Ren The Complete Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

  “Yeah, I knew all along this trip was just an attempt to torture me,” she says as the car veers to the right, pulling onto the grassy side of the road.

  “So what is all this about? What tragic event are we stopping?” Adelaide says, her eyes searching the pasture beside the car.

  “We aren’t,” I say, noticing the old farmer tense after eavesdropping and hearing Adelaide’s question. “We are too late.”

  “What? How can that be? You got this event from the news reporting department, right?” she says.

  “Yes, one of the clairvoyants saw it but we knew from the time stamp that by the time we flew and drove out here the event would have already come to pass,” I say, jerking up my arm so that the sleeve of my suit jacket slips back enough to reveal my watch. “The event happened an hour ago.”

  “Well, maybe Aiden should have gone back in time and installed a GAD-C in this location so we could have been here in time,” she says.

  That’s not a horrible idea but of course I won’t tell Adelaide that. And besides, GAD-Cs take an incredibly long time to build and must undergo a significant amount of testing before deemed safe. That’s why there are still only a dozen of them worldwide. And many of those were destroyed in the recent battle.

  “So if this event has already happened then why are we here?” Adelaide says, twirling her long red hair around her pale finger.

  “To investigate,” I say simply as I open the car door. The sun is high in the Alaskan sky although it’s not even morning. This is that revolting part of the northern hemisphere where the sun shines all day in the summer months. Obviously redheads aren’t welcomed here. Worse than the bloody sun seeking to mess with everyone’s circadian rhythm is the fact that the land out here is thick with high grass. My first step into the open prairie and I find a puddle of mud. Hopefully it’s only mud. I turn back to the car where Joe Bob or whatever the fuck his name is stands with his thumbs tucked into his armpits and is whistling loudly. “Come with us,” I say to him.

  He blinks with surprise. “But it sounds like you two are detectives and I’m just a local,” he says.

  “Exactly. I need to ask you questions about what we’re about to find,” I say.

  At this he gives me a cautionary look.

  “Come on already,” Adelaide says to the tentative redneck. “We haven’t got all bloody day.”

  The hick is immediately offended based on the look on his prematurely wrinkled face but he trudges forward anyway.

  “I didn’t understand half of what you two were talkin’ about in the car,” he says.

  “And after this you won’t remember it,” I say to the guy.

  Apparently that doesn’t scare him or he thinks I’m bluffing because he simply nods as he tears a piece of long grass from the earth and sets it between his teeth and starts to chew.

  “Where we headed?” he says, squinting from the sun.

  Using my photographic memory, I recall the path we need to take and set off to the right, pushing the grass away as I move forward. It’s about waist high here.

  “Are there snakes in this area?” Adelaide says.

  “No, ma’am. It’s too cold for ‘em,” the farmer replies. “But even if there were, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them. They’d have heard us coming and slithered away.”

  “You going to give us any hint as to what we are looking for or should we start by playing twenty questions?” Adelaide says, a few feet behind me, the driver behind her.

  “Yes, here’s your hint,” I say, stopping just before the clearing. The grass lies flat here. “If you open your bloody eyes and look around then you’ll see it.”

  “Oh, fuck!” Adelaide says, having come around from behind me and stopped. Her hand claps to her mouth immediately.

  “Jesus Christ,” the man says on my other side. He grabs his cowboy hat off his head and presses it to his chest as he takes in the scene in front of us. The bodies of thirteen dead wolves lie in the grass, lined up one after the other in the open field. They are arranged almost thoughtfully, with their front paws touching the head of the wolf in front of them. And they’ve all had their throats slit exactly the same way, I notice as I near, careful to avoid destroying the crime scene.

  “Watch where you step,” I say.

  “Because of footprints?” Adelaide says.

  “Yes, however, that’s unlikely going to help us much although I never discount a clue. But also traps. We don’t know who we are messing with,” I say.

  The dumb farmer counts the wolves because he can’t do it at a glance like me. “I do believe this is the Lompoc pack,” he says. “This is their territory.”

  I nod. I knew the local could be helpful.

  “Who would do such a thing?” he says. He hasn’t seen what I’ve seen. Jerald or Arnold or whatever his name is doesn’t know that evil is normal in this world. People kill and sabotage this planet for the sheer joy of it. Well, and also because they are greedy fuckers who never think they’ll have enough unless they destroy.

  I kneel down closest to the nearest wolf. At first glance something seems off about the canines and then the answer is obvious.

  “They’ve had all their blood withdrawn,” Adelaide says. She noticed it too based on the animals’ appearance.

  “Yes,” I say, standing. Then I turn to the local. “Have you seen anyone unfamiliar in town or around here?”

  He tugs the grass he’s still chewing on out of his mouth. “Not that I can recall,” he says.

  “Are you familiar with the other packs in this area?” I ask him.

  “Well, sure. There’s a few,” he says.

  “I’m going to allow you to retain your memory of this but I want you to help us keep an eye on these packs. I’m sending three agents out here and you’re going to show them the pack’s territory and share any of their habits. Then you need to be observant and inform the agents if you notice anyone strange lurking around here,” I say.

  “Well, detective, I’d like to help but I’ve got my own responsibilities,” he says.

  “You will help the agents to track the packs,” I say with an intention in the words.

  “Yes sir,” he says at once, easily being influenced by my mind control.

  Then I turn to Adelaide, who is still studying the dead bodies. “We need to go. Let’s dream travel from the car. It’s imperative I get back to the Institute,” I say, and the reason is mostly that I’m exhausted. That’s why I was unable to teleport out here. I’ve momentarily lost the power to use that skill since I have to be in perfect health to do it successfully. Trey also isn’t able to teleport due to his condition. He suffered too much trauma during the battle.

  “Wait, am I one of the agents who gets to work this case?” Adelaide says.

  “Of course not. This is a level five case. Remember you’re observing,” I say.

  “But I can do this,” she argues. “I can help you figure out why this happened.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You lack experience. I already know why this happened. Now I’ve got to figure out how to stop it,” I say.

  “What? You know? Why would someone do this? What do you have to stop?” she says.

  “It’s probably too late to intervene before this project gets off the ground, but I think my suspicions are correct,” I say.

  “What suspicions?” she says.

  “That someone is trying to make werewolves,” I say and turn for the car.

  Chapter Eight

  “I have incredibly fantastic, even, I would dare to say, mind-blowing news for you,” Aiden says when I finally acknowledge his presence. I’ve been standing in his lab for the better part of fifteen minutes, reading through some new research that just pinged my bloody phone.

  “You’re going to stop using ridiculous phrases like ‘mind-blowing’ and adding superfluous adverbs to your dumb announcements?” I ask, mock curiosity written on my face.

  He shakes his head, his li
p tucked between his teeth and a foolish grin on his face.

  “You’ve decided to off yourself so that humanity has a chance of not getting sucked into a fucking black hole, somehow driven by your awful technological experiments?” I say.

  “You’re not even close,” Aiden says, seeming to enjoy this exchange. He really needs to get out of the Institute more, well, at all. “And need I remind you that you’re requiring me to conduct one of these technological experiments.”

  “Reminding me of anything is a surefire way to earn brain damage,” I say.

  “Keep guessing. This is fun,” Aiden says and I almost break his neck right then using the pressure point technique Clint taught me, but I’m a man of great will and so I resist.

  “Well, my greatest hope was you were going to take yourself out after helping me with these projects, but it sounds like alas my dreams won’t come to fruition.” Then a rehearsed spark lights up my eyes and I connect with Aiden. “You’ve figured out how to make women more tolerable and are giving me the technology to test on Adelaide? Is that right? And this technology definitely still has bugs in it and could fry her brain, but this is a chance we are all willing to take for a better tomorrow?” I say in one rushed string of words.

  He laughs. “Adelaide is hilarious to have around. Most people don’t warm to her immediately, but she reminds me of one of my favorite people and I find her humor to be extremely awesome.”

  I narrow my eyes at the dimwit. “Extremely and awesome should never be paired. Putting them together is like calling something very unique. It is simply a waste of words.” I look up to the heavens. “God, am I the only human you created who is practiced in my use of words?”

  “He probably won’t answer that question,” Aiden says with a chuckle. “I ask God all sorts of questions, but only science ever answers back.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I say, lowering my chin. “So no technology that will make Adelaide more tolerable, then? What’s the good news? And if it’s that you got a new pair of sneakers then consider yourself about to be buried in them.”

  “Well, remember the unbelievably impossible task you asked me to look into?” he says.

  I ground my teeth together at the “remember” question. Aiden positions all questions that way knowing full well that I remember everything and loathe being spoken to like I’m one of his scientists. “So you’ve made progress with converting a Middling to a Dream Traveler?” I say, hoping the excitement doesn’t show in my voice.

  “If by progress, you mean that I’m pretty sure I’ve nailed a process we can try, then totally,” he says.

  “Are you sure it will work? You haven’t been working on it that long,” I say, now realizing that I have nothing to lose and yet I could definitely fuck up everything if this doesn’t go right.

  “No. Each part of the protocol will need extensive testing. I created simulations, and they work, but that’s all theoretical. To really have a conversion method we’re confident will work will take years of testing. Actually, I’m entirely surprised that I found a series of methods that make any of this possible. I really went into the experiment with a great deal of skepticism,” Aiden says, his voice squeaking with excitement.

  “That’s because you’re small-minded and a loser,” I say. “And we don’t have years to do testing. I want to try this on a Middling as soon as possible.”

  “I really can’t allow that,” Aiden says, his voice turning unusually serious. “Testing on a Middling at this stage is premature and completely dangerous. What we have to do is isolate each of the components of the process and test them individually. Take samples which—”

  “NO!” I say, my voice louder than I’ve ever heard it. I’m typically an even-toned person.

  Aiden, who knows this about me, straightens reflexively. His eyes widen behind his black-rimmed glasses.

  “I don’t have the time to waste experimenting. If you have something that you think could work to convert a Middling to a Dream Traveler, then I want to try it now,” I say. No one knows Dahlia is sick. We’ve kept it from everyone because it’s none of their bloody business. And of course Aiden, not understanding anything about my current affairs, is shocked that I’d take such a risk, when that’s never been my style. I’m calculated. Strategic. But I’ve had to abandon some of those practices lately and this is one of those times.

  “Well, I guess if your subject signs off on the potential dangers then—”

  “That’s not a problem,” I say, cutting him off again.

  “But this person may only achieve dream travel briefly. And a psychic ability is unlikely to surface with only limited dream travel experience. And still the possibility of survival is a factor,” he says.

  “None of that is an issue,” I say, coldly, earning another look of surprise. Dream Travelers earn their gift when the parietal lobe is strengthened by multiple occurrences of dream traveling. I know that and that’s not the goal here.

  “Can I ask why you want to do this?” Aiden says, and he doesn’t sound as sheepish as he should. “If I’m conducting this conversion, I’m going to need to know more information about your purpose and your subject.”

  I don’t hesitate with my answer, having expected this question. “You will get all your pretty little questions answered when the time comes. I’ll give you a full profile on my subject so that you know exactly who you’re working with.”

  “That’s good because it’s going to take a round of injections using an untested drug, neural feedback, and some other more unorthodox methods,” Aiden says, and now there’s a weight to his voice, like he’s finally realized I’ve made him an accomplice to something extremely wrong.

  “I’ll send over the subject’s files that have a complete work-up of their current condition and history tomorrow. Then we’ll schedule the treatments and plan out the rest,” I say, sounding cold, like I’m talking about a person I don’t know. One I don’t love.

  Aiden eyes me suspiciously. “Before that. Just tell me why. Why do you want to convert a Middling to a Dream Traveler when from everything I’ve seen of your work, it goes against your moral code? You have never liked it when I meddled with memories or emotions using technology and now you’re asking me to do something far more extreme than my other experiments.”

  I sigh. The truth is that eventually Aiden will know everything. I’m decompartmentalizing some of this work, but in the end he’ll have the whole picture. I might as well sketch out a small bit for now to shut him up. Anything to get him back to work. “Who can access the dreamscape?”

  His eyebrows rise like he’s surprised that I’ve asked such a simple question.

  “Well, Dream Travelers. Never a Middling.” He scratches his chin. “But why would you want a Middling to have access to the dreamscape? It’s just a level of consciousness. A different way to dream.”

  “Exactly. The consciousness of a Dream Traveler can access the dreamscape, and what makes it unique from the physical world?” I say.

  “I dunno,” he says, like I’ve stumped him, but then he recovers. “It’s much vaster than the physical world. It’s limitless. There is more one can do. More potential.”

  “And with that being said, there’s a potential that a consciousness, if it goes through a certain reverse process, can survive in the dreamscape forever,” I say.

  “Wait, reverse process. What does that mean?” he says.

  “We aren’t to that part yet. It will be the next thing we work on, but first we focus on this conversion,” I say.

  He’s silent for a moment. His eyes heavy as they stare at the ground for a long bit. “You’re right though. Under the right circumstances, I believe a consciousness could live in the dreamscape for eternity. I’ve thought about it before. But it would take a unique separation from the body. They aren’t meant to survive without each other.”

  I nod, relieved that he sees the possibility too. “Yes, it would take coming back from the dead, and I’m positive there’s
at least two ways of doing that.”

  Chapter Nine

  The squeaking noise and grinding of metal that I’ve come to associate with Trey Underwood tells me that he’s in his office as I near from the empty corridor. Pulling in a deep breath, I stop when I’m framed in the doorway. There are many hardships I’ve endured in my life. I’ve seen tragedies that would dramatically scar another human being. And yet, most of what I’ve experienced doesn’t give me nightmares or color me with fears. However, every time I look at Trey, the Head Official of the Lucidite Institute, the ache of his suffering hits me and that does keep me up at night. It’s a weight I haven’t carried for many people throughout my life, but no one else is like Trey Underwood and deserving of my empathy.

  My eyes prickle when I rest them on Trey. He’s attempting to make a three-point turn, but the wheelchair is stuck in an awkward place between his gigantic desk and the shelves behind it.

  “Honestly, you should just bite the bullet and opt for a smaller desk,” I say, coming around behind him and evening out the chair. It’s such an odd thing to have to do for the man who sits paralyzed, imprisoned in the wheelchair before me.

  Trey looks up at me, his eyes brimming with the pain he refuses to fully accept, but smiles weakly. “Thanks,” he says, taking the wheels and positioning himself into the opening of the desk. His legs rest on the feet of the chair, frail, having lost their muscle mass. Trey was at the center of one of the more bloody battles that happened months ago. The one I refuse to dwell on. The one they are calling the Dream Traveler apocalypse. He survived, which is all that should matter, but when his mobility was stolen it created a trauma so deep inside him. Trey, the most powerful Dream Traveler I’ve ever known, is powerless now. The shock of the events and the tragedy he endured has caused him not to be able to dream travel or use any of his other powers. He is a skeleton of a man, but if anyone will rally then it will be the man sitting behind this desk.