Mindstormer Read online

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  IN A FUTURE WORLD WHERE TRUTH CAN BE MANIPULATED, YOUR MIND IS THE BATTLEFIELD

  When Lain Fisher wakes up in a hospital bed, she can’t remember anything from the past few months. It’s no ordinary amnesia. As a trained Mindwalker, Lain knows all about wiping memories – she just never thought it would happen to her.

  When two young men break in and take her away, she’s not sure if she’s being rescued or kidnapped. One of them, Ian, she knows. The other, Steven, is a stranger to her… but he claims they were friends. More than friends.

  Outside, the world has changed beyond recognition. Right is wrong, enemies are allies, and Lain’s erased past may be the key to fighting a totalitarian state with the power to manipulate the human mind. The only thing she knows for certain is that she needs her memories back.

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  Praise for

  MINDWALKER

  ‘LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS BOOK!!

  CANNOT WAIT FOR THE SEQUEL, MINDSTORMER!!!!!’

  Jessica on Goodreads

  ‘[It’s] not only thought provoking, it’s funny. As in, laugh out loud in a crowded room funny.’

  GC MacQuarie on Amazon

  ‘If you love dystopian novels that somehow resonate profoundly with the present, pick up this book today. I promise you won’t be disappointed.’

  Megan Johnson on Goodreads

  ‘A brilliant choice for a book club.’

  Lynsey on Goodreads

  ‘This book was surprisingly awesome. I enjoyed every minute of it.’

  Haley on Goodreads

  ‘This book IS JUST WONDERFUL. THE CHARACTERS MADE ME LAUGH AND CRY … Definitely would recommend it to anyone!’

  Kassidy on Goodreads

  ‘It is one of the best books I’ve ever read.’

  Bren on Goodreads

  ‘The perfect book for someone who wants a heart-pounding and thought-provoking thriller with a little romance on the side … Best book I’ve read in a while.’

  Uma Sood on Amazon

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  To Grandma,

  for telling me stories when I was little and thus igniting my love of fiction

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  Contents

  Part I · Redux

  Part II · Citadel

  Part III · Choice

  Epilogue

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  ‌Part I

  Redux

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  1

  I wake slowly, with the sense that I’m floating.

  The first physical sensation that registers is an ache pulsing between my temples. The next is thirst. I swallow, smacking my lips, and try to pry my eyes open, but they’re glued shut. In the distant past, people would put coins on the eyelids of corpses to keep them closed. The detail comes to me at random, flickering through the inner haze.

  Where am I?

  Who am I?

  My pulse quickens. Why can’t I remember my own name?

  Stop. Breathe. I walk through my identity affirmation exercises, and my name comes with a jolt. I’m Lain Fisher. Mindwalker. Seventeen years old, student at Greenborough High. Brown hair, light brown eyes. I like chocolate and squirrels and the color pink. The tightness in my chest eases. With a push of will, I break the seal of sleep-crust and open my eyes a crack.

  I’m lying in a bed, in a room with soft eggshell-white walls. The light comes from tubes on the ceiling, bright but not glaring. I have the sense that I’ve just woken up from a long, complicated, and very stressful dream, but I can’t recall what it was about. All that remains is a dim, grainy vision of someone’s eyes—pale blue, like mercury and faded denim and clouds reflected in the ocean—but it’s gone an instant later.

  I rub my eyes, yawn, and stretch. There’s a satisfying pop in my spine, like something shifting back into place. Then I frown, puzzled. Why aren’t I in my bedroom?

  My head feels oddly light. I touch my hair. It’s shorter than usual. Did someone cut it while I was asleep?

  On a table next to my bed stands a bouquet of daisies in a vase with a card propped against it. I pick up the card—which has a peaceful image of a garden on the front—and open it. Get well soon, Lain. We miss you. The card is signed, Ian. There are a few other names beneath it, names of my classmates from Greenborough High.

  Was I in an accident? Gingerly, I touch my chest, my legs. I don’t seem to be injured anywhere, and this doesn’t look like a hospital room, or at least, not an ordinary one. Actually, it looks like IFEN headquarters. I recognize the style of the lighting fixtures, the off-white of the walls and floor, but there are no windows, nothing to help me orient myself.

  Next to the card, there’s a tray of food. Standard hospital fare: a bowl of soup, a blueberry muffin, and some red gelatin cubes. I’m not exactly hungry, but there’s a hollowness in my midsection, a wobbliness in my limbs, that suggests I haven’t eaten for some time. I should probably at least try to get something down, so I pick at the blueberry muffin. Once I’ve had a few bites, my appetite awakens, and I peel the cellophane cover off the bowl of soup. Steam billows out. With a plastic spoon, I scoop some of the yellowish broth into my mouth. It’s bland but satisfyingly hot.

  As I eat, I try to piece together how I got here. What’s the last thing I remember, before waking up in this room?

  Noodles float around in my bowl. They turn to yellow blobs as my eyes drift out of focus. I try to mentally retracing my steps, but there’s a lot of fog. I remember going to school, sitting in the classroom at Greenborough High after a session with one of my clients, an old ex-soldier who wanted to forget the war. There’s a vague recollection of receiving a text message from… someone. Probably Ian, since he’s the only one who ever texts me.

  And then nothing. It’s like there’s a wall in my head, blocking me.

  My appetite has evaporated. I set aside the half-finished soup, push the sheets off, and climb out of bed. I’m wearing a hospital gown with a pair of pale blue cotton pants, and my feet are bare, the floor icy cold underneath them. I notice a set of blue slippers next to the bed, so I put them on and walk to the door. Beside it, there’s a panel bearing the shape of a hand traced in green, but when I place my own hand inside, it doesn’t respond to my touch. Unease prickles under my skin.

  The door slides open, and I take a startled step backward. A woman in white stands in the doorway—I recognize her as Judith, one of the Immersion Lab technicians. She usually monitors my sessions. When her gaze meets mine, she freezes, and a deer-in-headlights expression flashes across her face. “Oh, you’re awake!” She quickly pastes on a smile and steps into the room. The door whisks shut behind her. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m… fine, I guess.” I squint at her face, as if it might reveal some clue about my situation. “What happened to me?”

  She hesitates. Just for a heartbeat, but still. I’m immediately suspicious. “You needed a procedure, but you’re fine now.”

  “What sort of procedure?”

  She looks back and forth furtively. “I only came to check on you. Dr. Swan instructed me to inform him immediately when you regained consciousness.”

  So, I am in IFEN headquarters. I look her in the eye and switch to a tone I think of as my Mindwalker voice—level, calm, professional. “Tell me what happened.”

  She hesitates and glances over her shoulder, as if debating whether to make a run for it. Then she gives me an apologetic look. “You’ve been through a very traumatic experience. You chose to have the memory erased. Dr. Swan performed the modification himself.”

  My jaw drops. It takes me a moment to find my voice, and when I do, it comes out small and unsteady. “What did I forget?”

  “I’m not authorized to tell you.” Her tone softens, turning apologetic. “You know ho
w it is.”

  I do know. Clients who’ve just undergone neural modification are often confused and easily upset. Their recovery goes more smoothly if the people around them avoid talking about the procedure or the incident they erased and instead surround them with familiar, comforting things. It sometimes takes a few days or even weeks for them to get their mental bearings and start interacting normally with the world.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Judith says. “You shouldn’t strain yourself.”

  I shake my head, wincing as a small twinge of pain shoots between my ears. “I’m fine.” Lightly, I touch my left temple with quivering fingertips.

  So, I’ve chosen to have my memories modified. But why?

  Statistically, sexual assault is the number one reason why females my age go to a Mindwalker. A cramp grips my stomach. That would explain why Judith is so visibly uncomfortable. No one wants to tell someone that she’s been raped.

  Yet something about this whole situation feels… off. For one thing, why am I in here, instead of the Immersion Lab? Or at home? Clients often don’t remember the first hour or two after the modification; usually, they’re taken straight home and looked after by their loved ones until the disorientation goes away. Of course, there’s no one at home for me, except possibly my housekeeper. “I want to talk to Dr. Swan,” I say.

  “He said to wait until you were well-rested. He doesn’t want to overstimulate you so soon after—”

  “Judith. If you don’t want me to get stressed out, then at the very least, let me see my guardian. Keeping a client alone and confined is absurd. I can’t imagine that he’d approve.”

  She presses her lips together and looks away. After a few seconds, she lets out a small sigh of defeat. “Follow me.”

  She leads me out of the room and down a long, narrow hallway, softly lit with faintly bluish light. Though I’ve worked here for years, there are parts of IFEN headquarters I’ve never seen before, and this is—or was—one of them. An eerie silence pervades the air.

  We get into an elevator, which takes us smoothly to the top floor of headquarters. She leads me to a door and knocks.

  “Come in,” Dr. Swan calls. His voice sounds deeper and hoarser than usual, as if he’s getting over a cold.

  Judith opens the door, revealing the familiar sight of Dr. Swan’s office—the snow-white carpet, cool eggshell walls, and huge picture window. Dr. Swan stands near the window, his back to us. As we enter, he turns. His eyes widen. “Judith, what is the meaning of this?” His tone is sharp. Unusually so.

  “I’m sorry, Director, but she insisted on seeing you. I didn’t want to alarm her.” She gives him a pointed look, and I sense there’s another layer of meaning to her words. “Maybe you should just talk to her for a few minutes?”

  He hesitates, his gaze flicking from Judith to me—then nods once.

  “I’ll just wait in the hall.” She leaves, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  Dr. Swan and I face each other across the room. For a long moment, he just studies me. There’s a tension in his face, his posture, and he looks… old. He’s lost weight, though I don’t see how that’s possible, since I saw him just the other day. Didn’t I? Dark half-moons underscore his eyes, and the lines in his face look deeper, like grooves etched into wood.

  I reach up to twist my left pigtail around my finger, an old habit, but my hand encounters only empty space. My arm flops awkwardly to my side. “Hello, Dr. Swan,” I say, mostly to break the silence. I find myself adjusting my posture, straightening my back, as I always do in his presence. “Are you all right? You look a bit—tired.”

  The tension eases out of his shoulders. He closes his eyes and exhales a soft breath. Then he meets my gaze and smiles. “I’m fine, Lain. Thank you. I apologize for the… unorthodox nature of your situation. You must be confused.”

  “Very,” I admit. Curiosity itches at the back of my mind, like the desire to pick at a scab.

  “Sit down.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk.

  I sit, catch myself fidgeting, and stop.

  He sits across from me and leans back in his black leather armchair. “How much did Judith tell you?”

  “Not much. Just that I’d been through a traumatic experience. She wouldn’t tell me what happened.”

  “That’s just as well. Asking too many questions is counterproductive to the healing process, as you’re well aware. It’s better for you—for all of us—if you make a fresh start.” He smiles, but there’s a flash of pain in his eyes.

  Whatever happened to me, it must have been horrible. I wonder if I really want to know. If I was desperate enough to erase my memories—if I wanted so badly to forget—I should probably trust that it was the right decision. Even so…

  I bite my lower lip. “Can I go home tonight? I know it might be a few days before I can go back to school, but I’d like to sleep in my own bed.”

  He pauses. “Your case is a bit… unusual. Nothing to be alarmed about,” he adds quickly. “But I’d like to keep you here for another week or so for observations. Just to be sure.”

  My head spins. “Another week? But I feel fine.”

  “Better to be safe.”

  I heave a sigh, raking a hand through my hair. I can’t miss that much school. And what about my training? My clients? “Can I have my phone, at least? I’d like to thank Ian for the card he left me.” If I can get a hold of Ian, maybe he can help get me out of here early. Dr. Swan is just being overprotective, I’m sure. It’s because he cares, I know, but his constant hovering gets exhausting.

  “I apologize, but your phone’s been lost,” he says. “We’re still trying to locate it.”

  I don’t buy that excuse for an instant. Obviously, he’s afraid that I’ll discover what happened to me and that it will trigger a relapse. An understandable concern, but he can’t keep me locked up here forever. “At least let me stop at home tonight, then, so I can check my email and tell Ian I’m all right.”

  “I’ll speak to Ian myself,” Dr. Swan says. “I’ll tell him you’ve regained consciousness and that you’re feeling well. In the meantime, you need to rest. You’re still in a fragile state.”

  I grit my teeth. I’m losing patience. “Dr. Swan, I know how memory modifications work. This is not how it’s normally—”

  “That’s enough!”

  I fall silent, mouth hanging open. I can’t remember the last time Dr. Swan’s snapped at me. He can be strict, but he never loses his cool. “Dr. Swan? Are you… okay?”

  He closes his eyes briefly and rubs the lids. “I’m sorry. I’ve been under a lot of strain.” He gives me a tight smile. “Please. For now, just trust me.”

  Goosebumps prickle on my arms. Something is very wrong.

  He stands, places his hand on my shoulder, and squeezes briefly. “Judith will take you back to your room. She can bring you whatever you want—just nothing with a Net connection. We want to avoid overstimulation, after all. I know it’s difficult, but try to get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  I lower my gaze. A wave of helplessness and frustration washes over me, and a bitter knot forms in my throat. “It seems I don’t have a choice.”

  “It’s for your well-being, Lain.” He stands, and so do I. I start to walk toward the door, but then—to my surprise—he hugs me.

  My back goes rigid. Even though he’s my guardian, there’s always been a certain distance between Dr. Swan and I; he’s not an affectionate person by nature. The smell of his cologne tickles my nose as he pulls me closer, trapping me against his chest. A stab of revulsion goes through me, and I have to fight back the urge to pull away. After a few seconds, he releases me, ducks his head, and wipes at the corner of one eye with his thumb, though I don’t actually see any tears. “I apologize,” he says. “It’s been a difficult time for all of us, and it’s a relief to see you like this. As your usual self.”

  “It’s all right,” I murmur, avoiding his gaze. My own reaction troubles me. I�
��ve known him for years. He’s almost like an uncle. There’s nothing strange about him hugging me, even if it was uncharacteristic. Why do I feel so repelled?

  I leave the office, and Judith escorts me back to my room. “If you need anything, just push the call button on the armrest of your bed,” she says. “And don’t worry about a thing. You’re safe now. You’re on the road to recovery.”

  I nod uncertainly. She walks out, and the door swishes shut.

  I try to open it again, but of course, it doesn’t budge. With a sigh, I flop down in bed and stare at the ceiling. I am tired. Now that my initial burst of curiosity has faded, I can feel the ache of fatigue in my bones, like I’ve just come back from a long hike. My skull feels overstuffed and tender.

  There’s a remote control on the nightstand, so I pick it up and push ON. A holoscreen winks into existence, hovering near the foot of my bed. I scroll through the menu. Judging by the dates next to the title of each show, these are all prerecorded programs from months ago—mostly nature and history shows, a few news programs—nothing live or current. I flip randomly through the channels and pause when I encounter a public debate that I vaguely remember—a debate on the legal suicide drug, Somnazol. Dr. Swan sits across from a woman with dark, intense eyes. I recognize her as Susan Bleeker, head of an anti-Somnazol group called Do No Harm.

  I select the program.

  “If someone is suffering deeply and wants to die badly enough, he or she will find a way to make it happen,” Dr. Swan says. “We can’t prevent that. What we can do is offer them a safe and humane way to pass on. It’s a choice that must be made by individuals, families and doctors. Certainly not one that should be made lightly, but our system has safeguards in place to prevent impulsive decisions. That’s why we have waiting periods and evaluation processes. That’s why Somnazol is only prescribed after other treatment options have been tried.”