by AJ Steiger
She stops in front of a box and opens it, revealing four blank walls and a floor scarcely wider than six feet. There’s a hole in one corner, presumably for bathroom purposes.
I stand outside the tiny, coffin-like room, breathing raggedly. Then I turn and bolt. I know I won’t get far, but I have to try. I haven’t gone twenty feet before a huge, crushing blackness descends on me, pinning me against the floor. I’m being squeezed, flattened like gum beneath the sole of a shoe. My arm is on fire. My legs twitch and shake. Then hands seize me, drag me across the floor and shove me into the cell. The door slams shut.
A tiny, dim bulb comes on overhead, but there’s no opening in the door, not even a crack, nothing to let in the outside light. I might as well be buried alive.
I sit down on the floor, which has a thin layer of padding. My own breathing echoes through the cell’s confines. The walls seem to be getting closer. I know it’s my imagination, but that doesn’t do anything to dispel the creeping panic. The urge to scream rises inside me again, clawing at the inside of my chest. The boxes are probably soundproof. I could scream for hours, and no one would hear me. No one would care.
Ian is safe, I remind myself. Rhee is safe. Steven won’t be alone. As long as they’re all okay, I don’t care what happens to me; I keep telling myself that. I focus on breathing, fighting back the fear that floods my head like cold, black water.
I don’t know how long I spend huddled in a corner of the box, counting my heartbeats. I study the walls and see long scratches gouged into the metal, places where former prisoners tried in vain to claw their way out. I shut my eyes and think about Steven—about his scent, his wiry arms around me. I can almost hear his voice. You can handle this, Doc. I know you can. Just keep breathing. His hands are warm, his thin, calloused fingers gentle as they stroke my hair.
I wish there was some way to send a message to him, to tell him how much he means to me, but it’s unlikely that I’ll ever have the chance to speak to him again. The words will remain locked inside me forever. I close my eyes and think, I love you. I put all my will and heart into the thought and imagine it flying through the ceiling, up through the floor above, and into the sky. I send it winging to the Citadel and pray that it somehow reaches him.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
*
The door opens with a metallic ka-chunk, and I blink at the sudden flood of light, shielding my face with one hand. Dr. Swan stands in the doorway, wearing a bone-white suit and flanked by two armed guards.
I never thought I’d be glad to see him. Though I suspect my relief will be short-lived.
“Well,” Dr. Swan says. “I must say, I was surprised to learn that you’d turned yourself in. Did you miss me?”
I don’t answer. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him at all.
Dr. Swan breathes a small sigh.
A guard prods me with an ND, and I stand slowly. I stare straight ahead as I follow Dr. Swan out of the vast room and into a tiny elevator. The two guards crowd in with us, keeping their weapons trained on me. We glide up and up, until finally, we emerge onto the roof of the building, where a helicopter waits, propeller whirring.
For an instant, I think about running toward the edge of the roof and flinging myself off. One of the guards notices the direction of my gaze and presses an ND between my shoulders, a silent warning.
I get into the helicopter.
Dr. Swan settles into the seat beside me, shuts the door, and glances at the dull metal bracelet. “We’ll leave that on for now. Just a precaution, you understand. They gave me a controller.” He holds up a small silver remote, the same device my guard used to shock me. “But I’d prefer not to use it. Don’t give me a reason to, and we’ll be fine.”
I don’t answer, don’t look at him. He leans over and buckles my seat belt. My skin crawls when his wrist brushes against my arm.
“Ready?” the pilot asks. He’s wearing IFEN white, but I don’t recognize him.
Dr. Swan nods.
The helicopter lifts into the sky. I watch the guards on the roof dwindle to tiny specks, then disappear. Area 9 becomes an oval of mottled brown and gray, then we’re soaring over rippled green forest interspersed with fields. The dull roar of the engine fills my ears.
Dr. Swan interlaces his hands, watching the land far below. He’s lost weight, I realize. His cheeks are hollow, his clothes loose, and his skin is paler than I remember. On his TV interviews, he managed to mostly conceal it with makeup, but this close up, it’s obvious that the stress has taken its toll on him. It appears he’s human, after all. “You’ve caused us quite a bit of trouble,” he says. “We’ve had to clean up a lot of messes, thanks to your reckless actions. Protests, riots, terrorist attacks. Higher Types always look for an excuse to see themselves as victims of a corrupt system.”
I can’t hold back any longer. “Maybe because that’s exactly what they are?”
His face remains expressionless. “IFEN didn’t make them criminals. Violent people have always existed. Sometimes it’s bad genes, sometimes a bad environment. Either way, their existence is a problem that must be dealt with. The collars have given them an unprecedented level of freedom. You’d think they would be grateful, but no.”
“Grateful?” I ask, disgusted.
He shrugs. “In the pre-Republic days, those same people would have spent most of their lives in prison or institutions. You’ve just seen for yourself what that’s like. You learnt in school about why the old system didn’t work—how it just made people worse instead of rehabilitating them, how it separated parents from children and husbands from wives, perpetuated the cycles of poverty and violence. The collars at least allow people to stay in contact with the outside world. Isn’t that an improvement?”
He has a bit of a point. But damned if I’m going to admit that to him. “You don’t know what their lives would have been like. In the past, people were only sent to prison if they actually committed a crime.”
“And it was a terrible system, one which resulted in countless, needless deaths,” he replies. “We tried freedom. It didn’t work. This is what we’re left with. The rest of the world is gradually coming to the same conclusion. If the Blackcoats had their way, our society would be reduced to rubble within a few years.”
I remember the Blackcoat thugs beating Aaron senseless, the fire and smoke of the explosion in Toronto, and a part of me wavers.
Then I think of Steven, of how hard he fought to survive against all odds, of all the prejudice and cruelty he endured. I think of his smile, the one he gives me when no one else is looking, brave and fragile at the same time. He’s one of those people whose existence Dr. Swan sees as a problem. And not just him—all the Blackcoats. No matter how damaged they might be, they constantly amaze me with their resilience, their willingness to keep living, to keep fighting. “You’re wrong,” I say quietly.
He raises an eyebrow. “Am I?”
I don’t respond. I grip the metal cuff on my wrist and wonder suddenly—what happened to Aaron? Is he still Dr. Swan’s protégé, or has he been cast aside for another replacement—me, I realize. I want to ask, but I don’t want to reveal the fact that I’ve met him. I won’t volunteer any information. “What are you going to do, anyway? Mindwipe me?”
“Of course not. What would that accomplish? We need you with your mind intact—more or less.”
“So you’re going to probe my memories for information. Well, you can try, but I doubt you’ll get anything valuable out of me. I don’t remember the location of the Citadel.”
“We already know where it is,” Dr. Swan replies dismissively. “At this point, I doubt there’s anything we could learn from your memories that we haven’t already discovered.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because you’re going to help us clean up the mess you created.”
I look at him from the corner of my eye. “I’m not going to cooperate with you.” But the words feel hollow,
and my mouth is suddenly dry. By now, I’ve certainly been declared a Type Five, which means Dr. Swan can do whatever he wants to me. No treatment is too extreme for someone deemed a threat to the country’s safety.
I start to tremble.
Dr. Swan watches me calmly. “Soon,” he says, “you’ll be on our side again.”
29
It’s dawn when the helicopter lands. From there, a car takes us to IFEN headquarters. It’s been so long since I’ve seen it—or at least, it feels like an eternity. The sight of the familiar white building looming against the pale, lavender-gray sky stirs a strange mixture of emotions in me. Not long ago, I worked here as a Mindwalker. Now, it feels like I’m looking back on someone else’s life.
As we drive closer, I see that there are people in the parking lot. Not just a few, but a small crowd, cordoned off by red velvet ropes and watched carefully by IFEN security guards wielding NDs. The crowd presses forward, straining against the ropes. As the car pulls into the lot, I notice that most of them are holding up cell phone cameras. Flashes go off here and there. My heartbeat quickens. Reporters. How did they find out that I’d been captured?
Dr. Swan swears under his breath. The car parks. “Walk quickly,” he tells me. “Keep your head down.”
As if I’m going to listen to him.
The driver circles around and opens the door on my side. He grips my arm, steering me out of the car, and I flinch away. For a moment, I think about making a run for it. But the driver is standing right there, holding a gun. I wouldn’t get far. Maybe it would be better to be shot here and now, in front of everyone. That would certainly cause a splash.
Except I can’t die—not yet. As long as there’s even the slightest hope of returning to Steven, I have to stay alive.
I square my shoulders, look straight ahead, and walk toward the building.
More flashes go off. Reporters shout questions, but I can’t make them out over the roar of the crowd. People are chanting, and a prickling chill washes over me as I realize that it’s my name on their lips. Fists pump in the air. A homemade sign rises up above the crowd: FREE LAIN FISHER. And another: TRUTH IS NOT A CRIME! Awe touches me as I realize—most of the people gathered here aren’t reporters, but protestors. They came to support me. Warm tears flood my eyes.
I raise a fist into the air, and the crowd goes into a frenzy, whooping and waving their signs. The guards form a line and push them back, brandishing their NDs.
Police cars pull into the lot, sirens wailing. A man with a bullhorn gets out of the first car and starts yelling. “This is an unlawful demonstration! All of you, get back!”
Hands shove me forward, toward the door.
The policeman keeps shouting: “Unless you have a media permit, you must leave the premises! We are authorized to use force!”
His shouts just seem to stir the crowd into a bigger frenzy. They surge forward, breaking through the red ropes. The police shove their NDs against protestors’ heads, and several fall to the ground, convulsing. The crowd walks right over them. Another policeman throws a softball-sized object, and clouds of orange gas erupt. I’m nowhere near the clouds, yet my eyes start to sting and water and my nasal passages burn. And still, the crowd pushes forward.
Then Dr. Swan shoves the main doors open, drags me through, and slams the door shut. A lock clicks. The thunder of the crowd falls silent, as suddenly as if someone turned off a television. If I strain, though, I can still hear them faintly through the thick Plexiglas.
Dr. Swan straightens his collar. There’s something red dripping down the side of his face. For a moment, I think it’s blood, then I see the seeds. Someone must have hurled a tomato at him. A giggle bubbles up in my throat, and I don’t bother to suppress it.
He glares at me, then the driver—who’s standing stiffly by—as if we’re somehow to blame for the indignity. He reaches into his pocket, fishes out a kerchief, and wipes away the mixture of juice and pulp. “Do you see what these people are like?” he asks. “Do you see what they’re capable of?”
“Throwing fruit? Yes, truly horrifying.”
His expression darkens. “Take a closer look.” He points to the seething crowd outside. I can barely see what’s happening anymore; it’s an explosion of flashing lights and orange gas. But I glimpse blood spattering the pavement. The clouds start to clear, revealing bodies strewn across the lot—some in civilian clothes, some in uniform. I can’t tell if they’re unconscious or dead. The remaining protestors and police are still brawling.
“This is happening all across the country,” Dr. Swan says. “Angry mobs attacking treatment centers, breaking windows, throwing rocks. Innocent bystanders are trampled by crowds. Citizens are afraid to go outside at night. This is what freedom means. This is what you’ve started.”
“No,” I say quietly, “this is what you’ve started.”
He snorts.
“Why are you even bothering to lecture me, anyway? You’re just going to Condition me until I agree with you.”
He takes a deep breath, smoothes a few errant strands of hair from his face, and hands the soiled kerchief to the driver, who tucks it into his pocket. “Conditioning will be the first stage. If it’s not enough, we will progress to other treatments.” He starts walking.
The driver presses a gun between my shoulders. I follow Dr. Swan. “Kidnapping and brainwashing me won’t help your public image, you know.”
Dr. Swan walks ahead of me, hands interlaced at the small of his back. “Deprogrammed. You’re about to be deprogrammed.” He says the word as if it should be in air quotes. “When we found you, you were violent and incoherent. We discovered you’d been subjected to torture and mind-control techniques in their headquarters, and we did what was necessary to bring you back to reality. That’s what the world will hear, after this is all over. That’s what you will believe.”
My nails dig into my palms. A weight fills my chest, pressing against my lungs. It’s a struggle to draw breath.
We reach a door. He keys in a code, and the door slides open, revealing a simple white-tiled room containing a chair and a screen. I recognize it. I’ve been here before, in this very room. After my father’s death, I voluntarily submitted to Conditioning.
The Conditioning Unit, as it’s called, resembles an MRI machine—an enormous white cylinder. The patient, usually restrained, lies on a padded table, enclosed completely by the machine, which uses magnetic pulses to stimulate or suppress different areas of the brain. For decades, it’s been an effective treatment for depression, anxiety, and other psychiatric illnesses. Conditioning has fewer side effects than drugs—and, of course, it’s not dependent on patient compliance—and as such, has replaced psychiatric medicines almost completely. In many ways, the treatment revolutionized the mental health industry.
Of course, there is one side effect—one which, IFEN quickly discovered, could be very useful. Patients are highly suggestible during treatment.
“Lie down,” Dr. Swan says, nodding toward the padded table.
I lunge for the door, and rough hands grab my arms, hauling me back. There’s a sharp sting in my neck, and my vision blurs. My limbs go limp, muscles turning to overcooked spaghetti. The guards shove me down to the table and buckle the restraints. With a whir, the table slides into the cylinder.
“I’ll adjust it to the strongest possible setting,” Swan says. “I suspect you’ll need it.”
The table clicks into place, leaving me completely enclosed inside the coffin-like white tube. Soft lights glow all around me.
My struggles have stopped. The drugs are pulling me down into a fog of apathy. As I hear the hum of the machine starting, I want to scream, but I can’t find the energy. I’ve never felt so utterly helpless. This… this should never be done to anyone against their will. It’s inhuman. “Please.” The word is a tiny whine; I hate myself for sounding that way, but I can’t stop. “Don’t do this.”
From outside the machine, I hear Dr. Swan�
�s muffled reply: “You’re being unnecessarily dramatic. This is therapy, not torture.”
Directly above my face is a screen, currently dark. A tiny star of light appears in the center of the screen, then expands out to show an image—a protest in the street. Broken glass glitters on the pavement, and people are screaming angrily, waving signs. The crowd surges forward, striking out blindly with their fists. The hum of the Conditioning machine fills my head, growing steadily louder, and a wave of weakness washes over me. I can barely feel my body. The fear and helplessness evaporate. I’m having trouble remembering why I was so afraid a moment ago.
In some distant corner of my mind, I know what’s happening. The first thing Conditioning does is to suppress the brain activity responsible for someone’s sense of self—the ego. The result is a disassociated state similar to that experienced with mind-altering drugs. My scalp tingles lightly, almost pleasantly, as more images move across the screen, more protestors rampage through the streets, though this footage looks grainy and old. It cuts to a shot of a building exploding. Screams.
A narrator’s voice, a soft, deep baritone, overlays the screams. “The terrorist group known as the Blackcoats has struck again, leaving a deep scar on our national psyche. War has been declared by an angry and troubled minority.”
Photographs of burned bodies appear, one after another. Protestors surge through the streets, mouths open in angry roars. Their faces shift and blur, contorting, until they’re the faces of animals—hyena-like jaws gaping, eyes glowing yellow. Images of the dead and wounded float across a charred cityscape.