Mind Games

by Teri Terry

  His face stills. ‘They’re not that usual, and they’re kind of secret. But most people can’t see them, even in starshine.’ He stares at me.

  ‘I’ve seen them before. My mother had them,’ I say, the words dragging out of me, slow and reluctant. I never talk about Astra; I rarely refer to her as Mother. Never, ever Mum. It hurts too much.

  His eyes widen. ‘The mother they said killed herself?’ he says. The one thing he could say that will make me answer.

  ‘She didn’t kill herself! At least, not the way it sounds. She was a Hacker; her life support failed. They said it was her fault, that she set it to fail when she died virtually in a game. That she was so convinced it could never happen that she raised the virtual stakes, gambled with her life, and lost.’ I say the words that defend her, unable to stop myself. But isn’t what happened only marginally better than choosing to take her own life, choosing to leave me? The Game was more important to her than anything else. Including me.

  ‘Who was your mother?’ His voice is oddly strained.

  I don’t want to tell him. He’s a Hacker; it always freaks them out when they find out. Even Hex couldn’t believe it, and for ages tried to ask me questions about her until he finally gave up when I wouldn’t answer.

  ‘Please tell me, Luna. Who was your mother?’

  ‘Astra.’

  He stares at me, wonder in his eyes, and I shake my head.

  ‘Don’t give me that hero worship thing just because Astra was the best space game Hacker, ever. I’ve heard it all before, and I’m nothing like her.’

  ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it. You’ve got her eyes.’

  Oh, great. Not only is he potentially delusional, he’s also one of those freaky fan club Astra-worshippers. He’s probably got her picture on his bedside table.

  Most of me wants to run, to get away from him, but I have to know. ‘Please tell me. What do the silver marks mean?’

  He stays silent a moment, and I don’t press. Finally he looks around and leans in close. Lowers his voice. ‘All right. Because of who your mother is, I’ll make an exception and tell you something I’m sworn not to tell. But you have to promise to keep this to yourself.’

  ‘I will, I promise.’

  ‘It’s like…’ He hesitates. ‘A different type of hacking. A different level. Undetectable.’

  ‘But you said PareCo lets Hackers in, lets them do their thing so they can observe.’

  ‘Not this. They can’t see this; can’t control it; can’t stop it.’

  ‘So how’d they catch on that you’re a Hacker? You’ve only got the silver marks, no black marks everyone can see.’

  ‘I don’t know. Somebody must have sold me out.’ And there is cold, controlled anger in his voice.

  ‘Maybe they worked it out for themselves. Marks or not, it is obvious you’re a Hacker. You dress like a Hacker, you’ve got a weird Hacker-name, you hang out with Hackers.’

  He smiles. ‘Now I do. I gave up masquerading as a regular student once it became apparent they knew. There was no reason to hide any longer.’

  ‘Why haven’t you got any black Hacker marks? My mother had both.’

  ‘I’ve stuck to silver hacking only. Your mother was particularly skilled in both silver and traditional world manipulation. It’s a surprise they left her alone as long as they did.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Look, I’ve got to go. Remember: you promised not to tell anyone, right?’

  He gets up and takes off as if something is after him, leaving the hoodie I’m sitting on behind.

  Well. What does all this mean? I shake my head. This can’t be for real. If he is delusional or making things up about the other stuff, everything he says must be suspect.

  It must be.

  But my guts clench cold, inside.

  It’s a surprise they left her alone as long as they did…

  11

  ‘Hello, everyone. I’m Dr Rafferty.’ He smiles at the assembled students, eyes twinkling below a shock of white hair. Despite my usual mistrust of doctors, there is something about him that makes me smile back.

  ‘Some students get a little stressed about the testing, so I’ve been assigned by HealthCo to look after you. I’ll be meeting with a few of you for a chat this afternoon. If any others have worries or questions, you can also make an appointment to see me. But don’t ask me about the test itself; that I can’t tell you. And not just because I shouldn’t: I don’t know a thing about it. But here is someone who does.’ And he introduces Langdon, a test official from PareCo.

  Langdon steps up to the stage. Is he an evil mastermind, manipulating test results, installing force fields, and setting Implant suggestions so strong even a Hacker can’t see through them? He just looks like a geek, not much older than we are.

  He smiles nervously at everyone. ‘Hi,’ he says. Then looks at a card in his hand, and reads it out. ‘Big congratulations to each and every one of you! Your IQ test results show you’ve been graced with intelligence. But do you have the ability to handle your gift? In many ways this is far more important. The RQ test on Thursday will determine this. Until then you will be assigned to groups and prepare for the test together. In a moment you will each receive a folder with instructions, and you will meet with your group at dinner.’

  Then they hand out folders to each of us. Mine has a sticker on top: meet with Dr Rafferty at 2 p.m. Any imagined liking I had for him before vanishes.

  ‘Hi, Luna, come in,’ he says, and holds the door.

  I step reluctantly into his office; it swings shut behind me.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he says. ‘And stop looking so worried.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not worried,’ I lie. ‘I’m confused. Why am I here? Do I look stressed out to you?’

  He laughs. ‘Perhaps a little, but that isn’t why you’re here. There were reports of an episode the evening of the formal dinner, and I wanted to talk to you about it.’

  An episode. That’s what they call it when Nanna flips out. I’m properly worried now.

  ‘Thank you, but what if I don’t?’ And I know I’m being stupid; I’m pushing him, and there is no logical reason to do that, and any number of reasons why it could be a bad idea.

  He laughs again. ‘Please relax; you’re not in any sort of trouble here. This is purely for your benefit, and completely confidential. Just between us,’ he adds.

  ‘I do know what confidential means.’

  ‘I’m sure. Your IQ test suggests you’re rather bright. So do you want to tell me what happened?’

  I stay silent, and he looks down at some notes. ‘Here goes. You came to the dinner in the same colours as your school, but declined to sit with your classmates and instead joined a Hacker friend. Hex, I believe?’

  I nod. ‘But they’re not my classmates. I mean, we’re not in any classes together. Because I’m a Refuser.’ I say it defiantly.

  He nods. ‘That is also noted on your records.’ He looks down again. ‘Then after dinner, you left abruptly, had words with a girl from your school, ran out—’

  ‘—and fell over in a highly embarrassing fashion in front of everyone.’

  ‘I just have it as “tripped”.’ His eyes are twinkling again.

  ‘Tripped. Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘What were the words about? With—’ and he looks down again ‘—one Jezzamine Taylor.’

  ‘Nothing important. Just a little disagreement,’ I say. Not wanting to cover for her, exactly; more not wanting to repeat what she said about my mother, or Nanna.

  ‘Reports are that you looked very upset.’

  I say nothing, stare back at him.

  ‘This is going well. I think I’m flunking at doctor-patient communication. Give me something, anything,’ he says, a
nd I’m starting to feel like I’m being mean to someone’s grandfather. Something in me thaws. Just a little.

  I shrug. ‘Look, it really doesn’t matter. She said some unkind things, but her opinion isn’t important to me. I shouldn’t let it bother me.’ All true, but somehow, it still does.

  ‘That is a very rational approach. Speaking of which, how are you feeling about the RQ test?’

  ‘Nervous,’ I admit.

  ‘Listen. Anyone who did as well as you at the IQ should have nothing to worry about. Unless you’re stark raving bonkers. And you don’t seem bonkers to me. A little defensive, maybe, so watch that doesn’t colour your judgement.’

  ‘Not bonkers: finally, a medical diagnosis I like. But I thought IQ and RQ were independent: that you can be clever, and stupid.’

  ‘By stupid, you mean irrational?’ I nod. ‘You can. This is called dysrationalia, commonly shortened to dys: irrational decisions and behaviour despite more than adequate intelligence. But that is the more unusual result.’

  ‘What happens to people who are clever-stupid? I mean, dysrationalic.’

  ‘What happens to them?’ He looks surprised. ‘Nothing happens to them.’

  ‘But history has shown that they’re dangerous. You couldn’t just leave them loose on the world.’

  ‘They’re monitored in case they need help. True, they shouldn’t have their fingers on any triggers; suitable occupations are found for them. But they’re not hauled away and locked in a padded room, if that’s what you mean. Is that the sort of nonsense that is going around?’

  I stay silent. That is the sort of nonsense Goodwin at my school planted in my mind.

  ‘Listen to me, Luna. You should do fine on the RQ, but if you don’t, nothing bad is going to happen. Either way, you’ll be absolutely fine.’

  And the band of worry in my chest loosens. Just a little. ‘About the IQ test—’

  ‘Ah yes. Your IQ results were kind of a surprise.’

  ‘Were they?’

  ‘There had been some questions raised by your school—’

  ‘Goodwin.’

  ‘Yes. By your head teacher, about your suitability for a test appointment. She was obviously wrong.’

  ‘So how did I get the appointment, then? No one seems to know.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You do?’ I look at him, truly surprised now. ‘Are you going to tell me?’

  ‘I might. Maybe you could answer some of my questions a bit more, first.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Ah, a deal. I see. Who goes first?’

  He laughs out loud. ‘Oh my dear, you are a treat. Now, I have a suspicion. That the answer to both questions might be the same. You go first: what did this Jezzamine say about your family to upset you so much?’

  ‘I never said she said anything about my family.’

  ‘Whoops…!’ He claps a hand over his mouth.

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘If you already know, why do you ask?’

  ‘You need to say it, Luna. To take the power away from hurtful words, you need to be able to acknowledge them, confront them, then dismiss them.’

  I stare back at him. His eyes are so sincere, and maybe I’m paranoid because of Gecko, and stuff he said about PareCo manipulating things, but Dr Rafferty is with HealthCo – he doesn’t work for PareCo.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘It was just the usual. About me being crazy because of my genes. ‘Because…’ And I hesitate. ‘Because of my mother.’ And my grandmother, I add silently.

  ‘And there is your double answer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The reason you were given a Test appointment, Luna, was because of your mother. She had one of the highest IQ ratings ever measured by PareCo. It was felt your school grades were probably not reflective of your ability. There are people behind these decisions, not just computers. And they felt you deserved a chance.

  ‘However your mother died, Luna, she’s given you a gift now. Don’t let being defensive, or scared of failure, take it away from you. She’d want you to have an amazing future, full of opportunity. Wouldn’t she?’

  Despite myself my eyes are welling up. I blink, hard. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and I head for the door. ‘But Luna?’ I pause. ‘If you need someone to talk to, my door is always open.’

  ‘OK. Thank you,’ I say. And this time I mean it.

  It isn’t until later that I put a few other things together. Gecko thought his high IQ test result was proof that PareCo were manipulating the tests for their own nefarious purposes – even though he didn’t know what those purposes might be. But Rafferty said there were people, not just computers, behind things, making the decisions. Maybe it was the same in his case – that they felt he deserved a chance. Or maybe deliberately answering every question wrong was proof of a high IQ in any event?

  I go sit in the sun near the tree where Gecko and I were before. If he shows up, I’ll tell him my theory.

  The trees are in blossom; other students are dotted about on the grass of the quad. With the wind shielded by the buildings, it’s a suntrap. I’m lying back, skin soaking up the warmth. Feeling more calm than I have in a long time. Rafferty said he was there to stop students stressing out: he’s good at his job.

  But finally I sigh, sit up, and face what comes next: the folder I was given earlier.

  Inside is a dinner table assignment – we’re back in the hall for tonight. My stomach twists: groups are really so not my thing.

  And another instruction: not under any circumstances to communicate what I perceive with any of my senses. It is followed by a warning: Any failure to follow this instruction will result in automatic failure in the RQ test.

  12

  The tables in the hall are mostly full when I arrive. I scan along the room for table six, and anxiously check the faces when I find it: relief. No Jezzamine, no Melrose. No Gecko, either, which gives a weird mix of disappointment and uncertainty at why I feel that way. There is a girl I recognise from my room: was her name Anne? The one who pushed her bed as far away as possible from mine.

  Bet they’ll be pleased when I join them. I stand straight, smile, and head for the last empty seat at the table. ‘Hi, everyone!’ I say, and sit down.

  Eyes swivel in my direction. It is a mixed group of boys and girls, two from each school, going by what they are wearing; in their midst is a boy I vaguely recognise but have never spoken to from mine. Judging by the looks of dismay, they know who I am. The taint of crazy is upon them.

  Anne manages to curve her lips in something resembling a smile. ‘Hello, Luna,’ she says, and gets everyone to introduce themselves. The unknown boy from my school is Ravi; I’m so uncomfortable that most of the other names slip past me without registering.

  Dinner is brought in. Conversations start up and lag now and then. There are curious questions about what we’re doing together, and why. How they picked the groups, with a few glances at me. I look around at the other groups. Unlike the night of the formal dinner when we were all clustered together, tonight the tables are spread far around the edges of the hall, not close enough to easily overhear each other. I spot Hex at a table on the other side, Gecko on another, then look around again.

  ‘There is a Hacker at every table. Except ours,’ I say, voluntarily speaking without being spoken to for the first time. The others look around the hall.

  ‘I wonder if group make-up has anything to do with IQ test ranking,’ Ravi says. ‘What ranking was everyone in?’

  They start calling them out until I’m the only one who hasn’t. ‘I was in the top group,’ I admit. There are a few looks of surprise; others’ reactions, like Anne’s, suggest they already knew. So it turns out Ravi was right: now that the bottom two groups have left, our group of eight has one person from each o
f the remaining ranked groups.

  So that is why our group is the only one without a Hacker: like Gecko said, I really was the only one in the top group who wasn’t one of them.

  Pudding is served, and I can’t get the instruction in my folder out of my mind: to not tell anyone what I perceive with any of my senses. Does everyone have instructions in their folder? If they do, are they the same, or different? Unease swirls in my stomach. Why can’t I say what I can see, feel, hear, smell or taste? Lucky nobody asks me what I thought of dinner.

  Then a test official comes in with a pile of folders in his arms, hands one to each group, and leaves.

  Ravi holds up our folder. ‘Shall I?’ he says. He draws out a sheet of paper, clears his throat, and reads. ‘Your task is to devise a test for one of the cognitive biases that prevent rationality. Begin this evening with choosing a bias that you, as a group, share and must guard against, and discuss the dangers it presents. Tomorrow you will continue with formulating a test for the bias.’

  He puts it down and we exchange glances.

  Anne takes the sheet. ‘A bias that we share? What if we don’t share the same biases?’ Just what I’d been thinking. ‘How about we all say what we think is our worst bias? You go first, Luna.’ She looks at me, an eyebrow raised.

  I might have been stumped, but my chat with Rafferty earlier brings it to mind. ‘Negativity bias – paying more attention to bad news.’

  Others say theirs. We have a few with projection bias: assuming others think as we do; a few confirmation bias: referencing only perspectives that agree with our own views; some in-group bias: over-valuing opinions of those we know over those we don’t.

  ‘How are we going to pick one over the others?’ Ravi asks.

  ‘Let’s list them all,’ suggests a girl with a notebook. ‘And then everyone give their top three, and whichever carries the most votes we pick?’ They start going through them while she writes them down. There are fifteen officially recognised biases; even in my class of Refusers they’d been hammered in enough to know what they are. They can all be bars to rational thought and decisions.