Project Recollection

by A A Woods

  “Fine,” I say, yanking my arm free. I pull the tiny data drive out of my PAP and throw it at the owner. It hits the floor with a lonely clink. “Take it.”

  I storm forward, praying that Anubis will get out of my way. The image of the restaurant is in my head, the map of it sprawled in front of me, but still I stumble over a foot. Crash against a table. I hold myself against it, breathing hard, resenting all the eyes I can feel on my burning face. I blink back tears before shoving upright and reaching for the front door. It slides open and I plug myself back into my PAP, plunging into the crowd and toward my Bi-Bike like a roaming storm.

  Anubis.

  This is her fault.

  Why did she come?

  More importantly, how had she found me?

  I crash through the thickening morning rush, ignoring the anger that rises in my wake as I bounce off pedestrians and tables of goods. I want to shout back, scream at the world. You think I wouldn’t hit you if I could help it? You think I asked for this?

  But I swallow the words, letting them poison me from the inside.

  I reach my bike in minutes and put a hand to it. For a moment, I can’t bring myself to shift my cable over to the vehicle. I’m overwhelmed by the disaster of the morning, of the whole damn day. The second-to-last tournament key lost. No money for rent. A cryptic ProRec memory that doesn’t help at all.

  I sag against my bike.

  Sometimes it feels like there is a God, as the more extreme Purists claim. Only he’s not looking out for us. He’s just sitting back and laughing.

  “Hey!”

  My fingers curl into fists as Anubis’s voice rises above the noise of the Market.

  “Fuck off,” I grumble, throwing one foot over the bike.

  “What was that back there? You just let him walk all over you?”

  My knuckles ache but I don’t relax. I clutch the steering bars of the bike like a weapon, as if they might hold me to this world, but I’m still not plugged in. Still using my PAP to see. Anubis’s bright shoes appear next to me, feet spread wide.

  “Why didn’t you fight back?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “It doesn’t make sense. You stand up to the gaming ring, the Vixens, and Kitzima herself but you won’t face down one fat maître de.”

  I throw my face in her direction with no idea if I’m looking at her or not. “I wouldn’t have had to face him if you had stayed away.”

  One of her knees cocks and I can imagine her posture. One hip thrust out. Fingers curled around it. A challenging smile.

  “How could I? You’re too interesting.”

  “My life goal is fulfilled,” I sneer, injecting my voice with as much sarcasm as it can hold. Turning away, I slide my IRIS cable out of the handheld and into my bike, ready to turn my back on Anubis and the Market and this whole godforsaken morning.

  “How are you doing that?”

  I freeze.

  “You’re using your PAP to see. How?”

  My shoulders curl in protectively. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does, in fact.” She steps forward. “Tell me.”

  “How did you find me?” I challenge in return.

  “Your bike,” she says, a laugh in her voice. “The frame is an antiquated model. Easy to search for.”

  Damn, I think. It’s what I would have done.

  “What do you want?” I throw the words like daggers, like throwing stars in a Yokai duel. Kitzima would be impressed.

  But when Anubis answers, it isn’t with my vitriol or a Gamer’s defensive snarl or even her own mocking lightness. It’s quiet, a whisper.

  A plea.

  “I need your help.”

  I don’t say anything, refusing to be led into some emotional trap.

  But I don’t fly away either.

  “I… I have an… affliction.” Her voice is hesitant, more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard from a fellow Gamer. I see her in the periphery of the bike’s fish-eye lens, feet still spread, hands still on hips. But she doesn’t look cocky anymore. Now, she looks braced. As if this posture is holding her fragile, spindly frame up against a world that would love to knock it down.

  “What kind of affliction?” I ask, hating myself for falling for it, hating even more how cold the words sound.

  Her distorted face moves and I catch the edge of a smile in the camera, bitter and resigned. “Vertex Fever.”

  I don’t respond, but my eyebrows twitch. My lips pull down. I can’t help the sympathy; it comes like a reflex. There were a few participants in the Kinder Program who, like me, came away with damage. The neural wiring plaited into their young brains wasn’t perfect and I wasn’t the only one who stepped out different. It was the cost of progress, they said. The burden we all must accept if we wish to advance as a civilization. And we were well-compensated for bearing it.

  But my burden is nothing compared to the curse of Vertex Fever.

  Incurable, unstoppable, and entirely unpredictable, Vertex Fever is a rare and horrific allergy to Neurowiring. An afflicted body attacks the foreign technology in their mind, even as the biomechanical network tangles further into a person’s brain, mimicking their neurons. Soon, the victim’s immune system loses its ability to differentiate between wires and self. Before symptoms even begin to show, the cascade of damage rolls out of control and, by the time the autoimmune reaction is detected, it’s too late. Even removing the cable can’t stop it.

  The neural decay eventually swallows everything a person is made of.

  I straighten, facing her, refusing to offer pity. I’ve received enough to know it never helps.

  “You’ve heard of it.” She releases a breath, half laughing. “What a bitch, right? I’ve managed to keep it contained for years now, but it’s advancing down my optic nerve. I’ll be blind soon. Among other things.”

  “Is that what happened in the match? When you stopped fighting?”

  Anubis fiddles with her technicolor cable. “Yes.”

  “And it’s getting worse?”

  “Yes.”

  I turn as if to look at her even though I can only see the edges of her shape. She’s like a ghost at the nimbus of the bike’s camera, a girl already disappearing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing the surge of self-loathing. “But I’ve got enough problems.”

  Anubis chuckles as if she expected this response. “I’ll pay you.”

  My shoulders stiffen. The question comes out of me before I can stop it. “How much?”

  “Enough.” She chuckles again. “I’m sure you of all people can appreciate how much independence is worth.”

  I want to say no. Turn her away. Return to my lonely little room and scour the VERAN for news of Project Recollection and hints of what happened to Zhu. I’m running out of time and I need to get into that tournament and I need to lie low. Head down. Stay free long enough to find out what I need to know.

  But Mr. Consalos’s voice is in my head.

  I tell you, if this happens again…

  I can’t afford to be safe right now.

  “I’ll meet you here tomorrow,” I say. “Same time. Same place.”

  Before she can say anything—and before the ridiculousness of what I’ve just done can settle in—I curl my hands around the bike’s controls and speed off into the morning smog.

  Tora

  Tuesday, September 18th, 2195

  10:47 A.M. EST

  Growing up, my favorite stories were about pirates. I used to dress as one every year for Halloween, knocking on the doors of our apartment building with an ‘arr, matey’ while Zhu—dressed as a doctor or lawyer or hero of some kind—would flash his winning grin behind me, as if to apologize for his renegade sister. In the lost hours of the night when the world was asleep and our central computer—still a screen at that point, the port only usable by adults—stood unguarded, I would pilfer the virtual libraries, hunting for books with even a hint of piracy and adventure on the high seas.

 
In all those stories, there was a place that could only be reached by those who had been there before. A secret trove of riches and debauchery that stood guarded by either magic or geography, accessible to those invited in on the grand secret.

  Damien’s Gamer House is a place like that.

  Planted deep in the city’s layers like some slimy cave-dwelling thing, the Gamer House sprouted out of what had once been a top-notch hologram store, back when holograms were the technology of the day and not just an amusing trinket. As I guide my bike to the dilapidated storefront, hiding it behind the knocked-down wall of an empty grocery market, I sweep the bike’s cameras over the front, taking in the dusty windows, still flashing the latest sales. A cartoonish character resembling an orange raccoon flickers in front of one frosted-glass entrance, inviting children to try out the latest interactive game, while a sultry woman in a low-cut dress offers to be your apartment’s personal hostess.

  Feet protrude from the nearest shadow, crooked and eerie in the darkness. A MemHead, lost in other worlds.

  I unplug from my bike, not bothering to use my PAP as I step over the tumbled wall and tiptoe around the sprawled legs.

  I know the way here. Like a true pirate, I’m most at home in the fringes of society.

  “I’ll make sure you’re never lonely again.”

  “My name’s Jickoby! Wanna play?”

  The holograms’ voices are fuzzy and worn, sad somehow in the stagnant air deep beneath the city. According to Damien’s research, this store used to be seven stories tall, stretching high into mid-town and illuminating Fifth Avenue with a kaleidoscope of fantastical characters and scenes. Once a week, they would stage a battle in the street and tourists would gather to watch spaceships soar between buildings or armies of knights face off with swooping dragons.

  But now, beheaded at the third story by the city that was built on top of it, whatever programming was active the day the store closed still cycles through its daily ritual, voices lost in a world that has left them behind.

  I step up to the door and slide my hand down one side, fingers catching on the port. Dust coats my hand, but the port is clean. Well-used.

  Sliding my IRIS cable in, I fight the urge to tumble into the machinery of the building, instead letting the security program shuffle through my memories and look for the key.

  See, a place like this needs to be guarded against polite society. Protected from those who don’t understand Gaming culture, those who can’t sympathize with the memory addicts who come down here for sanctuary. So some ingenious Gamer cobbled together a simple program, the idea cannibalized from the most secure buildings in the city. Rather than give out physical keys that could be lost, stolen, or traded, this door accepts another kind of key. A memory key.

  And the memory, of course, is of the Gaming House itself.

  The only way to enter the Gaming House is to have been there before. Or to know someone who has.

  After a brief silence punctuated by the voices of holograms—shifting now into new forms I can’t see— the door dings in approval and I step inside. With slow, measured strides, I count my steps as I make my way toward the stairs behind the lobby, trying not to think of the bodies sprawled around me, sleeping or lost in recollections or just too brain-damaged to care.

  The soft, feminine voice of the greeter echoes around the building’s glassy intestines.

  “Welcome to Optica, your gateway to the world. We offer the best high-resolution holograms on the market at the most reasonable cost. May I help you find your next adventure?”

  Her voice makes me jump and I lose count.

  “Damnit,” I mutter, hand held out in front of me as I stretch for the handrail of the stairs, trying to picture where I’d been when the stupid woman popped into existence. How could I forget about the greeter? I think, mentally kicking myself for the oversight. Finally, after several moments of groping through the dusty air, I find the bannister. Pull myself to the edge. With a deep, calming breath, I begin to climb the glass stairs, tallying as I rise.

  One floor.

  Two.

  On the third, I veer to the right, following the siren lure of noise as I trace the hallway with one hand on the wall. There’s shouting. Cackling. Feminine shrieks and male grunts and the overwhelming smell of pepperoni and melted cheese guide me to my destination.

  When my hand curls around a doorframe, I hesitate at the edge of the room, letting the sound wash over me. They’re practicing, two Gamers probably plugged into a travel-size Obaki mat (the only one they’ve managed to get their hands on) and the rest egging them on. Aromas of sickly-sweet soda and take-out fill the room, hanging like a haze over the clutter of voices. It’s eleven in the morning but from the ruckus you might think it’s after midnight.

  When your only light is fluorescent, I don’t suppose it matters much what time it is.

  “Get him! Come on, Mitsuru!”

  “Ah, don’t do that!”

  “Idiot! You deserved it.”

  “Hit her with fire!”

  I hover at the rim of the crowd, not wanting to step into the chaos and not able to take out my PAP. It would be nice to see, but any hint of a recording device would scatter half the people in this room and rile the others into a feeding frenzy. I’ve seen newcomers beaten bloody for even the slightest hint of trying to snitch on other Gamers. So I wait. Lean against the doorframe.

  My blindness might separate me in one way, but the mysteries behind Zhu’s disappearance form the true chasm between me and them. I can’t be a part of all this, not really. Where they take on the risk of brain injury, I shoulder the risk of exposure. Where they clump around the danger of their chosen lifestyle like travelers around a fire, I must live in the shadows. Stay on the outside. Keep my secrets and hold myself apart.

  Separate from both worlds.

  Never let them see what I did.

  Treacherously, I wonder if all this is worth it. If not for Zhu, I would be living topside. I could have a cane or a seeing-eye dog like those other poor souls whose destroyed optic nerves eliminate the chance of using a bionic eye. I’d be wealthy with ProRec’s monthly payments. Have a real, functional life, whatever that looks like.

  But I could never betray my brother like that.

  I have to keep going. For him.

  “Damien.” A teenage voice falters with puberty. “Your girlfriend’s here.”

  I force myself not to react, keep my face impassive as I hear a sigh, footsteps, smell the familiar aroma of cologne and dye. I imagine the Gamer standing in front of me, white-blonde hair swept over the paralyzed side of his face. Grinning lazily with the good side of his mouth.

  “Tora,” he says, his voice a sharp tenor, at once alluring and aloof.

  “Damien,” I say in response, tilting my face toward him and frowning beneath my Fuzz Specs.

  His breath explodes in a sigh. “Oh, come on, let’s get out of here.”

  He slides one arm through mine and begins to guide me down the hall, the echo of his steps growing louder as we leave the noise of the game room behind.

  “Don’t you ever wear anything but black?” he says. I catch an acidic whiff of his cinnamon-scented shampoo as he tosses his hair.

  “Everything matches black.”

  “I suppose, but it’s so dull.” We turn a corner and the sounds of the crowd cut out, broken by the wall of Damien’s room. He releases me and I hear an oof as he lands on the couch.

  I fold my arms. “I’ve never noticed.”

  “Suppose you haven’t.” He shifts on the couch, perhaps inviting me to sit down. I ignore him, tapping one foot, glaring at where I estimate his head should be. For a moment, there’s an obstinate silence.

  I refuse to break it.

  “Oh, about last night,” Damien finally says, his voice carrying no hint of remorse, “I had an opportunity I couldn’t turn down. Did you see the memory I posted? Good stuff.”

  “That was our second-to last chance at the tournament.”<
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  Damien snorts and shifts his weight with a plume of dust. I clench my teeth to avoid coughing as he begins to move around me, his body in endless, restless motion.

  “Oh, come on, who cares about that. Do you really think ProRec is going to make the winner into some kind of poster-child?” He snorts. “There’s no new cable with built-in gaming capability. The boyos think it’s some kind of stunt.”

  “I don’t care what they think. We are getting into that tournament, Damien, or our deal is off.”

  “You think I can’t debug my own Yokai?”

  “You wanna try?”

  The challenge hangs suspended between us. Damien’s arrogance may know no bounds, but his record before I came along was shoddy at best. He was an amateur, a wannabee, his channel pathetically small and his standing in Kitzima’s den almost nonexistent.

  Now he’s known and respected. All thanks to me.

  “The last match is tomorrow night,” I say. “You’re gonna be there. Period.”

  He blows out a breath. “I haven’t had a mother in six years, Tora. I don’t intend to get one now.”

  “Damien,” I growl in warning.

  “Fine, fine,” he says airily, fiddling with something on my right. The smell of Pueblo Pizza fills the room. “You’re a real charmer, you know that?” His words are muffled, as if spoken through a mouthful of folded bread and melted innards. “Not gonna make many friends like that.”

  “I’m not trying to make friends,” I say, leaning against the back wall with my arms folded over my brother’s jacket.

  Damien laughs. “No, you’re not.”

  “At least I don’t spend all day preening to impress other people.”

  “At least I have a community. Fans. People who love me. What do you have?”

  “Common sense. Do you really think those Tuners love you?”

  Damien’s chuckle dies off and I clench my fists against my ribs, holding in the guilt. The strike is a low blow, a swipe of the anger that’s been festering in my chest all day. I’ve spent enough time with Damien to know what his foundation is made of. It’s rotten wood hidden behind a thin layer of cement.