Mindstormer

by AJ Steiger

  Finally, he manages to wrench his wrists free and shoves me off. I sprawl across the floor. The back of my head bounces off the wall, and stars explode across my retinas. The breath has been knocked out of me, and for a long, terrifying moment, all I can do is lie on the floor with my mouth open like a beached fish, unable to breathe. Then the air whooshes back into my lungs. My head throbs dully.

  Steven stands over me, panting. As he stares, his expression slowly clears. “Lain,” he whispers.

  Slowly, I sit up, and dizziness rolls over me. I touch the back of my head, and my fingers come away stained with blood.

  Steven’s eyes are wide, dazed. “You’re hurt.” Slowly dawning horror fills his expression. “I hurt you.” His legs crumple under him, and he falls to his knees. I crawl toward him, and he flinches back. “No. Don’t—don’t come any closer.” He huddles in a ball, hands covering his face. “I’m not safe. I’m a monster. I’m—”

  I grab his wrists, pull his hands away from his face, and glare at him. “Stop that nonsense. Stop it right now.” My voice comes out rough, almost angry. My head still pulses, but the dizziness has passed.

  “You’re bleeding. Your head—”

  “Forget my head. I need you to promise me that you are not going to pull that lever.”

  He looks at me with wild, bloodshot eyes. “Don’t you get it?” his voice breaks. “If I don’t do this, we’ll all die. You’ll die. If I can’t keep you safe, then what the hell is any of it for?”

  My heart seizes up.

  He pulls back, rocking on his heels, and gathers his fists at the sides of his head. “You never would’ve come to this place, if not for me. And now IFEN is going to attack us, and I’m scared that I won’t be able to save you, I won’t be able to do anything. If I pull that lever, it’ll all disappear. I know you’ll hate me, but I can live with that, as long as you’re okay.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I reach out to lay a hand on his cheek, feeling the bristle of stubble against my palm. His breath catches. “I’ve fought too hard and risked too much to lose you now,” I whisper. “We’ve fought too hard.”

  He blinks, his eyes bewildered and shiny with tears. “Lose me? What—”

  “Just promise me. Promise me you won’t pull it.” I won’t let him take on this burden. Not for my sake.

  His Adam’s apple jerks up and down. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I promise.”

  I exhale the pent-up tension in my chest and sit back, feeling weak and shaky. “IFEN will bargain with us, once they learn about this,” I say. “You’ll see.” And if they don’t—well, I’ll think of something else.

  Rhee’s voice echoes in my head: Sometimes there are only two paths, and they’re both ugly.

  I push the voice away. If there are only two paths, then I’ll blaze a new trail. I’ll find a way to save us all without killing anyone.

  “I’m sorry,” Steven whispers. He huddles on the floor, head bowed.

  “Don’t be.” I pick myself up off the floor, then offer a hand to him. He blinks at it. “Come on,” I say.

  He takes my hand, and I help him up. The dazed, haunted look doesn’t quite leave his eyes as we walk up the stairs, out of the study and down the hall. “We should take you to the med wing,” he says. “Have them look at that bump on your head.”

  “I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt.” Well, that’s a lie—the back of my head is throbbing. But it’s the least of my concerns.

  He stops suddenly.

  “Steven?”

  He touches my hair, and his fingers come away stained with blood. Slowly, he curls his hand into a fist. He looks like he’s about to be sick. “Sometimes, I wonder if those doctors knew what they were doing when they put a collar on me.”

  “Am I really hearing this?” I face him, planting my hands on my hips. “You’re the one who convinced me the system is wrong. We gave up everything to come here and fight IFEN. Now you’re questioning your ideals? Because of this little bump on my head?”

  “I hurt you, Lain. Don’t act like that’s not a big deal.” His voice is soft, but his gaze is intense, unwavering.

  I exhale a frustrated breath and rake a hand through my hair, pushing it out of my face. “It was an accident.”

  His jaw tightens. “I spent my childhood being afraid of the people who were supposed to be taking care of me. I don’t ever want to be the guy making someone else feel that way.”

  “You won’t be,” I reply firmly.

  “Are you sure about that? You studied this stuff in shrink school. You know how it goes. Kids who’ve been hurt grow up and hurt other people. It’s like a virus that keeps getting passed on.”

  This might not be the best time for this conversation, but I won’t stand by and let him say things like that about himself. “Statistics are just statistics. They’re not fate.”

  “And yet I did become a killer.”

  I open my mouth, but suddenly, I can’t find words. After a beat, I say, “That was completely justified. Nicholas would have killed us.”

  “I know. That’s what I keep telling myself. But I keep seeing that moment, when he…” His eyes slide out of focus again. “Earlier, after we talked in my room, I said I was gonna go to training, but then I saw them shooting those holos in the simulation room, and I—I couldn’t do it. I kept remembering how much I enjoyed it before, and then thinking about Nicholas, and… I couldn’t stand the thought that maybe that’s who I am.” He gulps. “I’m afraid,” he whispers. “I’m afraid there’s something inside me that wants to hurt people. And that one day, it’ll hurt you. Really hurt you.”

  The throbbing in my head has subsided to a dull ache. “There’s no ‘it,’” I reply quietly. “There’s just you. Your past doesn’t define you. Your choices do. If you really were a cold-blooded killer, then you wouldn’t feel this way. You’re ripping yourself up inside over the death of a man you have every reason to hate. Because you’re a gentle person.”

  “Gentle,” he says incredulously. “That’s what you think?”

  “You try to hide it. But I know.” I stop, taking a breath. “If you had pulled that lever, it would’ve destroyed you. And I couldn’t bear that.”

  “You…” He lapses into stunned silence. “That’s why you stopped me?”

  I turn away, suddenly self-conscious. My cheeks burn. “We’d better go. People are probably wondering where we are.”

  We keep walking.

  “You really believe that?” he asks.

  “Hmm?”

  “That people can choose to be who they are.”

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  He walks with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “Sometimes. But sometimes I remember those days before I met you, when I’d wake up feeling like I’d been run over by a steamroller, like I was glued to the sheets. And I’d hear people on TV shows saying things like ‘happiness is a decision’ and ‘you can do anything you put your mind to,’ and I’d think to myself, what a crock of shit. When you’re in that place, the idea of free will starts to seem like a sick joke.” He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “You know what I mean. You’ve been there too.”

  I do know what he means. All too well. The memory of that dark time after Father’s death is still clear in my head. The pain was a living thing, a parasite eating me from the inside out, and the knowledge that I was so helpless in the face of my own emotions just made it worse. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger… Such a ridiculous statement. Pain humbles you, breaks you, carves away pieces of you, and leaves you as weak and fragile as a paper husk.

  And yet…

  “We both made the choice to keep living. Didn’t we?”

  “I had help,” he points out.

  “Even so. There may be some things beyond our control, but I believe we’re more than just puppets controlled by our brain chemistry.”

  “And if we’re not? What then?”

  “Then we might as well go on living as if we do have
choices. Because if we don’t, then nothing matters anyway, and we’re just here to eat and defecate and die.”

  A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “That should be on one of those motivational posters. Over a picture of an ocean sunset.”

  I smile back, just a little. And I find myself thinking, suddenly, about the first time we met. He had no one and nothing, and he reached out and asked me—a complete stranger—to enter his mind, plunge her hands into the clay of his essence, and rework him into something else. I can’t imagine the sort of courage it took. “I believe in you, Steven. I think you’ve already chosen the sort of person you want to be. And he’s wonderful.”

  His mouth opens. Fresh tears shine on his eyes, and his throat muscles flutter. He lets out a rough chuckle. “Gotta question your taste in men, Doc.”

  I stop, place my hands against his chest, and kiss him. His breath hitches. He tenses briefly, then relaxes, lips parting, and I feel his skin growing warmer. His stubble scrapes against my skin as he deepens the kiss.

  It would be so easy to lose myself in him. But there’s a decision to make, and we can’t put it off. I pull back, breathing hard.

  His eyes close, and I see him struggling for control. “So what now?”

  “We need to tell the others,” I reply, breathless. “About the lever.” There’s the problem of Burk, but once he learns about this, hopefully his suspicions about me will fall by the wayside.

  “And if they want to pull it?” Steven asks.

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Come to think of it, the other Blackcoats almost certainly will want to pull it. Why wouldn’t they? Their entire goal is to destroy the Type system. I shake my head, pushing the thoughts away. There’s no way I can keep something like this a secret—not with the Citadel in imminent danger. “I’ll talk them out of it. I believe there are other ways. This gives us an unprecedented amount of leverage—no pun intended.”

  “That was a pun?”

  “I’m just saying, IFEN has to take us seriously now. They have no choice but to bargain.” And if they refuse…

  No. I won’t let myself consider that. They will listen to us.

  The halls are silent, spookily still as we walk along, the ghost of our footsteps trailing behind us. I suppose everyone is still in training.

  Steven stops suddenly. His eyes lose focus, and he raises a hand to his chest, as if feeling his own heartbeat.

  I stop beside him. “What’s wrong?” Come to think of it, my heart is racing as well, and I’m not sure why. I look down at my hands. They’re trembling slightly.

  “You feel it too?” he asks quietly.

  I gulp. “What is it?”

  “Dunno.” He curls his hands into fists. “Something bad.”

  I close my eyes, focusing on the feeling. It’s difficult to put into words, but the more I think about it, the more nauseous I feel. There’s a sense of danger in the very air. It’s like looking at the sky and seeing clear blue, but knowing, somehow, that a storm is on its way. Clammy sweat dampens my palms. I want to get away… but get away from what? “Let’s just keep going,” I murmur.

  The ever-present electric lights hum overhead, but aside from that, I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary. Everything looks normal. Yet the hovering anxiety remains. It’s as if fears tucked away in a corner of my mind are suddenly growing larger, expanding, crowding out my thoughts. My breathing quickens.

  “This isn’t me, right?” Steven says.

  “No. It’s not you.”

  “Because it feels like a panic attack is about to hit, but if it’s both of us—”

  “Something is wrong. Something bigger.” Slowly, I lift one shaking hand to my temple. The walls waver around me, blurring and tilting.

  A dull boom shakes the world, and the floor vibrates beneath my feet, making me stumble. “What was that?” I ask, breathless.

  “Sounds like an explosion.”

  The main entrance. Without thinking, I start to run.

  Steven runs after me. “Lain, wait!”

  When we reach the entrance room, I stagger to a halt, panting. The door’s been blown open. The edge is singed black, still smoking, but there’s no one there—which means whoever blew open the door is already inside the Citadel. My thoughts whirl. This can’t be happening. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. We were supposed to have more time!

  And then the alarm goes off. It blares, filling the halls with sound and flashing lights. Burk’s voice emanates from the hall speakers: “We are under attack! Repeat, we are under—” His voice cuts off in a choked scream. The alarm falls silent.

  ‌

  36

  Steven and I look at each other, wide-eyed. “Shit,” he mutters.

  I nod in agreement.

  We turn and run back into the hallway. And suddenly, there’s chaos all around us—people bursting out of doors, shouting, footsteps thundering through the corridors, Blackcoats everywhere. They cock their rifles as they run past me, coats flapping behind them. Voices roar around me, filling my ears.

  “Battle stations, everyone!” a man yells. “This is not a drill! Repeat, this is not a drill!”

  I look around wildly, but I can’t see anyone who might be an enemy. Where are they?

  The crowd thickens, stampeding through the hall. I’ve lost sight of Steven. I cry his name. Someone bumps into me, and I lose my balance, falling against the wall. My eyes dart frantically back and forth.

  Where is he?

  I call for him again, but the din swallows up my voice. I push through the crowd, my own breath echoing through my ears. It’s like trying to swim against rapids. Bodies buffet me from side to side. The ominous feeling inside me is still building, swelling. Where’s Rhee? Where’s Ian? What do I do? I’m not even carrying a gun. Why is it so hard to focus? My thoughts are spinning around wildly, colliding and breaking apart like agitated molecules.

  I lean against the nearest wall and press a hand against my chest, fighting for breath. Whatever was happening to Steven and I a few minutes ago, it’s still there, and it’s getting worse.

  The room blurs and tilts, darkening, like something seen through tinted glass. For an instant, everything seems to be rushing toward me, and I can’t breathe, can’t move. Then a black wave descends.

  It’s not fear or even terror. That’s too mild a word. I open up my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. This is worse than the grief I felt when Father died, worse than the skin-crawling horrors of St. Mary’s, worse than being captive in IFEN headquarters, knowing the memory of Steven was about to be ripped away from me. My mouth is frozen open, silent. I can’t breathe, can’t think. My legs give out, and I fall to my knees. The world won’t focus. The hallway has transformed into a carnival mirror, a hellish parody of itself.

  In an instant, the wall in my mind breaks. The memories come rushing back—the white walls, the blinking lights and rows of switches, the unnaturally cool air under IFEN headquarters—and all at once, I understand what’s going on.

  This is it. This is Mindstormer.

  Dr. Swan claimed the technology wasn’t fully developed yet—not developed enough, perhaps, for the sort of subtle social control and thought manipulation that he envisioned. But enough to bombard us with waves of raw animal fear.

  All around, Blackcoats drop to the floor, clutching their heads. Moans and screams mingle with the constant blare of the alarm. The flashing lights blind me. But suddenly, it all seems far away and muted, like I’m in a dream. I’m falling into a dark abyss inside myself.

  I lurch to my feet and start to run. My body seems to be moving in slow motion, like the very air has thickened, resisting me. Every instinct inside me screams escape, but there’s nothing to escape from, nowhere to go. Everything is my enemy—the walls, the floor, my own heart pumping in my chest.

  I try to scream Steven’s name, but only a strangled whimper emerges. There’s something around my neck, squeezing.

  I nearly trip over a
Blackcoat, a young man curled into a fetal position on the floor. He’s bitten his tongue, and blood spills from his mouth; his body twitches and shivers in spasms. I stumble backward. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge me—he’s whining under his breath, small, frightened, animal sounds.

  The shadows on the wall stretch toward me like grasping black fingers, like tentacles. There’s a knife-hilt sticking from a sheath at the man’s hip. I yank it out and slash at the shadow-tentacles, but they keep coming, lashing and coiling around me. My skin burns where they touch. I rip free, turn around and bolt in the other direction, still clutching the knife. My vision keeps blurring, and the walls pulse and wriggle as if covered by thousands of insects. I pass another Blackcoat, a young woman crumpled against the wall, her face pale, staring blindly into space as she claws at her own neck, leaving bloody runnels in her flesh. Ahead, I spot a flash of green hair. Shana. She’s sprawled across the floor, gaze pointed at the ceiling, her eyes two empty holes, her mouth a black O.

  Shots ring out.

  I turn a bend, looking around wildly. The hallway is smeared with blood. It drips from the walls and pools on the floor. Dead bodies—more Blackcoats—lie sprawled like discarded toys. Dead. I still haven’t so much as glimpsed the enemy, yet they’re among us—an invisible, poisonous smoke, killing at will.

  My throat squeezes shut. I keep running blindly. The world is shrinking around me, the air pressing against me. A wave of dizziness slams me down, and I black out. When the darkness lifts, my cheek is pressed against the cool metal of the floor, and a voice is saying, “Lain. Lain, what happened to you?”

  It’s Rhee. We’re alone in the hallway. She helps me to sit up, propping my back against the wall.

  I try to speak, but all that emerges from my mouth is a weak croak. How can she even stand? Whatever’s happening, it’s not affecting her. I blink, struggling against the fog of terror. The world tilts and distorts around me. Her face slowly comes into focus. Her eyes are clear and intent. “Say something if you understand me.”