by AJ Steiger
“It doesn’t matter. If IFEN doesn’t want it to pass, it won’t.”
“The ethical committees are taking it seriously. If it goes all the way to the NEC…”
“Lain.” His tone is weary. “It’s all for show—to fool people into thinking that the URA is a functioning democracy. The National Ethical Committee reps don’t have any real power over anything that matters. IFEN is running things, and they don’t answer to voters. They don’t answer to anyone. Either we keep living under their thumb or we crush them. There’s no middle ground.”
“What’s happening to you?” I whisper.
His expression tightens. “Nothing’s happening. This is who I am, Lain. This is who I’ve always been.” He smiles a thin, hard smile. “Maybe you’re finally figuring out that you don’t like who I am.”
I take a step backward. I feel like he’s reached inside me and slapped my heart. “How can you say that? After everything we’ve been through, everything I’ve given up—”
“I never asked you to give up anything.”
“You came to me for help.” I can hear the anger creeping into my voice, despite my efforts to control it. “You asked me to erase your memories. You knew what that would mean for me.”
“Yeah. I did.” A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have taken that pill after all.”
“Don’t. Don’t you ever joke about that.”
He smiles again, but there’s a terrible deadness in his eyes. “Who says I’m joking? If I’d died then, you wouldn’t be here now. You and Ian would be on your way to a bright future, helping people in need. Instead, we’re all here getting ready to risk our lives in a war. That’s a pretty strong case for Somnazol, right there.”
“That’s not true, and you know it. Why are you talking like this?”
He looks into my eyes, and his expression crumbles. He lowers his head. When he speaks again, his voice is soft and cracked. “I’m not feeling so good right now. I—I think I should spend some time alone. Just forget everything I said, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Steven—”
The door slides shut. I feel like my chest is caving in.
How did this happen? Where did we go wrong? When we had the argument in the Underground? Or when he left me at lunch to sit with Rhee? Or when I went to save Ian without telling him?
Or maybe Steven’s right, and we never knew each other very well to begin with.
“Lain?”
I turn to see Ian standing in the hall behind me, his forehead wrinkled with concern.
A tear escapes my eye and slides down my cheek. I wipe it away, but not quickly enough.
“Hey…” Ian steps closer and encircles me with one arm.
I lean into the embrace. “Sorry,” I whisper.
He pulls me closer, wrapping me in his arms. “Don’t apologize.” I close my eyes, aware suddenly of how safe I’ve always felt with him. I’ve been running for so long. I’m too tired to do anything but lean in.
20
My body moves on autopilot as I run through a maze of holographic gray halls. A guard lurches in front of me. My hand comes up automatically, and my finger squeezes the trigger. Bang. His eyes widen. He utters a choked sound, blood dribbling from his lips. I run right past as he falls.
We’ve been in the Citadel for over a month now. Killing holos doesn’t bother me the way it used to. It’s become like Steven said—a form of stress relief. Like popping bubble wrap.
Another guard runs toward me. Pop.
My body feels oddly weightless, like I’m floating.
When I reach the end of the course, I’m surprised; it went so quickly. I feel like I sleepwalked through the whole thing. Rhee deactivates the holo environment, and I stand, hands on my knees, panting as she approaches. “Very good.” She checks a stopwatch. “Under four minutes. And your kill-count was a perfect forty out of forty. I’m impressed, Lain.”
It’s the first time I can remember Rhee ever praising me. “Thank you.” I guess I’m not so hopeless at this, after all. But then, once you get over the emotional hurdle of being a killer-in-training, all you really need is spatial reasoning and a basic level of physical fitness. The only reason I failed so spectacularly before was because I hesitated.
Shana shoots a glare in my direction. The contempt in her expression could curdle milk, but I ignore her; I’ve given up trying to analyze why she despises me so much.
“All right, everyone!” Rhee calls. “Hit the showers.”
In the bathroom, I wipe my forehead with a towel and take a swig from a plastic water bottle. I’m still drenched with sweat. A few other trainees are taking a hot shower in the stalls nearby, and steam billows out, filling the large, communal bathroom in the back of the training room. All around me, I hear girls’ voices, laughter, slamming lockers—gym class sounds. I can almost pretend I’m back in high school.
I shower briefly, letting the hot water beat down on my head, sluicing away the salt and aches. I’ve started to gain a bit of muscle. Parts that were once soft have turned firm… though I’ve also lost weight. Despite the abundance of food in the mess hall, I’ve been taking most of my meals alone in my room, rather than face the sight of Steven chatting it up with Rhee. The two of them have been spending a lot of time together lately. They sit together regularly at lunch now, and more than once, I’ve caught sight of them sparring in the training room with boxing gloves, flushed and sweating.
It shouldn’t bother me. Steven has made a friend, that’s all. I should be happy for him. But ever since our fight, things have been different between us. A few times, I’ve tried to talk to him and lost my courage, but I don’t even know what I’m afraid of.
I shut off the water, grab one of the white terrycloth robes hanging from the wall, and glance at my reflection in the foggy mirror. My face has grown narrow and pale, and my eyes seem to have sunk into the sockets. Damp tendrils of hair stick to my face and neck.
A row of blue lockers stands next to the showers, a place to store fresh clothes we can change into after our training. I start to open mine, then stop, gagging on the smell that wafts out. An invisible hand squeezes my stomach, and the reheated pancakes I had for breakfast surge up my throat. I clamp down on my gag reflex and pinch my nose shut, breathing through my mouth. Suppressing my dread, I force myself to open the locker.
A dead rat stares at me through one glassy eye, yellow incisors bared in a frozen grimace, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood seeps from a slit in its belly, soaking through my clothes; pink intestines poke out through the wound. I back away, shaking.
The nape of my neck prickles. Slowly, I turn around. Shana is washing her hands in the sink.
“What is this?” I point.
She glances at the contents of my locker. “It’s a dead rat. Not too bright, are you?”
“Did you do this?” I ask, struggling to keep my tone level.
She smirks. “If I had, it would be pretty stupid of me to admit it.”
I want to grab the rat and hurl it at her face. Did she kill it herself? Is she such a sociopath that she’d take the life of a living creature just to get under my skin? “I’m going to tell Rhee about this.”
“Whatever.” She shrugs. “It actually wasn’t me… and I’ve got an alibi. I was with my friends this morning. And that thing is fresh.”
“So maybe you got someone else to put it there.”
“Or maybe someone else put it there on their own. I’m not the only person here who doesn’t like you, you know.” She plants her hands on her hips. “Go ahead. Squeal. Your kind are always the teacher’s pets, aren’t you?” She slams her locker and walks away.
Anger seethes inside me, hot and suffocating. I ram my fists against the wall. “Damn it,” I whisper. I should tell Rhee. But she’s the last person I want to talk to right now. I’ll deal with this on my own.
*
At lunch, I pile my plate with food I know I
won’t be able to eat, then take my seat across from Ian. Steven isn’t there; he’s sitting with Rhee. Again. At the sight, something dark and ugly stirs inside me. Today, Brian is with them too. Steven’s got a cup of coffee in one hand. His lips are moving, and his companions nod along, but I can’t tell what they’re talking about, but they all seem to be getting along swimmingly.
“Hey,” Ian says. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I give him a distracted smile. “Just a little worn out.”
“I know the feeling.”
Come to think of it, Ian’s looking a little pale and ragged too. His hair keeps getting longer. It hangs in his eyes now, like a curtain, and he’s always brushing it aside. “Ian… when you first came here, did you have to…”
“What?”
I look away. “Never mind.”
There’s a pause. “You want to ask if Zebra put me through that test,” he says quietly.
My breath catches. I meet his gaze. He’s pale, his face drawn, his lips a thin line. “What did you see?” I whisper.
“I saw my brother.”
I frown, puzzled. “I didn’t even know you have a brother.”
“Had. He died. A long time ago, when we were kids.”
“Ian, I—” For a few seconds, I can’t find words. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Never came up, I guess.”
He was always the one who comforted me. Maybe it never occurred to me that he might have wounds, too.
His eyes go fuzzy. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy, getting into this place. But I never thought I’d have to go through something like that.”
Anger flashes inside me, hard and bright. “What he did to us, shoving our faces in our past trauma… it’s sick. And we’re probably the only ones here who had to go through it.”
“Well, we did work for IFEN. It’s understandable that he wasn’t too eager to trust us.”
“He could have just read our minds. I think he wanted to scare us, to break us. It’s a form of mental terrorism.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s over now.” His fingers tighten on his plastic spoon. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
I nod, lowering my gaze. A forkful of macaroni and cheese hovers halfway between the plate and my mouth. I’d forgotten about it. The cheesy smell makes me nauseous, so I set it down. “Have you heard anything about the Cognitive Rights Act lately?” I ask. “I’ve been trying to find information about it, but it’s hard when there’s no Net down here.”
Instantly, his demeanor changes. He sits up straighter and leans toward me, a spark of excitement in his eyes. “I’ve been asking around. I found this.” He pulls a folded printout from his pocket, unfolds it, and smoothes out the creases on the table.
I lean forward to study it. It’s an excerpt from an article, with a quote from Dr. Swan:
Many people have asked for my opinion of the Cognitive Rights Act. And, considering its growing popularity, I feel the need to make my stance clear. If passed, the Act would be a disaster. The Type system exists because it is necessary. And it works. For every attack against us that occurs, dozens more are stopped because we take proactive measures to find and treat troubled individuals before they act. Yes, there are problems. No system is perfect. But we can work to address our problems without compromising the safety of our nation. To weaken or remove the Type system now would be to invite back the chaos and misery that tore our country apart. I ask you, the American people, to let IFEN do its job in this time of need. Do not support any measures which would tie our hands.
“He’s on the defensive,” I remark.
“Exactly. People are pushing hard for change. And if Dr. Swan feels the need to address it directly, it must be gaining a lot of momentum. He’s nervous. And he should be. If this passes, it will be a game changer.”
Hope stirs inside me. Ian is right. Despite the renewed fear caused by the terrorist attacks, a growing number of people want a better world. They’re sick of this caste system masquerading as psychiatry.
Of course, there’s also plenty of renewed prejudice and hatred toward Type Fours. Nicholas read us some statistics (never revealed on the news, of course) about the escalating number of hate crimes, most of which IFEN has chosen to overlook. But judging from the news clips I’ve seen, the number of protestors is growing, too. There’s change in the air.
I glance over at the table where Steven and Rhee sit. I watch them get up, push their dirty trays into the wall slot, and leave together.
“You know, you’ve barely touched your food.”
I glance down at my burger—a grease-soaked bun, a glistening gray chunk of meat smeared with ketchup resembling red paint. It makes me think of the dead rat in my locker, oozing blood. Mostly, I’ve been picking the bun apart, tearing it into tiny pieces. “Maybe I’m coming down with a bug.”
Ian doesn’t respond, and I know he doesn’t buy it. When I first started spending time with Steven, I recall, Ian tried to warn me away from him, and I didn’t listen. Now that Steven has apparently abandoned me, I wouldn’t begrudge him an I told you so, but he hasn’t said a word. “I know you’re going through a rough time,” he says at last. “I won’t force you to talk about it. I just want you to know, if you do want to talk, I’m here.”
The concern in his voice almost undoes me. A lump fills my throat, and tears fill my eyes, threatening to spill. And suddenly, it’s all too much. All the things I haven’t talked about are building up inside my chest, straining against my ribcage, threatening to burst out. “Shana put a dead rat in my locker,” I blurt out. “I found it this morning.”
His mouth falls open. “Shana? The green-haired girl?”
“She hates me, for some reason. It’s stupid. It wasn’t a threat or anything—at least, I don’t think so.”
Slowly, Ian puts his silverware down. There’s a strange, intent look in his eyes. He stands up and walks across the room, toward the table where Shana’s sitting with her friends.
Oh God.
“Ian, wait!” I leap to my feet and follow him.
As he approaches, Shana looks up and narrows her eyes. “What do you want?”
“I want you to leave Lain alone.” His voice is firm and clear. It carries throughout the room. People stop eating and turn their heads.
“Ian, it’s all right,” I whisper, a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yeah, I do,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to put up with her bullshit.”
I expect Shana to deny everything, to say she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But she rises to her feet and faces him, hands on her hips. “You’ve got no proof that I did anything. So why don’t you and the bottle brat just go hug and cry about it?”
A flush creeps into Ian’s cheeks, into his ears. But the look in his eyes isn’t embarrassment. It’s fury. “Apologize to her,” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “Or I’ll—”
“What? You wanna hit me?” She shoves his chest. “Take your best shot! I never back down from a fight.”
The flush in his face darkens. “I’m not going to fight you.”
“Oh, so you thought you’d waltz over here and start telling me what to do, and I’d just take it?” Shana snorts. “You’re as bad as she is.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
She curls her lip. “Don’t play dumb.”
By now, most of the people in the mess hall are watching us intently. A small crowd had gathered, forming a circle around us, like scavengers around a carcass.
“Seriously,” I say. “Tell me. Why are you so angry at me? What did I ever do to you?”
She lets out a flat laugh. “You really don’t get it, do you? In case you didn’t notice, your people are the ones we’re fighting. You might’ve switched sides, but you worked for those butchers for years.”
My back stiffens. It’s not a fair accusation—I wasn’t aware of all the atrocities IFEN had committ
ed while I was with them—but still, the words wriggle through the cracks in my mental armor. “Well, I’m not one of them anymore,” I say. “I’m not even a Type One anymore. Neither is Ian. We lost all that when we chose to defy IFEN.”
“At least you had a choice. At least you had something to lose in the first place.”
Ian glares at Shana and opens his mouth, but I place a hand on his arm, a silent caution. A muscle twitches in his cheek.
Shana narrows her eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still Type Ones. And I spent most of my life being kicked around by people like you.”
“So you hate us because of the situation we were born into? How is that fair?”
“I don’t give a flying fuck if it’s fair,” she snaps. “Do you think anything about this sick world is fair? I was collared because I tried to stop IFEN’s thugs from dragging away my mom to be mindwiped. I grabbed a pan and swung it at one of them. It left a bruise. Just a bruise. I couldn’t even stop them from taking my mother, but because I stood up to them, I was suddenly a danger that needed to be controlled. I spent four years with a piece of metal wired into my spine. At school, I was anyone’s meat. Boys felt me up whenever they wanted, because they knew that if I tried to defend myself, the collar would knock me out, and when I tried to tell people what was happening, no one ever believed me because I was a Four. Or maybe they just didn’t give a shit, because they thought I was getting what I deserved. Is that fair?”
For a moment, I can’t respond. I stare into her burning dark eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t—”
“I don’t want your sympathy.” She spits out the words. “I don’t want to be your friend. What I want is for you to get out. This is our revolution. We don’t need your help.”
Silence fills the space between us. The crowd seems to hold its breath.
I grit my teeth. Fine. If that’s how she wants it, so be it. “Too bad. You don’t own this revolution, and you don’t get to decide who’s worthy of joining. You’re not the only person who’s been hurt by IFEN. I have as much stake in this as you, and you’re just going to have to accept that, whether you like it or not.”
