Mindstormer Read online

  We sat together in the dark amphitheater, watching the lights of stars and galaxies glide across the black dome overhead. And it did help, a little. The narrator’s deep voice was hypnotically calming, and I found myself dozing a little, resting my head on Ian’s shoulder. After a few minutes, he put an arm around me. He leant closer and whispered, “No matter how bad things are here on Earth, there’s still thousands of other worlds out there. Millions.”

  “Do you think there are people on them?” I murmured drowsily. “Like us?”

  “They probably don’t look much like us. But I think—I hope, anyway—that they feel some of the same stuff we do.”

  “Like kindness?”

  “Yeah. And loneliness, even. And love.”

  At the time, I didn’t think much of it. Ian and I understood each other; we both knew the pain of being Mindwalkers. Of course we comforted each other, held onto each other for strength. Like castaways in a stormy ocean, we buoyed each other up. It didn’t imply anything romantic—even if, to the rest of the world, we probably looked like a couple.

  We were always so busy anyway, between school and training, there was no time for anything more than friendship, and I assumed he felt the same. But now, looking back, it seems strange, that I never wondered.

  I’m not sure what alerts me to the fact that someone is watching us. Maybe it’s a sound, maybe just a sense of eyes on me. But when I look up, Steven is there in the doorway, his expression unreadable. Warmth creeps into my cheeks, and I quickly pull away from Ian, like a child caught playing with something she’s been told not to touch. Steven doesn’t react.

  “What’s that?” Ian asks, and I notice Steven’s carrying an armload of boxes and jars.

  “Crackers, peanut butter, and beef stew,” he says. “I couldn’t find any spoons, but there was a can opener in one of the drawers. Dig in.”

  My stomach wakes up with a gurgle. Until now, I’ve been too overwhelmed to focus much on my hunger, but now it opens up inside me like a yawning cavern. How long has it been since that unsatisfying meal in IFEN headquarters?

  Steven sits on the foot of the bed and opens the jar of peanut butter. I scoop up a glob, using a cracker as a makeshift spoon. We pass the food around, dipping the thin, salty crackers or just eating with our fingers. Within half an hour, we’ve finished everything. I suck the last traces of beef stew from my fingertips and let out a small, satisfied sigh. It’s amazing how much better I feel, now that I’ve got something in my stomach.

  “There’s some bottled water,” Steven says. “And it looks like there’s a pump behind the house, too.” He studies his feet. “Dunno if it still works, but we could give it a try.”

  “Okay.” I’m not sure what else to say. “That sounds good.”

  He stands and walks out, leaving me with a strange emptiness in my chest, though I should be glad for the distance between us.

  Ian sits in silence. I pick at the edge of my thumbnail, searching for words.

  A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Can I tell you something I shouldn’t?”

  My brows draw together. “What?”

  “I don’t want you to get your memories back. Because if you do, I’ll lose you.”

  The words send a thin chill sliding down my spine. “Why would you lose me?”

  His eyes hide from mine. “It’s just… people’s feelings change. That’s all.”

  I take his hand. His skin is warm and smooth. I meet his gaze—so soft and dark, so different from Steven’s penetrating, icy-blue stare. “Ian. You’re my best friend. You’re more important to me than anyone else in the world.” His eyes widen slightly. I’ve never actually told him that before—maybe I never even consciously realized it until now—but it’s the simple truth. Since Father’s death, Ian’s the one who’s always been there for me, the only one I truly trust. “Nothing will ever change that.”

  “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.” He blinks a few times, and I see the glint of moisture at the corners of his eyes. But it disappears so quickly, I can’t be sure. “We should probably get some sleep. Unless… do you want me to stay? To talk, I mean.”

  I hesitate. A part of me wants that, the comfort of his closeness, his smile. But I shake my head. “I’m all right.” I need space to process everything I’ve learnt. I need to think, and when he’s around, it’s too easy to sink into the feeling of safety he offers, too easy to shut off the questions circling in my head.

  “Okay.” He leans in and very softly kisses my forehead. My breath catches in surprise. Before I can respond, he slips quietly out of the room.

  I sink into bed. My body is heavy with exhaustion, but my mind spins like a top.

  He’s in love with you. The words rise out of the depths inside me, out of the void where memories once lived. Ian, my best friend, is in love with me? Maybe I’m in love with him too. I don’t know; my emotions are a mass of tangled threads, and I can’t begin to sort them out. He thinks that if I recover the past few months, he’ll lose his chance, because then I’ll be in love with Steven again. Which means that I was in love with Steven. It wasn’t just some little crush. Of course, that makes sense—I wouldn’t have kissed a client unless my own feelings were strong enough to override my conscience and training. The question is, do I want those feelings to come back? Do I want to be in love with a man who’s so comfortable with death and killing? A man who loathes IFEN and wants to destroy it?

  For awhile, I lie awake, watching the patterns of moonlight on the walls and floor. When the wind sighs through the trees, making the branches sway, the patterns dance and flicker. Near the door, the kerosene lamp glows softly, a steady yellow flame. The house is like a living thing, sighing and crackling all around me. In the walls, I can hear the claws of tiny animals scratching. The pain in my head has died to a faint ebb and flow behind my eyes, like waves on the shore. I think about the pill, still tucked into my pocket.

  After an hour of tossing and turning, I take it out. I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, studying it in the dim light.

  What if I could recover my lost memories? And why does that thought frighten me?

  It’s not just that I’m afraid of what I’ll learn, though that’s part of it. It goes deeper. I’m afraid of her—of the other Lain. I feel like there’s a stranger locked inside my body, waiting to seize control.

  I set the pill carefully on the rickety table next to the bed and close my eyes.

  ‌

  5

  I wake with a start, gasping. Sweat trickles down my temples. Slowly, I sit up. I can’t remember what I was dreaming about. There’s only a hazy tangle of impressions. But the image of Dr. Swan’s blank, empty eyes—the bullet hole in his head—lingers.

  At first, I don’t know where I am. The walls around me are wood, weathered to a dull gray. Dawn light creeps in through the window. I’m alone. I raise a trembling hand to my forehead—and then the memories of the past day come rushing back.

  The pill still rests on the rickety table next to my bed. I turn it over. The words—EAT ME—are a mockery and an invitation.

  The details of the dream are already fading, but the sense of terror remains, and I know I won’t be getting back to sleep.

  The light outside has a misty green quality, eerie and deep, like something from the dawn of time. A bird lets out a cackling cry—a wild sound. There were never so many birds in Aura.

  I get up and peer through the dingy glass of the window. The pink dawn sky shows in bright patches through the trees. There’s a figure outside, working the ancient, rusted pump, filling a pail of water. Steven.

  He’s not doing anything remarkable, but still, I can’t look away. It’s a strange feeling, watching someone and knowing he’s unaware of my eyes on him. Maybe that’s the only time you truly see people with their masks off. His back is to me, so I can’t see his expression. He pauses to wipe his forehead with one sleeve. For a few seconds, he just stands there, staring off into the woods. Then, abruptly, he falls to hi
s knees and buries his face in his hands.

  I pull myself away from the window and press my back to the wall. My heart is pounding. When I finally dare to sneak another look through the glass, Steven is gone.

  Just what am I to him? What were we to each other?

  I search the dark space inside me for an echo of what I felt for him, but there’s nothing. I’ve gotten pieces of the puzzle, bits of information, but information alone can’t tell you who a person is. Only memories can.

  Memories. They form the basis of all human relationships, all love and hate. They’re more than our past; they’re our present, the fabric of the living souls within us. They’re the foundation of our emotions, our understanding of the world, our choices. A true Mindwalker understands that. And I find myself wondering, not for the first time, if that’s a power that anyone should have—the power to rewrite a person’s being.

  My gaze falls on the pill, still sitting on the nightstand. I curl my fingers around it, feeling it press into my palm.

  By now, Ian’s probably awake too. I need to tell them about this. I can’t deal with it alone. Secrets are a heavy burden to bear.

  I pick up the kerosene lantern from the floor and creep down the hallway. Voices echo from downstairs, and I freeze, listening. Holding my breath, I tiptoe down the stairs. The door to the kitchen is shut, and inside, I hear Steven and Ian talking.

  “Look,” Ian says in the calm, reasonable voice he uses on difficult clients. “I know it’s tough, but you’ve really got to get a grip. We’re in the middle of nowhere, here. We need each other to survive. I understand why you want to leave, but—”

  “Don’t tell me you understand,” Steven snaps. “You don’t fucking understand.”

  “Okay, fine. Explain it to me.”

  Leave? Holding my breath, I press my ear to the door.

  I hear pacing. Then the footsteps stop, and Steven takes a deep, shaky breath. “Because it would be better for her. You calm her down. I scare her.”

  “She just needs to get used to you.”

  “Don’t you get it?” His voice cracks. “I’ve been screwing up her life ever since she met me. I dragged her into this hell, but even when things started going wrong, when she realized she’d made a mistake, she couldn’t leave me. Because she knew I’d fall apart. She can’t stop herself from helping people, even when it hurts her. That’s what I am—I’m a bad habit she couldn’t break. Maybe now, she’s just seeing me clearly for the first time.”

  A quiet sigh. “She’s not seeing anything clearly right now. She doesn’t even know who she is.”

  I don’t move. A bead of sweat carves its way down my neck.

  “As far as she’s concerned,” Ian continues, “the first time she saw you is when you barged into IFEN headquarters with a gun on your back. Of course she’s not going to immediately trust you. If you’d get your head out of your ass and take off your self-hatred goggles for two seconds, you’d see that you’re actually not that bad a guy.”

  Steven snorts. “Right. I’m only a terrorist and a former drug addict with about a dozen psychiatric disorders and a brain full of holes and scars. I’m a real catch. Why are you trying to talk me out of this, anyway? You want to be with her, right? Why not just let me leave and have your little happily-ever-after?”

  There’s a long pause. Ian lets out a flat, bitter chuckle. “Good question.”

  I try to breathe quietly, shallowly. My feet are rooted to the floor, my ear glued to the rough boards.

  “Maybe… maybe because I know it would be a lie. If she chooses me because she doesn’t remember you, and if I just go along with that, then I’m no better than Dr. Swan, trying to hide the truth for my own benefit. Sooner or later, I’d start to hate myself.” His voice has grown quiet, almost inaudible. Now it rises again. “But this isn’t about what either of us wants. There are bigger things going on. The Blackcoats are in serious trouble. They can’t afford to lose any more members. Besides, there are still things we could try. If we showed her our memories of the past few months through the Gate, maybe it would help her regain some sense of herself. And her bond with you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Steven’s voice is empty, quiet. “She’d already made her choice, even before she lost her memories. She chose you.”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “You didn’t see—”

  I push the door open. They lapse into silence and stare at me, still as statues. I walk over to the table and sit down. They remain standing. “You know,” I say, “if you’re going to talk about me, it would be polite to include me in the discussion.”

  Suddenly, neither one of them can look at me. They shuffle their feet. “I thought you were asleep,” Ian murmurs.

  I turn to Steven. “What’s this about you leaving?”

  He shifts his weight. “I thought—”

  “That it would be better for me?” Anger creeps into my voice. “It’s not your place to decide that.”

  He doesn’t look at me. “You said it yourself. You didn’t ask to be rescued. If I were a less selfish person, I would’ve just left you there.”

  “I know what I said, but I was suffering from more than a bit of shock, at the time. I had no idea what was going on. I still don’t, but I know that I don’t want to go back there. I was a prisoner in that place.”

  “At least you were safe.”

  “I don’t want to be safe. I want answers. Dr. Swan tried to steal the truth from me. And I intend to find out why.” I pause, heart drumming. “I want to know who you are, too.”

  His eyes snap toward me, sharp and bright. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

  “What’s that you’ve got?” Ian asks.

  I glance down at my curled fist, hesitate, and open my fingers, revealing the tiny white circle nestled in the center of my sweat-damp palm.

  Steven blinks, mouth opening. “Is that Lucid?”

  “I don’t know what it is,” I say. “It was given to me by a nurse back in IFEN headquarters. Why? What makes you think it’s Lucid?”

  “It looks like the kind I took before,” Steven says.

  Ian frowns. “Can I see it?”

  I hand him the pill, and he holds it up to the fluttering light from the kerosene lamp. For a long time, none of us speaks. “Well?” I ask.

  “A nurse gave this to you?” he asks. “Really?”

  “Yes, but… I don’t think she really worked for IFEN.”

  Ian and Steven exchange startled, puzzled looks.

  “I don’t know what it is,” I say. “But… somehow, I have the feeling that it will help me recover my memories.” Still, I know that’s not rational. Memory modifications aren’t reversible. That’s the first thing they teach us in our training. Ever since Mindwalking was invented, there’ve been people who regretted having their past erased, and a few have tried experimental methods of getting it back. It never works. Sometimes, the attempts have had disastrous consequences.

  “That’s silly of me, isn’t it?” I prompt, looking at Ian. “Once you destroy a cluster of neurons, you can’t un-destroy it.”

  Ian studies my face, his eyes moving in tiny flicks. The pill still rests in his palm. “Neural modification doesn’t destroy all the cells responsible for those memories, because episodic memories aren’t stored in a single location in the brain. The hippocampus integrates them, but that’s only one part of the process—they’re formed and given meaning by different neural networks working together.”

  He’s right. And that means some of that data is still there. I just can’t access it.

  I feel a tickle of excitement and curiosity, mingled with a pang of dread. “So you’re saying, if you could stimulate the growth of new connections between the neurons—”

  “Exactly. It might be possible to recover some of your memories.”

  “But if information in the brain isn’t connected to a larger context, it tends to decay very quickly,” I point out. “The only reason we remember events
from long ago is because our brains are continually recalling them and touching up the faded parts, like repairing an old painting. You’re actually recalling the last recall, rather than the memory itself.”

  “Right. It takes the brain about forty-eight hours to heal after a memory modification procedure. During that time, everything gets shuffled around and reintegrated. But after that, the loose bits of sensory data from the old memories start to decay. And once that’s gone, it’s gone.”

  “Wait, wait,” Steven says. “That’s not how it worked with me. I mean, when we recovered my memories.”

  “Recovered your memories?” I ask.

  “Long story,” Ian says. “It was different for him, though.” He turns to Steven. “Your early childhood was erased during the neural modification procedure at St. Mary’s—those memories are gone for good—but your memories of St. Mary’s itself weren’t actually deleted. Instead, they Conditioned you to tweak the details. It was less like neural modification and more like a strong subliminal suggestion. You see the difference?”

  He frowns. “I guess so. I still don’t really get it.”

  “My point is, if this actually is a memory-recovery pill, she’ll have to take it soon.” He meets my gaze. “The longer you wait, the smaller the chance of it working.”

  Steven stands stiffly, hands shoved into his pockets.

  I hold out a hand, and Ian gives the pill back to me. I turn it over in my fingers, roll it along the pad of my thumb. It’s smooth, almost slippery. Somehow, just holding onto it feels dangerous, like it might seep through my skin.

  I remember reading about clinical trials for high-dose Lucid and its effects on Alzheimer’s patients. The patients did remember things, but they weren’t always able to connect the pieces into a coherent whole. It just made them confused and agitated. One of them jumped out a window. If there was a way to integrate the new information more smoothly into my consciousness, maybe…

  An idea sparks, and the scientist in me leaps on it like a puppy on a ball. A tingle of electricity travels down my spine. “Ian. You said something about using a Gate to show me your memories?”