Shattered Minds Read online

  Dax has often wondered what it would feel like to die.

  Is it like the stories? A bright light, that tricky tunnel, your deity of choice holding his/her/their hand out to you? He remembers one of the Newe myths his mother used to tell him and Tam, about the trickster Coyote and the Wolf, the Shoshone creator, and how death entered the world. The Wolf and Coyote often disagreed, and always wished to teach each other lessons. Death didn’t exist, or if someone died, the Wolf could bring them back by shooting an arrow underneath them. ‘If someone dies, they should stay gone,’ the Coyote claimed, hoping the Wolf would listen and then the Wolf’s people would turn against him. Yet a few days later, when Coyote’s son lay close to death, Coyote changed his tune. Yet the Wolf would not, for he agreed that creatures should not be brought back to life, and so Death entered the world.

  Dax feels as though he’s floating in the darkness. No arrow passes beneath him. Is he stuck in this dimness forever?

  He dies.

  He stays dead for one minute and four seconds.

  He comes back, and he stays asleep for over a day, in a medically induced coma while his body recovers. Nanobots slip into his bloodstream, working like busy ants to stitch him back together again.

  While he sleeps, he dreams.

  His childhood rises before him. Salmon fishing in the river with his family. The dances, the fire warm against his face, his heart glowing warm as the coals while he watched and listened. He remembers their mother wrapping her arms around him and Tam before bedtime, telling them stories until they fell asleep.

  Home. The home he wishes he’d never left, or had returned to long before they became caught up in Sudice and couldn’t go back without endangering those they loved. Have they thrown their lives away to take down a corporation that most of Pacifica adores? At one point, every member of the Trust lived in that same ignorance. Sometimes he wishes the wool had never been pulled from over his eyes.

  Dax’s memories float among his childhood and teenage years. He remembers correcting Tam one day when they were playing among the redwoods. They played a complicated game with fifteen dolls – all with distinct personalities and complicated interpersonal relationships. An exercise in world-building and government from eight-year-olds. Good against evil, starkly black and white at first, before blurring into hopeless variations of grey.

  ‘I don’t want you to call me your sister any more,’ Dax said, speaking Shoshoni, his mouth dry. ‘I’m your brother.’

  ‘I already knew that, silly,’ Tam said, picking up another doll. ‘I already think of you as my brother. Are you going to change your name?’

  He hadn’t thought of that. ‘Yes. I will.’

  The dolls watched them impassively as they brainstormed before deciding on the name he used before he changed his alias to Dax. A few days later, he told his parents and the rest of the tribe. And that was that. If people used the wrong name, they apologized and corrected themselves. When he turned eleven, he began taking puberty blockers. He and his sister, who had been mirror images, began to diverge. They both wore their hair long, but she grew curvy while he stayed flat. She also grew taller, which irritated him.

  When he was sixteen, he went to visit several doctors and psychologists. A few months later, he had a testosterone implant. Not long after that, he began seeing Dr Valerie, who helped him have the body he’d always wanted. That artistry of blending his flesh into his dream inspired him to become a doctor himself.

  He has vivid flashes of brainloading at university. Tam desperately wanted to study outside the reservation, for the experience, and he came along. If they hadn’t done that, what would they be doing now? He’s almost certain they’d be happier.

  His thoughts and memories kaleidoscope into bright pieces. He has no idea how much time passes, or if he’s still living. Has the Wolf taken pity on him, or is he passing on?

  When Dax’s eyes eventually flutter open, nothing seems as bright as those pieces of memory. A doctor stands over him, with his white coat and the bottom half of his face covered in a surgical mask that fits to his features like a second skin.

  ‘Hello, John Doe,’ he says. He’s English, voice clipped.

  ‘What?’ Dax manages, voice hoarse.

  ‘Your VeriChip has been wiped. No name, no address, no access to implants. Nothing at all. You’re the first John Doe I’ve had in years. Bit of excitement, really.’

  Dax stays silent. He’s still half-drugged, his head pounding. What happened? The silo. The Wasps. People from Sudice in Kalar suits. Pain. Carina’s eyes. More pain. Everything is jumbled, interrupted with memories and disjointed dreams. Through the fog comes one clear thought: you need to think up a cover, and fast. The best one, the Occam’s Razor, is to borrow from a soap opera.

  Dax lets his face grow lax, his eyes widen in fear. ‘Doctor. I don’t know who I am.’

  The doctor considers him, understandably suspicious. ‘No memories at all?’ he asks.

  Dax makes a show of considering, gazing up at the ceiling as if trying to remember. ‘Nothing.’ He lets his voice quaver, tears pool in his eyes, vaguely proud of his acting skills.

  The doctor moulds his face into concern, but the annoyance underneath is not quite hidden. Dax can guess the doctor’s thoughts: more paperwork. His patient is probably a criminal. He’s not wrong.

  ‘How are you feeling aside from a lack of memories? Do you remember being injured?’

  Dax shakes his head. ‘I was hurt? How bad?’

  The doctor hesitates. ‘Gunshot wound. To the shoulder. We’ve had to report it.’

  Not ideal. Dax’s drugged mind whirrs. The Trust left him here because they didn’t have the medical knowledge to help. But how will he get out? They won’t just let him leave. The police will be here, and Sudice will probably also be keeping an eye on the hospitals. They must know they injured some of the Trust. Damn. Dax raises his hand to his injured shoulder, as if only just learning of it. He makes a show of wincing, even though it barely hurts.

  The doctor holds up a mirror and pulls down Dax’s hospital gown, tapping just below the collarbone with a gloved finger. ‘Right here. You’d lost a lot of blood by the time you arrived. You flatlined, which might explain the memory loss.’

  Dax really did die. He opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure what to say.

  ‘People don’t often show up to hospitals at death’s door with a gunshot wound these days.’

  Dax nods, thinking over all the tropes of amnesia. ‘I seem to remember how the world works, just not how I fit into it.’ He gives the doctor a sheepish smile. ‘Thank you for patching me up. What happens now?’

  ‘Well, as I said, it’s been reported. The authorities will be coming around to interview you tomorrow. They were going to come today, but I wanted to see how you were faring. I think you could use the time to rest. Perhaps things will begin to come back to you. We’ll do a brain scan, to see if the amnesia is a result of brain trauma. If so, I’m sure we’ll be able to reverse it.’ The doctor’s surgical mask folds into a smile.

  Dax’s head does hurt, which he finds strange if they’ve fixed his injuries. ‘Thank you again, doctor. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘I’ll have the resident psychologist come in a few hours as well, after the scan’s been processed. Memory loss can often be a side effect of shock. Whatever you’ve been through has been traumatizing, which is not surprising.’

  Dax blinks at that. Yes. He’s been shot. He flatlined. The Trust left him. Hopefully they returned to the base, but there is a chance they were captured after they dropped him off. His heartbeat quickens. ‘Thank you.’ Dax feels like he’s done nothing but thank the doctor since he woke up.

  The doctor makes a few notes on his tablet. ‘Lie back,’ the doctor instructs.

  Dax doesn’t want to. The doctor has been nothing but kind and courteous, but he’s still uneasy. He needs to figure out how to leave, but he can’t arouse suspicion, so he lies back. The doctor attaches electrodes
to his temples and begins the brain scan. Or tries.

  ‘Hm,’ he says. ‘I suppose that shouldn’t be too surprising. You can’t access your ocular or auditory implants, correct?’

  Dax tries. Nope. Raf sealed them off well. ‘No.’

  ‘Looks like they’re impacting the brain scanning code. That is a puzzle.’

  Dax keeps his face blank, mentally thanking Raf. He lets his eyelids droop. ‘Sorry, doctor. I still feel so tired.’

  The doctor gives that veiled smile again. ‘I’ll leave you for now. This is a lot to take in at once.’

  Dax nods. The doctor finally leaves.

  Dax investigates the needles of the IV in his arm and the various machines he’s connected to. Closing his eyes, he reaches for the implants. Raf has done this to them before. He knows the passcode to access them again. His auditory and ocular implants come back to him, and he sighs with relief.

  He doesn’t want to contact the Trust right away, on the off chance people are monitoring him. Paranoid, but better safe than sorry. He does try accessing the net, using basic encryption so the hospital can’t as easily see what he’s researching. He uses the wall controls to project a mindless action film on the wallscreen. If anyone pokes their head in the window, it’ll look like he’s resting, just as he’s meant to.

  Forty-five minutes pass as he discovers he’s in San Pedro Hospital, roughly twenty-five miles from base. He manages to find basic blueprints from the hospital and has an idea of security. This won’t be easy. He double-checks his paltry encryption, belatedly wishing he’d let Raf teach him more. He accesses the subfrequency and reaches out to the Trust.

  Holding his breath, he waits for them to respond. If they don’t, and they’ve been taken, all is lost. Raf. Kivon. Charlie. Carina. They can’t be gone.

  Two long minutes pass as he gazes sightlessly at the explosions on the wallscreen.

  ‘Dax!’ It’s Charlie. She sounds just as relieved as he feels.

  ‘Hi.’ He fills her in, knowing the rest of the Trust are listening. He wastes no words and time. Raf sends him better blueprints. Together, they sketch out a plan.

  It takes Dax a few tries to stand, the lingering drugs making him woozy. His paper hospital gown ties at the back, at least, but any strenuous movement and he’ll expose himself. He grumbles as he tries to tie it tighter. First step: disguise.

  Dax rifles through the cupboards in the hospital room, but unfortunately, no one has conveniently left behind scrubs or a coat in his size.

  ‘Raf,’ he sends on his implants. ‘Are the cameras all good?’

  ‘Swapped your room’s with a loop of you sleeping from earlier. You’re golden. Also, you’re an idiot for getting shot. I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘I’d agree with that. Lucky I got you to watch my back.’

  ‘Damn straight.’

  Dax peeks through the small window on his room’s door until he sees a nurse about his height and build. He pushes open the door and sticks his head outside.

  ‘Can you help . . . ?’ He lets his voice trail off, keeping his face blank, his eyes wide and staring.

  The nurse pauses, unblinking. Hopefully he’s just checking the time on his implants. ‘Sure.’

  Dax backs away from the door. The nurse enters and closes the door behind him. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Dax says, before grabbing the nurse and kicking his legs out from under him. The nurse goes down with a grunt. Before he can fill his lungs for a scream, Dax grabs him in a sleeper hold, pressing the carotid artery. Not having long, he drags the unconscious nurse into the hospital bed, stripping his clothes and tying arms and legs to the bed-posts with torn strips of sheet. He presses more in his mouth as a makeshift gag.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispers again as he shrugs into his clothes. ‘You’ll have a headache when you wake up, but you should be OK.’ Dax wipes the sweat from his forehead. He’s breathing hard, exhausted already, and he’s barely begun.

  He consults the blueprints one last time. Opens the door and walks out, head high, not too quickly. As if he’s just another one of the few human nurses scattered among the robotic ones doing their rounds. He lets his face take on the far-off look people get when consulting their implants. Less chance of interruption.

  Dax turns left at the end of the corridor, then right, making his way through the hospital labyrinth. He keeps waiting for someone to call out. No one gives him a second glance. He approaches the front door. The late evening waits for him outside. The hovercar should be waiting just outside the grounds. So close. He approaches the main doors, waving his wrist in front of the scanner. His VeriChip is still deactivated, but Raf has managed to gain access to the hospital’s security. The panel goes green and the door slides open. Dax takes a deep breath of fresh air and leaves.

  Someone calls out behind him. Though he knows he shouldn’t, he glances back. The British doctor has spotted him, his pointing finger damning. Security bots stationed outside whirr towards him, robotic nurses from within circling his back.

  ‘Shit.’ Dax takes off, dizzy on his feet, managing to dart between two bots, but he knows he can’t escape them for long. Bots fly faster than a human can run. The whirrs of the bots follow him and he hears the Stunners hidden in their torsos slot out. Come on, Trust. Come on. The bots avoid lethal force, but he doesn’t need to be tranqed and dragged to the police station to fall right into Sudice’s hands.

  Pfft. He swerves, the dart whizzing past his ear. He’s off the lit path, in the darkness of the trees, but all the bots have infrared. He keeps zigzagging through the trees, praying he doesn’t trip on a root, his lungs on fire, still weak from his healing injuries.

  A dart hits him and he rips it out. Not fast enough. He’ll be unconscious in a minute. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. Up ahead is the meeting point. If he can just get a few steps closer . . .

  He doesn’t hear the whirring of the bots any more. Has Raf figured out how to power them down? He was constantly taking one of them apart and putting it back together again, back at headquarters. The trees begin to blur, but Dax concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

  Up ahead, the Trust’s hovercar dips below the treeline. There is nothing but silence behind him, but he can’t spare the energy to turn his head. Hacking hospital security bots: another crime to add to their long list of infractions against the law.

  Dax’s legs give out and he collapses onto the loamy ground of the artificial forest surrounding the hospital. The hovercar door opens, and Raf jumps out to grab him.

  He blacks out.

  THIRTY ONE

  CARINA

  The Trust headquarters, Los Angeles, California, Pacifica

  Carina waits for the Trust to return.

  She hasn’t gone with them to the hospital. She still feels rubbed raw from her exposure to Zeal at the silo. Lying on her bed, she is conscious of her body twitching and her fingers itching for a sharp blade.

  It isn’t fair, she thinks, burying her face in her pillow, her skin damp with sweat. She had improved since Dax broke the initial physical addiction. She’d resisted going to the Zeal lounges, though she knows exactly how many are within a three-mile radius. Her homicidal ideation was still there, but she’d started to think that perhaps she wouldn’t need to enact it on this plane of reality. She might never return to how she used to be before Roz found her, but she’d found some sort of equilibrium to keep her grounded enough to search for the information hidden in her mind. Now, hidden deep underground in the Trust headquarters, it feels like she’s never left the Green Star Lounge at all.

  Carina hadn’t even known she still had such a thing as hope. She’s wanted to kill for too many years for a bit of detoxing and flesh surgery to have a lasting effect.

  That memory of her first kill looms. No. No. She shoves it away. Maybe it has one of Mark’s symbols attached – strong memories, he said. She can’t look at it. Not now.

  Carina can’t remember if
she ever recorded it during those nights at Sudice, long after the lab work was finished. Did she ever examine that memory from afar, tinging the experience with just enough Verve to prep the implants? That beginning of the addiction that would only grow until it overwhelmed her in that year-long nightmarish dream.

  Carina slides sideways into her memories of the months after her mother disappeared. She’s looked at these before, during her ruthless categorization of her life, trying to find the information lurking somewhere in the spools of her brain. Knowing Mark’s intel is still in there, hiding, makes her want to saw open her own skull and spoon it out.

  She’s missed something. It’s close. ‘Mark,’ she says aloud, voice low. Why has he given all of this to her? She’s wondered this a thousand times or more since she woke up from that fateful Zeal trip. He knew how broken she was. Is. Why not send this to Aliyah or Kim? The other members of that Sudice team could have done this so much better.

  Carina lets herself submerge back into the memories. Maybe something will unlock. Her thoughts open.

  One thing punctured Carina’s constant apathy: the need to find out what truly happened to her mother.

  To the outside eye, she functioned normally enough. Days passed. Carina went to school, brainloaded information, conducted experiments in the school lab and went home again. Other students had given up on trying to speak to her. That suited her fine. Already, the students blurred together, feeling like figments created to populate the world she lived in, like those placeholders she’d later create in the Zealscape.

  The only person that interested Carina was her father. She tracked his movements – when he left for work, when he returned. She wanted to follow him – she was certain that he wasn’t actually working until 8 p.m. each night. Not that she minded seeing him less. It meant fewer bruises.

  What was he doing?

  It wouldn’t be easy. Following him would mean leaving before he headed home on his hovercar. If he came home and she wasn’t there, there’d be hell to pay. He didn’t let her go to anyone’s house any more, and she no longer asked, so she couldn’t claim she was spending the night at a friend’s.