Mindstormer Page 10

  My palms are slick with sweat. I dry them on my shirt, though that doesn’t help much, because my shirt is sweat-drenched, too. Slowly, gingerly, I descend. My shoes are slippery with mud, but I manage not to lose my footing. Steven follows.

  My feet touch the bottom, and he jumps down beside me, landing lightly, like he’s done this a thousand times. Lynx climbs a few rungs down and closes the trapdoor, blotting out the moonlight. Darkness engulfs us, thick and heavy. A few seconds later, I hear Lynx’s boots on the ground. There’s a hiss, and a bright orange glow pierces the shadows. Lynx holds up a flare, illuminating our surroundings.

  We’re in a tunnel, about six feet wide and ten feet tall. The walls and floor are rough stone blocks, supported by broad wooden beams.

  Steven lets out a low whistle. “This goes under the fence?”

  Lynx nods. “It’s not the only tunnel, either. This is how most refugees get into Canada. The border patrols fill the holes in when they find them, but we just dig more.” She’s already striding ahead, flare held aloft. We follow, and for awhile, there’s no sound except the rhythmic thunk-thunk of shoes on stone, echoing through the stillness. The flare casts dramatic black shadows that leap and dance on the walls like demons. Lynx’s holomask doesn’t cast a shadow; the fuzzy outline of her actual profile glides along the wall like a ghost.

  In my head, I see her walk over to the wounded woman, place the gun against her temple, and fire. Those few seconds keep replaying, an infinite loop behind my eyes.

  Those border guards threatened to kill us if we gave them trouble, I remind myself. Lynx saved our lives. She’s not the enemy. Yet the unease in my bones won’t go away—a feeling like seeing the black smear of an approaching storm on the horizon. What bothers me is not that she killed them, per se, but that she barely even glanced at the bodies once the deed was done. As if, for her, killing is a chore as mundane as folding the laundry.

  My own breathing sounds very loud in the confines of the tunnel.

  “Here we are,” Lynx says.

  The tunnel ends in a set of narrow stone steps leading upward, bracketed by rough, pebbly earthen walls. I start to ascend, then stop. Once we come out on the other side, there’ll be no going back.

  But then, it’s already too late to turn back.

  We emerge through another trapdoor, into the cold night air. For a few seconds, I stand there, breathing it in. The woods don’t look any different on this side of the border. Same trees, same ground, same starry sky.

  Lynx paces, scanning the surrounding forest. Her tufted ears turn back and forth like satellite dishes. “Coast looks clear.”

  “Hey,” Steven says, “can we see your face?”

  She turns toward him, ears laid back. “Why?”

  “Just curious. We’re on the same side now, right? Plus I feel a little weird talking to a giant humanoid cat.”

  She hesitates. Then, slowly, she reaches up, fingers sliding through the thick fur on her neck. She tilts her head to one side and fiddles with something under the fur, and the mask vanishes. Her face is small and oval-shaped, her skin the color of coffee with a bit of cream, her eyes a pale glass-green, ringed by dark lashes. Her expression is blank and impassive. There’s a small, bright spot of blood on her cheek.

  “Um—you’ve got a little—” I tap my own cheek.

  She wipes at the blood with gloved fingers, but only succeeds in smearing it across her skin, like war paint.

  “Thanks, by the way,” Steven says. “For saving us.”

  “Yes. Thank you,” I add.

  A tiny furrow appears between her eyebrows. “You don’t have to thank me. It was a mission.” She resumes walking. “Keep moving. We’re not safe yet.”

  The moon hangs overhead, a huge yellow Cheshire cat smile, as Lynx leads us through the trees, to a battered pickup parked on the shoulder of a gravel road. She slides into the driver’s seat and shoves a key into the ignition. It starts up with a groan. “Get in.”

  “Wait,” I call, still trudging toward the road. “Where are you taking us?”

  “Toronto.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “Isn’t that kind of risky? I mean, being around so many people?”

  “We’ll only need to blend into the crowd for a few minutes. Then we’ll go underground. There are places in the city that don’t officially exist. We can move through them undetected.”

  “And after that? What then?”

  Her eyes snap toward me. They’re uncanny, with bright flecks of bronze in the green and dark rings around the outer edge of the irises. Animal eyes. “Then you become one of us,” she says. “You join the Blackcoats. That’s what you came here for. Isn’t it?”

  My legs tremble.

  Steven nudges me with an elbow.

  “I—yes,” I say. “That’s right.” Though, to be honest, I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. Our goal was simply to get across the border in one piece. Once we arrived, I thought, we would figure out what to do. Well, here we are. Of course we’re going to go with her. What other options do we have?

  Lynx opens the back door to the truck, and we slide in. The seats are hard, cracked faux-leather, and a musty, dusty smell tickles my nose. Lynx presses down on the gas. The headlights slice through the darkness as the truck bumps and jolts down the narrow, unpaved road.

  “Will anyone be able to track us by GPS?” Steven asks.

  “This truck’s been modified. I took the computer out. No GPS, no AI features. It’s a good idea to stay off the grid, whenever possible.”

  “My kind of car.” Steven pats the seat. “Never liked those damn AIs.”

  “Never trust to a computer what you can do yourself,” she says.

  “Amen.”

  I shift in my seat, and a loose spring pokes my bottom. The dryness in my mouth is starting to feel like a chronic condition.

  The narrow road takes us to a highway, which stretches out toward the horizon, a ribbon of faded tarmac running between rows of towering pines. The forest gives way to open fields dusted with a light coating of snow, and I start to see signs of human civilization—a truck stop with a decrepit-looking diner, a pub with lit-up beer signs in the windows. We pass through areas with small clusters of houses and stores, towns and suburbs, the kind of places that don’t exist back in the URA. It seems… inefficient. Too spread out. Oddly, I don’t see any people.

  “Does anyone actually live in these towns?” Steven asks, echoing my thoughts.

  “Not many. A few decades ago, there was a recession in Canada. A lot of other countries, too. It hit the towns and rural areas pretty hard, and they never really recovered.”

  We learnt about that in school. The civil war with the Blackcoats caused an economic collapse in the URA—which was, back then, still the United States—which in turn triggered a global recession. A rash of small wars broke out on every continent, unleashing horror after horror. Chemical weapons, engineered viruses and neurotoxins wiped out entire cities. The misery finally came to an end when the most powerful nations of the world joined together to enforce a strict ban on all weapons of mass warfare, with the promise of swift retaliation to any who violated the agreement. The treaty has held, tenuously, ever since.

  After that, the URA adopted an isolationist policy and shut down most communication with the outside world. Even back then, refugees were starting to flee across the border—mostly terrorists looking for a place to hide, or so they told us in school. Canada didn’t want to get involved in our troubles, so they started tightening border security and eventually built the wall—a massive, outrageously costly construction stretching across the continent, creating a barrier between our two societies. Of course, refugees still make it across. We’re living proof of that.

  We pass a dilapidated barn next to a dead, bone-white tree with twisting branches, like tentacles. The branches are filled with crows, and they watch us as we glide past, their heads turning slowly to track our movement. I’m not the sort of person who
believes in omens, good or bad. Still, the sight sends a chill wriggling down my spine.

  Then suddenly the crows are cawing, flapping away. Two men on motorcycles veer out from behind a barn, engines snarling. They’re wearing bulky coats and hats with earflaps. One of them draws a pistol. Three flat cracks ring out, and I give a start. “They’re shooting at us!”

  “Hold on,” Lynx says. She cranks down the window and leans out, taking her hands momentarily off the wheel. With her body twisted around, she fires twice, managing to make it look graceful despite the awkward angle. The motorcycles spin across the road, front tires blown out. The men yell and jump off their bikes, sprawling across the grass. One of them stands up and waves to us. It’s an odd gesture—as if he’s saying, no hard feelings.

  “What the hell was that?” Steven asks.

  “Just bandits. Probably wanted the truck.” She says it as if being attacked by men on motorcycles is an everyday occurrence.

  Maybe for her, it is. She made that shot from a moving vehicle—while driving, no less—as casually as someone might take a sip from a cup of coffee. Is she even human?

  For the rest of the drive, I’m tense, nails biting into the imitation leather seats. I keep watching through the window, expecting more thugs to come after us, but it never happens.

  It’s late afternoon when the road takes us over a low bridge, and beyond the trees I spot a huge body of water—Lake Ontario, I assume. Beyond that, skyscrapers cut clean silhouettes against the pinkish-violet pre-dawn sky.

  Toronto.

  Even from a distance, it looks so different from Aura, the city where I spent most of my life. Aura has a stately, pristine dignity; its skyscrapers are mostly silver and white, so when the sun strikes it, it glows like an illustration of Heaven. It’s a subdued radiance, all cool serenity. Toronto is awash with a rainbow of candy-colored lights. The buildings glow pink and neon-green, their reflections in the water like smears of luminous paint. Spotlights shine from the tops of skyscrapers, spinning through the sky in a wild dance.

  We pass a video billboard with an image of an attractive woman. She holds up a small black pistol, then tucks it into her purse with a knowing smile and a wink. DISCREET PROTECTION, the tagline reads. I realize my jaw is hanging open and snap it shut.

  Steven raises his eyebrows. “People can buy weapons here? Like, in stores?”

  “Of course,” Lynx replies.

  “Seems like an invitation for disaster,” I mutter.

  “Canada is still a free country,” Lynx says. “Things are different here. You’d better get used to it, and fast.”

  I think of the men on motorcycles snarling toward us. Is this what people do when they’re free? Shoot at each other?

  Lynx’s gaze flashes toward me in the rearview mirror. A cool, strange light burns in those jade eyes, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Freedom isn’t the easy choice,” she says. “It’s not something handed to you on a platter. It’s a contract signed in blood. You have to be willing to accept the sacrifices—to fight for it, die for it, and kill for it, if necessary. If you don’t cling to it with all your strength, it won’t be long before someone tries to take it from you, and they’ll have a seductive, reasonable-sounding argument for why you should submit. If you’re not certain of your convictions, you’ll waver. And then, suddenly, it will be too late.”

  Pain shoots through me, and I realize my nails are digging into my thigh. I force myself to relax my grip.

  Steven clears his throat. “So how ’bout we celebrate our freedom with some burgers and fries? Maybe some coffee? I’m in serious need of a caffeine fix.”

  “We need to keep moving. We’ll eat once we arrive at our destination.”

  Outside the window, lights go by in a blur as we draw closer to the city. A slender tower rises high above the other buildings, like a needle with a series of rings near its top. I recognize it from pictures—the CN Tower.

  We pass another billboard, and my stomach drops into my feet. I press a hand to my mouth.

  WANTED: LAIN FISHER. Beneath the words is a photo of me, short hair in disarray, staring straight ahead with haunted eyes and a blank expression. I look psychotic. And I wonder, distantly, where they got the photo. It must have been taken from a security camera. Beneath it is a number to call and a cash reward. The amount makes my head spin.

  I scrunch myself down in the car seat, sweating.

  “Man,” Steven says. “That’s almost as bad as my yearbook picture.” His voice is light, but I can see the tension in the muscles of his neck.

  The billboard changes to an ad for some kind of virtual reality helmet, but the feeling of terror and exposure remains.

  Steven places a hand against my back. “Breathe,” he reminds me.

  I manage a faint smile, though it probably doesn’t look very convincing. “Maybe I should find some way to hide my face.”

  “That reminds me.” Lynx hands a circle of black plastic to me and another to Steven. “These are yours.”

  Steven turns his over in his hands. “This is a holomask?”

  She nods. “Slip that around your neck and push the button on the side.”

  I slide the black ring over my head, and it tightens until it’s snug against my skin. I push a tiny button. When I glance in the rearview mirror, a white canary stares back at me with round black eyes.

  Steven hesitates, studying the black ring in his hands. It’s about the size and shape of the collar he used to wear.

  Lynx reactivates her own mask. “Put it on,” she says.

  He takes a deep breath, slips it on, and pushes the button. His mask is a bird, too, but much fiercer-looking, with sleek gray feathers, a short, dagger-sharp beak, and yellow eyes. He examines himself in the rearview mirror. “What am I supposed to be?”

  “A sparrowhawk,” Lynx replies. “From now on, that’s your codename.”

  He raises his hands, as if to touch his new face. His fingers pass through the mask as if it’s made of smoke. “Sparrowhawk,” he repeats. His beak moves along with his voice.

  We drive over the bridge, and suddenly, we’re surrounded by buildings—a maze of stores, high rises, and blinding lights. People are everywhere. Some are ordinary-looking; others have lavish tattoos or brightly dyed hair, gel-sculpted into abstract shapes. I spot one woman in a shiny, crinkly outfit, like a spacesuit made from tinfoil. Another wears nothing but leopard body paint. Once again, I find my mouth hanging stupidly open, and I shut it.

  Lynx slides into a parking space and gets out of the car. “Stay close to me.”

  I don’t move. I’m almost afraid to step out of the truck. “Lynx—” I pause. “I feel strange calling you that.”

  “Call me Rhee. That’s my name. You might as well know it.”

  “Rhee, then. Are you sure this is safe?”

  “If you want safe,” she replies, “you’re in the wrong place.”

  ‌

  10

  We climb out of the truck and make our way down the sidewalk. A few people glance in our direction, but for the most part, no one pays attention to us. Considering how everyone else here is dressed, I suppose three people in animal masks aren’t particularly noteworthy.

  All around, the skyscrapers are clothed in glittering, moving ads. Logos glow in the sky, beamed onto the very clouds by huge projectors atop the highest buildings. Music pulses from night clubs; the heavy, grinding thump of the bass beat vibrates in my teeth, in my bones. I’m starting to get dizzy.

  Steven takes my hand, and I clutch it, a lifeline in a sea of chaos. Rhee walks briskly, her rifle still slung over her back. No one seems to notice.

  Overhead, a red dragon the size of a house sails across the sky, spewing flames. I gasp. It’s just a holo, of course, but startlingly real, every scale rendered in exquisite detail. The people around me hoot and applaud as the dragon flies in a circle, wings spread wide, then erupts into a burst of red and silver fireworks.
I glimpse a small black drone, almost hidden in the spray of color; a compartment slides open on its underside, and tiny objects rain down from the sky, pattering on the pavement. Pills. The words DRAGONFIRE—FREE SAMPLES! burn across the sky.

  People fall to their hands and knees and start grabbing up the pills like candy. One man shoves another aside, and they fall to the pavement, wrestling.

  We give them a wide berth. Behind us, I can still hear their shouts. My heart pounds as I walk close to Steven’s side.

  A window-screen displays a black-and-white image of a woman chained to a bed, staring out the window. An orange capsule appears in the window like the rising sun, spreading light and color. The chains vanish, and the woman smiles and gets up. REVITALIZE—SAMPLES AVAILABLE INSIDE!

  Another ad shows a man in a cubicle, staring into space with a bored expression. The man injects something into his elbow. Then he gets a wide grin, transforms into a huge, hairy ape, tears off his business suit, and pounds on his chest. GORILLA—PUMP UP YOUR LIFE! CASH ONLY.

  “This place is crazy,” I mutter. “They’re just handing out these mind-altering drugs to anyone who wants them.”

  “There are plenty of drug ads back home, too,” Steven says.

  “Yes, but… you know. That’s different. There are procedures you have to follow—”

  “Hey! Hey, birdy!” someone shouts. I tense, realizing that he’s talking to me. “Polly want a cracker? I got one for you.”

  Steven stiffens and moves closer to me, shielding me with his body.

  A group of teenaged boys stands on the street corner, smirking. One of them has a bottle in his hand.

  Steven lifts his head. Under his mask, I can’t see his expression, but I can feel the tension in his body. He starts to move toward them, but Rhee catches his arm. “Just keep walking.” Her voice is low, almost inaudible. “They don’t matter.”

  We hurry past, their laughter ringing in our ears.

  We pass a store with holographic windows, three-dimensional images floating inside. A silver neural disruptor rotates, words flashing next to it as a soothing baritone emanates from unseen speakers: “Non-lethal, effective, easy to use, and small enough to fit in your pocket, Blue Lightning is the perfect travel companion and the compassionate choice for self-defense.”