by AJ Steiger
“IFEN can’t control everything. You saw for yourself, the rebellion has its own Gates. Ever since you shared your memories of St. Mary’s, others have followed your example. I downloaded this one before it was deleted by the censors.”
The people are shouting and waving signs. I glimpse the words painted in red on white poster board: WE’RE NOT SICK. SOCIETY IS SICK. Another sign: SWAN KILLED KIDS. WHERE’S his COLLAR?
And then something clicks into place. “They’re all wearing collars.”
“That’s right.” The screen reflects in Zebra’s glasses as he watches the action. “A group of Fours decided to march in front of IFEN headquarters, but the police tried to stop them. The protest was supposed to be non-violent. But, as you can see, things quickly got ugly.”
A policeman jams a neural disruptor against a woman’s temple, and she falls to the street, convulsing and foaming at the mouth. A few gunshots ring out, short and sharp. A collared man goes down. And still, the people keep pushing forward. The crowd is enormous—hundreds of protestors, all yelling and waving signs. The line of police can’t contain them.
And then, all at once, the crowd falls. They collapse to the ground in a wave, like tiny toy figures knocked over by a gigantic hand. A chill washes over me. Somewhere, at that very moment, an unseen IFEN official was sitting in a control room, pressing a series of buttons to activate the collar of every person within range.
That’s all it takes to crush a movement. The push of a few buttons.
The image goes fuzzy, melts into a blur of colors, and vanishes. The screen winks out. “Since you revealed the truth about St. Mary’s, there’ve been several of these mass protests,” Zebra says. “In all of them, dozens of protestors have been injured by neural disruptors. A few have been killed outright. IFEN has been trying to keep it quiet, to suppress it as best they can. They don’t want the people to know that there’s a revolution in the works. Make no mistake—it is happening. And you helped make it possible.”
“How?” My nails dig into the meat of my palms. “I leaked some information, that’s all. And then I ran away. I didn’t even face the consequences of my actions. How can anyone be inspired by that?”
He tilts his head. “That’s what you think? That your escape into Canada makes you appear weak? Had you stayed and ‘faced the consequences,’ as you put it, you would be sitting in a treatment facility, broken and molded by Conditioning. Instead, you’re still fighting them. You’ve proven that it’s possible to defy them and remain free. And because of that, you have become a hero.”
I don’t feel heroic or inspiring. I feel small and scared.
“I want to show you something else.” He waves a hand, and the screen reappears, displaying a photograph of a brick wall and the words I BELIEVE LAIN FISHER spray-painted in neon blue. The image changes. More photographs, more graffiti, on benches and sidewalks, scrawled across the faces of ad posters and billboards.
IFEN LIES.
NO MORE TYPES.
TAKE BACK OUR LIVES.
THE REVOLUTION IS HERE.
And over and over again, my name, and the words I BELIEVE.
Zebra stares intently into my eyes. “You see,” he says quietly, “what you have done?”
I don’t answer. There’s a small stab in my throat, like a hook catching, and tears prick the corners of my eyes. I don’t understand why my name means so much to these people. I’ve never met them, and likely never will. Yet they’ve chosen to place their faith in me.
“They’re crying out for your help.” His voice is soft. Seductive. “All those people. They need you.”
“I’m not much of a fighter,” I mutter.
“You don’t have to be. There are other ways to help the cause.” Zebra steeples his gloved fingers, pressing the tips together. “I realize that we have certain ideological differences. But if you agree to work with me, I think you’ll find that I’m not an unreasonable man.”
I almost laugh. This is the man who put me into a hallucinatory state, sliced me open and rummaged through my guts. And yet, if I want to do anything except hide from the authorities for the rest of my life, I need his help.
Still, I hesitate. His words sound familiar, and after a moment, I realize—Dr. Swan once said something similar to me.
His eyes are sharp, intent. “Do we have a deal?”
My heart rattles in my chest, and my shirt sticks to my back, glued there with icy sweat. I have the sense that I’m about to step off the edge of a cliff. “I have a condition. This initiation of yours, this test, or whatever it is—I don’t want you to put Steven through it.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And why is that?”
“You know what happened to him. He’s already been tested more than enough. I don’t want you sticking your grubby fingers into his brain and using his past against him.” I don’t want him to have to face Lizzie’s ghost. “He’s off limits. Understand?”
He tilts his head to one side, like an inquisitive terrier, then nods. “Very well.” With a subtle movement of his hand, his chair glides forward. Until that point, I hadn’t even noticed the wheels, or the fact that he hasn’t moved his legs once since I arrived.
He pinches the first finger of the glove on his left hand and pulls it off. I blink. His hand is translucent plastic, filled with countless tiny wires of gold, silver and red, all wrapped around a silver skeleton. He flexes the fingers, then extends the artificial hand to me. There’s a slight tension in his shoulders, as if he expects me to flinch away.
I shake his hand. The plastic is warm, like skin. I release it, trying not to stare.
“It’s all right. You can look.” He curls his robotic fingers into a fist.
“It’s just… I’ve never seen…”
“Artificial limb technology is more advanced in this country. While IFEN was learning how to rewire brains, we were discovering how to augment our bodies.”
My gaze strays to the chair.
He shrugs. “Spinal columns are more complex than arms or legs. Besides…” A hint of teasing creeps back into his voice. “Unlike your Dr. Swan, I don’t believe that everything broken needs to be fixed.” He pulls a small remote from his pocket and pushes a button. The bookshelf-slash-wall-slash-door swings ponderously outward, revealing the Gate room. I wonder how many people know that that room is directly connected to Zebra’s study. “You’re free to go,” he says.
“Thank you.” I start to stand up.
“Oh. One more thing.” He slides his glove back into place. “Don’t tell anyone about the test, or about our little meeting. It’s rare for me to speak face-to-face with one of my followers. If word gets out, the others will be jealous. And that could be bad.” After a half-beat, he adds, “For you.” He snaps the glove and curls his fingers. “Just a friendly warning.”
I glare at him.
He winks. “Welcome to the resistance.”
*
As I leave Zebra’s study, the bookshelf swings slowly shut behind me. When it closes, it’s a wall once again, and I’m alone in the Gate room.
Now that it’s over, the whole experience—even the conversation with Zebra—has a fuzzy, dreamlike quality. I wonder if the drugs are still wearing off.
I stand, legs wobbly. The door slides open, and I step out into the hall, where Nicholas is waiting. Without a word, he leads me back to the dorm wing and leaves me outside the door to my room. I stand alone in the hallway, staring into space. The whole nightmarish session in the Gate replays through my head. What does it all mean?
Instead of returning to my own room, I knock on the door to Steven’s. After a few seconds, it slides open. “Lain?” he calls softly. He’s sitting up in bed, his eyes cloudy with sleep.
Silently, I climb into bed with him. His breath catches, and his muscles tense against me. I can feel his warmth, his breathing. “I just need to be close to you,” I whisper. “Can I stay?”
There’s a click in his throat as he swallows. “Yeah.”
> I lean my forehead against his skinny shoulder and slip my arms around his waist. For a few heartbeats, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer. His slender, callused fingers slide under my shirt and brush against the small of my back, and my heart jumps. But his hand just rests there, against my skin.
We’re pressed close together under the thin blanket. His breathing is a little husky, a little unsteady. I can feel his heart racing.
I don’t want to think about anything that happened. I just want to be here, with him. In the darkness, the space between us shrinks to nothing. There’s no impending war, no Blackcoats, no right or wrong, just Steven. I lean forward. Our lips touch, and he draws in his breath sharply.
It’s the first time we’ve kissed since that night we spent in Gracie’s cellar. His lips are slightly tight, and I move my own lips against them, trying to make them soften, like they did before. I’m still not sure I’ve gotten the hang of kissing—I feel clumsy, unsure of myself—but maybe it doesn’t matter. His hand moves a little further up my back, his skin hot against mine. I feel the flick of his tongue, shy and unexpected, like wet velvet, but it retreats a moment later. I pull back, breathless, and lick my lips. My blood buzzes with electricity.
Right now, exploring these feelings should probably be the last thing on my mind. But I need to touch him, to smell and taste him, to remind myself that we’re both still alive. Even if I’m terrified, even if I have no idea what the future will bring, this is real—the rapid thump-thump of his heart under my palm, the warmth of his skin seeping through his thin shirt.
Cautiously, experimentally, I slip my hand beneath his shirt and along his side. My fingertips skate over the hollows between his ribs, feeling them expand with each breath. I find his collarbone and run one fingertip over it, a small, careful touch. This is Steven. His body, his skin, his muscles and bones—the frame that holds his being.
I can feel other things. Scars, thin lines, like roads forming a map on his body. He tenses as I trace one with my thumb, and I wonder where they come from, but I don’t ask. Words will only get in the way.
He plants a small, careful kiss on my neck, just below my ear, and the shock of sensation is so strong that my body arches like a cat’s. A tiny sound escapes me, more air than voice. His hand rests against the curve of my waist. His thumb brushes against my stomach, and I freeze. In a flash, I remember Steven’s hand—no, Zebra’s—working its way into me.
“What’s wrong?”
I don’t answer.
Zebra’s voice snakes through my head. Your secret. Tell me. Whisper it…
For an instant, I glimpse something under the surface of my mind, like a dark shape swimming through murky water. My consciousness flinches back from it, and I’m left shaken and cold. “Can you just hold me?” I whisper.
Without a word, he pulls his hand out from under my shirt and folds his arms around me, pulling me closer.
I close my eyes.
All Mindwalkers receive training to help them cope with the horrors they see in their clients’ minds. We learn to compartmentalize our emotions, to seal off the memories so we can function. Now, I walk through my usual set of visualization exercises.
I’m deep inside a stone labyrinth. I descend a set of steps to a room with a wooden treasure chest. With a heavy gold key, I unlock the chest and tuck the memories inside—the test, the hungry children in the Underground, the dead bodies in the forest. Then I close the lid, which is thick and solid. It shuts with a satisfying thud. I turn the key in the lock, sealing the memories away, out of sight.
But they’re still there. They’re always there.
15
Someone is knocking on my door. I grimace, hiding my face against the pillow. It must be Greta, my housekeeper, bugging me to get up. Is it time for school already? “Coming,” I murmur. I roll over, away from the door, and find myself pressed up against something warm and solid. I freeze.
Someone is in bed with me, breathing softly. Steven. The memories rush back, slamming into me like a sledgehammer.
I’m not in my house anymore. I’m not even in my country. I’m in an underground rebel base with Steven.
The knock comes again—an echo of last night. My heartbeat quickens. But it’s probably just Rhee. She said we’d have training today.
Steven stirs beside me, groaning. His hair is mussed, and there’s a faint pink crease on his cheek, an impression from the pillowcase. His arms are still locked around my waist. A flush rises into my cheeks. It occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve woken up in another person’s arms. I wish I had time to savor the feeling, but whoever’s on the other side of the door won’t stop. Rap-rap-rap. Like a giant woodpecker.
“If they ask for me, tell them I’m dead,” Steven mutters, and folds a pillow around his head.
I slide out of bed. “Hold on! Just hold on.” I open the door. Instead of Rhee, I find myself confronting a gaunt man with military-short hair, a jagged scar running from the corner of his left eye to his jaw, and a severe expression. He appears to be in his late twenties, which makes him one of the oldest people I’ve seen here, aside from Zebra and Nicholas.
Heat rises into my cheeks as I realize how this must look. Me and Steven in the same room, with a single bed, still in the process of waking up. “Um…”
“Just so you know, I’m not going to wake you up every morning,” the man says gruffly. “I’m not your mother, and this isn’t school. You’re expected to report to the training room at seven o’clock sharp, of your own accord, and if you do not, there will be consequences.”
Steven sits on the edge of the bed, his hair still messy, and yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. “Just so you know,” he says, “I’m not a morning person.” He scratches the back of his head. “Any coffee in this place?”
The man wrinkles his nose, as if he just stepped in a pile of dog doo. “Eat some breakfast, then meet me out in the hall. Both of you.”
“All right, but—who are you?”
“Burk. I’m one of the training instructors.” There’s a pause. “As an FYI, you might want to talk to one of the medics about getting a birth control chip.”
“We weren’t—”
The door slides shut, cutting off my words. My face is still burning. Why do I care what he thinks, anyway? “I guess we should eat,” I mutter.
“Go ahead. ’M gonna sleep some more.” He burrows under the covers.
I look at the lump under the blanket that is Steven and wonder briefly if I should tell him about what happened to me last night, then reject the idea. Later, maybe. The whole incident is already starting to scab over in my mind—it feels more like a bad dream than anything—and I’m not ready to rip the wound open again.
I open the freezer and select a plastic tray containing a section of hash browns and a spongy yellow rectangle which I think is supposed to be scrambled eggs. I heat it in the microwave and quickly wolf it down, then nudge Steven awake.
Outside, the gaunt man waits. Rhee is there too, leaning against a wall with her arms over her chest. “Lain, you’ll come with me,” Rhee says. “Steven, you go with Burk.”
“I hope you’re prepared to work hard,” Burk says.
“Sure.” Steven muffles a yawn against one hand and eyes the rifle strapped to Burk’s back. “Say, when do we get guns?”
“Once you’ve earned them,” Rhee replies shortly. “This way, Lain.”
And before I can ask anything else, she turns and starts walking. Her stride is so brisk that I have to nearly jog to keep up. I look over my shoulder just in time to catch Steven’s gaze, then we turn a corner.
“The main purpose of the simulations,” she says without slowing her pace, “is to get you accustomed to fighting. People in the URA—in most developed countries—are raised to have a strong resistance to violence, even when it’s justified. The system conditions them to trust and obey authority figures. Of course, in practic
e, that doesn’t always work out so well, especially if you happen to be fighting the system. In training, you’ll develop your reflexes until fighting become automatic. Using a weapon will start to feel instinctive and natural. Any questions?”
An image flashes through my head: Rhee’s axe swooping down toward my head. I shudder. “No. No questions.”
We approach a towering gray door which looks as solid and impenetrable as the side of a mountain. Well, we are in a decommissioned bomb shelter, after all. I wonder what this room’s original purpose was. There’s a rust-flecked metal wheel in the center of the door, like the steering helm on an old-fashioned sailboat.
From beyond the thick metal, I can hear muffled voices, mixed with the occasional giggle. Rhee grips the wheel and turns it, throwing her whole weight into the motion. Unseen gears creak and groan. The bulky hinges squeal as the door swings inward, revealing a group of three teenagers, all female.
The girls fall silent and turn toward us, their expressions alert and wary. There’s a willowy blonde with a long, skinny neck. Next to her stands a small, chubby girl, her dark hair a mass of braids with colored plastic beads on the ends. She looks all of fourteen years old, and she bounces lightly up and down on her heels, vibrating with barely contained energy.
Off to the side stands a short girl in a black tank top, her green hair done up in spikes. She’s digging in her ear with one pinkie. “Well,” she says, “look who finally decided to show up.”
The training room is enormous. Cement walls soar to a distant ceiling. Stacks of wooden crates stand here and there, forming a haphazard maze. Rhee and I step inside, and the door bangs shut behind us.
“Everyone, this is Lain,” Rhee says. “She’ll be training with our group today.”
I give them an uncertain smile. “Hello.”
The girl with the braids gives me a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Hi. I’m Joy.”
The blonde shyly averts her gaze and murmurs, “Noelle.”
“I know who you are,” Joy says. “I’ve seen you on the news.”