The Memory Agent

by Matthew B. J. Delaney

  The security system moved quickly without breaking the rules of the time and set into motion an entire population designed to hunt Parker down.

  Parker’s seatmate turned with curiosity to look at the commotion on the sidewalk outside the omnibus. Parker looked to the ground, rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, feigning a headache, while doing his best to hide his face. At the next stop, Parker stood and jumped off the back of the omnibus. He searched his pockets, found a few coins, and stepped inside a hat store just off Broadway. He left minutes later, wearing a new Bollman bowler pulled low down over his eyes.

  Keeping his head down, he passed through the crowds along Fourteenth Street. His wanted poster was circulating quickly. Inside this world, the coppers and street thugs were the system security, while the newsboys were like a virus. Alarms were generated by some internal server and pushed out all over the city. They were totally artificial, incapable of speech other than to spread their preprogrammed message in the dialect of the time.

  Another newsboy appeared suddenly on the corner, looking almost identical to the others on the previous block. He swung his hand in wild circles. “Coppers hunting their man! A fiend if there ever was one!”

  “I need a new look,” Parker spoke to his handlers.

  “Yes, I would say you do,” Charlotte replied. “Security is already shutting me out. I’m not going to be able to transition you into an AI from here.”

  “What about an internal link?”

  “We’ve got an old one. Never used him before. But he should be able to connect you with a new body. Head to Fourteenth and Avenue A. Find the German.”

  Parker moved as quickly as possible without drawing attention. A copper ambled slowly along the opposite side of Fourteenth, twirling a wooden club on a leather handle. He was a big man, his knee-length blue police coat with gold buttons tight against his broad shoulders. On his head, the British-style custodian helmet added another few inches to his height, making him seem even more imposing.

  The misting rain continued, slicking the streets and adding a shine to the buildings. Parker entered the East Village neighborhood of Little Germany, filled with oyster saloons and beer halls. This section of the city was cleaner than the other immigrant areas, but the people on the streets still carried the hard-edged look of suspicion. A group of workers in long, dusty coats and stovepipe hats with impossibly thick mustaches and weather-beaten faces huddled beneath the ragged, blue awning of a dilapidated hostelry, muttering among themselves in German. They looked up, flinty-eyed, at Parker as he passed by, one of them reaching to the saddle roll of a horse hitched to a post. Parker assumed that man concealed some sort of weapon.

  “Look for a place called Zum Schneider,” Charlotte said. “It’s a beer hall.”

  Parker kept his eyes on the cobbles of Fourteenth Street, filled with pastry-sized piles of horse dung, and passed by the workers without incident.

  Zum Schneider took up the entire ground floor of one of the larger tenement buildings. A wooden sign hung from an iron bar over the two saloon-style swinging doors that guarded the entrance. Girded by the clinking of heavy glasses, a cacophony of voices and accordion music blared incredibly loudly through the open doorway. The place sounded packed, and as Parker pushed through the doors, he saw the large hall stretch out before him, crowded to capacity, the sheer volume of noise and movement almost overwhelming him.

  Hundreds of men, mostly working class in appearance from their worn clothes and leathered hands, stood together shoulder to shoulder, ten deep around a solid, hand-cut oak bar. Tables, also made of thick oak, were packed tightly with chairs, on which more men sat holding massive glass or pewter-capped steins filled with frothy beer. The floor was covered with knotted pine and sagged beneath the feet, while above, kerosene lamps hung from smoke-blackened beams.

  Fairly pretty girls wearing traditional flower-patterned Tyrolean blouses and green and black dirndls moved nimbly through the crowd, ferrying trays of beer steins back and forth to the bar. There, the barkeep, a squat man in a black and red jacket with a green cap, worked to refill glasses from a bronze spigot inserted into a large wooden barrel. Barely visible through the crowd, a band in lederhosen played their hearts out, the music adding to the clamor.

  “The man you’re looking for is Hans Moeller,” Selberg said. “Census records show him on the second floor.”

  “Across the room should be a door. Through the door, up the stairs, first door on your right,” Charlotte said.

  Near the end of the bar, Parker saw an oak door. He pushed his way through the crowd, then opened the door and continued up a set of steps. The stairs were rickety. Gas lamps burned in flickering shadows on the walls. At the top, a dimly lit hallway seemed to lean to one side. The noise of the band sounded dully from below. Parker knocked once on the first door. A girl of about six sat in the corner of the hall, almost obscured in darkness, bouncing a dirty porcelain doll in her lap. She eyed Parker with suspicion as her little fingers tightened around the doll’s neck. Parker’s arms fell to his side, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver. He really hoped he didn’t have to kill another kid.

  From inside the flat, a voice barked, “Komm!”

  Parker pushed open the door and found himself in the kitchen of a cramped filthy apartment. On a table, a candle sputtered weakly next to a tin plate of moldy cheese and a bottle of soured milk. An old man sat at the table, bent over the cheese, picking away the mold with dirty fingernails. He turned as Parker entered.

  The man mumbled something in German, then he took a long sip of beer from a dusty stein. The sound of a fight broke out somewhere below. Chairs overturned. A glass broke.

  Parker kept his hand on his revolver. “Are you Hans Moeller?”

  The man nodded slightly.

  “English?” Parker asked.

  “Ja. Of course.” The man’s voice was heavily accented.

  “I’ve heard you can help me.”

  The man put down the beer stein and wiped his upper lip with the back of his sleeve. He held the candle aloft and peered through the darkness at Parker’s face. Dark bags of loose skin hung beneath the man’s watery eyes. His teeth were mostly missing, and the ones that remained were badly discolored. His clothes, dirty and ragged.

  “I don’t know you,” the man said.

  “I’m from the outside.”

  The man’s lower lip trembled slightly, then he closed his mouth. “Have you come to kill me?”

  “No, old man, I’ve come for help. I need a change of outfits.”

  Moeller nodded. He pushed himself up from the table, then shuffled down the dark hall toward a back room. “I haven’t had many visitors lately. I thought the outside was quiet.”

  “The outside is the same as it’s been for years,” Parker said. “Just been harder to get anyone inside.”

  “When the system was new, whole world was more free. Guards weren’t as hard. We’d have breaks every month. I’d see someone like you all the time.”

  “System is better now. More secure. How long have you been in here?”

  “Oh, many years.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I had a puppet show. Many years ago. In Central Park. I had the cottage to myself. They found a woman murdered. They said it was me.” The old man paused in front of a locked wooden door. “Raped and murdered. Terrible what we do to one another.”

  He unlocked the door with a key on a leather strap that hung around his neck, then fiddled with a mounted gas lamp. There was a hiss, then a flame appeared inside the glass ball. In the yellow light, the room was dingy and windowless. A table was bolted to the floor in the center of the room. Slumped over against the wall were the bodies of three men and a woman. The men were varying ages. The woman looked to be in her late twenties.

  The forms were lifeless, arms and legs spread at odd angles like forgotten dolls. Their eyes were closed, but their mouths hung open, swollen tongues protruding from teeth. A layer of dust co
vered some of them.

  “Little dirty,” Parker said.

  “They’ll get it done.” The old man used his boot to nudge the leg of one of the men. “The connections good. Balance and coordination both good.”

  Parker raised an eyebrow. “When was the last time they were operational?”

  “Six months.”

  “I don’t know,” Parker said doubtfully.

  “They’re good models.” The old man pointed at a thick-necked man. “He’s a good strong one. Good in a fight. Can be a laborer. Get you most places in the bad areas.”

  “Any trouble before?”

  The old man sighed. “Last time he got taken out, he knifed a man on the Bowery. Coppers might be looking for him still.”

  “Can’t use him. How about her?

  “She’s reliable. She’ll get anywhere you want. Go up to Park Avenue, the good houses take her on as a scullery. Wander the Bowery as a whore or a washerwoman. Lot of options with her.”

  “How’s her health?”

  “She’s fit. Everything works. Don’t sell no lemons here.”

  Parker thought for a moment about being a woman. The process was disorienting enough without switching genders. Each move to a new body, Parker had to get used to differences in height and strength, like learning to drive a new car every time, never sure where all the levers and pedals were.

  But as a woman he might have better access to where he needed to go.

  “All right, sold,” Parker said. “Make a good connection.”

  “Do you have gold?”

  Parker took a step back. “Selberg, can we pay the man?”

  “I’m on it,” Selberg said. “I’ve got a connection. Tell him to check the cabinet in the kitchen.”

  Parker turned to the old man and told him to look in the cabinet. Hans left the room, then reappeared a few moments later holding a canvas bag. He opened the bag and held it before the feeble light of the lantern. Inside, a mound of gold coins. He nodded and placed the bag in his pocket.

  “Good choice, the woman.” The old man’s smile showed his row of bad teeth. He swiped his hand across the top of the table. A cloud of dust swirled up into the air. He bent down and took hold of the woman’s legs. “Help me with this.”

  Parker held the woman’s arms, and together the two men lifted the lifeless form onto the top of the table. From inside a metal case, the old man removed a rusted metal helmet with long wires attached to a suitcase-sized wooden box on the floor. Connected to the box was a metal crank.

  “You are having problems connecting from the outside,” Moeller said.

  “Security shut it down.”

  “I see. They will do that.” Moeller placed the helmet on Parker’s head. The metal was sharp and heavy and dug into Parker’s scalp. “Have you ever done an internal transition before?”

  Parker shook his head. Moeller went to the hand crank and began to turn it. The crank revolved with a shriek of metal. Moeller laughed, showing his rotted teeth. “It can be a bit painful.”

  Moeller turned the crank faster. Small blue electric flickers flashed within the box. The hair on Parker’s head began to rise.

  “How painful?”

  “Worse than anything you could imagine.”

  Moeller pushed down on a large black switch on the side of the box. There was an electric pop and a flash of light. A surge of pain crashed like a wave onto Parker’s brain. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes as every nerve in his body seemed to fire with razor sharpness. His spine snapped into a lock position and he felt himself falling.

  The world went black.

  Parker’s consciousness roared up in the darkness. He slammed into his new body with an unexpected shock. Something felt wrong. He felt somehow heavy. The presence of his new being was around him, but he could see only darkness. Parker tried moving his legs, but he felt a great weight on them, seeming to pin him to the table.

  “—you hear me? Parker? Can you hear me?”

  Charlotte’s voice sounded far away and Parker struggled to remain conscious.

  “You’re in trouble Parker, wake up!” Charlotte’s Navigator voice cut through the fog and powered Parker to alertness. His eyes opened. Parker lay on the table inside the same cramped room. He struggled to sit up, but something pushed him down. His legs were forced painfully open and heavy weight gripped the top of his knee. Parker looked down, momentarily disoriented by his own female body. Then the confusion changed to fear and disgust. Moeller was on top of Parker, his pants down to his knees, as he tried to force Parker’s legs open.

  “Wake up!” the Navigator screamed in his ear.

  Suddenly fully conscious, Parker bolted upright. The German slipped sideways, his breath hot in Parker’s face, stinking of old meat. Moeller pulled back and punched Parker hard in the eye. The blow caught Parker by surprise and his head rocked. A sickening flare of pain erupted through his brain and Parker feared for a moment he might lose consciousness again.

  Moeller moved sideways, crablike, snatched a length of rope from the table, and tried to tie Parker’s ankle down. Parker brought his knee up hard. The German grunted in pain and rolled off the edge of the table. Parker swung down and kicked again at the old man who lay curled on the floor.

  “Please, just one time . . .” Moeller cried out. “It’s been so long.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Parker said. “What happened?”

  “The minute you made the transition,” the Navigator said, “the old man climbed on top of you, hard as a rock.”

  Parker looked down at the sickly old man and felt a surge of revulsion. Links of rope were stretched out on the table. A few more minutes, and the old man could have tied Parker down. No escape. Parker barely suppressed the anger. He clenched his fist and advanced forward. The old man cowered on the floor.

  “We’re on a clock,” Charlotte said. “Parker, just get out of there. Forget it.”

  Parker took a last look at Moeller, sniveling on all fours. Disgusted, he turned and walked out.

  In the kitchen, Parker took a moment to inspect his new appearance in a mirror. He was a pretty woman in her late 20s, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. His nose and mouth were small, age lines already formed around the corner of his mouth. He looked the part of a girl of the streets, grown up in hard poverty. A bruising could be seen over his left eye where Moeller had hit him.

  That would make it harder to get into the Park Avenue mansions.

  “There should be a trunk in the bedroom,” Selberg said. “I hacked a pistol and silvers in there.”

  Parker moved quickly around the room, tearing open drawers and overturning the mattress. He found an old captain’s trunk. Inside was a pistol, some loose rounds of ammunition, and two silver bullets. Silvers were the only thing that would wake people up in the system. He loaded the pistol with both, then found a bit of twine and tied the pistol inside his dress against his thigh. He thought for a moment of going back and putting a bullet in Moeller’s brain, but better to leave him alive. Security would pick up another prisoner death.

  Parker pushed open the apartment door and stepped back into the dingy hall.

  “Where to now?”

  “Make your way uptown,” the Navigator said. “Find the target.”

  Below him, a door to another apartment opened suddenly. Parker stepped back into the shadows as a woman bearing a basket of laundry appeared in the hall. She barely looked in Parker’s direction as she moved quickly down the stairs and out onto the street. Parker waited, then followed her. The stairs were quiet except for the muffled music from the beer hall. Parker had almost reached the ground floor when a door banged open behind him.

  “Parker, watch out!” the Navigator voiced in his ear. Footsteps thudded down the stairs toward him. Parker turned and saw one of the male units from the German’s apartment bearing down on him fast, his face twisted with rage.

  The man held a wicked looking knife, and he slashed at Parker from above. Parker side
stepped and knocked the big man off balance.

  The knife clattered down the stairs. The man grabbed Parker by the throat, and with incredible strength, hurled him against the wall. Parker’s head struck the solid wood, and white light flashed in his brain. The pressure on Parker’s throat was crushing; within moments, he felt himself losing consciousness. Pushing through the fog, Parker reached down beneath his dress. He felt the hard metal of the pistol and tore away the twine holding the weapon to his thigh. He pressed the barrel of the pistol against the man’s stomach and pulled the trigger.

  The noise of the gunshot ripped through small space. The big man fell back with a grunt. The pressure released on Parker’s throat and wonderful oxygen rushed into his lungs. Parker bent over, gasping, his head still swimming. On the floor, the big man rolled onto his side, his hands pressed against his stomach, a flower of red spreading around his fingers.

  Parker stood, raised the pistol, and pressed it to the man’s head.

  “Parker, no! Let him live!” the Navigator said. “The guards will register a retirement.”

  Moeller began to crawl back up the stairs toward his apartment. If he could transfer to a new body, he would live. Parker hesitated for a moment, then tucked the pistol back beneath his dress, turned, and walked out the door.

  The street was crowded with late afternoon shoppers. Parker pushed his way through the dense population, hailed a passing omnibus and found a seat on the packed bench.

  “The target should be sitting down to dinner soon,” the Archivist said.

  “How many people in the house?”

  “Between the servants and family, at least eight.”

  Eight was a big number. Lot of witnesses. And one of the eight could be a guard. Parker didn’t want to have to shoot his way out.

  “How’s Moeller?” Parker asked.