Mindwalker Read Online Free PDF Page B

little silver plate. I knock.
    â€œLain, is that you?” calls a deep voice. “Come in.”
    I enter.
    One wall of the office is dominated by an enormous picture window overlooking the city. Morning sunlight pours in, illuminating bare oyster-white walls and a thick cream-colored carpet. The lack of décor gives the room a stark simplicity. There are no paintings or plants, just a blank white cube broken only by the window and a few pieces of glossy black furniture. My feet leave faint impressions in the thick carpet, as if I’m walking in fresh snow.
    Dr. Emmanuel Swan—director of the Institute for Ethics in Neurotechnology, and my legal guardian since my father’s death—sits behind a hulking desk of lustrous dark wood. Though he’s only in his fifties, his hair is already white. Delicate webs of crow’s-feet spread outward from the corners of his gray eyes, like wrinkles in fine, silky paper. He smiles and folds his large, veined hands on the table. “Have a seat.”
    I sit in the black leather chair in front of his desk and fold my own hands in my lap. I’ve known Dr. Swan for years. Even before he became my guardian, he was a close friend of my father, so he’s never been a stranger. And yet, during our routine meetings, I always feel a need to be formal.
    Of course, he’s in charge of my training, too. He’s the one with the power to decide whether I have what it takes to become a full-fledged Mindwalker.
    â€œAnything to drink?” he asks.
    â€œNo thank you.”
    He pours himself a glass of water from a silver decanter on the desk. His hands look like they should be cast in bronze. They’re animated sculptures, weathered and elegant, with prominent joints and knuckles. He starts with the ritual questions. “How is school? Keeping up your grades?”
    I nod. “My GPA is 4.0.”
    â€œVery good. And your training?”
    â€œIt’s going well.”
    He raises his bushy white eyebrows and pushes his lips into a shape that seems to imply a question.
    I catch myself fidgeting and stop. “Judith says I’m making progress.”
    He emits a low, noncommittal hum. “You’ve been practicing your compartmentalization technique?”
    I nod. “Every night.” It’s part of the training all Mindwalker protégés receive to cope with the psychological trauma of their work. It involves a series of complex visualization exercises—a process of locking memories away in a tiny corner of our minds, where they won’t interfere with our day-to-day lives. I use an image of a wooden treasure chest hidden deep in a stone labyrinth.
    Even with all these coping techniques, I still have flashbacks. But I’m not about to admit that.
    He taps his thumbs together. “Lain …” He pauses, clearing his throat. “You’re very talented. Very bright. But you are shouldering a lot of burdens. Especially for one so young.”
    I tense. “All Mindwalkers start training young,” I point out. It’s necessary to form the specialized neural connections whileour brains are still developing. “Ian’s only a year older than I am.”
    â€œTrue. But, as I’m sure you’re aware, most initiates choose to drop out within the first year. It’s a lot for a child’s mind to bear.”
    My hands are balled into tight fists in my lap. I resist the urge to say,
I’m not a child.
    He continues: “Your father would be very proud of you. But he also wouldn’t want you to endanger your own welfare.”
    My nails dig into my palms, but I manage to keep my expression composed. I know what’s going on here. The cracks in my psyche are starting to show, and he’s worried about my mental stability. I can’t blame him, really. After Father’s death, I plunged into a deep depression that lasted for months. But it was my training, my purpose, that gave me the