Mindstormer

by AJ Steiger

  The man’s face floods with terror. His eyes are wide, whites brilliant in the darkness, and I’m suddenly aware of how young he is. Early twenties. “Please. Please, d—”

  “Shut up.” Shana’s finger starts to squeeze the trigger.

  In an instant, the deaths of the IFEN guards and the border patrol woman flash through my head, and I realize that I’m about to watch another person die in front of me—a man who’s just trying to do his job. I’ll see him along with the others every time I close my eyes. “Wait!” I blurt out.

  She shoots a glare in my direction.

  “We don’t have to kill him. Can’t you just… knock him out, or something?”

  “I’m not taking any chances. Cover your eyes if you’re squeamish.”

  There’s no time to think, no time to hesitate. Breathing hard, I raise my own gun and point it at her. My fingers are clenched tight on the grip, my finger on the trigger, my chest heaving.

  She looks down the barrel of the gun and snorts. “Give me a break.”

  I keep the gun trained on her chest. My hands tremble, but only slightly. “Let him go.”

  “You’re not fooling anyone,” she says, her voice thick with disgust. “You won’t pull that trigger.”

  “I will. I swear.” I try to make my voice sound deep and intimidating, but it comes out a strangled bleat, cracking on the last word.

  Shana rolls her eyes. For a moment, she just stares into the man’s frightened face. Snot leaks from his nose, and tears streak his smooth cheeks. She sighs and pistol-whips him. His head snaps to one side with a sharp crack, and he drops to the pavement. It happens so quickly, I’m left blinking in a daze. “Get him.” She jerks her chin toward Ian. For a second, I don’t move. “Hey!” she snaps. “You hear me?”

  With a gulp, I holster my gun and hurry to his side. “Ian?” I whisper. He stirs and groans. His eyelids flicker.

  “Help him up,” Shana says. “The sooner we get him back to the Citadel, the better.”

  I glance at the unconscious policeman, choke back the bile in my throat, and try not to look at the glistening puddle of blood beneath his head as I slide an arm around Ian and help him up. He stumbles slightly. His eyelashes flutter again, revealing a hint of brown. “Lain?” he murmurs. “Where am I? What—what’s happening?”

  “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

  We make our way back through the camp and reach the edge just in time to see Rhee approaching us through the gray curtains of rain.

  “We found him,” Shana says. “I knocked a cop out, so we’d better get out of here before anyone finds him.”

  Rhee nods shortly. “I’ll get the vehicle.” She runs off, and a moment later, the car pulls up, headlights slicing through the dimness.

  Ian’s slipped into a foggy, half-conscious state. Every so often, he mumbles something incoherent under his breath. The blood on his temple has dried to a thick, tacky consistency. Cold rain slides under my shirt collar and down my back as I stumble up to the car, pulling him. Ian sprawls across the backseat like a broken marionette. I prop him upright and fasten his seat belt, then get in.

  Rhee drives in silence.

  Shana deactivates her mask and glances over her shoulder. “Have to admit, he is hot, even all bruised and drugged. Then again, I kinda like ’em that way.”

  “I’m not in the mood for this,” I mutter.

  “Cut the angst. We’re alive, we rescued your little boyfriend, and no one died. This should be like Christmas morning for you.”

  Maybe she’s right. Ian is safe, his body a warm weight against my side. I stare at the back of Shana’s head. Rain slicks down her lime green hair. “You weren’t afraid when I aimed that gun at you.”

  She sniffs. “I knew you wouldn’t shoot me.”

  “But you didn’t kill him, either.”

  “Yeah, well. I decided he wasn’t worth it. But that had nothing to do with you. If I wanted to, I would have blown him away. And you wouldn’t have done anything about it, because the truth is, you don’t belong in the Citadel. You’re a sheep, not a wolf.”

  “Shana,” Rhee says, a warning in her tone.

  “It’s just the truth,” Shana says.

  I ball my hands into fists. My face burns. I hate that she can make me feel this way. Even more than that, I hate the sense that she’s somehow right—that this whole incident just proved her preconceptions about me.

  Shana looks over her shoulder and smiles without mirth. “Consider this a free lesson. A gun is just a hunk of metal if you’re not willing to pull the trigger.”

  ‌

  19

  I’ve been pacing outside the med wing for almost an hour now. I’ve practically worn a path into the floor. The medic took one glance at the gash on Ian’s head and said he’d need stitches. But Ian is still inside.

  “You know, you could’ve at least told me where you were going.”

  I look up at the sound of Steven’s voice. He stands in the hallway, his expression unreadable. I lower my gaze.

  “God, Lain. I can’t believe you ran off on your own to save him.”

  “I wasn’t on my own. Rhee and Shana were with me.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I study my shoes, still splattered with mud and blood. “It all happened so suddenly. Once I heard he was in Toronto, I had to do something.”

  “And it didn’t even occur to you that, I don’t know, maybe I might have had a right to know what was going on?”

  I grit my teeth. Guilt tugs at me, but it’s accompanied by the dull burn of anger. Does he think he can speak to me like I’m a child? I raise my chin. “You told me earlier that you don’t need my approval to do what’s necessary. Well, I don’t need yours either.”

  His back stiffens. Hurt flashes across his face, then his expression slams shut, going blank again. “Fine,” he mutters. His receding footsteps echo in my ears.

  I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. A dull pain drums between my temples. Maybe I should have apologized. If our positions had been reversed, if Steven had gone off on his own, I would have been upset too. Maybe tonight, when things have cooled down a little, I can talk to him.

  The door creaks open. My heart jumps, and I spin around. “Ian!”

  He smiles, though his face is drawn and pale. The blood has been cleaned from his temple, a small bandage taped over the injury. “Hey.” Stubble roughens his jaw. His reddish hair is shaggy and unkempt, and falls over his right eyebrow. It’s only been a few days since I last saw him, but it feels like an eternity. The truth is, I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again.

  He clears his throat. “Lain, I—”

  I tackle him in a hug and squeeze him around the waist, and he lets out a startled oof! His familiar scent envelops me, though it’s mixed now with the sour smell of the Underground, of dirt and blood. I lean back, just enough to reach up and frame his face between my hands. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, mostly. I barely even remember what happened, thanks to this bump on my head. I was in that camp, then someone jumped me, and bam. I woke up here.”

  I hug him again. “I’ve missed you,” I murmur against his shoulder.

  He exhales a quiet breath, and his arms slip around me, returning the hug. “Missed you too.” The hug lingers longer than usual.

  When we finally separate, he looks around. “So this is the Citadel, huh? I knew it existed, but I had no idea how to get here. Lucky you found me.” He studies my face. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

  For the first time, I notice the faint lines etched around his eyes and mouth, lines that weren’t there before. “We do. Let’s not do it here, though.” I take his hand and lead him to the dormitory wing. His palm is broad and warm against mine.

  Once we’re alone in my room, we sit on the edge of my bed, side by side. “Sorry I caused you so much trouble,” he says quietly. “I heard you and Steven arguing outside. That’s probably my fault.” />
  “No. That had nothing to do with you.” A hint of bitterness creeps into my voice. I clear my throat. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m really happy to see you, but—what in the world are you doing here? How did you get across the border? Did you use one of the tunnels?”

  “Actually, I came over on a plane.” He gives me a small, embarrassed smile. “One of my mom’s friends owns a private jet, so he flew me over. I made up some story about how I was writing an article on American versus Canadian methods of dealing with crime and how I needed some firsthand observation. I paid him off, so he didn’t ask too many questions. It helps to have connections. Of course, once I arrived here I was kind of on my own, with nothing to my name but a backpack of clothes, a wad of Canadian cash, and a tip-off from one of my contacts that the Citadel was somewhere under Toronto.”

  Connections or no, it was a risky move, especially in the current political climate. Even with a passport, an American citizen needs specific approval from the government to leave the country, and they have to be a Type One. Ian still is, at least officially, since he bought a black market device to fool the neural scanners. He showed me the implant in his mouth once before. Still, this trip was undoubtedly illegal. “Ian… you can’t ever go back. You know that, right?”

  His smile fades. “I know.”

  “You gave up everything.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. After you left, IFEN watched me everywhere—at school, on the mono. When I went for a walk, a black car tailed me. They didn’t even try to hide the fact that I was being monitored. It felt like a threat, like they were looking for an excuse to take me in. I had to get out of there. If I hadn’t, I’d probably be in a collar by now. Or worse.”

  A dull ache spreads through my heart. It’s because he helped me. I don’t know how much they suspect, but the mere fact that he was my friend has probably made him an object of suspicion. “But… what about your future? Your friends?”

  He laughs flatly. “You think I care about that anymore? You’re my only real friend, anyway.”

  “And your mother? Does she know you’re here?”

  He averts his gaze, and I suddenly realize how that must have sounded—like I’m scolding a kid for staying out after curfew. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I add quickly. “It’s just—”

  “She’s gone.”

  I freeze. Dread settles into my stomach. “You mean—”

  “Not dead. At least, I hope to God she’s not. But she disappeared. She left a note telling me that she’d be gone for awhile, and she didn’t know when she’d be back. She told me I should get out of the country while it was still possible. She’s in some kind of trouble. I thought—” His voice breaks a little. “I thought maybe the rebels up here would know something about how to find her. I guess she’s not here though, huh?”

  “No,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.” I clutch my knees, so tightly it hurts. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I just want you to understand, this isn’t a game to me. I came here because I didn’t know what else to do. And—” The muscles of his throat work as he swallows. “And I needed to see you again. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, wondering if you were okay.”

  A strange feeling washes over me. I look down at my hands, suddenly not sure what to do with them. I tangle my fingers together, then pull them apart and clear my throat. “What are things like back in the URA, right now?”

  The tension eases out of his shoulders. “Everyone’s talking about what you did. Some think you’re a traitor, or that you’re crazy, but others see you as a hero. People are starting to question the amount of power that IFEN has. There’s this bill floating around called the Cognitive Rights Act. It started out as a petition, collecting signatures on the Net, but it’s gained a lot of momentum in a short time. They’re saying it might go all the way to the National Ethical Committee.”

  I sit up straighter. “What would it do, exactly?”

  “For one thing, it would slash IFEN’s funding to a fraction of what it is now. There’d be legal limits on the amount and types of data they could collect, and they wouldn’t be able to reclassify or collar people based on psychological data alone. We’d go back to the old system of trial by jury, which means people could only be collared after they’d committed a violent crime, and only if they were convicted by their peers. The psychologists at IFEN would be totally removed from the legal process.” He pauses. “Basically, it would destroy the Type system.”

  My heartbeat quickens. I feel a tiny flicker of hope. “What about all the refugees here in Canada? Would they be able to return home?”

  “The law would grant them amnesty if they returned, so yeah. I think most of them would be able to go back to the URA. If this gets passed, it’ll change everything.”

  I know it’s a long shot. Still, I want to believe it has a chance. “IFEN’s going to fight this every step of the way.”

  His expression turns grim. “Oh, they already are. They’re cracking down hard on political dissidents. There’s a secret police. At night, they raid people’s houses and take them to this facility where Mindwalkers sift through their memories to see if they’re involved with the Blackcoats. Afterward, of course, they make them forget.”

  I wish I could deny the idea that Mindwalkers would agree to participate in something so sinister, but by now, I know better. A distant ache flares deep inside me; a sense of loss. I’ve become so jaded so quickly. “But if they forget, how does anyone know about this?”

  “Sometimes people retain fragments of memories, and by sharing their stories, they’ve been able to piece together what’s happening. There are too many accounts for it to be just coincidence or an overactive imagination. There are places on the Deep Net where you can read about this stuff—places hidden from the censors. Ever since you uploaded your memories, others have been coming forward with what they know.” His gaze connects with mine, then flicks away, and his cheeks turn faintly pink. “You give people courage. That’s why Dr. Swan has made finding you a top priority.”

  Cold trickles through my veins. I think about my face on that billboard and wonder how many people are searching for me right now.

  I don’t doubt that Dr. Swan is obsessed with finding me, but I don’t think it’s because I give people courage. It’s because I made IFEN look foolish. I can imagine the jeers from the public: If they can’t even catch one runaway teenage girl, how can they stop the Blackcoats? As long as I’m free, I’m a walking threat to their credibility.

  I swallow, throat tight. Just a month ago, I was training to be a Mindwalker. Now I’m a thousand miles from home, a wanted criminal working for a terrorist organization. “I never planned on any of this,” I whisper. “I never thought it would go this far.”

  Ian hesitates, then reaches out and takes my hand. His fingers are smooth and warm, his touch reassuring. Until now, I didn’t realize how much I missed him. Sitting with him here, now, makes me feel like we’re back in the cafeteria at Greenborough High, eating lunch together.

  My thumb rests lightly against his wrist. I can feel his pulse beating. He takes a slow, deep breath and lets it out through his nose. Then he smiles at me, though I can still see the pain in his eyes, the ghost of what he’s been through. “There’s someone else who wants to see you.” He reaches inside his coat and pulls out a brown, furry lump.

  I nearly squeal. “You brought Nutter! How did you get him?”

  “He must have followed me here,” Ian says, a spark of teasing in his brown eyes. “Guess he missed you.” He places the stuffed squirrel on the bed next to me.

  I pick him up and hug him tight against my chest, burying my face in his fur.

  Years of wear have dulled the shine from his eyes and dimmed his color from brownish-red to a muted gray. Some of his whiskers are bent or missing. But he smells the same as the day Father first gave him to me. It’s the scent of childhood, of a time when I knew who I was. “Thank you.”

  A flush rises into his
cheeks. “You’re welcome.”

  Gently, I set Nutter on my pillow. He makes the room feel a little less sterile, a little more like home. Already, I feel better. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

  *

  I spend a few hours walking the halls of the Citadel with Ian, giving him the grand tour. We talk easily, effortlessly, as if the past few weeks never happened.

  That evening, after Ian’s found his own room and gone to bed, I knock on Steven’s door. “Steven?” No response. I knock again and wait, the silence stretching on. Maybe he’s not in his room at all. Or maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me. But I can’t go to bed without at least trying to patch things up between us.

  “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. You’re right, I should have told you where I was going. The truth is, I was angry. When I asked you whether you’d pick me or the Blackcoats, if it came down to it, I wanted you to say you’d choose me. And when you didn’t, I felt… betrayed.” My throat hurts. Tears prickle in my sinuses, but I hold them back. “I mean, we’ve only just gotten here, and already…” I trail off. Why am I bothering to say these things to the door? I’m not even sure if he’s there. “Steven. Please, say something.”

  The door slides open, revealing Steven’s pale, weary face. For a moment, we just stare at each other.

  He sighs. “Look. I know how you feel about… all this. And I get it. It sucks. I don’t want people to die either. But what else can we do? The Blackcoats might not be perfect, but they’re our only chance of ever changing things back in the URA.”

  “That’s not true. Ian told me about a law they’re trying to pass. It’s called the Cognitive Rights Act. It could make a difference.”

  His eyes go blank, like he’s drawn shutters over them. “It won’t pass.”

  “You don’t know that. Do you even know what it is?”