KAYLIE WAS ASLEEP. TURNING OVER AND STIRRING FITFULLY, but asleep. There was no such refuge for Archer. Waiting for his father to call with news about Buster was torture. Over the hours, Archer had whipped off a half dozen texts but gotten no response. Still, he clutched the phone and waited.
The phone began to feel warm in his hand. At first, he thought it was his imagination. He’d been nervous, holding the phone too firmly in his grip. But the heat intensified rapidly. In an instant, it became a flare of white-hot pain.
“Agh!” Archer yelped. He dropped his phone onto the bed and shook his throbbing hand.
A raw red welt smoldered in the exact center of his hand. No way, he thought. Tablets and laptops sometimes got hot, Archer knew, but he’d never heard of a cell phone heating up enough to burn. He glared suspiciously at the phone, half hidden in blankets at the foot of the bed, and wondered if it might be a fire hazard.
The burn still stung, so Archer used his left hand and carefully picked the cell up by its outermost corner edge. Then, trying not to startle his sleeping sister, he eased off the bed, tiptoed to his desk, and laid the phone on a plate full of potato chip crumbs. He waved his hand back and forth just above the touch screen but felt no radiating heat. He tapped the phone and laid his fingers on the keyboard: nothing. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t even warm. Archer shook his head and exhaled. It made no sense. But his hand still stung, and the welt was still red and angry.
Heading for the bathroom, Archer slipped down the hallway and paused at Buster’s room. The bed in there was a mess: sheets and covers strewn about, pillows flung all over, and the mattress itself jutted away from the headboard. Luminous blue clock numbers revealed it to be 4:16 a.m.
Dad and Buster had been gone since midnight, and yet no word had come from the hospital. Not good news. Archer stepped into the hall bathroom, refusing to look at the stairwell. The water from the sink felt shockingly cold on the burn, but as it continued to run, it became more soothing.
After a minute, Archer looked at his hand. The welt had shrunk to a reddish-purple pinhole in the very center of his palm, with a corona of little pink tendrils. It felt different too. No longer a continuous, edgy sting, the wound felt more like a spot of sunburn. The surrounding skin had that kind of overstretched discomfort, and it hurt to open his hand wide. Archer snagged a tissue, gently patted his palm dry, and returned to his bedroom.
Archer stood next to the desk and stared down at the phone. How could a cell phone get hot enough to burn like that? He reached down and let his hand hover over the cell again. Still no heat at all. Maybe it was something electrical. Maybe the battery had given off a rogue shock. Or maybe . . .
Maybe it wasn’t the phone at all.
The thought rang like a bell in the fog. Archer didn’t want to think about it, but now that the thought had come, it opened up a cascade of others. It might not even be a burn, he thought. Maybe a spider’s bite. Maybe—
The phone rang. Shrill and sharp as ever, the sound made Archer jump. He yanked his hand away as if the cell had burst into flame. “Snot buckets,” he muttered. Then he saw who was calling.
Archer pressed the green button and said, “Dad?”
The only reply was his father’s brittle whisper: “Archer . . .” followed by weeping, raw and breathless.
The limousine navigated the suburban neighborhood like a mechanical shark and left a twisted trail of white exhaust in the lingering December cold. The chauffeur behind the dark windshield wore even darker sunglasses, and his chiseled face bore no expression as he deftly maneuvered the slushy streets. Cold as it was outside, the interior behind the chauffeur, the passenger section of the limo, was toasty warm and richly appointed with a forty-inch Internet/TV monitor; a refreshment bar stocked with water, juices, and soft drinks imported from London; and a long, luxurious bench seat.
On the right side of the seat, Rigby Thames smiled and handed Kara Windchil a business card. “I just ’ad these made up. Tell me what you think.”
Kara traced her finger across the raised type of the card. “Rigby Thames,” she read. “Dream Inc. President, Chairman of the Board of Directors, Chief Executive Officer, Chief Creative Officer, Chief Technology Officer, and Chief Human Resources Officer.” She coughed. “That’s a lot of officers. Save any for me?”
Rigby laughed. “Of course, love,” he said. “You’re the Chief Information Officer and Chief Marketing Officer. Not to mention: Chief Keep Rigby from Screwing Up Officer.”
“The CKRFSUO?” Kara smiled. “That’s too many letters.”
“But a very important role nonetheless,” he said.
“The card’s nice,” she said, handing it back to him. “Very professional looking. But why shout out about all the titles you hold?”
A velvety smooth voice floated back from the front seat of the limo. “Three minutes to arrival, Mr. Thames.”
“Thank you, Smithers,” Rigby replied, still staring down at his business card. “These titles equal respect, Kara. It’s ’ard enough getting respect from normal adults. Really, it’s no easy thing to get respect from juniors and seniors at school even. It wasn’t until I took care of Guzzy Gorvalec that anyone took me seriously. But in the corporate world, it’s ten times harder. I guess the titles are my way of letting the bullies in business know that I am no one to be trifled with.”
Kara swept the curtain of dark hair out of her eyes and stared from Rigby to the limo window and back. She said, “Maybe I should get some cards made up, too.”
“Done,” Rigby said. “You’ll ’ave them by Monday afternoon. Oh, and something else I wanted to show you.” Rigby clicked out of his seat belt and clambered halfway over the backseat. After some rummaging, he slid back to his seat and held something in his hands.
“A top hat?” she blurted. “Why do you have . . . a top hat?”
“This isn’t just any old top hat,” Rigby said. With a well-practiced flourish, he twirled the hat from its brim and it came to rest snugly on his head. “This is a vintage, Victorian-era John Bull gentleman’s top hat. It belonged . . . belongs to my Uncle Scoville, but he’s given it to me.” He tugged once on the brim.
“But, uhm . . . why?”
Rigby raised an eyebrow and smiled patiently. “Trademark,” he said. “It’s like Steve Jobs’ black turtleneck or wire-rim glasses. Every technology guru has to have a trademark. This will be mine.”
Kara wore a vague smile and absently twirled the business card in her fingers as the limousine drove on. Kara and Rigby didn’t speak, but the air was thick with deep thought for the rest of the drive.
The building that housed Dream Inc. headquarters had once been Washington County’s trendiest restaurant, the home of roasted Rockfish Rockefeller and a spectacular view of Antietam Creek. It still had the view, but now it was a technological fortress surrounded by electrified fences and surveillance towers. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter day and night, and its rear parking area was filled with armor-plated Humvees.
Rigby and Kara stepped out of the limousine and found a large black umbrella over them, denying the constant sleet. The Dream Inc. logo was understated but stood out tastefully among the angular glass and brushed aluminum that covered most of the building. The letters were modern and very modular, made of sleek black metal that looked wet and were divided horizontally by a bolt of silver lightning: a bold look for a bold company.
The guards outside, their arms bulging even in oversized black trench coats, nodded at Rigby and Kara as they approached. Rigby gave them each a tip of his top hat.
Once inside, Rigby and Kara passed by a luxurious waiting room where a few executives sat tip-tapping on their smartphones. Rigby knew a couple of them by sight, billionaires who had already paid a premium fee for Dream Inc.’s unique service and were now anxiously waiting their turns.
“Any chance Frederick won’t be there?” Kara asked.
“Frederick doesn’t miss these meetings,” Rigby said. “There’ll be a handful of other shareholders as well.” Rigby paused and turned to Kara when he finally noticed the distaste in her voice. “What’ve you got against Frederick?”
“I don’t trust him,” Kara said. “It always seems like he’s hiding something.”
Rigby laughed. “He’s no worse than Bezeal.”
“I don’t know about that. Bezeal is cheap and tricky and annoying, but I feel like I know his ways. Frederick is a mystery. A dangerous one.”
“Better the devil you know?” Rigby raised an eyebrow.
“Something like that.”
Rigby glanced at his phone. “We’re early yet. Follow me. I want to show you something.” He led a meandering course through the facility and used his key card to get through several sets of double doors.
“Where are we headed?” Kara asked.
“The Neural Command Center,” he said.
“I’ve seen it.”
“From the client side,” he said. “Not from this side.”
The last set of doors opened with a hiss of pressurized air. Several guards waited on the other side, standing next to a heavily wired gateway.
“Metal detector?” Kara asked. “Looks like what Homeland Security uses at airports these days.”
“Similar,” Rigby said. “But this detects magnetism. We’ll ’ave to leave our phones in the tray.”
“Why?”
“The computers on this side are absolutely sensitive to magnetic fields,” Rigby explained, handing his phone to one of the guards and walking through the detector gate. “We’re monitoring each client, you know. We make sure they don’t bring things back from the Dream.”
“How?” she asked, handing off her phone and following.
“My uncle was the first to theorize it,” Rigby said. “But I confirmed it through trials. Anything created in the Dream that comes back gives off a subtle magnetic field. We don’t know why. We only know that it does. And we can track it with our sensors and equipment. That’s why we can’t bring anything magnetic in here.”
“That’s bizarre,” Kara said.
“Not bizarre,” Rigby said. “Simply unexplained. The data we get from each Lucid Walking session is incredible. We can tell exactly how self-aware each client is in the dream. If they get too close, we wake them up.”
“Too close?”
“You know,” Rigby said. “Dr. Gideon from London is walking in the Dream and he sees one of our other clients, say, oh, Alicia Kerr, the actress. In most cases, Dr. Gideon would simply assume she was part of his dream, maybe something he conjured up himself. But if he began to understand that Alicia was Walking as well, that they are coexisting in the Dream, then we could have trouble.”
“I don’t see the issue.”
“Power, Kara,” he said. “If Dr. Gideon and Alicia are both in the Dream and they both recognize that they are Lucid Walking together, they might start to combine their mental energies, and they could change things in the Dream. Worse still, they might realize how to Lucid Walk on their own. They would be out of control—Keaton had that part right, at least. Our clients are not idiots. They’ll figure it out . . . if we let them. But we won’t.”
Rigby led Kara through the rest of the security checkpoints and they arrived at an octagonal split-window recessed into the wall. “Prepare,” he said, tapping a sequence of numbers into a colorful keypad beside the door, “to be awed.”
There was a hiss of pressurized air and a pulsing mechanized tone, and the door slid open. Chrome gleamed, banks of servers hummed, and holographic images hovered across six identical stations. Rigby watched Kara’s eyes widen, saw the hitch in her breathing. She was awed.
“I’ve never been in here,” she mumbled, her head turning slowly.
People in stark white clothing, a style Rigby called “military meets scientist,” sat at colossal workstations against the far wall and hovered over tablet computers in the aisles between. The ceiling was hard to see through all the intricate ductwork: huge hanging tubes, ventilation fans the size of merry-go-rounds, and spiderlike hubs. Beneath the ducts was a network of more pipes, but these were thin and dotted with sprinkler heads.
“What are those?” Kara asked, pointing up toward the closest corner of the room. “Those angled panels?”
“Sound dampening,” Rigby said. He held his arms up in a Y shape and turned slowly, gesturing to the slabs that hung in every corner of the chamber. “Wouldn’t want to disturb our clients sleeping on the other side of the wall.”
Kara nodded, her mouth still slightly open. Awe and more awe—Rigby loved it. He wanted to savor more of the moment, but he had a bit of business to attend to and led her to one of the holographic stations. “Anything come through?” Rigby asked one of the technicians.
“Oh, Mr. Thames,” he said. “I didn’t know you were inspecting today.”
“Not inspecting, Timothy,” Rigby said. “Just curious.”
The technician reached up into the hologram and, like a pair of luminous anemones waving undersea, his hands manipulated the strands of data until he found what he was searching for. “A few leaves,” he said. “Pebbles, twigs—just flora and fauna. Nothing purposeful. Not since Mr. Carnegie brought back the gold coin three weeks ago.”
“But . . .” the technician hesitated.
“What?”
“There have been more of those anomalies.”
“What anomalies?” Kara asked.
The technician said, “Very infrequently we’ve discovered shadows in the data. Well, not shadows really, but more like digital trails moving from the Dream into real time. We call them shadows because they don’t take up space like someone bringing back a coin would. There’s no displacement value in the data.”
“Wait,” Kara said. “You’re saying these shadow surges happen at night, after closing?”
“If there’s no displacement,” Rigby said, “there really isn’t a problem.”
She nodded, but her expression clouded. “If none of the clients are hooked up to the machines and dreaming, there shouldn’t be any way for anything to come out of the Dream.”
“That’s what I’m saying, love,” Rigby explained. “There’s nothing tangible coming out of the Dream, so nothing to worry about.”
“But,” Kara countered, “what if some ambitious billionaire dreamed up some creature, robot, or mutant virus that becomes self-aware and tries to escape?”
“We’d catch it,” Rigby said. “We’d know right away. Monitors, sensors, all this shockingly expensive equipment. Isn’t that right, Timothy?”
“It is true,” the technician confirmed. “We monitor everything.”
“But what about the weird shadow anomalies?” Kara asked.
“We won’t be afraid of shadows.” Rigby laughed. “All under control, love. No fears. And . . . we’ve got our meeting in five, so we’d better leave Timothy here to his very important work.”
In the conference room, a balding man looked up from his tablet computer and said, “You’ll be happy to note, Mr. Thames, for the second quarter in a row we have tripled our profitability.”
“Very happy to know,” Rigby replied, stifling a yawn. “Thank you, Harrison, for your always . . . detailed . . . report.” He saw Kara smile. They’d joked privately about how long-winded Harrison could be.
“Well,” Rigby said, beginning to stand. “That covers security, data, R & D, and the bottom line. Thank you, all for your diligence and loyal—”
“They’re asking again,” Frederick interrupted. He was a big man, wearing a dark suit that made his shoulders look unnaturally wide. The cut of the suit and his buzz-cut hair gave him the bearing of a military commander. He tented his fingers and leaned forward. “That kind of money leads to a lot of pressure.”
Men and women in expensive tailored suits leaned forward as well and nodded.
“Money isn’t a concern,” Rigby said. “We have a waiting list of investors a mile long.”
“Political pressure is a concern,” Frederick said, washed-out blue eyes blazing. “If certain influential people get involved, permits could disappear, and patents could be delayed or outright denied.”
Rigby sneered. “If they want to play politics, fine. There’s no reason we need to base Dream Inc. in the United States. We can pull up our tent stakes and go elsewhere. But I will not put any Dream Inc. customer in control of our patented method.”
“Why not?” Kara asked. “Some of it’s already public record.”
Rigby’s frowning intensity deepened. “How do you know that?”
“Chief Information Officer, remember?” She smiled sweetly. “I don’t have business cards yet, but it’s my job to know.”
Rigby nodded. Touché. “Still, I’ve read Uncle Scoville’s articles. There’s not enough of the specifics there for just anyone to start Lucid Dreaming.”
“Not just anyone, no,” she said. “But, like you told me before, we’re dealing with bright people. Why not let them have their fun?”
“Fun?” Rigby blurted. “It’s not fun. It’s business.”
“Mr. Thames is correct,” Frederick said, his voice high and thin but not thin in a brittle sense. More like a thin blade or a razor. “This is a business, and, as such, we aim to raise as much money for our shareholders as possible. The more money for our shareholders, the more money becomes available for future research and development.”
“We weren’t going to discuss this today, Frederick,” Rigby said quietly.
“I understand,” Frederick said. “But it bears noting to someone as highly placed as Ms. Windchil. Governments around the globe are offering staggering sums for Lucid Walking site licenses.”
“What would governments use Lucid Walking for?” Kara asked.
Rigby sneered. “Nothing good—”
“Nonsense,” Frederick interrupted. “In the hands of the right agencies, Lucid Dreaming could open up new treatments to fight depression and anxiety, mental illness of all kinds—”
“Yeah,” Rigby said, “that’s right. But it could also be used to dig deeper into people’s privacy like drones in the brain.”
“We select who gets the licenses,” Frederick said.
Rigby crossed his arms. “If we turn over the secrets of Dream Inc. to anyone outside of our inner circle, we’re done. We’ll no longer control the market. Dream Inc. clone companies will appear overnight. We’ll get priced out of our own industry.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Thames,” Frederick said, sitting up painfully straight in his seat, “you’re jealous for your family’s invention. I get that. But there’s a bigger picture here that you’re not seeing because . . .”
“Because what?” Rigby asked.
“Because you’re young,” Frederick said. “You’re brilliant and ambitious and used to being right, but you’re young. If you cling to this thing too tightly, you’re going to regret it. Someone else will come along and discover what we’re doing. They’ll compete without us getting compensation.”
“No, they won’t,” Rigby said. “That’s one of the things I pay you for. It’s all about control, Frederick.”
“Of course it is,” Kara muttered.
“What?” Rigby hissed. “What was that?”
“Forget it,” she said, turning her back. “It’s your company.”
“That’s right,” Rigby said. His voice dropped an octave. “It is.”