Project Recollection

by A A Woods

  I can only imagine Anastasia’s eyes, Kitzima’s smugness, and I hate the darkness as it presses in around me, especially with that shotgun in the room. But I wait patiently, holding my breath. I’m just a visitor here.

  This is Kitzima’s game.

  “For the simple price of your admission to tonight’s gala,” Kitzima says and I hear her heavy combat boots squeak against tile, moving toward Anastasia, “you can see through the eyes of your cat. Experience a bond unlike any other.” Kitzima’s voice drops into a seductive whisper. “No more scrounging for memories from the animal labs in Chicago. No more illegal recollections from the wild beasts in Yellowstone. Imagine, feeding your… appetites from the comfort of your home. You’d never have to deal with me again.”

  “If anyone found out…”

  Kitzima’s laugh is like a bark, a single, scornful noise. “All these months and you still don’t trust me.”

  “This is worse.”

  “The public isn’t picky. If they find out about any of our encounters, it will sink you anyway.” Kitzima’s voice has dropped to a purr that seems to fill the room. “You’re in deep enough, eh? Might as well enjoy it.”

  There’s a silence as Anastasia weighs, considers. I picture the cat flicking its tail, the ProRec star glancing down at him, already making her choice.

  That’s the thing about addicts: the choice is always made; was made the day they were swallowed up by the quicksand of their vices. Those heavy chains will keep tugging them down, down, down into an infinite, bottomless pit until they have the courage to sever themselves entirely. I want to step forward, shout for Anastasia to stop while she still can, don’t let this consume her, hold onto the humanity you have left. But she’s not the one I’m trying to save.

  Not today.

  “Do you know what the gala is for?” Anastasia says, as if she can delude herself for a little bit longer that she isn’t that desperate and depraved.

  I answer before Kitzima can. “Yes.”

  “It’s ridiculous. The public’s never going to go for it. Who would want to lose their own body for someone else’s?”

  “I can think of a few,” Kitzima says in a strangely tight voice.

  “Well I wouldn’t do it. People know my face. Love me. Giving that up…” Anastasia makes a noise that might be a shudder.

  “Lucky you.” The words are prickly even for Kitzima.

  Anastasia doesn’t respond.

  “So,” Kitzima says, breaking the silence with a clap. “Miss Vasquez? Do we have a deal?”

  “Fine,” Anastasia spits. “I’ll give you my invitation. On one condition.” There’s a breathless escape of a meow as Anastasia hefts Biscuit into her arms. “Never talk to me again.”

  Surveillance Memory File: Camera 625

  Outside Sub-Level Seven

  Time Stamp: Saturday, September 22nd, 2195

  8:52 P.M. EST

  The eclectic assortment of Gamers advances.

  As your lens focuses, piercing through the shadowy Tunnels beneath Project Recollection’s super-scraper, you see two clumps of teenagers approaching. One collection is timid, shy, like insects that might scatter at the slightest hint of noise. There are six of them, banded cables tucked in hair or wrapped around headbands, eyes darting between their companions.

  But the other group marches toward the line of doors like soldiers into battle.

  Eight young women, standing tall, steps confident, eyes flashing. Like a flock of geese, they fan out in a loose V formation, banded IRIS cables draped over shoulders, tape on full display. And there, at the apex of the group, strides a small creature who looms like a giant, a she-wolf at the front of her pack. Purple hair waxed into huge, feathery ears. Canines filed to glittering white points. Ripped tank-top and schoolgirl skirt swishing as she saunters, whistling a cheerful melody at odds with the gloom.

  The tiny girl’s eyes flash up and find your camera, somehow glaring through the lens, through the memory.

  She smiles.

  “Alright, Ladies,” she says, her gaze never leaving the camera. “Line up.”

  The strangely dressed young women spread out along the wall, each one finding a glowing red port. The stragglers behind them exchange nervous, unsure glances before doing the same. The outsiders are forced to the edges, to the doors the others haven’t claimed. With shaking fingers, the nervous youths plug in. Their IRIS cables blink in acceptance.

  Six doors open.

  Six jumpy Gamers enter six dark cells.

  The others don’t move, waiting for the signal from the shortest among them.

  She’s still whistling, still filling the space with her overbright tune. Her comrades are stiff, waiting, watching. A tension fills the air, as if they know something about what’s behind that row of doors, as if they’re bracing for war.

  Finally, the purple-haired girl cocks her head. Her lips twitch. Her fingers crack as she stretches them.

  “Guess we’d better get started,” she says with a vicious, vengeful grin.

  Eight hands reach up, run the length of eight banded cables. With a smooth, coordinated movement, the young women plug themselves in. The ports glow red and then ding in approval.

  The remaining doors slide open, admitting them inside.

  “Good luck,” the purple-haired girl calls in a singsong voice.

  But she’s not talking to her compatriots. She’s looking right at the camera, right at you, eyes glittering with malice, fingernails sharp as she unplugs herself and steps into the cell.

  Right before the doors close, entombing her in darkness, she lifts one hand and blows the camera a kiss.

  Tora

  Saturday, September 22nd, 2195

  9:00 P.M. EST

  I feel like an imposter as I step out of the sleek taxi Kitzima rented and onto the landing pad at the top of ProRec’s super-scraper.

  “Welcome to Project Recollection,” says a deep male voice as a hand helps me lift myself off the padded leather. “May I have your IRIS cable, please?”

  His words are smooth as honey as he waits for me to offer my cable, still sticky from where Javier ripped off the black tape. I reach my gloved fingers behind coiffed hair and snake the cable around, not trusting myself to speak.

  Not trusting any of this.

  He plugs my now-unbanded cable into something and I suppress a wince, keeping my face impassive and frozen. I scroll through my mind for the faces of celebrities and heiresses and try to mimic them. Stiff. Aloof. Unconcerned.

  Yeah right.

  “Thank you for your patronage, Miss Reynolds. Allow me to guide you into the ballroom.”

  I offer him a sanctimonious nod, hoping he doesn’t see how my pale cheeks flush with adrenaline as blood thunders through my veins. I let him take my elbow, let him lead me toward the doors, toward the elevator.

  Into the lion’s den.

  Any other time, I would have been irritated by the way he guides me with excruciating slowness to the other end of the roof, as if the dark-tinted glasses and jeweled cane make me some kind of helpless child. But right now, the only thing I have the capacity to focus on is not tripping over the lacy hem of my dress.

  I swallow, collarbones rubbing against the diamond necklace that Kitzima fastened around my neck.

  It’s a farce, all of it. The gown, the heels, the necklace, the hair. But it’s a good one. Kitzima spent the past hour transforming me into something I would hardly recognize—not that I can see the effects. The invitation was explicit: no wireless devices allowed. But I can feel Kitzima’s work coating me like paint. The make-up caked on my eyes, the stiff locks of hair framing my face. The smooth, jeweled, wooden cane that costs more than my entire apartment snagging on the carpet.

  I’m sure I look ridiculous, but the man doesn’t comment. He deposits me in the elevator and releases my hand.

  “Enjoy the gala, Miss Reynolds.”

  The doors ding shut behind him and I’m left alone as the elevator begins it
s smooth journey down the gullet of the super-scraper.

  To distract myself from the looming, daunting task in front of me, I consider what the greeter must have seen on his device. Who he thinks I am. Turns out Kitzima is downright full of surprises. She refused to tell me who Tiffany Reynolds is, but somehow it must relate to her past. To her topside connections. As the elevator hums beneath the thick toes of my ridiculous shoes, I wonder what machinations brought her and Anastasia together. How did two people from such different worlds collide? How does Kitzima know so much about high-story living?

  And what the hell happened to the world I thought I knew?

  The elevator dings and I step out, sweeping my skirt along behind me as I use the cane to enter their foreign world. The dress’s train is long enough to cover the leggings I’m wearing beneath, its bodice forming an intricate lattice of lace and silk over the tank top Kitzima let me pull on before she zipped me up. But I still feel vulnerable. Exposed. A stone among the glittering diamonds I can’t even see.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  My heels and cane click on the marble floor as I make my way into a ballroom I’ve only ever glimpsed in news conference memories. Something swishes close to me and I hear clipped footsteps.

  “Hello ma’am, would you like some champagne?”

  I nod and hold out a hand, channeling privilege and arrogance. Something cold presses against the fabric on my palms, damp enough that I can feel it even through the bandages layered under my silk gloves—a fluted glass, frosted with condensation.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  The waiter clicks away and I sip the bubbling liquid, too jittery to even taste it. Murmurs rise and fall around me like the sounds of a velvet ocean, cultured and polite. I’m standing at the corner of a crowd and, for one ludicrous moment, I imagine it’s a game. An Obaki match. Only the Gamers here are hushed, subdued, the rich and famous offering salutations like old friends who don’t really like each other. Enmity runs like a current beneath their too-bright voices, their too-friendly questions.

  It’s all the same, I think to myself, my lips curling. The games we play in the Tunnels are no different than the ones they play up here. Just as dangerous, just as corrosive, but somehow sanctioned by society.

  Hypocrites.

  There seem to be a lot of them these days.

  I try to tease out individual voices around me as I throw back the champagne, wrinkling my nose as bubbles tickle the back of my throat.

  Beside me, a woman argues in a warbling, dusty voice, “I’m doubtful, very doubtful. I mean, those South African scientists have been trying to put their brains into robots for years.”

  “Oh, Marie, don’t be such a spoilsport,” laughs a bombastic man, his words echoing around the ballroom. “ProRec hasn’t let us down yet.”

  I recognize his voice—some space-mining baron who’s recently become famous for being the first to successfully bring minerals back from the Asteroid belt. Fabulously wealthy and infamously offensive in his rhetoric, he’s been on the news for a rapidly deteriorating heart condition.

  And the other one?

  I edge closer, listening for the lilt and dance of their words over the buzz of the crowd.

  “Besides,” the man booms. “I want to eat and screw my way through a few more lifetimes. This seems like a golden opportunity.”

  “Come now, Donald, keep your voice down. We aren’t supposed to know about the Program yet,” the woman titters, and I place her. Maria Sargova, heiress to the biggest fast-food chains in Nova, including Pueblo Pizza and Ratchet Rings. I step away, not wanting to draw their attention.

  From somewhere to my left, I hear the slide of a door. The click of heels.

  “Welcome, everyone,” comes a voice that chills me to the bone. “Thank you all for joining us so late on a Saturday night. I promise, you will not regret the trip.”

  Yasmin Abergel.

  My fingers curl around the glass and I have to force myself to unclench before I shatter the delicate flute. I wonder if she’ll recognize me, armored as I am in make-up and lace. But apparently Kitzima’s disguise is good enough because I feel hot eyes slide over me. Hear Yasmin step into the crowd, pass right beside me. There’s someone else with her, another pair of shoes clicking against the floor.

  “I apologize for the wait,” Yasmin continues as she sweeps through the perfumes like a hand through fog. “Our Anastasia was supposed to greet you, but I’m sure you all understand the… unreliable nature of youth.”

  There’s a rustle of laughter.

  If I could, I would throw my glass at her face.

  Instead, I use my anger to keep my head held high, my chin stiff, my face iron.

  “I’ve gathered you all here today to demonstrate an exciting new—”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  My heart stutters as that familiar husky lovely voice hisses in my ear.

  “Khali?”

  “What are you doing here?” she asks again, low and harsh and fearful.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper back as Yasmin begins to speak about the world-changing nature of what the investors are about to see, the brave exploration a few of them are about to embark upon. I’m not listening. I’m leaning into Khali as if pulled by magnetism, my pulse pounding with shock.

  “You were taken.” I shake my head. “For the trials. I don’t understand, what are you doing up here?”

  She doesn’t answer and even though the world spins on around us I’m frozen, my thoughts locked into a whirlpool and I can’t pull free. This doesn’t make sense. Her presence doesn’t compute. She’s a Gamer. Fodder for their fire.

  Unless she’s something else entirely.

  I lean in closer, air hitching in my lungs. “Khali. Who are you?”

  Khali takes a deep breath and I brace myself, feeling the weight of her words saturate the air even before she speaks them.

  “My real name is Khalidah Abergel. I’m Yasmin Abergel’s daughter.”

  My mouth falls open. I hear Khali sigh, but it’s distant. As if on another planet. Her words come like whispers in a language I don’t speak.

  “My mother sent those guards to bring me home. She doesn’t approve of Gaming; wants me to preserve what’s left of my brain so that her crackpot scientists can figure out a cure before it’s too late.” I hear the quirk of a smile on her voice. “Needless to say, we disagree on some key points.”

  The pieces in my brain are moving. Shifting. Slotting into place. My breath is coming faster now, accelerating with the inevitable conclusions.

  Of course.

  “She dragged me down here to impress all these stiff old fossils,” Khali’s saying now, her voice an urgent undertow to Yasmin’s welcome speech. “I don’t know what’s happening, but Mom wanted me to see some new possibility. I don’t give a shit about all this, but I figured it would be a good chance to show her why she doesn’t want me around after all.”

  I’m barely registering her words. My face is blank but my insides are churning.

  A daughter with a terminal disease.

  A chance to give rich investors new bodies.

  A way to solve the unsolvable.

  “Khali,” I say, and my voice sounds dim and foreign in my own ears. “Do you know what your mother’s been working on?”

  “Of course not,” she spits, as if the very thought disgusts her. I turn toward her voice, trying to compose myself, trying to be her flavor of strong.

  “I do,” I say.

  There’s a pause. A pregnant silence.

  “Tora,” Khali whispers. “What’s going on?”

  “Your mother figured out how to transfer consciousness,” I say numbly. “How to put one person’s mind into someone else’s body. But it only works on bodies with certain cables. Cables that have gone deep enough into a person’s brain tissue.”

  Khali’s exhale sounds like the wind in the Tunnels. “Gamer cables.”

  I nod, un
able to do more as the words tumble out of me. “The tournament was a trap all along, a way to lure to the best Gamers into the ProRec super-scraper. Those with the most adapted wiring.” My breath is ragged. “Khali, this isn’t a demonstration. They’re going to kill those people and steal their bodies. This is murder.”

  I feel the air shift as Khali leans in, both of us ignoring Yasmin’s carefully constructed address and the scandalized whispers of the patrons distracted by our hissed conversation.

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  I swallow, but the time for secrets has passed.

  “Six months ago, Project Recollection framed my brother for corporate espionage. He refused to be a part of this new project. He thought it was monstrous, tried to stop the program. They arrested him before he could go public.” I clench my fists as the ache of shame and failure ripples in my chest. “But I’m here to finish what he started.”

  “To stop whatever my mother is doing.”

  I nod.

  “Then I’m with you.” There’s a current in Khali’s voice, something that tugs at me. I can picture her smile, the twist of her lips, the light in her eyes.

  My heart threatens to burst.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “Kitzima’s down there and I don’t think she cares much about anyone in this building.”

  Especially Yasmin.

  “Tora.” She says my name like a command. “I’m a Gamer. I stand with you and the Vixens and anyone else trapped in my mother’s net.” She chuckles, a low and thrilling sound. “Besides, you know how much I like to cause trouble. Now what’s the plan?”

  “I need to release Kitzima and her Vixens. They’re going to make sure the Gamers get out of here safely while I find out what they did with my brother.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  I swallow. “No.”

  Khali pauses and I can almost hear the churning of her thoughts.

  “There’s a high-security prisoner in the lower labs. Third door from the elevator. I’ve never been allowed in, but before I left, I managed to get close enough to know it’s someone dangerous. Someone they’ve kept hidden for months. Six months, actually.” There’s a heavy pause, swollen with meaning. “Here,” she presses something into my hand. A PAP. “Most of the building’s codes are on there. Should get you close enough to hack your way through.”