Remember

by Karthikeyan, Girish

  A non-answer. “I just want to know.”

  “If it becomes necessary for you to know, you will.”

  Just tell me. Too whiny. “Why is this happening to me?”

  “Impossible to explain. We don’t know. We just see why it is unusual. All Agents of the Security Division have genetic modifications. The general population is repulsed by doing what is demanded of us like lying, stealing, and murder. You do not meet the typical recruitment criteria.”

  You don't know? “Why do you care what happens to me?”

  “Yes, we care so much. I just have to show you why.” She reaches across the table and grabs my shirt. She pulls me into her shadow.

  I can make out Irena’s face. The unstoppable fear etches this image into memory. Irena in a button-down, low cut, wide strapped, silk shirt. It doesn’t make sense. How can this be Irena? She kisses me, another attempt at programming. I try pulling away. The gloves she's wearing don't let go. My shirt turns unbreakable. She covers my lips with saliva that holds whatever data. She releases me. That can't be Irena. A picture appears in my eyes of Irena. She looks the same as the person in front of me to every detail. She slips off one shoulder strap, showing a tattoo of scars spelling DIT. The picture disappears. Irena wipes something off her lower lip with a finger.

  "Just something to convince you it's really me."

  “This is all just a setup. How do I know that face is yours?”

  “Wouldn’t I choose someone else? Claire is a better option. Your feelings for her are obvious. Even Gary, is better. Choosing Irena is the worst choice imaginable. You would never believe I was working in a shadowy underground. Would you?”

  “That is hard to believe. This is the reason. You just wanted to make that argument.”

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere.” She presses something on the table. “Guys, we can end this, now.”

  I hear a deep thump from my back. The piercing pain of a needle as it enters my flesh. I crumple onto the bench like seat. I see her knees aren’t scrapped in any way. I don’t see any more.

  (—)

  I wake up dry in the damp loading dock of the Institute with Irena, curled up sleeping next to me, leaning on my shoulder. I give her time to wake up. The narrow loading dock ledge, just wide enough for drop off omits any human traffic, only the driverless go-trans come here. The platforms on the wall transfer deliveries off the dock into the building. The door stays open right next to us. Irena still has the scrape. That must have been an imposter altered with her face. The sun setting in yellow, red, and orange paints everything with prolific color. Irena stirs.

  “We were kidnapped, right?” Sounds like any convo over lunch, she's probably numb.

  “It looks that way.” The glare from the neighboring building brightens everything on this side.

  “Where did they capture you?” Irena turns my head back and forth with my chin, checking my face for injuries.

  I point down the grassway. “I was somewhere down there.”

  “I ended up here, filling out a delivery form. I connected to the bot. They just appeared, walked up to me, it was that easy.” She retrieves her pad from against the wall.

  Sick kidnappers, not that any are healthy. They deposited us right where they picked her up. “What is the last thing you remember?”

  “We were on this lakeside beach. They tranquilized you. I was screaming at them to leave you alone.” Clinical detachment.

  “I remember that.”

  “They got me next. Then, we wake up here.”

  We keep circling the events, trying to believe it actually happened. “Same here, how’s your knee?”

  She just noticed her wrapped knee. “It looks fine. Your makeshift dressing just needs to be changed.”

  “Do you even need it?”

  She carefully unwraps it. “No.”

  We go inside. There is nothing about reporting what happened. The Security Division knows from the cam. We saw no real faces. We just want to forget the whole thing happened. We need no discussion. I get out on ten.

  Mental log of Agent 7429

  Mon 8/14/17 11:01 p.m.

  A:

  Start briefing.

  R:

  Ready.

  A:

  The MI meeting went as scheduled. We met for a business meeting and the info was delivered.

  R:

  Did anything go off protocol?

  A:

  Mr. Abby refused to have a meal. The only thing he consumed was water. This situation was not to protocol. We traveled to the office to provide Mr. Abby with the encrypted data drive.

  R:

  Is the security of the mission comprised?

  A:

  No, Mr. Abby immediately transferred it to his tech. The alternative method is secure.

  R:

  Good work.

  A:

  There is something else to report.

  R:

  You may continue.

  A:

  Mr. Abby whereabouts were unaccounted for a period of 2 hours.

  R:

  Any evidence that gives us more detail?

  A:

  He was taken into a black fog cloaked go-seat with an electromagnetic shell. This is consistent with DIT.

  R:

  Noted. Are there any concerns of corruption with Mr. Abby?

  A:

  No, his allegiance isn’t in question. Any issues need time to develop with Mr. Abby. If everything is by protocol, nothing needs to change.

  R:

  Ready to end?

  A:

  Ending.

  A:

  I know that isn't the way it went, but I shattered the data drive somewhere, that thin communion like wafer. What was I supposed to do? Tear off a piece of my jacket lining, slice my finger open, dribble blood onto the cloth, ask him to chew it, and hope hard it worked? Well, of course not. The scene-from-a-romance-language-film worked in the end. Ending with on-hands-and-knees-I-really-want-more-but-that-hurt-too-much did the job just fine. This isn't like that dinner party last week.

  Standing against the wall isn't a good place for anybody when a handful of Report walk in, aggrieved over leaving their station. One — luckily not my personal one — pushes me back hard, threatening even in a white strapless dress of interleaving and crisscrossing tissue paper sheets, and asking are you loyal. I was tempted to lose the wine glass elevated to safety during the shove. There she was 2 inches away, close enough for her breath to be felt, I couldn't look away from her amber eyes, and my answer of no utters. A few minutes later results with her snatching away my glass in a flounce and stalking over to another Report for a mad kiss.

  I followed the black bubble people out from dropping off Connor. They stopped somewhere out there at an empty base. By the time I finished looking around and found them again, they were going at each other like rabid dogs. Oops. They vid chatted with someone so freshly powdered and pressed, he could be discounted as a bot in bad light. By that time, my camo was flickering and I was out.

  Confiding secrets and all this other stuff doesn't really bother me. They or anyone can't get this info without going to absurd lengths. I should know; I've done it myself. Deal out death without dropping any blood or electricity, so probably suffocation. Scrape out the vasculature, cranial cavity, and mash the brain through a micro-screen or smaller to extract the tech. Produce a printed replica, insert the tech, hack in, and read. By that point, I really don't care, I'm dead, but they shouldn't be suspicious enough to try it. They should already have all this info hidden and just not share it with me.

  Murphy's Law

  Surreality

  Mon 1/1/18 6:08 a.m.

  The mirror-like surface of the water stretches out a few feet below me. My tawny white wings glide across the steady gust produced from just above the surface. Miniscule adjustments steady my course. Wings trail each arm, outstretched to capture any available lift. The end of each crowned with solitary feathers sticking out as if fi
ngers. I resume my mission to vanquish the mad blight on these lands.

  I work my way up with steady almost effortless strokes of my mighty air movers. These wings move forward slicing through the smooth air for lift. The power portion next, my wings slide back through the air, facing the sky. The rhythmic motions prove efficient from years of traveling on the air. The fluid motions start at the base of the wing and move through its length over each stroke. I retreat from the restrictive landscape to my home within the wide sky. Everything shrinks away showing me what there is below. The fast flowing river nestled inside the river valley of its own creation. The V-shaped valley carved over many eons gives rise to valleys of the helper rivers. Each inset valley ends in a waterfall, continually working to deepen the efforts of erosion. I drift over to the black stone bank to catch an uplifting air current. I glide in a spiral to remain within this elevator shaft.

  My constant vigil holds for the archenemy of the Doves. The Ravens, a vile race of winged carrion eater, will to devour anything that matches their vile nature. In the rare chance they are looking for a hunt, our food is the target. Anything between them and their hungry desire trampled as is the way of the Raven. These foul creatures run amok in their own lands, any encroachment into the border greeted with lethal force. It stays within my full rights to eradicate any Raven that crosses my path. I intend to reap revenge for all the wrongs committed by them. The consumption of our dead cannot go without consequence.

  The “caw-caw-cawing” erupting from the throat of one such trespasser pierces the air. Those Ravens get bolder in their actions with each passing day of peace. I look out searching for the source of that latest vocal outburst. The lair of this enemy assumes a nature unmistakable in these river valleys, a tunnel at the back of a waterfall leading to a second exit. Any sign illusive but I see it now. The sight of black beak and feather, the blackness of an unscrupulous eye gazing at me verifies enough. I exit the upward spiral to meet these Ravens in their fortress.

  The maneuver in this case, well rehearsed to deal the most damage, of such precision and speed it relegates defense to impossibility, at least. I increase the strokes to generate a fearsome wind at my back. The speed flattens my feathers against my flesh. The protective coverings shield my eyes from whatever awaits me. Just reaching the falls acts as my cue to begin the flightless roll. My arms, enshrouded in wings sealed against my sides. The tail feathers strapped across my legs leap into action controlling my spin. The water showers me in the cool refreshing wash, preparing me for the necessary action.

  The start of combat slows every otherwise fast movement to snail’s pace. I look up to see eight of those hideous creatures dirtying the pristine white stone. A compliment of eight throwing knives and two cutlasses just fit to dispatch these foes. I spin to see the first looming figure standing there. A flick to the wrist liberates the knife from its holster and sends it into the crow. I see the white of marbled stone, making up the imbedded ceiling. The next villain faces the knife just as easily as the last. I wonder why they aren’t following their namesake of attack. They just remain motionless prey to my predation. The next one just takes another flick of the wrist, a reaction from within the solemn guard. They move in closer to my path, just allowing me to pass. The sinister plan of defense starts to emerge. The next Raven quakes down with a hit to the throat. My perfect feathers take on stain of the deep red blood from my attacks to throat and heart. The sticky, sickly liquid forms a restrictive barrier upon mine own feathers hindering movement. The next two impede, impossible to miss. The shells of dried blood encase me to greater and greater disability. The hesitation on my part allows the first defensive action, the blockage of my knives by wings. This measure is far from effective due the delayed response and the purely defensive maneuver. My doubts creep up that I’m the aggressor in this situation. My attack must continue for my people.

  The crowning room of this base resides, the nesting room. The clutches of the eight males outside live inside. One female stands vigil as all that’s left of this site, an oval room encrusted with countless dozens of multicolored eggs. The female waits for me at the rear exit. The cutlass from my side lands upon my breast, ready for action. My limited motions enable plunging a narrow blade into the breast of the final Raven. Her mass and bulk puts an end to my twirling and sends me into a summersault. I break through the glass barrier at the second exit and descend into the dark chasm in my entombed feathers. The hollow prison of my blood and theirs follows as penance.

  (—)

  I wake with a jolt of energy to my room at the Memory Recovery Center. That was just another memory dream, just like every single night. It’s 5 to 7 in the morning. I better get up, just trying to keep going without slowing down.

  Newborn Anxiety

  Mon 1/1/18 7:42 a.m.

  Sarah comes to my room for the daily memory session. My slot goes from 8 to 10. I write in my memory journal the dream from last night. No one else looks at it. I just toss it to the foot of the bed and meet her at the door.

  Sarah waits against it. “Hi, Conor. How are you doing, today?

  “A little better.” I go out into the empty hallway.

  Sarah starts slow walking down the hall. “Are your dreams getting better?”

  “Yes. The dreams have something positive in them at last. The ones before were depressing and gloomy.” I follow suit.

  Light red hair from orange. “That is good. Has the intensity changed in any way?”

  “No.”

  “Yesterday, we talked about you returning to your normal routine. How is that working?”

  “I do a lot of sims. That just isn’t possible here.”

  “I will work on getting you that tech. It is hard at the Center and will just take time. What else are you thinking about?”

  The same story with the sims every time. “Yes. I’ve started jogging around the Center. I remember jogging, and I’m doing that. It isn’t as I remember, something just feels different.”

  “That is to be expected. You have gone through so much. Just give yourself time to get back into it. It’ll start to feel familiar soon.”

  “Good.”

  “Are your recovered memories making sense?”

  “Yes. The dreams are strange… different than the moments I remember. The session gives me a new memory that fits into the other fragments in my head.” The recovery Process fills a haphazard and confused niche.

  “Are there any gaps?”

  “Sometimes, the useless stuff just skips over. I don’t see a point in just remembering everyday life.”

  “Everything seems to be working.”

  As it should. “When do I get out of the Center? I just want this mess to be done and over with. I want to finally move on.”

  “It’ll be soon, another week or 2. How does that sound?”

  I don't believe in personal assurances. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Conor, just look at the dates. You’re missing just a few weeks, now. You’ve made so much progress in just a few months. Just stay together a little longer. It’ll all be over soon.”

  “No prob.” Real confidence or imaginary?

  “Today is just like every other day.”

  Sarah holds the door open into the hallway. This room takes on a new scary, creepy feeling. I just want to leave it as soon as possible. Retrieving my memories doesn’t matter at this point. The only thing keeping me here is this social construct. I need my memories to function properly and avoid too many questions later. I have to do this. I just have to. I hesitantly walk into the room.

  This disturbance turns me into a hyperaware version of myself. I notice the once unnoticeable, creepy aspects of everything that is this room. Walls change into a shade of lilac and retain their bleak, blank nature. The vast empty expanse sends a shiver through me. There is nothing here, just places to sit. The only comfort lays a few steps away. The familiarity of lying down on that couch keeps me going through my struggle. The psychological struggle tur
ns now physical. Each step sends me deeper into my pit of fear. My feet transmogrify from my method of conveyance to a heavy anchor stalling my motion. The ghastly apparition of a desk offers no aid. Its white skinned form just floats along the wall. The glass inlay helps not, the view of the ground nothing but an illusion. My fear and anxiety melt away as I lay down in a place of comfort, the couch. My worries revealed to be based on nothing.

  My arm rests under my head with the palm facing the sky. My absent gaze drifts upward over the white ceiling. Something patterned up there appears, a faint but undeniable impression of a square covering the entire surface and enshrouding a circle. A familiarity about this symbol draws me in, but to what? My gaze pulls away as Sarah enters the sitting space with her words.

  “Sorry about the wait. I was just checking your dream journal.”

  “You actually look at it?”

  Sarah turns her pad around for me. “Conor that journal is a personal record of your experiences here." She holds it until I read through a little. "Anyone that needs the info has access to it. Your perception of events may not match the reality. This is a simple way to verify your impression.”

  “Good.”

  Sarah continues reading and sits nearby. “Ready to start?” She curls up her feet on the seat.

  “Yes.”

  Sarah puts her hand within mine. She starts speaking in her hypnosis voice. “You can access another memory. You can put meaning to your dreams. You can do everything I ask of you. You can trust what you remember. Free yourself from all fear and doubt. You are safe here. Nothing can harm you. You can trust the Process. You are powerful. You have the memory inside of you. You have everything you need to remember. You have it…”

  (—)

  Running is much less fun indoors. I look at the same things the whole time, the meeting place before anything gets too complicated. I see the two Agents now, recognizing Agent 7429 A.K.A Jenna from… (Continued next.)