Mindstormer

by AJ Steiger

  The sick feeling in my stomach burns. The anger has evaporated, leaving me weary and cold and very, very tired. My limbs feel like sandbags. I look at Rhee from the corner of my eye. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Ask. Though I won’t promise to answer.”

  “How many people have you killed?”

  She turns her face away. “I don’t know. I stopped counting a long time ago.”

  I chew my lower lip.

  “You want to ask if it bothers me,” she says. “If I feel any guilt.”

  “I guess… yes.”

  “Steven told you? About what happened to me?”

  I hesitate. “He said that IFEN experimented on you. That… that they did something to your brain, to reduce your capacity for fear and remorse. They were trying to create perfect soldiers.”

  “Did he tell you that I volunteered for it?”

  “No,” I answer, surprised.

  “Of course, I was only seven. I was desperate to escape the state home, and they made the procedure sound like some sort of magical medicine that would wipe away all the pain. They said it would make me strong. Back then, all I wanted was to be stronger.

  “By that point, I’d already been classified as a Type Four. I don’t even remember why it happened. I think another kid tried to steal my food and we got into a fight. That’s all it takes, really, when you’re living in that sort of place. Maybe it’s different if you have a family—people to advocate for you, to protect you. But I never knew my parents.” She keeps her arms crossed, fingers pressing into her biceps. Though her voice betrays no emotion, the skin around her nails is white. “When IFEN came to me, I saw it as a chance to escape that hell. I bear the responsibility for my choice.” She raises her right hand, examining it in the dim light of the hallway. Her nails are short and blunt, the fingers calloused. “They forced me to kill, as part of the experiments. Animals, then people. I started to think about it as just turning off machines, because that’s what a living thing is—a machine of flesh.” Her lips are set into a thin, pale line. “So, to answer your question, no. I don’t feel guilty. I don’t remember how.”

  Seven years old, I think. Even younger than Steven was when he was kidnapped and taken to St. Mary’s. While I was playing with dolls and going to the park with Father, Rhee was being molded into a killer. I feel like I should say something—anything—but no words come.

  She turns away. “Turn left when you leave the training room. Keep walking until you see an arched doorway. That’s the mess hall. In case I don’t see you again today, report here tomorrow at the same time for training.”

  Without looking back, she walks away.

  ‌

  16

  I find the mess hall with no difficulty. The room is huge and round, filled with people sitting at rows of long tables. Despite its size, it has a cozy air. The lighting is dim, the metal walls painted brown to simulate wood. As soon as I enter, my nose fills with the rich scent of cheese and grease and cooked meat and fried, sugary things—a carnival smell. The food is laid out on a huge table in the center of the room.

  Mounds of roast beef sandwiches and burgers glisten with juice. There are pizzas—you can take as many slices as you want, apparently—and gigantic silver bins of ice cream next to a platter of powdered jelly donuts, piled high. All my doubts, questions, and hurt disappear in a sudden, roaring wave of hunger. Eagerly, I grab a tray and start heaping food on, a little bit of everything, because I’m too famished to decide.

  As I take a donut, I think suddenly of the people in the tunnels, huddled around their tiny fires. How many of them will eat tonight?

  I don’t know where Zebra gets the money for all this food, but he must be someone of considerable wealth and power. The Blackcoats have this huge facility with holo-equipped training rooms, smack dab in the center of the poverty-stricken Underground. I look at my heaping plate and feel a tug of guilt.

  On the other hand, denying myself won’t fill their bellies.

  I wander the lunchroom, scanning the tables, until I spot a flash of pale blond hair. Steven. There’s another boy, too—a boy with curly auburn hair and ruddy cheeks. Steven and the new boy are laughing, and for a moment, I hang back, feeling like an outsider. I clear my throat. “May I join you?”

  They look up. Steven smiles brightly. “Sure.”

  I take a seat next to him and glance at his plate. He’s got four slices of pizza, a cheeseburger, and a stack of donuts, along with a dish of chocolate ice cream.

  “I’m pretty sure you can go back for seconds,” I say.

  “Oh, I will.”

  He must have the metabolism of a hummingbird, to stay so thin. Then again, for most of his life, he’s been subsisting on government rations, which are barely enough to keep someone alive. I remember the first time I ate in front of him, in the Underwater Café—the longing in his eyes as he stared at my meal. I can hardly blame him for a little overindulgence.

  “The food here is amazing,” Steven says through a mouthful of jelly donut.

  The curly-haired boy grins. “It would be easy to get fat, if they didn’t run us ragged with so many drills.”

  As he turns his head, I glimpse the back of his neck. No scar. No collar. He catches me staring and laughs. “If you want to ask, go ahead. Questions don’t bother me.”

  I hesitate. “It’s just… I was starting to think everyone here was a Type Four. Are you—”

  “I’m Canadian. Eh?” He winks. “I don’t have a Type.”

  “I see.” It’s odd, hearing someone say that. Most of the world doesn’t have a system like IFEN’s, yet I’ve always thought of Type as something universal and objective. It can be measured by neural scanners, it responds predictably to certain treatments, and it runs in families. Even if it can change over the course of a person’s life, patterns inevitably emerge. Someone who has been a Three for many years probably won’t become a One; an individual who reaches adulthood as a One rarely becomes a Four. And yet, step over the border, and none of it exists. “So how did you end up here?”

  “I won’t bore you with my sob story.” He takes a swig from his cup. “Short version: shitty home life, I ran away, ended up in the Underground, and joined these folks because being part of a revolution seemed more exciting than picking my meals out of dumpsters.” He pushes a glass toward me. It’s filled with a clear, amber liquid. “Try some of this.”

  I pick up the cup and sniff at it cautiously. It has a sharp smell, almost like medicine. “What is it?”

  “Rum. There’s more over there.” He points to a table near the center of the room, covered in cups and bottles.

  “They have alcohol? But half the people here are minors. Aren’t there any rules, or—”

  The boy bursts out laughing.

  My cheeks grow warm as the absurdity of my statement sinks in. We’ve joined a secret antigovernment movement; we’re being trained to kill. Of course they’re not going to quibble about things like underage drinking.

  “They’ve got soda too,” Steven says. “But the rum’s pretty good. Just be careful. It’s strong.”

  I take a tiny, cautious sip. My tongue tingles oddly, and the liquid burns a thin trail of fire down my throat. I cough, eyes watering, and push the cup away. The curly-haired boy shrugs and swigs some more. “Suit yourself. Name’s Brian, by the way. Steven and I are training under Burk.”

  “You mean Captain Constipation,” Steven says.

  Brian snorts laughter. “Don’t ever let him hear you say that. He’ll have you doing laps until you pass out.”

  “Eh, he’s just a loud dog,” Steven says. “Always barking. He doesn’t scare me.”

  The back of my neck prickles. I turn to see Shana sitting at a nearby table, talking to a small group of girls. She glances at me and whispers something to them, and they burst out laughing. My ears burn. Cliques, gossip and bullies. This feels remarkably like high school. I’ve never been Miss Popularity, but back at Greenborough
High I was never actively targeted, just ignored.

  I take a bite of pizza, but it feels like wet dirt in my mouth, gluey and tasteless. A dull heat pulses behind my forehead. I refuse to let her get to me.

  “Hey,” Steven says, “you okay?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Just thinking about the training session.”

  He gives me a lopsided smile. “It’s kinda fun, huh?”

  A lump of pizza sticks in my throat, and I force it down. I half think I misheard. “Fun?”

  “Well, yeah. Stress relief, kind of. I mean, they’re just holos. It’s like, I dunno. Punching a pillow.”

  “Pillows don’t bleed,” I say. “Or scream.”

  “Come on,” Steven says. “It’s not real.”

  “Well, it’s not like it’s just a fantasy either.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “They’re preparing us for actual missions. Where we’ll have to shoot actual people.”

  “Duh,” Brian says. “What did you expect?”

  I look away. What did I expect? This is exactly what I signed up for. “Have you been on any missions?” I ask him.

  “Three,” he says through a mouthful of donuts. “Border runs. Helping people across. You met Joy? She’s one of the girls I helped across. You should have seen her back then. Such a sad little thing. She’d been Conditioned four times and it didn’t put a dent in her depression. This place brought her back to life.”

  I think of Joy’s bright smile. Amazing, what a powerful tonic purpose can be. I underwent a lot of Conditioning myself after Father’s suicide, but sometimes I think it was my training—my drive to become a Mindwalker—that really pulled me through. “So where’s Rhee?” Steven asks.

  “How should I know?”

  He blinks. “She’s your training instructor, right?”

  I exhale. “Right.” Maybe I’m just tense. I look around the room until I spot her sleek brown hair. “There.” I point.

  She’s perched at the far end of a table, alone, staring straight ahead and chewing her burger mechanically.

  Steven’s brows knit together. “Doesn’t she have any friends?”

  “Doubt it,” Brian says. “I never see her with anyone else.”

  “Maybe she prefers being on her own,” I remark.

  Steven’s expression hardens. “Yeah, well. That’s probably what people thought about me.”

  An awkward silence hangs over the table.

  “I’m going to invite her to sit with us,” Steven says. He glances at me. “You okay with that?”

  I remember the pain of Rhee’s boot digging into my back, her iron grip as she twisted my arm behind me. Then I imagine her as a child in IFEN’s brutal training program, her eyes flat and empty as she aims a pistol with her tiny hands. A small dart of pain shoots through my mouth, and I realize I’m biting the inside of my cheek.

  The truth is, I don’t really want Steven to invite her over, because she makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know what that says about me, but it probably isn’t good. Maybe I’m no better than those people who shunned him back in Greenborough High. “Go ahead,” I tell him.

  Brian snorts. “I wouldn’t bother, man. Trying to start a conversation with that one is like talking to a log.”

  Steven ignores him, gets up, and walks across the room. Rhee looks up at his approach. He says something, and she replies. I strain to read their lips, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Rhee lowers her head, looking pensive. Finally, she nods, but they don’t come over to our table. Instead, Rhee stays where she is, and he sits across from her. He glances over at us, waves, and shrugs.

  “Well, looks like we lost him.” Brian smirks. “He’s got a thing for her, huh? Poor bastard.”

  My shoulders stiffen. “It’s not like that. He’s just being nice.”

  Brian frowns. “Oh. Sorry. Are you guys…?”

  I don’t know how to answer that. “It’s complicated.” I try to savor the food. It’s been awhile since I had such a good meal. But I keep watching Steven and Rhee from the corner of my eye.

  “Excuse me,” I murmur, standing. “I’ve got to go.” I deposit my tray in a slot marked DISHES and leave the mess hall.

  ‌

  17

  The speakers crackle, and Nicholas’ voice booms out: “Attention, brothers and sisters. Today’s Assembly will begin in five minutes.”

  I sigh. Great. After a morning of massacring holos, I get to listen to more Blackcoat propaganda about the goodness and necessity of violence.

  When I reach the Assembly Hall, it’s already mostly filled. I scan the sea of heads for Steven’s pale blond hair, but I don’t see it.

  Nicholas ascends to the stage. “We have a special show for you today.” A sly, impish smile creeps across his face. He looks like a little boy with his hand in a forbidden cookie jar. That worries me. “Dr. Swan recently gave another interview. He wanted to discuss some recent events.”

  Nicholas steps aside, and the lights dim. The screen lights up.

  Dr. Swan sits at a desk in a white room, hands folded in front of him. His expression is grim, his face drawn and pale. The calm, professional man I remember is gone. He looks older, wearier, his eyes sunken. “This morning,” he begins, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, “a homemade bomb went off in the city of Aura, heavily damaging a treatment center.”

  The camera cuts away, displaying what must be footage from a security camera—footage of a large white building. The explosion is a volcanic roar. Fireballs blossom like orange pompons, flame shooting off in every direction, and clouds of black smoke fill the sky. Windows erupt outward in showers of glittering glass fragments.

  The camera cuts back to Dr. Swan. “Four people were killed. Six more were injured by flying debris. But this was not the only incident. Several other bombs have gone off in other major cities across the country. All have resulted in at least one death.”

  As the message goes on, a creeping sense of dread fills my stomach like liquid cement.

  “At first glance,” Dr. Swan continues, “these appear to be isolated, unrelated incidents. The individuals who set off these bombs did not know each other. They were not working in tandem. Yet these crimes are indeed connected. They are the beginnings of a tide of radical violence which, if not stopped, could destroy our nation. I’ve spoken before about how anger and paranoia can sweep like a contagious virus through populations. Now, we are looking at a potential outbreak of massive proportions. I’ve just finished an emergency meeting with the other members of IFEN’s Board, and we’ve all agreed what needs to be done. We must begin treating troubled individuals before the problem becomes severe enough that they might engage in violent behavior. Therefore, we are introducing proactive measures. All citizens who are Type Twos and above must report to the nearest treatment center. I urge you all to cooperate with this effort. If you are law-abiding, there’s nothing to fear. In addition, I want to issue a caution to all citizens. Do not believe everything you hear. Avoid any anti-IFEN websites recklessly spreading rumors.”

  What rumors? What’s going on in the URA that has Dr. Swan so on edge?

  “These sites,” he continues, “pose a direct threat to the population’s mental health. They are designed to inflame fear and anger. As such, spreading and repeating these malicious lies will be regarded as an act of aggression. Anyone discovered to be responsible will be immediately categorized as a Type Five.” He stops, as if to allow this to sink in. It’s a shocking revelation. Type Fives—those people deemed to be threats to public safety—are very rare. And now, apparently, anyone with a penchant for gossip is eligible.

  “Rest assured,” he says, “we are doing everything in our power to guarantee that these tragic events are not repeated. Together, we will weather this storm, and the United Republic of America will emerge stronger than ever.”

  I expect the broadcast to end there. But it doesn’t. He pauses, staring straight ahead, a strange look on his face.

  “Lain?” His
voice is very quiet. “If you are watching this… please, listen to me. I don’t know where you are or who you’re with, but I know that you must be frightened and confused. I know that, even if your actions inadvertently led to this violence, you don’t condone what the terrorists are doing. You can help end this. It’s not too late. Come home.”

  The screen fades to black.

  A sickly knot of anger burns in my stomach. But beneath that, shame digs into me like a knife. Even if your actions inadvertently led to this violence…

  Even if those words come from Dr. Swan, I can’t help but feel there’s a grain of truth in them. If I’d never uploaded my memories to the Net, would things have gotten this bad so quickly?

  Nicholas faces the crowd. “We didn’t engineer those attacks. We didn’t need to. Across the United Republic of America, more and more people are taking up the cause of their own accord, fighting back against the forces of oppression. The war is shifting in our favor. We will not hide in the shadows any longer. Make no mistake—Dr. Swan’s announcement was not a plea for peace. This is an order for us to surrender. Will we surrender, or fight?”

  The crowd howls back, “We will fight!”

  “Then be ready,” Nicholas says. “Soon, now, we’re going on the offensive. We must train and prepare. And once Zebra gives the order—” a smile spreads across Nicholas’ face “the fireworks will be spectacular.”

  Cheers fill the Hall.

  Suddenly, it’s all too much. I turn and push my way toward the exit. The Assembly’s probably not over yet, but I don’t care. I stumble into the hall and lean my forehead against a cool metal wall.

  “Lain?”

  I turn to see Steven standing in the hallway, looking baffled. “Where’d you go? You disappeared during lunch.”

  I shut my eyes. “Steven, I don’t think I can be a part of this.”

  His shoulders stiffen. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Blackcoats! This isn’t right. All those attacks back in the URA, all those innocent people dead—doesn’t this bother you?”