Mindwalker Read Online Free PDF Page A

Every nerve is alive with tiny hot-cold darts of electricity. I feel the tension in her muscles, her heart beating in her chest, and in that moment, I am not one but two people. Vertigo sweeps over me.
    Which one am I—Debra or Lain?
    I clutch the bracelet on my left wrist, and the vertigo dissipates.
    A recorded voice intones, “Begin session.”
    I place my arms on the armrests, and padded cuffs close over my wrists with a soft click. A pair of identical cuffs snaps shut over Debra’s wrists. When I first started doing immersion sessions, I recall, the restraints felt creepy. Now they give me a feeling of security. Immersion is a state of mind similar to dreaming, and can result in hypnagogic jerks—the sudden, involuntary motions that occur as a person is falling asleep. The cuffs simply make sure that I won’t knock off my helmet midsession.
    My breathing slows as I sink deeper. I have the sense that I’m floating. Behind my closed eyelids, my inner eyes open, and I see pathways glowing a soft green against the darkness. They form a complex map, splitting and feathering out into thinner pathways, like veins or tree branches—my own mental representation of Debra’s psyche. I follow the main path toward a cluster of shining green orbs. The first memory. I reach out and touch the cluster, and the world shimmers andblurs. There’s a sensation of falling, a jolt, then a dirty living room swims into place around me. I’m huddled in a corner, panting, terrified. A dark form looms over me. Rough hands grab me, haul me to my feet, and slam me against the wall. My head bounces off it, and pain shoots through my skull. My vision wavers.
    Lain. I’m Lain Fisher, seventeen, student at Greenborough, Mindwalker. I’m not really here.
    My identity settles into place, and the panic recedes.
    Compared to the mapping sessions, the modification itself is fairly straightforward. I can move through memories more rapidly, because this time, I’m not a passive observer. I take control of the scene, then will it out of existence. I watch the horrors blur like watercolors, watch the pain dissolve into nothingness.
    Erasing memories is something only Mindwalkers can do. It takes training, of course, but to some degree, it’s an innate talent. Not everyone can learn it.
    Terrified screams and angry roars fade into silence. The pain disappears. Her stepfather’s face grows fuzzy, softens into a featureless blob, then melts into clean, blank whiteness. It’s a satisfying feeling, obliterating the pain, bit by bit; it reminds me of being a child, popping bubble wrap. I’d sit there for hours, squeezing the little plastic pockets, listening to the
pops.
    I move into another memory.
    Debra trembles, begging through her tears. “Please, please don’t.” She tries to run up the stairs, and a hand grabs her arm, fingers digging in like talons. The hand drags her down, and heavy blows thud into her body. She curls up on the floor,hands over her head. A fist slams into her face, and pain explodes through her eye, a red starburst. Then the memory grows hazy, fades, and disappears.
Pop.
    Debra lies awake in bed, listening to voices scream downstairs. She’s afraid to close her eyes, afraid to move. There’s a heavy crash, then another. Then begging. Mama’s voice. Then sobbing and more angry screams. Ugly words echo in her ears, harsh as the scraping of metal on rock. She bites down on her knuckles and squeezes her eyes shut.
    Pop.
    Of course, if I just erased the memories of the trauma itself, the job wouldn’t be complete. She’d still remember the pain indirectly, through the various incidents connected to it, and the contradiction would cause a schism in her consciousness. I move deeper, following the glowing green pathways of her mind.
    Debra’s in a support group, heart knocking against her sternum, trying to muster up the courage to speak. But when