Mindwalker (4 page)

Debra's eyelids droop. Her head rolls to one side as I tape gauze over the needle puncture. Gently, I slide her helmet into place, then settle into the chair next to hers. Her lips are parted and relaxed, and her quiet breathing echoes through the silence.

She's only sixteen, the youngest client I've ever had. It feels strange, working with someone close to my own age. She's easier to talk to than the girls at school—maybe
because
she's my
client. I don't have to stand there racking my brain for something to talk about, feeling my palms grow hot and damp, wondering if I'm making a fool of myself. It's all professional. Simple.

For our past few sessions, I've been carefully mapping the network of memories she wants erased. And now, finally, it's time to perform the modification. I've already done one this morning—Mr. Banks, the soldier who wanted to forget the man he killed during the war. It went very quickly and smoothly. I should have time to finish Debra's procedure before school. “Are you ready?”

She looks up, and I see my face reflected in her eyes—two little Lains staring back at me. “This is the right thing to do, isn't it?” she whispers.

The question catches me off guard. “Isn't this what you want?”

She exhales slowly. Her eyelids slip shut. “Yes. I'm sorry. Go ahead.”

For a moment, I wonder if I should delay the session—but no. Debra's had plenty of time to make the decision; this hesitation is just last-minute jitters. And she has a very good reason for being here. She was seriously abused by her stepfather as a small child, and has suffered from psychological problems ever since. Who wouldn't want to forget something like that?

I slide the visor down over my eyes. Under the helmet, my scalp tingles, as if electric ants are crawling beneath my skin. A shiver runs through me, and I focus on breathing. As the connection opens between us, I relax and sink into her mind.

Some say it's impossible to take images and feelings from one brain and accurately project them into another, that something
is always lost in the translation. Even so, immersion—the experience of diving into another person's thoughts—is like nothing else in the world.

The first contact is a shock, like jumping into cold water. Then the shock melts into a warm, allover tingling. Every nerve is alive with tiny hot-cold darts of electricity. I feel the tension in her muscles, her heart beating in her chest, and in that moment, I am not one but two people. Vertigo sweeps over me.

Which one am I—Debra or Lain?

I clutch the bracelet on my left wrist, and the vertigo dissipates.

A recorded voice intones, “Begin session.”

I place my arms on the armrests, and padded cuffs close over my wrists with a soft click. A pair of identical cuffs snaps shut over Debra's wrists. When I first started doing immersion sessions, I recall, the restraints felt creepy. Now they give me a feeling of security. Immersion is a state of mind similar to dreaming, and can result in hypnagogic jerks—the sudden, involuntary motions that occur as a person is falling asleep. The cuffs simply make sure that I won't knock off my helmet midsession.

My breathing slows as I sink deeper. I have the sense that I'm floating. Behind my closed eyelids, my inner eyes open, and I see pathways glowing a soft green against the darkness. They form a complex map, splitting and feathering out into thinner pathways, like veins or tree branches—my own mental representation of Debra's psyche. I follow the main path toward a cluster of shining green orbs. The first memory. I reach out and touch the cluster, and the world shimmers and
blurs. There's a sensation of falling, a jolt, then a dirty living room swims into place around me. I'm huddled in a corner, panting, terrified. A dark form looms over me. Rough hands grab me, haul me to my feet, and slam me against the wall. My head bounces off it, and pain shoots through my skull. My vision wavers.

Lain. I'm Lain Fisher, seventeen, student at Greenborough, Mindwalker. I'm not really here.

My identity settles into place, and the panic recedes.

Compared to the mapping sessions, the modification itself is fairly straightforward. I can move through memories more rapidly, because this time, I'm not a passive observer. I take control of the scene, then will it out of existence. I watch the horrors blur like watercolors, watch the pain dissolve into nothingness.

Erasing memories is something only Mindwalkers can do. It takes training, of course, but to some degree, it's an innate talent. Not everyone can learn it.

Terrified screams and angry roars fade into silence. The pain disappears. Her stepfather's face grows fuzzy, softens into a featureless blob, then melts into clean, blank whiteness. It's a satisfying feeling, obliterating the pain, bit by bit; it reminds me of being a child, popping bubble wrap. I'd sit there for hours, squeezing the little plastic pockets, listening to the
pops.

I move into another memory.

Debra trembles, begging through her tears. “Please, please don't.” She tries to run up the stairs, and a hand grabs her arm, fingers digging in like talons. The hand drags her down, and heavy blows thud into her body. She curls up on the floor,
hands over her head. A fist slams into her face, and pain explodes through her eye, a red starburst. Then the memory grows hazy, fades, and disappears.
Pop.

Debra lies awake in bed, listening to voices scream downstairs. She's afraid to close her eyes, afraid to move. There's a heavy crash, then another. Then begging. Mama's voice. Then sobbing and more angry screams. Ugly words echo in her ears, harsh as the scraping of metal on rock. She bites down on her knuckles and squeezes her eyes shut.

Pop.

Of course, if I just erased the memories of the trauma itself, the job wouldn't be complete. She'd still remember the pain indirectly, through the various incidents connected to it, and the contradiction would cause a schism in her consciousness. I move deeper, following the glowing green pathways of her mind.

Debra's in a support group, heart knocking against her sternum, trying to muster up the courage to speak. But when she opens her mouth, only a faint squeak comes out. She looks up and locks gazes with a girl on the other side of the circle. The girl smiles and nods encouragement.

Pop.

I keep going. I move through a saga of misery, memory by memory, until at last, every trace of the trauma is gone, wiped neatly away.

When I'm finished, I remove my helmet, then Debra's. She blinks soft, unfocused eyes. A tiny crease appears between her eyebrows. Slowly, she stretches, like someone awakening from a long sleep. She sits up in the reclining chair, then slumps forward,
her long black hair falling around her face like a curtain. One pale, trembling hand lifts to touch her forehead. “Where am I?” Her voice is thick, slurred.

“You're in a medical facility at IFEN—the Institute for Ethics in Neurotechnology.”

“Am I… hurt?”

“No. You've just had a procedure, but you're fine.”

She starts to stand. I place a hand on her shoulder and gently push her back down. The furrow between her eyebrows deepens. “I feel weird.”

“That's normal. In a few hours, you'll feel like yourself again.”

“What will that feel like?”

The question startles me. I don't know how to respond. “Your mother is in the waiting room,” I say instead. “By now, one of the session monitors has probably notified her. Would you like to go see her?”

There's a pause. Then Debra gives a small nod.

I help her into a wheelchair—standard procedure, since a client is usually groggy and light-headed after the final session—and roll her into the waiting room, which is the same clean white as the Immersion Lab, its edge ringed with black chairs. Debra's mother stands, clutching her purse, her eyes wide and anxious. “Debra?” Her voice quivers. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know.” Debra sits in the wheelchair, shoulders hunched, looking as frail as a lily. “I guess.”

Her mother's eyes fill with tears. She collapses against Debra and hugs her tight. Debra places a hand gingerly on her
mother's back and looks at me, confusion written on her face. I smile. “Don't worry. She's just relieved.”

Her mother beams at me. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She draws back, clutching Debra's hands, blinking her moist brown eyes. “Everything will be fine now. You'll see.”

Debra's mother fusses over her, smoothing her hair and clothes, but Debra barely seems to notice. She keeps staring at me.

The first few hours after the procedure tend to be foggy in a client's memory. In a little while, she probably won't remember this. Or me. But in her eyes, I can read a silent question:
What did you do to me?

I look away.

Judith pokes her head through the waiting room door. “Lain? Dr. Swan wants to see you.”

“Now?” I glance at Debra and her mother. Normally, Dr. Swan doesn't summon me while I'm with clients. “Can it wait?”

“I'll take care of them,” Judith says. “Don't worry.”

I walk down the hall, toward the elevator. Everything in IFEN headquarters is silver and white. The entire building was designed to create an atmosphere of cleanliness and serenity. There are small touches—potted tropical flowers, screens showing moving art of landscapes and seascapes—that keep it from feeling too sterile. But the overall impression is one of ruthless competence.
This is a place filled with highly trained people who know what they're doing,
it seems to say.
We're in charge, and it's natural that we're in charge.

Dr. Swan's office is on the top floor, just beneath the solid tip of the pyramid that is IFEN headquarters. The doors of the
elevator slide open to reveal another door, a huge one of solid mahogany, with his name and title engraved on a little silver plate. I knock.

“Lain, is that you?” calls a deep voice. “Come in.”

I enter.

One wall of the office is dominated by an enormous picture window overlooking the city. Morning sunlight pours in, illuminating bare oyster-white walls and a thick cream-colored carpet. The lack of décor gives the room a stark simplicity. There are no paintings or plants, just a blank white cube broken only by the window and a few pieces of glossy black furniture. My feet leave faint impressions in the thick carpet, as if I'm walking in fresh snow.

Dr. Emmanuel Swan—director of the Institute for Ethics in Neurotechnology, and my legal guardian since my father's death—sits behind a hulking desk of lustrous dark wood. Though he's only in his fifties, his hair is already white. Delicate webs of crow's-feet spread outward from the corners of his gray eyes, like wrinkles in fine, silky paper. He smiles and folds his large, veined hands on the table. “Have a seat.”

I sit in the black leather chair in front of his desk and fold my own hands in my lap. I've known Dr. Swan for years. Even before he became my guardian, he was a close friend of my father, so he's never been a stranger. And yet, during our routine meetings, I always feel a need to be formal.

Of course, he's in charge of my training, too. He's the one with the power to decide whether I have what it takes to become a full-fledged Mindwalker.

“Anything to drink?” he asks.

“No thank you.”

He pours himself a glass of water from a silver decanter on the desk. His hands look like they should be cast in bronze. They're animated sculptures, weathered and elegant, with prominent joints and knuckles. He starts with the ritual questions. “How is school? Keeping up your grades?”

I nod. “My GPA is 4.0.”

“Very good. And your training?”

“It's going well.”

He raises his bushy white eyebrows and pushes his lips into a shape that seems to imply a question.

I catch myself fidgeting and stop. “Judith says I'm making progress.”

He emits a low, noncommittal hum. “You've been practicing your compartmentalization technique?”

I nod. “Every night.” It's part of the training all Mindwalker protégés receive to cope with the psychological trauma of their work. It involves a series of complex visualization exercises—a process of locking memories away in a tiny corner of our minds, where they won't interfere with our day-to-day lives. I use an image of a wooden treasure chest hidden deep in a stone labyrinth.

Even with all these coping techniques, I still have flashbacks. But I'm not about to admit that.

He taps his thumbs together. “Lain …” He pauses, clearing his throat. “You're very talented. Very bright. But you are shouldering a lot of burdens. Especially for one so young.”

I tense. “All Mindwalkers start training young,” I point out. It's necessary to form the specialized neural connections while
our brains are still developing. “Ian's only a year older than I am.”

“True. But, as I'm sure you're aware, most initiates choose to drop out within the first year. It's a lot for a child's mind to bear.”