by Sarah Noffke
“If no one else wants to try and weasel out of this mission then I’ll continue.” Ren scans our faces. “Very well then. The Voyageurs have spent all their efforts honing their mental abilities. It’s how they guide and guard themselves. For this reason it makes infiltrating their drab bearings too easy. However, if you find yourself face to face with one of them then you better cut your throat before they make you. They use their mental abilities for evil deeds and will spare no expense to make you bleed your last drop if they think you need to be punished.” Ren sounds extra bitter. Between him and Trey I’m starting to notice a correlated pattern of hate toward the Voyageurs.
“You’ve already heard about the head honcho, Pierre. He wears a snotty expression on his face at all times. That’s how you’ll spot him. He’ll spot you using his telepathy, which is stronger than the electricity powering all of London. If you’re anywhere near him, he’s going to bore into your brain like a saw. He’ll know everything you’ve thought since you were old enough to construct anything of use. When you’re finally looking into his eyes he’ll already know the slightest thoughts you had when you were whimpering in the schoolyards hiding from bullies. No matter how insignificant, Pierre will know your thoughts, and he will use this insignificant knowledge to overpower, confuse, and destroy you.”
Ren paces, looking at each one of us. He’s walking with a limp. Allouette did a pretty bad job on him. Or a pretty good one depending on how I look at it. “The only strategy you can hope to use against Pierre,” Ren continues, “is to shield yourself from his menacing probe of a brain. I taught you how to do this when facing Zhuang, but Pierre will be different. Furthermore, only Roya faced Zhuang, and I guess we can count Joseph too if getting briefly sliced counts. Telepathy is an extremely different beast when you’re in close proximity to someone. Samara can attest to this. For this reason the shield is even more important. If you fail to guard yourself from Pierre, he will find your darkest and deepest thoughts and use them to knock you down, distract you, and then he’ll send in his minions to finish you off.”
I hate to admit it, but once again one of Ren’s speeches has sent shivers through me. In my vision, the one where Pierre was playing chess, I remember thinking something was disturbingly off about him. At the time it was an interesting observation. Now that I know I’ll have to face this guy, the observation is now chilling. The Head Officials expect us to break into the headquarters of a conniving, psychopathic genius. Something tells me we aren’t going to just waltz into his lair and steal Aiden back.
Ren charges into the practical aspect of the lecture. I’m grateful for the distraction so I can bury these thoughts of worry, at least for the moment. We spend the rest of the time learning how to put up these shields and detect when Pierre, or anyone else, is trying to pull information out of our brains. As usual I jot down pages of notes, but when Ren shoots a glance at me I pretend to be bored. This is a hard act to keep up, but I know it’s worth it.
Chapter Eighteen
I have no choice but to attend dinner since I skipped lunch. Although I’m not hungry I know I have to eat or suffer the consequences later. I’m shoving down some leafy greens when Joseph sits at the table. He glances at me, then shamefully looks away. What’s his deal? At least he’s showing up at meal time, which he hasn’t done in a while. Still, it bothers me that I can’t figure out what’s going on with him. Since we’re twins shouldn’t I be able to pick up his activity? He always knows when I’m lying or what I’ve been doing. This is rarely the case for me, especially lately. Joseph woofs down his sandwich and charges off looking angry.
I return to my swamp of a salad, which my heavy hand has drenched in too much dressing. The plate makes a screeching sound when I push it away. George is staring at me with a consoling expression, something he’s been doing often, and it annoys me. I cut my eyes back to the table. He might think this whole catastrophe has erased his misdeeds, but he’s wrong. All I want is Aiden back safely, but when he is it won’t change how mad I am at the two of them for working on the emotional modifier.
♦
After dinner I go for a run. It’s just about the only thing in the world that feels right at the current time. Each mile I’m weakened by new worries regarding Aiden: What’s going on with him right now? Are they interrogating him? Starving him? Torturing him?
I don’t run from these worries though. I invite each one into my heart and mind. At the doorstep of my emotional threshold I greet them like a perfect host. Each worry tracks mud into my home and dirties the furniture. I grit and bear my houseguests. Their time with me will be short-lived. Samara told me that processing thoughts was the way to remove them from the mainstream. I’m bent on processing these thoughts and emotions faster than ever. My worries can’t be sitting on the top of my consciousness where someone can fish for them and realize how weak I am. I run. Sweat. Think. Feel.
At the six-mile mark I break through a wall. It feels like I’m starting to progress with this whole processing thing. Then Andrew Belle begins singing in my head. His haunting voice grabs me by the sternum and shakes. All of a sudden I’m sprinting. Shaking. Crying. The ache that was only in my belly now has taken over my chest. I’m a breath away from screaming. But I don’t. I just run. Until I can’t anymore.
After a terribly cold shower I pace my room, wondering why I’m not exhausted. A run that long and hard should make me want to sleep for days. I can’t dream travel, and falling asleep right now is impossible. It feels like I’ll never be tired. Fueled by frustration I throw myself on my neatly made bed and roll over. Something sharp pokes me in the back. The corner of the book I was reading last night. It’s a collection of poetry from American writers. If anything is going to soothe me now it will be poetry. I thumb through it and randomly stop to read a page. It’s a poem by Emily Dickinson. A rare poem of hers I’ve never read:
I never lost as much but twice,
And that was in the sod
Twice have I stood a beggar
Before the door of God!
Angels—twice descending
Reimbursed my store—
Burglar! Banker—Father!
I am poor once more!
I acutely relate to this poem. So much so that it brings back the sorrow all over again. I curse the poets, the songwriters, and anyone else whose job it is to make me feel.
This challenge to rescue Aiden will be my second one for the Lucidites. The first time I took on their challenge I felt like I lost everything: my home, my family, my identity. Here I am again, not even a month later, taking on another challenge for them. I stand on the edge of this rocky shore and peer down, realizing all I stand to lose this time: Aiden, Joseph, my friends, my life. The ache is brief this time and I’m glad for that. My eyelids have a sudden heavy pressure on them. Finally. I pull the covers over my head and force the current world out.
Sleep delivers me strange and awful dreams. Multiple times I try to pull out of the nightmares and back to my reality, but they hold me captive. Knives slash at my unclothed skin. Darkness surrounds me as I clutch for a wall, furniture, or anything to guide my way. And in all the dreams the constant ominous clunking thunders all around me. It’s a clue, I think, but to what? In some dreams I try to find its origin and in others I run from it. And I’m always running—from something. Each corner brings a dread of finding that which wants to find me, end me. Facing fears is not something I aspire to right now.
Blissful dreams are of my highest aspiration, but they elude me. Again and again I’m held prisoner by my subconscious. It forces gory images into my mind. Confronts me with my insecurities. Takes me to terrible places. Too many of my dreams include Whitney. Over and over I’ve watched her die, arrived too late to save her. The blade had already done its damage by the time I showed up to find Whitney’s apologetic eyes and Zhuang’s triumphant grin. Whitney always wears an ashamed face, like it’s her fault that she died. Her fault that I didn’t react fast enough to save her.
When I’m not failing Whitney I’m fighting, blocking, defending myself against impossibly fast strikes and fists made of steel. I never win. Each attack pushes me further and further until I fall into a vat of hot, thick liquid—where I drown. Dream after dream I fail. I drown. I’m held against my will until my alarm clock screeches its usual wakeup call. I slap the button, never happier to hear the high-pitched wailing.
Twisted bed sheets sit in a heap on the floor. A crumpled pillow lies on the opposite side of the room. Sweat mats my hair to my head, soaks my shirt. I am dread and fear incarnate right now. Every part of me is a result of not wanting my current reality to be real. And I’ve had just about enough of it.
“No more,” I say aloud to the empty room. My voice sounds shredded from the tears I’ve cried.
Terror races through me every time I think about the mission I’m leading. This is harder than facing Zhuang because my worry for Aiden constantly drains my reserves. Fear coats every strategic thought, disabling my mental faculties—which I need most to survive. As much as I’ve tried to resist the way I feel for him, my emotions run too deep. Nothing changes them, not even this situation. But this sorrow for Aiden and the dread of failing him will end us all. Every day I feel my love for him weakening me.
This path I’m on is getting me nowhere. I have to let go of the grief—and the love—because if I don’t then I might as well stand down from this challenge now. I have a mission to do. And the only way to do it successfully is by disconnecting. Otherwise my dreams will be plagued by new nightmares, ones where I didn’t save Aiden, was responsible for more people dying, failed again and again to overcome my fears.
If I don’t become someone new, then I will forever be haunted by inevitable failures. If I don’t isolate my emotions, then they’ll get me and everyone else killed.
A switch flips in me and a robot takes over. I welcome its presence. The beat of my heart slows; its temperature drops a few degrees. For the first time in days I see everything in a linear fashion. Black and white. Suddenly I’m not a person with emotions and desires. I’m a machine with hardwiring and programming. Every machine has a purpose. Mine is to obtain what was stolen from the Lucidites. I will train. Focus. Complete mission. Move on.
And just like that I shut down a part of me, the part that made me love. The part that made me weak. No attachments.
Chapter Nineteen
Habitually I skip breakfast the next morning. The old Roya missed meals because of a lack of hunger. But the new Roya is more logical and knows that all good machines run on fuel. I detour by the main hall on the way to my first session and grab a protein bar.
Just as training with Shuman begins I manage to slide into the classroom. She’s already standing at the front talking. “George,” she says, pointing at him, “what am I feeling right now?”
“I don’t know,” he says after a long pause.
“Why?” she says, standing with her arms crossed.
“I don’t know,” he says after obvious deliberation.
“Try harder,” she orders. The rattlesnake tattoo on her arm pulses when her muscles flex.
“I am,” George says bitterly.
“Zhuang,” Shuman says, turning her focus on the rest of us, “did not use this shielding because he did not care if you spied what was in his head or heart. To his fault he believed that even if you read his thoughts he would still defeat Roya. I believe he probably cared far less about the emotions in his heart. He was arrogant and saw no point in wasting energy on shielding.”
Shuman raises her chin in the air, a self-assured look on her unyielding face. “The Lucidites do not practice shielding much because we are a trusting society,” she says matter-of-factly. There’s a pause and she adds, “This is my judgment anyway.” Briefly our eyes meet before she focuses on the back wall. “Each of you must make this decision on your own, since trust is personal and based on private experiences. Still, none of you have dealt with any other Dream Traveler societies. We are a strong race of people and too often this power translates into a corrupt nature. The Voyageurs are neither arrogant nor trusting. They are experts at using shields and it is imperative that you know how to use them too. It is Ren’s responsibility to teach you how to guard yourself against them. Mine is to teach you how to break through their shields.” Shuman cracks her neck with a swift jerk. “And I have every hope you will do this without them perceiving your intrusion. Your fate rests upon this hope, so I encourage you to adopt it as well.”
Shuman pivots, pointing at Samara. “What am I thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Samara says almost instantly.
“That is unacceptable. If you want to survive in the Grotte then you have to try harder, break through my shield—undetected.”
I’m suddenly glad I don’t have what Shuman calls an active power, like Samara’s and George’s. They actively go in and get information. My power is considered to be more passive and is delivered by a universal source. For this reason I don’t have to worry about breaking these shields in order to use my power like George and Samara. Lucky for me my clairvoyance will work the same way it always has.
We spend the rest of the training session learning how to penetrate shields. It’s energy-consuming work. I take a ton of notes although they don’t specifically relate to me. Unfortunately, I’m to spend more of my shielding training working with Ren.
♦
My hardwiring instructs me to eat at lunch time. I do as it commands, filling up on tofu and vegetables. Each bite is followed by robotic chewing where I taste nothing. I only stop eating when a command from my system tells me I’ve had enough. Then I push up from the table, not seeing any of the people I spent the meal with. They could all be droids too for all I care. We have a mission. One I will complete with success. Then move on.
The team and I report to the lecture hall after lunch to train with James. He’s standing behind a desk, teetering back and forth like he’s trying to decide how to balance his weight between his legs. He’s well over six foot tall, but appears harmless and kind, like a gigantic sloth. Curly brown hair springs up away from his head, giving the appearance so often associated with a mad scientist. James isn’t mad when he speaks though, he’s excited, eager. In that way, he reminds me of Aiden. The mention of Aiden’s name in my mind brings no sudden heart palpitations or cold sweats, as I expected. It’s accompanied by no more than data: stolen property, must return, keep unharmed. A satisfied smile spreads along my cold face.
“So,” James begins slowly, “we’re here to discuss the device that will guarantee your survival at the Grotte.” A handkerchief rests over something on the desk in front of James. He picks up one end and yanks it away. “I present to you the modifier!”
My icy heart sinks to the farthest reaches of my chest. Even in machine mode it’s difficult to compute this turn of events. Using this device is against all protocols. It’s vastly against my nature. There’s no overriding that. I know, inherently, that I can’t do something that destroys my moral fiber.
The modifier is not what I expected. I envisioned it like a device similar to the first computer, which was about the size of walk-in closet. Compact and shiny, the modifier could easily fit in the palm of my hand. It’s a small metal cube, with the same brushed stainless steel surface as the walls of the Institute. The modifier appears unassuming and insignificant. Appearances are deceiving, right? In this case they’re downright life altering. It’s hard to believe this device is responsible for shaping lives: mine, Joseph’s, our fake families, as well as countless others—including all the government employees who originally inhabited the Institute.
I’ve tuned out James’s long monologue, which no doubt is praising the many capabilities of the device. He’s been at the front of the room squeaking for over ten minutes about the modifier like it’s a god. I can’t take this nonsense any longer. “What’s the point? Why are we expected to use this demonic device?” I say, not camouflaging the resentment w
ith a more proper emotion.
He stops, straightens, looking put off. “Because it’s the most critical part of our plan to rescue Dr. Livingston.”
Of course it is.
“The plan is that you’ll travel to the Grotte, then generate your body. This part is easy. After that point you’ll be a target for the Voyageurs. If they see you then you’ll be dead and it will all be over. The modifier is your only chance at surviving long enough to find Dr. Livingston.”
“You expect us to use this device? To change the thoughts of the Voyageurs?” I ask in utter disbelief.
“Specifically, as the team captain, I expect you to use it,” he says like he’s talking to a stubborn child.
Me? Of course me. If there’s a God, then he’s laughing at me right now. Good one. You got me.
“And yes,” James continues. “You’ll use it to program the Voyageurs to believe you belong there. This won’t last long against their mental guards,” James warns, looking sullen for the first time. “But it will buy you time. The key is to not do anything to draw too much attention. You see,” he says, striding around the table looking excited, “the modifier will tell them that you all belong there, but not why. This will cause them to invent their own reasons for why you’re there. If you do or say something that contradicts the reality they’ve told themselves then your cover will be blown.”
“If”—Joseph says the word like it contains multiple syllables—“we can use this device on the Voyageurs, because they don’t wear protective charms, then why can’t we tell ’em to give Aiden back and be done with this whole thing?”
James shakes his head, a look of disappointed remorse on his face. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. That’s too big of a message. Their guards are strong and so any message that raises attention will be flagged, examined, and determined to be implanted. It would be easier to recede their minds about them ever abducting Dr. Livingston, but then you’d still have to get in there and rescue him. Our best bet is to use the modifier once for a broad message, one that will protect you all while you’re there and allow you to find Dr. Livingston.”