Mindwalker (41 page)

He smiles thinly. “My future's already fucked. You know that.”

“I
don't
know that, and neither do you.”

“Lain …” He pauses, as if trying to decide how much to say. Then he sighs. “You're not the only one whose life has turned inside out. I've already done things that could get me reclassified as a Three or worse if IFEN found out. I don't intend to get caught, but if I do, I'll deal with the consequences.” His expression is grim. He's just as pale and gaunt as I remember, but something has changed. There's steel in his eyes that wasn't there the last time I saw him.

“Ian,” I say quietly, “what happened while I was gone?”

He looks away. “I never told you, but by the time I threw that party where Steven and I nearly killed each other, I'd already been reclassified as a Two. I started poking around in message boards on the Deep Net—you know, those sites that aren't monitored because you can't find them with a normal search engine—and I stumbled onto this black market. I met someone who claimed he could sell me a device to fool the neuroscanners, get my Type back up. And my mom's, too.”

My jaw is hanging open. I snap it shut. “Is that … possible?”

“Sure,” he says. “It's a little implant in the roof of your mouth.” He opens his mouth wide and sticks a finger inside, pointing. I can't see anything out of the ordinary. “It emits
a signal that gives the scanner a false read, and most of the time, no one can tell the difference. Anyway, that's how I met Tiger.”

“Who?”

“Just someone I know.”

I study his eyes. It might be my imagination, but it seems as if their color has actually darkened. They look more black than brown. He's started growing his hair out, too; it's like reddish fur covering his scalp, slightly longer on top. “I still don't understand.”

“What?”

“Why would you risk so much to help Steven?”

“I'm not helping him. I'm helping you, because you're my friend. Isn't that reason enough?” The lines in his face are deeper, more pronounced than they were even a few days ago. “I know you. If he dies, you'll never forgive yourself. If you do what they want, you'll never forgive yourself, either. It'll destroy you. I won't stand by and watch that happen. This is the only way.”

Gratitude washes over me, so strong it brings tears to my eyes. I want to tell him how much this means to me, how much
he
means to me, but suddenly I can't find my voice. “Ian … I …”

“It's okay,” he says gently. “You don't have to say anything.”

I close my eyes, struggling to bring my thoughts into focus. “You know, even if I tell everyone the truth, it might not make a difference. There's no proof of what I've learned, no recordings, no photos. Nothing except—” I stop, mouth open as a thought strikes me.

“Except your memories,” Ian finishes. He smiles, and this
time, there's a spark of mischief in it, something of the old Ian. “But memories can be uploaded and shared.”

I pinch my lower lip, thinking. He's right, of course. With a client's consent, memories can be burned to disks and shared with colleagues for a second opinion. But this—this is something else. “You're talking about uploading my memories to the Net,” I say slowly. “Can that even be done?”

“I don't see why not,” he says. “Once they're converted to video-audio, they're just like any other file.”

“But I don't have a Gate anymore.”

“You know that guy I mentioned, Tiger? He can help us.”

I cling to the sofa, feeling like I might fall straight through the floor if I let go. “Exactly what kind of people have you been hanging out with?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You want to see for yourself?”

My heartbeat echoes in my ears. Ian's offering me a way out, a chance to save Steven—his memories and identity as well as his life. I can't possibly pass up that chance, even if it means getting involved in things beyond my control. But I have to act now. If I hesitate, I'll lose my courage. “Yes.” My voice emerges faint and breathless.

He nods once. His gaze focuses on the coffee table, and he says, “Ubu.”

A black sphere appears, floating a few inches off the table's surface, then opens a pair of tiny, cartoonish eyes and blinks. It's a holoavatar, though one much more primitive than Chloe. It projects a dim, greenish text box into the air, and a single word appears:

HELLO.

“I didn't realize they still made first-generation avatars,” I remark.

“They're safer,” he says. “They run on an older system. The newer ones all have a backdoor program that IFEN can use to spy on communications.”

That's probably what allowed Dr. Swan to destroy Chloe. A lump rises into my throat, but I choke it down.

Ian raises his voice. “Ubu, connect me to Tiger.”

Ubu replies:

CONNECTING.

Ubu blinks a few more times.

PASSWORD?

“?‘October Man,'?” Ian says.

ACCEPTED.

“What is that—” I begin, but Ian holds up a hand, requesting silence. I bite my tongue.

He looks at the screen. “Hi, Tiger. This is Fox.” As he speaks, the words appear on the screen. “You there?”

A pause. Then more words pop up beneath his:

I'M HERE.

“I need a favor.”

Letters scroll rapidly across the murky green background:

WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO TRADE?

“Information,” Ian says.

A few seconds pass, then a single word flashes onto the screen:

FORMAT?

“Memories,” he says. “Not mine. A friend's. Don't worry, she's trustworthy. We'll need a Mindgate and some way to upload the files. Can you do that?”

A brief pause. Then the reply:

YES.

My heart jumps. “How can we find you?” I blurt out.

The screen blurs and wavers. Another message appears:

MEET ME IN ONE HOUR.
TAKE THE NORTH DISTRICT MONORAIL TO PLATFORM 32.
I'LL SCRAMBLE THE FEED FROM SECURITY CAMERAS AT THE
STATION. IF YOU SEE ANYONE FOLLOWING YOU, GO BACK.
I'LL BE IN THE EMPTY LOT JUST OUTSIDE THE STATION.
BE SURE TO COME MASKED.

An instant later, the screen winks out.

“That's all, Ubu,” Ian says. “Erase the text logs and go to sleep.”

With a curt
GOODBYE
, the avatar closes his eyes and winks out.

For a minute or two, I sit in silence, digesting everything I just saw. Ian watches me. “What did he mean, come masked?” I ask.

“Hang on.” Ian leaves the room briefly and returns holding two black plastic hoops. They look almost like collars. “Holomasks,” he says. “There were a few people wearing them at my party, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” I pick up the hoop and examine it. “But why?”

“To hide our identities. None of us know each other's real names or faces. That's how we stay safe. If one of us is caught, IFEN can't extract anyone else's identities from our minds.”

“Ian …” My fingers tighten on the hoop. “Who are these people, exactly?”

One corner of his mouth lifts in a self-conscious smile. “Honestly, I don't know much more than you do. I'm pretty new to this stuff.”

I'm in way over my head, that much is obvious. But it's too late to turn back. I examine the unbroken circle. “So, how do I put it on?”

“Press the silver button and it opens. But don't put it on yet,” he says, tucking his under his jacket. “Wait till we get there.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and turns toward the door. “Ready?”

I've never felt less ready for anything in my life. My palms are slick with sweat, and my heart is about to jump out of my mouth. I'm so terrified, I feel almost giddy. “Yes.”

He hesitates, searching my face. “Lain …” He takes a breath. “You know that once you go public with this stuff, you'll be in danger. If IFEN gets their hands on you, you could
be mindwiped. Or worse. If you don't want that to happen, you have to be prepared to run. Once the truth is exposed, you'll need to get out of the country as fast as possible.”

Run. I'll be a fugitive. A refugee without a home. I close my eyes, fighting for self-control. “I know.” I give him a weak smile. “This is something I need to do—you said so yourself.”

His hands settle on my shoulders and gently squeeze. “I'll protect you from them.”

I look up, surprised. “How?”

“Trust me.”

Platform 32 is deserted—the station is near the city outskirts, in a run-down, infrequently used area. Pigeons infest the rafters of the dimly lit, white-walled station, their soft coos echoing through the silence. Rows of benches line the floor.

Ian snaps open the black plastic hoop and closes it around his neck. A bubble-like shimmer surrounds his head, and a moment later, the head of a fox materializes where his own used to be. I'm expecting it, but I still gasp. It's shockingly realistic, down to every last whisker and strand of russet fur. He blinks golden eyes at me and nods, as if to say, Go on

I snap the plastic hoop shut around my throat, and there's a faint hum. When I glance at my reflection in a puddle of oily water, I see the sleek white head of a canary where my own head should be. Its round, dark eyes blink. I hold up my still-human hands and contemplate them. “I look like a genetic experiment gone wrong.” My voice comes out tinny and
much higher than normal. apparently, the mask also comes equipped with voice-distortion software.

Ian laughs, a warm, startling sound. I can't remember the last time I heard him laugh. “You get used to it.” His voice sounds different, too: deeper, gruffer.

We leave the station and walk into the abandoned lot, which is surrounded by dilapidated apartments and underfunded treatment facilities. The buildings resemble giant cement blocks with tiny windows. Even the sky here is gray, choked with smog that gives everything a muted, dirty look. Streetlights glare down on the parking lot, where a single black car waits. Adrenaline fizzes through my veins.

“There he is,” Ian says.

We approach. I walk close behind him, trying to ignore the way my legs quiver. A tall, slender man with a charcoal suit and the head of a tiger leans against the car, arms folded over his chest. He smiles at me, showing a mouthful of knife-sharp, very white teeth.

I clear my throat. “So. You are … ?”

“First,” Tiger says in a deep, rumbling baritone, “let me check something.” He holds up a black neural scanner. I tense and pull back. “Relax,” he says. “Just a precaution.”

“I told you,” Ian says. “She's trustworthy.”

“I'd prefer to check myself, if it's all the same to you.”

“And if I'd rather not?” I ask.

“Then we all walk away and forget we saw each other.” It's unnatural, the way his feline muzzle moves like a human mouth. The fur of his holomask is a flaming orange, with jet-black stripes and creamy white markings.

I hesitate, then stand still and allow him to wave the scanner in front of my face. The light blinks yellow. He makes a thoughtful noise and examines the holographic screen that flashes in front of him. “Two,” he says. “Borderline Three.”

So, that Type Five business was Dr. Swan's handiwork, after all. Though the thought that I'm almost a Three is not reassuring.

Tiger grins, and I shift my weight. Even if they're not real, his teeth make me nervous. “All right,” he says. “I'll trust you. It's those Type Ones you've got to watch out for.” He opens the back door. “Get in.”

My instincts are screaming alarms. But Ian reaches over, takes my hand, and gives it a squeeze.

I've come this far. I've already made my decision. At this point, what good would it do to turn around? I get in.

Tiger tosses the keys to Ian and says, “Take us to Safe House B.”

“Wait—why am I driving?”

“I want to talk to her.”

Ian opens his mouth as if to protest. He looks at me. “It's all right,” I say, and smile, though I have no idea what that looks like with my bird mask on.

He sighs and gets behind the wheel. Tiger slides in beside me and slams the door. The windows turn dark, blocking my view of the outside. The engine purrs to life and the car pulls out of the lot. “So,” Tiger says, pressing the tips of his long fingers together, “this information you have. What is it?”

“Proof that IFEN performed illegal neurosurgical experiments on children in order to develop the technology used in Mindwalking.”

He arches an eyebrow. A cat's face just shouldn't move like
that. “Well, that doesn't surprise me, but it seems rather difficult to prove. Exactly what did you see?”

I swallow, throat tight, hands balled into fists in my lap. “I spoke to Dr. Swan. He confessed the entire thing to me.”

Tiger raises his other eyebrow. “
You
spoke to Dr. Swan. The director of IFEN.
That
Dr. Swan?”