by Dima Zales
“I’m ready,” I say, and demonstratively touch my frozen self on the forehead.
6
The sounds are back. There are now only two of us.
He’s less intent on shooting me—so I know I didn’t just hallucinate our conversation.
As I watch, he reaches into a pocket under his white coat and takes out a phone. Then he snaps a picture of me and writes a text.
“You go first,” he says.
I walk into the apartment, the gun pressed to my back, and gape at my surroundings, struck by what I’m seeing.
The place is a mess.
I’m not the kind of guy who thinks it’s a girl’s job to keep a place neat. But after a certain point, I am the kind of guy who thinks, ‘what kind of slob is she?’ I’m not sexist, though. I think the guy with the gun to my back is just as responsible for this mess as she is. An episode of that show about hoarders could be filmed here.
Pulling me from my thoughts, the guy makes me go into a room on the left.
It appears to be some kind of makeshift lab—if the lab had a small explosion of wires, empty frozen meal boxes, and scattered papers, that is.
“Sit,” he says.
I comply.
He grabs a few cables off the floor, some kind of gizmo, and a laptop, all the while trying to keep the gun pointed at me. Whatever he’s setting up is ready in a few minutes.
I realize that the cable things are electrodes. Still holding the gun, he applies them to my temples and a bunch of other places all over my head. I must look like a medusa.
“Okay,” he tells me when it’s ready. “Split, and then come back.”
I’m still so much on edge that phasing into the Quiet is easy. Within an instant, I’m standing next to my frozen body, watching myself. I look ridiculous with all the electrodes.
I momentarily debate snooping through the apartment, but decide against it. Instead I phase back out, anxious to see what’s coming next.
The first thing I hear is his laptop beeping.
“Okay,” he says after a pause. “Right before you Split, you were at the very least showing an EEG consistent with a Reader.”
“I know this is a good thing, but you don’t sound too confident,” I say. As soon as I say it, I regret it. Reader is good. Why would I say anything that might instill doubt? But I can’t help it, because I also want to know more about myself. Getting answers was the whole crazy reason I came here in the first place—well, that, and to confirm I’m not alone.
He looks around the room, then finds a nook to put the gun in. I think this officially means he’s warmed up to me.
“I’ve only tested myself extensively, and have run preliminary tests on my sister,” he says, glancing at me again. “I have my father’s notes, but I’m not confident this is conclusive. Aside from that, I have no idea if Pushers would have the same EEG results.” He furrows his brows. “In fact, it’s quite likely they might.”
His trust is like a yo-yo. “Isn’t there a better test you can do?” I say before he reaches for the gun again.
“There is,” he says. “You can actually try to Read.”
I keep any witty responses related to reading books to myself. “Will you at least tell me what Readers and Pushers are?” I ask instead.
“I can’t believe you don’t know.” He squints at me suspiciously. “Haven’t your parents told you anything?”
“No,” I admit, frustrated. “I have no idea what you mean or what parents have to do with anything.” I hate not knowing things, did I mention that?
He stares at me for a few moments, then sighs and walks up to me. “My name is Eugene,” he says, extending his hand to me.
“Nice to meet you, Eugene.” I shake his hand, relieved by this rather-civilized turn of events.
“Listen to me, Darren.” His face softens a bit, his expression becoming almost kind. “If what you say is true, then I’ll help you.” He raises his hand to stop me from thanking him, which I was about to do. “But only if you turn out to be a Reader.”
I have never wished to be part of a clique so badly in my life.
“How?” I ask.
“I’ll teach you,” he says. “But if it fails, if you can’t Read, you have to promise to leave and never come back.”
Wow, so now the rules have changed in my favor. I won’t be killed, even if I’m this Pusher thing. Nice.
“We need to hurry,” he adds. “My sister’s on the way. If you’re a Pusher, she won’t care about your situation.”
“Why?” I ask. In the list of pros and cons as to whether or not I should date Mira, the cons are definitely in the lead.
“Because Pushers had our parents killed,” he says. The kind expression vanishes. “In front of her.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, horrified. I had no idea Mira had gone through something so awful. Whoever these Pushers are, I can’t blame her for hating them—not if they killed her family.
Eugene’s face tightens at my platitude. “If you’re a Pusher and she catches you here, you’ll be sorry.”
“Right, okay.” I get that point now. “Let’s find out quickly then.”
“Put this on your fingers,” Eugene says, and grabs another cable from the shelf.
I put the device on. It reminds me of a heart-rate monitor, the kind a nurse would use on you at a hospital.
Eugene starts something on his laptop and turns the computer toward me.
There’s a program on the screen that seems to be tracking my heart rate, so my theory was probably right.
“That’s a photoplethysmograph,” he says. When he sees my blank stare, he adds, “How much do you know about biofeedback?”
“Not much,” I admit. “But I do know it’s when scientists use electrodes, similar to the ones you used on me before, to measure your brain patterns.” I recall reading about it in the context of a new way to control video games in the future, with your mind—as nature clearly intended. Also to beat lie detectors, but that’s a long story.
“Good. That’s neurofeedback, which is a type of biofeedback,” he explains. His voice takes on a professorial quality as he speaks. I can easily picture him teaching at some community college. Glasses, white coat, and all. “This is a simpler feedback.” He points at my fingers. “It measures your heart-rate variability.”
Another blank stare from me prompts him to explain further.
“Your heart rate can be a window into your internal emotional state. There is a specific state I need you to master. This device should expedite the training.” He looks uncertain when he says ‘should’—I’m guessing he hasn’t done much of this expedited training before.
I don’t care, though. From what I know of biofeedback, it’s harmless. If it keeps Mira from shooting me, sign me up.
“Anyway, you can read up on the details later. For now, I need you to learn to keep this program in the green.” He points to a part of the screen.
It’s like a game, then. There’s a big red-alert-looking button activated in the right-hand lower corner of the screen. Next to it are blue and green buttons.
“Sync your breath to this,” he says, pointing at a little bar that goes up and down. “This is five-in and five-out breathing.”
I breathe in sync to the bar for a few minutes. Whatever leftover fear I had evaporates; the technique is rather soothing.
“That’s good,” he says, pointing at the important lower corner. The red button is gone, and I’m now in the blue. I keep breathing. The green light eludes me.
I see the graph the software keeps of my heart-rate variability. It begins to look more and more even, almost like sine curves. I find it cool—even if I have no idea what that change means in terms of being able to Read.
The feeling this experience evokes is familiar, mainly because of the synchronous breathing. Lucy, my mom, taught me to do this as a meditation technique when I was a kid. She said it would help me focus. I think she secretly hoped it would reduce my hyperact
ivity. I loved the technique and still do it from time to time. It’s something she told me she learned from one of her old friends on the force—a friend who passed away. You’re supposed to think happy thoughts while doing the breathing, according to her teachings. Since I’m thinking of Lucy already, I remember fondly how she told me that she didn’t know how to meditate just because she was Asian, which was what I used to think. It was the first lecture I received on cultural stereotypes, but definitely not the last. It’s a pet peeve of both of my moms. They have a lot of pet peeves like that, actually.
Thus thinking happy thoughts, I try to ignore the bar, closing my eyes to do the meditation Lucy taught me. Every few seconds, I peek at the screen to see how I’m doing.
“That’s it,” Eugene says suddenly, startling me. When I open my eyes this time, I see the curves are even straighter, and the button is green.
“You did that much too easily,” he says, giving me a suspicious look. “But no matter. Do it again, without looking at the screen at all.”
He takes the laptop away, and I do my ‘Lucy meditation.’ In less than a minute, he looks at me with a more awed expression.
“That is amazing. I haven’t heard of anyone reaching Coherence so quickly before on the first try,” he says. “You’re ready for the real test.”
He gets up, puts his gun in his lab coat pocket, and, much to my surprise, leads me out of the apartment.
I’m especially puzzled when he walks across the hall and rings the doorbell of the neighboring apartment.
The door opens, and a greasy-haired, redheaded young guy looks us over. His eyes are bloodshot and glassy.
Without warning, everything silences.
Eugene is pulling his hand away from my frozen self. He must’ve done that trick his sister pulled on me at the casino. He must’ve phased in and touched me, bringing me into the Quiet. It’s creepy to think about—someone touching my frozen self the way I’ve touched so many others—but I guess I need to get used to the idea, since I’m no longer the only one who can do this.
Eugene approaches the guy and touches him on the forehead. I half-expect the guy to appear in the Quiet, too.
But no. There are only five of us: a frozen Eugene and me, the moving versions of us, and this guy, who’s still a motionless statue.
I watch, confused, as Eugene just stands there, holding the guy’s forehead. He looks so still that he begins to remind me of his frozen self.
Then he starts moving again. His hand is not on the guy’s head anymore.
“Okay,” he says, pointing at the guy. “Now you do the same thing. Place your hand on his skin.”
I walk up to the guy and comply. His forehead is clammy, which is kind of disgusting.
“Okay, now close your eyes and get into that same Coherence state,” Eugene instructs.
I close my eyes and start doing the meditation. And then it happens.
I’m so fucking stoned. That was some good shit Peter sold me. I’ve gotta get some more.
I feel great, but at the same time a part of myself wonders—why the hell did I smoke pot? My hedge fund does random urine tests on occasion. What if I get tested?
And then it hits me: I am not stoned. We are stoned. I, Darren, am not. But I, Nick, am.
We are Nick right now.
We are listening to “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd, which is also how we feel.
I, Darren, tried pot before. I didn’t like it nearly as much as I, Nick, like it right now.
We get a craving, but we’re too lazy to get anything to eat.
The doorbell rings.
Wow.
Can that be a delivery? We don’t recall ordering, but ordering something—pizza or Chinese—sounds like a great idea right about now. We reach for the phone when the doorbell rings again.
Oh yeah, the door.
Who’s at the door? we wonder again, with a pang of paranoia this time.
I, Darren, finally get it: it’s Eugene and me ringing the doorbell.
We get up, walk to the door, and open it after fumbling with the locks.
We’re looking at Eugene, Mira’s older brother, and some other dude, who I, Darren, recognize as myself. We wonder what the deal is.
Suddenly, I’m standing in the corridor, my hand no longer on Nick’s forehead. I stare at Eugene, my mouth gaping and heart racing at the realization of what I just did.
“Eugene, did you want me to get inside this pothead’s mind?” I manage to ask. “Is Reading ‘Mind Reading’?”
Eugene smiles at me, then walks to his frozen self and touches his own temple, bringing us out of the Quiet. Then he makes some bullshit excuse to confused Nick for ringing the doorbell, and we walk back to Eugene’s apartment.
“Tell me everything you just experienced,” he says as soon as the door closes behind us.
I tell him. As I go on, his smile widens. He must’ve seen the same thing when he touched the guy. From his reaction, I guess this means I can Read, and since this apparently removes any suspicions he had about me, I also assume that Pushers can’t Read. I think I’m starting to figure out at least a few pieces of the mystery.
This was the test—and incredibly, I passed.
7
What I did was not exactly how I imagined mind reading—not that mind reading is something I imagined much. The experience was like some kind of virtual reality, only more intense. It was like I was the pothead guy. I felt what he felt. Saw what he saw. I even had his memories, and they came and went as though they were mine.
But at the same time, I was also myself. An observer of sorts. I experienced two conflicted world views. On the one hand, I was Nick, feeling high, feeling numb, feeling dumb, but at the same time, I was myself, able to not lose my own consciousness. It was a strange merger.
I want to do it again—as soon as possible.
“Do you want tea?” Eugene asks, dragging me out of my thoughts, and I realize we somehow ended up at the kitchen table.
I look around the room. There are a bunch of beakers all over the place. Is he running some kind of chemistry experiment in here? A red stain on the counter, near an ampule with remains of that same red substance, matches the stain on Eugene’s white coat. At least it’s not blood, as I had originally thought.
“I will take your silence as a yes to tea.” Eugene chuckles. “I’m sorry,” he adds, joining me after setting the kettle on the stove. “The first time we Read is usually not as confusing as that. Nick’s intoxicated state must’ve been an odd addition to an already strange experience.”
“That’s an understatement,” I say, getting my bearings. “So how does this work?”
“Let’s begin at the beginning,” Eugene says. “Do you now know what a Reader is?”
“I guess. Someone who can do that?”
“Exactly.” Eugene smiles.
“And what is a Pusher?”
His smile vanishes. “What Pushers do is horrible. An abomination. A crime against human nature. They commit the ultimate rape.” His voice deepens, filling with disgust. “They mind-rape. They take away a person’s will.”
“You mean they can hypnotize someone?” I ask, trying to make sense of it.
“No, Darren.” He shakes his head. “Hypnosis is voluntary—if the whole thing exists at all. You can’t make someone do something they don’t want to do under hypnosis.” He stops at the sound of the kettle. “Pushers can make a person do anything they want,” he clarifies as he gets up.
I don’t know how to respond, so I just sit there, watching him pour us tea.
“I know it’s a lot to process,” Eugene says, placing the cup in front of me.
“You do have a gift for stating the obvious.”
“You said you came here to get answers. I promised I would provide them. What do you want to know?” he says, and my heart begins to pound with excitement as I realize I’m about to finally learn more about myself.
“How does it work?” I ask before he changes h
is mind and decides to test me some more. “Why can we phase into the Quiet?”
“Phase into the Quiet? Is that what you call Splitting?” He chuckles when I nod. “Well, prepare to be disappointed. No one knows for sure why we can do it. I have some theories about it, though. I’ll tell you my favorite one. How much do you know about quantum mechanics?”
“I’m no physicist, but I guess I know what a well-read layman should know.”
“That might be enough. I’m no physicist myself. Physics was my dad’s field, and really this is his theory. Have you ever heard of Hugh Everett III?”
“No.” I’ve never heard of the first two either, but I don’t say that to Eugene.
“It’s not important, as long as you’ve heard of the multiple universes interpretation of quantum mechanics.” He offers me sugar for my tea.
“I think I’ve heard of it,” I say, shaking my head to decline the sugar. Eugene sits across from me at the table, his gaze intent on mine. “It’s the alternative to the famous Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics, right?”
“Yes. We’re on the right track. Now, do you actually understand the Copenhagen interpretation?”
“Not really. It deals with particles deciding where to be upon observation with only a probability of being in a specific place—introducing randomness into the whole thing. Or something along those lines. Isn’t it famous for no one understanding it?”
“Indeed. I doubt anyone really does. Even my dad didn’t, which is why he said it was all BS. He would point out how the whole Schrödinger’s cat paradox is the best example of the confusion.” As he talks, Eugene gets more and more into the conversation. He doesn’t touch his tea, completely immersed in the subject. “Schrödinger meant for the cat theory to illustrate the wrongness, or at least the weirdness of that interpretation, which is funny, given how famous the cat example became. Anyway, what’s important is that Everett said there is no randomness. Every place a particle can be, it is, but in different universes. His theory is that there is nothing special about observing particles, or cats—that the reality is Schrödinger’s cat is both alive and dead, a live cat in one universe and a dead one in another. No magic observation skills required. Do you follow?”
