by Liana Liu
“Turn right and go down two blocks,” I say.
“Where are we going? We should call the police.”
“We have to find my mom. I told him the department store. If she’s there—”
“Wait, what? What do you mean your mom!” she cries.
“She’s alive. Here, just park now, here.” I get out of the car and hurry to the building. Wendy is right behind me, screaming questions at me. I batter the correct rhythm onto the door—one long tap, two short—and immediately it swings opens.
“What are you doing? Where’s Jeanette?” asks Jon Harmon.
“You don’t where she is?” I say.
“She’s late. She was supposed to be back ten minutes ago.”
“She’s not still at the department store, is she?”
“No.” He looks confused. (I realize it was hours ago I’d met her there.) Then my panic becomes anger. “Why didn’t you return my calls?” I ask him.
“I tried. What’s going on?”
“Keep Corp’s at your house. Tim is in jail. And . . . If my mom isn’t at the store, where is she?”
“They’re at my house?” Jon frowns.
“Where’s my mother?” I ask.
“She went to see her sister. But what about my house?”
“She went to Aunt Austin’s?”
“Yes, but what about Keep Corp at my house?” yells Jon.
“I have to go, right now, I have to go. Can I borrow your car?” I ask Wendy, and grab the keys from her hand before she can respond. I race out of the apartment and I’m almost down the hall when she comes after me.
“Lora! You can’t leave like that!” Wendy grabs my arm.
“It’s okay. Tell Jon what happened, and he’ll help Tim.”
“I will. But you’re not wearing any shoes.”
I look down at my feet. I’m not wearing any shoes.
“Hold on.” Wendy kneels to unlace her sneakers.
“You’ll need them,” I say.
“You’ll need them more. I’m not letting you go unless you take them.”
“Fine.” I slip on her shoes and tie them tight. Her feet are larger than mine.
Then I remember something else. I take Tim’s diagram out of my backpack. “Here, I don’t know what this means, but maybe Jon can do something with it. In case . . .” I don’t finish the sentence out loud; I don’t finish the sentence in my head. I turn to go.
“Lora!”
I glance back. “Yeah?”
“I missed you,” she says.
“I missed you, too,” I say.
“Be careful, okay?”
“I will.”
Then I’m running outside and instantly soaked, the wind washing through my hair, my eyes weeping rain. The wet sky is the same dark gray as the wet road, and I’m so grateful for Wendy’s car and Wendy’s sneakers. And Wendy herself.
In this rainy bad weather, I drive as fast as I dare drive. And, fortunately, there is not much traffic. Until I come to the exit for Grand Village. The off-ramp spirals me down to street level, and into a crowd of unmoving cars.
“An accident,” I whisper to myself as we roll forward half an inch.
“Ridiculous,” I whisper to myself as we roll forward another half an inch.
I turn on the radio and flip through the stations, listening for information on traffic delays. I speed past reports of flooding, electrical outages, a person critically injured by a falling tree, but it’s too much to listen to so I turn it off, and, anyway, we’re suddenly moving. Forward the car goes, slowly still but surely down one block, and another, and another, until I come to the place where the problem began.
I look. I look away. I look, even though I don’t want to look. An ambulance and two police cars are there: lights flashing yellow through the murk, sirens off so the only sound is the falling water and the rough shouts of the emergency workers as they carry their burden across the road. A white sheet settled like snow over hills and valleys on the stretcher. The still terrain of a motionless body.
And I remember that it was a stormy day like today that my mother died. My tense body tenses more. I inform myself I’m wrong. She never died. She’s alive and I am going to find her and I can’t get distracted by some other tragedy.
I look away. I keep driving.
One more mile and there it is: the ultramodern condominium apartment building, gleaming and imposing as always, immune to the indignity of bad weather. I pull up in front, into a parking space I’m not sure is an actual space, and run inside.
I am met with silence. And shadow.
No neatly uniformed man stands behind the front desk, waiting to greet me. No light glitters down from the massive chandelier to illuminate the marble floors. “Hello?” I say, my voice skittering across the abandoned space. No one answers. The lobby has the look and feel of a forsaken place.
“So much for security around here,” I say, trying to talk normally, trying to destroy the perfect quiet of this deserted room, but one wavering voice does nothing against this vast emptiness. As soon as a syllable trips out over my lips, it disappears.
I continue walking, though the farther I go, the darker it gets. The seeping daylight wavers and weakens in the windowless elevator vestibule. Squinting, I fumble for the button. Find it. Press it. Press it again. Nothing happens.
“The power’s out,” I say aloud.
Of course the power’s out. That’s why the lights aren’t lit. That’s why the security guard is missing; he must be fiddling with a fuse box somewhere. I’m reassured by the simple explanation. I’m reassured until I realize this means I have to find another way to the fifteenth floor. And the only other way is painful and obvious.
I feel my way around the corner, past the mailboxes, sliding hands across the walls, wet shoes slipping on the floor. At least it’s not completely dark inside the stairwell. A pale backup light flickers overhead. I put my hand on the railing and begin the climb.
At first I go quickly, for ten floors I go quickly, until my legs start complaining and my lungs start protesting, so I slow legs and lungs until my feet are a steady thump, thump, thump on each ascending step. I force myself up the final flights and push my way out of the stairwell. And step into black nothing.
I stumble. I reach out my arms. I stumble again. I stumble down the hallway, across the thick carpet. I stumble again as my palms slam a vertical surface. Which means I’m at the end of the corridor. Which means I’m in front of my aunt’s apartment. I find the knob and twist. Then the door—inexplicably unlocked—glides open.
And I’m shocked by what I find inside.
All the usual order has been violently destroyed. There are books splayed on the floor and chairs turned over and the coffee table is leaning at a dangerous angle. Paintings and photographs have been ripped down, leaving ugly scars in the wall. The cream-colored couch has slashes up and down its body, and from each cut bleeds fiber filling.
Away from the chaos, a woman stands at the window, staring out at the rain, one arm across her chest, the other arm folded up so her fingers can gently tap against her cheek, as if she is in deep thought. Suddenly, she whirls around.
“Lora, what are you doing here?” asks Aunt Austin.
“I know what you did,” I say accusingly.
Then I notice her eyes are wet.
“My dear, you shouldn’t have come,” she says. She weeps.
“You took my mother away from me.”
A sob breaks open her face.
“Why did you do it?” I am trying to be firm, but it’s impossible when she is crying like this; I’ve never seen my aunt cry like this. Not even at my mom’s funeral—but then, she knew it was no true funeral. This last thought kicks.
“Why did you do it?” I ask again, and this time I’m screaming.
“They were going to have her killed! It really would have been Jeanette in that car if I hadn’t sent her away.”
“You should have gone to the police!”
“There wasn’t time. I had to do something before . . .”
“Tell me,” I say. “Tell me exactly what you did.”
She nods. She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and wipes her swollen eyes. “An associate of mine told me that Jeanette was in trouble. I tried talking sense into my sister, but she was stubborn as she always was—always is. She refused to accept the fact she was in danger. So I had to take action.”
My aunt explains she had the car accident staged, and that the recovered body came from a medical lab. Meanwhile, she arranged for my mother to be taken to safety at Grand Gardens.
“Then you let us think she was dead,” I say.
“I was trying to protect her. I was trying to protect you.”
“For five years I thought my mother was dead,” I say.
“It was necessary. Jeanette discovered confidential information about a certain project at Keep Corp. She went to the man in charge, her colleague and supposed friend, and told him she didn’t approve of his project, that she was going to the authorities about it, and he should cooperate. Instead he reported her to his superiors. They hired people to get rid of her, and they would have, if I hadn’t intervened.”
“And Keep Corp let you do it?”
“I called in favors. I used every connection I had.”
I shake my head. It makes sense, yet nothing make sense. I point at the wounded walls, the mutilated sofa. “What happened here?” I ask.
“Your mother.”
“Mom did this? How? Why?”
“I have no idea. She was gone before I got here. With all the building’s power problems today, she was able to get in, but the security guard saw her leaving and he called me immediately,” she says.
“But why would she do this to your apartment?”
“Probably to vent her anger. Jeanette always had a bad temper.”
“Can you blame her?” My voice is dangerously sharp.
“No. I only blame myself.” Aunt Austin stares down at the floor, at the broken glass scattered across the white carpet.
Then she looks up again. She looks at me. “But this is no time for blame. We have to find your mother. Do you know where she is?”
I shake my head, though I suppose my mom has returned to meet Jon. But I won’t answer any of my aunt’s questions until she has answered all of mine. “What will you do when you find her?” I ask.
“I’ll take her back to Grand Gardens. Or somewhere else she’ll be safe.”
“Why? She doesn’t remember anything. She’s no threat to them anymore.”
“Jeanette’s a loose end—an employee who is supposed to be dead—and Keep Corp doesn’t like loose ends. That’s why I have my best people looking for her. That’s why we have to find her before they do.”
“Do you know what she discovered about the new keys? We could use that information to protect her. It would give us leverage against Keep Corp.”
My aunt’s expression doesn’t change, and yet it does. The pinch of her forehead, the downturn of her mouth, seems to fix into permanent place.
“You know,” I say. “What is it?”
She exhales heavily, painfully. “I’m going to tell you, Lora. I’m going to tell you because I trust you. I know you’ll understand that these sacrifices are for the greater good. It’s about the future of our country,” she says.
Then it’s all suddenly, horrifically, clear.
“You’re working with them!”
“We’re collaborating. On a revolutionary new program,” she says.
Which makes me think of that tabloid article about Keep Corp transmitting data to radical extremists so they can carry out political assassinations, and what I’m thinking is crazy, but all of this is totally crazy, so I just ask it: “Aunt Austin, are you helping the Citizen Army?”
“Helping them? Don’t you know me at all?” She seems truly offended.
“Honestly?” I say.
She flinches. “I guess I deserved that. But won’t you give me a chance to explain? I love you, and I love Jeanette, and I’m so, so sorry I had to hurt you. Please, you have to let me explain.”
After a moment I nod, the barest of nods.
“Thank you, my dear.” She sits cautiously on the ravaged couch, and motions for me to sit next to her. When she begins talking again, her voice is clear, and so are her eyes. It’s hard to believe she was a mush of tears just minutes before. But this is Aunt Austin’s single-minded way.
“You see, Lora, our country has gone from being the most powerful nation in the world to an international laughingstock. Our government is ineffective, our unemployment rate is at a historical high, while our financial markets are dangerously low. So what do we do? To get to the solution, we start at the root of the problem. Can you guess what that is?”
I shake my head.
“Fear,” she says, stretching the word so it fills the room. Then she continues. “When innocent people are killed every day, yes, it’s fear that’s controlling us now. So what would happen if we removed this fear? Imagine a world with no more Citizen Army, no more bombings, no more hijackings, no more murders, no crime at all.”
“It’s not possible,” I say.
“No? But what if we were able to apprehend every perpetrator of every crime, and provide the courts with proof of their guilt.”
And then I realize exactly how it’s possible.
“The new keys,” I say.
“Yes, we’ve partnered with Keep Corp to create a groundbreaking security program. The new keys have a decryption function that will enable law enforcement to access memory data in order to identify and prosecute criminals.”
And then I realize how Not-Darren knew all those things, all those things he shouldn’t have known. The medical technicians had downloaded my memory data in order to replace my broken key. So my memories were in Keep Corp’s systems.
Keep Corp could access whatever part of my mind they wanted.
I realize and I feel sick.
Meanwhile, my aunt is still speaking: “Eighty percent of our population has a key now, and that number is increasing every year. Once the program is established it will eventually become a deterrent to all crime.”
“You can’t do this! What about privacy?” I say.
“What’s more important, Lora, your privacy or your safety? Do you value privacy over a human life? What about a hundred lives, or a thousand? It’s a careful balance between security and privacy, but with so many threats to our citizens, security has to be the priority.”
I don’t say anything. Because on the one hand, what my aunt says makes sense. But on the other hand, I feel like screaming. I remember the way Not-Darren looked at me, as if he knew everything about me. Because he did know everything about me.
Aunt Austin smiles, taking my silence for agreement. “The pilot program will happen right here in Middleton,” she says. “If all goes well, we’ll take it to the federal government and make it national. Then perhaps other countries will adapt these measures as well. Isn’t it exciting?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” I say.
Her smile melts. “What’s worrying you, my dear?”
I tell her that Not-Darren went through the data from my memory key. And not to look for some criminal. To look for my mother.
She frowns. “We have to find Jeanette. We have to find her now, before they do.”
Then I’m standing. Then I’m shouting. “How can you work with Keep Corp when you don’t even trust them? When they’re a danger to your own sister?”
“It’s not the ideal situation,” she says. “But the most important thing is the security program. There can be no scandal until it’s in place, in order to prevent public backlash. Think of what might happen then: people would stop getting memory keys or even get their keys removed. There’d be another Vergets epidemic. Society would collapse.”
“There are other med-tech companies—”
“Yes, but the most important thing is the security
program.”
“But, you can’t trust—”
“Let’s take, for example, Senator Finney. His killer has yet to be arrested. There are no suspects and no leads other than the connection to the Citizen Army. But if there were some way you could identify the murderer, bring him to justice, keep him from hurting any more innocent people, wouldn’t you do it?”
All my outrage is suddenly gone.
There is only one possible answer.
“Yes, I would,” I say softly, and sit back down on the ravaged couch.
“Oh, Lora, I knew you’d understand.” She leans over and slides her arms around me. She smells like roses; she smells like my aunt; the scent is achingly familiar. “If Jeanette had listened, really listened, she would have understood too. But you know how stubborn she can be.”
“I know.” I feel tired. So tired.
“Now I have something to show you.” Aunt Austin slips her hand into her jacket and brings out a small plastic bag. She holds her palm out in offering.
I take the bag from her, hold it up, flip it over. The outside is labeled MINT. Inside the bag is a white object the shape and size of a dime. “What is it?” I ask.
“It’s her memory key.”
“My mother’s?” I stare at her.
“Keep Corp arranged its removal without my consent. I only found out afterward. I went to Grand Gardens, saw Jeanette’s condition, and paid one of the doctors to give her key to me. I thought that one day she could have it reinstalled.”
“One day?”
“As soon as our security program is in place—it’ll be just a few more months.” She smiles eagerly. I look at her eager smile. I look at the tiny plastic-wrapped disk in my hand. I think about what this means. To have my mother living close to me again, to have my mother remember me, and to have her be the mother I remember—this is what this means. This is what my aunt is offering.
“Would you like something to drink, my dear? Some iced tea?” Aunt Austin gets up, and I follow, stepping carefully over the shattered glass, moving carefully around a fallen chair, holding on carefully to the little plastic bag with its little white disk.
In the kitchen there are ceramic shards on the countertops and cutlery scattered across the white tile. “Jeanette has always been good at making messes,” says my aunt.