Mindstormer Page 13

  Rhee watches me in that unsettling way of hers, as if all my thoughts are laid bare. “It’s not easy,” she says. “You have to be ready to fight. To use a gun. The simulations will prepare you for that. After training sessions, we have lunch in the mess hall. You can eat alone in your room if you want, but you’re encouraged to eat with the others. It facilitates bonding with your fellow soldiers.”

  I must be exhausted, because this all strikes me as sort of funny. It’s like being at a summer camp for killers-in-training. “What next? Will we make bombs out of macaroni and glitter?”

  Steven snorts a small laugh. Rhee stares at me blankly.

  “Never mind.”

  She turns away. “Wake-up call is at seven. Be ready.” She walks away, leaving Steven and I standing together in the hallway.

  “Well,” Steven says, “here we are.”

  “I guess so.” I lower my gaze. I’m so tired; I feel like there are a lot of important things we need to talk about, but the whole day is a chaotic mishmash inside my head. I can barely make sense of it all.

  His fingertips brush over my cheek, the barest ghost of a touch. “Are you okay?”

  How am I supposed to answer that? I study my shoes, which are still damp and caked with mud from trudging through the sewers. “I’ll be a lot better once we get some food and sleep.” I offer a weak smile, then press my thumb to the scanner again. The door opens with a faint whir, revealing a rather plain room, its walls and floors constructed from the same metal sheeting as everything else. “I’m going to get cleaned up. See you in a few minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  I step inside my room, and the door slides automatically shut behind me. As a test, I touch the panel on the wall, and the door opens. So we’re not locked in our rooms. Nice to know. It does seem odd that they’re placing so much trust in us. I suppose if you’re building a rebel guerrilla army, you can’t afford to be too picky about who you let in, but still… I spent years working for IFEN before defecting. How do they know I won’t change my mind about all this?

  I brush the questions aside, take off my backpack and set it in the corner. Then I pull open a drawer, revealing piles of neatly stacked pants and shirts. I choose a simple white blouse and a pair of dark blue jeans. In the closet-sized adjoining bathroom, I strip off my bloody, filthy clothes and chuck them into a slide-out compartment on the wall marked LAUNDRY. To my relief, there’s a shower, though it’s cramped. I quickly wash off, then start looking around for the rations Rhee promised. In a small steel freezer, I find a pile of frozen meals; there’s a microwave sitting on the counter nearby, alongside a small stack of dishes and cheap tin cutlery.

  Well, my diet here won’t be much different from back home.

  I heat up a meal of frozen beef cubes and potatoes. Then I step out into the hallway and knock on Steven’s door. “It’s Lain,” I call.

  The door slides open, and I step inside. “I thought we could eat together.”

  Steven has changed into fresh jeans and a clean T-shirt, though he’s still wearing his mud-stained coat over it. He seems to sense that I don’t want to talk, so he doesn’t ask questions. Instead, he heats up a tray of chicken and green beans, and we sit next to each other on the edge of his bed.

  With my fork, I poke at the potatoes, little wheels decorated with bits of rehydrated herbs. The utensil has an unpleasant metallic taste, so I pick up a beef cube with my fingers and pop it in my mouth. The meat is tough and salty. “Once we go through training, do you think we’ll be like Rhee?” I ask, half joking. “I mean, will we be able to leap tall buildings and beat up a dozen armed thugs while playing the fiddle?”

  He half smiles. “She’s a special case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Steven’s smile vanishes. “Um. Well, it’s kind of personal.”

  “Personal,” I repeat.

  He opens and then closes his mouth. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. I mean, I guess it’s not a secret, really, but she told me—”

  “When did you even have a chance to talk to her in private?”

  “In the Underground. You know, when she went back to take care of those thugs and I ran off to see if she needed help. While we were walking back to you, I told her about St. Mary’s. And she told me some things about her past. You know how she mentioned being part of an experiment?” He toys with the frayed sleeve of his coat. “Basically, IFEN was trying to create perfect soldiers. People who wouldn’t freeze up during a battle or get PTSD and need lots of expensive therapy later. So they started messing with people’s brains to make them less sensitive to fear and guilt, even physical pain. They used orphaned kids from state homes. Just like the St. Mary’s experiments.”

  “That’s horrible.” But the sad truth is, I’m not shocked or even particularly surprised that IFEN would do something like that. A month ago, I would have denied it fiercely. No more.

  “Yeah. Anyway, the project was scrapped. Maybe it got too twisted even for IFEN’s tastes. The kids involved—the few that survived—were kept locked up in treatment facilities. Most of them went crazy. Rhee’s the only one who escaped. That was years ago.”

  “So… she doesn’t feel fear? At all?”

  “That’s what she said. You’d think that would be a good thing. But when she lost fear, she lost other things, too. She said it’s like being underwater all the time. Everything muffled.” His jaw tightens. “Guess that’s what happens when you fry part of someone’s brain with a laser.”

  I think of Rhee—her blank expression, the cool, merciless way she took down the border patrol. It wasn’t the Blackcoats who made her that way, after all. It was IFEN. It surprises me that she told Steven; she doesn’t seem like the type to self-disclose, particularly to someone she’s just met.

  But then, both she and Steven have been hurt in the same way. They both carry scars in their brains, marks of IFEN’s abuse. I’ve seen Steven’s memories—experienced them even—but still, I didn’t live through them. She can understand him in a way that I can’t. The few inches of bedding between Steven and I suddenly feel like an uncrossable ocean. “Is she… okay? I mean—” I’m not sure what I mean, really.

  “She’s okay. Sort of. She’s got a purpose now. A purpose helps you stay alive.”

  “Yes. It does.” For a long time, Mindwalking was my purpose, the thing that held me together. Now…

  Now, I don’t know.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “About what I said earlier, in the tunnels.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” He stares down at his feet. “I know you don’t like killing. That doesn’t make you weak or scared. It just means you aren’t numb.” His fingers tighten on his fork. “I think I could have done what Rhee did. I could have shot those border guards and not felt the slightest bit guilty about it. But maybe that’s not something to be proud of. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, after all.”

  “No,” I reply quietly. “You were right. I knew what joining the resistance would mean. I just didn’t want to think about it.” My throat is suddenly tight. I try to swallow, but the lump inside it swells, making it hard to draw breath. “I don’t want to kill anyone. Not even in self-defense. I hope I never have to.”

  “You won’t,” he says.

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “Because I’ll protect you.”

  I look into his eyes. They’re ringed by dark circles, and the whites are bloodshot, but his gaze is clear and determined.

  He means it. I can see that. But I don’t want him to kill for me, either. I don’t want anyone to take on that burden for my sake. My vision blurs, and I turn my face away, trying to wipe my eyes discreetly, but it’s too late. He sees.

  “Did I make you cry?” He sounds a little nervous. “I was kind of trying to do the opposite.” He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “Guess I’m not very good at this.”

  “It’s not you.” I lay a hand over his and give it a squeeze. “I’ll be
all right once I get some sleep.”

  He nods, gaze downcast.

  I push my empty tray into a slot on the wall labeled DISHES, retreat to my room, and slip into the plain white nightgown hanging on the wall. Then I slide beneath the covers and turn out the lights. But sleep won’t come. A slideshow of death keeps flashing through my head. Over and over, I see Rhee pull the trigger, snuffing out the woman’s life. I see the guards at IFEN headquarters, too—watch them dissolve into the blinding light of the explosion.

  I press my hands against my temples, as if I can squeeze the images out by force.

  Finally, sheer exhaustion weighs me down, blotting out the day’s events, and I start to drift off.

  A knock on the door jerks me awake. I sit up, pawing sleep from my eyes.

  The door slides open. A tall, thin figure stands, silhouetted in the light of the hall, features lost in shadow.

  I clutch the edge of my blanket. “Steven?”

  “Get dressed and come with me,” says a deep voice. It’s not Steven. Nicholas?

  “Why? What—”

  “I’ll give you two minutes.” The door slides shut.

  Apparently, Nicholas can unlock any door in the Citadel, regardless of whose biodata it’s keyed to. So much for privacy.

  Slowly, I climb out of bed, ignoring the way my heart is suddenly trying to smash through my ribs. Once I’m dressed, I step out into the hall. Without a word, Nicholas turns and starts walking, his long black coat flapping behind him.

  I follow, still half asleep and rubbing at my eyes. “Where are you taking me?”

  No response.

  “Say something, already.”

  He turns and studies me with a bland, unrevealing expression. I keep my face as blank as his, putting on the same calm, professional façade I always showed to my clients, but my heart is pounding.

  He seems to be weighing me with his eyes. They’re blue, but not like Steven’s. Nicholas’ are like sapphires; unnaturally blue, oversaturated with color. They don’t look real, but I don’t see the telltale rings of contact lenses around the irises. “Frankly, this is the first time we’ve allowed a Mindwalker into our ranks,” he says. “Until very recently, you were with the enemy, and your refusal to swear allegiance to us does not inspire trust. We need to take certain precautions. Zebra has decided that you will undergo a test.”

  Somehow, I have the feeling it’s not multiple choice. “What kind of test?”

  “I’m not permitted to tell you anything else. It wouldn’t matter if I did, anyway. There’s no way for you to prepare.” He keeps moving ahead with his rapid yet seemingly effortless stride.

  This place, I think, is like a giant metal anthill. So many twisting corridors, and they all look the same. If I lose him in this maze of passageways, I’m not sure I’ll be able to find my way back again. Our footsteps follow us through a hush overlaid by the low, constant rumble of machinery.

  “Who is Zebra, anyway?” I ask.

  “Our leader.”

  “I mean, aside from that. If he’s the one who outfitted this place as a base for the Blackcoats, he must have a lot of resources.”

  No response.

  I sigh. After a moment, I try one more question. “Why does he call himself Zebra?”

  “Because he looks good in stripes,” Nicholas replies snippily. He spins to face me. “You ask far too many questions. You have already tried my patience considerably. Try it any more, and you’ll find yourself in the timeout room.”

  “What is that?”

  “Do you want to find out?” he asks pleasantly. “Because I can certainly arrange that.”

  I bite my tongue. Rebellion, it seems, is not tolerated among the rebels.

  We reach another door—a small, ordinary door, gray and rust-flecked. He opens it, revealing a plain, boxlike room lit by a single dim bulb. In the center of the room stands a reclining, leather-padded black chair. On the chair’s headrest, at the end of a short black wire, is a white helmet.

  It’s a Gate.

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  13

  “What is this?” My voice shakes.

  “Just what it looks like. You’re familiar with this machine and what it does, I’m sure.”

  My stomach is sinking through the floor. If I get into that chair, whoever’s on the other side will have access to my thoughts, my memories. Not only that, but they might be able to alter them. I’ll be placing my mind in the hands of a stranger. “And if I refuse? What then?”

  “Then you’ll have to leave the Citadel. If you choose to leave, we’ll give you a drug that will blur your memories of the past twenty-four hours. Not enough that you’ll completely forget what happened, but enough that you won’t know how to get back here. It’s your choice.”

  Anger fills my chest, heating me from the inside. “We don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “That’s not my concern.”

  I can feel the rope around my throat again, tightening like a hangman’s noose.

  If I left the Citadel, Steven would go with me. I’m pretty sure of that, anyway. But then he and I would be on our own in this strange, hostile country. How long would we last before being caught and locked up in Area 9… or hunted down by IFEN and shipped back to Dr. Swan?

  Steven was right. We came here to fight back against IFEN, and for better or worse, these people are the ones who can help us. That means playing by their rules, at least for now.

  I look at the Gate and take a deep breath. My knees have turned to water. If they wanted to harm me, I reason, they’ve had plenty of chances to do it. I’m already at their mercy. “Fine.”

  “One word of advice,” he says. “Whatever happens, don’t fight it. You’ll just make it harder on yourself.” He nods toward the Gate room. “Go on. You know what to do.”

  I step forward, through the doorway. The door slides shut behind me, and I’m alone.

  Electric lights hum overhead as I approach, slowly. I reach out and run my hand over the helmet’s familiar, smooth contours.

  This Gate is the same model as mine—first-generation, older technology, no longer made. But there’s only one helmet. The other one can’t be far away. A Gate’s range isn’t very large. There must be someone in another room close by.

  A small silver box sits on a plain wooden stand next to the chair. I flip the box open. Inside gleams a slender hypodermic filled with a clear, yellowish fluid. A sedative, maybe? Something that will make me too disoriented to resist whatever is about to happen? There’s a tiny, packaged sanitary wipe, as well. The implication is obvious. I’m supposed to inject myself with this unknown substance, then put the helmet on and open my mind to a complete stranger. I wonder if I’ve gone insane.

  Well, here goes nothing.

  I slide into the chair, place the helmet on my head and buckle the strap under my chin. Then I tear open the package, swab the inside of my elbow, and pick up the hypodermic. I hold my breath as I insert the tip of the needle under my skin and depress the plunger. There’s a brief sting. I watch the yellow liquid disappear from the tube as I push it into my vein.

  The empty hypodermic slips from my fingers and hits the floor with a click. My vision blurs. My breathing echoes in my ears as if it’s coming from the end of a long tunnel. When I look down at my own arm, there’s a golden aura shimmering around it. I close my eyes for a few seconds, dizzy.

  The room warps and bends as a familiar tingling spreads over my skin. My instincts are clanging like alarm bells. But of course, it’s too late to back out. I’m not even sure I could stand up if I tried.

  Whatever happens, don’t fight it, Nicholas told me. I close my eyes and follow his advice, surrendering. As soon as I make the decision not to fight, the fear dissolves. There’s a sense of floating in empty space. The chair, the room, the helmet all fade into oblivion. I can no longer feel my own body.

  I’m alone. Yet suddenly, I have the clear sense that someone is nearby. With my mind, I reach into the darkness, casting
tendrils of my being outward, searching.

  Hello? I think.

  “Open your eyes,” says a soft male voice. It’s inside my head, but I hear it as if he were standing next to me.

  I try to do what he says, but that’s difficult when I can’t feel my body. I can’t even tell if my eyes are open or closed.

  “Not your physical eyes. Open them on the inside.”

  I imagine myself opening my eyes. And suddenly, I’m standing in the living room of my old house. Sunlight filters in through the windows, illuminating the warm wood floors. A tall, broad-shouldered man stands near one of the windows, staring out. His hands are interlaced behind his back. I recognize those hands. I know them like my own.

  Father turns toward me. He looks the way he did before his mind started to deteriorate—eyes bright, face unlined, hair and beard neatly trimmed. “Hello, Lainy,” he says.

  At the sound of the familiar nickname, my eyes fill with tears. I press a hand to my mouth and take a step back.

  He smiles, a sad, complicated smile. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Whatever was in that hypo is causing me to hallucinate. My mind is creating this. That’s the only rational explanation. Even knowing that, I want to run across the room and hug him tight, to feel the solid warmth of his arms, the slight roughness of his tweed jacket against my cheek.

  “You’ve grown so much,” he says. I open my eyes, and he’s walking toward me. “Let me look at you.” Slowly, he raises his hands to frame my face. His palms are warm. I can smell the faint whiff of coffee and old books that always seemed to follow him around when he was alive. A smell of comfort, of home.

  I shake my head, take an unsteady breath and force myself to step backward. “You’re dead.”

  “That’s not true. I may no longer have physical form, but I still exist here. You might say, in some ways, I’m even more real now.”

  “I—I don’t—”

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to understand. Just accept what’s in front of you.”

  The world blurs. The walls tilt, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Think. I have to think.