Mindjacker Read online

  It was true, at least until lately. Daria had helped her get this far, and there was nobody Quinn trusted more.

  “Okay, Quinn. But if there was ever a time that you should be carefully considering with whom to partner, it’s now. Are you sure you’re ready?”

  “More than ready.”

  “Then I have a job for you. It’s a corporate job. The target is Clive McCloskey, Chief Information Officer at a Midtown tech firm. The client suspects he’s selling the company’s proprietary code to underground dealers.”

  “And let me guess… he’s trained to avoid mind invasion.”

  “Of course.”

  Trained targets made their job far more difficult, but Quinn expected that her final test would be a hard one.

  “We’ll be ready.”

  “This is a watershed job for you,” Yolanda said.

  Quinn rolled her eyes. As if she needed reminding. As if she wasn’t aware of that fact every moment of every day, and hadn’t worked toward it for five years.

  “You need to be at your best,” Yolanda went on. “And more importantly, so does Daria.”

  “We will be. I promise.”

  “I’ll message you the details.”

  Chapter 7

  Quinn sat in her tiny bedroom, her window open and her fan running like it did 24/7. She kept her door shut so she didn’t have to listen to her dad snoring on the couch while their clunky old TV played the Demons game.

  She logged on to one of her hackerspaces, bored and looking to see what sort of fun she could drum up that night. Maybe a game or a job prospect, or maybe even a convo with someone new and interesting. Whatever it was, it was better than being out on the streets of Westgate with all the idiots, getting wasted or starting fights or doing something else stupid.

  She spotted a new thread, entitled “They can read our minds now.”

  Quinn clicked on it.

  One of the other community members had posted an article from a university source: “Barney Landry develops a device that translates human neural signals into real data.”

  Quinn raised her eyebrows. She’d heard of Barney Landry, wealthy science nerd and CEO of a company that spent all kinds of money on innovative research and tech. She didn’t know much else, though. Landry’s company and the things that went on there were for people with degrees and money, and that would never be her.

  What?? Read our minds?? one community member said.

  This isn’t new, said another. The ability to translate a person’s thoughts into data has been demonstrated in all kinds of labs around the world. They can access specific memories, know if a person’s lying, even determine someone’s intent (including intent to commit a crime).

  Seriously? Quinn replied.

  Yeah. They’ve even found that certain thoughts are associated with specific parts of the brain, and that thinking about a Blue Banner butterfly or a claw hammer lights up the same brain area in different people. They can recognize emotions, tinker with memory, even predict certain behaviors. Now, Barney and his team of drones have packed all of this science and tech into one convenient little device that can be used anytime, anywhere.

  Not anytime, anywhere, numb nuts, said another. Just for research purposes.

  Oh. Right. Of course. “For research purposes.”

  Quinn smiled at the memory. That was seven years ago, when she was twenty-one. It turned out the well-informed hacker’s skepticism hadn’t been misguided. It was only a matter of time before Landry began developing a prototype device for use by law enforcement to help solve crimes. Controversy began over whether Landry was a science-loving idealist who longed to help society, or a profit-minded hustler who created technology with little thought about its repercussions.

  Quinn knew he was the latter. Of course he was.

  The controversy was loud enough that lawmakers sought to nip the problem in the bud instead of falling behind as they often did when it came to technology. The people had already grown weary after multiple medical and scientific corporations had exploited their patients’ medical and genomic data and used it purely for profit, with no regard for the rights of those who’d provided the data. And sure enough, such actions had ill consequences, from some people being unable to get jobs based on their data to others stealing the data with the hope of engineering a better human. So when Landry presented his new toy that would supposedly reduce crime, the people were ready to pounce and squash it.

  Regulations ensured the device was used for research purposes only, with very strong guidelines for informed consent and usage with human and animal subjects in research settings. Any usage outside of research was illegal, with penalties that were stiffer than many other crimes.

  It was only a matter of time until the device—colloquially known as a “mind reader”—fell into the hands of an undergrounder, and the technology was duplicated. Before long, mind thieves began exploiting the device, and the Protectorate was formed in order to keep mind thieves in check and to right the wrongs of a world that already had its share of corruption.

  Quinn opened her safe and pulled out her own mind reader, along with her nodes and other equipment. She checked everything twice, ensuring it functioned the way it ought to. Device testing was an important part of the job, as a malfunctioning piece of equipment could cause problems at best, and at worst could sabotage a job and get a jacker booted or arrested. Fortunately, everything seemed to be working fine.

  She already had a preliminary plan for the Clive McCloskey job. The next step was to run it by Daria, so she picked up her phone.

  “Hey, girl,” Daria said.

  “Time to plan. Here or Hole?”

  “Hole.”

  Quinn arrived at Hole, the underground coolness refreshing her after braving the brutal heat. Daria was already there, early as usual. That was one of many things she loved about Daria—she was never late. Quinn ordered a diablo for herself, trying not to think about how it didn’t measure up to the one she’d had at Afterglow.

  She sat down across from Daria in the corner booth, loud electronic music playing nearby and protecting their conversation. “This is it, baby. The big cheese.”

  “Tell me more,” Daria said.

  “The target is a CIO at Omni, suspected of selling off company tech to undergrounders. No murderers or rapists or child molesters… just a straightforward white-collar money job.” Quinn grinned, her excitement about the job growing by the hour, especially with what it would mean for them.

  Daria nodded and said nothing, her lackluster reaction poking a small hole in Quinn’s enthusiasm.

  “What’s with you, Dar? This is the job. The one we’ve been waiting for. And one that pays decently.”

  “Does the target have mind training?”

  “He’s an executive at a major tech firm. Of course he’s trained.”

  Many corporate jobs involved targets who’d undergone training to prevent mind invasion. They could afford it, and they needed it more than anyone else to avoid having their knowledge, memories, and secrets jacked by mind thieves. The training more than paid off. Most mind thieves were hacks who lacked the skill to not only invade a trained mind without losing their own minds, but to do so without inflicting damage to the target’s mind or getting busted by the cops. But she and Daria weren’t hacks.

  Daria gave a big sigh, rolling her eyes.

  Quinn crossed her arms in front of her, feeling annoyed. “You’re pissing me off right now, Dar. They know you weren’t in the field on those last two jobs, by the way. Ops had their eyes on us, probably because they suspect something is wrong. That’s not good. And, I had to lie to Yolanda, to cover your ass. You know how much I hate lying, and you know why.”

  “Then don’t lie!” Daria snapped, looking away.

  “I had to!” she hissed. “We’re on the brink of getting what we want—”

  “You mean what you want,” she retorted.

  Quinn stared at Daria. “What do you mean, what I want? We’
ve been planning this for five years! Shit, since we were kids! To get out of Downtown—”

  “Oh, stop it, Quinn. You say it’s for the money and to better our lot in life, but the truth is that you love the job. You love defying the law and you love the power trip of it.”

  “I do not! Not really…” Quinn took a deep breath to calm herself. “Okay, I find the job more fun than you do sometimes. But this is means to an end for me. It’s the only way I see to escape Downtown and everything that comes with it. We have no other options, Dar. We’re not educated or skilled enough for good-paying jobs, and we can’t afford to obtain education or skills unless we’re willing to face high-interest loans that will hobble us for the next twenty to thirty years, during which we’re still stuck Downtown. Even running a small business requires loans, and no bank will give us one. But if you’ve got a better idea, I’m listening.”

  Daria sighed, this time with sorrow. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t been there and I’m sorry you had to lie. I know you hate that. Maybe… maybe you’re better off without me…”

  Quinn shook her head, leaning forward. “No. You know damned well I don’t trust anyone else in the world but you. My mom’s dead, my dad’s a liar, and I have no sisters or brothers. I said ages ago that I would find a way to make sure we got outta here,” she motioned around them, “and I meant it. I need you by my side on this job, and after. I’ll make Tier One and bring you along with me. Think of it, Dar!” Quinn grinned. “Better apartments. Decent AC. Wine and seafood! But if you don’t want it…”

  “Of course I want it,” Daria said decidedly, her anger gone. “I just… I guess I had a tough day.”

  She’d had a lot of tough days lately, but Quinn didn’t mention that.

  They had a big job to do, and it was time to begin.

  Chapter 8

  Quinn halted, holding up her hand. She heard Daria stop behind her as she peeked around the corner and into the alleyway.

  There was no one around.

  Quinn proceeded into the clean, brick-lined alley, Daria’s quiet steps behind her. When they reached the rear entrance of Clive McCloskey’s stone townhome, they got to work on the alarm system. It was one of the many skills the Protectorate had taught them when they were still apprentices. Years later, there was no system, other than perhaps military systems, that Quinn and Daria couldn’t bypass.

  Once they disabled the alarm, Quinn gently opened the door and peered into the McCloskeys’ home. It was a laundry room, and dark. They tiptoed inside, Quinn’s eyes scanning the room, looking for any sign of trouble or some night owl who decided to stay up late. The laundry room was larger than Quinn’s entire apartment, with plenty of space for a washer and dryer that the couple didn’t have to share with anyone, shelves filled with laundry soap and folded linens, and even a TV to aid whoever sorted and folded their laundry. A table stood against the wall, stacks of folded clothing next to a big pile of unfolded items, as if someone hadn’t finished the job.

  Quinn proceeded into the hallway, keeping her eyes everywhere but still unable to ignore the luxurious kitchen as they passed, with its butcher block, full-sized fridge and dishwasher, and a real oven… nothing like Quinn’s tiny “kitchen.” They padded silently over thick rugs adorning shiny hardwood floors, walls filled with framed art, and custom-made furniture in light colors, reminding Quinn that Clive and his wife had no children. A child-free home made Quinn and Daria’s job much easier.

  As they approached the stairs, Quinn spotted something else, something that stopped her in her tracks.

  It was a huge window boxed in by glass, filled with green plants and herbs, facing the east to get the morning sun. A greenhouse window. The average person couldn’t even afford water-loving plants, much less the large quantities of water they needed. And those few who could were often unable to achieve the necessary light conditions to grow such tender plants, thanks to towering skyscrapers that blocked the burn of the desert sun. But up here, in lower Uptown, there was space and light to be had. Even the smell—moist, herbaceous—was intoxicating. It was a decadence that Quinn had never seen before.

  Quinn glanced at Daria, who also stared at the green display in the dim light. Finally, they pulled their attention away from the greenhouse window and headed upstairs.

  They’d already studied the layout for the McCloskey home and knew where the bedrooms were. They tiptoed up the stairs, too new and nice to creak, and made their way to the first bedroom. Children or no, it was always important to check the bedrooms first. One never knew if the target had a servant or a guest sleeping over, or if one spouse slept in a separate room for any number of reasons, from snoring to estrangement.

  The bedrooms were empty.

  Quinn turned to Daria again, who looked calm and ready to go, like the Daria she’d come to trust with her life. For all Daria’s bellyaching, when it came down to the real work, she was always ready. That’s why Quinn refused to work with anyone else, refused to even consider another tech. Quinn motioned to the double doors ahead, the ones leading to the master bedroom.

  Quietly they moved, and Quinn held her breath as she carefully turned the handle. She did so with painful slowness, to avoid the telltale clicking that could open the eyes of any light or paranoid sleeper. Inside the huge bedroom, the carpeting was lush and blue, the big windows had roman blinds made of expensive fabric, and the tall, majestic bed was covered in silk linens. She knew Uptowners had more than most, but it still felt strange to see such a vivid contrast to her own life.

  Clive and his wife lay sleeping. Quinn glanced at Daria and nodded.

  Quinn headed to Clive’s side of the bed while Daria began initiating the wife’s sedation. They would have to ensure that both remained asleep long enough for them to jack Clive and get themselves far away. Quinn pulled out her injector with its micro-needle, the one even the most needle-phobic didn’t mind too much. Unlike Jonathan Stilwell on the subway, a job like this required manual sedation rather than allowing the device to stimulate the ventrolateral preoptic nucleus to initiate sleep. Manual sedation was more robust and worked better for a home jacking, which took longer and had far more risks, but meant the target could simply awaken in his or her own bed. With a public jacking, the target needed to awaken quickly, only a minute or two after the jacker disengaged and left, to ensure the target’s safety.

  Illegal or not, immoral or not, crooked-ass target or not, the Protectorate made sure their agents put the target’s safety first.

  She began setting up her nodes and preparing her mind reader for data transfer to a smaller storage device. When she finished, she looked over at Daria, who had Quinn’s nodes in her hand.

  “Check everything?” she whispered.

  “All systems go,” Daria whispered back.

  Quinn smiled, sitting down on the floor on Clive’s side of the bed and leaning up against the bedside table. Daria held up the nodes, a twinkle of mischief in her eye, before she leaned over and attached them to the base of Quinn’s skull.

  “Ready?” Daria mouthed silently.

  Quinn gave a nod.

  Daria made a couple of adjustments to the device, and the next thing Quinn knew, she was sitting in a library. It had floor-to-ceiling dark wood shelves, lined with countless tomes. So many books. But the books were foggy. Everything was foggy.

  She stood up, passing by all the shelves of books, until she reached a door. She wiggled it a few times, unable to open it. She tried a little harder, but still nothing. Suddenly, a book clobbered her in the head, startling her. Then another. And soon she was buried in books and could hardly breathe. Panic rose in her, but she quelled it, reminding herself that it wasn’t real, that only her mind was making it real. She swiped the books away like they weighed little more than feathers.

  She was linked with Clive’s mind, battling it out with his mind-invasion training. It was a battle he would eventually lose.

  Quinn stood up, dodging right as one of the bookshelves came do
wn in an attempt to crush her beneath its heavy weight, then left as another one did the same. She smiled; it wasn’t as exciting as her last trained target, where she had to scale sheer rocky cliffs with thousand-foot drops, but this was cute. She headed to the troublesome door and gave it a good kick. The door opened.

  Suddenly, emotions flooded her—boredom, greed, lust, anger, fear—in one big confusing mass of energy. Thoughts and images that weren’t hers whizzed past her mind like the subway tunnel lights when the train was going its fastest. Too many of them, all spewing from Clive’s frontal lobe… spreadsheets and computers and coffee and a giant plate of seafood and Clive’s wife talking about some important charity benefit that weekend and…

  It was like a tsunami that had come out of nowhere and knocked her sideways, and just as she began to right herself again, another wave came and Quinn felt herself tumbling and starting to drown in it all, swirling and spinning and unable to catch her breath. She thrashed about, following her instincts and trying to swim, swim, swim, to find air and gain control, trying to fight it all and rise to the surface.

  Finally, she did what training and experience dictated: she stopped struggling and let herself endure the flood, letting the neural activity that flowed freely during sleep wash over her like a cool shower on a hot day, keeping herself still and steady, keeping her own consciousness separate from Clive’s.

  It wasn’t easy. Not everyone could do it. Sometimes, the tech had to yank the jacker out and spend days afterward wiping memories that didn’t belong to the jacker. But not Quinn. Linking with someone else’s mind was nerve-racking for many and downright panic-inducing for some, but for her it was exciting to face the challenge and win, to not let it beat her.

  This was the game with trained targets—link her mind with theirs so she could serve as proxy to obtain the necessary data. It took much longer and was far riskier than an ordinary jacking; they had to put the jacker under, avoid “drowning” (getting lost in the target’s mind), prevent the jacker’s neural data from transferring to the target, and then, long after they’d gotten safely away, sort through all the data and find what they needed. All without getting dimed or busted by the cops.