Mindwalker (42 page)

“That's right.”

He strokes his whiskers and glances at Ian. “You knew about this, Fox?”

“Yeah. She told me everything.”

Sweat pools at the small of my back as Tiger folds his long hands together in front of him. His skin is the color of coffee with cream, his nails neatly manicured. “And what do you want in exchange for this information?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Just your help in recording and uploading it to the Net. Some place where a lot of people will see it.”

He watches me with those strange eyes. They're yellow-green, but aside from the color, they look more human than feline. “If you're sharing this information with the world, it's not exactly payment to
me
, is it?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure how these things usually work.” I bite my lower lip beneath the mask. “Does this mean you don't want to help me?”

“I didn't say that.” The corners of his muzzle curve up in a smile. “If this will damage IFEN, I'll consider that payment enough. I take it that's your goal, too?”

“Not exactly. I think people should know the truth. That's all.”

“You strike me as an interesting young lady.” He leans
toward me, uncomfortably close, and licks his chops. I pull back. “I can be a very useful friend—”

“Knock it off, asshole,” Ian snaps.

Tiger simply smirks, crosses his legs, and folds his hands over one knee.

After a while, the car stops. We get out in front of a half-crumbled brick apartment building. They lead me through a dilapidated lobby and into an elevator, which takes us to the top floor and opens to reveal a mostly bare, windowless room with cracked walls and harsh fluorescent lighting. In the center of the room stand two creaky wooden chairs and, between them, the familiar hard drive and rounded helmets of a Mindgate. There's an old-fashioned flat-screen monitor, too, with wires trailing from the back to a larger hard drive.

Ian leans close to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You ready for this?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” I lie.

He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You know the drill. Just put on the helmet and replay the memories. I'll be wearing the other helmet so I can guide the session. Tiger here will record everything and get the upload ready.” Ian turns to him. “We want this on every major social media site at five o'clock tomorrow. Can you do that?”

“Easy as pie.” Tiger strokes his whiskers again. “Though the censors will take it down pretty quickly. Within a few hours, I'd guess.”

“Hopefully, that will be enough time for people to notice and download it.”

Tiger fixes his brilliant yellow gaze on me. “Once this is on
the Net, you're going to be in some very hot water. You may be on the run for the rest of your life.”

Keep breathing. Don't think. I can't hesitate, not now. “I understand.”

He nods. “Anything else before we begin?”

I shake my head.

“Get in the chair.”

I freeze. Tiger and Ian watch me, waiting.

I can't allow myself to weaken. There's too much at stake. I take a deep breath, get into the chair, pull the helmet onto my head, and lower the visor. My own rapid breathing fills my ears, and I struggle to slow it as I grip the chair's arms.

“Relax,” Ian says.

I almost laugh. Relax? Now? “I doubt that's possible.”

“I'll give you something to calm you down, then. Okay?”

I nod. There's a tiny sting in my arm. Warm fog rolls over me, and I feel myself sinking.

I don't know how long I stay in the memories. Two hours? Four? Six? Time seems strange—stretched out, distended, yet flowing, flashing from point to point.

Somewhere beyond the fog, Tiger whistles. “When people see this, there'll be riots.” He sounds entirely too pleased about that.

Finally, it's over. I sit up, dazed. My mind surfaces slowly from its gray haze.

Ian takes his helmet off, his gaze downcast. “I'm sorry,” he says, very quietly.

For a moment, I don't know what he's talking about. Then it occurs to me—he saw everything. He felt it all along with
me. I open my mouth to say that it's all right, but the words stick in my throat.

Tiger taps icons on the screen. “There's a lot of this. I don't know if I can upload it all, but I'll edit it down to the juicy bits.”

I nod woodenly.

Without speaking, we drive back to the monorail station. “Remember,” Ian says when Tiger drops us off, “wait until five o'clock tomorrow to upload the files.”

Tiger nods. “This will certainly cause a stir. I'll be looking forward to the fireworks show.” With a wink and a toothy smile, he drives away.

Ian and I remove our masks and board the monorail. We sit next to each other, staring straight ahead. Before his stop, he gives me a long, tight hug. His lips brush my ear. “Tomorrow, when the diversion begins, you take Steven and make a break for it.”

“What's the diversion?”

His expression is grim. “You'll know it once it starts.”

“Ian …” I want to tell him not to do anything crazy. I want him to reassure me that no one is going to get hurt. But I know, deep down, that it's too late to say those kinds of things.

I'm afraid.

I arrive at IFEN headquarters the next afternoon, my stomach so tight it hurts. In my pocket is the ND disguised as a pen—my gift from Ian.

I walk in through the glass double doors, like I've done a thousand times before. My footsteps echo across the spacious lobby.

Dr. Swan is waiting for me at the far end, hands folded behind his back. “So glad to see you, Lain. I knew you'd make the right choice.”

“What else
can
I do?” I ask.

“Exactly.” He smiles. “Right this way. Your client is waiting.”

I follow him along the hall, gaze downcast.

“You went to see Ian last night, didn't you?” he asks without looking at me. I don't answer; the question is obviously rhetorical. “You stayed with him at his apartment for a short
while, then you both boarded the mono. After that, we lost track of you.”

“We went for a walk,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “I needed someone to talk to. I was feeling very … confused.”

“I see.” He measures me with his eyes. “And now?”

I force the words out: “I don't like this. But I recognize that it's necessary.”

He nods. “I understand you're still conflicted, but in time, you'll see that this is the kindest thing you can do for Steven. It takes courage to look past your own feelings to the greater good. I can see that you truly do care about that boy. The fact that you're here now is proof of that.” He stops and faces me. “I hope that you'll learn from your father's mistakes and not burden yourself with unnecessary guilt. If you need anyone to talk to, I'm always available.” He sounds oddly sincere.

I stare at his face. Does he truly think I'd confide in him after what he's done?

“Oh, the thought is absurd to you now, I'm sure. But … well, as I said, time has a way of changing one's perspective.” There's no hint of deception in his expression. Dr. Swan is a true believer in the system, no more and no less. He's probably undergone plenty of voluntary Conditioning himself, to remove any doubts he might have once had.

“Thank you,” I say stiffly.

He extends a hand to me.

My own breathing sounds very loud in the silence. My skin crawls as I grip his hand and shake. His skin is unnaturally smooth, dry, and cold. He watches me carefully while we shake, as if he knows how much I hate it—watching to see if I can conceal my hatred. I bare my teeth in a smile.

“Your father would have been proud,” he says.

It takes all my willpower not to punch him in the face.

He releases my hand and leads me to the doors of the Immersion Lab. “Naturally, I'll be supervising the session.”

“Of course.” Legs trembling, I press my palm to the small metal panel outside the doors. A light blinks as the panel scans my handprint. The doors slide open, then slide shut behind me when I step inside.

Steven is already sitting upright in a chair, his wrists manacled, a white helmet covering his head. He blinks a few times, eyes unfocused, and gives me a wide, fuzzy smile. I recognize the look of someone who's just been heavily Conditioned. “Hi, Lain.”

“Hello, Steven.” I approach slowly.

He tries to stand, then looks down at his hands, as if realizing for the first time that he's restrained. A tiny furrow appears between his brows. “Where are we? What's happening?” His voice is slurred, like he's drunk.

I glance at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. Dr. Swan's dark, all-seeing eye. “Nothing to worry about,” I say. “Just a small medical procedure.”

“If you say so.” He laughs. “Man, this
place.
It's so …” He squints. “White.” His nose wrinkles. “Why can't it be, like, blue? With little clouds on the ceiling. That would be nice.” He pulls at his restraints again. “Why am I, um—what's this?”

Oh God, I'd forgotten what a freshly Conditioned person is like. How am I ever going to get him out of IFEN headquarters? Can he even walk?

“Just a precaution.” My pulse pounds as I wave a hand over the sensor on the Gate, and a holographic screen pops
up, displaying a rotating, three-dimensional image of Steven's brain. I have to stall a little longer, go through the motions, convince Dr. Swan that I'm really going to do this. The drumbeat of my pulse is deafening. “The restraints are standard practice.”

“I dunno. Seems a little kinky to me.” He grins, then groans, sinking deeper into the chair. “Why am I dizzy?”

“Relax. Everything's fine.” I settle into my own chair.

“Lain …” His voice has changed. It's still slurred, but there's an awareness in it that wasn't there before, and a hint of fear. “What's going on?”

I look directly into his eyes. “Trust me.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods. I take a deep breath and lower the helmet over my head. Sweat beads on my forehead.
Come on, Ian.
Where is that diversion? What if something happened to him? What if—

No. If I start thinking like that, I'll panic. Keep stalling. Proceed as if this is a normal session. “I want you to think back to that first day we spoke, that day in Greenborough High School, when you sent me the text message asking me to meet you. Do you remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Take us back there now.”

The image swims into my head. I'm sitting in the corner of a classroom. I'm staring at the back of my head—
her
head, bent studiously over her notes. Brown shiny hair gathered into two long pigtails hanging down her shoulders. I'm clutching my phone, finger hovering over the send button. She won't help me. I
know
she won't, so why am I even doing this? Why bother?

Before I can lose my nerve, I stab the button with my finger. I watch as she gets out her phone—

I'm sitting across from her in the café, looking into those big brown eyes. Someone with so much power shouldn't look so innocent.

I'm in my apartment, at my coffee table, drawing in fierce black lines and swoops, and she's there on the page, looking at me over one shoulder, a startled expression on her face. Sheets of paper are scattered all over, and she's on every one. I finish the drawing. And then I crumple it. I crumple them all and then set a match to the pile and watch the flames licking along the edges, watch the smoke curl up in wisps.

I know I'm just torturing myself. Even if she could ever want me like that, it wouldn't work. I'd ruin her, drag her into my hell. But it's too late. She's under my skin, in my blood, in my brain, twined into my DNA. No matter how many drawings I burn, she's still there.

Drops of water fall onto the flames, hissing. The smoke stings my eyes and nose. I watch the paper curl into ashes—

Then thunder breaks apart the world.

I jerk upright in the chair, hands flailing, and tear off my helmet.
Lain. I am Lain Fisher. Seventeen—no, eighteen. Mindwalker. Ex-Mindwalker. I'm in IFEN headquarters. I'm waiting for a diversion.

More thunder. Explosions. The floor vibrates. Presumably, this is it.

Panting, I scramble over to Steven's chair and yank off his helmet. I push a button, and the wrist cuffs snap open. “Steven.”

He blinks at me.

“Steven, we need to get out of here.”

He extends his arms to me, like a child asking for a hug, and I haul him up from the chair. He sways on his feet and staggers. I hook an arm around him, and we stumble toward the doors. I press a hand against the panel, and they slide open just as another explosion rocks IFEN headquarters. Someone screams. Voices shout, and clouds of dense black smoke billow down the hallway. Coughing, I plunge through the dark haze, half leading and half dragging Steven. Everything feels unreal, dreamlike. A part of me is still submerged in his memories.