The Enlightened (13 page)

I know I should get out of the monk’s head and figure a way out of this mess, but curiosity overtakes me. Inside this young monk’s mind is something useful.

These monks’ fighting style.

I try to feel lighter, enough to go back just a few days.

We’re sparring with our more experienced sister. We much prefer no-contact practice, but the Master frowns upon it. He calls no-contact ‘flowery fists and embroidery kicks.’ The Master says that no matter how pleasing it is to the eye of the spectator monks, or cleansing for the mind of the monk performing the movements, no-contact practice can never take the place of sparring.

The sister we’re fighting is amazing. Being a woman of small frame, she’s supposed to be weaker than us, but we can barely keep up with her. We know small bruises will appear tomorrow where her punches land. And what impresses us the most is that we know she’s holding back the intensity of those punches.

I, Darren, eventually disassociate from the training, but not before I get a compressed month’s worth of sparring sessions, and triple that of the stylistic, dance-like solo training. I don’t bother remembering the fancy names for the stances, though I guess it would have been cool to show Bert a move and say, “Yup, that was the ‘Fierce Tiger Descending from Mountain.’” My goal was to learn the strengths and weaknesses of the style in case I need to fight the Master, who’s frozen in the process of running toward me.

Fighting lessons out of the way, I allow myself an indulgence. I try to zoom in on a very specific memory—that of the Reading-resistant meditative technique these monks possess. The young monk was thinking about it while sparring and practiced a version of it during his solo training, but I wasn’t focused on it enough to really understand how it works.

I jump around in his head and come up empty. I don’t see anything specifically relating to this mysterious technique. All the monks ever taught my host was a type of meditation, which I doubt is special in any way. None of the meditation techniques are qualitatively different from the focused concentration we all think of as meditation. No secret sauce that I could glimpse. These monks simply meditate a lot. Either this monk wasn’t entrusted with the special technique, or blocking someone from entering your mind doesn’t involve some kind of special trick.

Could it be that regular, vanilla meditation—with enough practice—can make you resistant to Reading and Guiding? Or is it more likely that these monks have special genetics? Like a breed of people who are naturally capable of resisting us? This last theory is flawed. It doesn’t explain how I can Read this monk, which suggests blocking people like me is a skill he hasn’t yet mastered. Or maybe there’s another alternative that I’m not considering.

I file this away as something I can talk to Eugene about someday. I also make a mental note to Read the next ‘regular’ Buddhist monk I come across, which could prove or disprove my vanilla meditation theory. Not sure where I’d find such a monk, but one time, I did see the Dalai Lama near the United Nations Headquarters. He’s a Buddhist.

Damn, I wish I’d known about Reading then. Reading the Dalai Lama would’ve been cool, but it could’ve ended with him joining me in the Quiet. How do I know he’s not one of us?

Realizing I’m getting sidetracked, I mentally smack myself into focus and exit the young monk’s head.

* * *

“It’s amazing,” Eugene says as soon as I’m out. “I can’t Read him. I wonder how—”

“Zhenya, focus,” Mira interrupts. “Now’s really not the time for your science.”

“I had better luck Reading than the two of you, but the information I gleaned doesn’t give me much hope,” I say, preventing Eugene from arguing with his sister. “Caleb
is
here, as well as more of these monks.”

“Damn it,” Mira says. “Let’s go find the tiny one and figure things out from there.”

Finding Hillary is a great idea, so I lead the charge.

She and Bert are in the Starbucks where I told him our secrets. I can’t help but smile when I see my friend holding another cup of coffee. He had two while we were chatting less than an hour ago, but he has an extremely high tolerance for caffeine. I think he can drink coffee all day long without getting even a little jittery. Or maybe it’s hard to tell the difference between normal Bert and jittery Bert, given how keyed-up this kid normally is.

I pull Hillary in, and a moment later, she’s looking up at me with concern written on her small face. Her eyebrows furrow even deeper as I explain the situation.

“Give me a second,” she says.

She walks over to Bert and does that kissing thing to him again. Mira and Eugene look away while I just look off to the side, unsure what etiquette says to do in situations such as these.

“Ready,” Hillary says when she’s done with whatever it is she was doing to Bert.

“You Pushed him?” Mira asks.

“I
Guided
him to go straight to the plane and not look back or start any trouble,” Hillary says.

“Good call,” I say. “One less variable for us to worry about.”

“My thoughts exactly. Now follow me,” Hillary says and walks away. Mira and Eugene exchange questioning glances, then look at me. I shrug. I have no idea what my aunt has in mind, but since she looks as though she knows what she’s doing, I decide to follow her for now.

She approaches a man in uniform. He appears to be a TSA agent. Without hesitation, Hillary frisks the guy.

“No weapons,” she says with obvious disappointment.

“I don’t think TSA agents carry,” Eugene says. “They’re not cops.”

“I think I see where you’re going with this,” Mira says, looking at Hillary approvingly. “Let me have a look.”

She places her hand on the shiny, bald head of the aging TSA agent and concentrates.

“How stereotypical,” she says when she’s done. Turning determinedly, she walks to the stairs and down a level. We all follow her
.

As we walk, I notice Hillary is looking around thoughtfully. I wonder what she’s planning. Whatever it is, it requires her to learn her surroundings.

“There,” Mira says, pointing at the Dunkin Donuts
.

I see two other men in uniforms. These two turn out to have ‘Miami-Dade’ written on their badges.

They’re cops.

“MDPD,” Mira says and takes the gun from the shorter of the two officers.

“Oh, I get it now,” Eugene says. “Cops in a doughnut shop.”

Mira slowly shakes her head but doesn’t say anything snide. I wonder if that means her mood has improved.

“You should take his gun,” Hillary says to Eugene, pointing at the taller cop.

“Shouldn’t Darren take it?” Eugene asks. “He learned to shoot very recently, and ironically from Caleb, who—”

“You should take it,” Hillary says again. “And here’s why.”

She tells us her plan.

“That’s a good start,” Mira says when Hillary is done. “But it won’t be enough once we’re out of the Mind Dimension.”

“That’s why I’m not coming with you,” Hillary says. “I’ll walk around, doing my part. Darren, can you describe the younger monk to me?”

I tell her what the younger monk looks like and where he is in reference to our departure gate.

“Do you think I could Guide him?” she asks. “Since you were able to Read him?”

“Probably,” I say.

“I’ll throw in an emergency plan, in case he doesn’t cooperate,” Hillary says. “You three go do your parts.”

“Will you have enough time to do what you have to do?” Mira asks.

“It’s not important,” Hillary says. “I can Split and take as long as I need if I have to. I have more than enough Reach on my own.”

“You’re right,” Mira says. “My nerves are making me stupid.”

Hillary doesn’t say anything and walks away, touching the first person near us.

It takes Eugene, Mira, and me only a few minutes to locate our target, Caleb.

“Here comes the weird part,” I say.

“Everything that follows this will be weird,” Eugene says. “Let’s go get
you,
Darren.”

Leaving Caleb’s body behind, we walk through the airport, back to our gate, and back to where my body is on its perilous way to the bathroom.

“Alrighty then,” Eugene says. ”Do you want me to take the legs?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll take the arms.”

“Hold on a second,” Mira says and walks away.

She comes back with one of the luggage carts that travelers can rent for five bucks. Yes, five bucks for a glorified shopping cart with no electrical components (verified by the fact that this thing works in the Quiet). That’s airport prices for you.

“That’s genius,” I say.

“Not really. You guys are idiots for planning to drag him—you—by arms and legs across half the airport,” she says wryly.

I don’t say anything, partly because she has a point. I should’ve thought of using a cart, but I’m also too wired about the next part of the plan to think straight.

Without much aplomb, I push my rigid body over and he falls onto the cart. It’s really odd seeing my limp body lying there like that.

“I’ll push it,” I say. “It’s my body, after all.”

No one objects, and we make our way to where we found Caleb. I feel silly dragging myself out of the cart. I imagine this is how a celebrity would feel if they came across themselves in Madame Tussaud’s wax museum and started messing around with their statue.

“Let’s put him here,” I say. “Behind this column.”

And to the sound of Mira’s disrespectful chuckling, Eugene and I unload the immobile version of me and prop him, as best as we can, behind the shiny metal column.

“Now for the fun part,” I say.

“Listen, Darren. It’s not too late to think of something else,” Eugene says. “Something not so reckless.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just do your thing, both of you.”

Without another word, Eugene and Mira walk away, and a minute later, I have no idea where they went. This is part of the plan. Now for the insane part—the part Hillary might’ve thought up as payback for the way I told Bert about her nature.

I walk over to Caleb and punch him in his immobile face. I know this will pull him in, just like any other physical contact would. This too, unfortunately, is part of the plan.

“You shouldn’t have done that, kid,” Caleb says as soon as he materializes.

In a whirlwind of motion, he’s next to me, and pain erupts in my jaw.

Chapter 13

“S
top,” I manage to say, proving my jaw isn’t broken. “I just want to talk.”

As I speak, I block a full-fledged roundhouse kick with my elbow. Caleb aimed the kick at my head. Had it landed, it would’ve knocked me out. Instead, as my arm meets his foot, I hear a cracking-like thud. The pain from my jaw suddenly feels like child’s play. My jaw might be fine, but my elbow is definitively broken.

“No offense, kid, but this time, I
will
kill you,” he says, and I’m forced to block a hit to my chest with that same broken elbow. The pain makes me see stars. Still, I get a good punch in, my right hand connecting with his ear.

“Nice one,” he says. “So you did learn something.” He goes to strike me with his right elbow, but I duck under the attack. “Like I was trying to say, it’s not personal,” he continues. “It’s just that when you’re Inert, you’ll be much easier to catch.” He follows those words up with a double-feint move—or I hope it was something that clever, because he lands a punch to my midsection, and while I’m distracted by the lack of air in my lungs, pushes me back, tripping me as I stumble.

I fall to the ground, and on my way down, I think how this is probably the way my frozen self felt when I pushed him into the cart. I must look just as ridiculous. Then I land and can’t reflect on how I look or anything else. The impact manages to squeeze even more air out of me. My body feels cold. I must be going into shock. From about a foot away, Caleb approaches me.
Why is this taking so fucking long?
I wonder.

Caleb raises his foot, and my mind does that thing again, the thing it did when I was fighting Sam in the Quiet on the bridge. It feels a lot like when I’m about to phase into the Quiet. The ‘I’m dying so my life is about to flash before my eyes’ kind of feeling. Only I’m already in the Quiet. Through the pain, a still-rational part of my brain tries to encourage the feeling, to channel it. My hope is to phase in—to reach what I dubbed Level 2 of the Quiet. I remember how horrible the pain was when Caleb kicked me earlier today. I even try breathing faster, inspired by the technique Hillary taught me.

The kick connects with my ribs, and all I get is debilitating pain that becomes my only point of focus. I open my eyes and see Caleb’s leg raised for another kick, this one aimed for my head. At least the pain will be over when I die, even though I’ll wake up Inert. Instead of feeling the pain of impact, I hear a gunshot.

I open my eyes again. I didn’t realize I closed them. Caleb’s face is the epitome of surprise. He’s holding his chest, blood seeping from between his fingers.

Then a second shot fires.

Caleb’s head explodes. His lifeless body falls to the ground, not far from mine.

Some bits and pieces of him splatter onto my clothes. I even feel something on my face. I’m in too much pain and shock to feel disgust, or to even gloat. I just lie there, willing myself to get up but failing miserably.

“Come on, honey,” Mira says as she grabs me gently under the armpits. I’m in too much pain to wonder whether my ears are deceiving me. Surely Mira didn’t just use a term of endearment with me? “Grab his feet,” she says more gruffly. Must be talking to Eugene. “Careful, you graceless dimwit.”

They drag me somewhere, and in a haze, I recall where.

“Why the fuck did you wait?” Mira says to Eugene. “Why didn’t you shoot him immediately?”

“He was too close to Darren,” Eugene says. “I didn’t have a clean shot. Why didn’t
you
shoot?

“Same fucking reason, but unlike you, my angle really was shitty,” she says. “This is the last time I listen to that stupid little Pusher bitch. How many of her plans need to end in fucking disaster before I learn?”

“Darren is alive, and Caleb is dead. Hillary’s plan wasn’t so bad,” Eugene objects.