Mindwalker (39 page)

Numb, I retreat to my room and curl up in bed, hugging Nutter.

No matter how I look at my situation, I can't see a way out. If I don't erase Steven's memories, Dr. Swan will destroy his entire mind, which is no different from killing him. It's not even a choice. I can't let him do that, no matter what Steven himself wants.

If I cooperate, he'll have a new beginning, a chance to live without the pain weighing down his every step. We won't be together anymore, but at least I'll know that he's safe.

But those children
…
Lizzie
…

I think about the brains in the refrigerator, and I shudder. Dr. Swan is a horrible person, but I can't deny the logic of his argument. The truth easily
could
spark a wave of riots and terrorism. And what if he's right about me? What if I really do have the potential to become the director someday? If I can change IFEN from the inside, I can ensure that the horrors of St. Mary's are never repeated. Would it really be so bad to let all that pain and ugliness fade into oblivion? If no one remembers, it's almost like it didn't happen. No dead children, no lies, no betrayals. Is there even such a thing as truth, or just a consensus of memory?

Are these the kinds of thoughts that kept my father silent all those years?

I close my eyes, feeling curiously empty.

“Chloe,” I say. I don't even know why I'm summoning her. Maybe I just don't want to be alone right now.

She materializes in front of me, smiling. “Hello, Lain!” she chirps. “You have a new message.”

I frown and sit up. I suppose it must be from Ian, or maybe one of my teachers, since I've been inexplicably absent from school. “Display it.”

She tilts her head back, and light shines from her eyes, projecting a screen into the air. In the corner is a small mailbox icon. I open it and stare at the subject line of the message.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LAIN.

That's right. I turned eighteen yesterday. So much has happened, the thought didn't even cross my mind, but I'm now
a legal adult. I don't recognize the sender's address. Is it from Greta? From someone at IFEN?

“Open it,” I say, and a text box pops up on the screen.

TO UNLOCK THIS MESSAGE,
ANSWER THE RIDDLE:
WHAT IS THE HAPPIEST FLAVOR OF ICE CREAM?

I draw my breath in sharply. For an instant, it feels as if the bed and floor have dropped out from under me and I'm suspended in midair. A memory bursts into my mind with shocking clarity—it's a brilliant sunny day, the sky a rich blue, and I'm walking alongside my father down a cobblestone path eating ice cream, licking away the melting rivulets that run down the side of the waffle cone.
Father, you know what's the happiest flavor?
I say.

With trembling fingers, I bring up the holographic keyboard and type:

APRICOT.

A new message pops onto the screen.

YOU ARE CORRECT!
CLOSE YOUR EYES AND COUNT TO TEN.

Trembling, I obey. Once I've counted, I look up. My mouth falls open. My vision blurs, and for a moment, I think I'm going to pass out.

Standing in front of me, smiling, is my father.

I sit on the edge of the bed, frozen, not breathing.

The moonlight shines in the window, around my father, shines
through
him. His form flickers, turning briefly transparent.

A hologram. It takes my brain only a second or two to register that fact, but in those seconds, I actually believe he's returned to me. I feel as if my chest has been ripped open.

“Hello, Lain,” he says quietly.

A weak sound, almost a whimper, escapes my throat. What is this? What's going on?

“As you can probably guess,” Father continues, “this is a prerecorded message. If you're hearing it, it means that I've been dead for some time and that you've just turned eighteen.” He smiles again. “Happy birthday.”

My eyes fill with tears.

“Once I finish recording this,” he says, “I'll upload it into Chloe's programming and set it to start at the proper time. And
once you've viewed it, the message will delete itself. So listen carefully.”

He looks the way I remember him in those last few months before his death—thin and weary, with stubble on his jaw, uncombed hair, and dark circles under his eyes. Yet his expression is calm. “I have no doubt that by now, you've grown into a fine Mindwalker. And I feel that as a Mindwalker, you have a right to know certain things. Things about IFEN, about our profession. About me.” He hangs his head and takes a slow, deep breath, as if gathering strength.

Tell me it wasn't you. Tell me you never did those things.

“Years ago, I became involved in something terrible—a series of secret, illegal human experiments carried out in a place called St. Mary's. The subjects were seven children.”

Deep inside me, a tiny pocket of hope withers and disappears. I knew. But still, I wanted to be wrong. For a moment, I think about stopping the message. It hurts too much.

“I am not asking for forgiveness,” he says. “What happened within those walls was unforgivable. But I want you to understand—” His voice catches. “When I initially became involved, I never imagined how far it would go.” The hologram flickers and blurs momentarily. “After the first death, I tried to put a stop to it. Emmanuel refused. He was the one in charge.”

“Dr. Swan,” I murmur. “I know.”

“I threatened to expose the entire thing,” Father continues. “I should have done it—gone public, then and there. If I had, the rest of those children might have been saved. But you must understand, Emmanuel can be very … persuasive. He convinced me that it was too late to turn back, that if we revealed the truth, all our efforts would go to waste, that the
sacrifice would be for nothing. A potentially life-changing therapy would be stopped dead in its tracks. Worse—we might lose the fragile peace we'd all fought so hard to maintain.” His jaw tightens. “I should never have listened to him. And yet … nothing he said to me was untrue. Because I cooperated, some good
did
come out of the horror. Neural modification therapy has already helped so many people. Had I come forward with the truth, it's doubtful that Mindwalkers would even exist now.” His eyes lose focus. “Was it worth it?”

The question hangs in the air between us. I can't tell if he's asking me, himself, or the universe in general.

“I've thought many, many times about confessing. Over and over, I came very close, but every time, I talked myself out of it. Who would it help? What would it accomplish? So I lived with the secrets, the shame. Eventually, my Type started to slip. As I record this now, I am a Three, and I consider it likely that I'll be a Four soon.”

The lines in his face seem to deepen. Weariness is etched into his brow, the corners of his mouth. “Emmanuel has repeatedly urged me to have my memories modified. I have refused. To forget the sins I've committed would be an act of cowardice. Because of my refusal, he no longer trusts me. At this point, I've become a danger to the secrecy of the experiments, a threat to be neutralized at the first opportunity. And it's not just the experiments I know about. There are other secrets. Secrets within secrets.”

I sit up straighter.

He stares off to the side, as if he's looking into some dark, faraway world. “This involves more than our past. It's about our future. I've seen things that I dare not speak of. It would
put you in too much danger. But I fear what might happen if certain ideas become reality, and I've been too vocal in my disapproval. If I turn myself over to IFEN for treatment, my mind will be molded and altered until I no longer know who I am or what I believe. They might make me forget even you … and that, more than anything, is a thought I can't bear. I won't let them into my head. As you know, however, Fours do not have much choice in what sort of treatment they receive. Soon they'll come for me.” He pulls a small pistol from inside his coat.

I press a trembling hand to my mouth. Tears spill down my cheeks.

“I would prefer to die as myself than live as their puppet,” he says. “This is my only means of escape. I wish there were another way, but if there is, I can't see it.” His fingers clench on the pistol's grip. “I know this will devastate you, Lain, and I am sorry. So very sorry. But I have faith in your strength. I'm sorry for making you wait so long to hear the truth. Perhaps it's selfish, but I want you to stay safe, at least for a little while longer—and truth can be a terrible thing to possess.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat, and I bite down on my wrist to contain it. He's right about that. All too right.

“When you hear this,” he continues, “you will be an adult. As an adult, you now have a choice to make.” He removes something from his pocket—a data chip, glittering silver. “I've already uploaded this into Chloe. It contains all the files on the experiments. In other words, proof. The files will be hidden and encrypted until this message plays, at which point they'll unlock—but only for you. You must decide whether to keep these secrets hidden or come forward.” His expression is grim.
“I realize that I'm asking too much of you. But I cannot allow my knowledge of the experiments to die with me. You are part of a new generation of Mindwalkers, and this decision can only belong to those who will inherit our world. But know this: if the truth
does
come out, there will be repercussions. It's no exaggeration to say that it will cost people their lives.”

It is too much. It's all crashing down on me. My breathing quickens. “Help me,” I whisper.

Of course he doesn't answer. He just stares straight into my eyes, as if he can see me. There's a complex look on his face—sad, tired, and hopeful all at once. “Trust your own mind, Lain. I believe in you.” He smiles again, and fresh pain sears through me, as if an old, half-healed wound has been torn open. “I have made so many mistakes. No—” He shakes his head. “
Mistakes
is too mild a word. I believed I could heal humankind with my discovery. And for the sake of that dream, I became a monster. For that hope, I took part in horrors you can't imagine. This is no less than I deserve.” His knuckles are white on the pistol. “I'm sorry that I'm not the man you believed me to be. But believe this, at least: I love you more than anything in the world. Whatever happens—whatever you decide—my thoughts and heart go with you.”

The pain fills me until I can't breathe. We're separated by death itself, standing between us like a barrier. Yet in this moment—for better or worse—I understand him more fully than I ever did when he was alive.

“The folder is called ‘Deliverance,' ” he says.

Then the image winks out, and I'm alone.

Slowly, I stand. I don't even feel my legs crumple beneath me, but the next thing I know, I'm sitting on the floor. The
grief is so intense, so all-consuming, that I can't even cry. I'm grieving not just for him but for myself, for my lost childhood. I'm no longer the girl who ran to him for comfort when she skinned her knees, the girl who clung to him after bad dreams, who laughed when he lifted her onto his shoulders, who idolized him. I can never be her again. I know too much.

For a while—I have no idea how long—I just huddle on the floor.

Dr. Swan lied. He told me that Father killed himself because he couldn't bear the guilt. But no—he died because he wanted to remain true to himself. It was the only way. I hold tight to that knowledge. It's all I have.

And then something else sinks in. Father chose to tell me. To entrust me with this. He believed in me that much.

I press my fists to my temples. Suddenly, the choice feels so much heavier. It's more than I can wrap my thoughts around.
If the truth
does
come out, it will cost people their lives,
he said.

“Chloe,” I say. She rematerializes on the bed, tail curled around her front paws. “Is there a folder called ‘Deliverance' in your database?”