Mindwalker (3 page)

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I'm not sure how to ask this.”

“It's all right.” Icy raindrops trickle under my shirt collar, down my back. My teeth are starting to chatter. And I'm wearing a coat. It must be worse for him. I glance at my car, which is parked just a few spaces away.

This might be a bad idea, but in spite of everything people say about him, I find I'm not scared. It's hard to be scared of someone when he's shivering like a half-drowned puppy. “Do you want to get out of the rain?” I unlock my car and open the passenger-side door.

His brows knit.

“There's a restaurant I go to sometimes after school,” I say. “We can talk there.”

His expression remains hard and blank, guarded. After a moment, he nods.

We get into the car. When I close the door, the dashboard lights up. “Take us to the Underwater Café.”

The car pulls out of the spot.

“Fasten your seat belts,” a clear female voice intones.

I fasten my belt. Steven doesn't.

“In the unlikely event of a crash,” the car continues pleasantly, “a safety belt reduces your risk of injury by forty-five percent. Please put it on, or I will be forced to stop this vehicle in accordance with city law.”

He rolls his eyes, buckles his seat belt, and makes a rude gesture at the dashboard.

I blink at him.

He clears his throat. “Sorry.” He sits, with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, back rigid with tension, as the car pulls out of the lot and down the street. “I don't trust these talking cars. One of these days, they're going to rebel and start suffocating us with their airbags.”

I let out a small laugh, and he looks at me in surprise. A faint flush rises into his cheeks.

What kind of sociopath blushes so easily?

The windshield wipers sweep back and forth as we drive. After a few minutes, the car pulls into a lot and stops. “We're here,” I say.

The Underwater Café is located in a more well-to-do part of the city. The buildings here are sleek, modern, and clean, and the cameras are concealed in bushes or decorative fixtures.
Drug advertisements shimmer across the sides of skyscrapers—smiling faces, brightly colored logos, and sprawling landscapes rendered in hundreds of tiny screens that constantly change, creating the illusion of movement. A group of laughing, attractive young men and women descend the steps of an elite-looking private university under the words

Unleash your potential with Lucid.

A dimpled, blue-eyed baby smiles from a NewVitro ad pleading:

Don't play roulette with my DNA!

No Somnazol ads here. You mostly see them in low-income areas.

I get out of the car. Steven follows me.

I lead him to the restaurant's entrance, which is tucked away in an alcove. Water flows between two thick panes in the glass door, as if the door itself is a waterfall.

Inside, everything is a cool, deep blue. A long, softly lit hallway and a set of stairs going down into the restaurant lobby. The walls shimmer, and bright holographic fish swim about the room. Steven waves a hand at one, as if to shoo it away, and his fingers pass through it. “Feels like we're stuck in a giant fishbowl,” he says.

“I like the atmosphere here. It's soothing.”

“Even with all these fake fish trying to swim up your nose?”

“You get used to them.”

We find a secluded corner booth, and I order a cup of chai tea on the touch screen tabletop. Steven doesn't order anything. He drums his fingers on the table. Looking at him, I have the impression of a ball of coiled energy. His movements are quick and jerky, like a bird's. Beneath his jacket, a rain-soaked T-shirt clings to his thin body.

A compartment on the table slides open, and my tea rises up on a tiny platform. I take a sip. “So, what's this about?”

He brushes his shaggy bangs out of his eyes, and I see that they're pale blue, translucent as stained glass. “There's something I want to forget.”

Slowly, I set my tea down. I'm not particularly surprised—why else would he seek out a Mindwalker?—but for a moment, I'm not sure what to say. Ordinarily, clients come to me through IFEN. No one has ever approached me directly. It's just not done. “If you're considering neural modification therapy, you should contact the Institute for Ethics in Neurotechnology. They'll get you started with the paperwork and a counseling session. I can give you a number to call. In fact, I can call them now, if you want.” I take my cell phone out of my pocket. He grabs my wrist.

I freeze.

“Don't,” he says, his voice very soft. He releases me, but I can still feel the outline of his fingers on my skin.

“What's wrong?”

“I can't—” He stops himself. “I don't want to deal with doctors and procedures and all that. I don't want anyone else to know about this. I just want to forget.”

I pull a few strands of wet hair from my face. My gaze catches on his collar. It gleams, a silver crescent wrapped
around the back of his neck, tapering down to narrow points that almost meet at the base of his throat.

The collar is hooked into the wearer's nervous system; it monitors blood pressure, heart rate, body temperature, and other biological data, feeding a steady stream of information to a computer in IFEN. It's someone's job to track all that data and keep a close eye on the people who are under heavy stress, the ones who seem liable to snap.

What is it like, knowing that no matter where you are or where you go, someone's tracking your biodata, scrutinizing your emotions?

I trace the handle of my cup. “This incident you want to forget, is it a relatively recent experience, or …”

“No. It happened when I was eight.”

“I see.”

He arches an eyebrow. “That a problem?”

“Well …it makes things more complicated. A recent trauma can be wiped away without affecting someone's personality much, but childhood memories are woven deeply into an individual's identity. And, you know, once memories are erased, they can't be recovered. It's not something to be done lightly. It will permanently change you, and it will affect your relationships with others as well.”

He lets out a short, harsh laugh. “You think I have
relationships
?”

“At least your parents …”

“Never met 'em.”

“Oh,” I whisper. No parents, no friends. He truly
is
alone.

He stares at the wall. “I don't know if you can help me or
not. Don't know why you'd want to, really. It's not like I've got any money. But I thought I'd ask. Just in case.” His thin, pale lips twist in a smile. “Hell, what have I got to lose?” He says it like it's a joke, but if it is, I don't get it.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “It's not a matter of what I
want.
I'm not licensed to perform unsupervised treatments. I'll have to talk to my superiors first. There are procedures for a reason, you know.”

His jaw tightens. “Do you know what I am?”

I find myself staring at the collar again. I'm pretty sure the question is rhetorical, but I answer, “You're a Type Four. Right?”

“How many Fours have you treated?”

I frown, thinking. “None, yet. But then, I'm still technically in training. Maybe once I'm more experienced—”

He shakes his head. “They don't give us fancy new therapies like memory modification. They don't want us to get better. They want us gone.”

“What do you mean?”

His gaze jerks away. “Never mind.” He starts to stand.

There's a little lurch of alarm in my chest. “Wait.”

He stops, then sits back down. His thin shoulders are tense, sharp beneath his jacket.

Steven's very nearly a stranger to me. There's no reason for me to go out of my way for his sake. It would be simpler to let him walk away. And yet … somehow, I can't. Maybe it's just that he's in need, and I've never been able to turn my back on someone in need. But there's something more, something about Steven himself that draws me. “Even if I can't erase your memories, I still want to help you.”

His eyes narrow. “Why?”

“You're suffering. Isn't that reason enough?”

“Who says I'm suffering?”

I stare at him.

A muscle twitches in his jaw. He breaks eye contact, and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. When he speaks again, his voice is so soft, I have to strain to hear it. “I don't think anyone can help me.”

The words spark something defiant inside me, a small, hot flame. “That isn't true. No one is beyond help.”

Still, he doesn't look at me. “So will you erase my memories or not?”

My mind races. A holographic clown fish flits past my face, distracting me. The low hum of conversation from other tables ebbs and flows in my ears.

Of course I can't do what he wants. I can't ignore rules and procedures and jeopardize my career. But I have the clear, inexplicable feeling that if I let him walk away now, I'll never see him again. I breathe in slowly. “I need some time to think about this.”

His arms are crossed, fingers digging into his biceps. “How long?”

“Two days. Will you meet me here again in two days, after school?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

I guess that's the closest thing to a commitment I'm going to get.

He starts to stand again, and I realize I don't want him to go. Not yet. “Before you leave, tell me one thing about yourself.”

He sits, looking baffled. “Like what?”

“I don't know. Anything. What do you like to do in your free time? Do you read, or listen to music, or …”

His brow furrows, and his eyes narrow slightly, as if he thinks the question might be a trap. “I draw,” he says at last.

“Really? What sorts of things?”

“Ponies and daffodils.”

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Sarcasm suits him. “Well, I do appreciate a good pony sketch. Next time we meet, will you bring a few of your drawings?”

“I don't have anything to bring. When I'm finished, I burn them.”

I blink. “Why?”

“There's no point in keeping them. I don't show them to anyone.”

“Well, why not change that?”

He squints, as if trying to see through an optical illusion, then gives his head a shake. “I should get going.”

“Here.” I unwind the scarf from my neck and hold it out to him. His expression becomes puzzled. “Take it,” I urge. “You're not dressed for the weather.”

“What about you?”

“I have a coat.” I stretch out my arm a little farther. “Just promise you'll bring it back. Okay?”

There's a flash of something in his eyes. Longing? Hunger? He starts to reach out—then stops. “You should keep it,” he mutters. “I can handle the cold.” He walks from the restaurant, and the door swings shut.

My arm, still holding the scarf, drops impotently to my side. A small sigh escapes me.
Boys.

A bill for the chai flashes onto my cell phone, and I pay
for it with a few taps of my finger on the screen. It occurs to me that I never even asked him about the memories he wants erased. Whatever they are, they must be terrible. By and large, people don't seek out Mindwalkers unless they're desperate.

It's still raining when I leave the restaurant. Steven doesn't have a vehicle. Is he planning to walk to the nearest mono station? It's three miles away, at least. Well, if he wants to get soaked and catch a cold, I suppose that's his business.

I slide into my car and shut the door. As the car pulls out into the street, I lean back, closing my eyes.

Steven Bent.
I repeat the name a few times to myself.

I
do
want to help him, but it's more than that. He intrigues me. Maybe because we're both outsiders at school, albeit for very different reasons.

Or maybe it's just the fact that he wanted to talk to me. Ian's the only boy I interact with on a regular basis, and I'm pretty sure he sees me as a little sister who needs protecting. The embarrassing truth is, I can't remember the last time a boy—or anyone, for that matter—actually approached me.

God, am I that pathetic?

Raindrops trail down the window. My reflection stares back at me from the glass, my face a small, pale, blurred oval, and I look away. I've never liked my reflection. Instead of what I
am,
I always see what I'm not. I see someone with a gaping hole in the middle of her chest, a hole that's invisible to the rest of the world, and I have to keep moving forward, pushing harder, or else the hole will grow and swallow me up.

“Will it hurt?” Debra sits in the reclining chair, looking up at me. The clear white lighting of the Immersion Lab makes her skin appear paler, her eyes larger and darker.

I give her a reassuring smile. “You may get a small headache afterward—nothing a few over-the-counter painkillers won't fix—but the brain has no nerves, so the actual procedure is painless. This sedative is just to relax you.” I swab the skin on her inner elbow, insert a needle into her vein, and inject the clear liquid.