by AJ Steiger
I whimper.
She slaps my cheek, and the pain momentarily blasts the fear from my head. She frames my face between her hands, anchoring it. “Listen to me,” she says quietly. “Whatever you’re experiencing right now, it’s not real. Move through it. Past it. Do you understand?”
Tears blur my vision.
She grips my shoulder tightly. “They taught you how to compartmentalize your emotions, didn’t they? All Mindwalkers know how. Do it now. Think.”
I manage a tiny nod. It’s hard to think about anything with the black wave roaring through my head, gripping my body like physical pain. It’s not real. I repeat the words over and over to myself. My thoughts keep splintering into pieces. The walls are moving toward me. They’re alive, pulsing with malicious intent. I moan.
Then there are footsteps coming toward us. Heavy boots, slow, deliberate thuds. Rhee tenses, releases me, and draws her rifle from the holster on her back.
A group of uniformed men and women turn the corner. They aren’t IFEN soldiers. It’s difficult to focus my eyes, but I’m certain of that much. Their uniforms are not white, but dark gray, with helmets that cover their entire faces and armbands bearing a strange, red insignia: a human face divided in half by a lightning bolt. They’re all armed with enormous assault rifles.
I feel like I’m having a nightmare. Images are distorted and blurred, sounds echoed—yet I can see and hear everything. I just can’t move.
“Who are you?” Rhee asks.
The newcomers look at each other through their dark-tinted faceplates. Then the one in front takes off his helmet, revealing the face of a dark-haired young man with a scar over his left eye. He smiles. “We’re soldiers,” he says, and I recognize his voice—he’s the one who made the announcement telling us to surrender or die. “Modified soldiers. Like you.”
Her expression goes blank. Uncertainty flickers in her eyes, and she takes a step back. “What?” she whispers.
“You are one of us, aren’t you? You must be, if you can still stand. No ordinary person can endure the Mindstorm.” He smiles. There’s a strange quality to his blue eyes. They’re bright and alert, yet somehow empty.
“She must be a survivor from the first wave,” a woman’s voice says from within a helmet. “She’s imperfect. Her modification was not complete.”
The man stretches out a gloved hand toward her. “Come with us. They can make you perfect. Have you ever felt like there’s an empty space inside you? Something missing? That’s merely an echo, a phantom pain. We can make that go away.”
Rhee doesn’t move. “You can’t be real,” she says flatly. Her eyes are wide, unfocused. “The—the experiments were abandoned. I’m the last one.”
“The first set of experiments was abandoned,” he corrects her. “Because the technology was still undeveloped.”
She’s breathing fast. Her hands tremble slightly on the gun. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen her on the verge of losing control. “I thought I was alone,” she whispers.
“You’re not alone.” He holds her gaze. A cool fire burns in his dark blue eyes. “You don’t really want to stay with them, do you? Look at these creatures.” He gives me a disdainful glance. “They’re ruled by blind animal fear and pain. It drives everything they do. Their very identities are constructed around the desire to avoid it. All you have to do is excite the neurons in their amygdala, and they’re reduced to helpless, quivering bundles. But we—we have slipped our chains.” He takes a step forward, hand still outstretched. “Come with us. We’ll kill the rest of these rats, then go home. You’ll like it there. They’ll give you everything you’ll ever need.”
Slowly, she lowers her gun.
My cheek is pressed against the hard, cool wall. I stare helplessly through the fog of terror, unable to move or speak. Help me, I think.
She doesn’t look at me as she walks forward, toward them.
“That’s right,” the man says gently. “Come home—”
Abruptly, she whips her gun up and starts firing. Thunder fills the air. Blood spreads in a wet patch on the man’s chest. He blinks, an expression of mild surprise on his face, and falls backward. The others reach for their guns, but not fast enough. Blood spatters the walls, and two more soldiers go down. A bullet grazes Rhee’s arm, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow.
More soldiers appear, filling the hall. She charges, bullets spraying. Rhee’s body jerks from the impact as a bullet hits her, then another. Still, she keeps going, and unstoppable juggernaut. The soldiers keep coming, and she keeps killing them.
Time seems to stretch around me, so she’s moving in slow motion. When she runs out of bullets, she discards her gun and pulls two long, serrated knives from the sheaths at her hips, then she rushes forward again toward the third wave of soldiers. Corpses litter the hallway like leaves. Six of them, seven of them, eight, a dozen. Her clothes are drenched with blood, and she’s still fighting—spinning, thrusting, kicking, stabbing. A dance of death.
She’s incredible.
When it’s over, she’s the last one standing. Blood drenches the hallway; it smears the floor and drips from the walls. She exhales, shoulders slumping, and sheaths her knives. Her legs crumple beneath her, and she collapses.
For a few seconds, I don’t move. Somehow, miraculously, I’m unhurt, weak and shaky but whole. She protected me. Tears slide warmly down my face. Then my gaze focuses on the motionless form in front of me.
I crawl forward. “Rhee…”
Wet, raspy breathing echoes through the silence. She blinks at me a few times. Blood soaks her clothes and hair and stains her skin. So much blood. Already, her eyes are starting to cloud over, and I know—with a cold, sinking feeling—that there’s no chance of saving her. I reach for her hand and clasp it. Her fingers are slick, wet and warm. “Hold on,” I whisper. “I—I’ll find help.”
She gives her head a small shake. “It’s all right.” A smile twitches at the corners of her bloodstained lips. “I’m not afraid.” Her voice is growing fainter, but her gaze is fixed on me.
Tears mist my vision. I stroke her bloodstained hair, smoothing it back from her face. I don’t know what else to do.
She whispers a word, so faint I can’t make it out.
“What?” I lean closer, turning my head so my ear is close to her lips. Her breath rasps, weak and wet.
“Live. You have to live.” Her voice is fading, falling away. “You…” She lets out a small sigh.
I pull back. “Rhee?”
She blinks one more time. Then her eyes go still.
I used to think that Rhee’s eyes were always empty. But I was wrong. As I see them turn truly blank, I realize how much was there before, how much I never saw. Tears drip from my face and onto hers. I remain where I am, sitting by Rhee’s side and clutching her hand. The black cloud of terror hangs over me, but anger burns through it.
They killed her. IFEN killed her.
Death cries echo through the hallways. There are other soldiers here, and the Blackcoats, paralyzed by terror, are helpless to fight back. If I don’t do something, stop this somehow, they’ll all be killed.
I think about IFEN headquarters, about the huge computers lining the walls in the secret room underground. And I know what I have to do.
Breathing hard, shaking, I push myself to my feet. I try to pick up one of the soldier’s guns, but it’s so large and bulky I can barely lift it. I let it fall. The knife is still lying on the floor—it doubles and triples in my spotty vision, then shrinks back into a single object. With trembling fingers, I pick it up. It’s something.
I start to walk. It takes all my strength, every ounce of my focus. One foot in front of the other. Waves of terror slam into me, trying to push me back down. Pain rips through my spine, splitting my back down the center, and I stumble, fingers clenching on the knife handle. Not real. The searing pain flays me open. My knees quiver and give out, and I retch. A thin, hot stream of bile splatters onto the floor.
If I can just fight the fear… if I can distract myself, somehow…
With a cry, I slash my own palm open. The pain is blinding and bright and real, and it cuts through the black haze like a flash of lightning. The knife clatters to the floor. The haze clears from my head as blood flows freely from my palm, forming a shiny red puddle.
I’ve cut myself deeper than I intended to, opening not just my palm, but part of my wrist—a flap of skin hangs loose, and blood runs in thick dark streams from a severed vein. The sight makes me momentarily dizzy, but it’s something to focus on. I squeeze my hand into a bloody fist and force my muscles to keep moving.
*
The room in Zebra’s study is just as I remember it—the rows of screens, the panels of blinking lights, and the huge lever jutting out from the central panel. With blood still streaming from my mangled hand, I lurch forward and reach out to grasp the lever. At the last instant, I freeze, fingertips trembling in midair.
If I pull this, it will destroy Project Mindstormer, and we’ll all be saved. Simple as that. So why am I still hesitating?
Because it isn’t that simple. If IFEN is wiped out in an instant, the URA will be plunged into anarchy. More war. More death. More fear and hate, and the cycle will continue. I’ll be a murderer. I’ll be the person who single-handedly destroyed the United Republic of America.
Yet if I don’t pull that lever, Steven will die, Ian will die. All the Blackcoats will die, and their deaths will be for nothing.
My fingers are stiff. I force them to unbend and curl them slowly around the plastic column. I struggle to think, to breathe through the crushing pressure in my chest.
Zebra’s voice echoes in my head: We are fighting for something more important than life itself.
And what is that?
Our souls.
My ears ring faintly. The world has gone slightly foggy. I’ve lost too much blood; I can feel myself slipping down a steep incline toward unconsciousness. I only have a few seconds left before I’m too weak to stand. And in that moment, I make my choice.
I’m not a rebel or a fighter, but I can do this much. I can shoulder the sin.
I pull, but the lever won’t budge. A ragged sob escapes my throat. I’m not strong enough.
And then there’s a hand over mine, covering mine, and I look up into Steven’s pale blue eyes. He’s pale, his face drawn, his breathing ragged and whistling through his throat, but he’s standing. He smiles at me, muscles tight with pain. “We’ll do it together.” His voice is soft, gentle and steady.
My throat swells up, so I can’t speak, but I hold his gaze with mine and give a tiny nod. “Together,” I manage to whisper.
“On the count of three.”
My pulse drums in my wrists and throat. “One.”
His fingers tighten on mine. “Two.”
“Three.”
We pull. There’s a brief resistance; then the lever snaps down and clicks into position. For a few seconds, the room is utterly silent, utterly still.
There’s a mechanical fwoomp, like a dozen machines starting up at once. A low hum fills the air, growing louder. I stare at the grainy gray footage on the screens as one by one, the buildings explode, white blossoms of flame opening, debris shooting outward. Windows shatter. Smoke pours into the skies. A dull, vibrating roar emanates from the speakers. There’s a thin, inhuman scream inside my head, cutting through my brain like a bright wire. And then it falls silent. The black cloud lifts.
All at once, it’s over.
Dizziness washes over me, and spots chase each other across my vision as I slump against the console. I press my hand against my shirt, trying to staunch the flow of blood, and it soaks through in a dark, wet, spreading patch.
Steven’s eyes widen. “Shit.” He pulls off his own shirt and wraps it around my wrist. “Hold on. Just hold on.”
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. So tired. I close my eyes. The blood is everywhere. Surely, a person can’t lose so much of it and live. On the edge of my consciousness, far away, I hear him calling my name, but I can’t find the strength to respond. I’m already sliding into the abyss. And all I can think is, Thank you, because if I have to die, this is exactly where I want it to happen—with Steven.
37
I open my eyes, mildly surprised to find myself still in the world of the living.
I’m on a narrow cot in a small room. There’s a stainless-steel sink in one corner, and a row of cabinets, and a table lined with bottles and surgical implements, which probably means I’m in the med wing. My right hand throbs, a dull, steady, red pain. I try to sit up, then sink back down as vertigo crashes over me.
“Hey,” says a familiar voice. Steven sits in a chair at the foot of the bed. He gives me a faint, wan smile. “Don’t try to move too much. You’re still weak.”
With my left hand, I rub my aching head. Vaguely, I remember the battle. I remember stumbling to the secret room beneath Zebra’s study and setting off the bombs. But none of it feels quite real. I might even believe it was a nightmare, if not for the pain in my hand.
Steven is alive and safe. I cling to that.
I don’t want to ask any questions, because I’m afraid of the answers. I want to lie here, not thinking. But I know that the longer I wait, the harder it will be. “Is everyone all right?”
“Relatively speaking. People are pretty traumatized. Half the Blackcoats are sedated right now, because they kept having panic attacks even after it was over, and the few who aren’t completely freaking out are keeping an eye on everyone else. I dunno why I’m okay. Maybe I’m just so used to trauma that I’ve developed calluses on my brain.”
A thought sparks, and my heartbeat quickens. “Ian—”
“He’s fine.”
I breathe out in relief. But the feeling is short-lived. “And Rhee?” I have to ask, though I already know the answer.
“She’s gone.” His voice wavers. He clears his throat. “Burk, too. There were other casualties—we’re still trying to figure out how many we have left. But we’re lucky to be here at all.”
“And the soldiers?” I whisper. “The ones from IFEN?”
“All dead. Once that—that thing stopped happening, we were able to fight back.” He hesitates. “Lain… do you know what it was?”
I close my eyes. “They called it the Mindstorm. Project Mindstormer. It… it’s something IFEN created. I saw it when I was in their headquarters.” It takes an effort to form words. “Dr. Swan told me it was a computer capable of influencing the human brain, even from a distance. But I didn’t know it was capable of… this.”
Steven’s expression hardens. “IFEN must have decided to take it for a test run.”
A bitter taste fills my mouth. Dr. Swan said that Mindstormer would only be used for peaceful purposes. To prevent violence, not inflict it. Maybe he really believed that. He should have known better.
I can see why IFEN kept this weapon a secret. Something like this should not exist. But a part of me has to admire the cleverness of their strategy. Use a long-distance mind-control device to paralyze your enemies with fear, then send in fear-immune soldiers to pick them off at their leisure. Unlike a chemical weapon or a bomb, it’s easy to contain the damage, at least in theory. They could use the weapon to wipe out pockets of resistance at no risk to themselves, and without endangering the lives of civilians.
Rhee’s bloodstained face flashes through my head, derailing the thought. A shudder grips me, and I meet Steven’s gaze. His eyes glisten with tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
An ache squeezes my chest. Rhee. I start to reach out my right hand, to take Steven’s, and then I see—I no longer have a right hand. Just a bandaged stump.
Steven lower
s his gaze. “I tied a tourniquet around your arm to stop the bleeding. It kept you alive, but it cut off the blood flow completely. They couldn’t save the hand.”
I stare stupidly at the stump, as if my hand might rematerialize at any second.
“But it’s okay,” he adds quickly. “They have amazing prosthetics in Canada, right? They can get you a new one, and it’ll be just as good as the old.”
My arm flops weakly to my side. My right hand burns and throbs. “I can still feel it,” I say. My voice sounds distant, faint.
I remember the soldier talking about phantom pain. Of course. Just because something’s no longer there doesn’t mean it can’t hurt.
I close my eyes and imagine curling the fingers of my nonexistent hand into a fist. It feels so real, even if it’s just a memory. They must have pumped me full of drugs while I was asleep; otherwise, I’m sure the pain would be a lot worse.
Steven touches my cheek. I open my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says again.
I manage a weak smile. “It’s just a hand. I have a spare. See?” I hold up the left one.
For a few minutes, we just look at each other. His eyes are glossy and reflective with tears, his face pale, smudged with a bit of blood on one cheek from I don’t know where, and his hair is in disarray. I start to raise my right hand, to touch his cheek, and the bandaged stump looms in my vision again. It took me all of ten seconds to forget, and the sight surprises me anew. I start to laugh. I can’t help it.
He blinks. “Lain?”
My arm falls to my side, and I keep laughing, though it starts to sound like crying after a while. Tears roll down my face. Steven hugs me close, and I cling to him.
He smoothes my hair, whispering into my ear that everything is all right, everything is going to be okay. I cry against his chest, soaking his shirt, until I’ve heaved the last sob out of my chest, and I’m left feeling light and empty, like I might float away. “Are you going to tell them?” I whisper.
“What?”