The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2) (14 page)

Hillary is the last stop on this intro-tour. “See, I promised I’d give him back to you,” Liz says to Hillary, smiling. “He’s all yours to brainwash. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of.”

“I heard you might know about something I find kind of interesting,” I say to Hillary when Liz is gone.

“Sure, what is it?” she asks, grinning at me.

“I was hoping you could tell me about the Traditionalists,” I say.

Her grin disappears without a trace. “You’re new, Darren, so you don’t know that this is a sensitive subject for me. But it is, and I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, her voice unusually harsh.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that. Let’s talk about something else.” I feel like an oaf. Her face is so expressive that upsetting her just feels wrong. Like being mean to a little girl. It must be her petiteness messing with my brain.

“Do you want to get out of here?” she says consolingly. “I’m starving, and they never have anything edible.”

I don’t point out the large buffet filled to the brim with choice finger foods and consider this for a moment. I’m tired, but something about Hillary makes me want to get to know her better. I’m not sure what it is. It’s almost as though there’s some kind of connection between us.

“I’m game, but I have an errand to run on the way. Do you mind if I stop by the Apple store for a minute? They’re open late, and I urgently need to get a new phone.”

“No problem.” She grins at me. “Let’s go.”

As we get out of the cab, I finish texting everyone my new phone number.

The place we end up is one that Hillary describes as a raw vegan restaurant. She swears it will be the best meal I’ve had in years, but as I look at the menu, I’m rather skeptical. As expected, they have many salads, but I’m surprised to find that they have other options as well.

“I guess I’ll order coconut water for now,” I say to the dreadlocked waiter who smells suspiciously like weed.

“That’s an excellent choice, full of electrolytes. It’s very good for you,” Hillary says, smiling. “I’ll have the same.”

“I’ll also get the spiral zucchini pasta with cashew-nut Alfredo sauce,” I say hesitantly. This is the most promising-sounding dish on the menu, but that’s not saying much.

“You should leave room for dessert. They’re amazing here,” Hillary says, ordering her own choice: a kale salad with honey-glazed pecans, plus guacamole with ‘live chips’—whatever that is.

“So what did you think about our little community?” she says when the waiter leaves.

“They seem like good people,” I answer honestly. “I can’t wait to get to know everyone better.”

“They
are good people. I wish the rest of the Guides were more like them,” she says, almost wistfully.

I figure she must be talking about the Traditionalists, but I don’t press her, given her earlier reaction. Instead I say, “Yeah, I know what you’re saying. Some Guide is trying to kill me.”

“Kill you?” She looks stunned. “Why? How do they even know you exist?”

I share as much as I can for the umpteenth time today, telling her the same story I told Liz and Thomas. “So you see, someone is trying to kill me, but I have no idea how they know that I exist.”

“Is that why you were asking about the Traditionalists?”

“Yeah, Thomas said it sounded like something they might do, and he said that you were the best person to ask about it,” I say carefully.

“Then I guess you had a good reason to ask before. But I don’t understand why they would want to hurt you. I mean, with Thomas, I can see it, but you . . .” She narrows her eyes, studying me intently.

“I don’t know why he made that guess,” I say, not wanting to raise the question of my heritage. “Maybe he was wrong.”

“Maybe,” she says. “I guess I can tell you what I know, in case it helps.”

“That would be great.”

She squares her shoulders. “Okay, to get a sense for the Traditionalists, try this thought experiment. Take the close-mindedness of any sort of extreme fundamentalist, add eugenics, dogma, fear of the unknown, and mix in an overwhelming, blind, and bigoted hatred of the Leachers.”

“Okay. I’m picturing this and not liking the results.”

“Well, that’s just step one. Step two: now imagine growing up with people like that as parents,” she says somberly.

I blink. “Oh, is that why—?”

“Yeah, that’s why I was touchy earlier. But don’t worry about it. You didn’t know.”

“Still, I’m sorry I upset you.”

“It’s okay. My folks are probably not even the worst of what’s out there. Yes, they’re obsessed with fear of exposure to regular people. And, yes, they’re afraid of new technology or—more correctly—of progress of any kind. Oh, and if they had their way, life today would be like the good old days of yesteryear that I suspect never existed in the first place. All of those things are true, but even with all those things in mind, I don’t think my parents would go as far as trying to Guide someone to kill anyone.”

She stops talking and looks thoughtful. Is she wondering if she just told the truth? If her parents might be capable of murder in the name of their beliefs? I guess this topic is off the table for the time being.

Food and drinks arrive just in time to fill the silent moment we’re having. She starts wolfing down her chips with the guacamole and offers me some.

“This is surprisingly good,” I say, trying the chips. Apparently, they were made in a dehydrator, which slowly dried them without officially cooking them. That doesn’t sound very ‘raw’ to me, but they taste a lot like corn chips, so I’m not going to complain. My own dish of the pseudo-spaghetti made from zucchini is also pretty good, though it has as much in common with the real thing as a hot dog with a real canine. I taste the drink too, like it, and tell Hillary, “This coconut water is different from the stuff I’ve gotten before.”

“Of course, you probably got the one from the can,” she says, and starts eating her salad. Her hands are so small that the fork looks big in them.

I wonder how Hillary and her friends would react to knowing the truth about me, so to test the waters, I ask, “The way you talked about the Traditionalists hating Leachers before, you made it sound like the rest of your community likes them.”

“Compared to the Traditionalists, we’re practically in love with them, sure,” she says, spearing another bite of salad with her fork.

“Hmm, but I thought, at least from talking to Liz, that Leachers are to be avoided,” I say, pushing the inquiry further. I hope she doesn’t find the topic suspicious. I really want to find out how much danger I’d be in if my fellow Guides learned about my Reading abilities.

“I don’t know about Liz, but I, personally, don’t hate the Leachers. Not even a little bit,” she says, giving me a guileless look. “In fact, I’m curious about them.”

“Oh. And is that a common view?”

“No. Mine is probably a rare attitude. The rest of the group would consider me weird, even though they’re pretty liberal. Even outside the Traditionalists, most Guides dislike Leachers with a passion.”

“Is it because of the genocides?” I ask, remembering Liz’s history lesson.

“Yeah, that’s part of it. Bad history does that to groups. But there’s more to it. It’s widely believed that Leachers still, to this day, actively hate us—so disliking them back seems like a natural response,” she says.

“But
you
don’t,” I clarify.

“Well, I wouldn’t go as far as seeking them out. I agree that it’s wise to avoid Leachers. Not because I believe they’re evil, but because I think some of them may have the same ‘us versus them’ mentality that a lot of Guides do, even outside the Traditionalist clique.”

“So we’re supposed to dislike them because they hate us, and avoid them for the same reason. If they apply the same logic, isn’t that a Catch-22?”

“You’re a man after my own heart,” Hillary says with a smile. “That’s actually a pet peeve of mine, and I think you verbalized it perfectly. The entire human race has this tendency—the inclination to cling to their own group. This obsession with sub-dividing ourselves is responsible for practically every evil in the world. Everyone fails to see that the hatred between our people is just another example in a series of these meaningless feuds. They all start with people who are extremely alike, and then a tiny difference creeps in, and people separate along that difference, after which insanity ensues. Sooner or later, you get that ‘we hate you because you hate us’ deadlock, or worse.”

“Wow, you really have given it some thought,” I say, impressed.

“How could I not? It’s so obvious. Take anything arbitrary, like skin color, income, politics, religion, nationality, or in this case, types of powers. You name it, and at some point, people find a way to separate over that arbitrary trait—and some become willing to kill over it. Once that thinking sets in, the groups start thinking of one another as less than human, which further justifies all manner of atrocities. The whole cycle is so pointless that I sometimes want to give up.” She sighs. “But I don’t. Instead, to quote a wise man, ‘I try to be the change I’d like to see in the world.’”

“I wonder what Gandhi would’ve said about all this,” I say, sipping my drink. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m not racist, sexist, or any other
ist
myself. In fact, since I didn’t grow up with these stories about Leachers, I don’t plan on hating them either. Like you, I’m curious about them, so I don’t think you’re weird at all.”

“Thank you,” she says, rewarding me with a wide, white-toothed grin. “You know, even though we just met, I feel like I know you already. Like I can trust you. But I don’t know why. Is that strange?”

“No. I know what you mean,” I say, and I do. It actually
is
strange. I’m drawn to this girl, but not in the way I’m usually drawn to pretty girls. It’s more that I just like
her.

She grins at me. “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. And about your troubles . . . If you need help dealing with whoever’s after you, I’d be glad to be of assistance.”

I suppress a smile as I imagine her swinging her tiny fists in a fight. “Thank you, Hillary. I really appreciate the sentiment.”

“But you don’t think I can be of help,” she guesses astutely. “Why? Because of my height?”

“No,” I lie. “Because you seem so peaceful. I would’ve pegged you for a pacifist.” I learned long ago that if a woman asks you a question pertaining to her size, you have to say whatever she wants to hear, and quickly. A special case of this rule is the dreaded ‘does this make me look fat’ question. The answer to that is always NO.

“You’re right,” Hillary says. “I’m not a violent person, but my Reach is probably the longest in our group.” She flushes a bit as she says this last part, and I remember Liz telling me that this subject—the measure of a Guide’s power—is considered impolite among them. I guess Hillary just told me the equivalent of her bra size or something along those lines.

“Your Reach?” I ask, looking at her. Liz explained the concept a bit, but I want to understand it better.

Hillary nods, her cheeks still pink. “Yes. Your Reach determines how much, how deeply, and for how long you can Guide a person. Mine is so great because all of my ancestors, including my parents and grandparents, adhered to the barbaric custom of breeding for this quality. In fact, had I been a good girl and mated with whomever I was told, my children might’ve grown up to become the Elders.”

“Okay, brain overload,” I say. “How can you Guide someone ‘deeper’? And what are the Elders?”

“The quick version about Reach is this: let’s say you Guide someone, and then let’s presume I come along and I want to Guide them away from your course of action. Reach differences will determine my success.”

“So even if I program someone, if you’re more powerful than I am, you can reprogram
them?”

“We never use such a derogatory term, but you got the gist of it, yes,” she says. “And the Elders are those Guides who can spend lifetimes in the Mind Dimension. I don’t know much about them. The rumors say that they live in the Mind Dimension together, each one taking a driver’s seat pulling others into a weird community that, for all intents and purposes, exists outside time.”

I stare at her, fascinated. “That’s incredible.”

“Yes, it is—although it freaks me out a bit. I find it difficult to imagine even talking to one of the Elders. Just think about it. In the time it takes you to blink, they can Split into the Mind Dimension, join their friends, and live a lifetime of experiences together. It boggles my mind, and I like my mind’s equilibrium.”

She’s right. It’s difficult to comprehend what she’s describing. In a nutshell, it’s life extension—and I find it beyond cool. I’d like to try living in the Quiet for a long time with a bunch of friends, or hopefully even with a girlfriend.

“So, anyway, back to Reach,” Hillary says, pulling me out of my excited imaginings. “Mine is quite formidable, which means that if that Guide tries to use civilians to kill you, I could override his or her directive, provided I got involved in time.”

“That would be amazing,” I say, impressed. “I really appreciate it, Hillary. Here, let me get your phone number.” I hand her my new phone. One of the ‘Geniuses’ at the Apple store transferred all my contacts, and it’s as though I’ve had this phone for ages.

She inputs her number and hands it back to me. “I put my name there, but you can write in a nickname, like you seem to do with everyone else.”

I take the phone back, vaguely embarrassed that she saw the nickname stuff. It’s this thing I do. I come up with ridiculous nicknames for everyone, and then have fun with voice dial. Her nickname is going to be Tinker Bell. Imagining saying the words ‘call Tinker Bell’s cell phone’ in a crowded bus is my kind of fun.

I look at the screen and see the words
Hillary Taylor
written there, along with the phone number. I decide that the nickname can be added later. For now, I dial her number, so that she has my contact info as well. It’s when the phone is dialing that it hits me.

Taylor.

Sarah told me that my mom’s maiden name was Margret
Taylor
.

No.

It can’t be.

Can it?

It
is
a small community. How many namesakes can there be?

“Are you an only child, Hillary?” I ask, not fully thinking of the consequences of this line of questioning.

She looks stunned by my question. “Yes. No. Sort of. I had an older sister a long time ago, but she’s dead. Why do you ask? And why do you look so shocked?”

Her sister.

Older . . . likely much older, given that Hillary looks to be only in her mid-twenties.

An older sister who’s dead.

It has to be.

I can’t believe it—but the resemblance is there.

With hindsight, that’s what’s been fascinating me about her face. We have the exact same shade of blue eyes. The same chin, similar cheekbones, and her nose is a miniature, feminine version of mine. Aside from the big height difference, we look like we could be related—and now I know why.

Because we are.

“I think you’re my aunt, Hillary,” I blurt out, unable to suppress my excitement.