Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 (29 page)

“That’s just curiosity.”

Aren’t we all curious? I am, and listen to existence, which is bursting with things to say, just not with words. We use words, but they are only a vehicle. The cargo is thought, and that language is universal.

“And you learn anything easy,” he says. “Like it’s no work, no struggle. I don’t understand that. I can’t do that, so to me it makes you different.”

“That’s not skill at studying, it’s because I already know. Think about it, after all these lifetimes, I’m not learning it for the first time, I remember it from before. All it takes is a trigger to spark the memory, a reminder. Doesn’t it work that way for everyone?”

“I don’t know, I guess it could. You make it sound so simple. For me learning is never that simple, it’s hard work.”

“You’re trying too much. Don’t bother to remember every detail, like being forced to recite it the next day. That’s not learning, that’s memorizing, and it doesn’t work. Just relax and absorb it, and let the mind file it away. That doesn’t take any special skill, other than trusting your mind to retain it. Then later, when there’s a use for it, the mind will deliver, driven by necessity.”

“Still sounds too easy, at least, compared to the rest of us. You have something else, something different.”

“That’s desire—to know, to be, and to alter existence.” I wave a hand across the sky and starlight, a cosmos of infinite possibilities. “I don’t know where it comes from, and really, I don’t care. All I know is it exists within me. It exists in everyone.”

“Maybe, but not to the same degree as you. I’m damned glad you’re not the enemy. I think I would lose.”

* * *

Our trek along the highway brings us to a small town, quiet and dark. As we advance along a central avenue, the sleepy town grows around us, buildings one and two stories, all dormant at this early hour. However, beyond an approaching intersection, there is activity.

Around the corner are bright lights atop tall poles, shining down on sections of torn up pavement, surrounded by backhoes and dump trucks. The street is full of construction workers wearing orange vests and yellow hardhats, shoveling dirt, others hauling scaffolding and tools, more erecting wooden road barriers. I’ve seen this before—in the dream. But I’m not dreaming now, I’m fairly sure, as enough time has passed without any nonsense showing up. Which is perhaps one way to detect a dream—the sense of time. In reality, time is rigid, orderly. But in dreams it’s all screwed up, moving fast then slow, unrealistic. Like a rubber band stretching out and snapping back. The physical world would never allow such a thing, having rules to enforce. But then, while rules may not be broken, perhaps they could be stretched—like a rubber band.

As we approach the workers, one of them notices us. “Hello, sir,” he says. “Is there a problem? We’re following the plans to the letter.”

I assume an authoritative tone. “Yes, the work is satisfactory. However, there is an important matter at hand.”

“Certainly, sir, and what is that? Do you require our assistance?”

He appears eager to please, as though we might torture him if he doesn’t obey. I suppose we would, if we were actual Bobs.

“You will assist us immediately,” I say. “My associate and I require transport to headquarters. You will comply.”

“Of course, sir, but I don’t understand. Where is your vehicle? This is all very unusual. Not that it’s a problem, I just . . .”

“Information that we may not disclose. I could elaborate, but then of course, we would have to see you terminated. Standard security measures, you understand.”

His eyes fill with fright. “Yes, sir,” he says, backing away. “I’ll take you immediately. I’ll take you myself.” He scrambles into an orange pickup truck loaded with tools, wooden barriers, and safety cones.

Dave leaks a grin, and we climb into the cab. The construction worker throws the truck in gear and speeds onto the highway like we’re being chased by a killer wave. Not only does he drive well above the speed limit, he turns on flashing yellow lights, as if it’s an emergency. Maybe for him.

“Supplementary lighting will not be necessary,” I say. “Drive at the proper speed and return to standard headlights only. There shall be no unusual activity. You will comply.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” He kills the extra lights and slows the vehicle, then remains silent as he ferries us to our destination. The lack of conversation is uncomfortable. I might ask his name, or engage in a minor chat, but either could expose that we are not genuine. Instead, miles of darkened highway pass as three guys stare straight out the windshield.

* * *

By sunrise we arrive at headquarters, the ominous black tower where I was interviewed and nearly fried. Morning brings light to the city, but as before, little hint of actual sun
shine.
Just a dull glow behind the perpetual gray overcast.

We get out of the truck and the construction worker makes a quick exit, tires screeching before the door even slaps shut. I take it he doesn’t like this place any better than we do.

Dave’s expression is appropriate for the costume—such trepidation that he is without emotion. I know the feeling, and hope to appear the same. Just don’t smile, they don’t do that.

Wide steps rise to the entrance. The building is constructed entirely of black glass, concealing what hideous torture may be going on inside. As we scale the steps, I gaze up at the darkened panes, pondering which of the many windows is the one I peered out of during my time as a prisoner. Now I’m going back? I’m nuts. But I have to. Christina could be past any one of those windows, looking out this very instant. She might even see us, but she wouldn’t know it’s me, coming to save her.

Tall glass doors slide open, and two Bobs exit the building. They notice us. They look disturbed. Something is wrong. They hurry down the steps, coming straight for us.

“What are you doing here?” one calls out.

I can do this. Keep it cool. Don’t let the fear show.

“Returning from patrol,” I announce, assuming an authoritative tone. “Our craft was shot down by rebel spies.”

The Bobs halt before us, one step higher. “Rebel spies?” one asks.

My heart falls into my stomach. His emotionless stare says it all—he doesn’t believe a word of this. An unnerving silence passes as the Bobs exchange puzzled glances. Then, to my surprise, they erupt in a roar of laughter. What? I thought these guys never laughed. They just never laughed around me, the real me, since they hate the real me.

“What spies?” Bob asks, still chuckling. “This is a joke, right? Come on, what’s the punch line?”

Now we’re in Dave’s territory. They think I’m kidding. What do I say?

Dave beats me to it. “The rebel spies infiltrating headquarters.”

Dave!

Any minute I’ll be back in that furnace, burnt to a crisp. Or maybe not—the Bobs keep laughing.

“That’s a good one,” Bob says. “Rebel spies, that’s hilarious. And they’re infiltrating headquarters. Ha!”

His buddy says, “Yeah, like they’re smart enough to spy on anything. I suppose they tortured you, too.”

Dave glances at me and smiles, even though Matt worked so hard to convince us otherwise. But he’s right—his response blends perfectly with the situation. I reluctantly grin and force a chuckle, as if our funny little chat is refreshing.

The Bobs continue down the steps, laughter dwindling.

Quietly, I ask, “Dave, are you insane?”

“No, I’m clever. There’s a difference.”

“But what you said.”

“It was the obvious conclusion. You started a funny, I just finished up.”

“A funny?”

“You know, a joke. Something I know about.”

“And this something you know about, it told you to say
that?
”

“Sure. Just like any joke, you tell a serious story then end it with something ridiculous, something that doesn’t fit with the rest. That’s humor—ridiculous contrast.”

“Okay, so it worked,” I admit, though can’t begin to imagine how. “But of all the things you could say, why that? It was nearly the truth.”

“Best way to hide the truth is not hide it at all. Lay it out in plain sight, but make it so incredible and farfetched, it’s unbelievable, like a joke. That makes it invisible.”

“Is there a school where you learn this stuff?”

He shrugs. “Raw instinct.”

* * *

The tall glass doors slide apart, opening to a spacious lobby perfectly clean, rather businesslike with nothing out of place, since it lacks anything that could be out of place. The walls are completely bare, not a single piece of art, sculpture or vase, even a plant or two. No sofa or chairs to make a waiting area, only one long reception counter far across the lobby, that feels half a block away. But plenty of light, calling attention to our entrance—we’re on display.

Intersecting the lobby, a wide corridor stretches out endlessly, the gleam of polished flooring giving the semblance of a distant mirage. Directly ahead, an older woman is stationed behind the reception counter. She rises to study us, her expression of concern suggesting we may appear out of place. I’ve hardly recovered from the last confrontation.

From the corridor, a platoon of Bobs approach the lobby, their boot-steps growing louder as they march neatly aligned eight abreast, some kind of drill or morning exercise. As the woman prepares to come around the counter and interrogate us, the regiment crosses the lobby, obscuring her view. Thinking fast, I pull Dave into formation and join the crowd, hoping to blend in and confuse her. She needn’t know about us rebel spies infiltrating headquarters.

Mixed in with the Bobs, we keep marching and don’t look back, that would be unusual. Better to obediently advance like all the rest, eyes fixed forward, and hope she’s lost track of us.

The platoon marches through one hallway after another, each identical to the last. Regimented exercise may benefit those obsessed with conformity, molding the participants into duplicates so precise even their limbs move in unison, but for our purposes, we’re only killing time until we’re caught.

Along the hallway are closed doors. Nothing is labeled, leaving me to guess which one might be the janitor’s closet or similar quiet space. Anywhere out of sight where I can dream up the rest of this floundering plan. The next door looks as good as any. As the column marches past, I signal for Dave to follow, pull the door open, and we slip inside.

Bad choice.

* * *

The guy behind the desk isn’t the janitor. Same helmet hair, though gray around the edges, he appears a man of status, wearing a longer coat with medals pinned to his chest. He’s reading papers, which he slaps down on the desk.

“I beg your pardon.”

Instinct screams to turn about face and go back to marching, except for the vision of armed Bobs filling the hallway after this guy sounds the alarm.

“Forgive me, sir,” I say. “We didn’t mean to—”

“Do you have business here?” he asks.

“Yes, sir, we do.”

He hollers, “Without an appointment!”

On the desk is a name plaque—General Carver. Great, just my luck.

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“This is highly irregular.” He rises from his lofty throne. “Your business here had better be of the utmost importance.”

“Yes, sir, very important,” I inform him. Unfortunately, no one informed me. I’ve no clue what business to pretend, important or otherwise.

“Well!” he hollers. “Have you come here to waste my time?”

“Oh no, sir, not at all,” I say, trying to please the ornery bastard. “I wouldn’t dream of wasting your time. I can see you’re a very important man.”

Palms flat on the desk, the general leans over it to lock a stare on me. “One more word other than your business and you will find yourself mining stethorus droppings on Shezarus-nine.”

A nasty lump swells in my throat—it’s showtime. I look to Dave, hoping for a clever punch line. He stares ahead mindlessly like an emotionless robot, just as we had rehearsed. Great, I’m stuck with the lead role.

“I am Special Agent Bob,” I explain, conjuring a tone of confidence. “And this is my associate, Agent Roberts. We have been sent here by the Intelligence Department.”

“Intelligence? What are they up to? Now look here, unscheduled visits from any department violate standard procedure. I received no memo.”

“Oh no, sir, there can be no memos.”

“And why not?”

Come on, Dave, let’s have that punch line.

The general looks us over during a tense silence, then plops down in his seat and twists to face a computer terminal. “I’m done with you two. Let’s have your numbers. You’re both going down for discipline.”

Unfortunately, I did not foresee a need for numbers, precisely why we have none. I might dream up some random digits, but the computer will likely respond
invalid,
leading to far worse than discipline.

“I’m sorry, sir, we are unable to give you any numbers.”

Like Dave said, tell a ridiculous truth, right?

“You had better give me your numbers this instant, soldier, or—”

“I’m sorry, sir, we can’t do that.”

“And why not!” he hollers.

I step forward, hoping to add a sense of urgency. “We’re conducting a secret mission.”

“I don’t care if it’s a secret, I expect a memo.”

“Oh no, sir, our mission is so secret it bears no name, and when discussed, may only be referred to as code name, Project X.”

“All operations must be documented per the fundamental directive, and that includes Intelligence operations, secret or otherwise.”

“But you see, sir, this is a special case. Project X is so secret, its existence can be revealed only to those in positions of authority, such as yourself.”

“We’ll just see what Intelligence has to say about this.” He reaches for the phone.

“Oh no, sir, you don’t want to do that. Project X is top, top secret, so secret in fact, our presence here will be denied by all personnel involved, even ourselves. There can be no memos, or potentially recorded phone conversations. It is vital that we ensure your deniability.”