by AJ Steiger
“Once the technology is perfected, yes.”
So it would become even easier for them to hide unpleasant truths. “And you’re not even a little bit worried about how this will impact people’s basic human rights?”
“I am concerned with human welfare, not human rights. This whole business of rights causes nothing but trouble. If a car or computer is broken, you don’t ask its consent to be fixed, you just fix it.”
“People aren’t machines.” A statement like that shouldn’t even be necessary. I feel like I’m trapped in some sort of silly dream.
“Of course they are,” Dr. Swan replies readily. “You know it as well as I do. Nevertheless, there will be strict guidelines and protocols to prevent abuses of power. It will only be used when necessary.”
“And who will decide when it’s necessary?”
“You, maybe.”
I look up at him in confusion.
He smiles wearily. “Your replacement, Aaron, is not working out. He’s too… sensitive. I must admit, I still have hopes for you.”
“Even after I ran away to join a terrorist organization?”
“And now you’ve seen what they’re like. What they’re capable of. Rebellion is a natural part of growing up, but I think you’re coming to the end of that particular phase. I’ve always felt that you would be the one to take my place. Call it an instinct. If I’m correct about that, then you—as the Director—would make the final call on when to use Mindstormer. Of course the Board would give you input, but you would have the right to veto any of their suggestions.”
I almost laugh. Even after everything he’s done, he still thinks I’d consider working for IFEN?
But in spite of myself, I find myself thinking. If I really had that sort of power, I could make sure this machine was never abused. I could—
I slam that mental door shut. No one should have this power. It shouldn’t even be an option.
Dr. Swan leans in. “You are right about one thing—the status quo can’t be maintained indefinitely. Actually, the Type system was never meant to be permanent. It’s an imperfect solution. But once Project Mindstormer is fully implemented, collars—and Types—will be phased out, because they will be redundant. People will be equal. Isn’t that what you want, Lain? Equality?”
I shake my head frantically. “This will make things more unequal. A small group of people will have limitless power over everyone.”
“Not limitless. As I said, there will be strict protocols—”
“Just like there are protocols about how and when to change someone’s Type?” I ask bitterly.
“Nothing is perfect. But it’s better. Just imagine the potential. We can end war, forever. For the first time in history, that is a real possibility. Of course, Mindstormer’s reach is limited, but once we’ve established bases in other countries—well, imagine for a moment that some mad dictator gets the idea to start collecting nuclear weapons. We can put a stop to it. Easily, bloodlessly. Think about that.”
And for a moment, I do think about it: a world where tragedies can be prevented without collars or Types. That’s what I’m fighting for, isn’t it? What the Blackcoats are fighting for? And now, Dr. Swan is telling me that it can happen. We can be equal.
Equal in slavery. Not the makers of our own future, but simply tools in IFEN’s grand design, manipulated and shaped without our awareness. And that’s the best possible scenario. “This isn’t right,” I whisper.
He lets out a small, tired sigh. “What is it you want, Lain? You hate the way things are. You don’t want to return to the way things were. I show you a new way of dealing with problems, and you reject it. So what’s your answer? What do you suggest we do?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have an answer. My fingers tighten on the arms of my chair.
Slowly, he turns me and wheels me out of the room, and the doors slide shut behind us. We take the elevator back up. I stare straight ahead, a knot burning in my chest.
“Well,” he says. “I tried.” The elevator doors slide open, and he wheels me down the hall. “You’ve left me with no other options, Lain. Your memories will be erased. You’ll be reset back to the point before you met Steven Bent.”
I clench my jaws.
Stall him, the voice in my head whispers frantically. Convince him that you agree with him. Pump him for more information.
I shake my head, like a horse trying to dislodge a fly. What does it matter? How will that help, when I can’t tell anyone about this? I’m so tired. I just want to give up…
Don’t you dare! the voice hisses.
I place a hand against my temple.
“Lain?” Dr. Swan’s eyes narrow. “What’s going on?”
“I… I don’t know. My head feels strange.”
Don’t tell him about me. The voice is shifting. It no longer sounds like my own. Zebra. Somehow, he’s talking to me inside my head. You have to learn more.
Dr. Swan grips my chin. “You’re communicating with someone, aren’t you?” His voice is hard and tight. “How?”
“I’m not—I don’t—I don’t know—”
He backhands me, hard, knocking my head back. “Tell me!”
“I don’t know!” I scream at him. “I don’t know why! I just started hearing his voice in my head, and then he—he—”
Dr. Swan grips my hair and probes at my scalp and neck with his fingertips. He presses a sore spot near the base of my skull, and I flinch. “A surgical scar,” he mutters. “Almost invisible. We should have examined you more thoroughly, but I never suspected the enemy’s technology was this advanced.” His voice is ice. “So, you have an implant. Clever. He sends you in as a spy, watches through your eyes and listens through your ears.”
An implant. That’s why Zebra allowed me to turn myself over to Dr. Swan, to exchange myself for the hostages—he wanted information on Project Mindstormer. He used me.
Dr. Swan breathes in and straightens, smoothing his hair back. “We’ll have to remove this device and study it. But first…” He takes a cell phone from his pocket, flips it open, and presses a few buttons. He holds it to his ear. After a few seconds, he says, “It’s time.” Just those two words. He turns off the cell phone, shoves it back into his pocket, and resumes pushing my wheelchair down the hall.
“Who was that?” I ask.
Dr. Swan doesn’t answer. I grit my teeth, nails digging into my palm.
Zebra? Can you hear me? Are you there? Tell me what’s going on!
I’m sorry, Lain. It’s disorienting, to hear someone else’s voice so clearly inside my own head. But you agreed to this, even if you don’t remember now. And it worked. I’m recording your memories on a Gate, and I have the images of the Mindstormer computer and Dr. Swan’s explanation of its capabilities. What they’re doing is a crime against humanity, and if we tell the world, we can bring them down. Please believe me. I know what you think of me, and you’re right. I’m a terrible person. But you’ve done a great service for the Blackcoats. No—for humankind. I’m going to get you out of that place, just like I promised. Just hold on a little longer—
Abruptly, the voice cuts off. There’s a shock, a jolt that shakes me to my core. My vision goes white, and pain rips through my chest, a huge, unthinkable pain. It fills my consciousness, drowning out everything else. I gasp, clutching my chest. It burns. I open my mouth to cry out, but my throat is suddenly paralyzed, locked tight.
Zebra’s voice filters through the pain, weak and broken. Lain… listen to me. You have to… A choked gasp cuts off the words. I can’t move. My mind is slipping, scrambling to find a toehold. Every breath is a struggle against the red avalanche crushing my chest. My vision fades in and out.
Then the pain is fading. I can feel him slipping away. But his voice comes through, very faintly. Stop Nicholas, he whispers. He’s dangerous. You have to find…
There’s a snarl of white noise between my ears. “Zebra!”
The room. Tell them. Fainter and fainter still.
Then, so small and weak it’s almost imperceptible: Paradise lost.
And then he’s gone. The pain is gone, too, leaving me gasping and drenched in sweat. Tears roll down my face.
Dr. Swan shows no signs of surprise or confusion. He keeps walking stiffly, pushing the chair along.
“What did you do?” I whisper. He doesn’t answer. “What did you do?”
“You pushed me into a corner, Lain. I had no choice. You must understand; if this information leaks out before the proper time, the consequences will be disastrous.”
My nails dig into my palms, almost hard enough to draw blood. I’m still shaking. Though the searing pain in my chest has faded, I feel bruised and broken, like I’ve been run over by a truck. “You killed him. How?”
“You ought to know by now, we have an agent inside the Citadel. Zebra has been taken care of, and the contents of his Gate will be wiped.”
I remember Zebra’s words: Stop Nicholas. I should have known. He’s the only one who could have gotten close enough to do this, the only one Zebra trusted. I know, and there’s nothing I can do about it, no way I can warn the others. My chest is shrinking, squeezing like a fist. “The Blackcoats will figure out what happened.”
“No, they won’t. It will look like Zebra died of natural causes. He was given an injection of liquid Somnazol with a needle too small to leave a noticeable mark. Certain tests would reveal the real cause of death, but the Blackcoats’ medical technology is rather unsophisticated. He’ll be discovered in his study, looking for all the world as though he died peacefully in his sleep.”
I want to scream.
“Even if you could warn them, it wouldn’t matter,” Dr. Swan continues. “It’s too late.”
A chill skates down my spine. I twist in my chair to look at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You needn’t concern yourself with that. Soon, you won’t even remember them. Just as you won’t remember this.”
The helplessness burns, twisting inside me like a knife. “You can’t hide the truth about this place forever.”
He stares straight ahead. “Perhaps not. But by the time it comes out, the public will be ready to accept it. We’ll make sure of that.” The wheelchair rolls forward. “Soon,” he says, and his voice is almost soothing, “this will all be behind you. We can start again.”
*
In a white room, Dr. Swan and a nurse strap me down to a cot, numb the back of my neck with cold anesthetic jelly, and extract the implant. It resembles a glittering silver spider, or maybe a jellyfish—a transparent node filled with tightly packed circuitry, with long, hair-thin, iridescent wires trailing from one end. I watch fuzzily as Dr. Swan places it in a jar of clear liquid, and it floats, the long wires waving and undulating of their own accord. Wisps of blood—my blood—trail through the fluid.
Did I really agree to let Zebra put that inside me?
I suppose I’ll never have a chance to ask him. My chest cramps at the memory of the burning, suffocating pain. So that’s what it feels like to die of Somnazol. That’s the so-called mercy of IFEN. Zebra didn’t deserve that. No one does.
As they stitch me up, my mind races. With Nicholas still on the inside, the Blackcoats are vulnerable. Now that Zebra is gone, there’s nothing to stop him. He could expose the location of the Citadel to the Canadian authorities, open the front door for them, and watch them slaughter everyone. The question is, why hasn’t he already done that? Is he planning something else?
In a short while, I won’t even be able to wonder. The truth is about to be stripped from my mind, and I’m powerless to stop it from happening. The questions fade as I stare at the wall dully, too drained to even be scared.
Shadows move behind me, and surgical implements clink softly together as the nurse finishes her work.
Dr. Swan and the nurse leave the room, taking the implant with them, and I’m alone, lying on my side, still strapped down.
After a few minutes, I hear the creak of wheels. The door opens, and Dr. Swan is there, along with a nurse pushing a wheelchair. “It’s time,” he says. He’s holding a hypodermic. “Are you going to come with us quietly to the Immersion Lab, or will we have to drug you?”
My fingernails dig into the cot. They’re going to take away everything. I’ll forget the Blackcoats, St. Mary’s. Steven. These are my last few minutes to hold onto my memories of him. I don’t want to spend those moments in a drooling stupor. I close my eyes. “I’ll cooperate.”
“Well. It’s about time.”
The nurse undoes my straps, and I get into the chair. I’m dizzy and weak, and my vision keeps blurring as they wheel me down the hall, toward the Immersion Lab. A strange feeling washes over me as the doors open, and I see it: the pristine white walls, the bright lights, and the two chairs. I treated clients in this very room.
As they strap me into the chair, I think about Steven—his smile, his scent—everything I’m about to lose. This isn’t happening, can’t be happening. It’s too cruel. Before I can stop it, a tear slips down my cheek.
Dr. Swan looks away. “When this is over, you’ll feel better.”
I don’t want to feel better. I want to keep everything, even the pain.
Once the treatment is over, I’ll be the girl I was a month ago. She’ll know nothing. She’ll be helpless, like a child. I feel a strange protectiveness toward her, as I might feel toward a little sister. I wish I could be there to help her, to guide her—but of course, that’s impossible. I’ll be her.
Dr. Swan sits down in the chair beside me and pulls the helmet on. The nurse is standing by, still holding the hypodermic, in case I get uncooperative.
“Go back to the first time you met him,” Dr. Swan says. “Remember, the more you cooperate, the smoother this will go.”
There has to be a way I can guard at least some of my memories, a way I can keep Dr. Swan from stealing everything. I remember my training exercises, the ones I used to compartmentalize my emotions. Maybe it’s possible. If I lock away a few—
“Lain,” he says, a chiding note in his voice.
The nurse advances toward me, hypodermic gleaming. “No.” I shake my head, pulling away. “Wait.”
The needle pricks my neck, and I sink into a heavy gray nothing. I’m slipping away, vanishing like water down a drain. I’m crumbling to dust beneath my fingers, falling away into a dark, bottomless void.
Focus. Remember.
Steven’s smile, that wry quirk of thin lips.
I’m walking through a stone labyrinth.
Steven standing on the other side of a parking lot, hands in his pockets, bathed in the glow of a streetlight.
I come to a wooden chest. Open the chest.
His eyes.
I put this image inside and lock it away. Lock it tight.
Steven. Steven. Steven.
We’re in the secret room beneath Gracie’s house, his lips against mine—
Please, please, don’t let me lose this. Not this.
I struggle to hold onto the memories, but they break apart and tumble into the void. I’m drifting through a place without time. A gray place. There was something I wanted to remember. What was it?
Someone’s eyes. Mercury. Faded denim. Clouds reflected in the ocean. Blue.
Blue
Blue
Blue
Blue
Bl—
Part III
Choice
32
I’m in an empty place. Not black, but white.
Darkness is something. Darkness has a tangible quality. But white is absence, negation, emptiness. White is oblivion.
Slowly, very slowly, the world reforms itself.
My head is a sledgehammer. My brain feels like it’s been rolled in shattered glass, dunked in lemon juice, and then unceremoniously stuffed back into my skull. Dimly, I’m aware of a mattress beneath my back.
Where am I?
I try to sit up, but my body won’
t listen. Voices float at the edge of my mind, filtering in and out of my awareness. “This was a mistake.” Steven. Steven is talking, his tone choked, like he’s fighting back tears. “We shouldn’t have done it. I knew this would happen, and I didn’t stop her.”
“Take it easy.” That’s Ian. “She’s just overwhelmed. Her mind needs some time to sort through it all.” But he sounds scared, too. “She’ll get better.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“She will.”
I want to tell them that I’m awake, that I can hear them, but when I try to open my mouth, nothing happens. I manage to open my eyes a crack, but the world is a soupy swamp of browns and grays. My eyes sink shut again, and Steven and Ian’s voices fade into silence.
Time passes in slippery chunks. I open my eyes and find myself staring at a dilapidated, wood-walled bedroom.
Wait. Wasn’t I just in IFEN headquarters?
No. That’s right—I escaped. We escaped, and now we’re in a safe house in the woods.
Dust motes spiral through the beams of sunlight that slant down through the hole in the ceiling, making the room appear misty and glittery. A roach crawls across the wall, tiny antennae wavering. A gigantic red-and-yellow spider, the size of a rat, dangles from the ceiling. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, it’s gone.
Voices slide along the edge of my mind. Shadows, passing figures, flicker along my peripheral vision. A gentle hand touches my face, then slips away. A black orb floats over my bed, and a girl swims inside it like a mermaid, smiling down at me. Then she too vanishes.
Gradually, the inferno in my head dies down to something resembling a normal headache. The shiny mist dissolves, and the world looks normal, albeit a bit blurry, because focusing my eyes takes a monumental effort.
Slowly, I turn my head to the side. Steven is sitting by the bedside, dipping a cloth in a bowl of water. Carefully, he spreads the cool cloth across my forehead. There’s a tiny furrow between his brows, like he’s performing a delicate operation.
“I know you,” I whisper.
