by AJ Steiger
“Give me all the information you can find on Emmett Pike,” I told her.
For a few seconds, she groomed herself, eyes flickering as lines of glowing green text floated across the paler green of her irises. Finally, her eyes projected a bright square into the air. The floating screen displayed surprisingly few results. A smattering of articles, nothing else.
“Open the first article,” I told her.
The screen changed, and I found myself staring at a grainy photo of a man with solid, heavy features, dark eyes, and a scar running down the left side of his face. He looked into the camera with a dull, blank expression. A shudder ran through me. That was him—the man who’d haunted Steven’s nightmares for the past ten years. But the article itself was brief and contained nothing I didn’t already know. “Scroll down,” I told Chloe. “Show more results.”
Her tail flicked back and forth. “I’m afraid that’s all.”
“That’s it? That can’t be it.”
“Sorry, Lain.” Her ears and tail drooped.
“It’s all right. I trust your results. I’m just surprised.”
Her ears perked up. “Do you need anything else?”
I shook my head. “That’s all.”
After Chloe vanished, I stayed awake, musing over what I’d seen. Or hadn’t seen, rather.
According to the scarce information, Emmett Pike came from a tiny, isolated town in the Northeast Quadrant, far outside the boundaries of any major city. He grew up in one of the few remaining places without street cameras, so there’s no video footage of him in existence, and no one alive who had a personal relationship with him, either. No relatives, no friends, at least none mentioned in any of the articles. Of course, a psychopath who murdered children probably wouldn’t have many friends, but even so, the lack of information is a little too convenient. It’s as if he never existed.
I remember that other face flickering behind Pike’s, and ice water trickles through my bloodstream.
***
When I arrive at the Underwater Café, Steven’s in our usual booth, arms crossed over his chest. “So,” he says, “we gonna do another session today?” When I don’t answer, he frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I interlace my fingers, pull them apart, and lace them together again. My palms are hot and damp. “Steven, have you ever had any neurological alterations performed on you before this?”
Bewilderment clouds his expression. “Is that a trick question? I mean, don’t people usually forget that they’ve had their memories modified?”
“You’re right.” It’s a moot point, anyway. If his memories were modified, there’d have been something about it in his file. Unless …
The technology involved in memory modification is strictly controlled. But there’ve always been rumors of illicit back-alley Mindwalkers who will perform any job, no matter how unethical, for a price. Until now, I never put much stock in those rumors, but what if there are such people? Is it possible that Steven’s memories have been illegally modified? Maybe even against his will?
I clear my throat. “It’s just that after the session, I looked over your readings, and there was a pattern aberration in your neural networks. Microscarring in your cortex and hippocampus.”
“English, Doc.”
“Something odd in your brain.”
A shadow of unease slips across his face. “You don’t think it’s, like, cancer or something, do you?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It looks like the result of a procedure.”
“Well, could it have come from Conditioning?”
I shake my head. “Conditioning’s not invasive. The effects are temporary.”
“Then what?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
Steven frowns and runs a hand through his cornsilk hair. I glimpse a tiny, round scar on his scalp.
A memory flashes through my mind. I’m back in the filthy basement, my wrists rubbed raw from ropes. “Please,” I say between sobs. “Please, I swear, I’ll never try to escape again.”
Pike looms over me, a whirring drill in one hand. “I know you won’t.” His voice is low, almost gentle. “You got everything you need right here. Why would you try to run? That’s just crazy.” His eyes glint in the dim light. “You know what they did in the Dark Ages when someone started acting crazy?” The drill moved closer, buzzing like a huge hornet. “They’d drill a hole in his skull to let the demons out.”
The tip of the drill touches my scalp, and blinding pain sears through my head. I scream.
“Doc? Hey, Doc!”
I snap back to the present, trembling. Did I scream out loud? I look quickly around the room, but no one is staring. I exhale a small breath of relief. “Sorry,” I murmur, pressing my fingers to my head.
Could that incident have … ? No, of course not. A simple drill wouldn’t cause that type of scarring. Pike pulled back before it actually pierced Steven’s brain, anyway.
This would be so much easier if I could talk to my superiors at IFEN, ask them about the correct course of action. But given the circumstances, that’s out of the question. And I haven’t even told Steven everything. There was that flicker I saw in his memories, that other face behind Pike’s.
“So, what happens now?” he asks.
I bite my thumbnail, my mind whirring like an engine. When memories are deleted or altered, traces of the original memories sometimes linger. It’s difficult for even the most skilled Mindwalker to scrub away everything. But those traces are inaccessible to the client’s conscious mind, bits of neural debris floating around in the vast, dark space beneath. If I could find some way to probe deeper into his mind, I might be able to access those fragments of information. Maybe I could—
I give my head a quick, hard shake. There’s not enough information. If I start telling him all my wild theories, I’ll just alarm him unnecessarily. “That’s up to you,” I say. “We can proceed with the treatment, or … we can try to learn more.”
He looks away. “I just want to forget.”
Mingled relief and disappointment wash over me. “Then we’ll continue the sessions. Though we should probably wait until tomorrow. Greta will be at the house this afternoon.”
He nods.
I pay for my chai, which I’ve barely touched. We linger a few minutes, watching the holographic sea turtle make its slow, ponderous circuit around the restaurant. Steven reaches up to touch it as it passes, but of course, there’s nothing to touch.
My cell phone buzzes, jarring me from my reverie. It’s a new text:
SEE U TONIGHT?
I wince and palm my face. “Ian! I completely forgot.”
“Who, what?”
“I told him I’d show up.” I chew the inside of my cheek.
I don’t particularly want to go. I’m hopeless at parties. The last time I went to one, I was thirteen—some girl’s birthday. I stood in the corner the whole time. A boy tried to strike up a conversation with me, I started babbling about neuroanatomy, and he quickly slipped away.
But this is important to Ian. He wanted so badly for me to come. And maybe I need to take some time away from this mess, find a way to center myself. Perhaps a party will help me shake off this mental fog.
“You should go,” Steven says. “You seem like you need a break.”
I think about the death pill Steven might be carrying. Even if we can’t do a session today, I don’t like the idea of leaving him alone.
Then a solution presents itself: a simple, albeit reckless, solution. “Do you want to come with me?”
His mouth opens. He couldn’t have looked more surprised if I’d suggested we start dancing naked on top of the table. “You’re serious?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“Okay, number one.” He holds up one thin finger. “I’m not exactly a social butterfly, as you might’ve noticed. Number two.” Another finger joins the first. “Everyone at school hates my guts.”
“I wouldn’t say they hate you. More like you make th
em nervous.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s a relief.”
“They’re nervous because they don’t really know you,” I add. “Because they have only rumors and hearsay to go on. If they have a chance to interact with you …”
“They’ll be so impressed with my sparkling personality, they’ll forget everything else?”
“Um, well …”
He chuckles without humor. “Thanks for the invitation, but I think I’ll stay home. You’ll have more fun without me following you around like a stray cat, anyway.”
I imagine him sitting in his apartment with only his memories for company. “Well, I’m not going unless you go. I don’t like showing up at parties alone.”
He looks thoroughly confused. “You really want me to come with you?”
“I do. I’ll ask Ian if it’s okay.” I text him.
CAN I BRING A FRIEND?
SURE. HAVE I EVER MET HER?
NO, I DON’T THINK SO.
THE MORE, THE MERRIER. :)
I tell myself that I’m not actually lying—I’m just not correcting his assumption. I don’t want to explain this awkward, delicate situation through text messages. It’ll be simpler if we just show up. “He says it’s fine.”
The puzzled crease in Steven’s brow deepens.
“Come on. It’ll be fun. When’s the last time you went to a party?”
“I’ve never been to one.”
Suddenly, I don’t feel like such a geek. I grin. “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”
He blows a sigh through one corner of his mouth, puffing his cheek out. “Fine.”
Steven at a party. This is something I have to see.
That evening, I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room and try on a few different outfits. I turn around, modeling a light green dress with spaghetti straps. I bought it on impulse a few months ago after seeing it in a store window. I’ve never actually had the chance to wear it. “Chloe?”
She materializes on my bed. “Yes?”
“What do you think about this dress? Is it too revealing?”
Chloe tilts her head. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
“The neck is a little low.” Not that I have much to show. I haven’t filled out like some of the other girls in my class. “What about the color?”
“Red is more popular this year. But green goes better with your coloring.”
My avatar knows more about fashion than I do. I let out a small sigh. In moments like these, I really wish I had a female friend. One with feelings and opinions that aren’t based on data algorithms.
I comb my hair out, letting it spill over my shoulders. Maybe I’ll wear it down tonight. I roll on a bit of pink lip gloss. When I look into the mirror again, I barely recognize myself. For once, I’m not a Mindwalker. Just a normal girl having a night out. The feeling is unexpectedly pleasant, like a spot of warmth in my chest.
Chloe smiles a sly, teasing smile. “Going out with someone special?”
I give a start. It’s probably just one of the programmed questions in her repertoire, a response to a visual analysis of my facial expressions and posture, but there are times when she seems eerily perceptive. I open my mouth to say no, then pause. “Sort of.” Before she can ask anything else, I add, “You can deactivate now. I’m heading out.”
“Have fun!” Chloe nods and vanishes with a shimmer.
When I walk down the stairs, Greta’s vacuuming in the living room. Or rather, she’s reading on the couch while a basketball-sized black orb does the work, humming up and down the length of the floor. She looks up and closes the holoscreen. “Where are you off to?” she asks, sounding surprised.
“A party. At Ian’s place.”
She raises her eyebrows. She’ll probably tell Dr. Swan, who’ll undoubtedly be pleased to hear that I’m doing normal teenager things. Though he might be less pleased if he knew who I was going with.
I take the car to the Underwater Café, where Steven waits, sitting on a bench outside, with his arms crossed over his chest. When I get out of the car and wave, he stands up. “Hey, you ready to—” He freezes, mouth half open.
I fidget. “Is it too much?” Now that I think of it, I’m probably overdressed. Most people there will be wearing T-shirts and jeans.
“It’s fine.” Suddenly, he can’t seem to look directly at me. “Let’s go.”
***
Ian lives at the top of a high-rise. From outside, it looks like a sleek black obelisk crowned by a huge, translucent jewel. The jewel, of course, is his Plexiglas-walled penthouse apartment. Usually, at night, the penthouse is lit up with a clear white light. Now it’s dark, except for flashes of neon blue and red from within.
Steven walks beside me, hands shoved into his pockets, as we enter the lobby. It’s all polished pink marble. He whistles. “This guy must be loaded.”
“His mother’s a very wealthy drug researcher.”
“She’s okay with him throwing these parties?”
“She’s away at work. And she’s his only parent. Well, I suppose he has a father, but—” I give an awkward shrug. “I don’t really know the situation.”
Steven snorts. “Maybe he’s a clone.”
My shoulders stiffen.
“Hell,” he continues, “these days, you can’t even step inside a mall without seeing those NewVitro ads. ‘Hey there, all you rich Type One ladies and gents! Why play the genetic lottery and risk popping out some defective loser when you can get a copy of your own perfect DNA? Just change the sex chromosomes or the eye color or whatever and call it individuality!’ It’s ridiculous. You’d think humans have forgotten how to—”
“That’s my friend you’re talking about,” I snap. “Even if he were a clone—which he’s not—that remark would be incredibly offensive.” I stare straight ahead, jaw clenched.
He blinks a few times. I expect him to make another wiseass remark, but he just says, “Sorry.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Never mind,” I mutter, and step into the elevator, which is as large as a normal person’s bathroom and has mirrored walls. The numbers light up as it glides to the top floor, and I start to feel embarrassed at my own reaction. I really should have better control.
“I am sorry,” Steven says. “Sometimes I shoot my mouth off without thinking. I mean, I do think those ads are stupid, but I don’t have anything against clo— How should I say it?”
“There really isn’t a politically correct term,” I murmur. “Though I hate hearing people referred to as clones. It’s so … dehumanizing.”
“I won’t say it, then.”
My shoulders relax. “Thank you.”
The elevator continues to move up.
“Can I borrow your scarf?” Steven asks.
Confused, I hand it to him. He wraps it quickly around his face and neck, covering his mouth and nose as well as his collar. I realize he doesn’t want to be identified.
I wonder if I’m being cruel, dragging him here.
Ian buzzes me in, and the doors slide open to reveal a living room crammed with people milling around with drinks in their hands, talking and laughing. A heavy bass beat thumps, vibrating in the floor and in my bones. I’m not exactly overdressed, just very out of place. I see a lot of leather and fishnet and miniskirts so short that I feel silly for worrying that my dress was too revealing. Next to some of these outfits, it’s as modest as a nun’s habit. Claustrophobia jangles my nerves as we push deeper into the apartment. The onslaught of sensory stimuli leaves my brain burning like an overheated engine.
Ian loves things like this. It’s how he deals with stress. I retreat deeper into myself and shut out the world—he drowns himself in crowds and music.
A boy bumps into me, nearly spilling a drink down the front of my dress. “Whoops.” He laughs. “Sorry.”
“Watch it,” Steven snarls at the boy, then hooks an arm through mine. There’s something protective, almost possessive, in
the gesture. His pale blue eyes dart back and forth, scanning the crowd as we make our way through the crush of bodies.
In front of me, a man with the head of a gray wolf is dancing, mouth open in a toothy grin. A gasp leaps from my throat.
“You okay?” Steven asks.
A half second later, realization clicks into place; it’s a holomask. They’re all the rage at parties, or so I’ve heard, but it’s the first time I’ve actually seen someone wearing one. “Yes,” I say, breathless and a little embarrassed. I look around. Nearby, a girl with the head of a white rabbit is holding a beer, chatting and giggling. The mask’s mouth moves with eerie realism. As I watch, she takes a pill and washes it down with a swig of beer.
I spot Ian in the kitchen, a bottle in one hand. “There he is,” I tell Steven. “I’m going to go say hi.”
“I’m gonna go find the bathroom,” Steven mutters.
Of course. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. I suppose I can’t blame him. But at least here, surrounded by people, he’s not liable to kill himself. “It’s down the hall.” I tug my arm free and maneuver my way into the kitchen, which is large and modern, all marble tile and gleaming chrome. There’s a table covered with bottles—in a wide variety of sizes and colors—a bowl of punch, and a tray of nachos drenched in gooey orange cheese and guacamole. “Ian!” I wave.
Ian turns toward me. “Lain.” He smiles, but his eyes are glazed—the same shell-shocked look I remember from the other day. “So, what do you think?”
“Of the party? It’s … intense.”
“Yeah.” He rocks on his heels, then takes a swig of whatever’s in the bottle. “You know, parties usually relax me. But it’s not working tonight. No matter how loud I crank up the music, I can still hear my thoughts.”
I frown. I can see his pulse fluttering in his throat. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He keeps rocking. A sheen of sweat gleams on his brow.
“You haven’t been acting like yourself lately.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” He laughs. It’s not his usual warm laugh—it’s too sharp, too high-pitched. Then he leans closer to me. “I’m really glad you could make it tonight,” he murmurs. I catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath. He makes an odd, choked sound. “You’re the only real friend I’ve got. You know that?”
