by Dima Zales
I run toward the parking lot, determined to learn more, and end up following a trail of macabre breadcrumbs in the form of beat-up police officers.
I suppress my growing panic.
It’s still within the realm of possibility that Thomas and Mira somehow escaped their escorts. Maybe Thomas came to his senses and Guided the cops to let him go?
And what about my moms? I see no evidence that they might be in trouble.
I increase my pace, sprinting toward the parking lot.
The minivans are gone, and I notice tread marks on the asphalt, which tells me they left in a hurry.
I frantically follow the driveway and leave the lot.
I Read the stylist of a nearby hair salon. She has a good view of the cemetery from her shop. Using her brain as one would a surveillance camera, I search for what I need. Yep, she noticed the vans. The screech of their tires drew her attention. She saw them turn right onto Liberty Avenue.
I leave the hair salon and walk down Liberty, Reading people as I go. It takes a dozen more Reads before I find any sign of those damn vans. Inside the mind of a McDonald’s cashier, I see two Hondas turn onto Conduit Boulevard.
On a hunch, I follow the signs that lead to Belt Parkway—the big highway in Brooklyn. Reading what feels like a hundred people on the way confirms my suspicions: the two Odysseys are heading toward the highway.
I push a frozen bike messenger off his bicycle so I can take advantage of his ride. Bikes are useful for long-distance travel in the Quiet. Rolling up my suit pants, I get on and start pedaling toward the highway.
Usually, I would be marveling at my surroundings. Though I’ve ridden bikes in the Quiet before, I’ve never ridden on a congested highway like this. There’s a certain charm to doing things I’d never dare to do in the real world. But I can’t enjoy this ride, not when all I can concentrate on is the mantra repeating in my head: Please don’t be in the vans.
I ride on and on, feeling as though I’m in the Tour de France.
Finally, in the distance, I see two vans with the symbol of a shiny H inside a square.
I ride up to them and jump off the bike, letting it fall with that chains-on-asphalt noise.
Peeking inside van number one with trepidation, I get my first dose of disillusionment.
The monks have Mira and Thomas.
My friends appear to be sleeping. I don’t dare touch them, as that would bring them into the Quiet with me, and I’m not sure whether the Super Pusher’s instructions are still in effect. The last thing I want is to fight them. Then again, the chances of them still being under the Super Pusher’s influence are small, if Eugene’s theory on the matter is correct. He thinks that Reading or Guiding someone from Level 2 will expend that person’s Depth much quicker than normal. Mimir—the strange being who resulted from my Joining with the Enlightened—suggested the same thing when we spoke in Level 2.
Reading the monks doesn’t yield any results, aside from the same useless meditative white noise I got from them at the Temple and at the airport.
I’m so stunned that I can’t admit how bad things are, at least not until I get the full picture.
I carefully walk up to the second Honda and open the side door to look inside.
They have Lucy in the front, strapped in with a seatbelt, with Sara set up similarly in the back. Just like Mira and Thomas, my moms look as though they’re sleeping.
I give them a quick Read. Sure enough, the last thing they remember is a needle prick. Caleb must’ve drugged them the way he drugged me when he abducted me from the hotel in Miami.
In frustration, I drag a frozen monk out of the car and give him a couple of kicks to the face.
The exercise only makes me angrier.
I take a breath and try to think rationally, searching for any kind of silver lining. The best I can come up with is that at least they don’t have those black bags over their heads.
Nope, that doesn’t help at all. I kick the limp monk in the ribs a few more times and then take a few more calming breaths before contemplating my options.
With Caleb here, in Mira and Thomas’s van, I’m tempted to pull him in and take out my frustrations on someone more animated than my monk-shaped punching bag.
But no. As therapeutic as it would be, I dismiss the idea. Even if by some miracle I manage to kill Caleb in the Quiet, what would that accomplish? He’d still be here on the highway, and I’d still be miles away in the cemetery. I could Guide the surrounding drivers to stall the progress of the vans, but even that wouldn’t help; the resulting traffic would also slow down my pursuit.
Then it hits me. I don’t need to follow them because I already know where they’re headed; it’s as obvious as why they’re doing this in the first place. Caleb and his monk posse took everyone as a means to ensure I come to them, to the Temple.
They want to force me to comply with my grandparents’ crazy demands.
Just thinking about that makes me so angry I almost want to pursue them on my own and do something desperate. Then I take a deep breath and force myself to calm down. I need to act with my brain and not my testosterone.
I jump on the borrowed bike and pedal my way back to my body.
As I do, I can’t help but dwell on all the different ways I’ll make my grandparents regret this kidnapping. And if something happens to Mira, Thomas, or my moms . . .
Let’s just say this very first funeral I’ve attended won’t be my last.
* * *
By the time I find my way back to my frozen body, I’m officially sick of cycling. I will add a cycling class to that extra workout regimen I’m planning to implement in the future. I’m sure with practice I’ll be able to tolerate doing it for longer periods.
My frozen self looks horrible. I’m dirty, and my black suit is torn in places. I’m pretty sure my skin underneath is scraped and bruised.
Bracing myself, I touch my face and phase out.
As soon as the world comes alive, the physical exertion I felt in the Quiet becomes child’s play compared to what I’m feeling in the real world. With all the cycling, I managed to forget I was hit by a car.
Yeah, I’m definitely scraped and bruised.
Despite the futility of it, I’m again tempted to chase after the vans, but the rational part of me tells me not to be impulsive. I need to consult with my non-kidnapped friends. They’re a smart bunch, and they’ll know what to do. Plus, Eugene deserves to know what happened to his sister.
Back in my ‘aunt’s’ car, I enter Eugene’s lair’s address into my phone’s GPS.
On a whim, as I’m driving, I search for Caleb’s number, which is listed as Mr. Personality. Not feeling jovial enough for a voice command, I simply press the touch screen to initiate the call.
I’m shocked when he actually picks up.
“Hello,” he says, and I can almost visualize that annoying smirk I’d love to beat off his face.
“Caleb, you fucker, you will let them go, now—”
“Darren,” he says. “How convenient that you called.”
“I mean it, I’ll—”
“Whatever you’re planning to do,” he says smugly, “save it for when you arrive at the Temple. I want it to be a surprise.”
And with that, the asshole hangs up on me.
I’m so angry that I spend the entire drive playing out revenge fantasies in my mind.
Chapter 5
“Mothershitter,” Eugene says after I finish relaying the story of my morning. His accent is stronger than ever, and his usually calm voice is loud, the tension in it reverberating through the lab. “If they harm one hair—”
“Dude, calm down,” says Bert. He’s been Eugene’s computer guy and lab assistant for the last ten days.
“It’s clear they won’t harm Mira,” Hillary echoes.
Though I doubt she visits the lab as often as her boyfriend, she was in the neighborhood when I texted her to come over; she and Bert were planning to do brunch.
“
Okay, guys. Now that I’ve told you everything, I have to ask: What the hell is this monkey”—I point to the animal standing with an iPad in the middle of the room—“doing here?”
I noticed the monkey when I first entered the lab, but I was so wound up that I blurted out the whole story in one breath. Somewhat more relaxed now, I can reflect on the incredulity of an uncaged simian hanging out in the midst of all the brain-monitoring equipment and other gadgets that make up Eugene’s mad scientist dwelling.
“She’s not a monkey,” Eugene says, switching to his pedantic tone. “She’s an ape.”
“Okay,” I say. “Let me rephrase. What’s this ‘damn dirty ape’ doing here?”
“Hey now,” Hillary says. “Kiki is actually obsessed with hygiene.”
I look Kiki over. She returns my gaze curiously. Of course I know she’s an ape. I called her a monkey because I find that word funnier. Kiki is one of the higher apes, either a chimpanzee or a bonobo. She doesn’t strike me as a clean freak, given the diaper, but who knows? She’s currently wearing one of Eugene’s head contraptions—not unlike some he’s had me wear. What’s really impressive is her exemplary behavior. After glancing at me, she returns her attention to her iPad, no monkey business whatsoever.
“I’m sorry, Kiki,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Oh, stop it, you two,” Bert butts in. “She’s obviously our lab rat, err, chimp.”
“Right,” I say and look at my aunt. “And you’re okay with this?”
“No,” she says. “But Eugene developed this ‘super safe’ device that includes the TMS machine you bought him, and he was about to test it on Bert. So I figured—”
“That you’d rather he test it on a chimp than your boyfriend.” I chuckle despite my worry.
“TMS is FDA approved,” Hillary says defensively. “It should indeed be safe. I’m just being extra cautious.”
She sounds as though she really does feel guilty that she put Bert’s wellbeing above that of Kiki’s.
TMS stands for Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation. It’s a machine I got for Eugene’s lab from FBTI, a company I was researching for work before I met Eugene. According to what I’ve read, it’s as safe as can be, since it uses magnetic force as its modus operandi. Then again, if something is approved to treat depression, it’s bound to do something to the brain, and Eugene is clearly using it off-label.
“So because you were worried about Bert, you walked to the nearest zoo and nabbed a lab monkey?” I ask, this whole development lifting my mood slightly.
“No,” Hillary says. Her small face darkens. “I got Kiki as part of my animal rescue program. She belonged to an idiot in New Jersey.”
“Hillary, I can’t listen to your Greenpeace crap while my sister is being held hostage,” Eugene says irritably.
Bert glares at him. “You never want to hear it.” Then he turns to me. “When he saw poor Kiki, the first thing he wanted to do was install an electrode in her brain.”
In Eugene’s defense, he probably would’ve installed an electrode in his own brain long ago if Mira hadn’t been around to stop him. What’s more interesting is that Bert is defending his girlfriend. I feel like a parent who’s realized their kid is all grown up, only I wish he’d stand up to my aunt from time to time, just to reassure me that he’s not her mind-controlled puppet. It’s suspicious how he’s been in perfect harmony with my aunt’s wishes from the start. There’s pussy-whipped, and then there’s what Bert’s become under a maybe-too-hot-for-him girlfriend who can manipulate his mind to boot. If Bert wasn’t deliriously happy throughout all of this, I’d feel bad for having set them up.
“If anyone’s in danger, it’s Thomas,” Hillary retorts. “As far as your Leacher leaders are concerned, he’s a Pusher. I can’t even imagine what they will—”
“I hope they understand that if they do anything to Thomas, they can forget whatever it is they want from me,” I say, my anger returning.
“They would still have enough leverage over you, with your parents and Mira,” Hillary reminds me.
I frown as I consider that. “They didn’t freak out about me being a hybrid, and I didn’t get the sense that they harbor ill will toward Guides. Besides, regardless of the leverage they have over me, I think they know I’d kill them if—”
“Would you really?” Hillary gives me an incredulous look. “These are your grandparents we’re talking about.”
“So what’s your point?” Eugene snaps at her. “Should we give up? Or should Darren sleep with Julia to appease them?”
“While we’re at it, we’ll get Julia out of there too,” I promise, finally realizing why Eugene is acting so uncharacteristically bloodthirsty.
It’s because he and Julia have a history.
“Yes,” Hillary says. “My point is that I think we need to be rational. To maximize everyone’s chances of survival, we need to plan, then act. You seem to want to go into hothead mode, which could be detrimental to—”
“That’s not fair,” I say. “Why do you think I’m here instead of following them in my car?”
“I was chastising Eugene, not you,” she says. ”You did good coming here.”
“Fine,” Eugene says tersely. “Let’s hear your master plan.”
“I only have a rudimentary idea,” Hillary says. “We need Darren to master going into Level 2. If he could do this, he could Guide his grandparents toward the outcome we need. This is the only surefire idea I have, for the moment.”
“Would that work on them?” Bert asks. “They’re very powerful, and if Guiding the monks doesn’t work, wouldn’t the same be true of their leaders?”
“If by power you mean Depth, then it wouldn’t help them, since they showed no indication that they can reach Level 2 the way Darren can,” Hillary says. “That’s why they’re trying to breed offspring who can. That means, in theory, they can be Guided, but I didn’t think about the monks’ Guiding resistance. If the Enlightened can also do that, then my idea has a problem. But then, why would they even bother learning that? Unless they know what the Elders can do . . .”
“If I could magically master that skill, it would help greatly, even if it doesn’t work on my grandparents,” I say, thinking about her idea. “I’d be able to control Caleb, Julia, and her mother.”
“Exactly,” Hillary says. “Plus, there’s the issue of our friends being controlled by the person Darren dubbed as the Super Pusher.”
“Okay, I buy it,” I say. ”Level 2 control would be great. But I want to remind you that I couldn’t do it today, even when my life was in real danger.”
“I was about to mention possible ways in which you could overcome your issues,” Hillary says.
Eugene stares at her. “I think I see where you’re leading with that. If only I had more time . . .”
“I wasn’t talking about your tech,” Hillary says. “I had something much worse in mind. But if you think your stuff would help—”
“Can someone clue me in please?” I ask. “What does his research have to do with anything?”
“Dude, didn’t he tell you what he’s trying to do?” Bert chimes in.
“He tried, but—”
“Wait,” Bert says. “You’ve spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on all this equipment and you never even asked what it was for?”
“How would you like to make out with Kiki?” I ask him threateningly. When Bert pales, I say, “I do know. Eugene is trying to better understand our powers by researching how it all works in the brain.”
“That’s the oversimplification of the century,” Bert says, giving Hillary what I assume is a ‘Hey, hon. You’d save me from kissing an ape, right?’ kind of look.
“Enlighten me then,” I say. “In layman’s terms, so even a dummy with a Harvard graduate degree would understand.”
“Sure,” Bert says, pretending as though he’s taking my sarcasm at face value. “The shortest version is that among many other applications, Eugene
’s research can let a regular person, someone like me, go into the Mind Dimension.”
“What?” I stare at him and then turn to Mira’s brother. “Eugene, you never told me that.”
“I thought it was self-evident,” my friend says moodily. “Besides, I think I did tell you. You’ve just adopted my sister’s annoying habit of tuning out anything to do with my research.”
He’s right, but in my defense, when he gets going, he doesn’t shut up for hours, and there’s a limit to how many words like ‘connectome,’ ‘microtubules,’ and ‘oligodendrocytes’ I can listen to before I get selective with my hearing.
“Okay,” I say. “As cool as that is, how would giving Bert this ability help in my case?”
“Without some redesign and tinkering, it wouldn’t,” Bert says. “But the mechanism Eugene is working on basically combines two effects: it grants a little bit of Depth, and then it jolts the mind into Splitting into the Mind Dimension. The second part might—”
Eugene shakes his head. “We haven’t gotten past the animal testing phase, and I haven’t given such application much thought. We can’t just apply things to Darren’s situation—”
“The monkey is going into the Quiet?” Despite everything, I have to fight the urge to laugh. “Will it be a Reader or a Guide? I shudder to think what will happen to the world’s banana supplies if she becomes the latter.”
“Neither,” Eugene says. “The control of those abilities is spread much wider in the brain—”
“This is amazing,” I say. “I can’t believe you were planning to have a monkey phase without telling me. In the future, as the angel investor of this operation, I want daily reports, written by Bert. I can’t miss out on such cool stuff.”
“Dumbed-down reports,” Bert says. “Check.”
I glare at him. “Seriously, dude. My Reach is probably greater than Hillary’s, which means she can’t save you from an inter-species erotic encounter with your lovely ‘volunteer.’”
