Mindwalker (27 page)

I wake to a roaring headache. With a groan, I pry my eyelids open. Bright light floods my vision, making me squint. Once my eyes have adjusted, I find myself looking at a cement ceiling, illuminated by a single naked bulb. For a moment, I just stare, strangely fascinated by the pattern of water stains: wiggly edged blobs, like continents on an alien world, lit by the blinding sun of the bulb. My dry throat prickles with thirst, distracting me. I swallow, but I can't work up any saliva.

Where am I?

I try to sit up, but my body won't move. There's a tight pressure around my chest, like an iron band, making it difficult to draw a full breath.

Something happened to me. Something bad. I struggle to piece my fragmented memories together. Where was I before I lost consciousness? I was in the car with Steven, and then—

Steven.
Where is Steven?

I lift my head as far as I can—which isn't much—and look around. I'm in a tiny cement-walled room. A basement, maybe. Across from me is a narrow door—it looks like a broom closet. When I strain my eyes downward, I see that I'm on a metal cot, resembling a surgical table. A series of tight straps crisscross my body, pinning me down, and my arms are bound in a straitjacket. Next to me there's a table, and on it, a slim black hard drive hums softly.

A Gate. But not mine. It's a different model, newer. There's something on my head. A helmet?

“You're awake.”

My gaze jerks toward the voice. The policewoman—if she
is
a policewoman—stands nearby. Her shades are gone, revealing expressionless pale gray eyes.

“What's going on?” My voice comes out slurred and thick. My tongue is a lump of numb meat. “Where is Steven?”

She glances at the closed door on the other side of the room, and the corners of her thin lips twitch in a smile. “He won't be bothering us. I gave him enough sedatives to knock out an elk. He'll sleep for a good twelve hours.” She lifts a white plastic helmet off the nearby table and turns toward me. “By then, you won't remember him.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

A stubborn part of my mind insists that this is absurd—things like this simply don't
happen
in a civilized world like ours. Surely, this is some kind of cosmic clerical error that will be rectified at any moment. But a deeper part of my brain—the part now screaming with silent horror—knows better.
“You can't do this,” I say, as if the words will somehow change what's happening. “This is highly illegal.”

“Actually, it's not. You've been reclassified as a Type Five.”

My whole body goes cold. Type Five. The highest threat level. Higher than Steven's.
Imminent danger to public safety.
It's reserved for those people who have the capacity to do damage on a large scale, who are a danger not just to individuals but to society as a whole.

She smiles coolly. “You know what that means, don't you? You can be confined by any means necessary and treated with the most extreme forms of therapy, with or without your consent. Your report will state that your Type rapidly elevated because of a recent trauma and that you needed a rapid emergency memory modification.”

“That's ridiculous!” I wriggle in my restraints, trying to loosen them. “I'm not traumatized, and I'm certainly not a danger to public safety!”

“They all say that.” She waves a hand over the Gate's sensor. A holoscreen flicks on in midair. An image of a brain—
my
brain—rotates slowly.

“Who authorized this?” I ask, trying to keep my voice firm.

“That's none of your concern.”

“I'd say it is! I have rights. Basic human rights.”

She chuckles, as if I've evoked the protection of a mythical fairy.

“Who authorized this?” I ask again.

She ignores the question and taps a few icons on the screen. “You know, this was supposed to happen in IFEN headquarters, all nice and quiet. We were going to Condition you and
then modify your memories while you were still compliant. No fear, no drama. But you had to complicate things by running. Hauling you back to Aura would attract attention, so I'll simply have to do the best I can. It'll be a little sloppy. Might be a while before you can do any math homework.”

My pulse thunders in my ears. The anger is fading, replaced by a growing black void of terror. “This is a misunderstanding. Just let me talk to Dr. Swan—”

“That wouldn't do any good.” She pulls on her own helmet. “Nothing personal, you understand. Only a job.”

I struggle, but the straps are tight. They won't budge.

“The more you cooperate, the easier this will be on you,” she says.

Panic fills my head like a blinding light. “What about Steven? What are you planning to do with him?”

“Don't worry about that.” She picks up a hypodermic from the table and taps a nail against it. “Just lie back and relax. When you wake up, you'll be safe and sound in your own home, and this will all be behind you.”

My gaze focuses on the hypodermic. A bead of clear liquid wells from the tip of the needle and drips down.

I start to scream. I feel like an idiot, because I realize it's pointless, but I don't know what else to do. I keep screaming as the needle advances toward my throat.

There's a sudden loud thud against the closet door. The woman whirls around. Her hand strays toward the slim silver pistol at her hip. Not a pistol, I realize. A neural disrupter, probably the same one she used to knock me out. She thumbs a switch on the ND's hilt.

The closet door bangs open. Steven stands there, shreds of rope hanging from his wrists, a switchblade in one hand.

The woman takes a step backward. “You can't be awake.” Her voice wobbles. For the first time, her certainty is gone.

Steven narrows his eyes. “Move away from her. Now.”

She draws her ND. In the same instant, Steven lunges. She starts to squeeze the trigger, but he grabs her arm and twists it against her back. She cries out. Steven steps behind her and presses the edge of the blade to her throat. “Drop it.”

She releases the ND. It hits the floor with a clank. The hypo slips from her fingers, bounces, and rolls under the table. She stands frozen, breathing harshly.

By now, the collar should have stopped him, yet somehow he continues moving. Is its internal computer still working, scrambling to decipher the sudden burst of neural activity and decide whether he's a threat? Or is he resisting its effects through sheer will?

Steven shoves the woman away, grabs the ND, and keeps it pointed at her as he walks backward, toward me. He clamps the switchblade between his teeth. Fumbling, he unbuckles my straps with his free hand. The woman glares at him, poison in her eyes. I sit up, weak and shaky, and pull off the helmet. With a shudder, I toss it to the floor.

He takes the switchblade from his mouth. “You okay?” he asks, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

“More or less.” I try to smile. His switchblade gleams. Does he
always
have that with him? Carrying a concealed knife is illegal. But I'm very glad he does.

He aims the ND at the woman.

“Put that down.” She takes a step toward him.

“I don't think so. You're going to talk now. Tell us—” A glassy look slips over his eyes. He sways on his feet and drops the switchblade.

A chill shoots through my bones.
The collar.

His knees buckle. The woman lunges. I lunge, too. The ND slips from Steven's slackening fingers, hits the floor, and skids. In the same instant, the woman and I make a grab for the ND. Somehow, I scoop it up first.

I've never held a weapon. It feels clumsy and awkward as I point it at the woman's chest. Near my feet, Steven stirs. He starts to push himself up, then slumps to the floor again. I'm on my own.

“Who sent you?” I ask, deepening my voice in an effort to sound tough.

The woman just glares at me, her lip curled in a sneer of distaste. “You don't know how to use that.”

“I know the basics. And my hands are shaking rather badly now. My finger could slip on the trigger if I'm startled, so I wouldn't make any sudden moves if I were you.” There, that sounds semiplausible as a threat. “Now. Tell me who sent you.”

“The order came from the director himself.”

A sickening weight spreads through my stomach. I'd suspected as much, but the confirmation still fills me with vertigo, like my world has flipped upside down. “Dr. Swan?”

“That's right.”

It's not as if I'd trusted him. But maybe on some level, I did. He was Father's colleague, his friend, the man who mentored me and watched over me throughout most of my training. I know now that he's hiding something from me, but still, I
counted on him to do things in a sane and civilized way, to work within the boundaries of the law—not to send someone to hunt me down like an animal. There's a sharp twinge deep in my chest, like some tiny part of me just died.

My gaze focuses on the woman's hand as it moves slowly toward her hip. She's reaching for something—a backup weapon?

I squeeze the trigger, and there's a deafening
bzzzzt.
The ND vibrates ferociously in my grip. Nothing comes out of the muzzle—nothing visible, anyway—but the woman reels backward as if she's been hit by a bullet. She slumps against the wall. Her whole body shakes in seizure-like convulsions, and her teeth gnash until bloody foam bubbles from her lips. Then she slides to the floor like a broken marionette, eyes rolled back in her head. There's a moment of terrifying silence. Then I hear her breathing, wet and raspy.

I exhale in relief. Alive. Just unconscious.

I look at the weapon in my hand, dazed.

Steven staggers to his feet. “Nice work, Doc.” His voice is hoarse, cracked. “Didn't know you had it in you.”

“I just shot someone.” My voice emerges small and high-pitched, almost squeaky.

“Yep.” Steven pats the woman down and fishes a set of keys from her uniform. He turns to face me. “You all right? Not going to throw up or faint or anything, are you?”

“Of course not.” My voice still sounds too high, but the slightest hint of indignation creeps into my tone. I stare at the neural disrupter. It's lightweight plastic—like holding a toy, almost. I turn it over to look at the switch on the hilt. It's set to 9, the second-highest setting. I slide the switch down to setting 1 and exhale a quiet breath. “What about you? Are you—”

“Great. Never better.” But his voice lacks its usual sarcastic edge. He's sheet-pale.

I hold the ND between a thumb and forefinger, like a soiled rag. When Steven takes it from me, I don't resist. With a gulp, I glance at the unconscious woman on the floor. “What do we do about her?”

He licks sweat from his upper lip and scoops up his switchblade from the floor. “Let's just get out of here.” His gaze darts around the cement room, with its dirty, cracked walls and single naked bulb.

Realization hits. It looks like the room from his memories, where Pike held him prisoner. No wonder he's so pale. Whether or not Pike or that room ever existed, the horror of it is still inside Steven.

We run across the room, up the stairs, through another empty cement room, and out a door into the cool air. We're in a clearing ringed by thick pine trees, under a clouded sky. The building behind us is a squat cement block with a flat roof, little more than a shed. I can't guess its original purpose. The woman's gray car is parked on the dirt nearby. Our own car, I guess, is still by the side of the road where we left it.

There's no time. We should get out of here before that woman wakes up. But I can't help myself. I fling my arms around Steven and hug him tight. He tenses, his back rigid. His coat is open, and I can feel his heart hammering through his thin, sweat-drenched shirt.

I know I'm wasting time, but I need this—need to reassure myself that he's here, alive and whole. I came so close to losing him, and the thought fills me with a dizzying burst of fear. “I'm glad you're safe,” I whisper.

He doesn't respond. His body remains wire-tense in my arms. After a moment, he pulls away, opens the car door, and slides into the driver's seat. “Get in.”

I do.

He shoves the key into the ignition.

“Please state your destination,” intones a chipper male voice from the car's dashboard.

“Floor it.”

“I'm sorry, I can't process that request. Please rephrase.”

“Just drive!”

“I'm sorry, I can't process that request. Please—”

Steven places the ND's muzzle against the dashboard and fires.
Bzzzzt.
The weapon jumps in his hand. I give a start.

“Please staaaa—” the voice warbles, then dies out. A light blinks once on the dashboard and goes dark. Steven presses a foot to the gas pedal and pulls out of the clearing, tires screeching.

The car sails down a narrow gravel road that leads us straight back to the highway. Steven floors the pedal. His eyes are glazed, the pupils pinpoints. The speedometer hovers around eighty-five as we shoot down the road between thick walls of pine trees.