you.”

  “Oh, joy,” Lopez retorted.

  “Heed wha
t I say, Hector. The work I would have you do is not very different from the tasks you have been performing for the OIA, and abundant rewards will be bestowed upon you.”

  “Abundant rewards? Oh, is this a timeshare sale?”

  This time, Lopez was certain the image flickered as though sapped of energy for a split second before regaining power.

  “Come now, Hector, be serious. I shall make you a powerful warrior, and eventually a king. You will have dominion over vast enterprises; nothing that you long for will elude your grasp.”

  “If you want me serious, then answer my original question. Why would your having power in our world be a good thing?”

  “Your people need strong leadership. They crave it because they are weak. Look at the leaders to which your world has been drawn. Left on your own, you waste your lives with petty, insignificant worries: How will you earn a living? Who will be your mate? Where will your children go to school? What kind of grades will they earn? If all that is not meaningless enough in the vast scheme of the universe, you take it a step further. Your lives are run by commercialism and self-serving attitudes. Where will you vacation? What brand of car should you purchase? When will you get cable television? Meanwhile, you betray each other with income inequities, racial prejudices and gender discrimination. Much of the human race would rather watch their neighbor bleed to death than extend a helping hand. Your lives are drab, meaningless, and pathetic. Think of the benefits you can bring your people, especially the Mexican people.”

  “What was that thing about cable TV?” Lopez asked in deadpan fashion.

  Luzveyn Dred flickered, popped, and began to emit a sulfurous odor. “After all,” he said, “look at what they did to you because of your brown skin.”

  “’Scuze me?” Lopez kicked away a tuft of sand. Standing on the stuff made him nervous.

  “Come now, Hector, the OIA – they discriminated against you because of your race.”

  “What are you talking about, and where are you getting your information?”

  “Hector, you are not so naïve. Why were you passed up for promotion? Why did they not listen to you about Joseph Imbo?”

  Lopez ignored the questions and went on instinct. “Did you have Joe killed?”

  Above, lightning flashed, illuminating dozens of celestial, ghost-like images hanging from the starless sky. In the distance, one of the images elongated and then, like dripping molasses, oozed toward the ground.