by AJ Steiger
Steady. Deep breaths. I have to approach this as a professional—a doctor delivering some difficult news to a patient. “Actually, it might be better if I showed you.”
Looking baffled, he follows me into the basement. I turn on the Gate and play the recordings of his memories. His back stiffens. I don’t watch the fuzzy images on the screen. I watch the reflection in his eyes. His expression remains rigid, tightly controlled. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Wait.”
Then it happens. That flicker. The brief glimpse of another room, another face.
Steven wears a dazed, uncomprehending expression, but beneath it is a growing black void of fear. “What the hell was that?”
I stop the recording. “At first, I thought it might be a glitch, but this doesn’t resemble any glitch I’ve ever encountered.” My voice comes out calm and level. Still, I can’t look him in the eye. “You remember that scarring I mentioned? I think that has something to do with it.”
Silence. When he speaks, his voice is very soft, almost inaudible. “What are you saying?”
I force myself to meet his gaze. “I wish I could tell you more, but it’s clear that your case is far too complex for me. Any speculation on my part would be based on nothing but guesswork. You need to go straight to IFEN.”
Steven’s breathing quickens, inching toward hyperventilation. His eyes lose focus.
“Steven?”
“They won’t help me,” he mutters.
“I think they will if they know about this. And they’re the only ones qualified to help you. I—” My voice breaks. “I thought I could do this, but I’m in way over my head. I shouldn’t have agreed to modify your memories in the first place.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” I add feebly. “But I really believe IFEN will help you if you give them a chance. If you want, I can contact them myself.”
He shakes his head. “Forget it.” I see his expression closing off, like shutters coming down over his eyes. He turns and walks up the stairs, into the living room.
I follow. “Steven, wait.”
“I’m going home.” His voice is toneless. It would be easier if he sounded angry; that empty, almost robotic voice is terrifying. He walks toward the door.
Panic flutters in my chest. I catch his sleeve. “Let’s just talk about this.”
He yanks his sleeve free and turns to face me. “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m not going in there. I already told you why.”
“Because you think they’ll mindwipe you?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s absurd,” I blurt out. “I already told you, that doesn’t happen. Where did you even hear about this? Rumors? Conspiracy theory websites?”
His expression tightens, and he turns away. When he tries to walk out, I block his path. “Get out of my way!” he growls.
“I can’t just let you leave!”
“Why not?”
I stop and take a deep breath. “I—I know you have a Somnazol.”
He twitches, eyes widening. “What?”
“I looked in your file,” I say meekly.
Emotions flash across his face, too fast and too many to interpret. His gaze jerks away. “Well, you’re wrong.”
I blink. “What?”
“I don’t have a suicide pill.”
My mind whirls. Is he telling the truth? Were the words in his file just a mistake, after all?
His eyes narrow to a hard line. “Is that the only reason you’ve been helping me? Because you thought I’d kill myself otherwise? Couldn’t take the guilt?”
I tense. “That’s not what it’s like.”
“Never mind.” His voice softens. He sounds almost sad. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“Please. Just listen—”
He walks out, shutting the door.
I think about running after him, but I suspect that would just make things worse. What could I do, anyway? If he doesn’t want to go to IFEN, I can’t force him. For a few minutes, I stand motionless, feeling lost. I don’t know what to think. I feel like I’ve been cut loose to drift in the sea, and I can’t find anything to hold on to.
I’ve hurt him; I know that much. He sees this as a betrayal. As abandonment. I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Because I don’t know what else to do, I drive to Steven’s apartment. The neighborhood is gray and gloomy. Somehow, it’s even more depressing in the daytime. No sign of green anywhere. The cameras are out in plain sight, and they’re on every street corner. I park next to his building and approach the entrance. There’s a small touch screen on the door, smudged with grease and dirt. I tap it, and a list of names flashes across the screen. I scroll down, searching for Steven’s. He’s on the tenth floor, room 1012.
I buzz him. “Steven? It’s Lain.”
Static crackles. No response.
I don’t know if he’s even there. But I keep talking. “I know you’re angry at me. But please believe me, I’m only trying to help you.”
More static. For a moment, I think I hear breathing. But I can’t be sure.
“Say something. Say just one word. Tell me to go to hell, if you want. Just let me know you’re there.”
Still no answer.
I bang my fist against the door. But I realize, with a sinking feeling, that there’s nothing I can do. There’s no way I can reach him if he won’t let me in. In a burst of frustration, I kick the wall, then turn and walk toward my car. My mind is a white haze. Wherever I step, the ground seems to tilt and crumble beneath my feet. I get into my car, but I don’t start the engine.
What now? Should I go to Dr. Swan directly and tell him what I discovered? But then I’d have to admit the truth—that I tried to perform an unsupervised memory modification on an unapproved client. Maybe that would be best. Maybe I should confess now, get it over with. If I agree to immediate therapy, he might even forgive me. My actions will be seen as a sign of temporary illness. If I withhold the truth, it will eventually come out on its own—in a world of neural scans, it’s impossible to hide anything indefinitely—and then I’ll lose everything.
But what about Steven? What will happen to him?
I wait outside the apartment building for a while longer. I try calling his cell phone twice. No answer. Finally, I drive home. In my room, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall. Go to IFEN, my mind urges me. Tell them the truth. There’s nothing you can do on your own.
Still, something stops me.
Is this what it feels like to be a Type Two? This indecision, this mental fog, this sense that I can’t trust anyone? Is this why so many of them don’t seek therapy?
I curl up in bed. Nutter topples off my pillow. I pick him up and tuck him under my arm. Then I open the drawer of my nightstand and take out a small porcelain box. Inside is a square of paper. I scan the lines. I’ve read them hundreds of times.
Dr. Lain Fisher, one of the pioneers of neural modification therapy, was found dead in his home on December 16 at 2:25 p.m. The cause of death is suicide—a revelation that has surprised and baffled many, considering that Dr. Fisher was a famous and outspoken critic of voluntary passing. His colleagues have stated they were unaware of any emotional or mental problems Dr. Fisher might have experienced in the months prior to his death.
His colleague Dr. Emmanuel Swan of the Institute for Ethics in Neurotechnology said in response, “The world has lost a brilliant and compassionate man. I cannot say why he did this, but he will be sorely missed.”
Fisher is survived by his daughter, thirteen-year-old Lain Fisher Jr.
A drop of moisture falls onto the paper. My hand drifts to the silver bracelet on my wrist—his last gift to me, on my thirteenth birthday, just a few weeks before his death.
Why didn’t I do something? Why didn’t I tell anyone that he was suffering?
I blink away tears and read over the article again.
Dr. Swan’s wording has always struck me as odd. Not I don’t kno
w why, but I cannot say. I know I’m reading too much into it, scraping for hidden meaning where there is none. Like a child covering her eyes, running from the truth, I keep looking for reasons to believe that this isn’t what it seems—that Father didn’t really abandon me.
***
I’m asleep when my cell phone rings. Drowsy, I pick it up and squint at the tiny, glowing screen. Instantly, I’m wide awake.
It’s Steven’s number.
I sit up, throwing the covers aside, and turn on the lights, the phone pressed to my ear. “Steven?”
“Hey, Doc.” His voice is a croak.
I release a soft sigh and place a hand over my racing heart. “Are you all right?”
“Not really.” A long pause. I wait, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe. Dread creeps through my stomach and chest. “I shouldn’t be talking to you,” he whispers. “I’ve got no right. But I’m too scared to handle this alone. I needed a voice. And who the hell else am I going to call?” He chuckles, a raw, painful sound, like blisters breaking open. “You’re the only friend I’ve got.”
The icy dread spreads through my limbs, down to my fingertips and toes. “Wait. Handle what alone?”
Silence.
“Steven, I’m going to come over to your apartment. I think we should talk in person.”
“It’s too late.”
And all at once, I know. I know what he’s done.
I grab my coat. “Listen to me. Steven? It’s not too late. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Just hold on.”
“Don’t worry about me.” His voice has changed, grown slurred and thick, like he’s drunk. “I’m okay now. It doesn’t hurt anymore. And I’m happy. Because I got to meet you.” A small sigh. “I get it now. This will fix everything. You’ll be happier, too.”
“Oh no. Oh no. Don’t you dare.” I shove my feet into my shoes. I’m still in my pajamas, and it’s cold out, but I don’t care. Shrugging into my coat, I run down the stairs, the phone still glued to my ear. “You will not die.” I speak the words like a magic spell, as if just saying them can make them true. “Do you hear me? You will not die.”
Soft, labored breathing fills my ear. “It’s okay, Lain.” His voice is so weak. Like he’s fading. “Please don’t be sad. I don’t want that.”
“Then hold on. Wait for me. I’m coming. Do you understand me, Steven?” No response. “Steven!”
There’s only silence.
I pound a fist on the dashboard. “Come on! Hurry up!”
“The speed limit is forty-five miles per hour.”
My molars scrape together. “My friend is dying! Who cares about the speed limit?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t process that request. Please rephrase.”
“You stupid talking tin can! If I’m too late, it will be your fault!”
“I’m sorry. I can’t process that request—”
My fist slams against the dashboard one more time, but of course, it does no good. God, I’m such an idiot. Why did I let him walk out? Why did I believe his claim that he didn’t have a Somnazol?
I check my cell phone clock. Ten minutes have passed since I left my apartment. I should be at Steven’s place in another five. If only I could call a hospital. But they won’t help him. What he’s doing is perfectly legal. What I’m doing—trying to stop him—is not.
I fight down my panic and force myself to think. A Somnazol pill has three layers, designed to dissolve slowly, in sequence. The first is a sedative, tailored to induce a state of calm euphoria. The second renders the person unconscious. The third stops his heart. The entire thing takes about an hour to dissolve. I don’t know when Steven took his, how much time passed between the moment he swallowed the pill and the moment he called me. I might have another half hour, or it might already be too late.
Outside the door to his apartment building, I buzz his room. “Steven?”
There’s a hiss of static.
My heartbeat quickens. “Let me in.” When nothing happens, I hammer a fist against the door. “Steven! If you don’t let me in, I’ll—I’ll break down the door!”
More crackling static. I hear his breathing, weak and unsteady. Then a buzz. The door slides open.
Thank God. If he’s still conscious, I have time.
I take the elevator to the tenth floor. The lights sputter fitfully as I race down the narrow, tiled hall. He must want to be saved, I tell myself. He must have changed his mind at the last minute; he wouldn’t have let me in otherwise. I cling to that thought as I hunt for room 1012, find the door, and try the knob. It’s unlocked.
I fling open the door, heart thundering. The lights are off. The TV is on but muted, tuned to some old black-and-white horror film. On the screen, a vampire emerges from his coffin, cape drawn over his face. The silent, flickering gray glow is the only illumination in the apartment. “Steven!”
I hear breathing, very faint. Where is he?
I rush into the apartment and nearly trip over something. At first, I think it’s a pile of dirty laundry. Then I look more closely. It’s him, curled up on the floor. A cold wire cinches tight around my gut. He’s so pale, so still.
I crouch and press two fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse. It’s slow but still strong.
A groan escapes his lips. I pull him upright, and his eyes open a crack. Then they slip shut, and his head starts to droop.
“Open your mouth,” I say.
He does, too dazed to do anything but obey.
I thrust a finger into his mouth and press it against the back of his throat. His throat convulses, and I pull my finger out just as he starts to heave. Bile splatters onto the carpet. The pill comes out, too, a tiny white circle, the outer pink layer worn away. He doubles over, gasping and coughing. Slowly, he raises his head and looks at me through a curtain of shaggy bangs. “Lain,” he whispers hoarsely. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Shut up.” I’m trembling, tears overflowing my eyes. “Just shut up.” I don’t know if I want to hit him or shake him until his teeth rattle or hold him and never let go.
It takes me only a few seconds to make up my mind. I pull him close and hug him tightly, fiercely. He tenses—then slowly, slowly, his arms slip around my waist. He feels brittle, breakable, all sharp angles, with ribs and hip bones that stick out more than they should. His heart beats hard and fast, like a panicked bird hurling itself against the bars of a cage. I wonder when anyone last held him.
I rest my cheek against his sweat-damp forehead. “Promise me you won’t try anything like that again,” I whisper.
His breathing rasps in my ear. “If I stick around, you’ll just get hurt. You’ll lose everything. I don’t want to be the one you throw it all away for. I’m not worth it. It would be better if I just disappeared.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” I hold him tighter. “Nothing would hurt more than losing you.”
His breath hitches.
The TV is still on, muted, glowing dimly in the darkness. I stroke Steven’s hair, and a tremor ripples through him. His unsteady breathing flutters against my neck. “You’ll stay?”
“I’ll stay. So promise me—” My voice cracks. “Promise you’ll stay, too.”
He nods once, his face hidden against my shoulder.
We remain on the floor, holding each other, until the light of dawn creeps in through the window and across the floor.
I flush the toilet and watch the half-dissolved Somnazol tablet spin around, then vanish. Good riddance.
When I return to the living room, Steven’s sitting up on the couch, a blanket around his shoulders, taking small, careful sips of water from a glass. The dim light from the window has brightened. Morning spreads slowly across the room, illuminating bare walls and a patchy, balding carpet. The room is tiny and cramped. Aside from the TV, it contains only a couch and a rickety coffee table with a hot plate. There’s no kitchen, no bedroom—nothing but that single room and a closet-sized bathroom with a toilet and sink. How doe
s he bathe?
Pushing the thoughts aside, I sit next to him. The silence stands between us like a wall. Every time one of us clears a throat, the other one gives a start, as if a gun has gone off. After I held him for half the night, his tears soaking my shirt, just sitting next to each other shouldn’t be so awkward.
“You gave me a scare, you know,” I say.
He averts his gaze. “I know.” He looks exhausted, pale, wrung out. “I told myself I wasn’t going to take that pill. I just …”
“You don’t have to explain,” I say quietly. “You weren’t thinking clearly. That’s all.”
He raises his head. There’s a sudden, strange determination in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. “No. You don’t have to make excuses for me.” His expression softens. “I’m sorry. For putting you through that.”
I nod. But I know that whatever he says, this isn’t entirely his doing. Right now, I’m all Steven has. After promising to help him, I lost my courage and tried to send him away, to hand him over to the very system that’s failed him so completely. I told myself it was the right thing, when in reality I was just afraid. I was so caught up in my own feelings, my own questions about what was right and wrong, I didn’t realize how devastating an effect it would have on him. “I’m sorry, too,” I say. “If you want me to continue your treatment, I will.”
A tiny furrow appears between his brows. He lowers his head and studies his feet.
“Is that what you want, Steven?”
“I don’t know. I’m really confused.” He takes a deep breath and rubs a hand over his face. “That thing you showed me, in that video—that other face, behind Pike’s—what do you think it means? Do you have any ideas?”
I hesitate. “I have one.”
“Tell me.”
I shift my weight, reluctant. I’m afraid that I’m wrong, even more afraid that I’m right. “It looks like the result of a memory modification.”
His eyes widen.
“But that’s very improbable,” I add quickly. “IFEN has no record of it, and there’s no one else who could have done it.”
“Are you sure about that?”
