Mindwalker (43 page)

When did Ian have the chance to set up explosives in IFEN headquarters? Where did he even learn how to do this? More importantly, there are innocent people here—what if someone gets injured?

Smoke swims up my nose. My vision blurs, and nausea rolls over me. I press a hand to my mouth, choking back vomit.

I'll think about the ethical implications later. Right now, I have to focus on getting out of here alive.

A pair of gray-clad figures run toward me through the billowing gray clouds. They're wearing metal breathing masks and carrying NDs. “Stop right there!” one shouts.

I think fast. “Oh, thank goodness.” I stagger forward, still pulling Steven. “I heard the explosions. I—I don't know what's going on. Please help us.” Pretending to sob, I collapse against the nearest guard. With my free hand, I yank the ND from my pocket and jam it into his stomach, pressing the button. He jerks and grunts, doubling over. I yank the ND back, and he topples over in a quivering mass on the floor.

“What the hell—” The other guard blinks a few times, then raises his own weapon, but not fast enough. I shove the
ND against his temple and press the button again. He goes down, twitching, eyes rolled back in his head. Bloody spittle dribbles out of his mouth from a bitten tongue. He'll wake up later with nothing more than a bad headache. Hopefully.

“Lain,” Steven says, and his tone sounds more normal. Maybe the shock has jarred him from his trance. “Where'd you get—”

“I'll explain later.”

We're almost to the lobby. I lunge into the open space, which is filled with smoke. Alarms are blaring, or maybe it's just my ears ringing. My whole being is focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Just keep moving. Keep moving.

The doors are in sight, then three guards block my path. They're aiming guns at me—not NDs, but real guns. I freeze. Time slows as I stare into the dark, empty muzzle of the weapon directly in front of me.
Move!
my brain screams at my body, but my muscles are locked. The man starts to squeeze the trigger.

I'm going to die. Here, now, with escape in sight. It's over.

A roar fills the air, and a ball of fire explodes near the doors. The impact flings me backward. Bits of plaster and stone fly through the air; something grazes my face, leaving a searing line of pain. I see the armed men dissolve into the blinding glare, and a warm mist of blood spatters my face. Someone is screaming. Steven flings himself over me, shielding my body as a scorching heat fills the room. Everything is white.

Then everything is black.

For a while, I wander somewhere between dreams and nothingness. Occasional flickers of light and sound break through, but I can't make sense of them. I don't know how long I've been here, but it feels like a very long time. Eons.

Sometimes, I know who I am. Sometimes, I float up toward a dim glow, and voices break the cocoon of silence. Once, I glimpse a pair of blue eyes staring into mine and feel a hand clutching my own. A voice is calling me. I know that voice. I strain my mind, searching for the name, but it slips through my grasp.

Then I'm sinking again, and gray enfolds me.

My mouth is dry. That's my first conscious sensation. I smack my lips and grimace. Water would be good.

Other sensations filter in. A soft mattress beneath my back.
Light shining through my eyelids, tinting the darkness red. Dull pain in my face and head, a steady throb in my ribs and left arm. Next to me, a machine beeps at regular intervals, and a medicinal smell stings my nostrils. A hospital?

I open my eyes and find myself staring at a cracked cement ceiling. I blink a few times. That doesn't look like a hospital ceiling.

Breathe. Take stock of the situation, one thing at a time. I'm on a bed, wearing a thin cotton hospital gown. An IV trails from my wrist, and linen bandages cover my arm. I try to focus, to assemble my memories into something coherent, but all I can think about is Steven. I don't know why, but I feel like he's in terrible danger.

Then I hear a soft snore and look up to see him slumped in a chair, head bowed.

I open my mouth. At first, nothing comes out but a weak croak. My throat is on fire. After a few tries, I manage to whisper his name.

His head snaps up. Pale lashes flicker open. For a long moment, he just stares at me, wide-eyed, as if he's afraid to look away—afraid I might vanish if he blinks. “Lain,” he says.

Relief breaks over me, so strong I want to weep. He knows me. He's alive and whole, and for that, I want to fall to my knees and thank whatever powers exist.

He stands and takes a cautious step toward me. I hold my arms out, and he hugs me gingerly. I squeeze him tighter, and he lets out a strangled sound. Quickly, I release him. “Steven, are you—”

He smiles wanly. “Got a little scorched in that explosion, but they patched me up.”

In a flash, I remember him jumping on top of me, shielding me with his body when the bomb went off. Wait—bomb? Why was there a bomb? I raise a trembling hand to my temple. “What happened?” I whisper.

Steven's expression turns serious. “How much do you remember?”

“I—I don't know.” Everything is muddled, and my head aches dully. Slowly, I sit up. The pain in my body seems superficial—bruises, cuts, nothing more. My face feels prickly and hot, like a sunburn. “I remember …” I trail off, sifting through my jumbled thoughts. “I can't think.” My breathing quickens. “Why can't I
think
?”

“They said you had a concussion.” He gently pushes me back down. “You're safe. Just rest. It'll come back to you.”

I close my eyes, light-headed. Once the spinning stops, I look around at the room. It's small, lit by a single bare bulb, with rough cement walls. Definitely not a hospital, or at least not a normal one.

He smooths my hair. “How do you feel?”

His voice, his touch, everything about him is so gentle, so careful. As if I'm made of glass and a loud word or sudden movement might shatter me. “Tired,” I murmur. “Dizzy.”

“You need anything? Water?”

The word brings back my thirst with a vengeance, but I have more urgent needs right now. Namely, the need to have my questions answered. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

“We're in a safe house. And we were brought here by the same people who helped us escape from IFEN headquarters. You know—the ones with the crazy animal heads?”

A dam breaks, and images pour in: IFEN headquarters, the
recording my father left me, the confrontation with Dr. Swan. I went to Ian's apartment; we met with Tiger and uploaded the memories. I went back to rescue Steven, and then—and then—

Smoke. Explosions. Blood spattering on the walls and the floor and my skin.

My vision goes fuzzy, and the walls seem to be zooming toward me.

Steven seizes my hand. “Lain, stay with me.” He squeezes my fingers. “Focus on my voice.” The desperation in his tone penetrates the thickening fog around me. I concentrate on breathing slowly—in and out, in and out—trying to bring my racing heartbeat under control. Steven strokes my temple, murmuring soft reassurances.

For a few minutes, I just lie there, clutching his hand, feeling his fingers in my hair. I reach up to touch his face. He has a few scratches, a bruise on his temple.

In my head, I keep seeing the guards go down, blood spraying through the air in a red mist. Probably dead. Ian triggered that explosion. I shudder, remembering the blast of heat, the way their bodies seemed to dissolve into light. Those guards probably knew nothing about Dr. Swan's plans. They were just following orders. And now they're dead, because of me. How many other people were injured or killed in the explosions so Steven and I could flee to safety?

Steven touches my cheek, traces the line of my jaw with his fingertips. “Eyes on me,” he says firmly.

Only then do I realize I'm hyperventilating. I look into Steven's eyes, focusing on the familiar gray and silver flecks in the blue. A lump swells in my throat. “I'm sorry,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“I—I gambled with your life.” The shame burns me, suffocates me. “If we'd been caught—”

“Stop that.” He grips my chin. “I told you to do whatever you needed to do, remember? I'm
proud
of you.”

“But—”

“Death would be better than being his puppet. Do you understand?”

I look into his eyes, those beautiful eyes, still ringed by the dark flesh that never quite goes away. I sit up, wrap my arms around him, and hold him close. Slowly—as if he's afraid to break the moment—he hugs me back, pulling my head to his shoulder, and rests his cheek against my hair.

My cheek is pressed against his neck—warm, smooth skin—and I realize something. “Your collar's gone.”

“Yeah. They removed it.” A pause. “It's weird. I thought it'd be a relief to have it off. But I feel kind of … I dunno. Naked.”

“You'll get used to it.”

We hold each other for a long time. Finally, I pull back and touch my hair, which has been singed short in places. I'm pretty sure my face is burned, though not severely, or I'd be in a lot more pain. “I probably look awful.”

He laughs, a small, choked sound. “You've never looked better.” He frames my face between his hands, leans in, and kisses me. And for a while, I forget everything—all the pain, all the darkness.

After a few hours, a woman with an off-white coat and an owl's head comes in to examine me. She flicks a light at my
eyes and asks me some simple questions, then re-dresses my wounds, making soft hooting noises the whole time—a feature of her mask, I assume. She stands, crosses her arms over her chest, and studies me. “So,” she says, “you're Lain Fisher.”

It seems like a rhetorical question, so I don't answer. “Did it work?” I ask instead.

She tilts her head.

“The memory upload,” I clarify.

“Oh yes, it worked. It vanished within a few hours, but people saw it, and word is spreading quickly.”

“Of course Dr. Swan is denying it,” Steven says. He's sitting in his chair, one knee drawn up to his chest, an elbow resting atop it. “He made an announcement on TV and brought in these memory experts”—he makes air quotes around the phrase—“to testify that it was a hoax. But most people aren't buying it. Some groups are calling for Dr. Swan's resignation.”

“Somehow, I doubt he'll give up that easily,” I say.

“Probably not. Still, you made an impact.”

The owl woman nods. “That was a brave thing you did.”

I don't feel brave. I feel small and uncertain and scared. What if Dr. Swan was right and this causes a new wave of violence? Maybe it's already started. Maybe my revelation will be the spark that sets off a powder keg of rage.

The owl woman turns and walks toward the door. “I'll get Fox,” she calls over her shoulder. “He's been wanting to talk to you.”

Steven frowns. “He has?” He looks at me. “Do you know him?”