The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(47)

“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.