Mindstormer Read online

  “You seem to have a lot of faith in those safeguards,” the woman says. “If an unemployed Type Four comes in asking for a Somnazol prescription, do you really believe a doctor will respond to them the same way they would to a wealthy Type One asking for the same thing? Realistically, how many Fours do you think have the resources to explore all their treatment options? Can dying really be called a choice when people have been denied what they need to live? Instead of making death a more appealing option, we should be asking ourselves, as a society, why do so many people feel the need to die in the first place?”

  “No one is denied access to treatment. Weren’t you recently complaining, in one of your articles, that Conditioning is actually overused in our society?” His tone is weary and patient, as if he’s humoring a child. “Memory modification therapy is still cost-prohibitive, it’s true, but IFEN is working steadily toward making it more accessible to the public. What more should we be doing?”

  “For one thing, you could stop limiting Fours’ employment options. Give them equality. Allow them to vote and hold seats as elected representatives, take away the laws that keep them in poverty—”

  He raises his eyebrows. “That is your solution? Undo all the progress we’ve made as a society and send us back to the past? There’s a reason the Type system was implemented.”

  Fury flashes in her eyes, and she leans toward him, gripping the arms of her chair as if to hold herself back. “The system is designed to suppress—”

  The picture suddenly breaks down into tiny colored squares, then vanishes, leaving the screen a dull green. I frown and switch to a nature program. Otter cubs are tumbling and playing in a riverbank. I switch back to the debate, but the screen is still green. Maybe the rest of the program failed to record. Or maybe someone decided it was too stimulating for me. The thought makes me bristle, but I have to admit, the interview has left me troubled. The topic of Somnazol always does.

  It bothers me that even Dr. Swan, who has dedicated his life to helping others, supports the legal suicide pill. Most of those who take Somnazol are not terminally ill, but simply troubled individuals whose minds have been deemed irreparably broken. I’ve always believed that the system is supposed to help those who are suffering, not sell them poison. But then, who am I to make that decision for anyone else?

  I shut off the TV, then toss and turn in bed for awhile. I must have dozed off, because I’m awakened by the squeak of a cart wheel. My eyes fly open. A woman wheels a cart toward my bed, but it’s not Judith. A nurse? She’s young, more handsome than pretty, with jaw-length, perfectly straight dark hair. “Dinner,” she says, smiling.

  “Thank you.” Slowly, I sit up. “I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about my situation here?”

  “That depends. What do you want to know?”

  “For one thing, what’s today’s date?”

  “February 28th.”

  In my last clear memory, it was early October. At least, I’m pretty sure it was. My birthday is October 17th, which means I’m eighteen now. There’s an uncomfortable sensation in my chest, like someone is pressing down on my sternum. Dr. Swan erased more than three months of time from my head. “Listen. I know you can’t tell me anything specific, but I’m extremely confused. If you could just give me a general idea of what happened—”

  “You’ll know everything soon,” she says. She might just be brushing me off, trying to keep me quiet. But when she speaks the words, she gives me a long, significant look. Her eyes are a clear, light gray, tinged with green. “Just be ready.”

  “For what?”

  She smiles. “People are looking out for you.”

  I’m starting to feel like I’m trapped in a silly dream. “Well, yes. I suppose. But—”

  “Enjoy your dinner. Finish it all. Proper nutrition is important.” She turns and wheels the cart out of the room. I examine the contents of the tray. The nurse’s behavior was so cryptic that I half expect to see a secret message written in gravy, but the food is all very ordinary: a bottle of milk, another muffin, and a chicken pot pie. Maybe I’m imagining things.

  I take a bite of the chicken pot pie and feel something strange inside my mouth, something smooth and round. I pull it out. It’s a pill—a white, glossy oval. Imprinted on one side are the words EAT ME. Like in Alice in Wonderland. Dizziness rolls over me, and I press a hand to the side of my head, overcome by the sudden sense that I’ve seen a pill like this somewhere before.

  Footsteps echo down the hall toward me. Someone is coming. My fingers curl around the pill. I’m not supposed to have this, am I? I’m not about to take a drug without having any idea what it is or what it does, but I don’t want to lose it, either. I keep my hand under the covers, hidden.

  The door opens, and Judith peeks in. She blinks. “Oh. Someone already brought you your meal. Is the food okay?”

  I force a smile. “It’s fine, thank you.”

  “You’re sweating. Is everything—”

  “I just strained myself a little. I probably shouldn’t watch TV in this condition.” When she doesn’t move, I say, “I’m going to eat now.”

  She shuts the door again. I pull out the pill and examine it, but it offers no clues about its nature or purpose. My plain cotton clothes don’t have any pockets, so I dry the pill off with a napkin and tuck it into my slipper, under the arch of my foot. The slipper is tight enough that it will stay in place. I can decide what to do with this mystery drug later.

  I eat a little more of the pot pie and pick at the muffin, but my appetite has shriveled. With nothing else to do, I pick up the card on the nightstand and study the innocuously pretty picture. It doesn’t seem like the sort of card Ian would pick out. Usually, his are more witty. Everything about this experience feels… off. I keep remembering Dr. Swan’s strange behavior, that stab of fear and disgust I felt when he hugged me.

  I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes. I’m more tired than I thought, and I’m on the edge of drifting off when a dull boom shakes the room, like thunder. It’s so strong that my bed vibrates. I sit bolt upright, heart pounding. A freak storm? Or…

  I leap out of bed and press my ear against the door. Another boom shakes the floor, louder and closer.

  It’s not thunder.

  ‌

  2

  I take a few steps back from the door. A cold, hollow space opens inside my chest. Someone set off an explosive. But who would do that? Why?

  The answer comes at once: Terrorists. My heart hammers against my ribs.

  No. Ridiculous. Terrorist attacks just don’t happen, not anymore. That’s the whole point of IFEN’s existence, of the Type system—to identify potential threats to public safety before they can cause real harm. Of course there’s still crime, because no government has ever been completely successful at eliminating wrongdoing. But shootings, bombings, mass killings—those things are unheard of, in this day and age.

  Regardless, something is definitely wrong. My own ragged breathing fills my ears as I scan the room for an escape route.

  I hear voices talking in the hallway, a man and a woman, but I can’t make out the words. The voices are growing closer, closer. They’re right outside the door. For a few seconds, they fall silent. Then a man calls out, “If anyone’s in there, back away! This door is gonna explode in about ten seconds!”

  There’s no time to think. I dive behind the bed and huddle against the wall, covering my head.

  The explosion seems to shatter the very air. The door bursts open. Fire unfurls like a blossoming flower, petals of bright light and smoke shooting off in every direction. Shards of metal and plaster rain to the ground, and the heat sears my skin. More smoke pours from the door, though the fire has died down.

  I muffle a coughing fit against my fist and stumble to my feet. For a few seconds, I can’t see anything through the billowing clouds of smoke. Then I hear footsteps, and a silhouette emerges through the haze. Smoke stings my eyes, making me squint as the figure slowly c
omes into focus: a tall, thin form with the head of a gray-feathered hawk.

  A holomask. I’ve seen them before, though people mostly wear them at parties. Brilliant, copper-gold eyes stare at me from above the dagger-like beak.

  “Stay away!” I shout, knowing it won’t do any good.

  He reaches up to touch his neck, and the bird head vanishes, revealing a young man with pale blond hair and a diagonal scar on his cheek. He’s wearing a ragged black coat, boots, and equally ragged jeans, and he’s wielding the biggest rifle I’ve ever seen.

  He stares at me, eyes wide. For a few seconds, the very air seems to hold its breath. Then he smiles—a peculiar, crooked smile. “Sorry I’m late.” Slowly, he walks toward me. I don’t move. There’s nowhere to go.

  Sweat plasters my thin smock to my back. “What do you want with me?”

  He lowers the gun as he walks closer, then reaches out, as if to touch my cheek. I flinch away. He freezes. “Lain,” he says, very quietly, “it’s me, Steven.”

  I look up into his face. His features are thin and sharp, his eyes a pale, penetrating blue. They search mine deeply, as if hunting for something. I can see the fear in his expression, but I don’t understand it. He’s the one holding the gun here.

  Then he drops the weapon. It clanks to the floor as he takes my face between his hands. I’m too stunned to react. “Come on, Doc.” His voice is low, husky, trembling. “It’s your Steven. You know me. You have to. I know they did something to you, but they can’t take those feelings away. Look at me. Look in my eyes.”

  My pulse drums in my throat, like a tiny heart trapped behind my mouth. He’s delusional. He must be. His expression is so earnest, so desperate, I feel a tug of sympathy for him in spite of myself. Then I remember that he just blew up the doors. I grab his wrists and push his hands down. “I assure you,” I say, struggling to hold my voice steady, “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  He takes a step back, as if I’ve slapped him. The color drains from his face.

  “Look. I have no idea what this is about or what’s going on in your head, but that—” I point to the still-smoldering doors with an unsteady hand “—that is unacceptable.” My heart races, and sweat trickles down my back, but I keep talking, because if I don’t say something, I’ll probably start panicking. “You’re obviously going through some issues right now, but breaking into a medical facility and setting off explosives is not going to solve anything.”

  He bows his head and lets out a choked laugh. His shoulders shake as his forehead drops into one hand. “Well,” he whispers, his voice cracked, “you’re as bossy as ever.”

  A voice inside whispers, What if you do know him? I shove it away. There’s no way I’d get involved with someone this unstable. I’m too aware of the risks.

  My gaze darts to the gun near his feet. I think about making a lunge for it, but before I can, he picks it up, and I have a feeling I’ve just lost my only chance to escape.

  Another form appears in the doorway—a young woman with the head of a lynx, wielding a gun even bigger than Steven’s and wearing a black coat identical to his. Her jade eyes flick toward me, and her whiskers twitch. “We’re too late,” she says flatly. The mouth of her holomask moves along with her words, showing sharp white teeth. “She has no idea who we are. I doubt she’ll come with us willingly.”

  “We’re not leaving her here, Rhee,” Steven snaps.

  “I didn’t say we should. I’m just saying, it won’t be easy—”

  “Excuse me,” I say, raising my voice, “maybe you didn’t hear me the first time. I don’t know you. And you don’t know me.”

  His jaw tightens. He looks me straight in the eye. “Your name is Lain Fisher. You have a stuffed squirrel named Nutter, and your holoavatar was a cat named Chloe. When you were thirteen, your father killed himself, and you blamed yourself for it. Since then, you’ve spent your life trying to save people. Whenever someone claims to be a lost cause, whenever they say there’s no hope, you’re the one there telling them they’re wrong. You don’t believe in lost causes.”

  A cold tendril curls around my heart. “Who are you?” I whisper.

  “No time,” the cat woman—Rhee—says. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where we’re going!”

  “Canada,” he replies.

  “Canada?” The name conjures up a whirl of confusing emotions and jumbled images—verdant forests and concrete spattered with spray-paint and blood, soaring hawks and desolate towns overrun with bandits.

  “We’re taking you back to the Citadel.”

  My thoughts spin. Apparently, these people are somehow connected with the traumatic incident that has been wiped from my mind. Maybe they kidnapped me, and now they’re trying to take me back. But something about that assessment doesn’t feel right. I remember the way the man—Steven—looked at me when I said I didn’t recognize him. Like his soul was crumbling. I shake my head. “I—I can’t—”

  Rhee holds up a hand, forestalling my protests. “Here’s all you need to know right now. A lot has changed for you in the past few months. We’re your allies. IFEN is your enemy.”

  “That’s absurd,” I snap. But I’m shaken, all the same.

  Steven reaches out to me, and I flinch back. A spasm of pain crosses his face, as though I just opened up his chest and punched him in the heart. “Lain… please.”

  I don’t move.

  In the hallway outside, I hear the thunder of approaching footsteps. Steven stretches out a hand. His gaze holds mine. “Trust me.”

  The world is breaking apart, shattering into a thousand jagged shards, and those shards are cutting me into pieces. My head hurts. Steven remains motionless, hand extended, his eyes filled with mute pleading. “I must be insane,” I mutter, and take his hand. He drags me into a rough embrace, and I let out a squeak of surprise as he pins me against his chest. He’s squeezing me so hard I can barely breathe.

  A line of armed men in IFEN uniforms burst into the room, aiming handguns at us. The pistols look like toys compared to the assault rifles the two terrorists are holding. “Let her go,” one of them says.

  Steven spins around to face them, aiming his machine gun with one hand, the other arm still locked across my chest, pinning me in place, and I realize—I’m a hostage. Oh God. How could I have been so stupid?

  “One last warning,” the man barks. “Let her go, or we’ll—”

  Rhee raises her gun and sprays them with bullets. Two of the guards manage to scramble away in time. The other two go down. One of them twitches a few times, then they’re both motionless. Blood spatters the walls and the floor.

  I scream.

  Steven curses under his breath and drags me out, down another hallway. I struggle, trying to free myself from his grip. “Calm down,” he says.

  “Calm down? You killed them!”

  “They would have killed us,” Rhee says.

  I hear the stampede of footsteps and tense. A group rounds a bend in the hall, but they’re not guards or police. They’re dressed in black coats and carrying guns, and they’re all wearing holomasks that look like animal heads—a wolf, a snow leopard, some kind of short-eared, brown-furred rodent with a snout full of pointy teeth.

  So many people. Whatever’s happening, it wasn’t engineered by a pair of psychopaths. This is organized. I take in their attire again, and my already rapid breathing speeds up. Blackcoats. They exist, after all. IFEN always insisted the last of them had been wiped out during the war.

  “We found him,” the rodent says in a sharp female voice. She pushes a man forward. He stumbles and falls to his knees, head bowed, wrists bound behind his back. His clothes and hair, both white, are stained with blood. “He was trying to escape in his private helicopter. Coward.”

  The man lifts his head, glaring at the rebels through the blood on his face. A cold jolt of shock runs through me. It’s Dr. Swan.

  The snow leopard ste
ps forward and nudges Dr. Swan with the butt of his gun. “What should we do with him, Sparrowhawk?” he asks, looking at Steven. “You want us to kill him?”

  “No!” I burst out. I struggle, trying to pull myself from Steven’s grip, but he clings to me. My elbow cannons into his stomach, and he releases me with a grunt.

  Rhee quickly grabs me and pins my arms behind my back.

  “Let me go!” I shout.

  The rodent woman casts a disdainful glance at me, teeth bared. “Why don’t we just knock her out?”

  “We’re not doing that,” Steven snaps at her. “If you lay a hand on her, I’ll—”

  “Fine, whatever. I won’t touch your Pookie.”

  Pookie? I look at Steven. He flushes and looks away. Then he takes a deep breath and marches up to Dr. Swan. “Tell Lain—tell all of us—what you did to her.”

  “You already know.” Dr. Swan squeezes the words between clenched teeth.

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  Dr. Swan’s gaze flicks to me, then away. “We performed a neural modification treatment. She’s already aware of that.”

  “Does she know what you erased?”

  I listen, holding my breath.

  Dr. Swan smiles, a bitter twist of his lips. “Why don’t you tell her? Tell her how you seduced and brainwashed her, how you indoctrinated her into this life of violence—”

  Steven slams the butt of his gun into Dr. Swan’s nose. Crunch. A choked cry escapes my throat.

  Dr. Swan gasps, wheezes, then looks up, still smiling through the blood. “Those masks of yours are very fitting.” His voice comes out thick and nasally. “You’re animals, through and through.”

  “Tell her the whole truth,” Steven says.

  “And what truth would that be?”

  “That you wiped her memories against her will because you wanted to mold her into your puppet. You wanted her to forget the fact that IFEN performed illegal experiments on children, on me and Rhee. On Lizzie.” His voice cracks slightly over the name. “You wanted her to forget that you were responsible for her dad’s suicide, because you pushed him into a corner. If he hadn’t died, you’d have wiped his memories. She fled the country to get away from you. But you made her forget that, too.”