by Laura Lam
Mana-ma’s Cautionary Tale
One night around twenty years ago now—let’s say it was dark and stormy, because what else could it be?—a man from the Impure outside world snuck into the Hearth. In those days, there was just a fence rather than a swamp. There were signs everywhere saying that the fence was charged, but it was a lie. We didn’t want to be surrounded by the new generator that would have been used. Surrounded by an Impure circle, the Hearth would feel just that much more trapped. Makes no sense, if you ask me, since the Hearth was already surrounded by, you know, the entire Impure world.
So this bogeyman came into the Hearth from San Francisco, creeping and sneaking his way closer to the main settlement. Mana-ma took great delight in explaining how horrible he looked, with green hair and metal studs, moving tattoos and Impure clothing, none of it made from good cotton, silk or leather.
Why did he come? Let’s see … perhaps he ran out of money and thought he’d be able to steal from us. (That would have been a failure—we didn’t have anything worth anything, except some vintage stuff in not-too-good condition. Well, at least that’s what I thought at the time.) Mana-ma said he thought he’d be able to get away with a crime more easily here. And that was maybe true, but she left out how low crime in the evil, Impure world really was, which would have made a few people wonder if it was really that bad if it was so safe.
This bogeyman came right into the center of the Hearth and stole a young girl from her own home. He drugged her and dragged her, kicking and screaming (evidently not loud enough to wake anyone up), into the forest. Under the silent redwood trees he had his way with her, holding a knife to her throat and saying if she screamed that he’d give her another smile. So he hurt her and she stayed quiet. Just as she was about to give up and scream so he would kill her (because people would somehow hear that scream), a brave member of the Hearth came to her rescue.
This upstanding member of the Hearth fought off the intruder and the miscreant was slain. Though the girl was obviously traumatized by events, through the help of the Hearth she was able to release the darkness the man had planted within her, at least for a time. Later, the darkness took hold of her again and nothing could be done for her.
“This tragedy is why we must remain separate,” Mana-ma would cry, holding her arm up high at the pulpit. “This is what we seek to prevent. For the Impure can poison the minds of the Pure, and we must guard that untainted spark within us all.”
It was always that sort of lesson—that the Impure would blemish us all and we were the last true humans, unaltered, unsullied.
The thing is: that’s not remotely what happened.
The Real Story
The man who came to the Hearth came to rescue the girl, not hurt her.
A gap in the story is, I have no idea how he knew her. Perhaps they met in the forest: her on one side of the former chain-link fence around the border, and him on the other. I could imagine the romance developing—putting their fingers through the metal wires and touching for the first time.
Eventually, the girl wanted to escape and they came up with a plan. When she didn’t stick to it, he grew worried. Thoughts swirled through his head: maybe her parents kept her in, or she even changed her mind at the last minute.
So he came into the Hearth, worried, not wanting to leave without her. She’d told him where she lived, and he peeked in her window.
He was seen.
The Hearth would automatically recognize someone not of their own, especially this boy in his synthetic clothing, bright green hair, moving tattoos on his knuckles.
They grabbed him, dragged him to the main chapel. Mana-ma had been roused from bed. I can imagine her, hair wild around her face, wearing her dark robes like a witch. The boy was nervous, probably a bit sheepish. Thought if he apologized and left, it’d all be OK.
Instead, they didn’t let him go.
He was thrown into one of the empty rooms that nobody used. They managed to get out of him who he was and why he was there. Then they went and got the girl.
The girl had planned to go. Her parents had caught her leaving with a small rucksack under her arm and locked her in her room. They were the ones to alert the watch, who had found the boy. The girl was more scared than the boy. She didn’t like the blank looks on their faces. They could be thinking anything.
Mana-ma was incensed. This boy had infringed on them, slipped past the toll roads, the infrequent park wardens, the fence, to come into the inner sanctum of the Hearth itself. The whole place would have to be Purified to prevent his presence from poisoning everything. The girl was sobbing, but the boy didn’t say anything. He knew crying wouldn’t solve anything when they’d already made up their minds.
They were all up all night, or at least all of them except the boy. He died at sunrise.
They didn’t kill him quickly. Mana-ma did most of it, with only her three trusted right-hand men. (Importantly, my parents weren’t involved. I think they learned about this after, and it was what put the biggest dent in their faith.) One restrained the boy and the other the girl. Throughout it all, Mana-ma lectured about the sins of evil and darkness, all while she tortured a boy to death in front of the girl who loved him. She used a scalpel, and she was delicate and dedicated in her work. The room was soundproof, so nobody else heard the screams.
They took the body of the boy away when the sun had crept over the tops of the redwood trees, but they weren’t done with the girl. Mana-ma used every trick in the book to brainwash and manipulate her. Before long, she believed it was her fault, that the boy was evil, that Mana-ma had saved her. Yet she was dead inside, walking around like a zombie, unable to feel happiness or sadness.
The spell didn’t last forever. Eventually, Mana-ma stopped paying such close attention to the girl. There were other things on Mana-ma’s mind besides a follower she thought had been dealt with. The girl started thinking again. Started waking up. And one night, deep in the dark when the moon was just a little sliver in the sky, she escaped and climbed over the chain-link fence, making her way to San Francisco, where the Hearth could not catch her.
When Mana-ma realized a member of her flock had fled, she was even angrier. That’s when the swamp was created. She said it was to protect us from those outside who would want to hurt us. It’s really to keep everyone inside.
* * *
These were the people Taema and I were raised with.
These were the people we were trying to escape from, naive and unaware of what we were really dealing with.
You must be wondering where I learned this story, if we didn’t know it when we left. Or perhaps you’ve already figured it out.
The girl in the story was Mia, the woman who took us in after we left. The woman who saved us before she damned me.
TWENTY-TWO
TAEMA
We’ve come to see Kim again.
We haven’t gone back to that empty safe house; instead, we’re going to her home. She seems nervous as she opens the door and ushers us inside. She’s been sworn to secrecy. At the moment, not even Sudice is meant to know what she’s about to do to us. If they find out she’s lied, even if it’s on behalf of the SFPD, she could easily lose her job.
Nazarin knew, without a doubt, that she’d do it. His former partner, Juliane Amello, had been her partner as well. Her wife. She died, and Kim wants answers, too. Or at least retribution.
“Well, no point wasting time in pointless pleasantries or offering you a cup of tea,” she says. “Might as well come through to the lab.”
We follow. I had forgotten how tiny Kim is. At the safe house, she wore a simple suit, but now she’s wearing something made of strips of fabric in all the colors of the rainbow, and it billows behind her as she walks.
Her home is large and sumptuous. As she’s one of the most talented biohackers in the world, this doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is how cluttered it is. On the way here, Nazarin told me that Kim collects old memorabilia, specifically from the t
wentieth and twenty-first centuries, before the Great Upheaval. I think he told me so I wouldn’t be quite so taken aback when I saw it all.
Most of the cheesy knickknacks from the past have been recycled by now, but Kim hunts down the remaining ones and probably pays a lot of money for the lurid plastic and metal figurines that seem to stare at us as we walk through the lounge. Superheroes and celebrities I don’t recognize, cartoon animals with eyes far too large for their faces. It all seems strangely alien to me as someone who grew up in the Hearth. There, nothing was made by robots or replicators and toys were hand-carved and took weeks to make. Here, in San Francisco, so much was ordered and then recycled the next day. Clothes worn once, plates made of compostable material. Cherishing things from the past was rare. I mean, what in the world was Hello Kitty?
“Like ’em?” Kim asks, noticing my stare. “I got the biggest collection on the West Coast.”
“They’re … interesting,” I say.
She laughs. “Yeah, it’s tacky as hell, but I don’t care. A girl’s gotta have a hobby.” She was serious when she let us in, but now she’s striving for lightness. It’s forced. Underneath she’s as scared as we are.
At the end of the hall, Kim presses her fingertip to the sensor and the door slides open. We step through into her lab.
Though the lab is small, it’s fitted with the best equipment, stuff I would have killed to have in my lab at Silvercloud Solutions. The Chair bolted to the floor in the middle of the room reminds me uncomfortably of the Zealot lounge.
“All right, who’s going first?” she asks.
“Me,” Nazarin says, to my relief. He sits in the Chair, and Kim straps him in.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she mutters to herself.
“Yes, you do.”
“Don’t kid yourself, babe,” she says, pinching his cheek. “You’re not my type.”
She winks at me and I smile a little.
“OK, then. You want to prove to yourself you can do it. I’ve appealed to your professional pride.”
“That’s a bit closer, but you forget, I’ve done this before.”
“I guess that’s a comfort,” Nazarin says. “You won’t leave me blind and deaf.”
“Most likely not.”
Neither of them mentions Juliane. I have the feeling they rarely speak about her, even though she’s a shared link between them. Too painful for them both. Better to banter and tease, even when they’re both terrified.
“Now shut up,” she says, without rancor. “I have to concentrate.”
He dutifully shuts up as Kim attaches the last of the wires. It is almost exactly the same set-up as at the Zeal lounge, and I say so.
“Where do you think they got the idea for it, buttercup?” she asks. “Who do you think helped develop Zeal, if not the biohackers? Grade A Sudice merchandise right from the start.”
It’s rather obvious now that I think about it, but I know nobody who did Zeal, except Mia. My throat twinges as I think of her. She didn’t have a funeral, and even if she had, no one would have come.
Kim turns on the screen on the table next to the Chair, her quick fingers dancing as she brings up the various controls. It only strikes me now how dangerous this all is.
Kim is going to hack into Nazarin’s brain.
“Does it hurt?” I ask. Switching my identity had been easy and painless. This isn’t a chip in a wrist. Implants are wired right into your brain.
“It won’t be pleasant, I’m sorry to say.” She fills a syringe with unidentified liquid. “Why do you think we don’t have our implants set to record as standard? Be able to keep our memories and replay them in their entirety whenever we want?”
“No idea.”
“We’re not meant to remember every little thing. If we were, that’s what our brains would do. They’re not meant to store so much. They can be overwhelmed. Even brainloading is too much for many. Not every brain can do it. But non-stop recording? I am part of a Sudice project that works on it.” She pauses, looking haunted. “Some subjects end up going crazy, and some brains shut down. Aneurysms. Strokes. Poof. Gone.” She snaps her fingers. “So it will probably be nixed pretty soon. Most of us involved in the project are glad it hasn’t been easy, to tell the truth. You know why?”
I shake my head.
“It makes people vulnerable. People already try to hack into implants all the time—send adverts and things. Imagine hacking into your very being. Your very self.”
I lick my lips. And what would the government do with that power?
“The government are trying,” she says, echoing my thoughts. “Boy, are they trying. They fund all our research, and it isn’t cheap. If brain recording worked better, you can bet your bottom dollar that we’d all be recording, all the time. I mean, surveillance is old as time.”
She drifts off, fiddling with something, and then sets the code to process. “Anyway, it’s been abandoned for widespread use now, until they can figure out how not to fry people. Maybe at some point we’ll crack it fully. Until then, I developed a way to turn it on for anyone, at least for a little while. A back door.”
A back door into my brain. “Do you have to … use it often?” Forced brain recording. It sounds barbaric.
“Very rarely.” Her eyes go distant and blank. I swallow. I wonder what she’s had to see, had to do, but I don’t ask. Easier to think of her as a brilliant, eccentric woman with a penchant for nicknames and bobblehead figurines.
She shakes her head, coming out of it. “Not many people know about brain recording. You didn’t for sure, did you, tulip?” Kim asks Nazarin. He’s lying back in the seat, his eyes half-lidded. Whatever Kim gave him, he’s relaxed and high.
“Educated guess.”
“Smart boy,” she says fondly. His eyes flutter and he’s out cold.
Kim sighs. “Here we go.”
“Wait,” I say. “You’re really not calming me down here. Are we going to go insane or die?”
She meets my eyes. “I’m very good at this. Yes, there’s still a chance. Nazarin understands the risks, and he wants to do it. Do you? You have a choice.”
“Give … give me a minute.”
“Sure. You can see what happens with Nazarin. Then decide.” She looks down at Nazarin, runs her hand over the rough stubble of his head, and then presses a button on the Chair.
Nazarin goes rigid. Sweat beads on his skin almost immediately, leaving tracks down his temples. Kim frowns at one of the wallscreens, her fingers dancing over a projected keyboard as she studies code that means nothing to me, for all my courses in software engineering. With a flick of her wrist, a map of Nazarin’s mind appears, floating over her head like a nebula.
Kim zooms in on the occipital lobe and the auditory cortex first. I remember when people first mentioned implants to me, I thought they were just one machine, firmly glued somehow to the brain. Really, there’s a main receiver and dozens, hundreds of little implants scattered through the brain. They call it neural dust. Microscopic little computers, no thicker than a human hair, all taking the data from the brain and feeding in data from the outside world.
Nazarin has more implants than me. “What are those?” I ask, pointing at the various other parts of his brain also speckled with neural dust.
She frowns as she concentrates, changing the view to focus on the tiny machines. “They put them in when he went undercover. Extra receivers for brainloads. Implants to help memory in the hippocampus, extra occipital lobe implants to help retention and processing. There’s more in the brain stem and cerebellum to aid with coordination—you’ll notice he’s not clumsy, and very fast when he needs to be. So they’re there, and they help, but they don’t record the way you two need the brain to record. It makes this tricky, though. There’s a lot of little bits of metal in his head. Now stop talking.”
I snap my mouth shut. Kim’s barely blinking. Her fingers gesture as she imparts code to the tiny metal specks in Nazarin’s brain.
&nb
sp; Machines beep—Nazarin’s heartbeat speeds up, warning alarms ping. Nazarin arches on his Chair, his mouth open in a silent scream. He jerks as if he’s having a seizure, spittle flying from his mouth. The veins in his neck stand out.
His heart flatlines.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Kim’s fingers fly faster.
“What’s happening?” I have my hands over my mouth. I dart forward but Kim snarls at me to stay back. Nazarin is already turning grayish. His eyes are open and bulging, their whites red with burst capillaries.
“Shut up!” Kim takes another syringe and stabs it into his heart. I watch, unable to think, unable to speak.
I don’t want him to die.
Nazarin’s heart starts again, and he gasps, his breathing hoarse.
“Oh, thank Christ.” Kim slumps against a counter. “I told them, I fucking told them not to ask me to put in so many!”
Nazarin’s eyes are still open and staring. “Is he OK?” I ask.
The skin around Kim’s eyes and mouth is tight. She doesn’t answer. My mouth goes dry. I stay quiet, watching her work, clasping my hands together and whispering incoherently. It isn’t a prayer, not really, but maybe it’s a whisper to the universe, a hope that things will somehow work out all right.
Three minutes pass, but it feels like three hours. Kim nods, and the map of Nazarin’s brain disappears. Nazarin slumps against the seat, his eyes closed again, breathing through his mouth. He seems calmer, but he’s still dripping with sweat and twitching. Kim injects him with another syringe, this time in the shoulder, and the frantic beating of his heart slows. After another minute, his eyelids flutter.
He sits up slowly. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a hovercar.”
“You nearly said hi to Saint Peter. You have too many bugs in your brain. As soon as this op’s done, come to me. I’ll get them out.”
“I like ’em.”
Her eyes go distant again. “No. Get them out. I spend my life doing this, but sometimes I wonder if we’re doing too much to our brains too fast. The more I find out about the mind, the more I realize I don’t know and probably never will.” She presses the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “That was too close, sweet pea.”