Mindstormer

by AJ Steiger

  “That’s right. We’ve been doing it for some time, actually. But there’s so much data, it’s difficult to know where to begin. A computer can’t decide whether or not someone represents a potential threat—or at least, our technology isn’t that advanced yet. Hiring people to sift through all that information is time-consuming and expensive, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

  Dr. Swan nods. “That’s where we come in. We’ll send in some of our people to upgrade your computers and help you implement a system like ours.”

  “There will be concerns, you understand, about the legality.”

  He waves a hand. “Modern laws are flexible. They adapt to the changing times. The important thing is to do what’s best for your country.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Where, if I may ask, is your central database?”

  With a flick of her fingers, she brings up a holoscreen displaying an overhead view of the city and enlarges it, zooming in on a large, warehouse-like building. The address glows in green numbers.

  Dr. Swan makes a thoughtful sound. “That’s close to a residential area, isn’t it?”

  She nods. “Hidden in plain sight, so to speak. If we ever want to implement a system like your collars, it makes sense to have the databases close to highly populated areas.”

  “Excellent,” Dr. Swan says. “Then we’ll begin immediately.”

  Their voices echo in my ears. The memory is fading, growing soft and blurry around the edges, and I’m slipping backward. Gradually, I become aware of physical sensations—the chair beneath my bottom, the cool air against my skin, my own breathing sliding through my nostrils and down into my lungs.

  I open my eyes, dazed, and I’m Lain Fisher again. Aaron remains slumped in his chair, head bowed, his shirt translucent with sweat.

  “He fell asleep,” Zebra remarks. “Must have given him too strong a dose. Still, we learnt what we needed to know.”

  My throat prickles with thirst, and I swallow, wondering how long I was in his mind. It didn’t feel like more than a few minutes, but time can slip by in chunks during immersion sessions. “Who was that woman?”

  “Canada’s Minister of Psychological Welfare.”

  Zebra was right. IFEN isn’t content to rule over the URA. They’re trying to expand their influence into other countries. “Do Canadians know about this?”

  He snorts. “Of course not. No government announces that it’s planning to strip away its citizens’ liberties. The Bureau of Psychological Welfare is supposed to be a research institution. At this point, they don’t have much legal power. But that will quickly change, once the infrastructure for their system is in place.” His eyes turn distant, inward-focused. “I’ll review the recording from the Gate later, but I believe we have everything we need. You may as well do it now.”

  My stomach sinks. “Erase his memories, you mean.”

  “Yes. I’ll observe, using the link, but I don’t think I need to give you any instructions. Clean him out as quickly as possible. Any memories related to the Blackcoats or the Citadel must be completely removed. Beyond that, you may erase as much or as little of his personality as you wish. Use your discretion.”

  Why is he giving me the choice? Is he curious to see how I’ll handle this?

  It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m not going to destroy any more of his mind than is absolutely necessary. Zebra ought to know that. “All right. Let’s get this over with. Aaron?”

  He makes a faint sound.

  “We’re going back to the day you arrived in Toronto.”

  The modification proceeds quickly and smoothly. Older memories require more work and preparation to remove, but Aaron’s experiences with the Blackcoats are all very recent. I review his arrival in Toronto with Dr. Swan, his brief stay in the hotel, the night he slipped away into the streets, against Dr. Swan’s orders. He was desperate for some air, for some time alone—the sense of being constantly watched by his mentor was like a rope around his neck.

  He was only planning to stay out a few minutes, but then he was kidnapped—grabbed from behind, a chloroform-soaked rag shoved against his nose, a black bag pulled over his head. His next memory is of waking up in a small, dark room with a couple of Blackcoat thugs looming over him. They asked him questions, and when he refused to answer, rock-hard knuckles slammed into his left eye, setting off a flashbulb of pain in his head. The memory of the beating goes on and on. It’s sickeningly detailed. Every blow, every kick, is encoded with crystal clarity. One of the Blackcoat thugs pulls a cigarette from his mouth, holds the burning end in front of Aaron’s good eye, and threatens to shove it in if Aaron doesn’t talk. I feel his terror as he sits, breath whistling through his smashed nose, blinking rapidly as the cigarette singes the ends of his eyelashes.

  Finally, the other thug laughs and says, “Why waste a cig? Whatever Zebra does to him will be worse than that.”

  They chloroform him again, and he wakes up in the Gate room. I see myself, briefly, through his eyes. I look young and nervous, my eyes wide, my short, unkempt hair sticking out in every direction. There’s an odd, shimmering glow around me, like an aura—it fades in and out, and I wonder if it’s the result of the drugs or a minor concussion.

  At last, I reach the present. I’ve constructed a mental map within my own head: a grid of bright blue lines linking the glowing nodes of memory.

  This should be a very straightforward modification, a simple matter of wiping out the past few days. No need to dig any deeper. And yet… I can feel something else beneath the surface of his mind, some very deep, very old wound. His identity has grown around it, shaped by it. I can’t see the details—I’d have to probe around a little more. For an instant, I find myself considering it. I could slip into the depths of his mind, find the pain at the center of his being, and quietly wipe it away. He’d never even know. He’d awaken clean and new, unburdened—

  Why am I even considering this? I shake off the thoughts, troubled. I sense Zebra watching me, silent, observing and analyzing everything. When I glance over at him, there’s a knowing smile on his lips. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “Continue.”

  I make my way slowly through the chain of memories, starting with his kidnapping, and wash them away. I watch it all fade into nothing—the terror and pain of the beating, the long hours spent strapped into a chair, body aching, throat raw and burning with thirst.

  When it’s over, the lines of tension have smoothed out of his face. He sits, slumped in the chair, breathing softly.

  Zebra removes his helmet. “That will do.” He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “This boy owes you his life, you know.”

  I’m just glad it’s over. My whole body is weak and shaky with exhaustion. “What’s going to happen to him now?”

  “I’ll have one of my followers leave him in the streets of Toronto, close to a hospital or a police station, somewhere he’ll be found. You have my word that he won’t be harmed.”

  “Thank you.” I take off my helmet and set it on the floor. Sweat drenches my hair and neck.

  Zebra rolls out of the room. I follow him out, and the bookshelf swings shut, sealing Aaron in the Gate room, alone. I have the clear sense that I’ll never see him again, but his very existence awakens all sorts of uncomfortable, conflicted feelings in me. He’s the face of the enemy, the people we’re supposed to crush, yet he doesn’t seem all that bad. Maybe that shouldn’t come as a revelation to me, given that I myself was the enemy not long ago. Yet, unlike me, he knows the truth about St. Mary’s, and he still thinks IFEN can be reformed. If he were to take Dr. Swan’s place as Director, perhaps it could be.

  “You may return to your room, if you wish,” Zebra says.

  “Wait,” I say. “You promised you’d help me get a message onto the Net.”

  He pauses, then turns toward me. “So I did. You wish to record it now?”

  A small, hot point of pain throbs behind my left eye. I don’t want to think; I want
to lie down and let sleep wrap me in oblivion. But I’m not about to let this chance slip away. I have no idea when I’ll see Zebra again. “Yes.”

  He waves a hand, and a holoavatar appears, hovering in the air in front of me—a purple bat with bright yellow eyes.

  “Delilah,” he says, “Lain wishes to record a message.”

  “With pleasure, my master,” the bat replies in a purring, throaty female voice. She flaps down to perch on his wrist, then turns to me and smiles, showing tiny fangs. “You may begin whenever you’re ready.”

  I thought I knew what I wanted to say, but now my brain is empty. And I probably look as exhausted and wrung out as I feel. I shut my eyes for a moment, gathering my strength, then open them. “My name is Lain Fisher,” I say. “And I’m addressing this message to you—to all of you, the people of the United Republic of America.”

  Delilah’s eyes glow a steady yellow. They’re fixed on me, recording silently.

  “Dr. Swan recently gave an interview in which he called me delusional, paranoid and frightened. These are words that IFEN hurls at anyone who dares to ask questions. I urge you, now—do not let them bully you into submission. It is not just your right, but your moral duty to continue asking questions. It’s the obligation of every citizen of every nation to question and scrutinize those in power. We are all born with the right to freedom, but that right doesn’t come automatically. It must be defended, and the moment we stop fighting for it is the moment we begin to lose it. It’s not an easy choice, and never has been. It’s a contract signed in blood.”

  Why am I using her words?

  I push on: “But I urge you all to remember that there is more than one way of fighting. You can be a soldier of freedom without picking up a gun. When you tell others the truth, when you refuse to be silenced, when you stand up and demand that your rights be respected, you’re fighting the system. Words are the most powerful weapon we have. As I speak, a bill called the Cognitive Rights Act is making its way toward the National Ethical Committee. It is our job, as a nation, to make sure that it gets there. We must not succumb to the temptation to use tactics of fear and violence. That’s what IFEN does. Fear is our enemy… and truth is the only power great enough to overcome it.” I stop and swallow, mouth dry.

  Delilah the bat remains crouched on Zebra’s wrist, eyes unblinking.

  “That’s all I have to say.”

  Zebra nods. “You may go, Delilah. Thank you.”

  She bows. “It is, as always, my greatest honor to serve.” She vanishes in a flurry of purple sparkles.

  “Well, Lain Fisher,” Zebra says, rolling my name over his tongue. “You enjoy testing the limits, don’t you? You join my organization, then send your entire country a message condemning our methods.”

  “You promised me you would upload it to the Net.”

  He inclines his head forward. “I will make sure the people of the URA hear your words. That’s a promise. And I always keep my promises.”

  “Good.” There’s no way to know for sure that he’s telling the truth. I have no choice but to trust him.

  I glance toward the bookshelf. Toward Aaron. For the first time, I’ve erased someone’s memories against his will. Even if it was just a few days, even if I saved his life in the process, I feel disgusted with myself—like I just stomped around inside his soul with my muddy boots, leaving tracks everywhere. This is not the sort of work that Mindwalkers were meant to do. Using my skills for Zebra—for the Blackcoats—is a betrayal of everything I believe in. Yet in spite of all that, a part of me almost enjoyed the familiar process of wiping away someone’s pain, soothing the ache of trauma.

  Suddenly, it hurts to breathe. My chest is knotted with razor wire. “Zebra? I don’t want to do this ever again.”

  “You will, though,” he says. “Because otherwise, the task will fall to Ian, and you want to protect him. Isn’t that right? Your gentle friend, who’s already endured so much suffering on your behalf—”

  “Shut up.”

  “I could tell you a lot of things about Ian. You might be surprised how much darkness lurks behind those brown eyes.”

  He’s playing another game, and I won’t let him. I won’t betray Ian or violate his privacy by asking questions I shouldn’t. “That’s for Ian to tell me about, if he wants to.”

  “Still, you’re curious. Aren’t you?”

  I turn away. “You’re no better than Dr. Swan. We’re all tools to you.”

  A long silence stretches between us. “You’re right,” he says at last, his voice flat and empty. “I intend to use you and control you for my own purposes. Because, you see, I am a desperate man.” I look at him, and he smiles, just a tightening of the muscles in his face. “I see what’s happening to the world. If things continue along this path, we will find ourselves in a hell worse than all the wars and atrocities of the past, and there will be no hope of escape. The very concept of freedom will vanish. We have only a short while to make a difference, to turn back before it’s too late. And our chances are slim. Probably, this is a futile endeavor. But until that last bit of hope is gone, I will continue to fight, and I will be as ruthless as necessary.” He leans toward me. “We are fighting for something more important than life itself.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Our souls.”

  His nails dig into the arms of his chair. His pulse flutters in his throat, and a thin chill slides through me. Zebra is afraid. And suddenly, I think about the words the woman spoke in Aaron’s memory. On impulse, I ask, “What is Project Mindstormer? Is it even real?”

  “I’ve seen only bits and pieces of information floating around on the Deep Net. But if it’s even half as powerful as the rumors suggest, then once it’s complete, no one will be able to stand against IFEN. Unless we stop them first.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “Is it some type of chemical weapon? An airborne neurotoxin? What?”

  “I told you. I don’t know.”

  “But you must have some ideas, if you’ve heard about it.”

  He stares into space. “I saw a statement from a former scientist at IFEN, a woman who resigned several years ago—a matter of conscience, she said. The statement quickly vanished from the Net, and soon afterward, the woman had her memories modified as a form of ‘emergency therapy.’ Allegedly the treatment was consensual, but…” He shrugs. His gaze flicks toward me. “She spoke of a device which, once perfected, could bring an entire country to its knees in a matter of hours. She said that no one, nowhere, would be safe from its reach.”

  Goosebumps crawl over my skin. “She might have been exaggerating.”

  “Let’s hope she was.” He waves a hand toward the door. “You’re free to go. I’ll summon Nicholas to escort you back to your room.”

  “I can find my own way.”

  He shrugs. “As you wish.”

  As I walk away, I cast a glance over my shoulder. Zebra sits facing away from me, thin shoulders hunched. He looks suddenly very old, very tired.

  ‌

  24

  I don’t know how long I spend wandering the hallways, turning left and then right and then left again. Eventually, I find my way to the spacious entrance room. The towering entrance doors are closed tight. Next to them, a row of biometric scanners lines the wall: handprint, retinal scan, a few others I don’t even recognize. I think about trying them just to see what would happen, but I’m worried about triggering some sort of alarm. And anyway, I know the doors won’t open. Even if they did, it wouldn’t matter, because as soon as I set foot above ground I’d be recognized and captured.

  I turn around, and for a few minutes, I just stand there staring at the words engraved on the wall. MY MIND IS MY ONLY SOVEREIGN. REASON IS MY ONLY COMPASS. EVEN IF FETTERS BIND ME, IN MY THOUGHTS, I AM FREE.

  What a joke. We’ve stumbled from one cage to another.

  I lean back against the wall and let my legs give out beneath me, and I slide to the floor, where I sit huddled, hugging my
knees. Aaron’s memories replay in my head. The rough hands grabbing him from behind, the blows thudding into his body, over and over. I bow my head, shut my eyes, and walk through my compartmentalization exercises. Soon, he’ll wake up in some hospital room, and he won’t remember any of that. He’ll have no idea why he’s bruised and bloodied or where he’s been over the past few days. Maybe that’s a blessing. Or maybe not knowing will be even worse.

  A noisy crackle fills the air, and Nicholas’ voice emanates from unseen speakers somewhere above me: “Attention, everyone. Please report to the Assembly Hall.”

  I curl into a tighter ball. I’m not going.

  Time goes by in a fog. Footsteps echo, coming toward me, and I raise my head to see Burk—the man with the scar, the one Steven called Captain Constipation—step into the room. He frowns at me, his face pinched and dour, and I can see where he got his nickname. “You’re supposed to be at the Assembly. Attendance is mandatory, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “I have a headache.”

  “That’s irrelevant.”

  I’m really not in the mood for this. I push myself to my feet and walk across the room. “I’m going to lie down somewhere.” As I brush past him, he grabs my wrist, fingers digging in.

  His gaze drills into me. “Perhaps you’d like me to escort you.”

  “Let me go.” When he doesn’t, I stomp on his foot. He grunts and tightens his grip. I ram an elbow into his gut, and he doubles over. His grip loosens just long enough for me to twist free. I’m rather impressed with myself. Apparently, the training session with Rhee paid off, after all.

  I march forward, down the hall. An arm wraps around my throat, dragging me back, and I gasp. I didn’t even hear him coming up behind me. I start to struggle—then freeze as the cold muzzle of a gun presses against my temple.

  “Attendance is mandatory,” he repeats. “Unless you’re at death’s door. I have no patience for people who don’t take our cause seriously. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.” I squeeze the word through gritted teeth. He releases me.