Mind Over Mind (7 page)

“Sure.”

Ydrel brushed past the housekeeper, grabbed a change of clothing and disappeared into the bathroom. Joshua loitered by the door, watching the middle-aged woman finish the bed, pick up clothes and sort them, re-folding clean ones and putting dirty ones into a bag. She put away the papers, books and pencils, even give the ratty old bear a fluffing. When he heard the shower turn on, he spoke.

“¿ Es él siempre tan grosero a usted?”

She glanced up from where she was pulling a sock from under the bed. “¿ Habla espanol?”

“Si. Fue de Colorado y tengo amigos chicanos.”

“Ay, si. Fue de Puerto Rico.”

They chatted a moment about the island and how she missed its beauty and her family but not the crowds or the politics, then he returned to his original question. “Is he always so rude to you?”

She just shrugged.

“And do you always have to pick up after him like that?”

“He is sick, no?”

Joshua snorted and folded his arms over his chest. “He’s spoiled.”

_*

In the shower, Ydrel adjusted the water to the hottest temperature he could stand, re-pointed the showerhead, then squatted in the tub. As the water beat on his sore and bruised back, he curled into a ball of misery and gave himself to tears.

Oh, he hurt! His body was a mass of aches and stings. He’d have spent the morning in bed, whimpering, if it hadn’t been for those stupid mikes.

Does Malachai really think I don’t know when he turns on the surveillance equipment?
he thought, then corrected himself.
Of course Malachai knows—and he wants to make sure I know he’s got a close eye on me. Or ears, I suppose. But I’m not giving him the satisfaction of a show.

When Josh touched his shoulder, he’d wanted to scream. He hadn’t looked yet, but he knew he’d find an arch of bruises across the back of his shoulder to match the ones on his front. The monster had done its best to rip off his shoulder before he’d managed to kill it.

The Master was back, and his training was more relentless than ever.

CHAPTER 8

The Master had been coming to Ydrel long before the Miscria. Before he’d been able to read minds and sense emotions, even. In his uncle’s house, not long after his mother’s death, he’d cried himself to sleep and the Master had called Ydrel away to a land of mists and shadow, given him a sword, and started to instruct him.

At first it had been wonderful. Working through the moves with the Master, he had been able to escape the pain of losing his mother. He’d reveled in the attention. He awoke feeling tired and sore, but remembering everything, and he would practice in anticipation of the next dream. His uncle had noticed his interest and had arranged with the boarding school for him to have lessons in fencing and martial arts. He’d flourished under the praise of both his teachers and the Master.

Then, some two years after the first dream, everything changed.

As his skill had increased, the Master had become more aggressive. Mistakes were no longer met with verbal correction, but with physical blows that sometimes left bruises visible in the waking world. When he did something right, he was rewarded with a tangible sense of pleasure. Soon, he was fighting with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

Those feeling transferred to his regular lessons as well. His coach praised his newfound “competitiveness” and even though he was only 12, put him against the stronger and more skilled high school students. Ydrel responded to the challenge with pride and a fierce sort of joy.

Until the day he ripped the foil from his opponent’s hand, tearing off his point guard with it.

“Darrel, hold!” the coach called, but caught in the rush of adrenaline, Ydrel followed with a slash that ripped through his opponent’s jacket and scratched his chest. He felt a wild elation at the sight of the blood.

The boy jumped back. “Shit!”

“Darrel, HOLD!”

Ydrel blinked, saw what he’d done, dropped his sword and fled.

That night, the Master scolded him. “You didn’t follow through.”

“What? I hurt him! I could have killed him!”

“That is the point.” Then he struck the boy hard enough to send him to his knees and drop his sword. When he could see again, the Master was before him, holding a sword to his throat.

“If I had been the enemy, you would be dead.”

“That hurt!” he managed to blurt. “Besides, it was an illegal move.”

“Illegal? This is not a game, child. What I’m teaching you is survival: kill or be killed. You have the skill. It is time to develop the instinct.”

“But I don’t want to kill anyone!”

“Then you will die.” And with horrifying calm, he beat Ydrel so fully that the boy awoke coughing blood and barely able to move. He spent a week and a half in the school infirmary recovering.

Since he could not explain his injuries, school officials assumed they were self-inflicted. The school psychiatrist came to talk to him. His fencing instructor reassured him he just needed to learn a little self-control, and that came with age and experience. Even the boy he’d injured tried to console him, telling him that mistakes happen and even praising him for his skill.

Ydrel knew better. It was neither a mistake nor a loss of control. Someone was trying to turn him into a killing machine.

He refused to touch a sword or weapon of any kind.

A month passed without any nighttime visits, and Ydrel began to believe the Master had given up on him. He relaxed, reveling in the first normal life he’d had since his mother died. He tried out for other sports, though he wasn’t very good, and began to excel in his studies. By the end of the school year, he’d actually made a few friends and didn’t even mind when his aunt and uncle decided to keep him at the boarding school for the summer sessions.

One hot July night, he fell asleep to find himself again in the land of mists and shadows.

He glanced about wildly.
Let it be a dream, just a nightmare—

The Master stood before him. “You should be rested now. We’ll resume where we left off.”

“No! No, please, just leave me alone!”

To his surprise, the Master smiled and threw down his sword. “Is that what you want? All right. Kill me, then.”

“What?”

“Kill me. Run me through. You know how and where. It is your final test—and your only way to be rid of me.”

Suddenly, a sword was in Ydrel’s hands. He clutched it, feeling revulsion and desire. “I hate you!”

“Hate does no good unless it is translated into action. Kill me!”

Ydrel started toward him, imagining every way the weapon could kill his master. He saw every vital organ, every major artery. It would be so easy.

“Yesss. Be rid of me. Forever. Kill me.”

Revulsion overcame desire. Ydrel dropped his sword and fell to his knees, sobbing.

After a moment, he heard footsteps and felt a hand gently lift his chin. Through tear-blurred eyes, he saw the Master’s tender expression.

“I’ve tried to make this as easy on you as possible.” He gazed pityingly into Ydrel’s eyes, then looked away thoughtfully. “Perhaps, a change of target?”

Ydrel followed his gaze. And screamed.

The monster that was making its way through the mists was vaguely humanoid, but with arms ending in blade-like appendages. The rest was so hideous, his mind refused to focus on it or recall any details. Ydrel skittered backward, bumped into the Master, looked at him with wild, pleading eyes.

The Master’s face was again a cold mask. “Kill it or it kills you.” He disappeared.

Ydrel scrambled to his feet and ran.

Suddenly, the thing was before him. It swung, knocking him down. Ydrel rolled, got to his feet and ran again.

Again, it appeared before him. Again, it struck him. This time, Ydrel fell near his sword. Without thinking, he picked it up and swung, cleanly slicing off one arm. The thing moved to strike him with the other arm, but he got in under its swing. His blade pierced through its belly and tore its heart. The monster fell back, ripping the blade from his hand. It convulsed once, then was still.

“Good!” He heard the Master’s voice. Then he was engulfed in pleasure so intense that it wiped out all pain, all thought.

He awoke to cold, wet sheets and an overwhelming sense of shame.

His roommates teased him. The school psychiatrist gave him a long lecture about the facts of life, then called his uncle. His uncle laughed sympathetically. “Welcome to puberty!” was all he said.

Ydrel gave all the expected replies and tried to bite back his panic. How could he tell them the truth?

The next night, he pleaded with the Master. He would do anything, just no more “rewards.”

Twice a week, the Master “trained” him. Sometimes, they practiced technique; sometimes he pitted the boy against monsters. Somehow, he managed to hide his bruises and avoid serious injuries, but there was hardly a day he didn’t feel sore or exhausted. Teachers began to look at him with concern, and once or twice he lied that he had a cold coming on.

That was just the beginning. At least once a week, the Master called him to the dream world to lecture him about God, the evils of progress and technology, and the manifest destiny of “his” people, who eschewed all advancement and most technology, but would somehow conquer worlds based on their faith alone. Any argument meant severe punishment, so Ydrel sat and listened until the words became a buzz in his head and sometimes invaded his daytime thoughts.

He’d always avoided video technology—television, video games, even computer screens gave him a crawly feeling—but one day, he happened to glance at a show some of the boys were watching. He fell to the floor convulsing.

The doctors diagnosed him with a rare form of epilepsy and put him on medication. They said the onset of puberty must have brought chemical changes that sparked the illness, but Ydrel wondered if the Master had somehow caused this in him.

About the same time, he found himself having visions and sudden insights. Thoughts that clearly weren’t his would suddenly pop into his head, so that he had to be careful not to speak too soon or raise his hand too quickly, lest he respond to a question not yet asked or a thought not meant to be expressed. Taking summer finals was a nightmare; several answers would come to his head, and he wasn’t sure which were right or even his own. He started catching the moods and feelings of others around him, so that it was hard to be with more than one person at a time.

As fall approached and the rest of the faculty and students returned, the problems multiplied. The thoughts of others became a confused static in his brain, giving him constant headaches. Crowds were unbearable, as was being near anyone with strong emotions. Then came the first day of class and the horrible episode with a new teacher.

Again, he was sent to the school psychiatrist, and desperate for help, he told him the truth. Dr. Wells scheduled him for weekly sessions and called his uncle to discuss Ydrel’s “psycho-sexual and social maladjustments.” Ydrel tried to make him understand that he wasn’t crazy, that he really was hearing other people’s thoughts. He took careful notes of the thoughts and feelings he picked up, where he was, who was around, the time and circumstances. The notes were filed away and he was put on chlorpromazine, a medication commonly used for schizophrenia. It made him sick, and so even more vulnerable to others by day and the Master by night. One morning, about a week after starting treatments, he didn’t show up for class. The faculty finally found him in an empty room in an abandoned wing of the school: curled up in a corner, blinking away tears and completely unable to form a coherent thought.

After that experience, the burden he carried seemed easy. They took him off the medication. He stopped complaining and simply tried to cope on his own. He tried to read up on psychic phenomenon, but a proper school like his didn’t encourage such frivolous pursuits. The books he was allowed to get from interlibrary loan had little about the mechanisms of ESP and even less about control.

So he found hiding places where he could be alone, and tried to stay near people who didn’t seem to “radiate” as strongly. When he had to be with others, he took ibuprofen or whatever painkillers he could get, buying them from other students or stealing them from the infirmary when his supplies ran out.

Oddly, visits from the Master came as a relief; in the land of shadows and mists, he was shielded from others—more and more, his regular dreams had been filled with the nightmares and images of other people. The monsters, however, were mindless. For all their violence, they were without emotion, and the Master was a blank slate. He tried to talk with the Master about his problem, but he was dismissed as if he were a child complaining about being able to hear well.

“If this is unusual for your people, then use it to your advantage,” he finally advised.

“But, how?”

“Treat it as you would any other weapon.”

And that was just what he learned to do.

CHAPTER 9

The steady spray of hot water continued to pour on Ydrel’s back, but lost in misery and memory, he didn’t notice.

Ydrel hadn’t thought life at school could get more hellish. He’d been wrong.

Perry Harvey transferred to the school and almost from the first day, decided to make Ydrel’s already miserable life worse. Perry Harvey, a senior, was tall, swarthy and athletic, with a ready laugh that hid a quick judgmental streak. Although he entered the school a month into the semester, he had the family, finances, and general charisma to make himself instantly popular with teachers and students. He professed to like everyone, but he took an immediate dislike to the reclusive Ydrel.

Former friends shied away from him. Homework or personal items went missing, only to reappear days or weeks later. Then there were “accidental” trips and shoves in the hallway or in gym class, usually timed just right to send him careening into a locker or the bleachers or another person. He wasn’t sure which was worse: one gave him bruises atop the bruises inflicted by the monsters, but the emotional abuse from his classmates added to his already pounding headaches.

He’d actually told Dr. Wells about it. Even though he wasn’t a good psychiatrist, he was school counselor; surely, this was something he could help with. The counselor suggested he and Perry “discuss their differences” with him as mediator. Ydrel was doubtful but agreed to try. Surely with Dr. Wells, an adult and a school authority, the senior would see reason.

Remembering the meeting made Ydrel curl up into a tighter ball in the shower. What an idiot he’d been!

He shouldn’t have walked into the counselor’s office once he saw that Perry had brought his cronies with him. He should have walked out as soon as one said, “I don’t know where this kid gets off spreading lies.” Instead he stayed, and tried to stay calm and reasonable, and prayed the counselor would see through them.

Naïve idiot! Instead, the counselor listened sympathetically while they accused him of setting Perry up as a scapegoat. It was Ydrel, they said, who pushed people then claimed to have been bumped. It was Ydrel, they said, who accused others of stealing his homework so he could turn it in late. It was Ydrel, they said, who was trying to make Perry, the “new kid,” look bad.

There was no discussion. There was no mediation. Just his tormentors firing accusations like bullets while he sat there too stunned to defend himself. Of course, he couldn’t have said or done much anyway. Not only was he outnumbered, but Perry was older and popular, and Ydrel was the one with the “psycho-sexual and social maladjustments.”

When he was finally released, he was barely able to hold back the tears of rage and shame and helplessness. He tried to flee, but Perry and Co. intercepted him in the hall to gloat. At least, the two cronies did; Perry was the epitome of innocent sincerity.

“I had to do it,” he said rationally. “I had to defend myself. Surely you can understand.”

Something in Ydrel snapped, and for a moment he stood trembling, while rage clouded his vision like a red mist. He could hear the Master’s voice: KILL HIM.

The boys were snickering as Perry asked his forgiveness.

Ydrel clenched his fists. His hands itched. God, how he longed for a sword, a blade, any weapon—

YOU HAVE A WEAPON, ONE NONE OF YOUR PEOPLE HAS. USE IT. KILL THIS MONSTER BEFORE HE HURTS YOU AGAIN.

He felt power burning through him. He could do it. He could see himself reaching with psychic hands into Perry’s chest—

YES. USE YOUR ADVANTAGE.

“Drop dead, Perry.”

“Come on, now Darrel—”

Taking his heart into his hands. Grasping. Squeezing.

YES. FIGHT BACK.

“Now, Darrel, I’m sure you can understand the situation here.”

“Hey, maybe we ought to tell Dr. Wells about this development.”

Squeezing. The heart struggling.

Perry gasped.

YES. KILL THE MONSTER.

“Die, Perry.”

All four chambers stopping.

“Perry? Yo, Perry, you OK?”

The look of fear and surprise on Perry’s face as he’d fall to his knees. So sweet—

YES. FEEL THIS VICTORY. KILL.

“Perry?! Oh, my God!”

Ydrel blinked and the mist and rage were gone. Perry lay sprawled at his feet, eyes wide with surprise—just as Ydrel had imagined. The other boys were standing, open-mouthed with shock.

“Perry!” Ydrel hastily knelt and laid his head on the older boy’s chest. He didn’t hear anything. Oh, God, he didn’t hear anything! “Perry! No, Perry, don’t be dead! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!”

“Dead? Holy—” One boy flew into a stream of invectives. Both boys backed away.

Ydrel placed a hand on Perry’s neck. He didn’t feel a pulse. “Please, Perry! I didn’t mean it!”

IDIOT. LET HIM DIE. FOLLOW THROUGH. SAVOR YOUR VICTORY.

“Shut up!” He glared at the two boys. “Don’t just stand there! Get the doctor. Call 911! GO!”

They ran. He hoped they were going to do what they said, but couldn’t go after them. He tilted Perry’s head back, blew into his mouth. He felt along the chest, seeking Perry’s sternum, trying to remember the CPR course he’d taken that summer. Was it two fingers or four? He guessed, placed one hand over the other and rocked. “C’mon, Perry! Don’t die. I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry! Don’t die!”

FOOL. The Master left his mind.

How many rocks was it supposed to be before the next breath? In his panic, he couldn’t remember, and he’d lost count of how many he’d just done, anyway. He stopped, blew into Perry’s mouth, then started with heart massage again. The whole time he babbled, begging the senior to get up, to live. When a hand touched his shoulder, he shrugged it off wildly. Someone grabbed him by both shoulders and pulled him back. It was the school physician.

“Darrel. You did fine. We’ve got it from here.”

Already another teacher was giving Perry breaths. The doctor released Ydrel and took over heart massage, counting in a calm, even tone. Perry lay, head cocked back, mouth open and just a little blue, eyes staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. Teachers were trying to keep back curious students while trying to assuage their own curiosity. They kept looking from the dying boy to Ydrel.

Ydrel gave them one wild look and ran.

He hadn’t known where he was heading until he found himself in the upperclassmen’s bathroom, retching into a sink. His stomach churned. His arms and chest ached. His throat was raw. His lungs burned as his breath came in racking sobs. His mind was on fire with panic and pain.

He’d killed him. He’d killed another person.

NOT QUITE.

Ydrel whirled. There, leaning against a stall door, was the Master. He was short but heavily muscled. His orange outfit gave his narrow face and wide-set eyes a satanic glow. His thin-lipped mouth was curled with disdain. He was a real, physical manifestation, yet he spoke to Ydrel within his mind as he always had.

YOU HAVE FAILED. YOU DIDN’T FOLLOW THROUGH.

“But I didn’t mean it! I didn’t want to kill him. Not really!”

The Master rolled his eyes with impatience. YOU STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND. YOU ARE NOT LIKE THESE PEOPLE. YOU ARE SET APART, ALONE. IF YOU ARE TO SURVIVE, YOU MUST FOLLOW THROUGH. KILL. OR BE KILLED.

With that, the Master disappeared. Ydrel felt him leave his mind, too, taking what little support he had. He sank to his knees, throwing up on the tile floor. The Master’s words echoed in his mind. Kill or be killed.

When his stomach had at last emptied itself, he pulled himself up, and saw his face in the mirror. The face of a weakling. The face of a murderer.

A sob rose in his throat, became a scream, then a force—

He ducked as the mirror shattered.

He sank to the ground, crying amid the broken glass. Trembling, he reached for one long, narrow piece. His first attempt missed the vein and sent such pain through him he almost dropped the shard. Then the Master’s words came back to him: He hadn’t followed through. He was apart, alone. He must kill or be killed.

His second try left him seeing stars, but sliced neatly through the vein. Oddly, the second wrist, done with his left hand, cut more easily and with less pain. He dropped the bloody piece of glass and leaned against the wall. He was too tired to cry anymore, too tired to think. He had just enough energy left to sit and wait and die.

Whether from fatigue, loss of blood, or simple relief, he did not know, but he actually felt calm and mildly euphoric. He relaxed into it until he heard footsteps and realized he hadn’t locked the bathroom door.

YOU DIDN’T FOLLOW THROUGH.

He jumped up to correct his error, but blackness overcame him and he collapsed.

_*

Ydrel’s back had numbed from the heat and steady pounding of the water. He unfolded himself, washed quickly, then turned the water to an icy cold blast just before turning it off. He thought that would shake out the memories, but as he dried, he found himself staring at the long scars on his wrists.

The two months after his suicide attempt were still just a hellish blur of fear and confusion. He still didn’t know how he fought himself back to sanity, but when he had, he’d found himself in the High Intensity Ward at SK-Mental under the care of Dr. Randall Malachai.

Malachai, who believed him.

Malachai, who with a combination of biofeedback and meditation, helped him gain a rudimentary control over his telepathy.

Malachai, who then turned on him, demanding he “stretch” his abilities, and who punished him when he didn’t perform. Was Malachai really so different from the Master?

And Joshua wondered why he had trust issues.