Mindstormer

by AJ Steiger

“We captured him a few days ago,” Zebra continues. “He accompanied Dr. Swan to Toronto and was foolish enough to wander off on his own without a bodyguard.”

  “Dr. Swan is in Canada now?”

  “Yes. Though for what purpose, we aren’t sure. Of course he claims it’s just a goodwill visit, but we have reason to believe that he met secretly with a Canadian government official. So far, the prisoner’s refused to talk.” Zebra’s clear gray eyes lock with mine. “That’s where you come in.”

  Cold washes over me. This is what I’ll be doing for the Blackcoats? Using my Mindwalking skills to extract information from prisoners?

  Aaron coughs. Blood flecks his lips. Suddenly, my lunch isn’t sitting well, and I cover my mouth with one hand.

  “I must confess, I didn’t expect you to be so squeamish,” Zebra said. “You’ve seen worse than this in the minds of your clients, haven’t you?”

  “That’s different,” I mutter against my palm. Immersing myself in my clients’ traumas wasn’t easy, but it was a necessary part of the healing process. This… this isn’t about healing. “Why do you even need me? You obviously know how to use a Gate. Why not just do it yourself?”

  “I’ve already attempted it and failed. As you know, examining a person’s memories usually requires some degree of cooperation on the part of the subject. My Gate is capable of influencing a person’s thoughts and emotions, but still, it’s not foolproof. The subject can fight back, if his will is strong enough—and this boy has been trained by IFEN to resist mind control techniques. Drugging him has proved ineffective, as well. If we work together, we’ll have a better chance of overpowering him and prying out the memories by force.”

  “A three-way loop?”

  He nods. “Besides… I need to know if you’re capable of doing what’s necessary for the sake of the movement.”

  So, this is another test. He wants to see how much I can handle. Just like Dr. Swan. “And after we get the information, what will happen to the prisoner?” I can’t quite bring myself to call him by his name.

  “We’ll execute him, of course. He knows too much. We can’t risk leaving him alive.”

  Aaron’s skin gleams with sweat and blood. My pulse hammers through my body, in my wrists and fingertips.

  “And if I refuse to help you,” I say, “then what?”

  “I’ll ask your friend Ian. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind shouldering the burden for you.”

  So, he’s playing dirty. My hands squeeze into fists, uncurl, then squeeze again. Zebra waits. At last, I look him in the eye. “I’ll help you, but only on the condition that you don’t kill him. Let me alter his memories, instead.”

  Zebra raises an eyebrow. “You want to save him. Why?”

  “A friend once told me that this rebellion isn’t about fear, it’s about hope. If that’s really true, then spare him. Unnecessary death won’t help your cause.”

  He presses the tips of his slender, gloved fingers together and runs the tip of his tongue slowly over his lower lip. “An ordinary memory modification isn’t foolproof. I’ll settle for giving him a total mindwipe.”

  “No,” I reply firmly. “A mindwipe is no better than death. The person has to relearn the most basic of skills—how to tie their shoes, how to speak. There’s no reason to destroy his entire identity.”

  Zebra narrows his eyes. “You know, merely allowing him to live is a considerable risk. This boy is being groomed to replace Dr. Swan. He’s an asset to the enemy.”

  “Killing him wouldn’t make any difference, in the long run. Dr. Swan would just replace him with another pawn.”

  It might be my imagination, but I think I see Aaron flinch.

  Zebra tilts his head. “Very well. After the interrogation, you will erase his memories of this entire encounter, under my supervision. But if the prisoner gives us too much trouble, I’ll rescind the offer.”

  I’ve never modified someone’s memories against his will. My principles squirm in protest at the thought, but it’s better than letting him be killed or mindwiped. “Fine.” I take a breath. “One more thing.”

  “My, you are full of conditions, aren’t you?”

  My mind flashes back to my conversation with Ian, and his words replay: You’re a symbol. You represent everything they can’t control. Images flicker through my head—the graffiti on the walls, the words I believe in Lain Fisher. I have a power I don’t fully understand, the power to influence others, people I’ve never even met. If I learn how to harness that, maybe I can accomplish something. “If I record a message to the people of the URA, is there a way you can get it onto the Net?”

  “Of course. Any other conditions?” There’s a note of mockery in his voice.

  “No. That’s all.” I close my eyes, fighting for composure. “May I speak to the prisoner?”

  He lets out a little sigh. “Go ahead.”

  I enter the Gate room. Zebra lingers in the doorway. Aaron sits motionless, breathing raggedly. I take a tentative step forward, and he tenses. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  His fingers twitch. Unexpectedly, he smiles—a nervous, wry smile. “Under the circumstances, I’m sure you can understand why I’m a little skeptical about that.” His voice is soft and hoarse.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “And did you understand what we were talking about?”

  He licks blood from his upper lip. “Well, the beating they gave me hasn’t interfered with my hearing.”

  “Then you know that if you cooperate, there’s a chance you’ll get out of this alive, with your memories modified. I’m sure you’d prefer that.”

  For a few heartbeats, he doesn’t respond. Then he draws in a shaky breath. “Lain, listen to me,” he murmurs, his voice low and urgent. “I don’t know why you’re working with these people, but they aren’t what you think. They don’t want a better world. They want to rip everything apart, to send us all back to the Dark Ages. Look at what they’ve done to me.” His fingers clench on the chair’s arms. “I’ve never harmed anyone in my life. My only crime is working for IFEN.”

  “That’s crime enough,” Zebra replies.

  Aaron’s breathing quickens. His gaze flicks nervously toward Zebra, as if he were a coiled viper, then locks with mine again. His expression is filled with terrified pleading, his visible eye so wide the white shows all around. “You worked for IFEN yourself. So did your father. If I’ve committed a crime, so have you.”

  I swallow, hard.

  Even if I wanted to help him, setting him free wouldn’t do any good. We’re buried underground. This whole place is locked up, and attempting to break him out would be suicidal. Still, his words awaken a flicker of doubt. Once I do this, I’ll have crossed some invisible line. In my head, I hear Rhee’s voice, the words she spoke to me in my initiation fever-dream: Sometimes there are only two paths. And they’re both ugly.

  Slowly, I lean toward him. “IFEN conducted experiments on its own citizens. On children. I’m sure Dr. Swan has done his best to convince you that was a lie, but it’s not.”

  “I know,” he says. “And I think you did the right thing by telling people.”

  That catches me off guard. “Then why are you still working for them?”

  “Because the best way to change a system is from within. Do you really want the Blackcoats controlling our country? Whatever they set up in place of our government will be just as bad, maybe even worse.”

  It’s a strange and confusing thing, to realize that I agree with him.

  “Please, Lain,” he whispers.

  In the end, it doesn’t matter. I’m stuck. “I can’t help you.” The words emerge quiet and bitter. I don’t feel good about this. But if I intend to stay here, I have to walk the line, to help the Blackcoats when necessary without giving myself over to their ideology.

  Aaron’s shoulders sag. His breaths wheeze through his damaged nose. “You won’t get anything out of my head,” he says through clenc
hed teeth.

  “Oh,” Zebra says lightly, “I think we will.”

  ‌

  23

  Two helmets sit in the corner of the room atop a wooden chair. Zebra dons one; I take the other, buckling the strap snugly beneath my chin. I pull up a chair. Zebra and I sit a few feet apart, facing Aaron, so we form a triangle. I’m breathing too fast.

  It’s just an immersion session, I tell myself. I’ve done this plenty of times. I’m practically a professional. Though this is about as far from the Immersion Lab at IFEN headquarters as it’s possible to get.

  “I’ll activate the connection,” Zebra says.

  I nod.

  The Gate snaps on. A familiar tingling spreads over my scalp and down my spine, like electricity dancing under my skin. Aaron’s pain hits me like a bucket of boiling water, and the air hisses between my teeth. Every breath brings searing agony, as if my lungs are filled with needles. One side of my face throbs, a dull, hot pulse. His heart is racing. He’s hidden it well, until now, but he’s utterly terrified.

  Breathe. Not my feelings. I walk through my identity affirmation exercises. I am Lain Fisher, eighteen years old, brown hair. Mindwalker. I am—

  What am I? A traitor? A hero? A rebel? A scared, confused girl?

  I shake off the questions and focus on breathing. As the connection deepens, the fear and pain become less overwhelming, and I can sense the emotions beneath. First and foremost is shame, a dull burn that consumes his entire being, but I can’t sense the source. Is he ashamed about being captured, or about working for a man like Dr. Swan? Or maybe it’s something else entirely—something deeper, older.

  It occurs to me that I can’t feel Zebra’s mind at all. He said this was a three-way connection, but his thoughts are an utter blank. No—there’s something—a cool, dry sensation that reminds me of wind on stone.

  “We’re going to review some of your memories now,” Zebra says. “Why don’t we start with your arrival in Canada?”

  A spark of defiance leaps in his green eye. Why don’t you go to hell? He shoots the words in Zebra’s direction.

  Zebra places a hand over his chest and widens his eyes theatrically. “Truly, I’m wounded. Such a cunning barb.” He pulls a small box from his pocket and opens it, revealing a glittering hypodermic. “This should help. If it doesn’t work, we can use harsher methods.”

  “You’ll torture me, you mean.”

  “I don’t want it to come to that,” Zebra says. “I find such methods barbaric. My associate Nicholas, however, enjoys it. The drug will make you want to cooperate. If you still refuse, I’ll give Nicholas five minutes with you, and I can assure you, they will be the worst five minutes you’ve ever endured.”

  A fine sheen of sweat gleams on Aaron’s brow. I wait while Zebra injects him. I lower my visor, blocking out my own vision, and focus on the signals from Aaron.

  Don’t let me break. His voice is a whisper inside my head. Give me the strength to resist. Please.

  I dig my nails into my palm, anchoring myself in my own body. But I can still hear him praying silently. I’m surprised at the strength of his conviction. He’s not begging to be spared suffering; he’s more worried that he’ll betray his government by spilling sensitive information. His worst fear is that he’ll fail, that he won’t be strong enough, and now it’s happening.

  “Going soft on me already?” Zebra asks me.

  “No.”

  Aaron’s head falls forward, and his breathing slows and evens. His lassitude drifts over me like a gray fog. “Now,” I say. “There was a reason you came here to Canada, wasn’t there?”

  Sleepily, he murmurs, “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  His eyes roll and twitch beneath the lids. “Meeting.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  He murmurs something unintelligible. I close my eyes, exchanging one darkness for another, and focus. Small flickers break through the blackness behind my eyelids. A tiny, fuzzy spot of light appears, and I focus, zooming in.

  Then a curtain of darkness sweeps down, like a wall. Even now, he’s resisting. I push at the darkness. It’s almost tangible; a spongy barrier, pushing back against me. A deep voice booms all around me, reciting words: There’s a certain slant of light, winter afternoons, that oppresses like the heft of cathedral tunes. Heavenly Hurt, it gives us. We can find no scar—

  I recognize the words. Emily Dickinson. He’s reciting poetry.

  “A resistance technique,” Zebra says. “Try again. Push, with your mind. Envision the wall dissolving.”

  The darkness surrounds me, heavy and thick. “Aaron,” I say. “Go back to the meeting.” Push.

  I feel him shudder and flinch. Still, the wall of shadows in his head won’t budge.

  A faint tension hums beneath the surface of Zebra’s consciousness; it’s all I can sense from him. He must be very good at shielding his thoughts. “Now,” he says. “With me. Push.”

  A bullet of sweat slides down my neck. A vein flutters in the hollow of my temple as I pour all my will into the mental thrust. Aaron tenses up. Then the wall breaks into a thousand black fragments and disintegrates, and he goes limp, the resistance draining out of him. I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue. “We’re in,” I whisper.

  Soft breathing echoes in my ears. Aaron’s heart beats slowly.

  “All right, Aaron,” Zebra says. “Let’s try one more time. Go back to the meeting.”

  A hazy vision swims into my head: a large room, mostly dark, with a round table in the center, spotlit from above. A gray-haired woman sits at the head of the table, her face stern and devoid of makeup. She wears a charcoal-colored suit and a pair of small, gold-rimmed spectacles. Dr. Swan sits to her right, dressed in white, as always.

  The woman squints at me, and I feel an urge to straighten my posture, though my back is already ramrod-stiff. “And who is this?”

  “My protégé,” Dr. Swan replies smoothly. “He’ll be sitting in to observe.”

  She frowns. “Is this standard procedure?”

  “If all goes according to plan, young Mr. Freed here will be my successor.” He smiles, but a pressure constricts around my throat and chest. In a flash, I remember his fingers biting into my shoulder, his whisper in my ear: Do not leave my sight. “He needs to understand exactly what this role entails. A form of job-shadowing, if you will. There is no need to worry; he’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

  I incline my head forward in a tiny nod. My heart is beating too fast.

  The woman purses her lips, scrutinizing me. I sit very still, keeping my face smooth and calm, remembering Dr. Swan’s advice. Conceal your emotions. Become a piece of furniture, easily forgotten, and quietly absorb everything.

  At last, the woman lets out a small sigh. “Very well, then.” She turns back to Dr. Swan. “Regarding the alliance we discussed earlier, I see no reason not to make an agreement with IFEN. Canada’s Bureau of Psychological Welfare may be new, but our goals are similar to yours. If we could share our technological advances with each other instead of acting like we’re on opposing sides, we could accomplish so much more.”

  “I’m glad you agree,” Dr. Swan says.

  She keeps her hands folded on the table. One manicured finger absently strokes another. “The United Republic has some amazing technology in the field of mental modification. And I’m not just talking about the Gates. You’re developing a weapon, aren’t you? Something called Project Mindstormer?”

  I cast an uncertain glance in Dr. Swan’s direction. His shoulders stiffen. “Let me assure you, those rumors are nonsense.”

  She taps a neatly filed, unpolished nail on the tabletop. “Of course, if such a thing existed, we would be very interested. Though we would have to proceed with utmost caution. If the UN found out—”

  “They won’t, because it does not exist,” he replies firmly. “I don’t know where you heard such nonsense, but I would advise you not to believe everything you read on the Net. Those c
onspiracy websites breed like rabbits, despite our efforts to control them, and they are nothing but fear-mongering and rampant idiocy. IFEN is a medical organization. We do not make weapons. Is that clear?”

  She shrugs. “As you say.” But a smile tugs at her lips, as if they’re sharing an inside joke. It makes me uneasy. All of this feels wrong—sneaking around in the shadows, making deals.

  I remind myself, again, that it’s all necessary. If I want to make a difference, if I want to save my country from being ripped apart by war, I have to play the game. At least for now.

  “We would be happy to share our existing technology with you,” Dr. Swan continues, “but first, we would need to be certain that it won’t be misused. In other words, we’d want to know that you share our values and goals. Admittedly, I have some concerns in that area.”

  The woman frowns, her brows pinching together. “Oh?”

  Dr. Swan waves a hand, bringing up a holoscreen filled with bullet points, and clears his throat. He pauses, as if to make sure we’re both paying attention, then continues: “Ever since the war and the resulting recession, Canada’s penal system has been ranked the harshest and most brutal of any developed nation.” He scrolls down with a finger. “In addition to having high rates of capital punishment, you incarcerate large numbers of people in appalling conditions and sensationalize their plight. Three years ago, your prison industry created a reality show titled Nothing to Lose where prisoners on death row volunteered to fight each other in a massive battle royale, with the promise that the winner would receive a full pardon. As I recall, it was hugely profitable, but it got canceled after a few years because of complaints from human rights groups. Then there was that scandal last year, in which—”

  “You’ve made your point, Doctor.” The gray-haired woman presses her lips together. “Our system is… problematic. I won’t deny that. But we are striving to push the country in a more progressive direction. That’s why we’re asking for your help.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Dr. Swan says. “You’ve already begun collecting psychological data on your citizens, correct?”