Mindwalker

A. J. Steiger majored in Fiction Writing at Columbia College, Chicago, and her lifelong interest in psychology and social justice issues led her to write
Mindwalker
. This is her debut YA novel and its sequel,
Mindstormer
, is to follow. She lives in Illinois, USA.

MINDWALKER

A. J. STEIGER

A Rock the Boat Book

First published in Great Britain & Australia by Rock the Boat,
an imprint of Oneworld Publications, 2015

This ebook edition published by Rock the Boat, an imprint of Oneworld Publications, 2015

Copyright © A. J. Steiger 2015

The moral right of A. J. Steiger to be identified as the Author of this
work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved
Copyright under Berne Convention
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-78074-724-8
ISBN 978-1-78074-725-5 (ebook)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
organizations, places, and events are either the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Oneworld Publications
10 Bloomsbury Street
London WC1B 3SR
England

 

I can barely see through the blood in my eyes. Blood soaks my clothes and hands. When I breathe in, pain flares in my chest. One of my ribs is broken. But I'm standing, which is more than I can say for my enemy.

He lies near my feet, wheezing, as blood spreads in a pool beneath him. He reaches for a gun at his belt, and I slam the butt of my empty rifle against his fingers. The man howls.

I feel sick.

He's a terrorist, I remind myself. No mercy.

“Please,” he whispers, voice rough with pain. “Please don't.” Still, his mangled fingers creep toward his gun. I ram my boot into his face, and a tooth flies out. His eyes turn upward, whites flashing. For an instant, I see my own terror reflected back at me, and I hesitate.

But I have my orders.
Leave none alive.
He wouldn't show mercy if our positions were reversed. This is war, after all. I raise my boot slowly over his head. Deep within me, a voice
cries out,
No!
But I can't stop. My body moves automatically as my boot comes down on his face.
Crunch.
I fight back nausea as I stomp down again and again.

He jerks. His body goes rigid, shuddering convulsively. Then he's still. I stand in the cement-walled basement of the terrorist hideout, alone with the man I've killed.

I don't cry.

There's a clear electronic
ding
, and a recorded female voice intones, “End session.”

My eyes snap open, but there's only darkness. Leather cuffs press into my wrists. My own ragged breathing fills my ears. Then the darkness recedes as a visor retracts from my face, and I squint at the sudden glare. All around me, the sterile whites and silvers of the Immersion Lab gleam.

For a moment, I don't know where I am or what I'm doing here. Then my identity settles back into my mind. Shakily, I exhale.

I'm Lain Fisher, seventeen years old. I'm in the Institute for Ethics in Neurotechnology. There's no blood on my hands. The dead man is just a memory, and not even mine.

A machine beeps next to me, monitoring my heart rate and brain waves. I look over at the old man sitting in the padded reclining chair next to mine. My client. His visor retracts, and his rheumy blue eyes stare at the ceiling. Through our connection, I can feel the tension in his body, but his thoughts are perfectly silent. Maybe that's how he's dealt with the pain for so long—by simply not thinking. Functioning automatically, like a machine.

It's a good thing he can't hear
my
thoughts. I don't think he'd like the comparison.

I mutter, “Release,” and the leather cuffs snap open. I slide my helmet off, and cool air washes over my sweat-drenched head. “That's all for today,” I say. “The mapping stage is almost complete. The modification will begin next session.”

He sits up with a grunt. His face is weathered and lined, his chin peppered with stubble. “And after that, I won't remember the war?”

“That's correct.”

“Why does it take so long, anyway?” There's a note of accusation in his low, scratchy voice, as if he thinks I enjoy wading through images of violence and death. “Why can't you just do it all at once?”

I've already explained it to him, and an angry response bubbles up in my throat. I bite my tongue, remind myself that his surly demeanor is just a defense mechanism, and force myself to reply calmly, “It's a complicated process. I need to experience the memories first so I'll know how to navigate them later, when I start the actual procedure. You're almost done, though. Just one more session.” With shaking fingers, I brush a few strands of hair from my face. “How are you feeling?” I'm supposed to ask that question after every immersion session.

His gaze jerks toward me. His lips press together, and his eyes narrow. Without a word, he hobbles out of the room.

I lean back in the chair, my limbs weak with exhaustion. In my head, I hear the crunch of bone as my boot—no,
his
boot—slams into the man's face.

I've never killed anyone. I've never been attacked by a mob and beaten within an inch of my life. I've never watched a child die in front of me. But I've lived through the memory of all those things.

I remind myself that the events I just witnessed happened decades ago, during a brutal chapter of our country's past. I try to tell myself that it's just like watching video footage, but it's not. I
felt
it, all the fear and rage, the heat and wetness of blood and the sickly sweet smell of it. My hands are still shaking. I want to go home and curl up under the covers with Nutter, my stuffed squirrel.

The wall screen winks on, and a woman's face peers out. It's Judith, one of the session monitors. Her brow wrinkles with concern. “Doing okay?”

I force a smile. “I'm fine.”

“Maybe you should call it a night.”

I rub my forehead. “Maybe. I've got a calculus quiz tomorrow.” The last thing I care about right now is calculus. But if I want to be a Mindwalker, I have to learn how to compartmentalize my emotions. I have to show everyone that it doesn't faze me, and that means keeping my grades up and my life together.

I climb out of the chair.

“Lain …”

I look up.

“You know, you're still young,” Judith says. “You have a lot of time to figure out what you want. You don't have to push yourself so hard.”

This again.

I wish people wouldn't be so concerned about me. That's probably an awful thought to have, but their worry always makes me feel helpless. Like they can smell my weakness. “Thank you, but I'm all right.” Without giving her time to reply, I walk out of the room.

As I make my way down the narrow white hall, I overhear Judith talking to someone, her voice muffled behind the closed door of the control room, where she observes data from the sessions. “It's so hard on these kids,” she says. “And the program is still so new. We don't know what the long-term effects will be. The strain on their minds, their emotions …”

“They're the only ones who can do it,” a man replies—another session monitor, whose name I can't recall.

“Yes, but still …”

I don't want to hear the argument, so I keep walking. The dying man's face flashes through my head. Bloody meat, shattered teeth, glints of bone. A violent cramp seizes my stomach, and bile climbs up my throat. I press a hand to my mouth, squeeze my eyes shut, and struggle for control. At last, the urge to vomit recedes.

I open my eyes and freeze. Ian stands in the hallway, clad in a simple white robe with a cream-colored cord around the waist, the same thing I wear. Once we've survived our jobs for a year, we'll get a black cord. I smooth my robe, self-conscious, wondering if my distress shows on my face. “Ian. I—I didn't think you'd be here today. Did you have a client?”

“I was supposed to. Didn't get very far, though. This guy wanted to forget his ex-girlfriend. He walks in talking about how awful she is and how his life will be so much better once she's out of his head. Then, halfway through the pre-session counseling, he starts bawling and runs out, saying he's going to call her.” He rolls his eyes.

I laugh, but the sound comes out a little choked.

He studies my face. “Rough one?”

I nod but don't elaborate.

Ian rubs a hand over his head, which is shaved bald, except for a fuzzy red stripe running down the center. He can't wear his usual leather and fishnet here, but as hard as they've tried, IFEN can't make him change his hairstyle. They tolerate it because he's the whiz kid, their golden boy. “Anything I can do?” he asks awkwardly.

“Just remind me that it'll get easier.”

He doesn't say anything. Instead, he curls an arm around my shoulders. I tense, surprised. “It's all right.” His voice is a low murmur, almost inaudible. “No one's watching.”

Of course, we can never be sure of that. But he's the only person whose concern I really want, because he understands. We're in the same position—the only two initiates this year. There were three others at the start, but they've since dropped out, unable to endure. I close my eyes and allow myself to lean against his shoulder. He's warm. Solid.

I feel the tears building up, prickling in my sinuses, and I force myself to pull away. If I don't, I'll lose control.

He raises his thick eyebrows. “You know, it's normal to have feelings. You don't need to treat them like they're some kind of rash.”

“Easy for you to say.” I give him a weak smile and knuckle tears from the corners of my eyes.

“It's hard for me, too, you know.”

“Yes, but you don't show it.” Somehow, immersion sessions never affect Ian. The horror rolls off him, as if his brain is shellacked with some kind of horror-proof coating. “Seriously, how do you manage? Whatever techniques you're using, I should be copying them.”

He shifts his weight. “Just used to this stuff, I guess. I mean …
Mom's a drug researcher, so I grew up hearing about diseases and trauma.”

If repeated exposure is the only thing it takes, I should be a Mindwalking champion by now.

“Just think about the good you're doing,” he adds. “Remember all the people you've helped.”

“Thank you.” I breathe in slowly and force myself to straighten my shoulders. “Anyway, I should get home. I need to study.”

“You spend way too much time hitting the books. You need to unwind. I'm having a party at my place on Friday. Why don't you come?”