Minders

CHAPTER 5

WEEK 1

It was pitch black.

Sadie blinked to make sure her eyes were open. Syncopy between her and Subject 9 should have been established instantaneously. She should be seeing and hearing everything he did.

She was getting nothing. Something had gone wrong.

Where am I?

The pounding of her heart flooded her ears. Oh god, she was trapped somewhere, stuck between his mind and—

From far away, she heard a faint, eerie whistling, like wind blowing through a deserted graveyard at night. It was joined by a sound like bones rattling, and she felt a jolt and heard a voice say, “You bastard. You did it.”

Light flooded in all at once, making Sadie reel. A blindfold, she thought. We were blindfolded.

He was blindfolded, she corrected, reminding herself she was supposed to remain objective. She blinked but was having trouble making out details.

“Now you see why they call him Frosty the Snowman,” a male voice said. “Stays icy cool under pressure.”

A hot wave of sensation crashed over Sadie, knocking her back, but in the time it took her eyes to adjust, it fizzed and became sticky and uncomfortable and then vanished. An emotion? A thought?

Things began to swim into focus. The first thing she noticed was that they were in a room filled with probably fifteen guys, all of them in their early twenties. Subject 9 had been standing, but he sat down now, joining three others at a table with a pile of poker chips in the middle. The others formed an attentive audience on the perimeter. One of the guys at the table was playing with the chips, shuffling them in one hand, which accounted for the rattling-of-bones sound.

Unlike the guys Sadie knew who wore tailored khakis and fitted collared shirts, the crowd here was nearly all dressed in overalls, a white V-neck or Henley shirt, and black work boots. Chapsters, she thought to herself.

She’d learned about the Chapster style in the “Film and Society” seminar she’d sat in on at the university, a look that was borrowed from Charlie Chaplin’s assembly-line worker in the movie Hard Times. The professor had said it was popular among residents of urban communities. The Chapsters even named their boys after former presidents, to glorify an older and presumably better era. Compared with Pete and his friends, she thought the Chapsters looked a little bit menacing. No, she corrected herself after a second glance. Masculine.

The door to the room opened, and Sadie heard the sound of music, voices, and laughter from other parts of the building. What is this place? she wondered, recalling advice Catrina had given them at a lunch Q&A during orientation. “Think of yourself like an anthropologist dropped into an unfamiliar locale. To get your bearings, you’d note the terrain and the wildlife and make yourself acquainted with the important people in the village. You should go through the same exercise when you begin Syncopy. The more detail you can collect, the better your assessment of the internal mindscape will be.”

Sadie took in what she could see of the room. It had a high curved ceiling and wide windows framed in stone with pointed arches at the top, like a Gothic university building, or the Detroit Union Club, where her Mind Corps interview had been. Only here the windows were missing most of their panes, the wood-paneled walls were covered with brightly colored graffiti rather than demure hunting landscapes, the wide-screen television was showing advertisements rather than market updates, and she was pretty sure these guys weren’t leaders of industry and law. Leaders of lawlessness, more likely.

At least with so many people she’d be able to learn Subject 9’s name, she thought.

“That was epic, Frosty,” a guy with big ears standing behind Subject 9 said, reaching down to pump his hand.

The guy next to him nodded vigorously. “Seriously, Snow. You killed it.”

Killed what? Sadie wanted to know. And was it really so hard to use a name?

While they spoke, the graveyard-like whistling Sadie had noticed at first rose and fell in pitch, and she realized she’d been wrong about it coming from far away. It was actually inside Subject 9’s head, the sound of chemicals—thoughts and emotions—moving through his mind faster than the speed of sound. It oscillated, as though it was made up of several different threads superimposed on one another.

“They’re like the electronic relays that make your computer work,” Catrina had explained during the Q&A lunch. “At the beginning the impulses will probably sound like white noise, a low hum. To start with, focus on how and when they change. With practice you should be able to key them to the specific mental processes they represent.”

Catrina had made it sound banal and basic, but the reality of it—she was listening to his mind working!—was amazing.

Sadie tried to focus on the behavior of the sounds, but the number of people speaking around them made it hard to process.

A guy on the left who seemed to have the sniffles said, “Got to say, thought you were going to end up more like a snowflake than a snowman after that last one, if you get my drift,” prompting a chorus of laughter around the table.

“So you going to tell us your secret, Ice Baby?” a little guy with red hair asked.

Ice Baby? Sadie repeated. This was getting ridiculous. And secret to what?

“I was just lucky,” a voice very close to her said, and she realized it was the voice of Subject 9. It was low but not too low, and nice, she thought. It wouldn’t be a bad voice to listen to for six weeks.

From his left a voice said, “Lucky that all of you are such crap card players, that is.” The speaker, a guy with dark skin and slicked-back hair, leaned forward to touch Subject 9 on the shoulder. “No offense, friend.”

“None taken,” Subject 9 assured him.

The guy directly across the table hefted himself out of his chair and pushed a pile of poker chips toward Subject 9. “Take your winnings, Little Ice.”

There was a slight uptick in the volume of sound inside Subject 9’s head, and Sadie saw a flickering out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned to look there was nothing there. “Thanks, Willy,” Subject 9 said.

A name! Sadie thought. Even if it wasn’t his, it was a start. An associate. Her first entry into her mental notebook.

“You earned them,” the guy called Willy told him. Sadie concentrated on making mental notes of his characteristics the way they’d been taught in orientation. He was big, from muscle not fat, but with wide-spaced gray eyes, light brown hair, and a genuine, open smile, he looked too much like an overgrown schoolboy to be intimidating. He wore a chalk-striped denim cap far back on his head, with matching chalk-striped denim overalls. “I think it’s pretty amazing, you sitting there blindfolded for three hands and predicting what we had just from hearing how we bet. Tell you the truth, felt like you were reading my mind.”

Sadie agreed that was pretty amazing. If Subject 9 had actually done what Willy had described, it would mean he was either exceptionally good at both poker and reading people’s voices, or exceptionally lucky.

Or cheating, she added, which, given Curtis’s warnings about his criminal tendencies, was probably the most likely.

“Wouldn’t take long to read your mind, Willy,” the guy with the red hair said, and everyone, including Willy and Subject 9, laughed.

A voice directly to Subject 9’s right cut in, saying, “Are we done with the circus performance yet? I want to play some cards.”

Another momentary rise in volume followed his words, and Subject 9 asked, “You in a rush to lose more money, Linc?” His voice sounded lower to Sadie, and strained.

But she had a second name. Linc. Short, no doubt, for Lincoln.

Sadie expected Subject 9 to turn toward Linc, the way he had whenever anyone else addressed him, but he gave only a quick glance, just enough for Sadie to get the impression of a well-built guy with pale skin, chin-length black hair, and lips pressed together tightly in distaste. She didn’t see his eyes, and she had the impression Subject 9 was deliberately avoiding them.

Clearly there was some history between them. For a second time Sadie thought she saw something flutter at the edge of her range of vision, but when she looked, she found nothing there.

The guy with the slicked-back hair said, “What’s wrong, friend Linc? Tired of having money slip through your fingers?”

Linc was on his feet so fast his red leather club chair tipped backward and thudded to the ground. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, friend?” he hissed.

There was a collective intake of breath in the room, and everyone seemed to stiffen. Subject 9’s eyes moved very slowly to stare at Linc, and everything inside him went silent. Sadie had been to a lot of debates, but she’d never seen an atmosphere go from jovial to explosive so quickly over words.

If there’s a fight, I won’t push the panic button, she resolved, steeling herself. I told Curtis I could handle violence, and I won’t let him down.

The guy with the slicked-back hair seemed oblivious to the tension. His teasing smile stayed in place, and he was meeting Linc’s eyes defiantly—but, Sadie saw, his hands were trembling. “Word gets around is all,” he said. The Chapsters who had been standing near his chair shifted away as though wanting to disavow even a physical proximity. He added, too brightly, “And you lost on those last three pots. That had to sting.”

Arms braced on the sides of the table and head lowered, Linc looked like a bull ready to charge.

Willy chuckled, jumping in. “Relax, Linc. Nobody meant anything by anything. Our old friend is just trying to get under your skin and win back some of his loot. You see how he’s dressed. Could use it, I’d say.”

Linc’s eyes moved from the guy with the slicked-back hair, now an island in a sea of empty space, to Willy, who pushed a deck of cards toward him and said, “It’s your deal.”

Linc nodded and reached for the deck, and everyone started breathing again. The Chapster with the big ears and the one with the red hair rushed to right the chair Linc had kicked over and get it under him, as though Linc were some kind of aristocrat.

Or some kind of psychopath who had to be constantly appeased, Sadie thought. At least I seem to have found the village elders.

“Once you’ve got your bearings in the landscape, start charting your Subject’s mindscape,” Catrina had advised during orientation. “Each one is unique, but they are all built around three basic components: emotion, thought, and memory. Just as your computer takes the programs you see on your screen and translates them into zeros and ones for processing, the mind takes joy, ambivalence, your thoughts about what to have for dinner, and the quadratic equation you memorized in sixth grade and converts them into chemical impulses, each associated with a different sensory system. Your job is to create a key to translate them back.”

Poker is actually a good place to start, Sadie thought. She’d played poker once with Pete and his friends, a strip game that had ended up with her minus one sock and everyone else naked, so she knew how the game worked, but she wasn’t a pro. Was Subject 9?

Pete and his friends spent a lot of time staring one another in the eye and talking about one another’s “tells,” but Subject 9’s eyes stayed mainly on the tabletop and on the other player’s hands, as though he was uncomfortable looking up.

As Linc dealt the cards, several other guys took seats at the table. Willy said, “You’ve been a stranger here at the Castle too long, Little Ice.”

His tone struck Sadie as kind, but Subject 9 stayed tense. His eyes moved to Willy’s chips, arranged in four neat stacks, and the windy sound in his mind spiked. “It’s been tough at home,” was all Subect 9 said. “What have you been up to?” He took two chips off one of the tall stacks in front of him and tossed them into the middle of the table. Sadie noticed for the first time that his hands were crisscrossed with scars and cuts.

From fighting, she thought, and felt a twinge of nerves. The violence Curtis had suggested as a possibility seemed real in this setting, with these guys. The room felt like a tinderbox, a single wrong word enough to set it all off.

“I’ve been working at my uncle’s appliance store the past four months,” Willy told him.

“You? Selling fridges and washer-driers?” Subject 9 chuckled.

“Naw, mostly security. Making sure no one runs off with the washer-driers.”

The guy with slicked-back hair said, “Raise, fifteen dollars.”

Sadie had the impression that someone had momentarily dimmed the lights. Subject 9 said, “Call.”

Are you nuts? Matching that bet? Sadie wanted to ask. Even with her rudimentary knowledge of poker she knew that he had nothing, while the way the other guy was betting indicated he must have a good hand. Maybe dimming vision means dimming brains.

But Subject 9 got lucky. The guy with the slick hair had been bluffing, and Subject 9 won the pot.

“How does appliance protection pay?” Subject 9 asked as Willy dealt the next hand.

“Not bad,” Willy told him. “Got myself a car. And gas.”

A quick cloudburst of noise filled Subject 9’s head, and he looked up to meet Willy’s eyes. “No way.” Based on both the rise in sound and the elevation of his heart rate, Sadie thought he was genuinely impressed. It had never occurred to her that gas could be as much of a luxury as a car.

“And a girl,” Linc said drily.

Willy’s grin got even bigger. “Yep. She’ll be along soon. You can meet her.”

Subject 9 folded. His head got quieter as he watched the others finish the hand, but he seemed distracted, as though the game had lost interest for him. He kept checking his watch, which Sadie was surprised to see was an old Mickey Mouse one, the kind with hands that you probably had to wind. That hardly seems in character for a bad guy, she found herself thinking, before remembering that objectivity meant not prejudging.

He was so disengaged that he didn’t even pick up the cards he’d been dealt on his next hand, but his vision dimmed when Linc bet, so Subject 9 matched it—and won again when Linc flipped over his cards to show he’d been bluffing.

Dimmed vision means he knows someone is lying, Sadie decided, setting it down in her mental notebook. It had to be something instinctive, because his pulse and the sounds in his head showed no change.

When it was his turn to deal the cards, Subject 9 said, “Any of you know how I can get in touch with James’s girl? Was hoping to ask her a few questions.”

The question was followed by silence, not a normal silence but the kind that made the hair on the back of his neck prick up and the lights seem to dim again.

Who is James? Sadie wondered. And why was that question so loaded?

Everyone at the table got very busy with their cards for a while. Willy broke the quiet, saying, “Which one? You know James. Loved the women, and the women loved him.”

Another flicker along the edge of Subject 9’s vision. “I’m not sure. A brunette, I think.”

“Maybe it was Virginia,” the Chapster with the sniffles volunteered. “The cashier at that casino.”

The guy with big ears offered, “Or Ala, the girl at Sirios? With the angry father.”

Willy puffed up his cheeks and made a comical face. “She was a dangerous one. Right up James’s alley. Any of you remember—”

Linc tossed his cards on the table and looked directly at someone for the first time. “If you’re just going to sit here wikiwacking off about the past, you should find another game. I’m sick of talking about dead people.”

Whoever James was, he was dead.

The windy sounds in Subject 9’s head stopped as though someone had hit pause on the haunted-house soundtrack. “He was your best friend,” he said to Linc.

“Operative word was.” Linc’s phone buzzed, and he unlocked his eyes from Subject 9’s to glance at the screen, then frowned and stood. “I’m going to get some air,” he said, striding out of the room.

As soon as Linc was out of sight the clutch of guys who had been around the table began to disperse as though they’d only been there to attend him. Watching them slip away, the sounds in Subject 9’s head intensified, getting not louder but broader, as if new skeins had been added.

Are the sounds thoughts? Sadie asked herself. And they get louder because he is wondering what is going on? Sadie decided to set it down in her mental notebook provisionally and see if it held up.

Her Subject and Willy were alone at the card table now and nearly alone in the room. Sadie wondered how long the piles of pizza boxes and beer cans overflowing in the garbage cans had been accumulating; she imagined the Castle, as Willy had called it, didn’t have a cleaning crew that came in at two A.M. like the Union Club did.

Acting like a fond parent trying to distract from the outburst of an infant, Willy said, “What have you been doing since we last saw you around the Castle, Little Ice? How’s your love life?”

“Still with Cali. I’m a one-girl guy,” Subject 9 answered, rearranging his stacks of chips into five uneven skyscrapers. “Too much trouble otherwise.”

Oh, charming, Sadie thought.

“He says that, but really it’s because he found the one.” A girl in a pencil skirt and cardigan that managed to be anything but demure walked up to the table. She slid onto Willy’s lap. “Isn’t that it, Papa Bear?”

She was wearing a lot of makeup, so she looked older, but Sadie thought she probably wasn’t even twenty. Which meant she and this girl were nearly the same age, but totally different species.

“You know it, kitten,” Willy said, kissing her hand. “Let me introduce you to an old friend.”

Finally, Sadie thought. A name. This was it.

Willy said, “Kansas, meet Little Ice.”

I’m going to strangle someone.

Kansas said, “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ice.”

Two someones.

Subject 9 cleared his throat. “Nice to meet you too, Kansas. But actually, my name is Ford,” he said. “Ford Winter.”

Thank you, Sadie thought, with a warm surge of gratitude. Ford. She wondered if he’d been named for the car or the president. Nice to meet you, Ford Winter.

Kansas frowned and leaned toward Ford, giving him a view straight down her sweater. “Why do they call you Ice if your name is Ford?”

Ford moved his attention from her cleavage to her face, and Sadie sensed him trying to tell if she was joking. “I think it’s the way I play poker,” he deadpanned.

She nodded earnestly. “Oh.”

Nope. Not joking.

“He’s James’s brother,” Willy explained.

Her face and Sadie’s heart fell at the same time. James, the James who was dead, was Subj—Ford’s—brother. And the fact that he’d been asking about James’s girlfriend now meant it probably hadn’t happened that long ago.

Sadie heard a phone buzz, and Willy pulled his out, glanced at the screen, and lifted Kansas to her feet with one arm as he stood. “Kitten, I’ve got to go check on something for the boss. Will you entertain my friend Ice while I’m gone?”

“Of course, Papa Bear,” she cooed. She slipped into a chair next to Ford’s and said, “Do you work for Mr. P too?”

A low, quick spike in sound. “Who?”

Kansas shook her head. “I guess not. What do you do?”

Ford said, “Demolition. You?”

Demolition. That’s a job? Sadie was familiar with construction, but she didn’t know destruction was its own profession. Given what Curtis had hinted about her subject’s potential for violence, it sounded perfect for him.

“I’m an executive assistant,” Kansas said, with a coy smile. “They call us work mistresses.”

“Ah.” Ford’s eyes were moving like a tennis match, except the competition was between Kansas’s neckline and the door Willy and Linc had left though. The door was winning, and he was getting ready to stand up when Kansas blurted, “I was real sorry to hear about your brother. Dying and all that. James seemed like a great guy. And they looked like they were so happy together.”

Ford’s attention immediately focused. “They who?”

“Him and his girlfriend,” Kansas said. “We all spent New Year’s Eve together, me and Willy and Linc and James and… what was her name?”

The sounds in Ford’s mind spiked like a powerful radio burst, and Sadie had that feeling again of catching a glimpse of—something—out of the corner of her eye. She turned to look for it, and again there was nothing to see. She turned back slowly, and—

My god, she gasped. Focusing her eyes not through Ford’s but somewhere closer, she found herself watching as points of color, red and green and yellow and purple, hundreds, then thousands of them, materialized like a Georges Seurat painting into a shimmering image of a boy smiling blissfully while a girl, face hidden by a mass of dark hair, kissed the corner of his mouth.

It was dazzling, magical. As Sadie’s eyes adjusted to this new focal length, she saw that this image wasn’t the only one, it was happening all around her in his mind, millions of points of color, a massive, fluxing universe of shapes, images, and scenes forming and fading synthetically into one another. It seemed boundless, an endless stream, whipping by at the speed of thought and yet clearly visible to Sadie. A fall day at a lake, a crushed beer can, bunk beds, a hand reaching—

“Plum,” Kansas announced triumphantly. “That’s her name. Real pretty, right?”

The images—memories? Fantasies?—vanished. Sadie heard a low thump and realized the entire episode had taken place in the space of one of Ford’s heartbeats.

Amazing. Syncopy was exhilarating. Both space and time seemed rubbery, capable of stretching into new dimensions, unconstrained by normal boundaries, and she felt similarly unconstrained. Similarly capable of stretching to anything.

“I don’t have her number or anything,” Kansas went on, “but ask the guys, they all know her.”

Sadie caught a whiff of something that smelled like bleach and thought she must have underestimated the level of staff at the Castle since clearly they did have a cleaning crew.

Willy rejoined them then, trailed by a small clutch of Chapsters. “Papa Bear has to go to work,” he told Kansas. “You understand, don’t you, kitten?”

“Of course,” Kansas said. “I’ll wait for you at the car.”

“She’s great,” Ford told Willy as they both watched her bottom slalom out the door.

“One in a billion,” Willy said. He turned to Ford, and his eyes were sparkling. “Tell you a secret?”

“Sure.”

“I’m gonna propose.” He slapped himself on the leg. “Me, Willy. To a girl like that. What do you think?”

“I think you’ll be really happy,” Ford told him.

“Thanks, man,” Willy said. His expression softened. “James was the one who got me to ask her out, you know that? Did it as a bet. Never would have had the guts to do it otherwise. Great guy, your brother.”

Sadie felt Ford stiffen. “Yep.”

Willy put his hands on Ford’s shoulders. “And so are you.”

Ford laughed. “Thanks.”

“You’ve been a stranger at the Castle for too long. Guy could get his feelings hurt, his friends stop coming around. I was starting to think you’d pulled a Bucky and left without saying goodbye.”

Ford’s mind exploded with a fireworks display of images: a boy of about eleven with dark hair, huge intelligent eyes, and a tool belt slung around his skinny hips, staring earnestly at a hand-drawn map; the same boy a bit taller, wearing a helmet covered in aluminum foil and standing in front of a scraggly bush; taller still, now a gawky teenager, in the middle of a derelict factory building, grinning and holding up an old-fashioned beat box; finally, not taller but older, probably eighteen, with a beard and a backpack and a bandana tied around his head, his big eyes now wild and angry, jumping on a Greyhound bus just before its doors closed.

Ford said, “Bucky disappeared years ago. I’ve only been out of circulation four months.”

“Lot happens in four months around here,” Willy told him. “Practically a lifetime.”

Another burst of sound in Ford’s head. “Yeah, seems that way.” Big daubs of blue, black, and white swept together into a blurry image of Linc leaving the room earlier, and Sadie had the sense that Ford wanted to say more, but Willy cut him off.

“We all miss James, same as you,” he said, draping his massive arm over Ford’s shoulders. “But we’ve got to come together when bad things happen, right? It’s what we do. We’re family”—Willy brought his grin close to Ford—“the kind you pick yourself, so it really counts.”

A warm sensation washed through Ford, and he laughed. “Thanks, Willy.”

Willy pulled him into a bear hug. “Course. Only don’t stay away anymore, okay? You know I’m not the sharpest, and I don’t want to forget that ugly mug of yours.”

They separated, and Willy was about to go when Ford blurted, “Does Plum ever come by?”

Willy paused, meeting Ford’s eyes with a frank, unblinking glance. “Who?”

“Plum. One of James’s girlfriends?”

Willy shook his head back and forth slowly, eyes not leaving Ford’s. “Name’s not familiar. Course, as we were saying, your brother.” He elbowed Ford. “Quite a Casanova.”

Looking into Willy’s wide, smiling face, Ford’s vision dimmed and kept going, the darkness encroaching from around the edges and moving toward the center until Sadie couldn’t see anything.

As his mind blacked out, it flooded with a roar of such force it seemed to have mass and density, some thick, heavy substance that filled every corner, every gap, taking all the available air. The space that had seemed infinite only heartbeats ago now shrank to nothing, trapping Sadie inside of it.

The air was crushed out of her lungs. She gasped for breath and felt herself choking as though she was drowning, flailing. I have to get out of here, she thought, panicked. I have to escape. The darkness was suffocating her, pulling her in like a constricting vacuum, twisting the breath, the life, out of her.What was happening, what was this sensation, what—

Anger, she thought, claiming her first emotion.

Everything went black.