Project Recollection

by A A Woods

  I condense it into a ball, writhing and igneous. With a groan of effort, I heave it toward her. There’s a yip and a tumble and I feel the mat shudder.

  When the light fades, Kitzima’s tail is smoking and her eyes are livid.

  “Cheater,” she snarls.

  “I learn from the best.”

  She doesn’t answer, just lunges toward me, her teeth going for my throat. I knock her aside but her tail twitches and fire engulfs me. I feel the fur of my face burn, but with a stroke of air I manage to clear it away.

  The match has escalated. We’re both panting, both aching as our brains clamber to keep up. She leaps, I shift; she burns, I slice. We are crashing monsters, predators over a carcass. I hear her snarl and I snarl in return and her claws are scratching at my face even as my katana are biting into her belly. Our blood sprays over the floor of the mat and my real body pulses with the imprint of a hundred different wounds.

  The end of the match careens toward us as we both begin to feel the strain, but neither manages to gain the upper hand. Cheat codes come like ocean waves, but I use them to my advantage. I’m fighting the mat and Kitzima at once, treading water but not moving. Not gaining.

  I’m going to lose.

  I release a guttural growl and throw myself forward.

  Kitzima moves lightning-fast, a mosquito against a dragonfly.

  Another cheat rolls over me, making me stumble.

  Kitzima’s claws bite into my neck before I can recover.

  I need to act fast.

  I think of Khali, of her hands in the dark. Of her laughter in the shadows.

  The shadows…

  Inspiration hits like a cheat code.

  The Obaki mat is plugged into the Times Square mainframe, attached to the smattering of old screens and dim lights. With half my mind tangled in the code, it’s easy to step back and twist a tendril of thought through the closed network of the cavernous space. Like a hand in the threads of a loom, I wrap myself around everything. Through everything.

  And pull.

  The entire square goes dark.

  A scream rises, joined by another. And another. I’m surrounded of those who aren’t used to true darkness and their fear spreads like a virus. I drink in the confusion. The lights are out, but the Obaki Mat still hums, still holds my mind in the match. I know Kitzima’s fox is somewhere around me and I wait patiently for her to respond as panic thickens the air.

  Suddenly, her tail blazes with indigo fire. Her fox eyes squint, desperate to see, struggling against the oppressive black.

  My katanas sing down and pin the tiny purple body to the floor.

  The Obaki Mat chimes. I release my hold on the lights. They surge back on, illuminating the squirming, dying Yokai and the tiger-striped avatar standing over her.

  I’ve won.

  Tora

  Saturday, September 22nd, 2195

  3:11 A.M. EST

  There’s a deafening, suffocating silence. The Gamers don’t dare cheer as Kitzima pulls out of her bleeding fox avatar and back into her body, the Vixens behind her as still as statues. She straightens and shakes herself out, brushing down her arms and lifting her chin high. Finally, she flashes her signature grin and throws her hands wide.

  “Gamers and gents, it looks like we’ve just found the newest Vixen.”

  The crowd erupts in obedient cheers, but I don’t dare look away from the miniscule creature across the mat. Her smile is scalpel-sharp, a warning written in teeth. I see the controlled flames in her purple-tinted eyes, the way her head cocks toward the dais and the dark tunnel behind it.

  Fear flutters in my chest.

  What have I done?

  But I’ve spent my defiance. I’m empty now, and ready for this to be over. Defying Kitzima will only make things worse, so I bow my head and slide my IRIS cable free, stepping down from the Gaming Stand.

  “Vixens, if you would take our newest member back, I’ll meet her in the Den.”

  Sharp-nailed hands wrap around my elbow, guiding me through the parting crowd, leaving no doubt about whether or not this is optional. Whispers tangle in the cheers, forming a web of cautious confusion as Kitzima addresses the crowd, saying something about recruitment policies and how proud she is to include Gamers strong enough to challenge her. I don’t listen. My mind is a ticker-tape, a pacing animal, running along the same thoughts over and over again until it hurts.

  What have I done?

  What am I going to do now?

  I have no answer.

  I let the Vixens tug me into the narrow tunnels, where the sounds echo tightly around us. The cheap-perfume scents of bubblegum and roses are cloying, scratching over my senses. I hear a door open and a familiar swell of deep-Tunnel air washes over me.

  “Have a seat,” growls one of the Vixens, guiding my hand to the back of a chair. A familiar chair.

  I try not to think about the last time I sat in it.

  With an exhausted exhale, I sink down and let myself sag against molded plastic. My body is a constellation of bruises and inflammation, the phantom damage of the match pulsing beneath tender, real-life wounds. I reach up with shaking arms and tuck my IRIS cable into my hair, knowing that to take my PAP out down here would be akin to suicide.

  Although it might be too late for that.

  The door slides open again and I hear multiple footsteps, a chair being dragged over grainy concrete. Someone settling into it, bird like, close enough for me to smell cinnamon and vanilla.

  Kitzima.

  “That was quite impressive.” Her voice is a low, growled threat, cold and cutting with none of the magnanimous excitement from before.

  It’s a struggle to lift my head. “I told you I could beat you in a fair match.”

  “That wasn’t a fair match.”

  “I think it’s the only fair match you’ve ever fought.”

  Kitzima shifts and I hear a click of nails on metal.

  “Are you going to kill me?” I ask, too exhausted to care. I’ve already lost so much. What’s one more thing?

  “As much as I’d like to, it would be terrible for business. No, you’re going to become a Vixen.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I rip out your cable and make sure the idiots down here never see you again.”

  I keep my face impassive as I catalogue the words, not really comprehending their meaning. A single question bubbles up, elevated above all the petty long-term concerns.

  “But you’ll give me your invitation?”

  Kitzima blows out a frustrated breath. “Why the hell do you want it so bad?”

  I snort. “For my collection. Why do you think?”

  There’s a long pause filled with the ruffling of agitated Vixens. But Kitzima doesn’t move. I imagine her staring at me, considering. Finally, she speaks, and her voice is strange. Different. Thrumming with a note of something I’ve never heard from her before.

  Sincerity.

  “You know the tournament is a trap, don’t you?”

  I freeze.

  She knows.

  I long to ask her what, how. But I can’t. If I crack, show even a moment of weakness, I could lose my chance. Lose my key.

  Lose everything.

  I lift my chin. “I don’t care.”

  “You’ll never make it out of the lower levels. It’s suicide.”

  “Are you going to give me your invite or not?”

  I hear a mutter sweep around the room. But I keep my face steady, pointed in Kitzima’s general direction.

  “You’d risk your life for some stupid Gaming Tournament that isn’t even real?

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  The words spill out of me, bottled up for so long that they’re impossible to stop. “To fight back.”

  Another mutter rises but Kitzima makes a sudden movement and silence falls like a blanket of ashes.

  “I’m going to need a little more than that, Tora.”

  I lean back, tilting my
head against the stiff chair. It’s such a habit for me to keep everything locked inside that I’ve forgotten why. Why am I keeping ProRec’s secrets? Why am I hiding in the shadows?

  Why not just let it go?

  I can’t think of a reason.

  So I sigh and open my mouth, letting the truth tumble into the world. “Have you heard of the Ankh Program?”

  “No.”

  “It’s ProRec’s latest invention. Apparently, they’ve found a way to transfer consciousness. But it can only transfer into a Gamer’s brain.”

  “Because of our altered cables.”

  My eyes widen in surprise, but I brush over Kitzima’s insight and plunge on with numb resolve. “Yes. Gamers are the most reliable candidates for their program. And the Tournament is bringing in the best ones.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  My lips twist into a bitter smile. “So the old and rich can buy back their youth.”

  The Vixens mutter. I hear Javier grumble something. But my ears are tuned only to Kitzima, to the way her breathing sharpens and her body shifts closer. I continue.

  “There’s a private event tonight for their richest patrons. Topside. Classy. Secret. Same time as the Tournament.”

  Kitzima whistles. “I knew it was something dodgy. But this…”

  I don’t respond, waiting for the muttering to die.

  Kitzima speaks first. “So you’re going to be the hero? Break everyone out?”

  “I’m going to save the people who matter to me.”

  “I never took you as a rescuing type,” Kitzima says.

  My shoulders tighten. “Never planned to be one.”

  Kitzima makes a tsking noise. “And with all that fancy Neurowiring, you never thought to ask us for help.”

  She says it so casually, as if it should have been obvious.

  It takes me a second to respond. “Excuse me?”

  Kitzima’s chair grates on the floor as she shoves to her feet. “You think you’re the only one with a vendetta against ProRec? Do you know how many friends I’ve lost to perfectly preventable brain damage? If not for their embargo on Yuri Gamen and their pressure to keep Obaki Mats outlawed, we’d have safe and reliable Gaming tech, or at least treatment for the damage it causes. We wouldn’t have to tear apart our cables and let smuggled, untested wires dig into our brains.” She takes a breath, as if to steady herself. “Besides, they’ve been after me and mine for years. It’s high time the Vixens struck back.”

  My mouth is hanging open, my thoughts locked in place.

  Kitzima cackles. “Don’t look so surprised. I can be nice. When it suits me.”

  I clear my throat. “You’re going to… help me?”

  “No, Tora. You’re going to help me.”

  Using the back of the chair, I rise to my own feet, hoping it lends me some credibility as I glower down to where I approximate Kitzima’s head to be. “I can do this by myself.”

  “Not successfully. And neither can I. We need each other for this to work.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” and I hear the smile in Kitzima’s words, “You’re the only one I know who can pass off their cable as unaltered. So we’re going to send you to their fancy topside party.”

  I purse my lips and pinch my face into a frown. “How? The invites are memory-fingerprinted.”

  Kitzima’s laugh is musical, light, so unlike the sharp-toothed creature who’s made my life hell. “Oh, let’s just say I have some dirt on their favorite little celebrity.” My eyes widen. Kitzima steps closer, whispering in a conspiratorial voice, “You see, I always keep an eye on a fellow fox.”

  I feel like I’m climbing up a riverbank but keep slipping, the ground beneath me shifting every time I manage to gain purchase. I don’t know what to think. Only moments ago, Kitzima was my enemy. A boulder on the pile of stones threatening to crush me. But now she’s laughing, and the air is crackling with potential and everything has changed.

  Again.

  I straighten, trying to garner some sense of control as my body pulses with pain and my mind reels with this sudden turnaround.

  “So, Tora dear,” Kitzima sing-songs. “Do we have a deal?”

  I fold my arms.

  “One more thing,” I say. “I want my stuff back.”

  Tora

  Saturday, September 22nd, 2195

  9:31 A.M. EST

  Plugged into my Bi-Bike, Fuzz Specs nestled on my nose, the wind whipping hair around my neck, I feel like myself again. Taxis and Chain cars swirl around me, stretched long by the fish-eye lens of my bike, and I let myself drift among them like dust on currents of air.

  I have a purpose out here in the bright evening lights, but I’m not too eager to meet it.

  When my bike had growled out of Kitzima’s den like a sigh of relief, I’d left her standing in the middle of the cavern, shouting commands as she and the Vixens plotted the next steps: getting an invitation to the topside party for ProRec’s patrons; freeing the Gamers; infiltrating the tournament from below.

  Bringing ProRec down.

  Kitzima’s plan feels like a teetering stack of bricks, ready to crush us all with an errant breeze.

  But it’s not like I have a better one.

  The apartment complex looms before me, elegantly twisted so that each balcony is staggered, half open, half closed. The super-scraper is polished and clean, vehicles buzzing to and from the various landing docks, all of them pristine and top-model. There’s no hint of rot, no crumbling paint, no crooked doors. I hover for a moment, my mouth tight. What’s it like inside? Is Dad’s building one of those places with a water park? Or a climbing wall? Maybe it has free movie showings on Fridays or unlimited access to high-demand memory channels.

  I wonder if I’ll ever find out.

  His apartment is easy to find. The numbers are marked in gold lettering beside each individual landing dock. Even the address project glittering comfort. I hail the external door as I settle on the exposed half of his unit’s balcony. My toes touch the ground, but I don’t unplug, using the lens of my bike’s camera to peer into the luxury suite. The glass is tinted so that normal human eyes wouldn’t be able to see through, but my bike can. It cuts into the private space, and I see plush couches, an enormous screen taking up one wall with an old-fashioned remote on the table. A vintage item from before people controlled everything with their IRIS cables.

  Necessary, I suppose, for someone living without one.

  Shadows form in one corner and a figure wavers into shape. Tall. Broad-shouldered, glasses flashing in the city lights.

  Dad opens the sliding door and steps out to greet me.

  “Mei,” he says, and his words are pure relief, warm invitation.

  “I’m not here to stay.”

  He stops on his way toward me, his arms held out a few inches from his body. Reaching for a hug. Tears prickle in my eyes, but I squash them down. Blink them back. I’m locked into my path, a projectile already launched.

  I can’t afford to doubt.

  He drops his arms. “Then why come?”

  I swallow, tilting my head back even as my attention stays riveted on my father’s blurry figure. “Dad, what would you give to know what happened to Zhu?”

  The answer comes out on his breath, soft and sibilant. “Anything.”

  I swallow again, blinking against the pain, shoving down the treacherous emotions. “And if I said I have a chance of finding him?”

  “Mei, what are you talking about?”

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the PAP he leant me, its lens still cracked. I weigh it in one palm.

  “I need you to take care of Mom. I know you have your differences, but she needs you, Dad. She needs someone. Don’t let her disappear.”

  “What do you mean? Mei, where are you going?”

  I hold out the PAP. “There’s a memory on here. One of Zhu’s last recollections. It’s everything the Purists have been looking for.”

  He steps toward
me, out of my bike’s line of vision. But instead of taking the PAP he’s grabbing my shoulder. Tilting up my chin as if he’s forgotten that I can’t see his face with my ruined, useless eyes.

  “Mei.” He says my name like a prayer. “Please. Tell me what’s going on. Does this have something to do with those missing Gamers?”

  I blink and feel a single bead of water begin the long, familiar journey down my cheek. “I’m going to find Zhu. I need you to take care of Mom and Pixel… just in case.”

  “No, I can’t let you endanger yourself—”

  It’s too much for me to take.

  “I’m already in danger, Dad!” I explode, shoving his hand away. “I’ve been in danger for months! Did you know that ProRec has been hunting me? Trying to dig into my memories like they did with you and Mom? And I can’t… I won’t…” My breathing hitches and I pause, swallowing air in greedy gulps.

  “Mei,” he says softly. “I don’t understand what happened to our family. But I want to.”

  My teeth come together with a click. “Then watch the memory and do something about it.”

  His inhalation hitches.

  I slump. “Sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  I laugh but it comes out small, curdled, and I want to stuff it back into my throat.

  Instead, I force myself to smile. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine. I always am.”

  He steps back and I can see his expression from below, from the low angle of my bike’s cameras. It’s almost worse. Shadowed now by sadness and bitterness and the man I no longer know.

  “You are a tigress. Just like Zhu always said.” His eyes glitter in the morning light. “I can’t stop you. I lost that right a long time ago. But whatever you’re about to do, please be safe. Come back to me. I love you and I love Mom and I don’t care what you do with your lives because I just want to be a part of them. Ok?”

  The muscles in my neck are so strained I can barely force them to nod. But I do. And he nods back.