The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2) (7 page)

“Are you Bert?” I hear Mira’s voice again as I wake up.

“Yes,” Bert responds. “Thank you for calling me, Mira. Nice to meet you. How did Darren get hurt?”

I open my eyes.

“He—”

“Wait, I think he just opened his eyes,” Bert cuts off Mira’s explanation.

“Darren,” she says, looking at me worriedly. “How are you feeling?”

I examine myself.

I’m hooked up to a monitor and have an IV in my arm, but the effects of the drug they gave me must’ve worn off. My head is throbbing again. But it doesn’t seem to be as bad as before, which could be remnants of the medication, or a result of healing. I’m not sure which it is. The whole thing still feels a lot like a hangover, but at least the nausea has lessened, and having my eyes open doesn’t make me feel like I have icepicks piercing my temples.

“Okay.” I try to sound brave, but my voice comes out hoarse and pathetic-sounding. “Better.”

“Here.” Mira hands me a cup of water from the little table near my bed, and I drink it carefully.

“Where is Eugene?” I ask, looking around in confusion.

“He went to visit Julia,” Mira says, and I detect a note of disapproval in her voice. Is she mad he left before seeing me recover, or does she just disapprove of him visiting Julia?

“How is she?” I ask.

“You’re worried about Julia, now? She’s doing better than
you
, I can assure you.”
Mira smiles. “She didn’t get shot in the head.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “How am
I
doing?”

“I don’t know,” she says in frustration. “They took you to get X-rays of your head. Don’t you remember?”

“No, I was kind of out of it,” I say.

“Yeah, it must be the stuff they gave you for the pain. You looked quite loopy, drooling and mumbling something. In any case, that was a long time ago, and I haven’t seen a doctor with the X-ray results, or even a nurse.”

“Hmm,” I say worriedly. “That sucks.”

“Tell me about it.” Mira frowns. “I’m thinking of getting you some food, and if they don’t give you some attention by the time I’m done, I’m going to go around and try to talk some sense into these people.”

The way she mentions talking to them sounds rather sinister. I wouldn’t want her to piss off my doctor at this stage. But I really wish the X-ray results would arrive, so I could find out what’s going on with me. Head trauma is nothing to sneeze at, especially for people who like to use their heads as much as I do. Also, I realize that Mira is planning to give this hospital’s staff a hard time on my behalf, which is a strange idea.

“Bert, will you keep him company while I grab him something to eat?” Mira says, interrupting my train of thought.

“Of course,” he says, getting that bashful look he always wears around girls.

“Do you want anything?” she asks him.

“No, thank you.” He blushes.

“And you, Darren?” she says. “We never made it to that breakfast.”

I consider the idea. Though my nausea has subsided a bit, I don’t yet feel like eating. Or getting up. Or doing much besides talking. The IV they have in my arm feels a little itchy, and I wonder what will happen when I need to go to the bathroom. I’d better ask a medical professional when I get hold of one. On the plus side, I’m not wearing one of those goofy hospital gowns. Probably because they needed access only to my head. It still doesn’t prevent me from looking ridiculous, of course. I can feel that my head is bandaged up like a mummy’s, probably making me look like it’s Halloween.

“No, I think I’ll pass on the breakfast for now,” I tell her. “I bet they’re about to bring me some Jell-O, the hospital food of choice.”

“I am going to get you one of those and a pudding of some kind,” she says decisively. “If you haven’t been told about the X-rays yet, what makes you think you can rely on these people for food?”

“Okay, Mira, thank you. I’ll try the pudding if they have it,” I say, looking at her in confusion. This caring side of Mira is odd and will take some getting used to. “Maybe something like apple sauce if they don’t?”

“Okay, don’t worry, I’ll get you something,” she says and turns to go.

As Mira is walking away, I notice Bert looking her up and down. For some reason, I’m annoyed at him for doing that. Then I mentally smack myself. Am I being jealous and protective of
Mira
?

“Dude,” Bert says as soon as Mira is out of earshot. “Is that
the
Mira I looked up for you? Wow, I have to say, she is
so
your type. Why didn’t you tell me you found her? And how did you get shot? And who’s Eugene? And Julia? What the hell is going on?”

I sigh and concoct a story for Bert. I can’t tell him anything about Readers or Pushers, so the story focuses on other things instead. I tell him that I stopped by Mira’s house and that her brother and I ended up being friendly. It’s almost what happened. Then I tell Bert how I learned about Mira and Eugene’s parents being murdered by some unsavory Russian characters. I explain the murder by saying that their father had problems with someone back in the motherland—which could be true. I also say that Mira’s quest for revenge backfired, and she got kidnapped as a result—which is false, but a much simpler explanation than the truth.

“You participated in a rescue? Is that how you got shot?” Bert says incredulously. “Are you crazy?”

“Actually, no,” I say. “I was unscathed during that rescue. That was yesterday. This shot, obviously, happened today. I think it’s safe to assume these thugs were from the same group as yesterday’s kidnappers, though. They tried to kill her or her brother this time around, but missed and got me instead. I could actually use your help with this, Bert. There’s someone I want to ask you to look up using your skills. Someone who might be giving orders in that organization.”

“Yes, sure. I mean, they shot
you, so it’s the least I can do,” Bert says. “Just never mention my name to those sorts of people.”

I assure him that I’m not going to mention his name in the unlikely event that the gangsters and I have a friendly face-to-face chat. I then give him the name, Arkady, and the phone number I got the other day. I guess there is a silver lining to getting shot. I was out of favors with Bert when it comes to what he rightfully considers shady hacker activities, but he’s not thinking about favors right now.

Seeing how willing he is to help, I decide to milk the situation a bit further.

“There are two more people I was hoping you could try to learn something about. These two are not Russian,” I say.

“Who are they then?” he says to my dismay. I really hoped I could play the ‘getting shot’ card once more, and Bert would do this for me without further questions, but it sounds like I might have to go into this strange topic with him.

“They might be my parents,” I say, and watch Bert’s eyes go wide with surprise. “My biological parents.”

I give him the story of how,
coincidentally
, I also found out that Sara is not my biological mother. I explain that it’s a woman named Margret, whom I know very little about
,
and that my dad now also has a name—Mark. I also tell Bert that I plan to get my biological parents’ last names from my moms when they arrive at the hospital.

“All right
,
” he agrees when I’m done. “Text me their names as soon as you know
.
Also that mobster’s number and name. In for a penny, in for a pound. But you’ve got to do something for me when you get better.”

“I can promise to try,” I say carefully. “What do you need?”

As I watch Bert’s face, I begin cursing myself mentally for being greedy. When it was just the Russian guy I asked him to look into, he didn’t need favors back. Whatever it is he’s about to ask me, he’s looking for the best way to say it—which
,
knowing Bert, means it will be something big.

“Can you ask Mira if she has friends she can introduce me to?” he finally says, his face turning red.

I blow out a relieved breath. I thought he was going to ask me to give him a kidney or something.

“I doubt she does, but I’ll find out for you,” I say, smiling. “If not, I will, in general, be on the lookout.”

“Thanks,” he says, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

I’m actually happy with this development. Bert finally found a workable approach to meeting women—asking me for help. It might work. I’ve always thought that Bert’s biggest problem with women had been a lack of trying.

“I brought something for you,” he says, reaching into his man-purse-looking shoulder bag in an obvious effort to change the subject.

He takes out a blue Gameboy 3DS and then a golden one.

This is our little guilty pleasure. When I’m in the office for the whole day, and when things are boring—which is often—we sneak away to a meeting room, sit with our backs toward the glass walls of the room, and play video games. To our coworkers, it might look like we’re busy studying reports or reviewing financial statements.

This love of video games is what initially established our friendship back at Harvard. Well, that and the fact that we were both teens surrounded by adults.

Taking my hands from under the blanket that covers me, I use the incline function of my hospital bed. A few seconds later, I’m in a sitting position with a Gameboy in my hands. The IV in my hand feels a little funny, but manageable.

We load the devices and start playing a goofy fighting game Bert brought for this occasion.

“You’re only slightly better than this game’s AI,” Bert says halfway into the first round. This is his version of trash talk.

I let it slide this time. There are so many things I can say. For example, I can point out that the character he chose to fight me with, Pikachu the Pokémon, is a yellow, goofy little creature that looks suspiciously like Bert himself. Or I could point out that he
should
be better at this game, given how much time he spends with games in general. However, that would be like saying he has no life, which is close to the truth for Bert. I wouldn’t be so mean-spirited as to point that out, plus I don’t want to piss him off until he gets me the information I need.

So, instead of saying anything, I try to go for a thrust with the sword of my own favorite character. I play as Link, the silent hero from my favorite game series of all time, the Legend of Zelda. The hit lands, and Bert goes quiet, clearly trying to concentrate on his comeback.

Soon I’m dodging thunderbolts as I catch Bert with my signature spin attack. The 3D of the screen begins to make the nausea come back, but I try to ignore it, determined to win.

“By the way, did I tell you that Jerry Buchmacker is dead?” Bert says, blatantly trying to divert my attention. Bert knows how much I hate to lose. I once threw a controller at his head back in college.

“What happened?” I say, knowing full well this is Bert’s conspiracy-theory time. Even though we’re playing, I have to indulge him to stay in his good graces. “And remind me who Jerry Buchmacker is, again.”

“He was working on new artificial intelligence applications. Think self-driving cars, but in medicine.”

“Oh yeah, I remember you talking about this guy when you consulted me about the company where he was the CTO. I told you it would be a good investment for Pierce’s portfolio,” I say, and start a new game, playing as the same character.

“Right, that one, and now he’s dead. Another
suicide.
” Bert tries to make air quotes on the last word with the Gameboy in his hands. “I learned of what happened when Mr. Pierce asked me to find out if Jerry’s death means we should liquidate the portfolio.”

“Okay then, why is the guy
really
dead?” I say, mimicking his air quotes. I know full well where this is heading. I think I’ve heard this specific conspiracy theory before, and it’s not as crazy as some other stuff Bert comes up with.

“It’s the secret Neo-Luddite group again,” he whispers, looking around as though they have ears in this hospital.

As I learned some time ago, a Luddite, as defined by Bert, is someone who’s against any kind of progress. The Neo variety seem to be specifically against modern technological progress. From what I’ve gathered from my friend’s admittedly biased description of them, they are a bunch of crazy people who would have humanity go back to living in caves if they could. The Unabomber was a flavor of one of these people, according to Bert.

This specific conspiracy theory states that there is a secret group that takes out talented scientists in critical fields, such as robotics, genetics, informatics, and nanotechnology. Their motive is to prevent the transformative changes these fields can bring.

I don’t believe in this conspiracy, of course, but I do know there are people who fear progress and change. To them I say, “Go into the forest and try living for a day without sanitation, without your iPhone, without a gun to shoot wolves that want to eat you, and without antibiotics for the gangrene you might get from a simple cut. Then come back and tell me you still want to go back to the caveman days.”

I
certainly wouldn’t.

“What makes you think this wasn’t suicide?” I ask, even though I know I’m just encouraging Bert’s craziness.

“Well, it’s their MO,” he says, and inside the game, gives me a particularly nasty punch.

“Right, of course,” I say sarcastically, blocking the next kick and countering with a sword thrust.

Bert is clearly unhappy with my lack of faith in his theory, and the yellow creature on my screen throws my hero off the game platform as a manifestation of his grumpiness.

We go back and forth like this, with me playing the devil’s advocate about the conspiracy and Bert kicking my ass in the game and stating more reasons for why the guy couldn’t have committed suicide. A lot of it sounds rather persuasive, actually. There was no mention of depression in any of the files Bert got his hands on. There were long-term plans for vacations and conferences. Finally, and a clincher for Bert, the guy had a gorgeous girlfriend and had just proposed to her.

“What are you guys doing?” I hear Mira’s incredulous voice from my left. It comes just as I’m about to deliver my theory of how the guy possibly killed himself as a weird manifestation of cold feet. Marriage can be a scary thing—at least as far as I’m concerned.