Mindwalker Read online

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A. J. Steiger majored in Fiction Writing at Columbia College, Chicago, and her lifelong interest in psychology and social justice issues led her to write Mindwalker. This is her debut YA novel and its sequel, Mindstormer, is to follow. She lives in Illinois, USA.

  MINDWALKER

  A. J. STEIGER

  A Rock the Boat Book

  First published in Great Britain & Australia by Rock the Boat,

  an imprint of Oneworld Publications, 2015

  This ebook edition published by Rock the Boat, an imprint of Oneworld Publications, 2015

  Copyright © A. J. Steiger 2015

  The moral right of A. J. Steiger to be identified as the Author of this

  work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved

  Copyright under Berne Convention

  A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-78074-724-8

  ISBN 978-1-78074-725-5 (ebook)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,

  organizations, places, and events are either the product of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Oneworld Publications

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  London WC1B 3SR

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  TO MY FAMILY

  I can barely see through the blood in my eyes. Blood soaks my clothes and hands. When I breathe in, pain flares in my chest. One of my ribs is broken. But I’m standing, which is more than I can say for my enemy.

  He lies near my feet, wheezing, as blood spreads in a pool beneath him. He reaches for a gun at his belt, and I slam the butt of my empty rifle against his fingers. The man howls.

  I feel sick.

  He’s a terrorist, I remind myself. No mercy.

  “Please,” he whispers, voice rough with pain. “Please don’t.” Still, his mangled fingers creep toward his gun. I ram my boot into his face, and a tooth flies out. His eyes turn upward, whites flashing. For an instant, I see my own terror reflected back at me, and I hesitate.

  But I have my orders. Leave none alive. He wouldn’t show mercy if our positions were reversed. This is war, after all. I raise my boot slowly over his head. Deep within me, a voice cries out, No! But I can’t stop. My body moves automatically as my boot comes down on his face. Crunch. I fight back nausea as I stomp down again and again.

  He jerks. His body goes rigid, shuddering convulsively. Then he’s still. I stand in the cement-walled basement of the terrorist hideout, alone with the man I’ve killed.

  I don’t cry.

  There’s a clear electronic ding, and a recorded female voice intones, “End session.”

  My eyes snap open, but there’s only darkness. Leather cuffs press into my wrists. My own ragged breathing fills my ears. Then the darkness recedes as a visor retracts from my face, and I squint at the sudden glare. All around me, the sterile whites and silvers of the Immersion Lab gleam.

  For a moment, I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing here. Then my identity settles back into my mind. Shakily, I exhale.

  I’m Lain Fisher, seventeen years old. I’m in the Institute for Ethics in Neurotechnology. There’s no blood on my hands. The dead man is just a memory, and not even mine.

  A machine beeps next to me, monitoring my heart rate and brain waves. I look over at the old man sitting in the padded reclining chair next to mine. My client. His visor retracts, and his rheumy blue eyes stare at the ceiling. Through our connection, I can feel the tension in his body, but his thoughts are perfectly silent. Maybe that’s how he’s dealt with the pain for so long—by simply not thinking. Functioning automatically, like a machine.

  It’s a good thing he can’t hear my thoughts. I don’t think he’d like the comparison.

  I mutter, “Release,” and the leather cuffs snap open. I slide my helmet off, and cool air washes over my sweat-drenched head. “That’s all for today,” I say. “The mapping stage is almost complete. The modification will begin next session.”

  He sits up with a grunt. His face is weathered and lined, his chin peppered with stubble. “And after that, I won’t remember the war?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Why does it take so long, anyway?” There’s a note of accusation in his low, scratchy voice, as if he thinks I enjoy wading through images of violence and death. “Why can’t you just do it all at once?”

  I’ve already explained it to him, and an angry response bubbles up in my throat. I bite my tongue, remind myself that his surly demeanor is just a defense mechanism, and force myself to reply calmly, “It’s a complicated process. I need to experience the memories first so I’ll know how to navigate them later, when I start the actual procedure. You’re almost done, though. Just one more session.” With shaking fingers, I brush a few strands of hair from my face. “How are you feeling?” I’m supposed to ask that question after every immersion session.

  His gaze jerks toward me. His lips press together, and his eyes narrow. Without a word, he hobbles out of the room.

  I lean back in the chair, my limbs weak with exhaustion. In my head, I hear the crunch of bone as my boot—no, his boot—slams into the man’s face.

  I’ve never killed anyone. I’ve never been attacked by a mob and beaten within an inch of my life. I’ve never watched a child die in front of me. But I’ve lived through the memory of all those things.

  I remind myself that the events I just witnessed happened decades ago, during a brutal chapter of our country’s past. I try to tell myself that it’s just like watching video footage, but it’s not. I felt it, all the fear and rage, the heat and wetness of blood and the sickly sweet smell of it. My hands are still shaking. I want to go home and curl up under the covers with Nutter, my stuffed squirrel.

  The wall screen winks on, and a woman’s face peers out. It’s Judith, one of the session monitors. Her brow wrinkles with concern. “Doing okay?”

  I force a smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Maybe you should call it a night.”

  I rub my forehead. “Maybe. I’ve got a calculus quiz tomorrow.” The last thing I care about right now is calculus. But if I want to be a Mindwalker, I have to learn how to compartmentalize my emotions. I have to show everyone that it doesn’t faze me, and that means keeping my grades up and my life together.

  I climb out of the chair.

  “Lain …”

  I look up.

  “You know, you’re still young,” Judith says. “You have a lot of time to figure out what you want. You don’t have to push yourself so hard.”

  This again.

  I wish people wouldn’t be so concerned about me. That’s probably an awful thought to have, but their worry always makes me feel helpless. Like they can smell my weakness. “Thank you, but I’m all right.” Without giving her time to reply, I walk out of the room.

  As I make my way down the narrow white hall, I overhear Judith talking to someone, her voice muffled behind the closed door of the control room, where she observes data from the sessions. “It’s so hard on these kids,” she says. “And the program is still so new. We don’t know what the long-term effects will be. The strain on their minds, their emotions …”

  “They’re the only ones who can do it,” a man replies—another session monitor, whose name I can
’t recall.

  “Yes, but still …”

  I don’t want to hear the argument, so I keep walking. The dying man’s face flashes through my head. Bloody meat, shattered teeth, glints of bone. A violent cramp seizes my stomach, and bile climbs up my throat. I press a hand to my mouth, squeeze my eyes shut, and struggle for control. At last, the urge to vomit recedes.

  I open my eyes and freeze. Ian stands in the hallway, clad in a simple white robe with a cream-colored cord around the waist, the same thing I wear. Once we’ve survived our jobs for a year, we’ll get a black cord. I smooth my robe, self-conscious, wondering if my distress shows on my face. “Ian. I—I didn’t think you’d be here today. Did you have a client?”

  “I was supposed to. Didn’t get very far, though. This guy wanted to forget his ex-girlfriend. He walks in talking about how awful she is and how his life will be so much better once she’s out of his head. Then, halfway through the pre-session counseling, he starts bawling and runs out, saying he’s going to call her.” He rolls his eyes.

  I laugh, but the sound comes out a little choked.

  He studies my face. “Rough one?”

  I nod but don’t elaborate.

  Ian rubs a hand over his head, which is shaved bald, except for a fuzzy red stripe running down the center. He can’t wear his usual leather and fishnet here, but as hard as they’ve tried, IFEN can’t make him change his hairstyle. They tolerate it because he’s the whiz kid, their golden boy. “Anything I can do?” he asks awkwardly.

  “Just remind me that it’ll get easier.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he curls an arm around my shoulders. I tense, surprised. “It’s all right.” His voice is a low murmur, almost inaudible. “No one’s watching.”

  Of course, we can never be sure of that. But he’s the only person whose concern I really want, because he understands. We’re in the same position—the only two initiates this year. There were three others at the start, but they’ve since dropped out, unable to endure. I close my eyes and allow myself to lean against his shoulder. He’s warm. Solid.

  I feel the tears building up, prickling in my sinuses, and I force myself to pull away. If I don’t, I’ll lose control.

  He raises his thick eyebrows. “You know, it’s normal to have feelings. You don’t need to treat them like they’re some kind of rash.”

  “Easy for you to say.” I give him a weak smile and knuckle tears from the corners of my eyes.

  “It’s hard for me, too, you know.”

  “Yes, but you don’t show it.” Somehow, immersion sessions never affect Ian. The horror rolls off him, as if his brain is shellacked with some kind of horror-proof coating. “Seriously, how do you manage? Whatever techniques you’re using, I should be copying them.”

  He shifts his weight. “Just used to this stuff, I guess. I mean … Mom’s a drug researcher, so I grew up hearing about diseases and trauma.”

  If repeated exposure is the only thing it takes, I should be a Mindwalking champion by now.

  “Just think about the good you’re doing,” he adds. “Remember all the people you’ve helped.”

  “Thank you.” I breathe in slowly and force myself to straighten my shoulders. “Anyway, I should get home. I need to study.”

  “You spend way too much time hitting the books. You need to unwind. I’m having a party at my place on Friday. Why don’t you come?”

  I stare at him. Is he joking? “I’m not in a partying mood.”

  “It might do you some good.”

  “I just saw a man killed, Ian,” I blurt out.

  His expression softens. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I know it’s not easy to forget about something like that. But if you let it get to you, you’ll burn out. You need to learn how to put that stuff aside once the session is over. Just think about it, okay?”

  I rub the bridge of my nose. Maybe he’s right. “Okay.” I pause. “Are you going home now, or …”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve got another session later today.” He lowers his voice. “Sexual assault victim.”

  I wince. They usually assign those to Ian now, since I didn’t respond well to the last one. I feel a twinge of guilt. “Will you be all right?”

  He smiles. “Don’t worry about me.”

  I give a small, uncertain nod.

  He waves and walks away, disappearing around a corner.

  I continue down the hallway. Beyond lies an enormous lobby with a floor of white marble, so polished I can see hazy reflections in the surface. A set of towering glass double doors part automatically for me as I approach. Outside, I stand in the vast parking lot, looking at rows of neatly pruned trees on islands of vivid green grass. The sky is clear and blue. Everything looks bright, sharp, unreal, like a photograph run through a filter.

  IFEN headquarters itself is a monolithic pyramid. Its silver walls reflect the azure sky, the slowly drifting clouds. Behind it stands a backdrop of high-rises and skyscrapers. Aura, the largest city in the United Republic of America.

  It’s surreal to think that the war—the one my client fought in—occurred when we were still the United States. For most people, the long, ugly conflict between the Blackcoats and the military is something to be studied in history classes. But for that man and for so many others, it’s a living, breathing nightmare. War makes monsters of ordinary men, then leaves them broken. I’ve seen it before. No wonder he wants the memories erased.

  What happens when everything dark and dirty can be wiped away, like clearing a touch screen? Should a man be allowed to forget someone he killed, no matter the circumstance?

  I push the thoughts away. My client has already been approved for the therapy. It’s not my place to decide what should or shouldn’t be forgotten. Ian’s words echo in my head: Remember all the people you’ve helped.

  Just last month, I treated a woman whose apartment building burned down in an electrical fire. After barely escaping with her life, she suffered through weeks of hospitalization and slow, painful recovery. Her burns healed, but the nightmares and flashbacks persisted. The standard psychiatric treatments had no effect. After a mental breakdown, she lost her job, and her whole life started to unravel. In desperation, she came to IFEN. Once the memory of that night was gone, her life returned to normal, as if by magic. And there are so many others like her—people who’ve suffered terribly, through no fault of their own, and lost so much as a result. People who can become whole and healthy again with our help. Surely, that’s worth any amount of hardship on my part.

  I strengthen my resolve. This is who I am. This is what I was born to do.

  The classrooms in Greenborough High School are enormous, made of steel and concrete, the desks crammed wall to wall. Cameras watch us from the ceiling like unblinking black eyes. A guard stands near the door, hands interlaced behind his back, a neural disrupter resting in a holster at his hip. A sign glares at us from above the door.

  THESE PREMISES ARE MONITORED

  FOR YOUR OWN PROTECTION.

  The intercom crackles, and the superintendent’s voice says, “All rise for the pledge.”

  The students stand, as we do at the beginning of every school day. I recite the lines automatically, along with everyone else.

  I pledge to do my part to keep our school and our country safe: to remain alert; to report any signs of mental unwellness in those around me; to be respectful, compassionate, and cooperative at all times; and to keep my own mind healthy and free from negative thoughts so that the atrocities of the past will never be repeated.

  With a rustle of clothing, everybody sits.

  All these precautions are necessary, I know. But at times, it feels like overkill. I could, of course, afford a private school if I wanted—a school without guards and metal detectors and mandatory neural scans. I go to Greenborough as a matter of conscience. If other teenagers have to endure this, it doesn’t seem right that I should have the luxury of avoiding it.

  At the front of the room, M
s. Biddles drones out a lecture, pointing to equations on a huge, dim wall screen. She’s tiny and ancient, her back hunched under a knitted pink sweater. A dull ache of fatigue pulses through my head. My vision keeps blurring as I take notes.

  Normally, I enjoy math. It’s a language of its own, intricate and beautiful. The more you learn, the more there is to learn, like a flower unfolding to reveal ever more complex and delicate blossoms nestled inside. But today, the numbers are meaningless squiggles on my desk screen.

  I rub my eyelids and glance down at my school uniform—white blouse, plaid skirt, gray stockings. I open my compact and look at my reflection in the mirror. Brown eyes. Squirrel-brown hair done up in pigtails. Me. Lain Fisher, a student in my third year of high school. I repeat the words to myself silently, like a prayer. They have a name for this in Mindwalker training: identity affirmation exercises.

  It’s not working. I keep seeing my boot ram into the man’s face. I rise to my feet, and heads turn toward me. “Excuse me,” I mutter.

  The guard accompanies me to the nearest bathroom, and I dash inside just as the nausea overwhelms me.

  A few minutes later, I rinse out my mouth in the sink and wipe it clean with a paper towel.

  On the wall is a small advertising screen, one of those designed to change every few minutes. Now it displays a slowly rotating image of a pink pill with the word

  SOMNAZOL

  imprinted on both sides. Underneath it is the tagline

  WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS.

  Ugh. Usually, I don’t even notice drug ads— they’re so commonplace in schools and public areas, they fade into the background. But this is appalling. There ought to be a law against promoting Somnazol to minors.

  A girl with wavy black hair emerges from a stall, washes her hands in the sink next to me, and begins applying shiny pink lipstick. I watch her from the corner of my eye, then softly clear my throat. “It’s horrible, isn’t it?” I ask, waving a hand toward the screen.

  She gives a start, then stares at me blankly. I look at the screen and see that the image has shifted to an ad for shoes. “I mean— ” Heat rises into my cheeks. “Somnazol.” I clear my throat. “It was different a few seconds ago.”