Mindwalker

by AJ Steiger

“We treated them.”

  “You expect me to believe that? After everything I’ve seen?”

  “Do you know much about those children, Lain? They were all orphans. They’d suffered severe abuse and trauma, and the resulting psychological damage was beyond anything that medication or Conditioning could repair. The treatments were new, and our methods were less sophisticated than they are now. Some risk was inevitable. But the knowledge we gained from those early treatments was invaluable. The profession of neural modification therapy—Mindwalkers, like you and me—would not exist otherwise.”

  Vertigo rolls over me.

  Early memory modification treatments. Of course. I remember those scars in Steven’s brain: primitive and clumsy, but still unmistakable in their purpose. Those experimental treatments paved the way for the Mindgate, for IFEN’s shiny new therapy, for Ian, for me. The adult volunteers Father worked with afterward simply fine-tuned the technology. The real research had already been done.

  I think about Lizzie’s blank stare, and Ian’s words flash through my head: There’s only so many times you can modify a person’s memories before his brain turns to mush. I start to tremble.

  “They needed help,” he says, his voice neutral and matter-of-fact, “and we needed to test a new therapy. That’s how all progress happens.”

  I shake my head fiercely. “Then why did you hide it? Why didn’t you use adult volunteers?”

  He hesitates. “Children make better subjects. Their brains are more malleable, more resilient. We knew that the younger our patients, the better our chance of success.”

  My nails dig into my palms. Of course. But the public wouldn’t condone experiments on children, so he simply took them. Discreetly abducting them from state orphanages, probably paying off the caretakers to keep them quiet. Children without homes, without families. Ones who wouldn’t be missed.

  “We weighed the potential good against the potential harm,” he continues in that maddeningly calm tone, “as all scientists must do when pioneering a new treatment. Your father understood the necessity as well as I did.”

  “No.” I shake my head again. “My father wouldn’t have participated in something like this. You must have forced him. You—”

  “I didn’t force him into anything. He knew what he was getting into. He just couldn’t handle the emotional strain. Afterward, he burdened himself with pointless, masochistic guilt and refused treatment until his mind collapsed. His death was tragic, particularly because it was so very preventable. It didn’t need to happen that way. Had he simply agreed to Conditioning and moved on, he would still be with us today.” For an instant, regret softens his features. “His weakness was in being unable to see past his own moral squeamishness to the larger picture. After all, we achieved our goal. Steven Bent was the first truly successful memory modification ever performed. He completely forgot his early childhood—which was, I assure you, horrific. He grew up in an underfunded and poorly monitored facility, where he was starved and routinely abused by caretakers and fellow wards alike. By age eight, he was already suicidal.”

  A bitter knot forms in my throat. It’s hard to believe, at times, that the universe can be so cruel—that an innocent soul can be subjected to so much sorrow and injustice in a single lifetime. “So you removed his original pain and gave him new pain.”

  “The sacrifices were, of course, regrettable. But we did not act out of cruelty. We took measures to ensure the children did not suffer unnecessarily.”

  He dares to make excuses, even now. The blood pounds behind my eyes. A red rage is swelling inside me, and if it doesn’t escape somehow, I’m going to explode. “Then why didn’t you just erase Steven’s memories of what happened at St. Mary’s?” I squeeze the words between clenched teeth. “Why would you make him think he’d been kidnapped by a sadistic killer?”

  He winces, as if I’ve brought up an embarrassing faux pas he committed at some social event. “That was … an unfortunate necessity. People were asking questions about those missing children, more questions than we expected. We needed an explanation for their disappearance. So I invented Emmett Pike. All his data—photographs, fingerprints, DNA, the autopsy report—is fabricated. He’s nothing but information in a database. Obviously, we needed Steven to maintain our cover story as well. So we used a mixture of Conditioning, drugs, and hypnosis to tweak the visual and auditory details of his experiences at St. Mary’s while keeping the emotional core of the memories.”

  I feel sick. I wonder how Dr. Swan would react if I threw up on his pristine white suit. “I’m surprised you didn’t just kill him, along with the others.”

  “Kill a child in cold blood?” He looks offended. “What do you take me for?”

  I almost laugh, but I have a feeling if I tried, it would come out as a scream.

  Dr. Swan leans back in his chair, shoulders sagging. “I don’t expect you to agree with what we did. You’re still young, after all. Too young to understand. But regardless, what’s done is done. The past can’t be changed.”

  “But you can take responsibility for what you did.”

  “I am taking responsibility, by ensuring that their sacrifice is not in vain. Exposing the truth won’t do any good at this point. In fact, it might do considerable harm. Think about it. If the public finds out what happened at St. Mary’s, there will be outrage. People will turn against Mindwalkers, against IFEN. Against us. There’ll be riots. Perhaps even another war.”

  In a flash, I remember the documentaries of the pre-Republic days—the limp bodies on stretchers, covered with red-and-black burns from explosions, the chemical attacks that left people blinded and choking on their own blood. “You can’t know that,” I say, but my voice falters.

  “You’ve studied psychology,” he says patiently. “You understand how people think. They don’t see outcomes. They don’t see numbers and facts. They think in terms of narratives, of opposing teams. Heroes and villains. If they find out about the experiments, we will become the villains, and people will embrace the anarchy that came before us. Those six children are already dead. Nothing can save them now. Our focus should be on helping the living. Surely, we can agree on that much.”

  I shut my eyes, dizzy. Too much. It’s all too much. My nails dig deeper into my palms, sending tiny flashes of pain through my nerves. “What about Steven?” I whisper. “What will happen to him?”

  He breathes a small sigh. “It would have been better if you’d never met Steven Bent. I kept him close, all these years, because I wanted to ensure that he was under control. But I should have sent him far away.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You know what needs to be done.” His voice hardens. “You must erase his memories.”

  The room suddenly feels colder. Outside the window, the sun has slipped beneath the horizon, and the sky is a somber purple. “You want me to do it?”

  He stares directly into my eyes, the tips of his fingers pressed together. “That was your original intention, wasn’t it? It’s what he wanted—what he himself asked for when he first approached you. Wipe out his trauma. Now that the kidnappings have slipped from public awareness, we no longer need him. Once he’s forgotten everything about St. Mary’s and his time with you, we’ll ensure that he finishes school and gets a decent job. We can give him a normal life.”

  A normal life. After years of misery, Steven can be safe and happy at last. Of course, it’s dependent on my cooperation, my willingness to keep quiet. That goes without saying. And as a sign of my willingness to obey, I’ll have to do the job myself, to scrub every trace of the truth from his brain.

  I see the trap closing around me, and I choke down a scream. The room has begun to rotate slowly, like I’m stuck on a carousel.

  “You’re bleeding,” Dr. Swan says.

  Only then do I realize I’ve bitten my lower lip so hard that blood is trickling down my chin. My hand flies to my face, and my fingertips come away glistening red.

  He rises
to his feet and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. As he reaches out to wipe the blood from my chin, I whisper, “Don’t.”

  He freezes, slowly lowers his hand, sits in the chair, and waits, watching me. Then he smiles, a strangely normal smile. “You know, I have no animosity toward you, Lain. Oh, you do try my patience at times, like any teenager. But, believe it or not, I want your happiness.”

  “How touching,” I mutter.

  “It’s the truth. Lain—your father, that is—was my friend and colleague for many years. And you are like him in so many ways. The fire that drives you is your desire to help others, to save those in need. That’s why I believe you’ll do the right thing. However much you despise me, however fiercely you may want to expose me for the scoundrel you think I am, you will not jeopardize your friend’s safety, or the lives of innocent people. You aren’t that selfish. And of course, there’s your career as a Mindwalker. Just think about all those clients you could treat.”

  I press a hand against my stomach. My insides hurt—everything hurts.

  Father was Dr. Swan’s friend. He must have seen some goodness in him, but when I look into his eyes, all I see is two empty holes, as if his face is just a mask covering a void. There’s no uncertainty, no doubt. I always believed he cared about me, if nothing else. Now I wonder if that was an illusion. How can someone so cold-blooded be capable of love?

  Whatever he says, I still believe that he somehow forced Father to cooperate.

  I stare down at my feet, numb. “I don’t understand. Even if memory modification isn’t perfect, it would be safer for you to just erase what I know. So why? Why bother trying to convince me?”

  He folds his hands together and purses his lips. He seems to be debating how much to tell me. “You might say that this is … a test.”

  “A test?”

  “I understand that you’re shaken and furious right now—that’s natural—but once some time has passed, you may feel differently. Time has a way of changing one’s perspective. The history of scientific progress is filled with ethical sacrifices. Government institutions experimenting on their own citizens is not particularly uncommon. It happened even in Old America. They tested the effects of radiation, electric shocks, brainwashing, powerful drugs, and many other things, often without the consent of the subjects. Sometimes they used children.”

  “That can’t be true,” I whisper.

  “It is true. It’s not even a secret. Read a history book or two.” He smiles mirthlessly. “By comparison, our methods were humane, and the benefits were much more substantial. When you’re in a position of power, like mine, you have to look at everything in context. And you must be willing to accept certain unpleasant realities.”

  The way he says those words makes me wonder just how many “unpleasant realities” there are. Has IFEN done other things that the public doesn’t know about?

  “I’m not sure you realize what an important young woman you are, Lain,” he continues. “You have the potential to become a great Mindwalker. One of the best.”

  The room is turning, turning. I can feel it, though the clouds outside the window remain stationary. “I didn’t get the impression you wanted me to be a Mindwalker.” My voice sounds curiously disconnected, like a recording.

  “I admit, for a while, I had doubts about you. But you’ve proved yourself to be surprisingly strong and resourceful. Not to mention, your name carries a great deal of weight. Dr. Lain Fisher’s daughter. The girl who dedicated her life to saving others from the tragic mental illness that took her father—yes, it has a nice ring to it. The public will like you.”

  I stare. “You’re grooming me. You want me to be your poster child. That’s what this is about?”

  “Yes,” he replies readily. “More or less. Who knows? One day, you might even take my place as director. But that will work better if you understand and accept certain realities. As for your friend Ian … Well, it’s looking less and less likely that he’ll be able to fulfill the role we had intended for him, which makes you even more important.”

  As the words slowly sink in, I start to feel light-headed. How long has he been planning this? How long has he been observing me, judging me, seeing how I adapt and react to various obstacles? Was this all a part of his game?

  The blood bangs in my skull. Everything is drowning in a sea of red.

  “Of course,” he continues, “you will have to undergo a lot of therapy and Conditioning before you can resume your duties, but I’m sure you’ll get your Type up again. You’ve already bounced back once.”

  “Isn’t truth worth anything to you?” I shout. My voice rings and echoes through the spacious room. “Don’t you think you owe it to those children to tell people how they really died?”

  He gives me another smile, this one tight and hard. “Truth is not always the virtue it’s cracked up to be. Some things are better off forgotten. We Mindwalkers are the stewards and keepers of those dark secrets. That is our role.” He doesn’t sound proud of himself, but he doesn’t sound particularly ashamed, either. I wonder if he feels anything at all, or if he just does whatever he deems necessary for the greater good, like some machine built from ruthless utilitarian ethics.

  “You’re a monster,” I say. I know I should be trying to convince him that I agree with him so he’ll let me go, but I’m too worn down, too broken. “You can justify it all you want, but you’re trying to get away with murder.”

  It might be my imagination, but I think he flinches. “Lain …” A hint of frustration creeps into his voice. “You’re thinking with your emotions. What if we had left those children alone? Would their fates have been any better? They were all sick. Broken. Their projected futures were dark, and they had no families to support them. Had they lived, they would probably have turned to Somnazol, or simply been burdens on society.”

  Burdens. The word—the coldness of it—cuts me like a blade.

  “So, what will it be?” he asks. “Will you cooperate? Or would you prefer to have your memories erased?”

  What choice do I have? As long as he has Steven, my hands are bound. My throat tightens. “I’ll cooperate,” I whisper.

  He nods, as if he expected it.

  “I have a condition, though.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “Give me a few days with Steven before I administer the treatment.”

  He tilts his head and taps a finger against the desk. “Twenty-four hours,” he replies. “And be grateful for it. May I remind you, you are not in a position to bargain. If you aren’t back here at headquarters by tomorrow at five o’clock, he’ll be given a total mindwipe. I’m sure, if you had the choice, you’d prefer to save at least part of his mind. It would be rather inconvenient for him having to relearn how to talk and dress himself.”

  I look at those calm, indifferent gray eyes, and I feel the poison burning in my chest. I thought I knew what anger and hatred were, but now I realize that I’ve never truly hated another human being before this.

  “And we will, of course, have to keep him confined here until you return,” he adds.

  “I know.” I keep my gaze downcast so he won’t see the fury burning there. “I—I just want to talk to him, at least once, before he forgets me.” And if I have time, maybe I can come up with some way to get him out of here. It’s a slim hope, but better than none at all.

  “Fair enough.” He nods. “For now, though, I think you should go home. Get some rest. You’ve had an overwhelming day.”

  “I want to see him. Now.”

  His expression never changes. He seems to be weighing me with his eyes. “You’ll have ten minutes.” He rises.

  The door opens for him, and he takes me down to the thirtieth floor, then leads me along a narrow hall to a pair of steel double doors. He keys in a code and presses his thumb to the biometric scanner, and the doors slide open.

  The cell is tiny and white, with a narrow bed, a lidless steel toilet, and nothing else. Steven sits on the edge of the
bed. His head jerks up. At the sight of me, he leaps to his feet. His face looks paler than usual, his hair disheveled, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. I take a step toward him, legs trembling. I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

  The doors slide shut behind me, giving us the semblance of privacy. I fling myself at him and hug him tightly, burying my face against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, tears seeping out from under my eyelids.

  He hugs me back. His heart pounds against mine. “What are you sorry for? None of this is your fault.”

  “But it is. I led us into this. I’m the reason you’re here now.” I pull back so I can meet his gaze. “I swear, I’m going to get you out of here.”

  He touches my cheek, looking deep into my eyes. Despite his obvious exhaustion, his expression is almost serene. “I’m just glad I got to see you again.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” Tears blind me. “I’m going to fix this. You’ll see. I—” The words freeze in my throat. Right now, Dr. Swan is undoubtedly monitoring us, listening to our conversation. I have to be very careful about what I say. “I’ll think of something,” I finish weakly.

  He hugs me again, and his lips brush against my ear. He whispers, so faintly I have to strain to make out the words: “Do whatever you need to do. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Steven … I …”

  He holds me tighter. “I don’t care what happens to me. Just don’t let them control you. Do you understand?”

  A lump fills my throat. He knows that they’re using him as leverage against me, and he doesn’t want to be their tool; he’d rather die. Just like Father.

  I hide my face against his chest.

  When I lift my gaze to his again, he smiles. In that smile is exhaustion and fear, but beneath that, I see determination and gentleness and incredible strength. I’ve never met anyone so strong. And I know that if I take his memories, this brave, fragile, resilient person will disappear. He’ll become someone else, and I’ll lose him forever.

  But he would be happier, a voice inside whispers.

  The doors slide open, and I tense. “Your time is up,” Dr. Swan says.