Mindstormer

by AJ Steiger

“That we’re the ones who pulled the lever?”

  He pauses. “Do you want me to tell them?”

  Maybe I should be proud of what we did. We saved the Blackcoats, after all. But when I think about those buildings exploding, my chest feels empty. In the end, we couldn’t fix things with words or ideas. Our only option was to blow it all up, along with the people inside. I hate that we live in a world where violence is so effective. “Up to you,” I whisper.

  He opens his mouth, then closes it again and simply nods.

  *

  The next morning, the Blackcoats assemble in the Hall. They all move in small, shuffling, careful steps, eyes huge and haunted. More than a few are clinging to each other shamelessly, like children lost in the woods. The Mindstorm has rubbed all the sharp edges off them, torn their armor apart, and reduced them to a bunch of shivering kittens.

  Less than half our original number remains, though maybe some of the injured are still in the med wing. I scan the group for familiar faces, wondering how many have survived; I spot Shana, though I can’t see Noelle anywhere. And there’s Ian, bruised and shaken but otherwise none the worse for wear. I find my way over to him, interlace my fingers with his, and clutch his hand. We don’t talk, just stand side by side, staring straight ahead. There are no words.

  Steven climbs onto the stage. His face is drawn and ashen, but he looks remarkably collected, all things considered. “By now, you probably all know what happened. This was an attack by IFEN. They used some kind of new secret weapon—Mindstorm—to screw around with our brains and sent in their soldiers to exterminate us.”

  I have to hand it to him—he has a way of getting to the point.

  “Rhee took down most of those soldiers, at the cost of her own life.” His voice grows a little husky, and he clears his throat. “She was able to buy enough time for us to fight back. We’re safe now. IFEN headquarters—along with the Mindstorm weapons—has been destroyed. As it turns out, IFEN made a big mistake in attacking us.”

  He pulls a remote control from his pocket and presses a button. The screen flicks on behind him, displaying images of chaos and destruction in Toronto. The streets are filled with abandoned vehicles. Stores have been broken into and vandalized, and shattered glass litters the sidewalks. A few people wander around with wide-open eyes and mouths, as if they’re still not sure who they are or what’s happening.

  “Apparently, the weapon didn’t just affect us, but the whole city,” Steven says. “Dozens of civilians flung themselves off of bridges or out of buildings. Needless to say, Canada’s not the biggest fan of IFEN right now. The Prime Minister just made an announcement declaring that the URA has violated the international treaty against weapons of warfare and must now be considered an enemy. Several other countries have offered their support of this decision.” He pauses. “What this means, basically, is that IFEN—and, by default, the URA’s government—is on the United Nation’s shit list. And that means the world is on our side now. Kind of. They’re not calling us terrorists anymore. They’re calling us a resistance force.”

  Stunned silence fills the room as the assembled Blackcoats absorb this new information.

  I stare at the images on the screen—ambulances wailing through the streets, shots of traumatized people in hospital beds. When IFEN’s new Director decided to use Project Mindstormer against us, he probably didn’t realize that the weapon would affect all of Toronto. Or maybe he did, and he was so desperate to wipe us out, he didn’t care. Either way, the Canadians won’t soon forgive this.

  If I had pulled that lever sooner, when I first discovered it, none of this would have happened. Rhee would still be alive. Those innocent civilians in Toronto would still be alive. Because I hesitated, they’re not.

  *

  Over the next few days, I watch the chaos unfold on the giant screen in the Assembly Hall. Now that the National Registry of Mental Health has been obliterated, the URA is in a panicked frenzy. The footage they show—fire, smashed windows, people looting and rioting in the streets—looks like a pre-war documentary.

  I haven’t seen Aaron since that last announcement. I wonder if he’s even still alive.

  The Blackcoats in the URA come out of hiding and swarm the streets. There are battles—vicious shootouts between Blackcoats and police, snipers picking people off from windows. In Oceana, one of the five great cities, the Blackcoats seize control, drive out the IFEN sympathizers, and erect a crude government of their own, consisting mostly of militias and common law courts. The media coverage shows them marching in lockstep and adds scary music, just in case we didn’t get the message that these are dangerous people.

  Meanwhile, IFEN is desperately scrambling to re-establish control. With the computer system wiped out, collars are temporarily disabled, so the government has resorted to imprisoning thousands of people in hastily erected internment camps, with the promise that they’ll be freed once the emergency has passed. Blackcoats immediately start attacking the camps and freeing the prisoners, most of whom join their ranks.

  It’s all-out war.

  Steven makes another announcement proposing a new plan: gather up all the supplies we can carry, steal a few cargo trucks, and head for the border, then use the tunnels to get back into the URA and join up with the Blackcoats in Oceana. Join the fight. The plan is met with thunderous applause.

  The air has shifted. For the first time since Zebra’s death, there’s a sense of anticipation, of hope. But it came at a heavy price.

  ‌

  38

  “What the hell are you moping about?”

  The voice jolts me from my reverie, and I look up, blinking. I’m sitting in the hallway, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to my chest. Shana stands before me, hands on her hips.

  “I’m not moping. I’m just…” I stop myself and cast an annoyed glance at her. “Why do you care, anyway?”

  “Because this is our last night in the Citadel. The rest of us are having a party in the mess hall and you’re sitting here staring at your stupid hand-stump. Your glassy-eyed face is pissing me off. You look like a dead trout.”

  I’ve barely spoken to anyone except Steven over the past few days, but now, something in me snaps. “People are dying in droves, if you didn’t notice. Am I supposed to be happy?”

  She rolls her eyes. “In case you forgot, this is what we wanted. For the first time, there’s a chance that our side actually might win. So yes, you should be happy. You should be dancing the fucking can-can.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. “Haven’t you seen the footage of what’s happening down there in the URA? It’s hell.”

  She snorts. “The URA has been hell for a long time now. Maybe not for your kind, but for the rest of us, this is the first ray of real hope we’ve had in years. Yeah, people are dying, and that sucks, but has there ever been a war where innocent people didn’t die? We have the chance to create a world that’s actually worth living in, a world that’s not complete and utter shit. And you’re sitting around here stewing. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I look away. Of course, she doesn’t know that Steven and I are responsible for setting off the bombs. Most of the Blackcoats assume the explosions were something programmed by Zebra before his death.

  And then a thought occurs. Is Shana actually trying to comfort me?

  “Look, if you want to sit here and marinate in misery, that’s your business. I’m just saying. People keep asking where you are.” A pause. “Steven’s there, too. Remember him? Your Pookie? God knows what he sees in you, but he’s annoying as hell when you’re not around. He acts like some mopey, lovesick puppy.”

  “He does?”

  “You didn’t know this? You’re even thicker than I thought.”

  Warmth rises into my cheeks. Steven’s been withdrawn and quiet over the past few days, even when we’re alone, and I know he’s feeling the effects of this as much as I am. He’s probably not in the mood to celebrate either, but still, he came to the par
ty. The least I can do is be there at his side. Slowly, I push myself to my feet. “Fine. I’ll come.”

  “Try to contain your excitement.”

  I follow her down the hall. My mind seems to be floating somewhere outside my body. From ahead, I can hear the sound of laughter and voices raised in song. An old song, one I haven’t heard outside of historical documentaries: “From every mountainside, let freedom ring!”

  Someone shouts, “Here’s to the new American Revolution!”

  Whoops and applause.

  “I’m not going to say thank you, you know,” Shana says.

  “For what?”

  “I never asked you to save me, that time. So if you’re waiting around for that—”

  “What, the hostage exchange? I wasn’t expecting any thanks.”

  She stomps along, hands shoved in her pockets. “You probably did it just so you could feel smug and superior afterward.”

  Is it my imagination, or are things different between us now? Her verbal abuse seems less abusive, more like an inside joke, of sorts. “You’re right,” I say, very seriously. “I did.”

  She blinks, caught off guard. Then a tiny smile tugs at one corner of her mouth. It’s fleeting, but it’s something.

  “Shana, can I ask you a question?”

  “It better not be some self-righteous philosophical shit.”

  “No. About your holomask. What kind of rodent are you supposed to be?”

  She gives me an utterly scandalized look. “I’m not a rodent. I’m a honey badger. They’re the meanest animals that ever lived. They’ll take on a lion. They eat poisonous snakes and bees. If you mess with one, they’ll bite your fucking face off. And don’t you forget it.”

  I turn my face aside to hide a smile. “I won’t.”

  We keep walking. In the mess hall, the Blackcoats have broken into a rousing chorus of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” another song I haven’t heard outside of the occasional history lesson. “And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air…” A song about war. Maybe that’s why it always struck me as a little bit sad—but still beautiful, somehow. War is always ugly and brutal, yet there are things worth fighting and dying for. Worth killing for.

  IFEN has always taught us that human history, with its numerous conflicts, is largely a product of mental illness. But maybe they see human nature itself as fundamentally ill. On some unconscious level, I always accepted that—the idea that all our problems could be framed in terms of symptoms and brain scans.

  Except that’s not how true understanding works. To understand someone, you have to throw away your delusions of objectivity and immerse yourself in their world, to see through their eyes and feel through their skin, even when their actions horrify you. It’s not an easy thing for anyone to do. I’m still not comfortable with the Blackcoats—not entirely—but I feel like I get them now, at least a little.

  A knot in the core of my chest loosens. For the first time since I pulled that lever, I start to feel like maybe I didn’t make a mistake. Maybe this will all work out for the better.

  Even so, there’s a dead spot deep inside me, a small pocket of emptiness. It will probably always be there. What I did can never be erased. I will carry it inside me for the rest of my life.

  When we reach the mess hall, talk and laughter envelops me. Three tables have been pushed together in the middle of the room. A ring of candles flickers atop it, and a huge, three-tiered cake sits in the center, slathered with white frosting and dotted with plump strawberries. There’s a plate of eclairs, too, and a huge bowl of chocolate pudding topped with mounds of fluffy whipped cream. The spread is ridiculously lavish, especially considering that our food supplies are finite, but I suppose the occasion calls for it. Ian is passing out slices of cake on plastic plates. He’s smiling, which catches me off guard. After the Mindstormer attack, I’d privately wondered if any of us would ever smile again.

  Shana grabs a plate and starts shoveling cake into her mouth, dismissing me. I spot Steven sitting at the end of the table, and all other thoughts fall away. He stares into space, a plastic cup of golden liquid in one hand, an untouched slice of cake sitting on a plate in front of him. His hair is mussed, his cheeks flushed. I wave. His gaze connects with mine.

  I approach. A few hands slap my back in greeting, but I ignore them, my gaze fixed on Steven. The candlelight reflects in his eyes and on his hair. “You came,” he says, almost shyly.

  “Of course I did. I wasn’t about to miss the fun.”

  Someone passes me a half-filled cup—whiskey, from the smell. I open my mouth, intending to politely turn it down, then stop. Oh, why not? How often do I get to celebrate the dawn of a new era? I tip my head back and take a swig. The whiskey burns my throat, and I cough and splutter.

  Steven sits up straighter, alarm flashing across his face. “Lain, are you—”

  “Fine,” I gasp. Do people really like this stuff? My eyes are watering, but I smile and raise my cup high into the air. “To America!”

  “To America!” everyone thunders back. They break into another rousing verse of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Only half the people singing seem to know the lyrics, and the others are faking it, but no one seems to mind. They stand with their arms slung around each other and their cups upraised, swaying to the melody.

  I sit next to Steven and take another swig from my cup. I’m prepared for it this time, so I don’t cough. The taste is still foul, but I like the way it feels in my stomach, warm and tingly. Like fire spreading through my middle, making me glow.

  The flush in his face brightens as he gazes at me. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers.

  “You’re drunk,” I whisper back.

  He gives me a lopsided smile. “You should take advantage of me.”

  I let out a small, breathless laugh. He does look adorable like this, with his cheeks pink and his eyes all sparkly and heavy-lidded from the whiskey. I reach up, take his face between my hands, and kiss him full on the lips. The crowd cheers and wolf-whistles. I ignore them and keep kissing Steven, slowly and thoroughly. I pull back, breathless, to tuck a curl of hair behind his ear. My hand brushes against his dark coat, which is open, revealing the T-shirt beneath. I slide a hand over his chest and feel his heart beating under my palm. “Have I ever told you how handsome you look in this coat?”

  His heartbeat quickens. His eyes take on a smoky glint. “Do I?”

  “Practically edible.” I lean in and nip his ear. The whiskey’s made me bolder than usual. I should probably be careful with that stuff.

  For a few minutes, we take turns feeding each other bites of cake, which is sticky-sweet and filled with strawberry cream. Steven gets a bit of frosting on the tip of his nose, and I wipe it off with a finger, then lick it clean.

  He turns his head and places his lips against my ear. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We slip out of the mess hall. It’s not difficult—the crowd’s attention has already shifted away from us, though a few more wolf-whistles follow us out, making me blush. As we step into the hallway, Steven stumbles, and I hook an arm around him. He leans against me, his head lolling on my shoulder. We keep walking, and his feet seem to go in every direction. “You are very drunk,” I say.

  “’M fine. Jusht—just need a second.” He slumps against the wall, hiccups, and clamps a hand over his mouth.

  “I think you need to lie down.”

  I help him back to his room and ease him into bed. I start to pull the covers over him, but he catches my wrist and brings my hand to his lips. He kisses each of my fingertips, then the center of my palm, then nuzzles into my hand like a cat. “Stay with me,” he whispers. He slips his arms around my waist, looking up at me with those soft, hungry eyes. His lips are still damp from whiskey and kissing, slightly redder than usual. He looks so beautiful, and at the same time, so lost.

  I take off my shoes and lie down in bed next to him. “I’ll stay.”

  He relaxes against me, eyes slipping shut. He
pulls me closer, but then he just presses his face against my neck, hiding there. “What happens when all this is over?” he asks quietly. His slur has disappeared, and I wonder if he was pretending to be drunker than he is. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to get away from the party.

  “The war, you mean?”

  “Everything.”

  I swallow. Gently, I touch the soft, warm skin at the nape of his neck, where his hair is a little longer and curls just slightly. “I don’t know. But we’ll figure something out.”

  “Yeah. We made it this far.” His hand rests against the small of my back, and his eyes move in little flickers, lingering on each of my features in turn, as if he’s trying to burn me into his memory.

  I lean my head against his shoulder, breathing in his scent. Rain and smoke and the ocean. Steven. How could I ever have forgotten this? Even now, the memories are in fragments, and I have trouble putting it all in order, but I remember enough to know that he’s part of me. He always will be.

  We stretch out in his bed, arms around each other. Our bodies are pressed together, so close that I can feel every movement. He brushes a hand along the curve of my neck. In the dim light, I can just make out his features. “You remember the day we met?” he asks. “In the parking lot, outside the school. You were wearing that white winter coat. Your hair was in pigtails, and I remember thinking… God, seriously? Pigtails?”

  “What’s wrong with pigtails?”

  He laughs. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He rests his cheek against my hair. “All around us, everything was rainy and dirty-looking, but you were so clean, like none of it touched you. It made me… I dunno. Angry, almost. That you were here in this shitty school when you could be anywhere you wanted to be. Like you’d come there just to show off how clean and perfect you were. But then I really looked at you, at your eyes. And I saw…” He sighs. “Sorry. I’m no good at this stuff.”

  I prop my cheek against one fist. “I thought you were doing fine.”

  He drops his gaze, smiling.