by A A Woods
“I’ll watch the memory,” he says.
“Our apartment’s address is on there. Don’t forget to feed Pixel.”
“I don’t think he’ll let me.”
My hands shake as I wrap my long fingers around the handlebars and re-start the engine with a flicker of thought. The fans begin to spin, gathering energy and noise around them in twin tornados. The bike lifts and Dad takes another step back.
“I’m sorry, Mei. For everything.”
I bend over the bike, hunching my shoulders.
“Me too.”
Tora
Saturday, September 22nd, 2195
6:59 P.M. EST
There are only two hours until the ProRec tournament and I can’t help the bubbling apprehension, the fear we won’t make it as I follow Kitzima toward the narrow emergency exit on the bottom floor of the city’s most luxurious apartment complex. Two Vixens wait outside the sprawling, lush gardens that crowd the base of the building, monitoring the program I twisted out of shape to grant us invisible passage through the memory-fingerprinted gates.
The patio is a strange mix of worlds. Taxis buzz overhead like oversized insects even as genetically modified bees hum between fist-sized blooms, stingers removed, oversized bodies wobbling with friendly, drunken ineffectiveness. Huge leaves provide shade from the pulsing city light and manicured oak branches twist overhead like protective arms. I feel like I’ve entered a fairy-tale, like I’m in some preserved bubble of a world that was old even before Hurricane Tethys and the destruction of New York.
With my own unbroken PAP pointed ahead of me, I catch sight of Kitzima in the nimbus of its light. She seems to dance forward, moving on her tiptoes like a ballerina in this strange forest, confident even though we’re both imposters here.
We reach the building, a stretching, infinite thing of layered villas, each with their own garden, every floor more luxurious than the one beneath.
Anastasia Vasquez lives at the top, on the three-hundredth story, far enough from the ground that I wonder if she’s ever touched it.
I flick my PAP up and follow the windows.
“Pay attention, Tora dear.”
I bring my focus back down to Kitzima, who waits with a bag thrown over one shoulder. Behind her is a glowing red security port.
She grins. “It’s time you prove your worth.”
I grit my teeth and step up to the wall, unplugging myself and sliding my IRIS into the port. The building’s security system immediately begins to scroll through my memories, looking for the right neural fingerprint. I side-step the program and dive into the mainframe as I would my own mind, twisting away from the clawed hands of code as they try to grab me, stop me, destroy me. But they can’t. The computer system has become a part of me, an extension of my existence. I’m a ghost, an eventuality their meager security system never prepared for.
Unlike Project Recollection, whose firewalls keep me out like iron bars.
I shove the thought aside, swallowing my fear.
One step at a time.
Through the building’s mainframe, I can see every room, every camera spread out in front of me like an endless buffet. In one villa lounges a man in a pressed suit, his arm around a half-naked woman with the kind of shape the ladies on Channel 34 would kill for. In another, two men’s voices rise in argument, their shouts volleyed at one another like gunfire, a bottle of wine forgotten between them. A party spills onto a terrace, filled with slender ladies and wide-shouldered men. And a bent, withered couple stares out at the city, hands clasped, their Nordic-themed garden a bleak and pale patchwork of grey behind them.
Sifting through the building’s security, I glimpse Anastasia throwing a tinkling ball and a fat, white creature streaking after it. But I don’t linger. I have a job to do and two people to hide from the cameras.
The guards are playing chess in the basement, one young man watching through his glowing red IRIS cable. I find the right threads of code and tug, twist, careful not to trigger the alarms.
The door in front of us slides open with a murmured greeting.
“Well done, little Tora.”
She grabs my elbow and drags me forward before I can plug back into my PAP. I stumble once before finding my feet, letting her tug me into the carpeted lobby.
I’ve heard that lobbies in the old world used to have receptionists, people employed to do nothing but smile at customers as they came in. Well those jobs died with the advent of holograms—prettier, smoother, and more reliable than any human being.
Except when you deactivate them.
I hold my breath as Kitzima leads me across the lobby, ready for the tangle of code I made to unknot and reveal the two intruders from the Tunnels marching through a luxurious world that is so painfully apart from them. Perhaps the building has a failsafe, maybe it’s been designed to withstand simple hacks. For all I know it’s already fixing itself, already opening its eyes.
But nothing happens.
I don’t let myself relax until we reach the MagLev elevator, Kitzima guiding my hand to the port.
“Be quick about it.”
“Actually, I was thinking it’d be fun to hang out for a while.”
The sarcasm boils out of me before I can stop it, sharpened by months of resentment, pressurized by her attitude and the urgency of the night.
Kitzima’s hand curls around the back of my neck, her fingernails a prickling warning. “You know, for a new Vixen you’re not trying very hard.”
I turn toward her, following the trail of bubblegum breath. “This isn’t going to work unless you trust me.”
Kitzima squeezes once, then pulls away, leaving crescent moons of burning red on my skin.
“I trust you.” Her chuckle is full of razors. “For now.”
I swallow another snide response, focusing on the port and the command that summons the elevator.
Somehow, even the pleasant ding of the elevator doors seems sinister as it echoes through the silent lobby, washing over us. There’s a foreign emptiness as we step into the tight, soundproof box, a strange silence that skitters up my arms and curls around my spine. The padded walls and soft carpet muffle the sounds of the city, protect us in a smothering cocoon until I feel ready to claw my way out. It’s like a limb has been cut off, like I’ve lost another sense, and I press myself into the back wall as Kitzima whistles.
“Going up,” she says, and I hear the click of a fingernail on metal. The doors shut with a breathless hiss. As we zoom into the higher stories, the only indication of acceleration is the slight pressure on the bottoms of my feet.
“How did you manage to get dirt on the most famous person in Nova?” I ask to break the silence, my fists pressed into the carpeted side of the elevator.
She giggles. “Let’s just say she has some… eclectic tastes.”
“Like what?”
Kitzima clucks her tongue. “That would ruin the surprise.”
I want to keep pressing, but I clench my jaw shut. Working with Kitzima is like playing with fire. Like walking a tightrope. Like dueling on an Obaki Mat.
An act of endless balancing.
We drift to a stop as smoothly as if we weren’t moving at all. The doors ding open and I step out onto a plusher, softer carpet.
“This isn’t the penthouse,” Kitzima points out.
“We can’t access the top stories without a specific memory key. We have to take the emergency stairs up the last three floors.”
I can feel Kitzima’s gaze on me, hot and questioning, but I stride forward, hand on the wall, toward the door I know is framed at the end. I can’t see it, but I don’t need to. It’s held in my mind, pictured through this corridor’s many cameras. Tall, narrow, and edged in neon orange, the emergency exit is the only part of the complex that’s ugly and loud.
I can almost feel the building manager’s hatred of Nova’s outdated regulations.
Kitzima follows, her feet almost silent as she falls into step beside me.
&n
bsp; She exhales a breath of laughter. “All these plugged-up rich snobs think they’re so safe up here in their towers.”
“Well… they are.”
“Not anymore,” Kitzima points out, gripping my elbow. “Not now that you’re changing the game.”
I yank myself free and shove open the emergency door.
“Let’s get something straight, Kitzima,” I say, swinging around to face her in the barren, echoing stairwell. “This is a one-time deal.”
“What about your crusade?”
“I hate ProRec. It doesn’t mean I’m going to help you burn this city down.”
I turn away but Kitzima grabs me, spins me back toward her, her voice low and urgent and laughing.
“So your criminal life begins and ends with ProRec then? You think they’re the only corrupt super-scraper in this city?” Her malice is like oil on a fire. “What lofty ideals for a girl about to break into a luxury villa.”
I glare at her, my lips pressed, my fists clenched.
“I’m not a Vixen,” I growl.
“Well you’re not a damn saint either. Maybe you should reconsider your standing in the world.” Kitzima brushes past me. “Might make you a little more… popular.”
I listen to her humming as it reverberates in the stairwell, cheerful and alien in this endless, twisting place. For a moment I can only stand, my shoulders tight and my heart thrumming as her words spin in my mind like a snake eating its own tail.
She’s right. I am a criminal. What sets me apart from the Vixens, really? Kitzima has made it abundantly clear that she would see the topside world burn down and laugh over its ashes.
Do I feel that way about ProRec?
Am I a monster too?
“Come on, little Tora,” Kitzima calls from above me. “Time to blackmail a celebrity.”
Her voice is light, but the words are stones around my neck. What am I becoming? Would the girl from six months ago approve of what I’ve done? What I am?
Would Zhu?
The questions dig into me like splinters, but I can’t ask them now. With less than two hours on the clock, I’ve run out of options. And besides, I’ve already made the deal. I’ve shaken hands with a purple-haired devil and there’s no turning back.
I take a deep breath. Tuck my IRIS cable behind my ears.
Forcing myself to remember Khali, Zhu, Damien, Mom, and all the Gamers depending on me, I grab the railing and start to climb.
Tora
Saturday, September 22nd, 2195
7:23 P.M. EST
Unlike the rabid masses of Nova, I’ve never seen the appeal of Anastasia Vasquez. While I understand getting lost in travel memories, experiencing celebrity lifestyles, and delving into human experiences from around the globe, Anastasia always seemed like an anomaly. A vestigial organ. Useless in every sense of the word.
When I would point this out to Damien, he would say, “But look at little Biscuit! She’s so cute!”
Perhaps I’m missing something.
I open the door and let Kitzima lead the way inside, plugging myself in as I follow. Stepping into the sprawling villa, I can smell the wealth like a noxious gas, see it through the eye of my PAP like a golden haze. There’s a crispness to the entrance, the sense of everything being intentional. I’ll bet there are no used couches. No empty drawer where cutlery should be. No litterboxes or piles of laundry cluttering the corners. Silver-trimmed tile coats the floor and the center of the living room is dominated by an elegant sofa the color of sand, dusted in downy white fur.
My stomach curdles with envy.
“Where is she?” Kitzima snaps.
“She was right here,” I answer, sweeping my PAP around the apartment.
How can someone get this wealthy by sharing memories of their cat?
The buzz of taxies outside is as thin as the oxygen up here and I can actually glimpse the ocean from one window, a reaching spread of blue in the distance broken by a smattering of islands, the narrow remains of Brooklyn.
It’s a spectacular view.
I swing back around, scanning the brightly painted walls, soft edges, and blooming plants nestled the corners.
“Did she see us coming?” Kitzima asks.
“I’m not—”
“Stop right there.”
The order cracks over us, a familiar voice in a totally foreign tone. I twist my PAP toward the bedroom entrance to find Anastasia Vasquez standing there, leveling a shotgun, eyes stormy as a white puff crouches behind the curve of her legs.
In front of me, Kitzima lifts her hands even as an arrogant smile spreads over her pixyish face. “Miss Vasquez. Pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Out of curiosity, I once watched a Vasquez memory. It was a sickly-sweet thing, drenched in pastel colors, centering around that ball of white fur currently glowering at us through malicious red slits. But the girl in that memory—bubbly and babyish—is long gone. Anastasia’s dark eyes are narrowed, her words heavy with an accent I can’t place. She stands with her feet apart and the shotgun pressed against one rounded hip and I have every reason to believe she’s used that weapon before.
Only a celebrity of her status would be able to carry something so wildly illegal.
I put my own hands in the air, curling a palm around my PAP so she won’t see it and suspect we’re spying on her.
To my surprise, Kitzima’s laughing. “Come now, Anastasia, we both know you aren’t going to shoot your supplier.”
Through the handheld pulling my IRIS taut like a puppet string, I see Anastasia falter.
“What are you talking about?”
Kitzima sighs. Rolls her eyes. “Anastasia, for fucks sake. It’s Tiffany.”
The twin holes of the barrel dip toward the floor. I breathe a small sigh of relief, but Anastasia is still glaring at us, thick eyebrows pulling together, lips pressing into a thin line that’s too harsh for her cherubic face.
“Tiffany?”
“Yes, so if you’d put that thing away, we can have a civilized conversation.”
Anastasia’s fear and distrust disappear like they were never there. In one motion she cocks her head, flashes a coy smile, and tilts the weapon over one shoulder in a casual gesture that makes me curious about how a girl in a high-story villa knows her way around a shotgun.
A story for another time.
“You don’t look like a senator’s daughter,” Anastasia says with a smirk to match Kitzima’s.
“And you don’t look like a black-market memory addict,” Kitzima says, spreading her palms in a magnanimous gesture. “I’d say we’re both full of surprises.”
“So, you have a new memory for me?”
There’s a glinting, violent hunger in Anastasia’s eyes that she can’t quite keep masked. I drop my hands and step back as Kitzima steps forward, hooking her thumbs into the low-rise waistband of her checkered skirt.
“I have one better,” Kitzima says. “If you’re willing to make a trade.”
Anastasia snorts, her face beautiful even as it wrinkles with scorn. “You know money’s not an issue.”
“It’s not money I’m after.” Kitzima’s swinging around the knapsack and reaching inside. “There’s a shindig going on tonight at Project Recollection. I want a way in.”
Anastasia’s eyes widen for a moment and the unbroken lens of my PAP catches the glitter of make-up in her soft apartment lights, the shadow she’s already swept expertly around the edges of her dark eyes.
She was getting ready for something.
A fancy party, perhaps?
“Why?” Anastasia asks, tossing her glossy hair. My heart clenches as I think of Khali, but I shove the thought aside, focusing on Anastasia’s eyes as they flicker between us. “It’s a stiffy with a bunch of rich old geezers. I’m just there for show.”
“Our business is none of your concern,” Kitzima says, pulling something out of the pack. She keeps it hidden in her fold of her palm, but I
see a loop of a wire, the shimmer of an IRIS tip.
What is valuable enough to tempt Anastasia Vasquez to betray her sponsor?
“Look, I have enough memories for now and I don’t need—”
Kitzima opens her hand, holds out her palm.
I swallow a gasp.
It’s an animal IRIS cable.
Smaller and less advanced, they were popular right at the beginning of memory sharing. Know what your dog is thinking, was the campaign that swept through the cities, targeting old ladies with too few children and too many pets. But they soon found out that experiencing animal memories changes the chemistry of a human brain, brings out dangerous behaviors and weakens the innately human ability to control them. Aggression. Territorial instincts. Mating displays. Animal memories soon became repugnant and illegal, considered even more abhorrent than Gaming. Of all the MemHeads in the Tunnels, Beastials are the ones even we won’t associate with. They are the outcasts among outcasts. The scum beneath the scum.
What a surprise to find one in the most expensive apartment in Nova.
Anastasia looks at the small cable the way a starving wolf might watch at a slab of meat. I can almost imagine her licking her lips as I tilt my PAP down to the foul-tempered creature still scowling at us from behind her ankles.
“Where did you get that?” Anastasia says and there’s a growl to her voice, a tug to her words.
“I have my ways, as you well know,” Kitzima answers playfully as the IRIS cable dances over her fingers, the metal tip glittering in the distant city lights.
Anastasia swallows and takes a step, as if compelled by a gravitational force only she can feel. Then she stops, her gaze flashing to me and coated with an oily film of suspicion.
“You’re recording this, aren’t you? That’s what she’s there for.” She jerks her thumb at me. “Planning to share this, huh? Ruin my channel? Steal my tuners?”
I unplug, holding up the PAP as if in surrender.
“No tricks here, Miss Vasquez,” I say in my best imitation of a Vixen drawl.