The Elders

by Dima Zales

  “Nice to see you too, Anne,” Hillary says coolly. “Can you tell me what you and George are talking about? What’s wrong with Ronald?”

  “You won’t call him Dad, even now?” Anne picks up her tea again, her withered hands cradling the cup as if deriving comfort from it.

  “Mom, what’s wrong with Dad?” Hillary asks, managing to make those usually warm words sound empty.

  “Come, I’ll show you,” Anne says. “But leave your Unencumbered plaything in the kitchen. Seeing him will upset your father too much.”

  Is she talking about me? “I am not—”

  “He’s not Unencumbered,” Hillary says. “He’s actually a powerful Guide that Daddy would approve of.”

  Shaking her head in disbelief, my newfound grandmother walks out of the kitchen.

  As we go deeper into the house, a new smell permeates the air, that of some kind of medicine. We enter a large master bedroom. In the middle is something that looks like a hospital bed, with an old man lying in it, his expression that of a scowl.

  “You’re too early,” he says to Hillary, his voice raspy. “I’m not dead yet.”

  “Hello to you too, Dad,” Hillary says. “Can you tell me what happened to you?”

  “You really don’t know?” Anne furrows her brow at her daughter. “You didn’t come here to gloat at your father’s pain?”

  Hillary looks as if her mother slapped her.

  “We came here because I need to meet with the Elders,” I say, getting aggravated.

  Hillary puts a hand on my arm and says, “We think his Reach is high enough to be considered—”

  “He’s a potential?” Her father’s expression visibly softens. “Are you telling me you married someone who suits your station?”

  “We’re not—”

  “—going to discuss anything until I learn what happened to you,” Hillary says, this time squeezing my arm.

  “What’s there to tell?” Ronald says bitterly. “I fell.”

  “And broke his hip,” Anne adds. “Don’t forget that part.”

  “I see,” Hillary says, her small face unreadable. “How bad is it?”

  “He had surgery,” George says, stepping closer to the bed. “After some physical therapy, he might be able to walk again.”

  “Did you want to tell us anything else?” her father asks. “Besides this lad”—he glances at me—“being a potential?”

  Hillary’s jaw tightens. “What do you want to hear, Dad? That I found someone better than George?” She casts a derisive look at the man in question. “Yes, I have. I have a man, and I’m happy.”

  She squeezes my arm again, but at this point, I know to keep my mouth shut.

  “That’s good,” Ronald says, his eyes watering. “We always wanted—”

  “—to make sure that I didn’t embarrass you,” Hillary says. “That I did my duty.”

  “You say it like it’s a bad thing,” my grandmother says.

  “I think we should let Ronald rest,” George says. “Let’s go back to the kitchen.”

  “I’ll stay here with my husband,” Anne says, approaching the bed. “I’m sure George can help with this Elders business better than I can, since I would’ve had to call him for you anyway.”

  “It was nice to see you,” Ronald says to Hillary. “I hoped I’d get the chance to before . . .” He swallows.

  “I’m sorry you’re hurt,” Hillary says, her usually expressive face showing almost no emotion. Before they can say anything else, she follows George into the other room.

  When we’re back in the kitchen, I phase into the Quiet. Then I make my way back to the bedroom and take a closer look at my new set of biological grandparents. I see the familial resemblance. I share Ronald’s blue eyes, and Hillary and I have the shape of his nose in common. And Anne’s cheekbones are very much like those of my aunt’s.

  I don’t know how to feel about these people. They disowned my mother and, being Traditionalists, they’d probably find my hybrid self to be some kind of an abomination. I should be angry with them, but for some reason, I’m not. I feel a sense of regret, mixed with sadness. These people managed to alienate their only remaining daughter with their stupid prejudices. Still, in a weird way, I owe my existence to them. Had they not been such assholes to my biological mom, she wouldn’t have rebelled and married a Reader to possibly spite these very people.

  If I ever see my shrink Liz again, she’ll want to talk about this.

  Having had enough of staring at my grandparents, I decide to snoop around and find a family album in the second drawer of the ancient oak dresser.

  Jackpot.

  Leafing through it, I see pictures of Margret. She was a beautiful young woman, though she looks sad in many of these photos. Younger pictures of George, the guy who opened the door, show up throughout the album as well. Is he a relative? But there was a hint that he had been Hillary’s suitor or something. Weird.

  Time to learn more about that, I decide, and return to the kitchen.

  I approach my frozen aunt, who looks as emotionless as before. We need to have a private conversation, so I touch her forehead.

  “Darren,” Hillary’s animated double says. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to pull me in.”

  “And how did I do, compared to your expectations?”

  “You exceeded them all with your patience.”

  “Right, okay. Can you tell me who the hell he is?” I point at George, making sure I don’t accidentally touch the man.

  “He’s your great-grandmother’s cousin’s grandson.” As she talks, Hillary walks to the stairs in the middle of the house.

  “Wait a minute.” I follow her up the stairs. “If he’s a relative, why did your parents want you to marry him?”

  “He’s a distant enough relative where it wasn’t his blood that I had a problem with. I just didn’t care for him one iota.” She stops on the second floor and looks around.

  I think about George. Height is the only trait we share. He’s a bit taller than me, probably six-one. With his brown eyes and hawkish nose, he could just as easily have been Bert’s relative. This reminds me of what Hillary said earlier about finding a man, and I smile. Her parents probably thought she was talking about me.

  “Would you like to see my old room?” Hillary asks, nodding her head toward the door on the right.

  “Of course,” I say. “I’d love to.”

  She gingerly opens the door and walks in, waiting for me to catch up.

  “I didn’t peg you for a metal head,” I say, examining the Metallica posters plastered all over the walls.

  “It was a phase,” she says, looking around. Her eyes suddenly well up. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. I think we should go back,” she says, but doesn’t move. I guess the dingy bed, the stuffed toys, and those posters are bringing back some unpleasant memories.

  I feel like an intruder, so to lessen the discomfort, I ask, “What’s an Ambassador? And while you’re at it, what’s an Unencumbered? Also, why did you lie about me?”

  Hillary walks up to a desk and sits down in the rotating chair. Then she picks up an old hairbrush and absentmindedly says, “Unencumbered is a condescending term Guides came up with when referring to regular people. My circle of friends doesn’t use it. The insinuation is that people without powers are not encumbered by the weight of the decisions we, the mighty and chosen ones, have to make. Baloney, if you ask me. The only good thing I can say about the term is that it’s better than something like ‘Powerless.’”

  “Okay, and what does it mean for George to be an Ambassador?” I watch as she runs the brush through her hair.

  “An Ambassador is a fancy term for people who do business for the Elders. There aren’t many of them, which is why you’ve never heard of them.” She opens the desk drawer and takes out a photo album.

  “How many are there?” I ask, watching her.

  “I’m not sure. I doubt there’s very many, though I don’t know m
uch about it. I only recently found out that George became one. I thought he’d grow up to be an Elder, not one of their lackeys, but given his temperament, it figures.” She leafs through the pages of the photo album, almost tentatively.

  “His temperament?” I walk deeper into the room and almost trip over a dusty teddy bear.

  “The Elders are a very solipsistic bunch, and George always held strong opinions about the outside world and its people. The fact that he’s here visiting a sick older relative is very typical of him, but no Elder would deign to leave their secret hideout for anyone outside their little circle.” She stops on one page and her expression hardens.

  “Would they bother helping me then, if they’re so self-absorbed?” I inch closer to see the image she’s looking at.

  “If they think there’s something in it for them, sure, but there’s only one way to find out what they’ll do.” She flips the page, preventing me from seeing whatever it was that upset her. “Let’s get George to arrange the meeting.”

  “And we’re still pretending to be a couple? I’m not sure how comfortable—”

  “No. That lie was for my parents. If they learn the truth about you, they might each get an aneurism.” She keeps her finger inside the photo album to save her spot, lifts her eyes from it, and gives me a wink.

  “And George is more open-minded?”

  “I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter. It’s pointless to lie to him, and even more so to the Elders. More than that, it can be dangerous. A lie is not a good way to start a relationship.” She reopens the album and moves to another page.

  “But what if the truth is worse than the lie?”

  She stops her leafing. “They have the resources to learn the truth anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if somehow they, or one of their Ambassadors, already know about you. And besides, saying, ‘I’m a Guide who doesn’t know his heritage,’ will simply pique their curiosity.”

  “So I tell them everything?”

  “You can omit a bunch of things—that’s not lying—but you should tell them who your mother is and about the Enlightened taking your friends and family, especially since that will likely motivate them to help you. Just don’t talk about your Reader father unless you absolutely have to, and don’t mention it to George. If they don’t know about that, so much the better, but even if they do, why raise a sour topic voluntarily?”

  “What about the Super Pusher? Do I tell them about her?”

  “I don’t know,” Hillary says. “Do whatever allows you to best investigate who might be behind this. You can withhold the information at first, like an ace up your sleeve, but if the situation calls for it . . .”

  She turns another page, and a pained look overtakes her.

  “What is it?” I ask, unable to resist.

  “It’s a picture of her,” Hillary says. “Come over here. It’s not fair for me to hide it from you.”

  Ah. She’s looking at pictures of her dead sister—my mom.

  I approach her and look over her shoulder. Like before, I don’t feel anything more than curiosity when I look at pictures of Margret, who, in most of these, looks very young. I can’t even begin to understand what Hillary must be feeling as she looks down at these smiling faces.

  “She was very pretty,” I say uncomfortably.

  “I was jealous of her,” Hillary says. “She was so beautiful.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder and just stand there as she slowly turns the rest of the pages.

  With an audible sniffle, Hillary jackknifes to her feet. “Okay, let’s get back to business.” Her voice is overly chipper.

  She makes her way back to the kitchen, and I follow, trying not to trip on the carpeted stairs.

  “Why don’t we bring George in, so your parents can’t overhear us?” I suggest when we’re back in the kitchen.

  “Good idea.” She walks over to him.

  “Wait. Are you still doing the talking?”

  “No, you can do it,” she says. “If there’s one family trait we share, it’s our ability to skirt around the truth.”

  “Don’t forget awesome looks.” I’m glad she seems to be back to her normal self, at least outwardly.

  “Right, and our supreme modesty.”

  I chuckle and watch her bring George in. When he materializes, George crosses his arms and looks at us expectantly.

  “Darren needs your help,” Hillary says. “Darren, please explain your situation to him.”

  I proceed to tell George the story in the way Hillary and I discussed. I don’t mention irrelevant things, such as dating a Reader girl, or things that could get me in trouble, like killing Kyle. I stress the things I suspect Guides would care about, focusing mostly on the fact that Thomas, another Guide, was kidnapped by the Enlightened.

  At the mention of the Enlightened, I can tell I have George’s undivided attention.

  “The Elders will want to hear about this,” he says, his eyes gleaming. “The Enlightened fascinate them, and if they took Thomas, of all people—”

  “Wait,” Hillary says. “How would the Elders even know who Thomas is? He’s not exactly powerful.”

  “We like to keep tabs on Guides who have, or could have in the future, access to powerful Unencumbered individuals.”

  Hillary looks confused, but I know what George is insinuating. “This is about Thomas being in the Secret Service, isn’t it?” I ask.

  “Your nephew shares your wit,” George says approvingly. “Yes, indeed. The Unencumbered do not get any more powerful than the so-called Leader of the Free World.”

  “So the rumors are true,” Hillary says. “Ambassadors do control human affairs at the Elders’ bidding. That’s why you’re keeping an eye on any potential competition.”

  “I will not dignify rumors with a response.”

  “Knowing you, that means yes,” Hillary says, frowning.

  “All I can say is, if we Guided the Unencumbered, the world would be a better place for it.” George smiles at my aunt. I wonder if he still has some kind of feelings for her—assuming he ever had them, that is. He might’ve also been getting pressure from his family for this alliance.

  Hillary snorts. “In that case, I guess you’re not Guiding them, since the world is turning to shit.”

  “We’re only speaking hypothetically. But you’re wrong. The world is getting more peaceful as of late, a happenstance that would imply someone is looking out for everyone’s interests.”

  “Really?” Hillary gives him a disbelieving look. “With all the violence happening everywhere?”

  George’s smile fades. “Human society is an extremely complex system that would be very difficult, if not close to impossible, to Guide perfectly, especially for a tiny group such as ours. Still, again hypothetically, you are being unfair. Violence has diminished compared to other times in history.”

  “Violence is down?” Hillary lifts her eyebrows. “Maybe in the Elders’ secret hideout, but not in the world I live in.”

  “That’s a common misconception,” George says. “The media makes things seem much worse than they really are. Trust me, compared to humanity’s turbulent past—a past where no one, hypothetically, Guided the direction of world events—things have steadily improved.”

  My aunt is wearing a scornful expression. “Oh, please. You consider the Holocaust a decrease in violence?”

  “No.” George’s face tightens. “That horrible event and the nuclear proliferation that soon followed are times when someone, hypothetically, decided to step in to ensure similar events would not repeat themselves.”

  “But we had those atrocities in Uganda,” Hillary argues as I listen in fascination. “And all the acts of terrorism and the wars in the Middle East.”

  “Extremely complex system, remember?” George leans against a wall and crosses his arms. “If you look at statistics, wars don’t happen as often and are resolved with less bloodshed. We haven’t had nuclear war. Despots lose their power much faster than ever before, a
nd people don’t get tortured by their states as much. Even the murder rate is down.”

  “How can you say this about torture when the truth about enhanced interrogation just came out?” Hillary glares at him.

  “Again, read your history,” George says. “Rectal feeding is nothing compared to, say, the rack, which was extremely common in the Middle Ages. Not to mention that until recently, torture was done legally and openly, and now it’s a condemned practice that only the fringe—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” I say, getting tired of this, “but I really think we should get going soon.”

  “Right,” George says, straightening away from the wall. “I tend to get carried away when the subject of history comes up. Hillary, perhaps we can discuss this further once we get to our destination?”

  “I’m not going with you,” Hillary says.

  “You’re not?” George and I say in unison.

  “I’m staying here, at least until Darren is done.”

  George looks vaguely disappointed, but says, “I understand and respect your decision, even if I would’ve liked to talk some more. Also, Mary would’ve loved to see you.”

  “Mary is still alive?” Hillary asks. When she sees my questioning look, she adds, “Mary is my grandmother—your great-grandmother.”

  “She has Alzheimer’s, I’m afraid,” George says. “But they arrange for her to be brought into the Mind Dimension when she’s lucid. This way, her lucidity can last for many, many years.”

  “That’s incredible,” I say, impressed both by the strategy and the fact that I have a living great-grandmother. Hillary never talked about her before.

  “Family is extremely important to me,” George says. “Hillary knows this.”

  “You better go,” my aunt says.

  In the uncomfortable silence that follows, I phase out.

  Hillary goes into the master bedroom and comes back with Anne.

  “You’re leaving so soon?” Anne looks at George. “I didn’t even get a chance to feed you.”

  “I’m sorry,” George says. “For what it’s worth, Hillary will stay here.”

  Anne’s eyes widen.

  “It was nice to meet you,” I say to Anne.

  “He really is going to see the Elders,” Anne whispers to Hillary. “I thought you—”