Project Recollection

by A A Woods

  It’s time to face my father.

  Tora

  Thursday, September 20th, 2195

  7:41 A.M. EST

  Even though I can’t see it, the front of my father’s office is familiar enough that I can lay the details over the sounds. Heels click past me as pressed businesswomen enter the Purist headquarters, clacking over marble and around the elaborate fountain of a woman holding a cable-free child in the air. The building slopes into the smog, heavy iron frame supporting a glistening, polished surface that looks at once old and modern, a blend of ages. A handshake between generations.

  Beyond the square, Nova’s infinite sounds ebb and flow like the tide; a distant chorus of honking horns, wailing sirens, growling construction, and the inviting, alluring declarations of big-screen advertisements. Taxis hum, moving from mid-town to the lofty cathedral towers of the super-scrapers, carrying people to work. And closer, rustling under the chaos, the perfectly manicured bushes on either side of my wrought-iron bench murmur in the morning breeze, strangely out of place as the pulse of the city grinds on around it.

  The Purist headquarters is one of the few places left in Nova that maintains a ground-level square. But then, I suppose that’s the whole point of their movement.

  I wait, eyes closed, the iron rod laid flat on my bloody knees, listening to the voices.

  “I’ll be home at four—”

  “No, sweetie, he’s not allowed to do that—”

  “What do you mean we lost our airtime?”

  “Did you hear what she said?”

  They are calm, stable. The sounds of normal people living normal lives in normal places with normal problems. As far as I can tell, none of them are hiding from major corporations or harboring colossal secrets or waiting to speak to someone who had already abandoned them once.

  I wonder if they realize how lucky they are.

  Of course, I catch a few scandalized mutters about types of people and altered cables and addict as onlookers glimpse my taped IRIS cable, the tip shoved into my messy bun. But their outrage barely scratches the surface, barely registers. My anger is large enough to swallow this city whole, but it’s not for them. It’s not for the biased and short-sighted idiots who can’t tell the difference between a MemHead and a Gamer.

  It’s for Kitzima.

  It’s for Project Recollection.

  It’s for my father.

  A new voice joins the crowd and my heart jolts. Electricity crackles in my blood. My face flushes.

  “We can’t accept that. It’s nowhere near good enough. There must be another…”

  Arun Sidana’s voice trails off in front of me.

  “Hello Dad,” I say, tilting my head up.

  “I’ll call you back.” There’s no sound as he disconnects the call, but I hear a rustle, a hand sliding something away, returning the PAP to his pocket. “Mei? What are you doing here?”

  My smile is jagged, a joyless, toothy grimace. “Nice to see you too.”

  He slides onto the bench, suit catching on the iron rod that protrudes from me like a horn. I don’t bother to move it.

  “Mei, I… I’m not… what happened…I…”

  A grotesque thrill fills my chest at his uncertainty, his discomfort. I’ve always wondered if he felt guilty for walking out on us. Now I know. It’s an ember of victory in my chest, a sweet sip of power.

  Then it curdles.

  After all, his guilt doesn’t solve anything.

  I swallow. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “What?”

  I roll on before my courage can waver. “Has a boy joined the Purists in the past day? Blonde Gamer with partial face paralysis? Would register under the name Damien Slate.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Are you sure? Is there somewhere you can check to see if he came in last night? He might be using his channel’s alias…”

  A rough chuckle fills the air between us. “Unfortunately, there aren’t many joining the Purists these days. I don’t think we had a single recruit in the past week. Why? Is he a friend?”

  That’s one word for it, I think, but I only shrug in answer, facing the noise of the fountain.

  If Damien isn’t here, what am I supposed to do next? Where can I go? My plans unravel in front of me like a knit sweater, unspooling and puddling in my mind. The thought of picking through them, of figuring out a new course of action…

  I inhale and my breathing hitches. Tears prickle beneath my Fuzz Specs.

  “Mei,” Dad says, “what’s going on? What happened? Did someone do this to you? I’ve heard rumors about people going missing…”

  “It’s nothing,” I snap, but his words send a chill up my spine. Are things really so bad in the Tunnels that topside civilians are starting to notice? Sometimes I wonder if living in the grime below Nova is like living with a bad smell. You grow so used to the risk that you forget it’s there until someone points it out to you.

  I think of Plastic Mike, Damien, and all the other faces that one day just stopped showing up. But I shove my concern for them aside, forcing myself to turn back toward the warmth of my father’s body, the questions laced silently into his breath.

  “There’s something else,” I say.

  “Anything.”

  “I need money,” I say, suppressing a wince. “We haven’t made rent this month.”

  “If you went to your check-up—”

  “That’s not an option.”

  “I guess your mother is still—”

  “Yes.”

  Dad takes a deep, resigned breath, his once exuberant voice raspy with exhaustion. “Mei, you can always come and live with me. I have a nice place, a two-bedroom high-rise with a view of the floating gardens. Desiree lives downstairs, remember her? From the Kinder Program? Her leg’s doing much better and she’s saving the payouts for college.” He shifts. “You wouldn’t have to go to ProRec if you don’t want to. I can afford it, don’t worry. You could go to school and make friends.”

  I tilt my head toward him and breathe in his aftershave. It used to be one of my favorite smells. “And join your crusade?”

  “You don’t have to. Mei, I just want you to be happy.”

  I snort in disbelief.

  He sighs. “I think about you all the time. Every day I fail to bring you home is another day those wires tighten their hold. Mei, don’t you see? You’re losing your freedom, just like Mom. Project Recollection has a hold on you as surely as if you were addicted to their spoon-fed memories.”

  “You sound like a real Purist now, Dad. Have they put you on one of their channels yet?”

  Sarcasm makes my words sharp. I feel him sag against the bench next to me, his arm brushing mine. I resist the urge to flinch away from the touch.

  “Mei, please. Think about it.”

  Never let them find you.

  The words coat me like oil, staining everything in my life, but I can’t tell Dad about Zhu’s frantic eyes or the way his fingers tightened on my arm. Can’t tell him the truth. So I offer another explanation.

  “I won’t abandon Mom.”

  I don’t mean the words to come out as an accusation, but somehow they still do.

  “She’s not your responsibility.”

  “Someone has to take care of her.”

  “That’s a burden you shouldn’t have to shoulder.”

  His hand brushes my cheek and this time I do recoil.

  “Are you going to help or not?” I snap, jarred by his pleading and the touch and the everything about this encounter.

  For a moment, I’m not sure if he’s going to respond. I wait, the clicking of heels and the muttering of outraged voices grating against my temper like static. Like thorns.

  Finally, he answers. “How much?”

  “Three hundred virts.”

  Dad’s chuckle is sardonic. “Of course, it would be too easy to just use credits.”

  “Credits are traceable.”

  “If you lived with me, you w
ouldn’t need to hide.”

  “You don’t know anything about my life, Dad,” I say, injecting the words with force. “Not anymore.”

  “Okay,” he says, and he’s moving. Pulling something out.

  My throat works, knuckles aching as my fingers curl tighter around the rod.

  “I lost my PAP,” I say in a small voice. Yet another weakness I’m forced to reveal. Another failure. “Can I borrow yours?”

  “Here,” he says, and two large fingers run along the back of my hand. I release the rod and he presses his small handheld into my palm. “Keep it.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  I don’t know how to answer that. A part of me wishes he would refuse to help, snarl something rude about my altered cable and divergent lifestyle. If he was like the owner of Danny’s Diner, it would make it so much easier to dismiss him. Move on without him as I’d always done.

  But his hand is warm, still curled around mine, and every molecule in my body aches to lean into him, disappear into his arms the way I used to when I was smaller. When I was just Mei. Just a daughter and a sister and a girl who could see.

  Gently, I pull my hand free.

  That girl is dead. If I’m not strong, I’ll lose Tora too.

  “Thanks,” I say, using the rod to push to my feet. I feel my father rise next to me and wonder if his strong shoulders still make him look like the giant from my childhood. Or if he’s diminished since I’ve seen him last, folded like Mom under the weight of everything they lost.

  “Please, Mei,” he tries one last time. “Come home with me. Just for a night.”

  I wonder if he knows how much it tempts me. But it would be so easy for ProRec to find me if I lived in the light. Too easy.

  I can’t let that happen.

  Carefully, gingerly, I lean in and rest the iron rod against the bench. I don’t need it anymore. Shoving both hands into my pockets and curling my fingers around the borrowed PAP, I offer my father a grim smile, the only comfort I can give.

  “I’ll see you later, Dad,” I say, turning away.

  On my way through the square, I plug in, turning off the device’s wireless signal as I do. When the PAP is safe to use, I glimpse back at the bench, already far behind me.

  Tears glitter on my father’s cheeks as he watches me walk away, standing alone in the crowded square like an abandoned relic, like a pillar of a long-forgotten world.

  ~

  The Chain is crowded with topside residents on their way to work. Through my borrowed, off-network PAP, I watch their glassy eyes fixate on the sides of the public cars, every single mind lost in a memory of some kind or another. I try to guess what they’re watching—news, travel, Anastasia’s latest cat-related upload or Sam Baker’s wild conspiracies. Beyond the window, super-scrapers drift past like icebergs in a sea of light.

  I wonder if the public ever considers the cost of ProRec’s chokehold. Beyond the Gamers and addicts and damage from faulty cables, memory-sharing seems to have carved something essential out of our world. I think of the restaurants in the Sky Market, where people can slip into recollection of food without actually touching anything edible. Live the experience of family dining without ever having to speak to their relatives. Dad used to tell us stories of meeting people at parties or introducing himself to a stranger to ask for directions. Mom would share tales of art school and random encounters in late-night taxies. According to those who remember, the city used to be full of noise and life and connection.

  But now the packed train car is silent as it clanks along the ramps, everyone plugged into their own personal world.

  Without moving my head, I sweep my PAP over the empty faces. A part of me, a desperate, pleading part, wants to join my father. Stand up to ProRec and speak out against them and fight them on their own turf.

  But that’s the problem.

  They own the turf.

  Fighting ProRec is like fighting Kitzima. If you try to play fair, you lose.

  My head falls back against the window and I let the vibration of the train thrum down my spine, calm my nerves. I need a new plan. The tournament is on Saturday and I’m no closer to getting a key. Damien is out there somewhere. Whether he’s wandered off to chase Anastasia or joined the Purists or is protesting the mistreatment of eagles, I plan to find him.

  And if I don’t?

  A new face blooms in my mind, wide lipped and dark eyed and dancing with mischief.

  Khali.

  She wears her banded cable with pride, competes in Kitzima’s ring with ferocious energy. If I can’t find Damien, she might be my only chance. Maybe she’ll agree to be my face and fists and claws. But I can’t just ask her. This is too important to be decided by the whims of a reckless Gamer, and something tells me she’ll want more than just the chance to spit in Kitzima’s face. I need to find a way to make her listen, force her to help me.

  Using my father’s PAP, I check the next stop through the grainy, dust-covered camera lens. But my mind snags on something else. A man, dressed in black jeans and a casual T-shirt. He’s unremarkable in every way except one.

  He’s staring right at me.

  I keep my face pointed at the ground even as I pick him apart through the borrowed PAP. Tall and muscled with a military haircut and sharp blue eyes, he looks like someone trying too hard to blend in, like he might be more comfortable in a uniform. I zoom in on his belt, run over the pockets.

  There.

  Poking out of his jeans, an ID badge, barely visible but for the bold letters in the corner.

  PR.

  ProRec employee.

  I swallow panic and try to stay still. ProRec’s private police have enough freedom in the city that if he knew who I was he would have arrested me already. The crowd would barely unplug long enough to see a banded Gamer dragged away by a man flashing a ProRec badge.

  Which means he must not know.

  Or at least, not yet.

  How did they find me?

  I think about all the risks I’ve taken recently: the time my Fuzz Specs fell off in Kitzima’s ring, meeting Khali at the Sky Market, our kamikaze flight through the city’s highest zones. Even with my face hidden, I could have been caught on camera in a myriad of ways, traced by my black leather jacket or by the shape of my narrow shoulders.

  Whatever the reason, despite all my efforts, ProRec is finally on my tail.

  The Chain ambles into the next stop and there’s the jarring stomach-drop feeling as it locks into the station. People rise, shift around me. And, even though I’m still ten stops from my building, I rise with them.

  The man moves, elbowing through the crowd, making his way toward the door closest to him, two away from mine.

  Facing straight ahead, steps calculated, betraying none of my fear, I join the tide of commuters as they jostle their way off the Chain. The crowd is rough and I stumble, but I don’t shift the PAP to watch where I’m going. Instead I keep it trained on him. I can barely see the thick-set man through the sea of legs, but I catch sight of his jeans. Watch him shove through a cluster of women, struggling to disembark amid a chorus of curses and scandalized voices. He’s rough, unapologetic, official.

  Someone hits my shoulder, knocking me into a metal rail. I don’t even have the bandwidth to be angry as I focus on the shadow of this man. If he realizes I’m blind, if he recognizes the damage from the Kinder Program…

  I’m almost at the door.

  My breath is coming rapidly.

  With a would-be casual flick, I lift my PAP. See the square, buzzed head through the window, glaring at me as commuters curl around him like smoke. He’s waiting, watching, not realizing that even with my head down I can see him too. The crush of bodies pushes me forward and I have one foot on the platform, one foot in danger. The man tenses, eying me with the intensity of a predator.

  I step back.

  The doors close with a cheerful ding. The Chain begins to move. Schooling my face into an
expression of consternation, trying to imagine how someone might look if they really had just missed their stop, I grab hold of one of the handrails and hold the PAP with two fingers against the bar. Through it, I glimpse the man’s anger, his thick eyebrows drawing together into a taut, frustrated line. Dark eyes follow me, cutting through the glass as he whips out his own handheld. The Chain trundles away and I try not to think about the reinforcements he might be calling, the news he might be spreading.

  I need to get off this train, away from cameras and watching eyes.

  Because one thing’s for sure—I can’t find Zhu if ProRec gets me first.

  Memory File of Eric Roran

  Project Recollection Private Police

  Time Stamp: Thursday, September 20th, 2195

  10:20 A.M. EST

  You’re standing in an office, the glittering city spread out below you, facing a dark-skinned woman as your heart flutters. The set of your body feels like molded steel: clenched fists, shaped muscles, square shoulders. You’re huge and looming, but still your pulse thrums and your eye twitches.

  The woman turns toward you. “Tell me what you told Curtis.”

  Yasmin Abergel’s eyes are like black ice.

  Your throat works convulsively as you swallow. “The girl, the one from the Sky Market… she might be the one we’ve been looking for. The Sidana daughter.”

  Yasmin’s expression flickers. “So it seems you finally found her.”

  “Yes. With your permission, we might hit two birds with one stone...”

  Her gaze falls on you, thick with scorn and something deeper. More feral.

  Your head bows, your gaze dropping to the swirling, elegant carpet. “Sorry, ma’am, I meant no disrespect.”

  There’s a thoughtful silence, pressing in on all sides. Your cheek twitches.

  “Very well,” Yasmin says at last, and when you look up she’s turned away from you, facing the city with her hands folded behind her back. “Perhaps this will work out for the best. Proceed as planned and keep me informed if there’s any new information. I want this taken care of before the gala, is that understood? It’s imperative that we bring her in by Saturday.”