by Pintip Dunn
It’s only because these are the first words I’ve spoken today, I reassure myself. I’ll be better once I get a little warmed up.
“You think?” she murmurs, eyes brightening. “He’s in the middle of a session. He can’t just drop everything.”
Five seconds…four…three…
Sure enough, Tanner glances up from his terminal and then swaggers toward us. Instead of a navy suit, he wears a white lab coat over his black thermal shirt and cargo pants—his unofficial scientist’s uniform. Reaching us, he kisses Jessa on the cheek.
Almost without realizing it, I curl my shoulders forward and I back up one step, two steps, three steps, until I’m standing behind an empty com terminal.
“You’re so predictable,” Jessa says to Tanner.
“Well, of course I’m predictable.” The black hair flops over his forehead. “You’re standing with the only true precognitive of our time.” He flicks a glance at me—or at least, what he can see of me, since I’m mostly hidden by the metal structure. “She can see my future!”
“Correction,” Jessa says mildly. “She can see the many different paths your future could take. She has no more knowledge than anyone else which path you’ll actually choose.” Her lips curve. “But it’s nice to have proof that you can’t resist me.”
“You can’t resist me.” He grabs her waist, tickling her, and she shrieks with laughter.
I drop my eyes to the floor and try to make my body even smaller. Not because I want Tanner for myself—Fates, no. I’ve known him since before he knew how to make his hair lie flat. But because when I look at them, my chest aches.
This is what I want. What I’ve always wanted. Someone to love, and someone who loves me.
But for some of us, love exists in only a few measly twigs in the branches and branches of our possible destinies. I’m not like Jessa. I don’t know how to open my heart to someone. Maybe I don’t even have a heart. The only affection I’ve ever known is from a phantom mother who doesn’t exist in this timeline. And my father? I don’t know if I ever had one. Even as a child, I heard the snickers and gossip that the chairwoman’s baby was externally incubated. Who would blame the world for finding me unlovable?
Not me. Not in a single one of my futures.
“So, what’s your excuse for interrupting your work?” Jessa asks.
Tanner sobers. “I actually have one this time.” He untangles himself from her but keeps a hand on her hip. “We’ve had another case. The third one this week. Like the others, the girl’s fine when she’s receiving her future memory. But afterward, she’s confused. Mumbling to herself, walking into walls. Talking to people who aren’t there.” He moves his shoulders. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
I frown. Tanner Callahan, boy genius and the freaking inventor of future memory, admitting that he doesn’t know something? Must be serious.
“Let’s go talk to her,” Jessa says. “Is she still in the recovery area?”
He nods, and the three of us troop down the hall. Well, to be more accurate, the two of them troop, and I drift behind, not wanting to intrude. Jessa looks over her shoulder, gesturing for me to join them. I flush and quicken my steps but continue to trail behind them.
We enter the recovery area. The patient is in the third partitioned section, staring blankly at the walls. She wears her black hair in two braids, and her left hand lays palm up on the table, a freshly inked hourglass tattoo gleaming on her wrist. Presumably, underneath the tattoo, a black chip containing her future memory has just been implanted.
A hologram floating in front of the partition displays her name. Danni Lee.
Jessa crouches down and takes her free hand. “Hi, Danni. My name is Jessa Stone, the chairwoman’s assistant. Can you tell me what day it is?”
Danni’s eyes focus not on Jessa but on a spot over her shoulder. “They say I live my life like a moth to a flame—attracted by bright lights and exciting moments,” she says dreamily. “They say this will be the death of me, since the life of a moth who flies too close to the fire will soon be extinguished.”
“O-kay.” Jessa glances at Tanner. He shrugs, as if this was exactly what he expected, and sinks down next to her.
“Are these bruises from today?” He examines the marks on Danni’s shins. “How did you get these?”
“But I ask you: is this bad?” Danni continues. “Would you rather live a long, uneventful life, or seize the moment and leave this world in flames?”
My stomach feels like these very same moths are flitting around inside. Danni’s not registering a word we’re saying.
Jessa stands and gestures for Tanner and me to follow her out of the room. Danni continues to mumble about moths, and a nurse enters and injects her with an amber-colored syringe.
I don’t want to leave her like this. I don’t. But reaching into her future tells me that she’ll soon recover from her symptoms and return to her regular routine.
“The bruises are from walking into a chair today,” Tanner says, reading the hologram file floating in the air. “If her symptoms are like the others, she’ll go back to normal after a few hours.”
We step back into the hallway. “But where did her symptoms come from?” Jessa asks. “They didn’t have these problems ten years ago, when future memories were processed as a matter of course. Is something different about the way memories are being received today?”’
“That might not be true,” Tanner says, his steps slow, his words slower. “They might’ve had this problem ten years ago.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“The amber-colored syringe that the nurse was injecting into Danni’s arm. Look familiar?”
She gasps. “Oh dear Fate. You’re right.”
We continue walking, both of them lost in their thoughts. I have no idea what they’re talking about. I should probably just ask, but my jaws seem to be fused shut, once again. No doubt they’ve forgotten I’m here.
As I try to work up my courage, Tanner turns to me without prompting. “You know Jessa and I time-traveled to the past, right?” He rubs the skin between his ring and middle finger. “Well, we saw your mom. Even back then, ten years ago, she was medicating herself. She had a standing order for a formula, seven doses every week.” He pauses. “It was amber, just like Danni’s.”
I frown, but I don’t say anything.
He shrugs, as though he’s read my mind. “It could be some kind of painkiller. Or maybe she and Danni are being treated for the same disease.”
“There’s more.” Jessa’s voice is gentle—too gentle. “I saw your mom walk into a door last night.”
My mouth finally opens. “And I stubbed my toe on a…”
…cleaning bot. Fike. Not only did I drop the last part of my sentence, but the words I did say came out too fast, too loud. For years, I talked only to myself and the chipmunks, so I have little practice with voice modulation. I swallow hard, order myself not to break off mid-sentence, and try again. “Being clumsy’s not a crime.” Great. Now my words are so soft I doubt either of them heard me. At least I completed the sentence.
“That wasn’t the first time I’ve seen her be clumsy,” Jessa continues, unfazed. “When she came by my cottage, to show me the vision that I would be her assistant in the future, she almost crashed into a transport tube.”
I lift my eyebrows, since nonverbal movements are an easier form of communication. Jessa’s “evidence” doesn’t prove anything other than that my mother might need new retinal implants. And yet, cement fills my veins.
I had no idea about the syringes. Not the first clue that my mother has a condition that reaches back ten years. For a moment, the old nightmares come back to me, the ones depicting a time that’s dreary, desolate, desperate. People fading away. Our world stitched together by a single thread that’s unraveling, unraveling, unraveling…
No! I slam shut the door to that vision and reinforce it with a fortress wall, brick by brick. No. I refuse to grant entry to those
images. I refuse to let them rise to the level of conscious thought.
Ten years ago, I was teetering on the edge of madness, caused by seeing too much and too far into our possible futures. My mom whisked me to a cabin in the woods so that I could work on building the mental walls that would protect me.
She must’ve done something to herself, too, because shortly before my isolation, I stopped being able to reach into her future.
Gone was the phantom woman who loved me. Gone were the different versions of Marigold Dresden who rocked me and held me tight. Gone were the alternate realities I used to comfort myself. Maybe it was silly to mourn the loss of a woman who didn’t exist, but I did.
And I never forgot her.
“Olivia, are you okay?” Jessa asks, concern etched in her lovely teardrop eyes.
I take a shaky breath. Nausea roils through my stomach, and a thousand knives jab into my brain. But I erected my mental walls just in time. I’m safe, for the moment.
“I’m fine,” I mouth. My words don’t rise to the level of audible hearing, but Jessa’s been around me enough that she should understand what I’m saying.
Before she can respond, the head technician, Bao, flies out of the control room. “Miss Stone, I don’t want to interrupt,” he bursts out. “But we’ve got a late arrival who’s just about to receive his future memory. And I think it’s one you’ll want to see.”
3
We follow Bao back into the control room, where a knot of people is crowded around a single com terminal.
I frown. What in time? Aside from the technicians not working, there’s a vibe in the air, a kind of gossip-fueled excitement that means people are gleeful and downright…celebratory?
“What’s going on?” Jessa asks.
“It’s one of the fugitives,” a woman with freckles across her nose says. “The ones the chairwoman’s been obsessed with tracking down. He’s been caught at the perimeter of Eden City.”
Another employee with burnished skin and a circuit board tattoo punches the air. “He walked right up to a pharmacy bot and tried to dispense some medication. Guess he didn’t know about the bio-mapping we just installed.”
“He’s hot, too,” a young female technician whispers to her friend. “If all the other fugitives looked like that, I wouldn’t mind getting lost in the woods.”
Sweat pops up on Jessa’s forehead. “Exactly who are we talking about?”
“Take a look for yourself.” Bao runs his hands over the keyball, and a holographic image of a boy leaps into the air.
He’s tall. That’s the first thing I notice. He must be six-two or six-three, although it’s hard to tell because he’s strapped to a chair, straining against the chains that cross over his biceps and thighs. Oval sensors, with wires emanating from them, are placed all over his head, and he’s not wearing a shirt. Dark brown skin covers muscled arms and a chest that’s ripped and corded. He could be a model for a gold-star boxing champion if it weren’t for the angry slashes decorating his forearms and pecs. Either he’s been resisting the guards—or those are just the injuries you get from living in the wilderness.
I swallow hard. I’ve been in isolation most of my life. For all I know, this is what teen boys look like. But somehow, I doubt it. He has such a…presence that I feel like I should avert my gaze. And yet, even though I’ve spent the last six months training my eyes to the floor, I can’t look away.
“No,” Jessa moans. Her knees buckle, and the only reason she remains standing is because Tanner wraps an arm around her waist. I glance quickly at the others, but the crowd’s buzzing so excitedly they don’t notice her reaction.
My mind whirls. A fugitive…his smooth brown skin…Jessa’s despair…
Oh holy Fates. The boy in the hologram must be none other than Ryder Russell, Jessa’s best friend…before she betrayed him. Before she pushed the red security button, alerting the Public Safety Agency to traitors in their midst. Before she forced him and the rest of her family to leave civilization and go on the run.
Sure, she gave them the supplies they needed in order to survive in the wilderness. She believed that betraying her family was her only way to infiltrate the system and stop the chairwoman.
And yet, the guilt of the last six months radiates deep in her eyes. She clenches her jaw, keeping her expression rigidly neutral. If I wasn’t looking straight at her, I wouldn’t see her pain. But I’m looking. I see.
The air in my chest burns. Fates, I didn’t know. I didn’t realize the betrayal affected her this strongly. Every day for the last six months, Jessa’s been by my side. She’s gone through the motions. She’s more than convinced the chairwoman of her loyalty. And just now, I’m beginning to understand her calm, cool facade is only a mask.
“He’s okay, Jessa,” Tanner murmurs. Instead of drifting back, this time, I’ve moved forward. Away from the crowd, closer to Jessa and Tanner. “He’s not hurt,” my old playmate continues. “He’s alive.”
“He’s in chains,” she says softly, so that only we can hear. “Like an animal. What about the others?” Her breath comes out jerky, like she could use a paper bag. “What about Callie and my mom? Logan, Mikey, Angela. And oh Fates, baby Remi. Were they captured, too?”
He shakes his head because he doesn’t know. And Fates help me, I don’t know, either. For all my reputed powers, the only thing I could tell her is that in approximately two-thirds of the possible paths, Ryder’s been captured alone. A lot of good that statistic does any of us.
“Okay, everyone,” Bao announces. “We’re going to retrieve the memory from the boy’s head. If you want to experience it, put on your headsets.”
All around us, people eagerly slip on their gear. One of the technicians hands me a metal contraption that looks like the inner skeleton of a hoverboard helmet.
I put on the headset. What did Bao mean, retrieve the memory? That’s not the usual language. Ryder’s supposed to open his mind, and then the vision’s supposed to come to him.
Before I can figure it out, I am jerked into a different body and a different time.
I am in a narrow corridor. Deep underground, if the lack of natural light is any indication. The cool air chills my arms and blows against the nape of my neck.
Which means my hair is short. I look down at my forearms. I have thick, ropy muscles. The body of a boxer.
I walk a few steps. My hover shoes squish against the concrete floor. A dank smell fills my nose, and then I come upon an ornate doorway…
…
Without warning, I’m pulled out of the vision.
I blink, and the control room with its whirring com terminals comes back into focus.
“What in Fates was that?” Tanner asks, rubbing his head.
Bao’s hands are a blur on the keyball. “The subject is resisting the memory.”
“Why would he resist?” Jessa asks. “He’s the one opening his mind to it.”
A muscle ticks at the corner of Bao’s mouth. “The subject’s not cooperating. We’re using the fumes to pry the memory from his mind.”
My spine goes perfectly rigid. So Bao didn’t misspeak. He’s employing the same fumes that were used on Jessa’s sister, Callie. The same fumes that were used on Jessa herself when the scientists kidnapped her as a child.
“Oh look, the memory’s back!” the guy with the circuit board tattoos shouts.
I’ve just put the headset back on when Ryder wrenches out of the vision again.
“We’ve got a strong one.” Bao taps his fingers on his chin. “They aren’t usually able to resist again so soon.”
“How do you know?” I burst out, forgetting that I’m the Shadow. Forgetting that I’m not supposed to talk. “Has this happened…”
…before?
Bao chews on the inside of his cheek. “From time to time.”’
“How often?” Tanner presses.
“About once a week,” he admits. “These days, not everyone wants their glimpse of tomorrow, you know. After w
hat happened to Callie Stone, some of them feel like they’re better off not knowing. But FuMA needs everyone to receive their memories—and follow through. So if they don’t show on their seventeenth birthdays, we round them up. And force the memories out of them.”
I want to throw up. This is terrible. They can’t do that. They can’t make people live memories they don’t want.
But they can. And they are. This is precisely why we have to stop my mother, so we can end these practices—and worse. Much worse.
All of a sudden, the vision roars back, and because the helmet is still on my head, I’m thrown back into the corridor.
…
Intricate designs are carved in the frame of the door, so detailed and precise that I assume the material is made of wood. But the doorway is not wood but metal—
…
We are yanked out of the vision again. And then two more times after that. Each time shows us a little more of the door, builds a little more of the fear and anticipation at the back of my throat.
“He’s getting weaker,” Bao says into his wrist com after the third time we’re pulled out. Who is he talking to? Is it—?
“Just stay the course, Chairwoman,” the head technician continues. “He won’t be able to fight much longer.”
Of course. My mother. Since it concerns one of the fugitives, she’s in the room with Ryder, administering the receipt of this memory herself.
A low moan escapes from Jessa’s throat, and I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. Before I can swallow it, the memory’s back.
…
A beeping emanates from the other side of the door. I scan my biometrics, and the metal slides open. The smell hits me first—lemony air freshener mixed with leftover blood. I step into an arena.
A handful of people stand in the stadium seats. In the middle of the floor, a girl is chained to a throne-like chair, one made with cold silver metal and hollow glass legs. Clumps of hair fall across her face. Her clothes are tattered—but not because they’re old. The rips look intentional and violent, and red scratches gleam through the gaping holes of the material.