In My Memory Locked

by Jim Nelson

  Naked, I sat on a squat cypress stool before an oval heated mirror. Using a showerhead on a coil hose, I rinsed off. I let the hot water drizzle down my face and chest. Then I poured a dollop of an oatmeal-based shampoo into my left paw and began scrubbing my head. It had been recommended to me by a personal reality consultant, another Nexternet service I subscribed to. I’d resisted buying the stuff. It was expensive as hell and came in a bottle the size of homeopathic cure-alls, but I relented and did as my consultant said. The gritty shampoo smelled of witch hazel and scraped my scalp. It was like washing my hair with wet sand. I soaped up the rest of my sagging body with a guava-based wash using a coarse sponge harvested from the sea. The personal reality consultant recommended this procedure as well. The sponge’s brambly edges scraped off the dead skin and loose body hair and made the hot water sting like aftershave. Finally, I rinsed myself off using a cypress bucket. Soap-laden water slopped off my body and fell to the tiles. The suds made a slow circle about the cross-hatched drain in the center of the floor.

  The running bathwater had halted when it reached the appropriate level. A soft musical interlude came from the bath, indicating it was ready. Six cheery notes. Mozart, I think.

  With the breakfast food out of my hair and the breakfast juice off my skin, I brushed and flossed and gargled using more boutique crap the Nexternet bot had recommended to me. The personal reality expert consulted on body security. I consulted on computer security. I expected my clients to listen to my advice, although they rarely did. She expected me to listen to her advice. For the most part, I did.

  Dripping and slick from the shower, I slipped one foot into the bath, then the second, then submerged myself to my chin. Miniature water jets began moving the hot water around.

  “I want to create a new case Wiki,” I announced. I didn’t need to talk. I was communicating via my memex. Sheer thought was sufficient for interacting with my personal data server. I was alone most of the day and it felt good to talk, though. Outside of work, I didn’t have much occasion to talk to people.

  “Mark the Wiki private,” I said. “Name the Wiki ‘Alcatraz.’”

  The Wiki was an organizational tool, a free-form database of details, ideas, facts, and theories. The software automatically organized my thoughts by discerning links between every thought I dumped into it. As the links grew, a web of knowledge formed. Clusters and hot intersections in the web indicated areas of inquiry to develop further. I dumped into the Wiki every random scrap of information I could offer. It was a fresh Wiki and in construction mode. I tossed at it fragments and snippets of conversation and incidental details like dumping meat scraps in a bucket. The Wiki deftly organized the data as fast as I offered it.

  I told the Wiki of my trip to Alcatraz Island and of my conversation with Clift and the gray beards. The Wiki knew of the Old Internet and the Commission—that was easy for it to retrieve across the Nexternet—but so little information was available about the internals of the Commission's layout and structure, I described as best I could the organization of the data servers in their cells. With my memex disconnected during my lunch with the gray beards, I couldn't simply let my Wiki access my memories directly.

  “Dr. Clift says the security breach is a random hacker,” I told the Wiki. “I think it’s unlikely.”

  “I’ve marked it Unlikely,” the Wiki told me.

  “I need a data dimension on external researchers,” I told it. “Academics around the world access the Old Internet for their research. I’m certain that means they have privileged access to the body of saved web sites. I’m looking for someone with a motivation to corrupt the historical record. Or someone with a grudge who wants to embarrass Clift.”

  The Wiki processed further, forming connections and hierarchies and taxonomies of the raw data I was dumping into it.

  “Also need to look into anyone who could access the Old Internet from terminals on Alcatraz Island itself. Interns, associates, researchers in residence, all of that. It’s possible someone years ago installed a rootkit on the inside and only activated it two weeks ago. I need you to look into a valet who lives out there with them, this weird mute guy who serves them hand and foot. His name is Brill. Give me a background check on him. Their cook is named Thierry. I need information on him as well.”

  The Wiki learned quickly. “What about Dr. Clift?”

  I pondered it. “Yeah, draw a line of inquiry on Clift too. He might be behind the breach. It would be strange, but I’ve seen stranger.”

  “Should I draw a line of inquiry on the other two administrators?”

  Drs. Warwick and Marker were so frail, a sudden notion would bowl them over. I began to tell the Wiki not to bother. It turned out the Wiki had already found them listed in the OIPC charter and had already researched all their pertinent information. When the Wiki is going full steam, it’s adding data points faster than you can.

  “Marker built the bridge between their servers and the Nexternet,” I told the Wiki. “Would be useful to know if he has a bona fide background in computer security. That bridge is highly specialized software.”

  Too often, computer programmers think they understand computer security without actually holding formal knowledge of the field. They proceed to implement a security model without evaluating the weaknesses inherent to their approach. Vanity prevents them from seeing their own faults. It’s like asking a bank’s vice-president to design the vault. He’ll architect it, build it, install it, and proudly unveil it to the world in a ribbon-cutting ceremony. That night, they’re robbed blind.

  “There’s a wild card in all of this,” I told the Wiki. “Leigh Blessing, a graduate student who lived on the island for two years. She left shortly after the breach. Clift was cagey about her. There’s something more going on there.”

  The Wiki formed a new data dimension around her. It could not fill it with many data points, however.

  “She has a boyfriend,” I told it. “He was described as ‘unpleasant.' I wonder if he’s the jealous type.”

  “Name?” the Wiki asked.

  “I didn’t get one. You’ll need to dig him up for me. When you get it, check if he has a police record.”

  In the background, the Wiki was accessing hard information on all the names I’d dumped into it: the Old Internet Preservation Commission, Dr. Clift, Leigh Blessing, and more.

  “She was sponsored by the Chancellor Foundation,” I told the Wiki. “Look into that too.”

  In my mind, via my memex, I could see links and lines emanating from a box marked Chancellor Foundation. The Wiki was already burrowing into its history.

  "Speculation?" the Wiki prompted me.

  My Wiki was one of the most secure pieces of software I used. The only way I would trust it with all this raw information is due to my belief it is not easily susceptible to spying or attack.

  "I don't really believe Clift had anything to do with the data deletion," I confessed to it. "He stands to lose a lot if it comes out his Commission is failing to keep the Old Internet safe and secure."

  "Who tops your list?" The Wiki desires speculation merely as launching points for sifting data and prioritizing its efforts.

  "I believe the data was stolen, not deleted," I said. Hesitating, I added, "And I'm related to the stolen data. It's a film called Detachment. I played the lead role in that film."

  The Wiki searched the Old Internet. "Confirmed. The film is no longer available. Catalog information about the film is listed, however." After a pause, the Wiki said, "No one named C.F. Naroy is associated with the film."

  "I know," I said. "And that's how it should be."

  "Accepting speculation." The Wiki prompted me again to garner a guess, provide it a lead to concentrate its efforts on.

  Who the hell was trying to delete every copy of Detachment? It made as much sense as attempting to remove from the world every copy of “Dear Abby” printed on January 3rd, 1983. In 2010 and 2011, sure, millions watched Detachment on the Internet. It was
a sensation. It went viral, as they used to say. In 2038, the film was nothing—not even a footnote in the history of the Internet. A bad student film produced on a credit card, poorly acted and poorly executed. Who the hell would want to delete every copy held in stasis.

  I would, of course. Detachment ruined my life. I had a mountain of motivation for making sure Detachment could never be seen again by anyone. I escaped the curse of that film by changing my name, changing my face, and moving to another continent for a decade. Damn right I was motivated to wipe Detachment from the historical record. I even possessed the technical know-how to break into the Old Internet and make such a possibility reality. The problem was, I had no memory of doing such a thing.

  I disconnected from the Wiki. My brain felt like it had been sprinting since nine in the morning, starting when I stepped into Stevenson Alley and saw Agg’s corpse lying in the gutter. While I dried off, a notification arrived, a light ding sounding in the back of my head. With a few mental commands, I verified the transfer of ten thousand dollars from an anonymous cryptocurrency fund located in Antigua and Barbuda. The grey beards moved about their snug island at the speed of dust, but Clift was lightning prompt in payment and savvy about not being traced.

  I detached my memex and its tendrils wilted in my hand. I was disconnected from the Nexternet now. I was truly alone now, just me and my memories. Even that felt crowded.

  Feeling—I don’t know?—nostalgic, I loaded a two-dimensional movie on the wall screen. I took to my easy chair to watch and listen to the drama play out before me. It was exotic—unnerving, even—to watch a film this way. Framed by the edges of the view screen, I felt like a peeping Tom sneaking looks through an open window into other people’s lives. With modern hypernovels and the ability to fully live another life via memex, overhearing other people’s conversations this way felt…dirty.

  The movie was Forgotten Planet, a black-and-white from 1956. In it, an advanced civilization destroys itself after building a worldwide communications network capable of transmitting every thought instantaneously. The hero gets the girl in the end. That seems to be the only question in these old films: Does he get the girl or not? So much more was at stake.

  At my little makeshift wet bar, I prepared a Blue Pharjé. The syrupy liquid dripped like an aqua-neon filament from bottle to the short glass I used. I swirled the drink. The viscous liquid briefly coated the inner walls before retreating down to the bright blue puddle of the neuroliqueur I’d poured for myself.

  I had to find that data. No way was it deleted. It had been stolen, and sure as hell the thief would either be trying to sell it on the darknet or extorting Clift for its return. And either of those possibilities could lead to publicity. People would be watching Detachment again, for the first time in twenty-five years. I could not let that happen. I had to delete the film. Even if it meant forfeiting my fee, I had to wipe that film from the world's collective memory.

  As the movie’s credits rolled up the screen, I slugged back the blue drink in one swift motion. I went to the kitchen sink, washed and rinsed the glass, and set it on the drying stand. A few moments later, the Blue Pharjé took effect. My organic memories detached from me just as I’d detached my digital memories when I removed my memex. I became, for a few hours, a man of the present moment. The neuroliqueur so attuned me to the here and now, I can’t remember anything else from that night.

  8.

  After the shift in weather years earlier sent the population fleeing from San Francisco for more moderate climes, they chopped up the Golden Gate Theater and converted it to work-living lofts and office space. I rented an office on the ground floor, a staggered box cut into two cubes. The bottom half of my office occupied a portion of the theater’s front three rows. The cushioned rock-back chairs lined the center of the makeshift waiting room. Up a short flight of stairs and through a door, the upper half of my office occupied stage left. Other businesses claimed offices stage right and back stage. Additional work-living lofts were arranged up the balconies’ old box seats. A common receptionist manned the box office during office hours.

  The receptionist in the box office made an obligatory hand wave to me and I nodded in return. In the dark theater, I unlocked the door to my waiting room, turned on the inner lights, and set the room heater to low. Rain had rumbled all morning and the interior temperature was chilly. My mailbox was empty, not unusual in an age of electronic messaging. The door to my office was up a stubby flight of portable wooden stairs, an original piece of stage equipment used during rehearsals and now a permanent fixture in my office.

  My office smelled of old coffee grounds and a tinge of mold from the constant humidity San Francisco now suffers from. The chill was more pronounced than in the waiting room. With my memex, I ordered the electric heater on, ordered the coffee maker to start brewing, and manually turned up the lights. I stripped off my hat and overcoat and hung them on the tree in the corner.

  Right then, the receptionist in the box office buzzed me. He informed me a visitor was there to see me. I’d made no appointments. I told the receptionist to usher the visitor inside.

  Navigating the carved-up theater floor was a bit of a challenge, so I went outside to the seating area and stood before my office door. For a moment, I admired the ornate moldings and sweeping arcs of the grand old theater. This was a place that had once served up Shakespeare, Rodgers & Hammerstein, and Arthur Miller. The weight of loss was heavy in the air. It was a weight felt across the city.

  In the dim light, a figure padded down the aisle toward me. He was a tall young man with a tan mop of Beatles hair. He wore a light gray jacket, matching cigarette pants, a thin black tie, and dull black shoes. His jacket and hair were dusted wet from the rain. If he was surprised by the arrangements inside the theater, he did not show it. Of course, many of the old buildings in San Francisco have been chopped up for other uses now. Once you’ve lived here for a while, one butcher job looks like them all.

  “Mr. Naroy?” He stammered my name, hesitating as he got close to me.

  It was my face. He couldn’t help but stare. It’s a biological reaction, completely involuntary. People will make a full judgment of you from only your face in a quarter of a second. Your face is your soul, your intellect, your status as a human being. My face, pruned and lumpy like folded bread dough, was my boat anchor.

  “Thank you for seeing me on short notice,” he managed to get out.

  “You gave me no notice at all.” I ushered him inside my waiting room.

  I led him up the short wooden stairs to my office on top of the stage. Standing at the visitor’s chair before my desk, he turned to and fro to take in the particulars. My office was a stark affair: no windows, no wallpaper, not even a calendar on the wall. I closed the door between my office and the waiting room to ease his mind about confidentiality.

  “One thing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Could you unmute?”

  The young man had muted himself. That is, his memex was transmitting a denial signal to all other memexes in the vicinity. His memex ordered my memex to avoid recording his image and voice, or even his presence at all. Muting one’s self is a privacy measure, a way of preventing others from transmitting your face and words across the globe. There are ways to hack around mutes—ways to reprogram your memex to ignore mute requests—but I was not in that business.

  “I would prefer to remain muted,” he said.

  “Certainly you know that coming to me is a way of trusting me,” I said. “I’m not going to record you and use it against you later.”

  He sniffled and continued to take in my office. “I’d prefer to remain muted.”

  I motioned behind him. “Take a seat. Unless you prefer to stand too.”

  He turned about as though surprised to find the chair. He swiveled back and extended his hand to me. “Ellis Lotte.”

  “C.F. Naroy.”

  “Should I call you—”

  “Naroy is fine,” I said.<
br />
  His grip was frozen custard. It was the handshake of a disinterested person. He lowered himself into the visitor’s chair.

  Thinking it would be a quick meeting, I leaned on the edge of my desk, a mere foot or two in front of him.

  “Is this a personal or professional concern?”

  “Personal,” he said.

  “I don’t accept much personal work,” I said. “My clients are corporate and government agencies. My rates aren’t geared toward individuals.”

  “It’s business-related, in a way.”

  “That may be, but I’m not accepting clients at the moment.” As Agg liked to say, there’s a certain satisfaction in turning away work. “I could’ve saved you a trip downtown if you’d messaged me.”

  “I can make this worth your while.” He spoke flatly, not in a demanding or pleading voice. “I have kind of painted myself into a corner.”

  This man with a flat personality and a salamander’s grip had the air of an interloper. He struck me as one of those people who sits beside you at an otherwise-empty bar and starts telling you about his day at work. One of those guys who approaches a woman on the train and tells her he wants to date her that night. People will give certain men the benefit of the doubt in those kinds of situations. He was good-looking enough to receive such benefit of the doubt.

  “I know of other computer security agencies in town happy to take your money.” Still leaning against my desk, I twisted back to look for their business cards, which I keep handy for such situations. “I’ll gladly refer you.”

  He shifted in his seat, staring past me. “I already went to one of the others.” He sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his right hand. “Name of Michael Aggaroy. Did you know him?”

  I circled the desk and sat in my chair.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I knew Agg.”