Mindwalker (16 page)

“Hey.”

At the familiar voice, I tense.

Ian sits down across from me. “Can we talk?”

I don't want to talk. I have a lot of other things on my mind right now, but I can't avoid him forever. “All right,” I say quietly.

He takes a deep breath. “Look, I know I screwed up, and I'm sorry. It's just … that latest immersion session hit me pretty hard, and I was really messed up that night. I know that's not an excuse. I just want you to know, if I was in my right mind, I never would have done that.”

I turn the words over in my head. Does that mean he isn't actually attracted to me? Or that he normally would have had more self-control? I'm afraid to ask him, afraid of the answer. It's just too much to deal with.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, his tone subdued.

“It's okay,” I reply. But I still can't meet his gaze. “I'm sorry that Steven attacked you. He overreacted.”

He utters a short, humorless laugh. “Tell me about it.”

“I want you to know, though, he's not a bad person.”

There's a long pause.

“So the rumors are true, then?” His tone is suddenly chilly.

I frown. “What rumors?”

“Are you actually going out with him?”

“What? No!” Heat rushes to my cheeks. “He's my—” I bite my tongue. I can't say
client,
since technically, he's not supposed to be. “My friend. That's all.”

“Oh.”

I frown at him. I don't like the way he said that. “Even if we
were
going out, it wouldn't be any business of yours.”

His shoulders stiffen. “I'd say it's my business. You're my friend.”

“That doesn't mean I need your approval to date someone.”

“Well, I'd be a pretty lousy friend if I didn't say something. He's …” Ian drops his gaze.

“He's what?”

He sighs. “He's … you know. Sick. Of course it's not his fault, but having a personal relationship with someone that screwed up never ends well. I mean, you saw what he did at the party. He might've killed me if not for that collar.”

Anger flares in my chest, hot as lava. A dull red heat pulses behind my eyes. I stab a piece of imitation beef with my plastic fork so hard that one of the tines snaps off against the plate. “He was trying to protect me, or don't you remember? You're the one who shoved me up against a wall and started acting crazy, not him.”

He flinches. “Lain—”

“Has anyone ever stopped to think that maybe the reason Steven's so angry is that everyone treats him like he has the plague? No one even bothers to find out how he got the collar. Everyone's so afraid and so quick to label people like him as dangerous or defective or sick. Well, I think it's our world that's sick!”

Ian's jaw hangs open.

I grab my tray and stand. If I stay here, I'll end up saying something I'll regret. “I have to go.” I walk away and plunk my tray down on an empty table, the one Steven normally sits at. For the rest of the lunch period, I sit alone, picking dispiritedly at my fake meat. I can almost feel a dark miasma collecting in the air around me, causing other students to give me a wide berth.

After lunch, a guard stops me in the hall and says, “Come with me, please.”

I hesitate. It's the same guard who confiscated my cell phone the other day. He has light brown hair and a pleasant, nondescript face, but he's just as powerfully built as the rest of them.

I follow him.

He leads me into the administrative wing, which is mostly deserted. The halls are wider, the ceilings higher, the walls a uniform beige. Our footsteps echo through the silence. “What's this about?” I finally ask, since he doesn't seem inclined to volunteer any information.

“Over the past few days, five students have made anonymous reports that you're acting suspiciously,” he says.

I suck air between my teeth, a small, startled hiss.

One or two reports might be dismissed. Students report each other all the time. Often, it's just a chance to feel important or a way of satisfying petty grudges. If there are more than four reports about someone in a given week, however, the school has the authority to pull that individual aside and scan him or her.

“This will be easier if you cooperate.” His tone is quiet,
almost sympathetic. “If you resist, I'm required to put that in your report, and that'll make you look bad.”

“Of course I'll cooperate.” I have nothing to hide, anyway.

He opens the door, revealing a tiny cement-walled room containing two chairs and a desk, nothing more. A hot bulb glares overhead. I take a seat, aware of the sweat trickling down my sides. He sits across from me, behind the desk, and waves a slim black wand back and forth in front of my face. It beeps, and a yellow light blinks. My heartbeat speeds up. It's usually green.

The guard examines the neuroscanner and nods, as if satisfied. “You're free to go.”

I stand.

Then he speaks again: “It's not my obligation to inform you, but I thought you should know. You've been recently reclassified as a Type Two.”

My mouth goes dry. I remain standing, feet rooted to the spot.

The symptom list for Type Two flashes through my head:
Malcontent. Persistent malaise, irrational feelings of anger or resentment toward society, paranoia, and antisocial tendencies.
Twos are not uncommon. They have most of the same rights and privileges as Ones, though they are barred from certain types of high-level employment. Being a Mindwalker, for instance.

It takes me a moment to find my voice. “I— No. This is a mistake. I'm just in a bad mood.”

“The scans account for temporary fluctuations in mood, as I'm sure you're aware. Anyway, one scan doesn't cause a reclassification. Someone's been watching you.” He sets the scanner down and folds his hands. His expression is calm but serious.
“If I were you, I'd take some time off, get some heavy-duty therapy, and get yourself back on track. It's not too late. I'd hate to see a bright girl like you throw away her future.”

The hairs on my nape stiffen. He sounds remarkably like Dr. Swan.

“Thank you,” I murmur automatically. My body is numb as I walk out, down the hall.

Twos have a high rate of recovery, compared to Threes and Fours. They can bounce back if they try. Those who choose not to undergo therapy, on the other hand, tend to worsen until they're reclassified again. After that, therapy is no longer optional.

I could do it now. I could walk into IFEN, request Conditioning, and walk out as a One again, with all my social privileges restored and no more than a tiny mark on my file. But I know what Conditioning does. I remember the placidity, the sensation of drifting through my days like a feather, the way worries seemed to bounce off my mind. And that feeling can last for days. Would I still care about helping Steven after treatment? Maybe, maybe not. I'm not even
supposed
to be helping him.

And something else is bothering me. The way this happened, the words the guard used—it feels like a warning. Could it be …

No. That's ridiculous. People don't get reclassified just because someone orders it. The data has to be reviewed and analyzed by several professionals who look at a person's history and overall patterns of behavior, as well as scans.

I stop and lean against a wall. If I force myself to look at it objectively, I
have
been acting troubled lately—breaking the rules, sneaking around, avoiding others. Maybe that's all there
is to it. Maybe I
am
sick, and that's why I've been having these paranoid thoughts.

The confrontation with Debra, the fight with Ian, the guard's warning—everything swirls around in my head, a chaotic blur. I no longer know what's right. Can I trust my own decisions? Can I trust anything?

After school, Steven is waiting for me in the parking lot. He studies my face, frowning. “What happened?”

I force a smile. “Nothing.” The lie is flimsy and unconvincing, but I can't bring myself to talk about it right now.

During the drive home, I remain silent, brooding. Once we're in my living room, Steven unbuckles the straps of his coat. His skinny fingers flit through the movements with the ease of long practice. Beneath it, he's wearing a black T-shirt with a green skull and crossbones above the words danger: poison. “So,” he says, “should we get started or what?”

I close my eyes.

He wants it. And it would be easy. Easy and so satisfying to go in and pop the little bubbles of pain.

That's not healing,
Debra whispers inside me.
It's just a lie.

I try to dismiss the words, but they've already seeped under my skin. I was so eager to help her that I ignored my
faint misgivings and plunged ahead with the treatment. Isn't that exactly what I'm doing now with Steven?

“Doc?”

I open my eyes. “Steven, I—I don't think I should do this.”

His forehead wrinkles. “What are you talking about?”

I look away.

Maybe if Steven were a normal client … but nothing about this is normal. I don't know what to do. I can't just refer him to a more experienced Mindwalker. He's legally dead, you know. But maybe if IFEN
knew
what I'd seen in his head, things would be different. After all, they're the Institute for Ethics in Neurotechnology. It's their job to investigate things like this.

I take a deep breath. “There's something I need to tell you.”

“Yeah?”

Steady. Deep breaths. I have to approach this as a professional—a doctor delivering some difficult news to a patient. “Actually, it might be better if I showed you.”

Looking baffled, he follows me into the basement. I turn on the Gate and play the recordings of his memories. His back stiffens. I don't watch the fuzzy images on the screen. I watch the reflection in his eyes. His expression remains rigid, tightly controlled. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Wait.”

Then it happens. That flicker. The brief glimpse of another room, another face.

Steven wears a dazed, uncomprehending expression, but beneath it is a growing black void of fear. “What the hell was that?”

I stop the recording. “At first, I thought it might be a glitch, but this doesn't resemble any glitch I've ever encountered.” My
voice comes out calm and level. Still, I can't look him in the eye. “You remember that scarring I mentioned? I think that has something to do with it.”

Silence. When he speaks, his voice is very soft, almost inaudible. “What are you saying?”

I force myself to meet his gaze. “I wish I could tell you more, but it's clear that your case is far too complex for me. Any speculation on my part would be based on nothing but guesswork. You need to go straight to IFEN.”

Steven's breathing quickens, inching toward hyperventilation. His eyes lose focus.

“Steven?”

“They won't help me,” he mutters.

“I think they will if they know about this. And they're the only ones
qualified
to help you. I—” My voice breaks. “I thought I could do this, but I'm in way over my head. I shouldn't have agreed to modify your memories in the first place.”

Silence.

“I'm sorry,” I add feebly. “But I really believe IFEN
will
help you if you give them a chance. If you want, I can contact them myself.”

He shakes his head. “Forget it.” I see his expression closing off, like shutters coming down over his eyes. He turns and walks up the stairs, into the living room.

I follow. “Steven, wait.”

“I'm going home.” His voice is toneless. It would be easier if he sounded angry; that empty, almost robotic voice is terrifying. He walks toward the door.

Panic flutters in my chest. I catch his sleeve. “Let's just talk about this.”

He yanks his sleeve free and turns to face me. “There's nothing to talk about. I'm not going in there. I already told you why.”

“Because you think they'll mindwipe you?”

“Yes.”

“But that's absurd,” I blurt out. “I already told you, that doesn't
happen.
Where did you even hear about this? Rumors? Conspiracy theory websites?”

His expression tightens, and he turns away. When he tries to walk out, I block his path. “Get out of my way!” he growls.

“I can't just let you leave!”

“Why not?”

I stop and take a deep breath. “I—I know you have a Somnazol.”

He twitches, eyes widening. “What?”

“I looked in your file,” I say meekly.

Emotions flash across his face, too fast and too many to interpret. His gaze jerks away. “Well, you're wrong.”

I blink. “What?”

“I don't have a suicide pill.”

My mind whirls. Is he telling the truth? Were the words in his file just a mistake, after all?