by Dima Zales
“In theory, I would like to see the problems between Guides and Readers go away,” I project. “I want peace, but I don’t want to be killed in the process.”
“Thank you for telling me the truth,” he says. “Now we can—”
“How do I get back into Nirvana?” I project. “That’s my next question.”
“Just because I have to tell the truth doesn’t mean I will answer every question you ask.” His projected thought is mixed with feelings of amusement and slight annoyance.
“I will pick and choose which of your questions to answer then,” I reply.
“It’s not necessary. I was saying that we don’t need to continue with this Assimilation. Let’s slowly disengage.”
As his words register, so does a shift in the arrangement of our patterns. The foreign tension of the Assimilation eases slightly, but doesn’t go away.
He seems to be waiting for me to do something. I try to let go of his pattern, to get away.
The tension eases further.
After repeating the same process a few times, we disengage and I can once again ‘see’ his pattern ‘in the distance.’ He’s absorbing his static pattern, and soon after, I’m back in the Quiet, in my physical body.
* * *
For a few moments, all the sensory input disorients me.
“That was something else,” I say to Frederick, and it feels great to be saying things out loud, with my voice echoing off the room’s walls.
He nods. “It’s something few people ever get to experience.”
“How did you manage to have us come back here?” I ask, realizing this is the second time his Nirvana-phasing worked differently from mine. “How come we didn’t end up in the real world?”
“It’s part of those Nirvana arts you’ll learn if you come back and accept the offer we’ve made.” He gives me a smug wink.
I frown at him. “Why didn’t you try Assimilating the very first time you pulled me in? Wouldn’t it have been just as helpful as Guiding me in terms of uncovering my agenda?”
He shakes his head. “No, that would’ve been a bad idea, as it would’ve put us at risk.”
“Why?”
“Because if I had ambushed you, you might have tried to fight me, or absorb me, so to speak.” His expression is now serious. “If you had succeeded, you would’ve made me Inert, and you know how I feel about that. Anyway, the more likely outcome would have been me making you Inert in self-defense—another outcome I didn’t desire.”
“It’s interesting how you omitted that going Inert was a possibility when doing this Assimilation thing,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“Because it wasn’t, not when I didn’t have any intention of doing such a thing to you. If anything, I was putting myself at risk, given that for me, going Inert carries greater consequences.”
“You know what I mean.” I hand him back his gun. “But no point in splitting hairs anymore. I fulfilled my end of the bargain.”
“I am ready to do as I promised,” he says, taking the gun. “I shall take you to the library so you can wait while I speak with George, Kate, and the rest of the team. After that, I will end the Session early, as promised.”
* * *
I pace back and forth in the library as I wait for Frederick to terminate the Session.
To kill time, I look through the shelves for something to read and settle on How There Can Never Be a Theory of Everything, written by Victoria. I leaf through it for a number of minutes, skimming its contents. To my huge surprise, this book doesn’t mention sex. It’s more of a scientific philosophy treatise about the futility of trying to reduce complex phenomena, such as life, to a simple, all-knowing formula. After what feels like an hour of this, but before I can form a real opinion on the matter, I get bored and decide to find something else to read.
An older-looking volume catches my gaze, and I grab it. The Atrocities, the title states, and the author is none other than Mary, my newfound Reader-hating grammy. As I leaf through the book, I see why she feels so negatively toward Readers. This book catalogues what I learned before—how Readers tried to exterminate Guides. According to Mary, their favorite tactic was piggybacking on an existing conflict. During World War I and World War II, they were able to get rid of thousands of Guides in Western Europe. And afterwards, during Stalin’s Purges, Readers managed to all but wipe out what was left of the Guides in Russia. So yeah, it’s no wonder Mary hates them, as all of these things happened during her lifetime.
I put the book back on the shelf and look for something more cheerful to read, which is probably any other book.
Rows and rows of fascinating subjects line the shelves, but one really catches my attention. It has Eugene written all over it. If I don’t look inside, he’d never forgive me. The book is called Making Machines Work in the Mind Dimension, authored by Alfred. I pull it off the shelf and open the book at a random page. “Steam power is another viable, if primitive solution—”
I don’t get to finish the sentence because I’m no longer standing in the library, holding the book.
I’m back in my real body, next to the airplane, with guns pointed at me.
Except the people lower their guns, and after a few insincere-sounding apologies, they turn around and head for the Castle.
“Frederick told me about his agreement with you,” George says. “I think his idea to utilize Kate’s team is genius.”
“And it will be good for their morale,” Kate says with uncharacteristic cheerfulness. “Despite it being a simple extraction, the team will be happy to get off the Island. They’ve been stuck here for months.”
“Now, Darren,” George says. “Where do we set the course to?”
“Back to where we came from,” I say. “We’re going to pick up Hillary and—”
“We don’t need her,” George says. “In fact, I think we should go directly to where your family is and help—”
I hold up my hand, interrupting him. “First, I’m not forming any plans without Hillary,” I say firmly. “And second, it wouldn’t help us to get anywhere yet. The vans are probably still en route. Even without rest stops, the drive from New York to Florida takes twenty hours.”
“So be it,” George says. “But I still don’t see the need to involve your aunt.”
“I won’t put her in danger if that’s what you’re concerned about. You’re not the only one who cares about this family.”
“Are we interrupting something?” a voice booms from a few feet away.
“No, we just settled on our destination,” George says. Then he turns to face the muscle-bound guy who spoke. “Stephen, this is Darren.”
“Nice to meet you, Darren,” the man says. His handshake reminds me of the time I got my finger caught in a lobster’s claw as a kid. Those things do not make good playmates, and neither would Stephen, I’m guessing.
“Where are the others?” Kate asks.
“Eleanor was right behind me,” Stephen says. “John and Richard were in the training room at the Castle, so I’m not sure when they’ll arrive.”
“I’ll go ready the plane,” George says. “Kate, please go through the safety procedures as you wait for the others.” Without waiting for her reply, he walks off toward Pandora.
Kate clears her throat and fishes a pill bottle out of her pocket.
“Are you kidding me?” I stare at her. “I have to take an Ambien again?”
“It’s standard procedure for now,” she says. “Once the Elders say you don’t need it, I won’t do it.”
“But Frederick trusts me. He wouldn’t have authorized all this if he didn’t.”
“He didn’t say anything about safety to me, which means I have to stick to the standard protocol,” Kate says.
“Fine. At least let me meet the rest of the team,” I say.
We wait in tense silence until the others arrive.
“Is this everyone?” I ask, looking over the four new arrivals—three dudes and one woman. They look vag
uely familiar. I think I saw each one of them in the Victoria Sutra room as statues.
“Darren, this is James, John, Eleanor, and Richard,” Kate says. “Now take your pill.”
“What?” I ask, trying to keep my incredulity out of my voice. “You’re telling me this mighty team consists of just the seven of you?” As I say this, I study them.
James looks like a hard man, his fierce expression heightened by a cleft lip scar.
John is just as big as James and Stephen, only he somehow looks less healthy, probably due to the bags under his eyes.
Richard is the scariest of them all, though he’s the least muscular. I think it’s his bearing, coupled with leathery skin and an intense stare, that creates this effect.
Eleanor has more in common with the guys than with Kate. She’s more muscular than me, and I’m not exactly a wimp, even if I currently feel like one in comparison.
If this team were a circus troupe, John would be the sick lion, Stephen and James would be a polar bear and a grizzly bear, Eleanor an elephant, Kate a panther, and Richard a scorpion.
“Who’s the seventh?” Richard asks with a sneer. “You wouldn’t be talking about George, by chance?”
“Well, yeah. I thought he was the leader,” I say.
“He’s a politician, a glorified bureaucrat,” Richard says. “We don’t work for him.”
“Sorry, I stand corrected,” I say. “I’m sure you guys are awesome and all that.”
“If by ‘all that’ you mean that the six of us have never failed a mission,” Richard says, “then yeah, we’re awesome.”
“Enough chatter.” Kate demonstratively takes a pill out of the bottle. “Can you now take the fucking pill? Or should I make you?”
“I’d listen to her,” James says, smiling. “You wouldn’t enjoy it if she made you swallow.”
Ignoring the merriment James’s comment created, I take the pill, trying my best not to choke on it. Before Kate can ask, I open my mouth to show that I did as I was supposed to.
“Such a good boy.” Eleanor’s voice is deep, matching her physique to a T. “You’ve trained him well, Kate.”
I just walk onto the plane and take the seat I slept in earlier.
I hear the others come in but pay no attention to them.
This time around, I’m determined to fight off the effects of the Ambien by exercising mind over matter. I have free will, don’t I? I should decide whether I sleep.
“You really part Leacher, kid?” asks one of the dudes. James, I think.
“Part Reader, yes,” I say.
“What’s it like to Leach—I mean Read—someone’s thoughts?” maybe-James asks.
I yawn and say, “It’s like living as them for the duration of the Read. You’re your target, like in a super-realistic virtual reality that on top of sight and sound also has taste, smell, and touch.”
“Must be trippy,” the guy says.
“It’s pretty awesome.” I yawn again.
I don’t hear his next question because my mind goes blank—again.
Chapter 15
I wake up with a jolt and attempt to move, but find myself restrained for some reason. Did someone tie me up again?
As my eyes adjust to the light, I realize my vision is somewhat restricted too. However, I can see, which means I’m not wearing a bag over my head. How crazy would it be if my second trip to see my Enlightened grandparents once again had all the comforts terrorists enjoy on their way to a secret prison?
The world whooshes past me so fast that, for a moment, I wonder whether the plane is plummeting toward earth. In that case, the fact that I’m tied up doesn’t matter.
A shot of adrenaline clears the remaining sleepiness from my brain.
The good news is that I’m not plummeting from the sky while inside a metal coffin.
The bad news is that I’m inside a metal (with too much plastic) coffin that’s rocketing forward.
The restraints binding me are actually seat belts crisscrossed around my chest. Some kind of visor with tinted glass is restricting my vision. Judging by the person sitting next to me in the driver’s seat, I’m wearing a helmet.
All this adds up to me sitting in a car, or a car-like rocket, that’s moving faster than my still-groggy brain believes a car can go.
“What the hell is going on?” I try asking, but a grunt-mumble hybrid comes out instead. My voice is hoarse, post-Ambien. I think my mouth was dry like this last time too. As a side note, if you start noticing little patterns like this, it means you’ve been drugged too many times.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” The high-pitched, friendly voice can only belong to Hillary—same with the small, gloved hands on the steering wheel.
“Is the Super Pusher controlling you?” I ask. “And if so, why is he trying to kill us in such an unconventional way?”
I feel the urge to rub my eyes, but the visor and my limited range of motion leave that desire unfulfilled.
“No one is controlling me,” Hillary says. “We just needed to get to Apalachicola quickly, and I had this idea, you see.”
Palm trees and parked cars zoom past our windows so fast they look like two solid blurry walls of interconnected wood and colorful metal.
“What’s your idea, besides killing us in a glorious car explosion?” I ask, my sarcasm missing the bite that comes with not being scared shitless. Also, I’m probably still under the drug’s influence; at least I think that’s why I feel this intense nausea coming on. “And what’s up with all the cars parked on the side of the highway?”
“I had them all pull to the side so we don’t, as you say, die gloriously. I’m not crazy.”
“You’re not? The speedometer reads one hundred and fifty. Even with all the cars out of the way, that’s way too fast.”
Though I’ve done similar Guiding in the past, the scale of what she’s accomplished—clearing an entire highway for miles and miles—is truly staggering. Now that I’m paying closer attention, I notice that the parked cars are facing us and not away, which means we’re speeding down the wrong lane.
“I have two and a half hours to get us to our target,” Hillary says. “Given the slightly over three hundred miles we have to cover—well, you can do the math. Your beauty sleep put us behind schedule, so I’m trying to make up the time.”
“Why do we need to get to this place so quickly?” I ask.
We swoop through a more deserted area with only a handful of parked cars and no trees. This allows me a view of the other side of the highway, the one moving in the correct direction. I can see a cavalcade of cars, but given our insane speed compared to their law-abiding one, it’s clear we’ll be leaving them far behind.
“It’s so that I can execute my plan,” Hillary says. “And your chatter isn’t helping me focus, you know.”
“Is this a car chase?” I ask despite her very reasonable point about breaking her concentration. Looks as though my curiosity is stronger than my sense of self-preservation, similar to that of some now-deceased cats.
“It’s not a chase, per se,” she says.
“Are those police on the other side? In those Crown Vics?”
“Yep, that’s the law,” Hillary says. “And there’s more where that came from. More cars will be joining them in a few miles. Also, before you ask, George and the rest of your new friends are in that Humvee behind us.”
I turn and see that, indeed, a Humvee just turned the bend behind us.
Then I hear a motor revving, and something passes us on our right, causing a cloud of dust to billow around us.
Given how fast we’re going, I have to assume a ballistic missile just passed us. Upon closer examination, I realize I was only slightly off.
It’s a black motorcycle.
“That’s Kate,” Hillary explains.
She must be right. Though I couldn’t see the face under the black helmet, the BDSM-inspired outfit is telling, as is the sword sheathed on her back.
“What are you
doing?” I ask when I see her foot press on the gas and feel the vibrations of the car’s engine working overtime.
“I’m catching up to Kate,” Hillary says. “I want to make sure there’s no bloodshed.”
“Wouldn’t splattering us all over the pavement be considered bloodshed?” I ask. “Can you explain what you’re doing? Wait—only answer if you can do so without killing us.”
“After you and George left, and after I caught up with my folks, I had this idea,” Hillary says, pressing harder on the gas. “Once Mom and Dad started getting on my nerves, I left and went to a local police department.”
“I thought you were going to say you cooked up the most elaborate suicide plan.”
She continues, ignoring my interjection. “I Guided the local sheriff to aid in my plan. He got in touch with his brother, a Florida State trooper, and they sent out an APB to all the states from New York to Florida.
“Oh,” I say, beginning to catch on. “You wanted the cops to catch the minivans? That’s a great idea. Why didn’t I think of it?”
“The effort turned out to be futile, though,” Hillary says. “The cops were out of their depth when it came to your friend Caleb and the monks.”
“Shit,” I say. “I was hoping—”
“If my original plan had worked, we wouldn’t be driving like maniacs right now,” she says. “But a version of it may still work. You said the Temple is near Apalachicola, in a forest. That limits the number of ways the vans can get there. So I had the cops create a bottleneck on the roads they’re bound to pass.”
“And we’re trying to get there in time to catch the vans?” I ask.