Mindwalker (40 page)

“One moment.” She blinks a few times. A file folder icon appears on the screen and enlarges. I gulp, throat dry, and slowly reach toward it. Words pop up.
OPTIONS: DELETE/UNLOCK
. Under each option is a small square.

My hand hesitates in front of the screen. He said it would open only for me. It must be coded to scan my fingerprint, whichever I select. My pulse drums in my ears. My finger hovers over the first option, then the second. My hand won't stop shaking. I start to reach for unlock. Abruptly, the screen vanishes. “Chloe? What's wrong?”

“Just one m-m-mo—” Her form flickers, then fragments into pixels, making her resemble a Cubist rendering of a cat. “I—I—I'm sorry. S-something is—” The pixels break apart and vanish, and I'm left staring at empty space. A chill penetrates my bones.

There've been occasions when she's frozen up for a few seconds, but nothing like this. “Chloe,” I say. My voice sounds small and soft in the silence. “Chloe?”

Nothing. I hurry over to the round hard drive on my desk and wave a hand over it, manually activating her program. “Display all files,” I say. A screen appears in the air. I scroll through the list of files, but all that remains is a basic operating system. Even the backup files have been deleted. Chloe—the data that composes her existence—is gone.

My heart beats faster and faster. My own ragged breathing fills the silence. It was Dr. Swan. He has to be the one responsible for this. He realized what was happening, and he activated some kind of emergency self-destruct mechanism.

He killed Chloe.

Hot rage bubbles up in my chest. I pound my fists against the desk, and the hard drive rolls off. “You bastard!” I scream at the empty room. I kick over a chair. My foot throbs, but I barely notice it. “Are you listening to me?” I shout. “You're a cowardly, evil tyrant! I hate you!” I stop, shoulders heaving, and bury my face in my hands. Then I fall to my knees, tears streaming down my face.

The choice is gone now. Without proof, what am I supposed to do? Even if I wanted to tell the world, who would believe me?

Ian's face flashes through my head. He's the one I always
talk to whenever I feel myself slipping into despair. I'm filled with a sudden, desperate longing just to hear his voice.

I grab my cell phone, which is still sitting on the dresser where I left it, bring up his number, and stare at it. I'm sure Dr. Swan is monitoring my calls as well; even if I'm careful about what I say, just talking to Ian is risky. But I'm not strong enough to resist the need. I select
CALL
, and he picks up after one ring. “Lain? Is that you?” I hear the urgency in his voice.

Of course. I disappeared without giving him any indication of where I was going or when I'd be back. The secrecy was necessary, but guilt still burns me. “It's me. Sorry for worrying you.”

“Never mind that. Where've you been? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Kind of. It's … hard to explain.” I stop and close my eyes, struggling for control. “Can I—can I come over to your place?”

“You can come over anytime,” he says. “You know that.”

A lump fills my throat, and I have to swallow repeatedly before I can whisper, “Thank you.”

“I'll see you soon.” He waits for me to hang up.

Downstairs, I throw on my coat, then walk out the door and down the street. The back of my neck prickles, as if I'm being watched. Someone from IFEN is probably tailing me—Dr. Swan would not be so careless as to let me wander around without a chaperone—but right now, I'm beyond caring.

I walk to the nearest monorail station, where crowds mill about. A shabbily dressed, fierce-eyed woman with a collar sits huddled on a bench. Next to her is a boy with the same dark, curly hair—her son?—no older than eleven or twelve. He has a collar as well. It's not uncommon for teenagers to be given
collars, but I've never seen one on a boy that young. What could he possibly have done to warrant it? Are they loosening the rules about collaring minors?

Mother and son squint at me suspiciously, and I realize that I'm staring. I turn away and find myself facing a wall screen displaying an advertisement for Somnazol, the familiar image of a pink pill against a plain white background.
WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS
, says the tagline.

Caroline Mackey's grim, hollow-cheeked face floats through my mind—the Woman Determined to Die. Odd that I think of her now, someone I don't even know. My vision drifts out of focus as I wait for the mono, my thoughts meandering. Mackey has a perfectly rational wish to die, yet because she's a Type One, she can't find a doctor who'll prescribe her the death pill. Yet if that woman with the collar applied, she'd almost certainly receive one. Her son would be placed in a state home, and once he got out, he'd probably go the same route. What other path
is
there for those society has abandoned? Memory modification is expensive, and Conditioning doesn't affect Type once it gets high enough.

A chill washes through me.

When I first sat down with Steven in the Underwater Café, he asked me if I'd ever treated a Type Four, and I said no.
They don't want us to get better,
he replied.
They want us gone.

I've known all along that Somnazol is readily handed out to Fours and Fives but withheld from the mentally healthy. I never thought much about that fact, because it seemed logical, albeit coldhearted. Of course doctors would be more reluctant to destroy a stable, functional person. Of course they'd be more inclined to prescribe Somnazol to those they perceived
as disturbed and incurable. I rebelled against the idea that anyone was incurable, yet I never questioned the deeper ideology.

I think about Marv, the man on the street corner handing out flyers and screaming,
The government is breeding us! They're breeding us like cattle!

I start to shake.

The facts have always been right in front of me. Yet now, for the first time, I feel the truth forming in my mind. It's like looking at one of those optical illusions, those pictures that can be two different things, and experiencing that moment when perception suddenly shifts.

Is this what Dr. Swan meant when he said he wanted to test my ability to accept unpleasant realities? Is this the ugly truth he's planning to unveil when he thinks I'm ready?

I can almost hear his calm, logical voice in my head: Eugenics
is a word we've been trained to loathe, but this isn't about wiping out a particular race or ethnicity. What is so evil about wanting to reduce the frequency of mental illness in the population? It's a well-known truth that Type is influenced by genetics. We aren't harming anyone—we're giving people the option to end their own suffering. It's a fortunate side effect that fewer mentally sick people are born as a result. If that can produce a better, more peaceful world for everyone, how is that a bad thing?

I struggle to slow my breathing.

It seems almost stupidly obvious. IFEN is using selective breeding to create a more easily controlled population—and it's all done through targeted advertising and medical propaganda, no government interference required. While Fours and Fives die in droves, Type Ones are encouraged to clone themselves, producing little model citizens and eliminating the risk of giving birth to a future deviant or rebel. After all, genetics
have a strong influence on our choices. That's why Dr. Swan is so sure he can manipulate me—because he thinks I am my father. He controlled my father for years, using his compassion against him, reminding him that fighting back would hurt innocent people.

A dull roar, like a waterfall, fills my ears, drowning out the noise of the station. The Somnazol ad blurs in front of my eyes. I am being watched, I know, but I can't stop myself. I draw back a fist and punch the screen, as hard as I can. Again, and again, until my knuckles are bruised. The screen flickers and goes dark.

The woman and boy stare at me, eyes wide. “Don't ever give up,” I tell them. “Don't end yourselves. It's what they want.”

With my ears still filled with that deafening roar, I board a monorail and take a seat in the back. I'm quivering with fury, but my head feels clear for the first time in days. Maybe the first time in my life.

I was fooling myself to think I'd ever be able to change a corrupt system from within. The system will not allow it. I have to fight Dr. Swan—to reveal the truth.

But if I do, Steven will die. The thought goes through me like a jagged-edged knife, ripping me open from throat to stomach, and I have to dig my nails into my arm and focus on the pain to stave off panic.

When I see Ian's penthouse apartment through the window, glowing like a jewel in the night sky, I rise to my feet. The monorail stops, and I get off.

He's waiting for me in the living room, sitting on the couch. I open the door, and he stands. For a moment, we just
look at each other in awkward silence. I manage a strained smile, which he returns. “It's been a while,” he says.

It hasn't actually been that long, but it feels like an eternity since I last saw him. I was another person. “Yes. It has.”

He closes the distance between us and hugs me suddenly, tightly. I lean into the embrace automatically, because it's Ian, and he's always comforted me—and for a second or two, I feel like the girl I was. I hide my face against his shoulder, and my tears soak through his shirt.

“You're in trouble, aren't you?” he asks.

I give a tiny nod.

“Tell me.”

“I can't—” My voice cracks. “If I do, you'll be in danger, too.”

“Lain …” He pulls back, gripping my shoulders, and looks me in the eyes. There's a determined glint in his stare. “You can talk to me. There aren't any listening devices here, and I already know more than you might think.”

I shake my head, breathing hard. “You don't understand—”

“Please.” His voice softens. He touches my cheek, very lightly. “Let me help you.”

I feel my resistance crumbling. “I don't even know where to start.”

“Sit down.”

We sit on the couch together, side by side. I rest my head against his shoulder and tell him everything. He listens. When I pause, he offers a quiet “Go on,” but aside from that, he's utterly silent. If he's shocked by anything he hears, he doesn't show it.

When I finally stop talking, I'm exhausted, drained, empty. I feel light. It's an incredible relief just to
tell
someone.

“What are you going to do?” Ian asks, his tone neutral.

“I know what I should do.” I clutch his shirt. “But if I don't obey Dr. Swan, he'll kill Steven.”

“What would Steven want?”

Of course, I know what Steven would want. He would want me to fight back, even if it cost him his life or his mind. He told me as much. And I know, deep in my bones, that going against his wishes in order to keep him safe would be an act of supreme selfishness—an unforgivable betrayal.

I think about the mother and son in the monorail station, wearing matching collars. I think about those six little brains floating in formaldehyde. I think about Debra, her tears, her rage. About the soldier who wanted to forget the war. About all the dark truths that have been forgotten, over the years.

There's more at stake here than Steven's life or mine. The public deserves to know about St. Mary's. No—they have an obligation to know, to face the atrocities their leaders have committed. Even if my father and Dr. Swan were responsible for what happened, it happened only because they—as agents of IFEN—acquired so much power. Their titles and status gave them an aura of godliness in the minds of the public, a cloak that allowed them to discard ethics and manipulate the truth. The blood is on all our hands because we gave them that power.

“I have to tell people,” I whisper.

As the words leave my mouth, pain rips through me again, gutting me. Losing my father nearly destroyed me. Losing Steven will be ten times worse—because I'll know that I caused
it, that I killed him. How will I exist after that? How will I keep breathing?

I squeeze my eyes shut and press a hand to my mouth.

There's a long pause. Then Ian says quietly, “There might be a way to save him.”

My head jerks up. “What?” I'm afraid to believe, afraid to hope. “How?”

Ian stands and begins to pace. “You're supposed to erase his memories tomorrow, right? You just walk in, like you're supposed to. Except instead of modifying his mind, you pull an ND, knock out whoever's guarding you, and walk away with Steven. Of course, you'll have to leave the country after that if you don't want to end up mindwiped, but I can get you a car. Hell, I've got a spare. My mom bought me a new one for my birthday a few months ago, before she lost her job.”

I stare at him, stunned. Is he
serious
? “No offense, but have you lost your mind? For one thing, where would I get an ND?”

“Here.” He pulls a slim silver pen from his pocket and hands it to me. “Just push the button on the side and hold it down. It's not as strong as a real one, though, so you have to shove it right up against the other person. But it should do the trick.”

My mouth opens and closes as I try to process the flood of questions in my brain. “Ian … I appreciate it, but a plan like that just won't work. This isn't a spy thriller. The place will be crawling with guards, not to mention other Mindwalkers and their patients.”

He leans toward me. “It
will
work if you time it right. When the truth comes out, it'll cause chaos. There'll be a window of opportunity when IFEN is preoccupied with trying to contain the leak and do some damage control. We can make that happen
once you're already inside IFEN headquarters. And in case that's not enough, I can help create a diversion.”

He
is
serious. Dear Lord. “I can't ask that of you. If you get involved with this, it'll destroy you. Your career, your future, everything.”