The Left Hand of Memory (Redlisted)

by Sara Beaman

  Frustrated, I try the only other thing I can think of. I give him a silent command: Go to sleep.

  His eyelids droop and his chin drops against his chest.

  I exhale, feeling a minor sense of accomplishment. I take a moment to close my own eyes, and without intending to, I slip into unconsciousness.

  ***

  And then I’m elsewhere again: an unfamiliar room, musty, dim, with a low ceiling and an irregular plank floor covered with a threadbare rug. There’s a writing table full of papers against one wall, and four wooden chairs around a little table. On the other wall is what seems to be a Murphy bed. And a mirror.

  When I see my reflection I realize what’s happened. I’m Mirabel again. And judging by the corset and petticoats I’m wearing under my grey broadcloth dress, I’m the Mirabel of the nineteenth century.

  Someone knocks at the door. I expect to see Desmond Schuster on the other side, as per our appointment. But when I open the door, I find someone else in his stead, a younger-looking man with sandy hair and bright blue eyes. It takes me a moment to recall his name. Christopher Carlyle. Desmond’s under-secretary.

  Carlyle’s youthful face breaks into a smile. He removes his hat and nods his head in a perfunctory bow. “Miss Radcliffe.”

  “Mister Carlyle.” I give him an equally half-hearted curtsey, then gesture inside. “Please. Come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  He pulls off his coat, its shoulders damp with rainwater. I take it from him, along with his hat, and hang them on the rack by the door.

  “Thank you,” he says again, looking around my little apartment. “Sorry for the mess, I got caught in a cloudbreak.”

  I force a smile. “Mister Carlyle, I hope it is not impertinent for me to ask what has become of my appointment with the President?”

  “Of course. Yes. Unfortunately Mister Schuster is otherwise occupied at the moment.”

  “I see,” I say. “Please, sit down.”

  Carlyle pulls out a chair from the table, puts his briefcase on the floor, and sits with his hands placed carefully, palms flat against his thighs.

  “May I offer you something to drink?” I ask.

  “That’s quite all right,” he says.

  I sit down across from him. “Was President Schuster able to review my proposal?”

  “He was.” Carlyle’s tone is not promising.

  “Was he able to look at the prototype?”

  “No, I’m afraid he was not,” Carlyle says. “That is, he refused to look at it.”

  “He refused? But why?”

  “I assume out of fear,” Carlyle says.

  “What does he have to fear from it?” I ask, frowning.

  “Miss Radcliffe, we all know about your experiments on those students—“

  “I fail to see how those incidents are relevant, Mister Carlyle. President Schuster is a revenant—indeed, a Warden. Those subjects were humans.”

  “Ah, yes, true,” Carlyle says, laughing anxiously, “but nevertheless—“

  “And I fail to see why, if President Schuster never looked at the prototype, he agreed to meet with me tonight.”

  Carlyle’s smile wavers. “I admit, he did not. I was the one who responded to your letter.”

  “You…?”

  “I thought your proposal deserved our attention,” he says. “I read it word for word. And I reviewed your prototype.”

  “I see.”

  “Mister Schuster rejects your ideas on their very surface,” he says. “He doesn’t understand the opportunities they could open up for our organization.”

  “I suppose he does not.”

  “But I do,” Carlyle says. “If we put your system into place, we could put this conflict with the Mnemonics behind us, we could quash the rise of the Himerans in the Far East…” A faraway look comes over his face.

  I nod, waiting for him to come back to the conversation.

  “It is truly an elegant system,” he says. “I can’t imagine how you thought of it.”

  I smile mildly. I hate being offered such flattery. It’s obvious that he’s fishing for information, and I won’t give it to him so freely.

  “Thank you,” I say, and I leave it at that.

  “The Watchers of the Americas is a democracy,” Carlyle says. “There will come a time when our administration will understand the merit of a system such as yours, I’m sure of it.”

  “I see,” I say. “Do you mean to usher in that era yourself?”

  Carlyle laughs. “Certainly not, no. Of course not. Merely stating a fact.”

  “A fact,” I say.

  “A supposition,” he says.

  “Mister Carlyle, I am not concerned with what may happen ten, twenty, one hundred years from now. I am concerned with the present day, the present time. If your office isn’t interested, I’m sure I could find someone who will want to put my system to use tomorrow. Perhaps the House of Himeros.”

  His smile fades.

  “Well?” I ask. “Are you asking me to sit on my hands while you Wardens dawdle in your sub-committees? Or do you wish to present me with an offer?”

  “I’m not in a position to make any offers,” he says. “At least, none on behalf of the Watchers.”

  I stifle an annoyed sigh. “May I assist you with something else, in that case?”

  “Yes. Perhaps.” He leans forward, placing his hands on the table between us, knitting his fingers. “Your documents—your publications—they can control the thoughts and actions of the public?”

  “And the memories. Yes. As can the radio broadcasts.”

  “You’re certain of this?”

  “Yes,” I say. “That is the entire objective of the system, after all.”

  “You could control the thoughts and actions of countless humans,” Carlyle says.

  “And revenants.”

  “Of course,” he says.

  “With Wardens being the exception, naturally,” I say.

  “Miss Radcliffe,” he says, “are you quite sure your system does not work on Wardens?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Not absolutely certain, no.”

  “What would you need in order to be certain?”

  I stifle the urge to smile. Is he asking what I think he’s asking?

  “I could only feel assured it would not work after extensive experimentation,” I say.

  “And what would that take, in terms of resources?”

  I lick my lips. “Paper. Ink. Access to a pool of subjects.”

  Carlyle nods. He leans down and grabs his suitcase from the floor. From it he pulls a sheaf of papers bound with twine.

  “This is the most recent version of the Sanguine Consensus,” he says, sliding it across the table. “Every Warden in the New World will receive a copy of this document next month.”

  I meet his eyes. His gaze is level, confident.

  “I shall return in a week,” he says, standing.

  Chimaera

  {Adam}

  Mirabel sits at the center of a bridge over one of the canals in the middle of the White City, her eyes half-closed, gesturing in the air as if pushing buttons, clicking icons. I watch her from behind a window, trapped inside the cafe where she forced me to drink that blood-tainted wine. I think of what she forced me to recall aloud, knowing each lie would bring itself to light in the most gruesome manner. My lies remain on the floor in the curtained-off alcove behind me.

  I peek behind the curtain and take a look, reminding myself of what happened back there. My blood now runs thin in my veins. Now it’s necessary for me to remember to remind myself to remember, lest I forget what I told her. I fear I will forget to remember. And then I will forget all of this.

  She has me confined now to this little space full of tables with their spotless tablecloths set with empty, overturned wine glasses, linen napkins, silver utensils. I cannot leave; she’s forbidden me from doing so. I failed to repel the compulsion.

  I go back to the window, back to watching Mirabel�
�s mime performance. It brings to mind visions of science fiction characters with their eyes behind VR headsets, manipulating their virtual worlds with their haptic gloves. I assume this is exactly what Mirabel is doing in her own virtual reality, her own vast web of power.

  If only I had a pen and paper, I would write this note to myself:

  There was a raid at SpiraCom Headquarters. I suspect the Wardens. Now Mirabel is re-asserting control over her systems—first over her own intranet, then over the rest of her network, then over the Internet, then over the national news…

  I don’t understand. Why doesn’t she go back to Atlanta and do it in person? Wouldn’t that be easier? Why is she here?

  Where are we, anyway?

  I don’t remember.

  Wracking my brain, I recall that Mirabel left the country right before Aya, Haruko and I performed our own raid on her corporate headquarters, right before I shot Kate Avery. Rumor had it she was in China, bargaining with Himeros. That, if anything, could explain the Wardens’ raid.

  I write down another sentence on my imaginary note to myself: Did Mirabel abandon the Watchers of the Americas for the Himeran Co-Prosperity Sphere?

  And did Himeros accept her proposal? And are we in China now?

  Mirabel stands up in a sudden, jerky movement, as if she sees a roach on the cobblestones beside her. She brings both hands to her head and curses aloud. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I recognize the profanities as they move across her lips.

  This is a window of opportunity—perhaps the only one I’ll get. She’s distracted by anger. I push outward with my mind, probing into her thoughts as delicately as I can.

  An image flashes into my mind’s eye: Mnemosyne, complete, whole, standing in her clearing, facing a youthful-looking man in a blue suit. Christopher Carlyle, President of the Watchers of the Americas. They both hold tiny cordial glasses full of blood between their thumb and index fingers. Reaching skyward, they bring the rims of their glasses together in a delicate toast.

  I can’t help but laugh under my breath. There’s another sentence for the note: Now, in Mirabel’s absence, Mnemosyne and the Wardens forge an alliance. Unbelievable.

  Mirabel’s eyes meet mine. I can feel a compulsion building in her mind, directed at me.

  I turn my gaze inward and escape into sleep.

  ***

  I find myself back in Mirabel’s theater, sitting in the middle of the front row of the orchestra section. I don’t know why I’m here and not in my suite, but really, does it matter? Is it naive to think of escape? My body may be stuck with Mirabel, but perhaps my mind can find a way out, at least in the oneiroxis. I rush to the doors at the back of the theater, push them open, run through the lobby towards the ticket booth—

  “Where are you going?”

  Mirabel’s voice, behind me. I don’t turn to look. I reach for the golden handle on the door leading to the street—

  Hold still.

  My hand hangs in midair.

  “It was incredibly rude to intrude on my thoughts like that,” she says.

  I say nothing.

  “Where did you think you were going?” she asks.

  “Anywhere else.”

  “That was foolish.”

  “Why? What does it matter if I leave?”

  She says nothing.

  “Why are you holding me here?”

  No answer.

  “You said you don’t have feelings for me,” I say. “And it’s not like I’ve seen or heard anything I can use against you. So why are you keeping me here?”

  I feel her release her hold over my hands and arms. I grab for the door handle and pull, but it’s locked.

  “I should kill you,” she says.

  “All right,” I say. “Go ahead.”

  I turn around to look her in the eyes. She stares at me, expressionless, wearing Titania’s costume: the corset, the full skirt that falls to mid-calf, the crown of silk flowers in her hair, the wisps of chiffon fastened around her hips and shoulders. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “I hate you.”

  I almost laugh. “Okay.”

  “You know, you’re not real.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t have a soul. Not a real one.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You were a suicide, weren’t you?”

  I shrug.

  “But you didn’t follow the ritual,” she says. “You really wanted to die.”

  “The ritual? You mean the ritual initiation meditations?” I ask. “They don’t actually do anything.”

  She snorts. “You’re awfully confident for someone who knows so little. I followed them myself, when I became Julian’s initiate, and let me assure you, they work perfectly well.”

  “Do you have a point?” I ask, more annoyed now than afraid.

  “You have no soul.”

  “All right. I suppose not, then.”

  “That’s why you don’t remember your own death,” she continues.

  “Sure.”

  “You don’t remember killing your fiancee in that drunken car wreck,” she says, smiling, like she’s beating me at a game. “Because you’re not really Adam Fletcher at all.”

  “Then who the hell am I?”

  “You’re a chimaera,” she says. “Your consciousness is a phylactery. Two phylactaries, actually.”

  I’ve heard of phylacteries before—the minds and memories of a human or revenant, trapped inside an artifact. Mnemosyne can make them. But other than the memories I’ve collected in blood, I don’t have any memories that aren’t my own.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I say. “This is idiotic.”

  “Richard Stone thinks differently,” she says.

  “Then Richard Stone is an idiot,” I say. “Really, if I don’t have a soul, why don’t you just kill me?”

  “Because,” she says, “I haven’t figured out how to unlock you.”

  I frown. “Unlock me?”

  “The second phylactery is buried,” Mirabel says. “Kept in a sort of safe inside your mind, beneath your surface personality. There’s some sort of mechanism—a code, a password, and when I find it…” She doesn’t finish.

  “Okay,” I say. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  “Of course you don’t believe me. Mnemosyne built your surface mind to reject the idea.”

  “She built me for…?” I shake my head, incredulous. “Her head was floating in a watery ditch when I was initiated. When Julian initiated me.”

  “What makes you think Julian wasn’t complicit?”

  I laugh. “All right. Now we’ve really entered the realm of the impossible.”

  “Everyone has a price, Adam,” Mirabel says. “Everyone has something they’d sell their soul to the devil for. Or someone.”

  I feel a pang of doubt. I know Julian’s price all too well.

  “In Julian’s case, it’s not a something, but a someone,” Mirabel says.

  I don’t say anything.

  “I discovered Mnemosyne’s true plan for you in Richard's blood,” Mirabel says. “In his memories.”

  “Really?” I ask, feigning indifference. “Now I’m curious. What is Mnemosyne’s plan for me?”

  “When you are unlocked the phylactery will be revealed,” she says. “Your false persona will fall away.”

  “I see,” I say. “So who am I, underneath it all?”

  “Mnemosyne’s most trusted lieutenant,” Mirabel says. “You see now why Julian would help her with you. After all, he’d do anything for Lucien.”

  She gives me another venomous smile.

  Wire

  {Kate}

  I wake up exhausted. Julian is asleep on the bench seat next to me, his head hanging over his shoulder. Jennifer has her headphones on, concentrating intently on the screen of her laptop. Haruko�
�s eyes are closed, but she looks too tense to be sleeping.

  “Haruko,” I say in a hissing whisper.

  “What?”

  “Just seeing if you’re awake.”

  She grunts.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Maybe a half hour.”

  “How much longer do we have to go?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Can’t you do math?”

  I sigh and turn back around in my seat. Several minutes later, overcome by boredom, I turn to her and ask: “Do you know anything about Christopher Carlyle?”

  Haruko opens her un-patched eye and glares at me. “He’s the President of the WotA. I told you that.”

  “I had a dream about him and Mirabel.”

  “You really need to get out more.”

  “No—not a dream dream. It was real.”

  “Real in what sense?”

  “It was a memory dream. Mnemosyne sent it to me.”

  “Does that make it real, Katherine?”

  “Well, I guess not, but… look, I’m pretty sure it was real.”

  She sighs. “And?”

  “He commissioned Mirabel to use her powers.”

  “Yes. That’s common knowledge.”

  “Let me finish,” I say. “You know how she can encode subliminal messages and compulsions in media?”

  “She can what?”

  I blink. “She can use her Mnemonic powers to—“

  “That was a joke, Kate.”

  “Right,” I say. “I see that now. But seriously. I’m going somewhere with this.”

  “And where is that?”

  “He had her do her thing to the Sanguine Consensus.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Back in 1892, a new version of the document was published, and every Warden got a copy,” I say. “And he had her… you know, alter it. Before the copies were sent out.”

  “Why?”

  “Electioneering,” I say. “It’s how he got elected President.”

  Haruko frowns. “What are you saying? You mean he asked her to use her system on the Wardens?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Kate, that’s impossible. They may have tried it, but it wouldn’t have worked.”