by AJ Steiger
What’s going on? Then I remember. His last client was a sexual assault victim. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I forgot.”
“It’s fine.” His eyes are glazed, his face a sickly whitish gray. “I’ll be okay in a few days.”
I study his face, uncertain. Ian’s dealt with similar cases in the past, but he’s never been affected like this, at least not that I’ve seen. Was there something especially bad about this one? I want to ask, but don’t quite dare. “I wonder what’s going to happen to that boy,” I say instead.
“He’ll probably be Conditioned. Nothing we can do about it now.”
I went through Conditioning myself a few times, though for me it was voluntary, an effort to battle the anger and depression I faced after my father’s death. I remember lying in the darkness, encased in that metal tube. It’s a soothing experience, if you don’t fight it—the low hum in your head, the sense of floating, the pain and tension ebbing out of you. But there’s also something oppressive about it. A heaviness, a vague feeling of defilement, like dirty fingers touching you.
“Or maybe they’ll send him to a Mindwalker,” Ian adds. His voice has dropped to a low, almost inaudible mutter. “You never know.”
“Without his consent? Certainly not.” Involuntary memory modifications are rare, almost unheard of.
He shrugs. “Yeah, you’re right. Probably.”
The guards shepherd us back toward the school. We walk through the open doors, down the hallway, following the other students toward the gymnasium, where we file into the bleachers. Greenborough’s plump, matronly superintendent makes an appearance and delivers a short speech. It’s the usual. There was a threat, but the threat has been dealt with. A Type Four has been identified and will be given the appropriate treatments. And a collar, no doubt.
My hands curl into fists in my lap.
Later, after school, Ian and I walk across the parking lot together. “Do you think it’s right?” I blurt out.
“Is what right?”
“This. Everything.”
He walks stiffly, hands shoved into his pockets. “You’ve seen the documentaries, right? About the way things were before?”
We’ve all seen documentaries detailing the rise of domestic terrorism. Images flash across my brain—explosions, stampeding crowds, debris flying through the air, bodies riddled with bullets from mass shootings. A war with no single enemy, just lots of angry people with sick minds. Of course, all that happened decades before I was born.
Back then, IFEN was simply a research institution focused on the budding field of neurotechnology—mostly mind mapping and mind imaging, at that point. Mindwalkers didn’t even exist yet. But as the terrorist attacks escalated, scientists began sharing data with the government to create the National Registry of Mental Health—the database that is now a central pillar of our society—so potential threats could be identified and watched. The Typing system was established, active video monitoring became commonplace, and for a while, the authorities managed to keep the violence under control. But some people began to mutter that we’d become a totalitarian state, and social unrest grew.
Then came the Blackcoats, a semiorganized group of hackers and political radicals who declared war against the government. Another wave of terrorism, even worse than the first, swept the country. The fighting raged on and on—the police and military against soldiers of a hidden army who attacked from the shadows and disappeared without a trace, with innocent people caught in the cross fire.
I shudder.
Father lived through that nightmare. He only talked about it a few times, but those few times were vivid enough. When the dust finally settled and the Blackcoat leaders had all been hunted down, people were desperate for the violence to end. Who could blame them?
Over the next few years, the government held a series of conferences in which scientists and politicians debated what sort of system would best prevent another war. IFEN proposed a pragmatic, utilitarian approach focused on maintaining psychological welfare. No outdated constitutions holding us back with dusty ideas about inalienable rights. No pointless divisions between states. Under the new government, the laws would all be made by ethical committees, with input from psychiatrists and other experts, and every change would be enacted with an eye toward the greater public good. Maintaining peace and order would be the top priority.
So the United States was reformed as the United Republic. Some parts of our government—like the National Ethical Committee—are still made up of elected representatives. But they have no control over the assignment of Types. That’s a psychiatric issue, not a political one, and IFEN controls all such decisions.
Ian stops walking and faces me. “Do you think it’s right?”
I freeze. The answer should be obvious. Our system might be flawed, but it does its job. Most violence is stopped before it happens, and people who need help receive it. Is there anything more important than saving human lives? “Well, what’s the alternative? Go back to how things were?”
“Maybe there are other options.”
“Like what?”
He shrugs. “They say things are different in Canada. That’s why some Fours run for the border. Not that many of them make it across, but I can’t blame them for trying. Can’t say I’d be thrilled about getting a collar, either.”
“There are higher rates of violent crime and terrorism in Canada,” I point out. “That’s why we need such strict border security. The people who run are just making their own situation worse.” Though, truthfully, I know almost nothing about what things are like in Canada. We aren’t taught much about other countries.
Ian looks at me sideways. “You never really answered my question.”
Our breath fogs in the air, mingling. The cold scours my lungs. “I don’t have an answer.”
With a quiet sigh, he resumes walking. After a few seconds, I follow.
“So, are you coming to the party on Friday?” Ian asks, jerking me out of my reverie.
The question leaves me disoriented. How can he even care at a moment like this? “I don’t know.”
“Come on. It’ll be fun.”
Fun. I wish. More likely, I would be too shy and tongue-tied to talk to anyone there and would find myself standing in a corner the whole time. Just thinking about it depresses me. Parties remind me that I don’t truly fit in. “You know how I feel about that sort of thing, Ian,” I murmur.
“Please.”
I look at him in surprise. His hands are fisted, knuckles white. Something is wrong with him—something more than just a single client. But what? “Ian, are you okay?”
He runs a hand over his head. “Yeah. It’s just—we’re friends, or at least I think we are, but we never spend any time together outside of school or training.”
I never realized it mattered to him. Ian has so many friends, and they’re all cooler than me—boys and girls with piercings and dyed hair and carefree attitudes. Unlike me, he seems to have no trouble juggling his training and his social life. I always worried that if I hung around him too much, he’d start to see me as a pest. It never even occurred to me that he might feel like I was ignoring him. “You want to spend more time with me?”
“Well, yeah. I guess I do.” Is it my imagination, or is he blushing? “I mean, you always seem like … I dunno. Like you’re so wrapped up in helping your clients and becoming a great Mindwalker, you don’t even see anything else. I know why it’s important to you, and I respect that. But at the same time, you feel so far away.”
Is that how I seem to him, to other people? Distant and aloof? Maybe that’s why everyone at school avoids me. I think about the girls in my class, whispering together and watching me with cold eyes.
I want to tell him that it’s not like that—it’s not about lofty ideals and grand goals. Sure, I want to help people. I want to succeed. But not because I think I’m better than anyone else. If anything, it’s the opposite. Mindwalking is the only thing I’m good at, the only way I
can be useful. Without that, I’m small and ordinary and dull. I open my mouth, but the words stick in my throat. “Okay,” I say instead. “I’ll come to the party.”
The tension eases out of his shoulders. “Thanks.” He smiles, just a little, and lifts one hand in a wave. “See you there.”
I watch him walk away. His words spin through my head. You feel so far away. There’s a funny feeling in my stomach, and I wonder why.
I shake off the thoughts and walk toward my car. Steven’s waiting for me in the Underwater Café. Or is he?
In my head, I see him lying motionless and pale on a bed, his eyes open and empty, glazed over in death. A chill races through me, penetrating to the marrow of my bones.
No. Even if he does have a Somnazol, he wouldn’t have taken it. Not before our meeting.
Steven will be there. He will.
When I walk into the café and see Steven sitting in the booth, a wave of relief washes over me, so strong that, for a moment, I feel faint. He’s wearing a long black leather coat with a high collar and far more buckles and straps than seem strictly necessary. “Hey, Doc,” he says.
I think about pointing out that I’m not technically a doctor, but I don’t bother. I suppose, given our respective roles, the title’s not inaccurate. “Hello, Steven.” I sit.
I want to ask him if he really has a Somnazol, but I choke down the question. I need to be cautious. Asking could come across as confrontational, which could push him away. Besides, I’d have to admit I’d been looking through his file, and I feel a strange reluctance to tell him that. “I didn’t see you at school today,” I say instead. “Is everything all right?”
“Didn’t feel like going.” He shrugs. “Never liked school. Anything interesting happen?”
“There was a raid. Someone found a threatening note on the wall, and the police swarmed in and scanned everyone. They took someone away for treatment.”
“Typical day, then.”
A small chuckle escapes me, though it sounds a little strangled. “I guess so.” It occurs to me that—if the rumors are true—Steven has almost certainly been in that boy’s place. He’s been the one dragged away by police, driven off to a treatment facility against his will.
“So, you going to order something or what?” he asks.
I glance at the touch screen menu on the table. I didn’t have lunch, but my appetite has been conspicuously absent since the incident at school. I order a plate of calamari and a chai tea, anyway. Steven doesn’t order anything. When the plate arrives, I pick at the contents without much enthusiasm. The fishy smell nauseates me.
Steven wipes his sleeve across his mouth, staring intently at my dinner.
I push it toward him. “Help yourself.”
He grabs a fork and starts shoveling calamari into his mouth. When he’s done, he drinks the sauce from its dish like soup. I realize my mouth is hanging open and snap it shut. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“Um. Yesterday morning, I think.”
“You must be starving. Why don’t you order something?”
He doesn’t answer. I look at his gaunt face, the hollows in his cheeks. If he has no family, what does he do for money? It’s very difficult for someone with a collar to find work. There are government assistance programs, but the money isn’t enough to live on. I think about my freezer, brimming with frozen carrots and broccoli, and the mountains of boxed pasta and cereal in my pantry. Greta is always stocking the kitchen with more than I can possibly eat. Whatever happens, I decide, he’s going home tonight with bags of food.
He runs a finger around the inside of the dish, collecting the last traces of spicy orange sauce, and sucks the finger clean. A small burp escapes him. “Scuse me.”
An awkward silence hangs between us. I say, “Listen.”
In the same moment, he says, “Look.”
We both fall silent again.
“You first,” I say.
He rubs the back of his neck, gaze downcast, as if he’s suddenly fascinated with the crumbs on the tabletop. “I’ve been thinking. I probably shouldn’t have asked you to erase my memories.”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
His arms are crossed tightly over his chest. “I know you’ve got rules to follow. I don’t want you to end up getting busted because of me.”
I hesitate. My whole life, I’ve behaved myself, following the regulations to the letter. This could ruin everything. Do I really want to take this chance? For a boy I barely know? If you don’t, he’ll die, whispers a voice in my mind. Of course, it’s not my responsibility to save him. Or is it?
My fingers tighten on my cup. I know what Dr. Swan would say—he’d tell me that there’s nothing I can do, that some people are beyond help, that I should focus on the people who can still be saved.
Not Father. Father would have helped Steven. I’m sure of it.
Then another thought strikes—does Dr. Swan realize that Steven has a Somnazol? He must. He’s the director. Which means he knows that Steven’s life is in danger, and he still told me to stay away from him.
There’s a flash of red lightning through my skull. My heart thuds heavy and hard against my ribs. And suddenly, I want to defy Dr. Swan. I’m sick of him meddling and hovering over me and telling me what sort of person I should be. More than that, I desperately want to save this boy, this young man whom everyone else has given up on. A heady determination rises within me, burning bright. An electric tingle races through my bloodstream.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll erase your memory.”
His jaw drops. His eyes lose focus, and the color drains from his face. It’s not the reaction I expected. “What happened to needing approval?”
“Well.” I clear my throat. “I think I can work around that.”
As a trainee, I’m only supposed to perform modifications in IFEN’s Immersion Lab, under supervision. But I could do it on my own. I have some equipment in my home—a first-generation Mindgate that belonged to Father. For the past four years, it’s been locked in the basement. No one else is aware of it’s existence—not even Greta or Dr. Swan—but as far as I know, it still works.
Steven looks a little dazed. “You mean, do it without their permission? Could you get in trouble for that?”
“Not if I’m careful.” I smile, wondering if I’ve gone crazy. But it feels good to make a decision on my own—like I’ve been bound up in tight wrappings for years, and now I’m finally unwinding them so I can breathe again. I cup the warm mug of chai between my hands, blow steam from the surface, and sip. “Before we get started, do you have any questions?”
Steven breathes out slowly, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. “How do we do this, exactly? Do you just go in and start erasing stuff?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that. Before I begin the actual modification, I first need to explore your memories.”
His fingers dig into his arms. “Why?”
“So I can locate the specific neural networks associated with the experiences you want to erase. While we’re engaged in those memories, the Mindgate will monitor and record your brain activity, and I’ll map out which circuits hold the information so that I’ll know what to delete later. It will also create a visual simulation, like a video recording, which we can view later if necessary. Of course, that’s a very simplified version of what goes on, but—”
“You can do that?” he asks. “Turn people’s traumatic memories into home movies?”
“Er, well, I’ll delete them afterward—that’s standard procedure. But yes.” I pause. “Does that bother you?”
“I dunno. It’s just … kind of weird.”
“I understand. But that particular technology has been around for a while now, actually. We’ve been able to pinpoint memories in the brain and translate neural impulses into images since the early part of the twenty-first century, but until the past decade, it’s been exclusively research-based. Then, once the first Mindgate was built, it allow
ed us to target and ablate specific cell clusters using a form of—” I stop and give him a small, embarrassed smile. “Sorry. If you let me, I’ll ramble about this stuff for hours. I know this doesn’t mean anything to you. … ”
“What,” he says, a hint of defensiveness in his tone, “you think I’m not smart enough to understand it?”
“It’s not that. It’s just … it’s all very specialized and kind of, well, nerdy. Not many people want to hear about it.” I pause. “So you do understand it?”
His ears redden. “Sort of.” He clears his throat. “So how long does it take?”
“The whole process will take around six sessions, each a few hours long. We can start tonight, if you want.”
“Tonight?” His eyes go a bit glassy.
“Yes.” I shift, feeling suddenly unsure of myself. “Is that acceptable?”
“Yeah. It’s just … I didn’t think this was really gonna happen.” He exhales slowly through his nose. His eyes are unfocused, fixed on a point somewhere beyond me. “I guess by now, you know what happened to me. Not exactly a secret, is it? It was plastered all over the news. Anyone can plug my name into a search engine and find out the whole story.”
I swallow, trying to dislodge the rock in my throat. “Yes.” Six months in a killer’s basement. Tortured.
I’ve dealt with so many traumatized people in my training. By now, it ought to be easier. I ought to have the right words. But somehow, I never do. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
He looks at me. The flesh around his eyes is so dark, it looks bruised. Exhausted eyes. War-scarred soldier eyes. Hungry waif eyes. “You’re a nice girl, aren’t you?”
I can’t read his tone, but somehow, I don’t get the impression he’s trying to compliment me. “I guess so.”
“People have probably told you that you shouldn’t get mixed up with a guy like me.”
