Mindwalker (32 page)

He rolls his shoulders and starts rubbing one, working out the kinks in the muscles. “Not saying I do. But I can understand why they were desperate enough to do it. IFEN was already locking people up in treatment facilities, Conditioning them against their will and giving them collars. And a lot of them hadn't actually
done
anything. They were just flagged by the system as potential threats. How else were they supposed to fight back? What would you do?”

I shift on my bed, uneasy. I'm not sure I like the direction this conversation is going. “I'd use reasoning. I'd try to change people's minds, to change the system from within.”

He snorts. “Anyone who had a negative opinion about it got reclassified. Because, you know, if you're speaking out against the government, it just means you're suffering from paranoid delusions and need help.” His voice is thickly layered with sarcasm. “So how exactly were they supposed to change things from within?”

He has a point. How
are
people supposed to fight back through legal means when their rights can be so easily stripped away? “I know that IFEN went too far, but I still think the intention behind it was good,” I say. “Before the Registry of Mental Health, there were lots of sick people who never sought treatment and just got worse and worse until they snapped. What about them—the people who really
do
need help?”

“Like me?”

I flush. “You know that's not what I mean.”

“Then who
do
you mean? You've seen my profile, my laundry list of psychological defects. I'm about as crazy as they come.” He looks me in the eye. “Do you think they were right to do what they did to me?”

My first impulse is to say no, of course not, that they made a mistake with Steven. But he was evaluated according to the standard rules. If I say that what happened to him is wrong, then I have to acknowledge that the system itself is wrong. At this point, that should be easy. I've seen how much corruption IFEN is capable of, how far they'll go to control people. Yet a part of me still hesitates.

When it becomes clear that I'm not going to answer, Steven looks away. “Do you want the shower first or second?”

“Go ahead.”

I sit on the edge of my bed, listening to the hiss of the water, my mind floating in a sea of questions. Whatever its problems, our society functions. People get up in the morning, go to work, come home and spend time with their families and friends. Despite all the terrible things IFEN has done, they've succeeded in creating a world where violent crime is rare—at least, compared to prewar America—and those who commit such crimes are almost always caught. What if there
is
a resistance, a movement whose goal is not to change the system but to overthrow it? Do I want to be part of that? Do I really want to see the current peace, however flawed, sacrificed for an uncertain future? Yes, there's unhappiness and inequality now, but has there ever been a society where those things didn't exist? Of course that doesn't mean it's okay. Maybe I'm only making excuses. But if we reduce our current system to rubble, I can't help wondering, will people just build something even worse?

Steven emerges from the bathroom, his skin flushed from the heat and his blond hair slicked down. The water's darkened it a few shades, bringing out hints of honey gold, and his T shirt clings to his damp skin. “Shower's all yours,” he mutters.

I retreat into the bathroom, taking a set of pajamas with me, and shut the door. The mirror's still fogged, the tiles inside the stall wet.

I turn on the water and stand under the hot spray, head bowed, eyes closed. There's not much water pressure, and the water itself has an oddly saline quality, but the heat feels wonderful. I start to pick up the soap, then stop, looking at it. It's
already wet. Steven used it just a few minutes ago. The thought makes me blush.

In my head, the ghost of my psych-ethics professor nags at me. Steven's a client, a client, a client. Not that that stopped me from kissing him. Which was wrong, certainly. Very wrong. I should probably continue to pretend it never happened.

I lean against the stall wall, closing my eyes, and let the water cascade over my hair. An image of his hands floats into my head unbidden. Long, slender fingers. Pale and almost delicate, but surprisingly strong. I can see every detail of those hands, from the calluses studding his palms to the tiny scar on the knuckle of his left index finger—and suddenly, my heart is racing.

I need to stop this. Now. Even setting aside the fact that my feelings for Steven are thoroughly inappropriate, it's ridiculous to be having these thoughts when we're on the run. But if there's anything I've learned about feelings, it's that trying to repress them just makes them stronger.

After I've toweled off, I change into my pajamas and step out.

“You really
do
like pink,” Steven says.

I glance down at my coral-colored pajamas. “I warned you.”

A tiny smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.

I avert my gaze, cheeks burning like torches. I'm sharing a room with a boy. And not just any boy. Steven Bent. The situation is undeniably awkward, and it doesn't help that Steven is, well, attractive. It's a simple fact. If he weren't so painfully thin—and if not for his reputation and his collar—he'd probably have girls clinging to him like barnacles.

I dig through the suitcase looking for my toothbrush.
Nearby, the Gate's black hard drive and twin white helmets gleam.

I hesitate, remembering Steven's earlier words, outside my house:
It's possible, isn't it? I could use the Gate on you.

I refused then. But Steven was right. It
is
unfair that I've seen so much of his mind and he's seen none of mine. Ours is no longer a clinical relationship. Despite my conscience constantly buzzing around in my head like a fly, it's obvious that Steven and I have become close. The least I can do now is try to equalize our relationship.

“Do you still want to use the Gate on me?” I ask.

His whole body goes rigid. “Lain …” He looks away, raking a hand through his hair. “When I asked you for that, I wasn't thinking straight. I was just scared. You don't have to—”

“I want to.”

His brows draw together. His eyes move in small flickers, studying my face. “Why?”

I pick up the white helmet and run my hands over its smooth plastic surface. “I don't want there to be any barriers between us. I want you to trust me completely, the way I trust you.”

“I
do
trust you. I let you aim an ND at my head. What's left to prove?”

My grip tightens on the helmet. “You trust me with your life, I know. And I trust you with mine. But it's one thing to believe that someone won't kill you. It's another to trust them with your whole being.” My heart has climbed up into my throat. I try to swallow it, but it won't go down. “I want to show you what's inside me. I owe you that much.”

He looks no less baffled. I smile, though my heart is racing.
The thought of letting him into my mind scares me more than I want to admit. But maybe that's why I have to do it. I have to prove to myself—as well as Steven—that there's nothing to be afraid of.

I turn the hard drive on, and set it on the floor between our two beds. Then I slip one of the helmets onto my head and hand the other one—the one I normally use for sessions—to Steven.

He takes it, but doesn't put it on. “You're sure about this?”

I nod.

He inhales a slow, deep breath and lets it out through his nose. “Okay.” Sitting on the edge of his bed, he slides on the helmet and snaps the black visor down over his eyes. “So, how does it work? I mean, do I have to do anything, or …”

“Just wait. It takes a moment for the sensors to start picking up readings.” I sit on the edge of my own bed, facing him, and adjust the helmet, keeping the visor up so I can see. A warm tingling spreads over my scalp. I swallow.

It's been years since anyone's used a Gate on me. All Mindwalkers, as part of our training, share some of our memories with a more advanced Mindwalker in order to get a feel for what our patients experience. What I remember from those sessions, more than anything, is the intense feeling of vulnerability, like being on an operating table with my body slit open and my guts exposed.

“Hey, I think I feel something.” Steven places a hand over his chest, and his mouth opens in surprise. “Wow. It's like I have two heartbeats. Like your heart is inside my chest, next to mine.” He clutches his shirt, fingers kneading the fabric. “This is so weird.”

“It takes some getting used to.”

Steven sits silently for several minutes, frowning. His hands drop into his lap and rest there, palms up, as if he's meditating. Then he lifts one hand into the air and waves it. He lets out a small gasp. “I can see myself. It's like a movie in my head.”

“You're seeing what I'm seeing.”

“Look up.”

I look at the ceiling.

“Look down.”

I do. When I look up at Steven again, he's grinning, like this is a marvelous new game. I've never seen such a young, carefree expression on his face. “This is so cool,” he says.

I almost laugh. But the sound stops in my throat, like it's hit a wall.

He stands and walks over to my bed, his movements unsteady, his arms held out for balance. When his legs bump against the side of the bed, he pauses, then sits next to me. I tense in surprise as he reaches out and takes my hand in his own. I hold still, not breathing. He traces a small circle on my palm, then slides his nails lightly along my fingers. I shiver as he trails a finger up my wrist and forearm over the thin cotton of my sleeve.

“Wow, I can
feel
it,” he says. “I can feel what you're feeling.” He holds out his arm. “Do it to me.”

“P-pardon?”

“Touch my arm. I want to see what it's like when you do it.”

I hesitate. He remains motionless, holding out one thin arm. I place a finger against the translucent skin of his wrist, over the intersection of two blue veins.

Warm, smooth skin.

Shouldn't have thought that. Did he hear? I gulp. His pulse beats under my fingertip. Slowly, I withdraw my hand.

“Is it always like this for you?” he asks. I can't read his tone. “I mean, when you do immersion?”

“Yes.”

He lifts his visor. His eyes are wide and dazed. He closes them, opens them again. Then his gaze lowers and focuses on my hands, which rest palm up in my lap. He places his own hand against one, his fingertips resting on my palm. My breath hitches. I'm all too aware that he can hear everything I'm thinking. I have to be careful. But of course, now that I've thought that, Steven will think I'm trying to hide something, which I'm not.

“Hey …” His voice softens. “You're shaking.”

“I'm okay. Really. I'm simply … not used to this.”

I wonder just how much he can feel—if he can see past my surface thoughts into my emotions. Probably not. I wasn't even sure he'd be able to open a connection between us on the first try. “You're good at this, you know.
You
could probably be a Mindwalker if you wanted.”

“Me?” He looks incredulous.

“You're at about the right age to start training.”

“I don't think I could handle it. I've got more than enough nightmares in my own head to deal with.”

He has a point.

“Say, do people ever use the Gate for stuff other than therapy?”

“Like what?”

He clears his throat. “Well, you know.”

I stare blankly. “No. I don't.”

“It just seems like … you know, feeling everything the other person is feeling, it would make certain things more … intense.”

I can sense my face getting warmer as his meaning dawns on me. “The Gate is an important scientific tool. It's not a toy. Using it for anything other than therapy, training, or research is against regulations.”

“Well, yeah, but people don't always follow regulations.”

My cheeks blaze.

“Sorry,” he says. “I'm not trying to embarrass you. Honest.”

“It's okay.” I squirm. I feel like a turtle out of its shell, soft insides exposed.

He raises his hands to his face, brushing his fingertips over his own cheeks. “You sure blush a lot.”

“I guess so.”

I knew this would be awkward. But I had no idea
how
awkward. Is this how Steven felt the first time I used the Gate on him? Maybe if I just keep my attention on sensory input, I won't think about anything else. I focus on his eyes, studying the irises. This close, I can see the subtle variations of color within—the threads of quicksilver woven through the blue, the line of darker blue around the outer edges, the pale silvery gray near the center. But paying too much attention to his eyes might be taken the wrong way. Not that they aren't pretty eyes, but—

Shouldn't have thought that.

“You like my eyes?” he asks. His voice is soft, his tone unreadable.

“No. I mean, yes. I mean—” I bite my tongue. The more I try
not
to think about Steven, the more I think about him. Memories flicker through my head: the sight of long, agile fingers
unbuckling the straps of his coat; the graceful way he moves, like a wildcat; the way he sometimes smiles without seeming to smile, just a quirk of those thin lips.…

Quickly, I derail that train of thought, but it's too late. He heard it all.

His eyes widen, and something shifts within them. Wonder and fear swirl in their depths. Does he have any idea how expressive those eyes are?

He closes them, as if to hide. “This is so weird,” he mutters.

“What?” My voice comes out a little breathless.

His eyes remain tightly shut, his brows knitted together. “Just … you thinking about me. And me knowing everything you're thinking. Seeing yourself through someone else's eyes … it's so …” He gulps. “Did you ever hear me thinking about you during our sessions?”