Awoken (The Lucidites Book 1) Read online

“Good, I’m not late,” Joseph says, taking the chair next to me.

  “How do you know?” I mutter dryly. “Actually we’re all done and waiting for our results.”

  He flashes a sideways smile. “You’re a bad liar.”

  “I’ll work on it.” I pull the magazine up closer to my nose and pretend to read.

  “So, Stark, what’s your talent?” Joseph asks, ignoring my obvious nonverbal cues.

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe you call it a gift. What’s yours?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Joseph rolls his eyes, but smiles still, not looking too put off. “You’re kind of thick, aren’t ya?”

  “You’re kind of annoying, but you don’t see me pointing it out.”

  “You just did,” Joseph snorts, amused.

  My eyes dart back to the article I’ve tried to read a half dozen times now.

  Once again Joseph ignores my attempts at solitude. Rudely he points to a girl across the room; her long whitish blonde hair falls straight over her shoulders and shows no contrast against her pale skin. “That’s Samara. She’s apparently telepathic.” Then he nods his head to a boy with black dreadlocks and a complexion the color of coffee grounds. “That’s Trent. He’s telekinetic, whatever that means. The girl next to him, I don’t know her name, but she’s super smart, and then the girl next to her reads auras.” Joseph gives me a triumphant look. “I could go on, but you get the point.”

  “Are you sure everyone here has a gift or talent or whatever you want to call it?”

  “I’m not certain, but I gather as much.”

  “How do you know?” I ask, despite the urge to ignore this guy.

  “It’s called conversation. You should try havin’ one sometime.”

  “I prefer reading.”

  “Haven’t you talked to anyone since you’ve arrived? How do you not know this yet?”

  “Why would I want to speak to anyone? I’m not here to make friends. I just want this whole thing over with already.”

  “So I’ve gathered.” He then lowers his voice. “Actually, to be quite honest, I’m a little worried because I don’t have any powers. I’ve got no clue what I’m doin’ here. What about you?”

  “Yeah, I’m with you,” I say, happy to have an out. “I’m as normal as they come.”

  Joseph laughs suddenly, making a few kids around us jump with surprise. “Yeah, whatever.”

  I grimace to no effect.

  “Well, I only knew ’bout all this stuff a few days ago. All this is new to me.” His southern drawl is more pronounced now.

  “Me too,” I admit.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” he says.

  I don’t reply.

  “Imagine my surprise when I’m mindin’ my own business, sleeping like I normally do, and Trey happens into my dreams. At first I was pretty skeptical, but he proved himself and now here I am. A Dream Traveler. Who would have thought it?”

  His story sounds oddly like mine. Maybe I’m not the only one behind the pack. This whole gift business makes me uncomfortable though. These other competitors sound like they have real gifts, not just the ability to know when insignificant events are about to occur.

  I have a brief moment to reflect on this while Joseph whistles quietly to himself. The sharp, nasally voice of the woman behind the counter cuts through the tension, bringing everyone out of their fog. “When I call your name please go to the room number that follows. You’ll be given further instructions once inside. If I don’t call your name then you’ll be in the second test group.” She calls six names, each followed by a room number. My name isn’t called.

  Joseph jumps up cheerfully. “That’s me! See ya later.”

  Half an hour later, after I’ve read six different magazines, the participants begin exiting the rooms. They all look bleary-eyed and disoriented. I pretend I don’t see Joseph give me a small wave on his way out.

  The lady behind the counter reads another list of names. Five more strangers are listed. “Roya Stark, room four.” I head to my assigned room. It’s dark. Small. Also windowless. Oddly I don’t think I’ve seen any windows in this place.

  A tall, slender woman wearing a lab coat sits on a stool next to a computer. “Hi, Roya. My name is Amber. Please lie down and we’ll get started.” She indicates the bed next to where she’s sitting. A soft red light is positioned overhead.

  I continue standing and stare at her, trying to will my eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The woman’s long brown hair is pulled back into a low ponytail. Silver loops hang from her ears, catching the light emitting from her computer screen.

  “All right, you can stand while I explain the task,” she says after I don’t move. “This is called the Ganzfeld task and it will test your ability to receive information being sent to you. In a minute, when you’re comfortable, I’m going to put you in a state of sensory deprivation. This is to ensure nothing around you interferes with the prescribed message we’re going to mentally send you. I will also be hooking you up to this EMG machine. The reason for this is it’s imperative you perform this task without going to sleep. You’re forbidden from dream traveling. Instead you’ll focus, stay completely conscious, and tell me the message, if any, you think you’re being sent. Shuman will send you the message. Sometimes knowing who is sending the information will help, that’s why I’m telling you this. When she’s ready she will let us know and then you’ll focus. How does all that sound?”

  Shuman? Really? That’s who’s sending me this message? Good thing I’m indifferent to these results. After casting a skeptical glance at Amber I resign and lie down on the bed. I’ll play the part of a lab rat just this once.

  “Great,” she says with a disingenuous smile. “Now first I’m going to stick a few of these sensors on you.” She begins placing little round, plastic-covered sensors on my head, face, and chest. They’re covered in tape and attached to wires. “Now if you do fall asleep then you’ll be disqualified from this task,” the lady warns. “Next I’m going to place these over your eyes to block out any visual stimulation.” She shows me what appears to be a ping-pong ball sliced in half. I nod consent and close my eyes. Once in place the small circular objects rest precariously along the curvature of my eye sockets. “Lastly I’m about to put headphones over your ears. They will block out any auditory stimulation. When Shuman is ready to send you the message I will tap your wrist three times. Until then you should relax, focus, and stay awake. When you believe you’ve received the message in its entirety then click this.” She places a cylinder object in my hand and positions my finger over a small button. “I’ll record the message and you’ll be free to go.”

  Apparently, there’s no time for questions. The lady promptly clamps headphones over my ears and all I hear from that point forward is static. Unable to see or hear and locked in a closet with an uptight scientist is probably the strangest predicament I’ve been placed in thus far, which is saying a lot. This almost makes me laugh. I suppress it.

  I need a strategy. Something that will help me to open up a channel to receive this message. I picture a telephone. I know the telephone is about to ring. Allowing my mind to remember the sound of Shuman’s voice I imagine she’s on the other end. My breaths lengthen. Deepen. I keep my mind’s eye trained on the telephone. At least ten minutes pass. Sleep trots through my mind, tempting me to follow it many times. I stay alert. Focused. When Amber’s cold, bony fingers tap my wrist I’m alert and ready to proceed.

  I focus on the telephone. Nothing happens. I steal a long breath and decide to pick up the receiver, even though it hasn’t rung. It is light blue and done in the old rotary style. On the other end there’s no dial tone. “Hello,” I hear myself say. There’s no reply. What am I going to do if I don’t get a message? Should I make something up? I lay the receiver back down. The smoothness of the plastic in my hand is real. When the receiver meets the cradle it falls into place comfortably. I stare at the silent phone, willing it to ring.
It sits soundlessly, mocking me with its stillness. Erupting with emotion I yank the receiver off the cradle again and hold it up to my ear.

  Nothing. No dial tone. No voice. No message. I run my fingers along the seam of the front and back part of the receiver in a nervous fashion. Even in my visualizations my strange habits still shine through. I laugh in my mind and swear I hear it out loud, through the static.

  This is stupid. A waste of time. Of resources. Why are we all doing this? It’s absurd. I bring my attention to my physical reality. The remote in my hand. The button just under my finger, waiting to be pushed. That would end this whole experiment.

  As I must do, even in my visualizations, I take the receiver once more and go to replace it on its cradle, where it belongs. When it’s almost there a voice splinters through my consciousness. Low. Muffled. But still it erupts from the light blue phone, catching my attention. With a jerk I hold the receiver to my ear.

  “Incoming. Incoming. Incoming,” the voice on the other end of the line speaks. And then quite clearly it gives a message. Three times it sounds in my head. On the last time I click the button in my hand.

  Amber gently removes the earphones and halved ping-pong balls. Then she turns to her computer and places her hands on the keyboard. “Please tell me the message, if any, you received.”

  I don’t hesitate for a second. I’ve been repeating it in my mind so I don’t forget it. “Shuman said, ‘Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when dreams come true, there is life and joy.’”

  Amber records this with no reaction of confirmation. “Thank you,” she says, tapping one last key. “You’re all done.”

  “When will I know my results?” I ask as she removes the sensors.

  “After dinner.” Amber hastens opening the door, causing the startling bright light from the waiting room to slice into my eyeballs.

  Chapter Seven

  With half an hour to kill before the next task, I decide to explore the Institute. Oddly, everything’s spread out in this place. The Institute must take up an entire city block. It also seems we’re pretty free to go wherever we want. Even so, numerous doors don’t open when I push the button beside them. Arrogant key card scanners stare back at me, snobbishly blocking my way. Still I explore multiple passageways, all with brushed stainless steel walls and blue carpet. Something about this place is strange, besides the fact I almost killed myself to get here. Each floor goes on for miles. And the numbering isn’t always consistent.

  I somehow end up on the fifth floor, which is colder than all the rest. A voice behind me calls out, “Umm, miss, are you lost?”

  I wheel around. An older woman is poking her head through an open door. Her loose curls are pinched in barrettes. The lavender scrubs hang loosely off her bony frame.

  “No, I’m just exploring.”

  “Hmm,” she says, bristling with quiet disapproval. “Well, I’m not sure if this is the right place for that. Are you a contender?”

  I hesitate, trying to figure out what she means. Then it dawns on me. “Yes.”

  “Well,” she says, her withered hands fidgeting. The wrinkles in her face are deep, but her hair and eyes give the impression she’s just a girl. “You see, the thing is, this level is really to be kept without disturbances.”

  She’s trying to be polite. It seems to hurt her to even say what she’s said so far. For this reason, I simply agree and retreat to the elevators.

  The doors open and I walk forward without looking up, running straight into Trey.

  “Excuse me,” he says, stepping back. “I didn’t expect anyone.” Hesitation muddies his expression for a second before he recovers. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just leaving,” I say, stepping into the elevator.

  A worried look passes across his turquoise eyes. “Did you have business down here?”

  “No.” I bite my lip, embarrassed. If we aren’t supposed to be down here then why don’t they block it off with the ample security devices they have? Trey nods and walks down the hallway.

  The button is under my fingertips when something registers. I step back out of the elevator and stride after Trey. He’s halfway down the hall by the time I catch up with him.

  “I’m sorry, but did you say ‘down’ here?” I ask when I’m a couple feet away.

  He turns, looking startled. “Why yes, I did.”

  My eyes catch the yellow and blue medallion he wears around his neck. It looks like curly-yin-yang-type waves. “But we’re on the fifth floor?”

  “Level,” he corrects.

  The woman in the lavender scrubs returns to the door, looking at me with disapproval. A beeping sounds off behind her.

  “Mr. Underwood,” she calls urgently. “I think you should get in here.”

  He turns to me. “Roya, I believe your second task is about to begin. We’ll talk later.”

  As I head for the second task, I mull over what has happened over the last few minutes. What did Trey mean by level? How’s that any different than floor? And what’s that lady protecting? What was the beeping? One thing I’m certain of is this place is full of secrets. Intrigued, I make a silent plan to explore more if given the opportunity. For now though, I have to focus on the upcoming tasks.

  ♦

  I thought the second and third tasks were jokes. Apparently, they weren’t. My performance was. The second task, PK Party, named for a fad created in the eighties, was administered by James, the tallest scientist I’ve ever met. His curly brown hair piled high atop his head overshadowed his prominent canine teeth. He thought it was fascinating that in the eighties people would have parties where they tried to “awaken” their abilities to manipulate metal. The people of this generation sounded dumb and lame, but no one asked me. Since bending metal was apparently quite advanced as far as telekinesis went, we were asked to move a nutshell. He called us into a room individually and placed a single peanut shell at the far end of a table. With all our mental strength we were expected to move the casing. My nutshell sat quite still for a good two minutes. I was then dismissed.

  After eating a sack lunch in a remote hallway I head to the third task. The gymnasium is filled with multiple athletic stations. I should have turned around immediately. During P.E., I spent many solitary hours hanging out on bleachers. My gym coaches had given up on trying to force me to play volleyball or walk around the track. But now in this strange metal box of a compound, I’ll be forced to perform endurance and strength tests in front of a bunch of strangers.

  We’re issued a pair of shorts and T-shirt. I’d decline, but I’m afraid I might sweat in my only set of clothes. Once I change, I line up in front of one of four stations. I’m to perform at each one of them in rotation.

  The only thing that makes me feel any better is that most of the other kids are really quite wimpy too. Most everyone in my line can hardly do more than one pull-up. There are a couple of kids who perform fine, but the rest of us are beet red and exhausted by the end of it.

  “Why is this even a task?” the girl named Samara says between gasps for breath.

  I shrug, guessing she’s probably talking to me.

  “I can’t even lift that bar by itself,” she half laughs, “and the guy asked me how much weight I wanted to add to it.”

  I suppress a snicker. I’d been in the same predicament.

  The next task is kung fu. I shockingly find myself excited. The room for this task is large, with a cushioned floor. Mirrors line one wall. We’re asked to file into four lines. At the front of each line is a person wearing a long-sleeved white top and black pants. One by one we’re called from our line and asked to block assaults.

  I don’t know what to expect when I step in front of the man in the white suit. He bows and then begins throwing punches at me. It all happens too fast. I find the man’s attacks to be obtrusive. Invasive. They strike me, not hard, but in a manner that suggests they can. With every part of my being I try to deflect the assaults but each time one comes at me I
miss it. My arms move aimlessly around as I just hope by luck I’ll block something. Completely out of breath after only thirty seconds of this, I ask him to stop and give me a minute.

  I take this time to gather myself. Everyone stares. I do my best to block them out and focus the way Bruce Lee suggested. After I catch my breath, I open my eyes with a renewed energy. It courses through me like blood in my veins, like the DNA in my being. I step back up and beckon the man forward.

  This time things are different. I see the man’s hands before they move. I sense them seconds before they push the air in front of me. Allowing my mind to follow this blueprint I throw block after block, always in perfect timing. Again my reflexes are heightened. The man raises an eyebrow at me after I block three rapid attempts. Then he straightens and dismisses me with a bow. I file to the end of the line.

  Attacks are the next part of the task. The guys in white suits retrieve boards from the shelves. We’re supposed to break the thin, yet solid pieces of wood. Short, unfulfilling breaths shoot through my chest as the panic takes over. My mind races through my training from the night before trying to find a strategy.

  The first person in my line, a lanky boy, steps up and is instructed to strike the board in any way necessary to break it. With an uncertain jerk he throws a punch into the wood. It doesn’t break, but one of his fingers does. Nervous tension constricts my chest as I watch him cradle his hand with his opposite arm.

  My fists, like stones, hold tight as each person attempts and fails the task. I should be relieved each time another competitor slumps off defeated by a one-inch piece of pinewood. I’m not. This is a million times worse than any gym class. My humiliation is a tethered ball I’ll be unable to retrieve. It wraps around and around the pole, too high above my head for me to send back the other way.

  Samara, the girl with hair like sun-bleached straw, towers in front of me. She’s up next. In a whisper she asks the guy in white to hold the board down low. He does. I’m confused by this request and watch with new interest. Slowly she backs up, seeming to count the paces between her and the board. I take note of her precision, her focus, her confidence. Then in a flash she steps, pulls her foot in, sending her hip back and then launches forward. This is all one movement and the ax kick that follows is a blur. It drives down sharply. The board splits evenly. I take a gulp of air.