Praise for Reset
“A hauntingly beautiful love story that explores the nexus of memory, identity, and love. Though technically science fiction it has an atmospheric fairy-tale feel that left me spellbound…Reset is a memorable, lyrical debut by Dahlan.”
—Ruth Mitchell,
award-winning author of Deleted
“Crisp, stylish prose and a story about love trying to withstand the rigors of time. This is a book subtle in its intensity, lush and beautiful, while carefully exploring what it means to be human and what we are to each other. Evocative and literary, I highly recommend it.”
—David R. Slayton,
author of White Trash Warlock
“Dahlan’s elegant writing style is as light as a whisper on the wind while still strong enough to probe the unanticipated darkness of a peaceful, yet problematic, postapocalyptic utopia. Reset haunts the reader through an ethereal, existential exploration of memory and meaning that lingers long after the last page.”
—D. Eric Maikranz,
author of The Reincarnationist Papers
“Reset captured me on so many levels…Once in a blue moon you read a book that leaves its mark on you—this is one of those. It was an absolute pleasure to read.”
—Naomi Gibson,
author of Every Line of You
“A vivid, evocative journey through a postapocalyptic world…
Told with an assured, graceful touch, this compelling debut is
a story for our current world, where our beliefs and
memories are the new battlegrounds.”
—Kimiko Guthrie,
author of Block Seventeen
“Reset is a thought-provoking journey into the human psyche
that will instantly have you pondering deep questions about the
nature of memory, dreams, and reality itself. This bittersweet
love story is as cerebral as it is emotional.”
—Bobby Azarian,
cognitive neuroscientist, Psychology Today blogger,
and author of the forthcoming book The Romance of Reality
“Love transcends the laws of a dystopian world in Dahlan’s immersive debut…Dahlan seamlessly marries sci-fi and romance while building a heady atmosphere through ethereal, dreamlike prose…The original concept and propulsive love story mark Dahlan as a writer to watch. Readers will be mesmerized.”
—Publishers Weekly
Copyright © 2021 by Sarina Dahlan
E-book published in 2021 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by K. Jones
All rights reserved. This book or any portion
thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission
of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations
in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
Printed in the United States of America
Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-0940-8632-3
Library e-book ISBN 978-1-0940-8631-6
Fiction / Science Fiction / General
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
To my family
&
my editor, Peggy Hageman
Human intellect at birth resembles a tabula rasa, a pure potentiality that is actualized through education and comes to know.
—Avicenna, tenth-century polymath
The best way to rid society of the evils of human nature is to periodically wipe each person’s mind of their prejudices learned through life experiences. With the mind a blank slate, everyone has the freedom to author their own soul. Tabula Rasa. It is the future. It is what will save humanity.
—The Planner
Chapter One
In a mahogany-paneled room in a Victorian house on a hill, inevitability creeps in like a thief, but no one stirs. A man sits in a velvet chair the color of sapphire. A woman curls against his chest, her lashes wet like blades of grass covered in morning dew. They have been in the same position for hours. Neither intends to move.
He is afraid she will disappear. Like dandelion seeds, one gust of wind: gone.
His hand weaves through her hair, playing absentmindedly with the silky strands. He stares at the books on the table next to them, some with pages so brittle they could fall apart at the slightest touch. Fear overcomes him. His heart drops into the cavity of his stomach, making him nauseated.
He gathers her in his arms, and she tightens her grip around his neck. Her eyes are fixed on a spot on the far wall.
“It’s the first day of spring,” she says.
“It is.”
“When do you think it will happen?”
“I don’t know.” He buries his face in her hair.
“If we don’t go to sleep, maybe it won’t happen.”
“Sooner or later, the Sandman will come.” He chuckles but there is despair in his voice.
Outside the window, dawn approaches. And with it, bird songs, the first music of the day.
The man takes her hand and brings it to his lips. He brushes it lightly, tracing the green veins of her arm, memorizing it.
He has been imprinting her into his memory all night, on all the nights that passed between them. If he does it enough, he hopes he will be able to remember her. Like a piece of music.
He feels it. The haze of sleep. Only it is stronger than any he has ever experienced. It comes from deep inside him—a black hole that draws in all surrounding light.
He struggles to keep his heavy eyelids from closing. But how does one prevent a landslide from covering the entrance of a cave? Eventually it will consume it, taking away light until only a sliver is left. Then complete darkness.
“Good night, sweetheart. I love you,” he whispers and kisses her hand.
In a slow and deliberate move, he eases a ring off her finger. Warmth emanates from the silver metal. He puts it on his little finger, next to his own ring. She reaches up and kisses him. He tastes like the ocean. Salt and earth.
“Good night, love,” she says.
He is losing his grip. His body begins to slip into the warm embrace a rest promises. He presses his lips on her forehead. She lays her head against his chest and closes her eyes.
“Tomorrow, we will be strangers.”
Chapter Two
The light is unnaturally bright, glaring and white on her eyelids. Water laps against sand from outside the window, lulling her. A lazy wind eases in as if it has a lifetime to flow east. She feels sweat seep from her pores, dripping down her back.
A finger, warmer than her skin, runs along her spine, painting images of rivers and hills with her sweat, chasing goosebumps down the landscape of her body.
Aris bolts upright.
“Lucy, turn off alarm,” she says, wiping sleep from her eyes.
The cry of her wake-up call ceases. Jazz music replaces it.
“Thanks, Lucy. That’s a better way to wake up.”
“You are welcome. I am glad. Based on your proclivity tests, there was a fifteen point six percent chance you would not like this music,” Lucy speaks, her bodiless voice emanating from concealed speakers in the apartment.
“Well, I’m eighty-four point four percent liking it this morning.”
“It is 7:02 a.m. on Monday, September twenty-second. You have a meeting at nine o’clock with
Thane. After that, you have docent duty at eleven.”
Aris sighs. She despises that part of her job. Not that it matters. It is impermanent, like everything else.
“Coffee?” she asks in a small voice.
“It will be ready for you by the time you get out of the shower. Your bagel is toasting.”
“Lucy, you’re so good to me,” she says and gets up.
“It is my job.”
With “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” on her lips, Aris steps into the shower. She pushes a button, and a stream of water rains down her body, washing the night’s stale air off her skin. The timer ticks. Five minutes. 1,825 minutes per year. 7,300 per cycle. She will have spent five full days showering this cycle. So much time, yet never enough.
The dream lingers. The only thing she remembers is the feeling. Warm skin. A breath at her ear. The echo of a whisper. What did it say? She feels her core heating. The water stops.
She steps out and dries herself off. A glimpse of her reflection in the foggy mirror catches her attention. She wipes her hand across it. She stares at her face and tugs at the skin on her cheeks. She wonders how old she is. Twenty-eight? Thirty? She does not know. No one knows.
“Your coffee is ready,” Lucy says.
“Thank you.”
She follows its rich, nutty aroma. The curtains lift as she passes. Sunlight streams in, brightening the white apartment. In the kitchen, in the same spot it’s always been in, a cup of coffee awaits. Next to it is a plate with a toasted bagel, just as Lucy said it would be. She picks them up and walks to the wall-to-wall window. She places the bagel on the side table she put there for this specific purpose. With both hands on the cup, she takes her first sip of the day. The hot liquid travels down her throat and warms her stomach.
Outside, skyscrapers carpet the terrain as far as the eye can see—an image of silver and glass glinting in the sun. Below, kaleidoscopes of walkways with emerald trees and plants weave all the buildings together, making them look like silver flies caught in a lush spider web. Dots of people cross the pathways like insects from one tree branch to another. Up here, she is an eagle in its aerie, surveying the world. The apartment has been her home this cycle. Then it will be erased from her memory.
Beyond the spikes of skyscrapers, she sees the sky—pale blue with a wispy layer of clouds. Above the tallest building, streams of drones travel in organized lines before breaking off into their respective directions, delivering the weekly supplies to all homes.
She wonders what would be in her shipment. Probably more corn and summer squash. Maybe some lettuces. Whatever is in season. The system gives everyone the same things. It’s the most efficient way. No excess, no waste.
“Lucy, when will it rain today?”
“It is scheduled for two o’clock.”
If Aris wants to be alone in the city, all she has to do is go outside when it rains. Or snows. The usually bustling streets are abandoned like a ghost town. After the sky clears, people slink back from wherever they hid, painting the street with shades of rainbow. The weather is planned with precision. It must be. Water is precious. Regardless of what this place may have been disguised to look like, it cannot escape what it truly is. A desert.
The music changes. The sweet melody of a tinkling piano catches her attention.
“What’s this song?” Aris asks.
“Luce, by Metis.”
Her eyes follow a group of the delivery drones as they fly toward the horizon. They could be heading to Lysithea. Or Europa. Or maybe Elara. All of them miles away, beyond the expanse of the arid, rain-shadow desert. Together with Callisto, where she lives, they are the only populated cities left after the Last War. The drones appear smaller and smaller, until they are only dots.
Sadness trickles down like spring rain, inexplicable and sudden. It happens periodically. She has come to know it like her own shadow. She even has a name for it—“the emptiness.” It lives in the middle of her chest. There’s a shape to it. She feels along its edges, trying to understand what it is she had lost. But it’s a word forgotten before it leaves her lips.
Luce ends.
“Is Metis a living musician?” Aris asks.
Most of her favorites died before the Last War, the rest during. She only learned of them through the Metabank.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about him.” She places the coffee cup on the table, picks up the bagel, and bites.
An image of a man cloaked in partial shadow appears in front of her. Sharp and vivid, as if he were there in person.
“Metis was discovered by the acclaimed AI music aficionado, Salvadore Patronico, at the auditorium of the music school where he worked as a teacher at the beginning of this cycle,” Lucy says. “Metis said he had been composing music for as long as he remembered. He claimed he had been doing that through all his lives, and that music had always been inside him.”
“A natural,” Aris murmurs.
She finds these “naturals” fascinating. They can do extraordinary things they do not remember learning to do. The gifts are usually with art and music. She wonders in which areas of the brain artistic ability resides and why it is safe from Tabula Rasa.
“When’s his next concert?” Aris asks.
“Friday, October third. At Carnegie Hall.”
“I’d like a ticket,” she says.
“It is mostly sold out.”
“Just get whatever’s still available,” she says and swallows the last of her bagel.
“Do you want to know how many entertainment points that costs before I get one?”
“No,” she says. Who cares. Only six months left.
The thought of the next cycle makes her heart flutter with both excitement and dread. A new home. A new life. Who will she be then? She hopes she will like her new name, whatever it may be.
The light from the rising sun hits the dune of salt at the edge of the city, making it shimmer like snow. The byproduct of ocean desalinization. She wonders if one day the mounds will grow tall enough to puncture through the atmosphere. Would she still be here to witness it?
Her watch beeps, tugging her out of melancholy, reminding her of the time.
The cottage smells musty, like fungus and moss—the scent of waterlogged forest floor. Moisture-soaked wallpaper separates from the walls like dirty bandages. The dilapidated roof is held up by vines and ivy. Despite all its faults, it is his sanctuary. Because it’s hers.
She is cloaked in a silvery gown that billows in a nonexistent wind. It looks like a combination of water and air. Her hair is pure white, and her face a landscape of cracked, parched earth. Four well-defined lines are etched like deep scars between her pale eyebrows.
“Hello,” he says, with the familiarity of an old friend.
“Hello, Metis,” the Crone greets, her voice high and whispery like the winter breeze. “How many days?”
It is the same question she asks him every time.
“It’s September twenty-second. One hundred and seventy-nine days before the next Tabula Rasa.”
In half a year, a new cycle will start. Metis feels like a fish in a glass with just enough water to not suffocate. Three and a half years gone. Squandered.
He reminds himself that he did not completely waste the past few years. He has spent them being the Sandman. A purpose that saved him.
“Are you ready for another Release?” the Crone asks.
“Yes,” he says. “But isn’t it cruel with so little time left?”
“There will never be enough time,” the Crone says. “Anyone who wants to remember should.”
“But what’s the point?”
“It’s not up to you to decide whether their memories are worth having.”
Metis knows. His responsibility, the same for all the Sandmen throughout the cycles, is to help those who want to free the
ir dreams. To help them find their way to the Crone. To Absinthe. It is the only tool to take back what has been stolen from them. He can’t help but wonder what his life would have been like had he not been able to remember. The knowledge that somewhere out there the woman he loves is lost in the sea of forgetfulness has brought him nothing but pain.
He feels her stare.
“Something weighs on you,” she says.
He sighs. “It’s just—sometimes I—”
“Wish you didn’t remember?” she asks, taking him by surprise.
She glides to the window, her eyes staring through the grimy glass into the overgrown garden, now covered with a thin layer of fog. He follows her gaze. Shaded by the trees’ dense canopy, the cottage appears to be in perpetual twilight. The setting makes it look otherworldly, as if it were in its own plane of existence.
“I’ve been on this earth a very long time. Longer than I should,” she says. “Would you believe me if I told you I’ve seen more than I wish to remember?”
She turns to him. Her eyes make him feel vulnerable, as if his mind is a house she has full access to. “Life can break your heart. But living it the way you’re forced to—with no memories, no past, no purpose—you’re ghosts of who you’re meant to be. This is no life.”
“But what’s the point of remembering the past if you can’t have it back?”
“You mean have her back?” she asks.
His heart skips a beat. Her. The woman in his dreams. The one he tried and failed to find. The one he sometimes wonders if is simply a figment of his imagination.
The Crone’s wispy figure—a consciousness without body—shifts and changes, struggling between states of existence like evaporating water. For a moment, he thinks she will vanish back into her book. Her mood is unpredictable. But she stays.
“Remember the first time we met?” she asks.
“Of course.”
The day he found her in this crumbling place, his life changed. Before that, she was just a myth among unhappy souls, and he was just a man grappling for light in darkness.
Reset Page 1