Mindwalker

by AJ Steiger

  I’ve known all along that Somnazol is readily handed out to Fours and Fives but withheld from the mentally healthy. I never thought much about that fact, because it seemed logical, albeit coldhearted. Of course doctors would be more reluctant to destroy a stable, functional person. Of course they’d be more inclined to prescribe Somnazol to those they perceived as disturbed and incurable. I rebelled against the idea that anyone was incurable, yet I never questioned the deeper ideology.

  I think about Marv, the man on the street corner handing out flyers and screaming, The government is breeding us! They’re breeding us like cattle!

  I start to shake.

  The facts have always been right in front of me. Yet now, for the first time, I feel the truth forming in my mind. It’s like looking at one of those optical illusions, those pictures that can be two different things, and experiencing that moment when perception suddenly shifts.

  Is this what Dr. Swan meant when he said he wanted to test my ability to accept unpleasant realities? Is this the ugly truth he’s planning to unveil when he thinks I’m ready?

  I can almost hear his calm, logical voice in my head: Eugenics is a word we’ve been trained to loathe, but this isn’t about wiping out a particular race or ethnicity. What is so evil about wanting to reduce the frequency of mental illness in the population? It’s a well-known truth that Type is influenced by genetics. We aren’t harming anyone—we’re giving people the option to end their own suffering. It’s a fortunate side effect that fewer mentally sick people are born as a result. If that can produce a better, more peaceful world for everyone, how is that a bad thing?

  I struggle to slow my breathing.

  It seems almost stupidly obvious. IFEN is using selective breeding to create a more easily controlled population—and it’s all done through targeted advertising and medical propaganda, no government interference required. While Fours and Fives die in droves, Type Ones are encouraged to clone themselves, producing little model citizens and eliminating the risk of giving birth to a future deviant or rebel. After all, genetics have a strong influence on our choices. That’s why Dr. Swan is so sure he can manipulate me—because he thinks I am my father. He controlled my father for years, using his compassion against him, reminding him that fighting back would hurt innocent people.

  A dull roar, like a waterfall, fills my ears, drowning out the noise of the station. The Somnazol ad blurs in front of my eyes. I am being watched, I know, but I can’t stop myself. I draw back a fist and punch the screen, as hard as I can. Again, and again, until my knuckles are bruised. The screen flickers and goes dark.

  The woman and boy stare at me, eyes wide. “Don’t ever give up,” I tell them. “Don’t end yourselves. It’s what they want.”

  With my ears still filled with that deafening roar, I board a monorail and take a seat in the back. I’m quivering with fury, but my head feels clear for the first time in days. Maybe the first time in my life.

  I was fooling myself to think I’d ever be able to change a corrupt system from within. The system will not allow it. I have to fight Dr. Swan—to reveal the truth.

  But if I do, Steven will die. The thought goes through me like a jagged-edged knife, ripping me open from throat to stomach, and I have to dig my nails into my arm and focus on the pain to stave off panic.

  When I see Ian’s penthouse apartment through the window, glowing like a jewel in the night sky, I rise to my feet. The monorail stops, and I get off.

  He’s waiting for me in the living room, sitting on the couch. I open the door, and he stands. For a moment, we just look at each other in awkward silence. I manage a strained smile, which he returns. “It’s been a while,” he says.

  It hasn’t actually been that long, but it feels like an eternity since I last saw him. I was another person. “Yes. It has.”

  He closes the distance between us and hugs me suddenly, tightly. I lean into the embrace automatically, because it’s Ian, and he’s always comforted me—and for a second or two, I feel like the girl I was. I hide my face against his shoulder, and my tears soak through his shirt.

  “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” he asks.

  I give a tiny nod.

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t—” My voice cracks. “If I do, you’ll be in danger, too.”

  “Lain …” He pulls back, gripping my shoulders, and looks me in the eyes. There’s a determined glint in his stare. “You can talk to me. There aren’t any listening devices here, and I already know more than you might think.”

  I shake my head, breathing hard. “You don’t understand—”

  “Please.” His voice softens. He touches my cheek, very lightly. “Let me help you.”

  I feel my resistance crumbling. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Sit down.”

  We sit on the couch together, side by side. I rest my head against his shoulder and tell him everything. He listens. When I pause, he offers a quiet “Go on,” but aside from that, he’s utterly silent. If he’s shocked by anything he hears, he doesn’t show it.

  When I finally stop talking, I’m exhausted, drained, empty. I feel light. It’s an incredible relief just to tell someone.

  “What are you going to do?” Ian asks, his tone neutral.

  “I know what I should do.” I clutch his shirt. “But if I don’t obey Dr. Swan, he’ll kill Steven.”

  “What would Steven want?”

  Of course, I know what Steven would want. He would want me to fight back, even if it cost him his life or his mind. He told me as much. And I know, deep in my bones, that going against his wishes in order to keep him safe would be an act of supreme selfishness—an unforgivable betrayal.

  I think about the mother and son in the monorail station, wearing matching collars. I think about those six little brains floating in formaldehyde. I think about Debra, her tears, her rage. About the soldier who wanted to forget the war. About all the dark truths that have been forgotten, over the years.

  There’s more at stake here than Steven’s life or mine. The public deserves to know about St. Mary’s. No—they have an obligation to know, to face the atrocities their leaders have committed. Even if my father and Dr. Swan were responsible for what happened, it happened only because they—as agents of IFEN—acquired so much power. Their titles and status gave them an aura of godliness in the minds of the public, a cloak that allowed them to discard ethics and manipulate the truth. The blood is on all our hands because we gave them that power.

  “I have to tell people,” I whisper.

  As the words leave my mouth, pain rips through me again, gutting me. Losing my father nearly destroyed me. Losing Steven will be ten times worse—because I’ll know that I caused it, that I killed him. How will I exist after that? How will I keep breathing?

  I squeeze my eyes shut and press a hand to my mouth.

  There’s a long pause. Then Ian says quietly, “There might be a way to save him.”

  My head jerks up. “What?” I’m afraid to believe, afraid to hope. “How?”

  Ian stands and begins to pace. “You’re supposed to erase his memories tomorrow, right? You just walk in, like you’re supposed to. Except instead of modifying his mind, you pull an ND, knock out whoever’s guarding you, and walk away with Steven. Of course, you’ll have to leave the country after that if you don’t want to end up mindwiped, but I can get you a car. Hell, I’ve got a spare. My mom bought me a new one for my birthday a few months ago, before she lost her job.”

  I stare at him, stunned. Is he serious? “No offense, but have you lost your mind? For one thing, where would I get an ND?”

  “Here.” He pulls a slim silver pen from his pocket and hands it to me. “Just push the button on the side and hold it down. It’s not as strong as a real one, though, so you have to shove it right up against the other person. But it should do the trick.”

  My mouth opens and closes as I try to process the flood of questions in my brain. “Ian … I appreci
ate it, but a plan like that just won’t work. This isn’t a spy thriller. The place will be crawling with guards, not to mention other Mindwalkers and their patients.”

  He leans toward me. “It will work if you time it right. When the truth comes out, it’ll cause chaos. There’ll be a window of opportunity when IFEN is preoccupied with trying to contain the leak and do some damage control. We can make that happen once you’re already inside IFEN headquarters. And in case that’s not enough, I can help create a diversion.”

  He is serious. Dear Lord. “I can’t ask that of you. If you get involved with this, it’ll destroy you. Your career, your future, everything.”

  He smiles thinly. “My future’s already fucked. You know that.”

  “I don’t know that, and neither do you.”

  “Lain …” He pauses, as if trying to decide how much to say. Then he sighs. “You’re not the only one whose life has turned inside out. I’ve already done things that could get me reclassified as a Three or worse if IFEN found out. I don’t intend to get caught, but if I do, I’ll deal with the consequences.” His expression is grim. He’s just as pale and gaunt as I remember, but something has changed. There’s steel in his eyes that wasn’t there the last time I saw him.

  “Ian,” I say quietly, “what happened while I was gone?”

  He looks away. “I never told you, but by the time I threw that party where Steven and I nearly killed each other, I’d already been reclassified as a Two. I started poking around in message boards on the Deep Net—you know, those sites that aren’t monitored because you can’t find them with a normal search engine—and I stumbled onto this black market. I met someone who claimed he could sell me a device to fool the neuroscanners, get my Type back up. And my mom’s, too.”

  My jaw is hanging open. I snap it shut. “Is that … possible?”

  “Sure,” he says. “It’s a little implant in the roof of your mouth.” He opens his mouth wide and sticks a finger inside, pointing. I can’t see anything out of the ordinary. “It emits a signal that gives the scanner a false read, and most of the time, no one can tell the difference. Anyway, that’s how I met Tiger.”

  “Who?”

  “Just someone I know.”

  I study his eyes. It might be my imagination, but it seems as if their color has actually darkened. They look more black than brown. He’s started growing his hair out, too; it’s like reddish fur covering his scalp, slightly longer on top. “I still don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “Why would you risk so much to help Steven?”

  “I’m not helping him. I’m helping you, because you’re my friend. Isn’t that reason enough?” The lines in his face are deeper, more pronounced than they were even a few days ago. “I know you. If he dies, you’ll never forgive yourself. If you do what they want, you’ll never forgive yourself, either. It’ll destroy you. I won’t stand by and watch that happen. This is the only way.”

  Gratitude washes over me, so strong it brings tears to my eyes. I want to tell him how much this means to me, how much he means to me, but suddenly I can’t find my voice. “Ian … I …”

  “It’s okay,” he says gently. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  I close my eyes, struggling to bring my thoughts into focus. “You know, even if I tell everyone the truth, it might not make a difference. There’s no proof of what I’ve learned, no recordings, no photos. Nothing except—” I stop, mouth open as a thought strikes me.

  “Except your memories,” Ian finishes. He smiles, and this time, there’s a spark of mischief in it, something of the old Ian. “But memories can be uploaded and shared.”

  I pinch my lower lip, thinking. He’s right, of course. With a client’s consent, memories can be burned to disks and shared with colleagues for a second opinion. But this—this is something else. “You’re talking about uploading my memories to the Net,” I say slowly. “Can that even be done?”

  “I don’t see why not,” he says. “Once they’re converted to video-audio, they’re just like any other file.”

  “But I don’t have a Gate anymore.”

  “You know that guy I mentioned, Tiger? He can help us.”

  I cling to the sofa, feeling like I might fall straight through the floor if I let go. “Exactly what kind of people have you been hanging out with?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You want to see for yourself?”

  My heartbeat echoes in my ears. Ian’s offering me a way out, a chance to save Steven—his memories and identity as well as his life. I can’t possibly pass up that chance, even if it means getting involved in things beyond my control. But I have to act now. If I hesitate, I’ll lose my courage. “Yes.” My voice emerges faint and breathless.

  He nods once. His gaze focuses on the coffee table, and he says, “Ubu.”

  A black sphere appears, floating a few inches off the table’s surface, then opens a pair of tiny, cartoonish eyes and blinks. It’s a holoavatar, though one much more primitive than Chloe. It projects a dim, greenish text box into the air, and a single word appears:

  HELLO.

  “I didn’t realize they still made first-generation avatars,” I remark.

  “They’re safer,” he says. “They run on an older system. The newer ones all have a backdoor program that IFEN can use to spy on communications.”

  That’s probably what allowed Dr. Swan to destroy Chloe. A lump rises into my throat, but I choke it down.

  Ian raises his voice. “Ubu, connect me to Tiger.”

  Ubu replies:

  CONNECTING.

  Ubu blinks a few more times.

  PASSWORD?

  “?‘October Man,’?” Ian says.

  ACCEPTED.

  “What is that—” I begin, but Ian holds up a hand, requesting silence. I bite my tongue.

  He looks at the screen. “Hi, Tiger. This is Fox.” As he speaks, the words appear on the screen. “You there?”

  A pause. Then more words pop up beneath his:

  I’M HERE.

  “I need a favor.”

  Letters scroll rapidly across the murky green background:

  WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO TRADE?

  “Information,” Ian says.

  A few seconds pass, then a single word flashes onto the screen:

  FORMAT?

  “Memories,” he says. “Not mine. A friend’s. Don’t worry, she’s trustworthy. We’ll need a Mindgate and some way to upload the files. Can you do that?”

  A brief pause. Then the reply:

  YES.

  My heart jumps. “How can we find you?” I blurt out.

  The screen blurs and wavers. Another message appears:

  MEET ME IN ONE HOUR.

  TAKE THE NORTH DISTRICT MONORAIL TO PLATFORM 32.

  I’LL SCRAMBLE THE FEED FROM SECURITY CAMERAS AT THE

  STATION. IF YOU SEE ANYONE FOLLOWING YOU, GO BACK.

  I’LL BE IN THE EMPTY LOT JUST OUTSIDE THE STATION.

  BE SURE TO COME MASKED.

  An instant later, the screen winks out.

  “That’s all, Ubu,” Ian says. “Erase the text logs and go to sleep.”

  With a curt GOODBYE, the avatar closes his eyes and winks out.

  For a minute or two, I sit in silence, digesting everything I just saw. Ian watches me. “What did he mean, come masked?” I ask.

  “Hang on.” Ian leaves the room briefly and returns holding two black plastic hoops. They look almost like collars. “Holomasks,” he says. “There were a few people wearing them at my party, remember?”

  “Oh. Right.” I pick up the hoop and examine it. “But why?”

  “To hide our identities. None of us know each other’s real names or faces. That’s how we stay safe. If one of us is caught, IFEN can’t extract anyone else’s identities from our minds.”

  “Ian …” My fingers tighten on the hoop. “Who are these people, exactly?”

  One corner of his mouth lifts in a self-conscious smile. “Honestly, I don’t
know much more than you do. I’m pretty new to this stuff.”

  I’m in way over my head, that much is obvious. But it’s too late to turn back. I examine the unbroken circle. “So, how do I put it on?”

  “Press the silver button and it opens. But don’t put it on yet,” he says, tucking his under his jacket. “Wait till we get there.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and turns toward the door. “Ready?”

  I’ve never felt less ready for anything in my life. My palms are slick with sweat, and my heart is about to jump out of my mouth. I’m so terrified, I feel almost giddy. “Yes.”

  He hesitates, searching my face. “Lain …” He takes a breath. “You know that once you go public with this stuff, you’ll be in danger. If IFEN gets their hands on you, you could be mindwiped. Or worse. If you don’t want that to happen, you have to be prepared to run. Once the truth is exposed, you’ll need to get out of the country as fast as possible.”

  Run. I’ll be a fugitive. A refugee without a home. I close my eyes, fighting for self-control. “I know.” I give him a weak smile. “This is something I need to do—you said so yourself.”

  His hands settle on my shoulders and gently squeeze. “I’ll protect you from them.”

  I look up, surprised. “How?”

  “Trust me.”

  Platform 32 is deserted—the station is near the city outskirts, in a run-down, infrequently used area. Pigeons infest the rafters of the dimly lit, white-walled station, their soft coos echoing through the silence. Rows of benches line the floor.

  Ian snaps open the black plastic hoop and closes it around his neck. A bubble-like shimmer surrounds his head, and a moment later, the head of a fox materializes where his own used to be. I’m expecting it, but I still gasp. It’s shockingly realistic, down to every last whisker and strand of russet fur. He blinks golden eyes at me and nods, as if to say, Go on

  I snap the plastic hoop shut around my throat, and there’s a faint hum. When I glance at my reflection in a puddle of oily water, I see the sleek white head of a canary where my own head should be. Its round, dark eyes blink. I hold up my still-human hands and contemplate them. “I look like a genetic experiment gone wrong.” My voice comes out tinny and much higher than normal. apparently, the mask also comes equipped with voice-distortion software.