by Dima Zales
Reminding myself that I have no clue how much time I can spend in this realm, I decide to simply go with my intuition. Maybe intuition is what serves as recognition in this place.
I let my intuition settle on the pattern I think is Thomas.
At first, nothing happens, but then, after a little bit of concentration, I’m halfway to it, without having traversed the intermediate distance.
When in Nirvana, even I can teleport like the Elders. Hey, maybe that’s how they got so good at teleporting? Maybe practicing it here will allow me to master it in the simpler world of the Quiet? I decide to focus on these teleporting movements as I make them. Unbidden, a dark thought comes: if there is a later. After all, there is a chance Eugene’s machine will take my powers away.
Anxiety overwhelms me. The emptiness of Level 2 amplifies it to the point that I don’t know whether I can take it. If I had eyes, tears would be running down my cheeks. If I had a mouth, I might’ve yelled in frustration. Because all of this suffering doesn’t have an outlet, it’s made that much more painful.
Then I recall why I’m here. Thomas is about to kill Mira. I can’t fall apart.
Getting my turbulent thoughts under control, I will myself closer to the pattern that is, hopefully, Thomas. And then I’m there and ready to surround it.
As soon as I make contact, I’m in.
* * *
“I shot him,” we say. “Why is he still fighting?”
“Eugene, focus on the machine,” Darren says, his half-choked voice full of terror. “If you kill him, he’ll be Inert, and that will ruin everything.”
Self-loathing over our stupidity overwhelms us. We throw the gun we found back on the floor. We almost killed our sister by aiding the Pusher in control of Thomas’s mind. There’s no way Darren can override Thomas if Thomas is Inert.
That is, if Darren gets to override anyone, we think, but swiftly dispel that treacherous thought. Of course Darren will succeed—even if this is the last time he ever uses his powers. We didn’t have the guts to tell him how precise Dad’s math is.
We decide to follow our friend’s advice and focus on getting him to Level 2. We rush back to the machine and act quickly. Like a juggler, we push the device toward our fighting friends and, at the same time, begin reconnecting the wires we hope are causing the delay.
First the red one, then the blue one. Our heart is pounding painfully fast. This is what those guys who disarm bombs must feel like.
We finish with a couple of cables that only instinct tells us might be loose.
It has to work, we half hope and half pray.
We’re about to turn on the machine when we notice something terribly wrong: the helmet fell off Darren’s head, and what’s worse, Thomas is choking the life out of him.
We reach for the helmet.
Darren’s face is purple. He has seconds, if that.
We grab the helmet and push it on his head.
Thomas is so focused on his murderous task that he ignores us as we adjust the helmet’s strap under Darren’s chin.
Glad the machine is close by, we press the on button.
* * *
Okay, that was Eugene’s mind, not Thomas’s, which means trusting my intuition was as good as choosing at random. And that means I just took a one-in-three chance on Mira’s life. Damn. It also means my next choice has a fifty-fifty chance of being right (or wrong), unless I can think of a way to distinguish the patterns. What makes it worse is that I need to choose quickly, since my Depth is running out at an unknown rate; not choosing will also result in Mira’s death.
I waver between choosing at random and strategizing. I spend what feels like an hour flip-flopping, with only a headache as my reward, proving that even a head can suffer from phantom limb syndrome.
Fine, I’ll chose one at random then, I think into the ether and choose the rightmost pattern as my next target.
“Please, Darren, not that one,” a familiar-sounding ‘voice’ states from inside my head. “That one is your slowed-down self.”
“Mimir,” I reply, relieved. “Nice of you to show up. You’re getting a knack for doing so when I least expect it.”
“You seemed on the cusp of learning how to identify the patterns on your own”—Mimir’s thought arrives with a hint of caring and innocence that I suspect he’s faking—“until you almost exited Nirvana.”
Mimir’s thought manages to convey a sense of relish for the new term for Level 2. He clearly likes it.
“So you let me agonize over this choice for my own education, is that it?” I send my thought angrily. “Is watching me squirm something you enjoy?”
“I did not have any evil intentions. You should be able to recognize patterns you’ve Read before,” Mimir replies. “And since you Read Thomas the last time, I thought you’d know him.”
“In that case, how do you know which one Thomas is?” I send. “You’ve never Read him, have you? Can you even do that? Read anyone, I mean?”
“I didn’t need to know which pattern was his, not when there were two choices left and I knew which one was yours,” Mimir thinks. “Yours I know as well as I know myself, you see.”
“Is that why you didn’t stop me when I Read Eugene by mistake?” I notice he never answered my question about him being able to Read. I don’t bother pointing it out since I know he knows (by reading my mind right now) that I know he dodged the question.
“Exactly,” Mimir replies. “Until you Read Eugene, I didn’t know which pattern was his. Unlike the last time we met, the location of the patterns couldn’t help me, due to the three of you being very near each other in the Quiet.”
I ignore him continuing to pretend as if we’re just talking about Eugene’s pattern and reply, “Fine, whatever. We can chat about this and the cryptic message you gave me on the Island later. Now that I know which one of these patterns is Thomas, I need to focus on preventing Mira’s death.”
“I wholeheartedly agree.” Mimir’s response feels pleased. “You’ve learned a lot about patience, time management, and priorities since we last communicated.”
Allowing him to have the last word, I focus on Thomas’s pattern and teleport to him in two jumps, as I did with the others.
When I’m there, right before I enter into the Coherence state, I decide to spare a fraction of a second to see whether I can tell this is Thomas.
I focus. Though my pattern is not enveloping his yet, it’s on the verge of doing so.
Sometimes knowing something can be done goes a long way toward actually accomplishing it. That’s the only way I can explain it, because now that I try it, I can tell that this is Thomas, although explaining how I can tell is tricky. If ‘seeing’ is the approximation for the sense that lets me experience the starry neural networks, then ‘smelling’ is the best way to explain this new sense that tells me, unequivocally, that this is Thomas. Of course, I’m stretching the definition of the word ‘smell’ here, even more so than the word ‘see.’
Thomas smells of honor, integrity, and patriotism. How can those abstractions have a smell? I don’t know, but those are the ideas that spring to mind when I register it all. The closest mundane approximations would probably be the musky scent of sweat from hard work, with a hint of mountain air, and a whiff of that new-paint smell from a newly unpacked flag.
Without any further hesitation, I evoke the state of Coherence. I must say, I’m extra glad I was able to confirm that this is Thomas before I took the plunge. Not that I didn’t trust Mimir, but my new motto is quickly becoming ‘trust but verify.’
The familiar state overcomes me, and Thomas’s experiences come flooding in.
Chapter 24
We look over all the people who showed up at Kyle’s funeral, our thoughts a jumbled mess. To a very large degree, most of these people knew Kyle as little as we did, and maybe less so. We know enough about him to not mourn his passing. If we’re mourning anything, it’s our chance to learn a little more about him, good or bad; he was
our biological father, and only a single person in the whole world will ever get that honor. Not that this title is all that special. What really matters is the person you call ‘Dad,’ and for us, that person lives in Queens. That person may not be our flesh and blood, but he’s a million times more of a real father than Kyle could have ever been. He and Mom, our adoptive mom, are the best parents we could’ve wished for. Our longing for knowledge about our biological parents didn’t stem from any sort of dissatisfaction with Mom and Dad.
Thinking of Mom pulls our gaze toward someone else—a woman who, if it weren’t for Kyle, would’ve gladly taken her place. How different would our life have been, growing up under Lucy and Sara’s roof? Growing up alongside Darren? Would we have been more like him? Or are we the product of our genes, as Liz insists? That’s a frightening thought, given how much of a bastard our father was. Are we capable of the same evil as Kyle?
There it is—the crux of our turmoil. That and regret. We really wish we hadn’t made such a big deal of Kyle’s passing when Darren was telling us about the whole conference debacle. He probably thinks we harbor him ill will for killing our biological father. Truth be told, at the moment when we realized why Kyle got himself killed, we experienced some instinctual negativity. Shortly after, though, during our drive back to the hospital, we understood that Darren had done the right thing. But since we said, “I don’t want to hear more,” we’ve felt a wedge come between us—a wedge that will hopefully dissipate soon. The good news is that Darren doesn’t seem like the type to hold grudges, so with time, things between us should return to normal, as if Kyle never existed. This funeral is a good start, and we’re here in support of Darren and Lucy as much as for ourselves—possibly more for them.
We can’t wait until Lucy is ready to learn about us. Liz thinks Lucy will be ready very soon. If she knew who we are, we wouldn’t have to be standing off to the side like a stranger. If only—
All of a sudden, all the sounds of the graveyard go away. Someone pulled us into the Mind Dimension. And then, before we can see who pulled us, a foreign presence enters our mind.
You will kill Darren . . .
I, Darren, disassociate as the sinister instructions begin. I must’ve instinctively jumped into Thomas’s mind during Kyle’s funeral, and it paid off. If I had any doubts as to Thomas’s motives, they’re now gone. He doesn’t harbor any resentment toward me. Unfortunately, he didn’t get a look at the Super Pusher before the bastard entered his mind.
Oh well. I won’t waste any more time. I have to resolve the situation with Mira, so I give Thomas my instructions:
You will halt. You will not harm Mira. She is your adoptive brother’s girlfriend and your close friend. You will defend her with your life. Try to wake her up from whatever state she’s in. If she wakes up, tell her Darren is close by. Tell her to stay here, and no matter what happens, keep her and yourself safe.
* * *
Exiting Thomas’s mind, I feel like a man who’s taken his first breath after swimming underwater for several long minutes.
Mira will not die.
“She will not die by Thomas’s hand,” Mimir’s thought corrects me. “But you haven’t secured the Temple for Mira, your grandparents, or the monks.”
“You’re right,” I reply. “I have a few more people to Guide. The question is: how do I find them?”
“I can lead you,” Mimir says. “Follow me.”
The huge mini-universe of synapses that is Mimir appears in the distance. He then retreats. I teleport after him, and he retreats again. After a few jumps, I see faint entities in the distance. Another couple of jumps, and they become more apparent. Only there are three of them, whereas I was expecting two.
“The one on the right is Julia,” Mimir explains, “which would make the other one the attacker, Richard. The one farther in the distance is Rose.”
“Julia wasn’t Inert?” I wonder if my excitement was transmitted with my thought.
“She was not, and your grandmother wisely delegated the task of pulling in Stephen to a younger woman.” His thought sounds reproachful.
“I didn’t know Julia was an option,” I think, suppressing my defensiveness. “I didn’t try bringing her in after I succeeded with Rose. I assumed everyone else was Inert.”
“You know what they say about assumptions, but I will not use up valuable time listing the numerous plans that would’ve been much safer than yours.” Mimir’s reply is curt.
“I appreciate your restraint,” I think back. “I need to know something else, and I know we’re pressed for time, but—”
“It was I who prevented the Super Pusher from Guiding your grandmother and, for that matter, all the other Enlightened,” Mimir says, answering the question I was thinking of.
“How?”
“He tried to pull her in, and not just her. He tried to pull in every one of them. When he did, he brought a part of them here, to Nirvana.” He projects the last word again with relish. “Once a part of them was in Nirvana, I was able to be there, in that session, just as I can be in your sessions. Then I prevented the connection, which to the Super Pusher must’ve felt as if they were Inert.”
“But how?” I think. “And what about Caleb? He also seemed immune to the Super Pusher.”
“Caleb was protected by another being similar to me—the one the two of you created during the Joining you did when you learned how to fight,” Mimir explains.
My head is spinning from his explanation, but more so from the reminder that there are more creatures like Mimir out there.
“Don’t call us creatures,” his thought tells me.
“Fine. What should I call you?”
“Call us something with more gravitas. How about Transcendental Minds?”
“That’s a mouthful,” I think back. “How about I call you Trannies for short?”
A mental snort arrives in my mind. “In that case, please call us Omni Minds, or Omnis if you must make everything short. Now, we still don’t know how much time you have left, so you must save the Enlightened—now.”
“Wait, what about Julia? Was she immune to the Super Pusher too?”
His reply is rushed. “Yes. Another Omni, one that was formed when the Enlightened Joined with Julia. Now focus. I refuse to communicate with you until this threat is neutralized.”
I rein in my million questions about the Omnis and focus on the constellation of neurons that is Richard. This time, I teleport without needing an intermediate jump. I think I’m beginning to get the hang of teleporting in Level 2.
Richard’s mind has no scent, which makes sense since I’ve never Read him before, but I do so now.
* * *
Our mind is as focused on our task as a self-navigating missile. Find the Enlightened. Kill the Enlightened. The Instructions repeat in our mind as we stalk our targets through the forest.
I, Darren, take a quick mental note of what’s going on. This is Richard’s mind. He just finished dealing with the cops I turned on him, and he’s running to catch up with the Enlightened in the forest. Reluctantly, I let the memory unfold.
We run like a berserker without sparing a thought for the branches and roots in our way. When the white figures appear, every muscle in our body prepares to carry out their execution.
An old man steps away from the group.
“What do you want, Pusher?” he asks, his voice firm. Over his shoulder, he orders, “Go. Now.”
On some level, we know he’s afraid, but on another very distant level, we marvel that an elderly, weak-looking man like him would even confront us this way.
The instructions take over.
We silently walk up to the man, expecting a chase. He doesn’t run; in fact, he tries to stare us down.
We respond by executing a punch. Our fist drowns in the old man’s soft midsection. As we watch him double over in pain, we push him.
The old man falls to the ground in a flutter of white robes.
We draw our leg back to
kick him, so we can finish the job and deal with the others.
I, Darren, disassociate with a shudder. There’s something abominable about turning a man into a living, breathing killing machine the way the Super Pusher has done. Anyone short of a true psychopath would feel some empathy when hitting an elderly man like that—at least I would hope so. I’m also touched by Paul’s bravery. His treatment of me aside, I’m glad I’ll be able to save the old son of a bitch.
I instruct Richard: You will not kick the man in front of you. Furthermore, you will not harm a single Enlightened or their entourage. In fact, you are their protector, and your primary goal is to get them to the safety of the forest. To show them you aren’t a threat, you will kneel with your hands behind your head and tell them, “I am henceforth your protector. Command me. Oh, and hi, Paul. I’m being commanded by Darren, your grandson, who says, ‘Hello, asshole. Sorry you’re in pain. Rose will fill you in on what’s going down.’”
With that, I exit Richard’s mind.
* * *
“Well done.” Mimir’s thought is the first thing I experience when the blackness of Level 2 overtakes me again. “Now follow me.”
He teleports and I follow.
I eventually see them—the bundles of light. I count five, which means Caleb succeeded in his task of bringing in George, Kate, Eleanor, and James without getting killed.
Of the five minds I see in the distance, most are clustered in a group that looks like a small constellation that’s roughly a third of Mimir’s size. Slightly to the side of them is a single pattern.
“Okay,” I think, half to myself, half to my guide. “How do we figure out which is which, or who is who?”
“That is a very good question, with far-reaching consequences,” Mimir replies, his neurons flickering brighter than usual.