When I open my eyes, Julian is looking at me curiously, and his expression has softened. “No need to worry about your friends. The guardians of this place aren’t after them. They’ll simply extinguish the fire and pump in their doping gas, and no one in there will even remember it happened.”
“Guardians? Doping gas?” I ask dumbly. I feel like a computer whose circuits have overloaded.
“Unless you want to end up as charred as your chamber, I don’t have time to explain.” He reaches for me, but I step away from his grasp. I’m not letting him touch me again.
“I see you’re fit.” He barks out a laugh. “Let’s go.”
My only real choice is to follow Julian. Even if I could somehow get back into my hive, my memory chamber is ruined. And I have no idea how to navigate the outside on my own. “You really know where Neil is?” I ask him, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.
“Yes.”
“Then lead the way.”
His lips twist into a satisfied smirk. Not his best look. “Stay close behind me, and let me know when you start to feel woozy. We’ll stop and find a place for you to plug in.”
He takes off running the corridor at a brisk pace, and I run after him, my bare feet slapping on the polished pathway. I make sure to leave a few strides between us.
Pushing down my fear and confusion, I register the grand scale of our surroundings for the first time. On either side of us are seemingly never-ending rows of identical hives. Each individual hive is shaped like a traditional English skep, the kind beekeepers used to weave from straw to house their bee colonies. Taken together, the hives look like mountains of neatly arranged plastic eggs pressed up against one another, half buried. The ceiling, if there is one, is high enough that I can’t see it. Just as inside the hive, every surface, including the pathway beneath us, is a blinding, pristine white. If anything, it’s even brighter out here—so bright that everything blurs around the edges. I’m struck by the utterly eerie foreignness of it all. I almost feel like I’m a lab rat in some futuristic sci-fi maze.
It’s strange to run in the afterlife. Because I breathe only out of habit and not out of necessity, I don’t have to worry about what lying around so much has done to my conditioning. It’s liberating. Like the first turn on the track, when you still feel invincible.
“What did you mean when you said I should tell you when I feel woozy?” I call out to Julian.
He slows enough so we can run side by side. “You’re an addict. And you don’t want to go cold turkey with this drug. We will have to wean you off it little by little. Put your hacking skills to good use.”
So we are being drugged. That explains why we’re all so lethargic. “Who is drugging us? And why?” Though I’m less than thrilled it’s Julian, it’s nice to finally be around someone who might have some answers about this place. He must have some good connections if he knows so much.
Julian shoots me a sidelong glance as if contemplating how much he should tell me. “It’s a long story, and we shouldn’t be talking out in the open like this. We don’t want to attract unwanted attention.”
As if to prove his point, a low buzzing sound comes up behind us, rapidly getting louder, like a plane coming in for a landing. Julian shoves me into the V-shaped recess between two hives. He clamps his hand over my mouth and whispers into my ear. “Scanner drone.”
I wrestle away from his hand but stay in the shadows with him. I’m grateful for his protection, but he still has a long way to go before he’ll have my trust. We stand there as a bee roughly the size of my head lazily zigzags down the corridor, about six feet above us. Every few yards it emits a quick scan of yellowish light from its undersides, a jarring splash of color in such a white environment.
After a few minutes Julian decides it is all clear, and we set off again. We don’t talk, though I really have to bite my tongue to keep from asking him a million questions, including what the heck that yellow light is for. The scenery is monotonous, but I start to detect a pattern. The corridor we’re in is about the width of two lanes on the highway, and at regular intervals we cross over intersections with corridors of similar width that run perpendicular to ours. I count as we go along and discover that each block is made up of one hundred hives. The counting keeps my mind occupied, but soon enough I lose focus and my legs sputter like a car running out of gas.
Julian notices I’ve dropped off, and he stops, glancing around as if to get his bearings. I don’t know how he can tell where we are, if he can. Everything looks exactly the same to me. “We’ll stop here,” he says.
He motions for me to follow him to the nearest hive, and he does his little tapping trick again, only this time with his fist. A door slides open, and we hop in before it slides closed again. The interior of this hive is like mine, only this one is half-empty.
“We’re in luck,” Julian says. “It’s much less hassle when you don’t have to deal with all the addicts.”
“It’s not our fault.” I bristle. “Can you please stop calling us addicts?”
“Whatever.” Julian rolls his eyes. “Pick out your suite, tout de suite.” He chuckles at his lame joke, and it’s my turn to employ the eye roll.
“Too bad you died before you could have kids, Julian. You have great dad jokes.” I pause, and despite the smog clogging my entire being, a vivid picture of twisted steel and shattered glass flashes uncomfortably through my mind. “How did you die anyway?”
Julian draws back, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. Then can you tell me what that yellow light was? Coming from the scanner drone?”
“I could,” he says in an exaggerated way that implies he won’t.
“Julian . . .” I’d like to slap him, but it’d mean touching him.
“Chill.” Julian tilts back his head and gives me a lazy smile. My insides flip-flop despite my anger. “If you get caught in that yellow light, you’ll get picked up by the guardians. They don’t exactly like people running around outside the hives.”
“I won’t get caught, then,” I mumble. What else did I want to ask him? Questions pop into my head, but as soon as I almost have my tongue around one, another question crowds it out. The drugs make my thoughts as slippery as stones in a river.
I plop myself into the nearest empty chamber and fit my hands into the grooves. At first nothing happens, but I wiggle my fingers and concentrate on imagining my files and folders. The screen chugs slowly to life, loading strange code and symbols. Then I feel it, the delicious tingles and the sweet clarity of mind that comes when I plug in. Everything is there, exactly the way I left it. The error message on the cat memory I shared with Beckah pops up again.
“Did it work?” Julian pokes his head in.
I nod, and Julian reaches in and laces his fingers through mine. I try to jerk my hand away, but he’s superstrong. “Enjoy the memory” is the last thing I hear him say.
Ward, Felicia. Memory #31233
Tags: Germany, Julian, AFN, Rainy day
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I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room, sipping coffee I poached from Dad’s luxury stash, flipping through the American Forces Network programming. I could watch something on German TV, but I don’t make a habit of taxing my brain when I have a welcome break from Mother. Besides, I find the public service announcements, which AFN broadcasts in lieu of commercials, strangely entertaining. The bulk of subscribers to AFN are military abroad, so there are spots on being suspicious of strangers, keeping your uniform spiffy, and picking up toys left on your stairs so your family doesn’t trip and die.
Rain is coming down outside in sheets, pattering so hard against the windows that they rattle. I used to revel in weather like this. But in Frankfurt it seems like most days are overcast with intermittent showers, as opposed to our last assignment in Nairobi, Kenya, where sunny skies were the
norm.
Sun wasn’t the only advantage of being stationed in Africa. In Kenya we lived in a mansion with help (cook, maid, driver, and two very necessary security guards). Here we live in a three-bedroom apartment in a claustrophobic community populated solely by other consulate staff and the hordes of diseased bunnies that pollute our lawns, so separate from the rest of the city that we might as well be in America.
But Frankfurt beats Nairobi for safety. Nairobi is called “Nairobbery” by the expats who live there, and I experienced the high crime rate firsthand on the eve of my thirteenth birthday when I made the mistake of running into a dark alley by myself. I’ve had nightmares ever since. The nightmares were so bad in those early days, I awoke screaming, blubbering incoherently about some man who was coming to take me away. Dad was always the one who’d come in and try to soothe me back to sleep with his gentle tenor. Because Mother, of course, needed to be well rested for her long days at the office serving our country.
Now that Mother has been promoted to American Citizens Services chief, she’s working even longer hours and traveling more. She may not be interested in my maintaining my sanity, but she’s religious about my maintaining my 4.0 GPA and padding my applications with extracurriculars so I can get into an Ivy League. If I don’t have homework, piano practice, or one of my other activities, Mother gives me Foreign Service practice tests to improve my general knowledge. It’s exhausting. Fortunately, Mother will not be back until late tonight, thanks to some embassy function in Berlin. Unfortunately, Dad has been in Papua New Guinea for weeks now researching a tribe that makes music with conch shells. I wish he were here. He’d know what to do about my nightmares getting worse again lately.
I’m contemplating whipping up a prepackaged mashed potatoes snack, when the doorbell rings. I spring off the sofa and hurry to the entryway, where I press the buzzer and check my reflection in the mirror. I open the door. It’s Julian, drenched, teeth chattering.
“Can I come in?”
I’m not supposed to let boys into the apartment when Mother and Dad are away, but Julian looks so pitiful, I usher him in. “How’d you know where I live?”
“I ran into Nicole earlier. You know, from that party a couple of weeks ago? She told me.” He’s shivering in his thin jacket and rubbing his arms.
“Autumn’s not here,” I tell him. Autumn has been smug, bragging about Julian hanging out with her practically every day for the past two weeks, so I assumed they were on their way to being a couple.
He shrugs. “I know.”
“I’ll get you some towels.” I head across the living room toward the hall bathroom.
I open the linen closet in the bathroom and pull out a couple of faded beach towels. As I shut the closet door, I catch Julian’s reflection in the mirror affixed to the outside of the door. I jump.
“Oh, hey—sorry I scared you,” he purrs into my ear. He’s right behind me, too close for comfort. I realize I don’t know anything about him. Not even his last name.
I turn quickly, knocking my elbow into one of the shelves. Julian has discarded his light jacket, and I’m suddenly all too aware of his body. I scan the thin, white T-shirt clinging to his well-built chest. “Uh . . . I think my dad has some sweats that might fit you, if you want to get out of those wet clothes.”
“It’s really sweet of you to think of my welfare,” he says. But when I try to move past him, he blocks my path. My heart hammers in my chest. Fear? Exhilaration? I don’t quite know. On my second attempt he lets me by. I rush into my parents’ room, extract an old GWU sweatshirt and some gray sweatpants, and toss them into the bathroom. He catches them, and I pull the door shut.
I pace the living room, berating myself. I shouldn’t have let him in, shouldn’t have given him my dad’s clothes. Now he’ll have to stay at least until his clothes are dry—half an hour. What if Mother finds out from one of our nosy neighbors? What if Autumn finds out and gets upset? It’s not like she has to be afraid I’m going to make a play for Julian, but since her family’s arrival in Germany, only two months after my family moved here, she has seemed so insecure about boys.
The bathroom door creaks open and Julian emerges, toweling his hair casually. I brush past him, scoop up his wet T-shirt and jeans, and carry them through the living and dining rooms into the kitchen, where the dryer is. I set the cycle, throw in the clothes and a dryer sheet, and slam the door. I hit the start button, and the dryer rumbles to life.
I take a deep breath and march out to meet Julian. He’s made himself comfortable on the sofa. And turned off the TV. It’s presumptuous of him, and it rubs me the wrong way. “It’ll run half an hour, and then you can go.”
He arches his eyebrow. “But what if it’s still raining?”
“I’ll loan you an umbrella.”
He laughs. “Nicole said you were uptight!”
“Nicole? Who cares what Nicole thinks?” I sputter. “I’m not uptight. I’m conscientious. There’s a difference.”
Julian pats the sofa next to him. A dare. I sit down, closer to the armrest than him, my posture rigid.
He grins and shakes his head. “You are uptight! Look at you. Too uptight to play poker, I bet.”
“I’ve played it. I’m a total card shark. Watch out!” I make claws with my fingers and give him my scariest look.
“You really need to work on your bluff.” Damn.
“Whatever.” I sink back into the cushion and concentrate on watching the raindrops hurl themselves against the window, desperate to break through.
“If you have a pack of cards, I can teach you,” he offers.
“First tell me your last name.”
“Jones.” It rolls off his tongue easily.
I get up and go over to the cabinet next to the piano, where we keep our games. I rummage through it. “No cards. But I have . . . Skip-Bo . . . Yahtzee . . . and Sorry.”
“Never heard of strip Skip-Bo.” He shakes his head slowly in mock dismay.
Ugh. He thinks he’s so charming. I throw the Skip-Bo deck at him, missing widely. The box falls harmlessly on the area rug under the coffee table.
He puts his hands up in surrender. “Kidding! We can play Yahtzee, then. At least it has dice.”
So we play Yahtzee. I win every time, racking up Yahtzees like my fingers are telling the dice exactly how to roll.
“You could be a Yahtzee shark.” He stretches his arms out and takes a deep breath. “It’s not as sexy as a poker shark, but it’s a step in the right direction, I guess.”
The dryer buzzes loudly. “Looks like it’s time for you to get going, Julian.”
“Wait, why not make a wager? We play one more game, and if you win again, I leave without putting up a fight.”
“And you won’t mention to Autumn you were here today?” My gut tells me she wouldn’t understand that today has been totally innocent.
He raises one eyebrow. “No.”
“Good. And if you win?” I grin as I knock the dice around in my hand. “Not that you have any chance of that.”
He touches my hand, stilling it. “If I win, which we all know is unlikely . . .” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I get to kiss you.”
Kiss me? Is he serious? Suddenly his hand feels too hot on mine. There are a thousand reasons why we shouldn’t kiss, but now that he’s brought it up, it’s all I can think about.
As if reading my mind, Julian leans over and softly brushes my hair behind my ear. I’m hypnotized, drawn in by the dark blue depths of his eyes. His hand slides behind my neck, and he inches closer until his face is the tiniest sliver away from mine. I part my lips, my entire body tense and waiting.
He pulls away, and I deflate, coughing to mask my confusion. I don’t want him to know how much he’s thrown me off balance. “Well, okay, then. Since you won’t win anyway, it’s a deal.”
We play. This time, however, I’m just not getting the Yahtzees. I’m rolling well, but then, so is he. Finally, only the Yahtzee row is left for the both
of us. If I get a Yahtzee or neither of us does, I win.
I go first, but the Yahtzee is not in the cards. Now it’s up to Julian to win or lose.
Julian takes the dice from me. “Can you blow on them for luck?”
“Luck for me? Or luck for you?” I ask him, tapping my foot. What’s happening to me? Am I flirting?
“I would like to think my luck is your luck too.” His voice is soft, like a sigh, and he looks down at the dice as if they hold his future within them. It’s like getting a glimpse of a whole different person.
I chuckle weakly and blow a short puff of air onto the dice, playing along. It seems to reenergize him.
“Let’s do this!” He winds up his arm as if he’s about to pitch a baseball, and lets the dice fly onto the table. A Yahtzee—all sixes. I can’t believe it.
Julian stands solemnly and pulls me to my feet. He closes the gap between us until I’m pressed against his chest and he’s kissing my neck. I don’t resist, though I know I should. “I have wanted to do this since forever,” he moans into my ear.
He tilts my head up and kisses me full on the lips. I sink to the sofa, and he moves with me, never breaking contact, deepening the kiss, running his hands expertly up and down my back. My traitorous body arches toward his as he guides it so that we’re lying side by side, entwined in each other’s arms. I’m so wrapped up in the sensation of Julian’s kiss that I purposely ignore the rapidly fading daylight outside. Ignore the fact that it has long since stopped raining.
Finally we break apart. My lips feel raw, bruised. “Wow. So, um . . . you can get your clothes out of the dryer now.” I stumble up off the sofa, disoriented. How could I have let this happen? “I can make some spaghetti.”
Level 2 (Memory Chronicles) Page 5