Forget Tomorrow

by Pintip Dunn

  “But I have no black chip.” My words reverberate down the hallway and echo back to me. For the first time since they slapped the electro-cuffs around my wrists, I feel in control. Of myself and my emotions. Of my very fate. “They’ve locked me up in here, but they don’t even know what my memory is.”

  Murmurs ripple down the row of cells. I can’t tell if the inmates are actually communicating with each other, or if they’re talking to themselves. I don’t even know if they’re discussing me, or if my words have fallen on indifferent ears. But then a girl screeches, “They don’t have her memory. They’re holding her for no reason.”

  A couple of the inmates take up the chant, and the volume swells until it fills the entire hallway. “No chip! No chip! No chip!”

  I can’t take credit for this. I doubt it takes much to get this group going, since they’re already furious with FuMA. Still, a smile spreads across my face, as I listen to total strangers repeating my words. I might not be so alone, after all.

  A guard appears at the end of the hall and snaps an electric whip against the wall. Sparks shoot out the end, and even from my cell I hear the sizzle as the weapon cracks through the air.

  “Silence!” he yells. Underneath the navy uniform, his shoulders are twice the size of mine. A nasty scar snakes up the side of his face. He could have easily gotten the blemish fixed. Which means he either deliberately left it alone—or he paid someone to make him look that menacing.

  The chanting stops. Heavy black boots stomp down the hallway, and the guard halts in front of my cell. The gate slides open.

  “You.” The guard scowls, and his scar seems to fold in on itself. “You’re the one who started this?”

  I nod.

  “Looks like you’re going to get what you want. Come with me.”

  I swallow hard. This was a stupid plan. What’s a few days of waiting—a few weeks, even—when I have my entire life in this place?

  Scar Face prods me from my cell, and even though I’m in trouble, I hungrily soak up the change in scenery. I’ve been staring at the same gray blocks for so long, I can feel the photoreceptors in my eyes dying.

  Detainment cells line both sides of the hallway, but they are staggered, to minimize visual contact among the inmates. Most of the girls stand right up against the bars, though, so I get a good look at them as I pass.

  We could all be twins. Dirty hair, yellow jumpsuits. An ashen quality to our skin like we’re missing some key nutrient. The only difference is that they each have a tattoo of an hourglass on their left wrist. And I don’t.

  I focus on their eyes. That’s where all the personality lies. Blue eyes, brown eyes, green. Only the standard colors, since we don’t have access to our eye tints. Blinking, narrowed, wide open and fearful.

  Nobody says anything. Either they don’t like me, or it has something to do with the electric whip guarding my back.

  We stop at the entrance of the cell block. The door is thick, reinforced metal and looks nearly impenetrable. To the right is a glass-walled office filled with equipment. To the left is a closed-in room with actual walls. Maybe that’s where the guards eat lunch or take naps when they’re not cracking their whips.

  Scar Face doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to answer questions. He presses a hand, palm-out, against a sensor on the door. Next, he inserts his index finger into a slot, where a pinprick of his blood is taken. His retinas are scanned, he enters a ten-digit code into a numerical keypad. Then, and only then, does the door open.

  We are locked up tighter than a rocket ship sealed against the vacuum of space. I see no possibility of a successful escape.

  He takes me into an elevator capsule, and we shoot into a different wing. I’m so distracted I barely feel my stomach drop. The instant we step onto the new floor, though, déjà vu hits me so hard I nearly fall.

  I’ve been here before. Overly bright walls. Green linoleum floor with computer screens embedded every few feet in the tile.

  Oh. Dear. Fate. It’s the hallway from my future memory. Is my memory about to come true?

  No. There’s no shattered ceramic pot on the floor, no burning smell of antiseptic. Not the same hallway. Just a similar one.

  Still, this could be where my memory will take place. My sister might soon be in a bed here. I have to find out. I need to know for sure.

  We turn a corner. The handle of the whip digs into my back, and Scar Face’s hand is draped loosely around my bicep. I glance over my shoulder. He’s not even looking at me. The scar on his face twitches; his eyes glaze as if he is bored with escort duty.

  I take a deep breath. It’s now or never. I may never get this chance again.

  At the next intersection, I break out of his grasp and take off down a side hallway.

  “Hey! Stop right there!” Scar Face yells.

  I run even faster. I don’t have to get far. I just need to find a room with a doorway. I just need to see—

  “I said, stop!” The electric whip crackles, and the smell of smoke fills the air.

  I turn a corner. There! A doorway—

  The whip wraps around my legs, and I pitch forward. Lightning zaps through my body for one blinding, mindless second. Every cell in my body blows up, and I’m left weak and cooked and panting.

  Before I can catch my breath, the lightning flashes again. And again.

  I guess Scar Face’s not happy I ran.

  But that’s okay. My back arches when another bolt hits me. Pain like I’ve never known spreads through my entire body, burrowing into every nook and crevice. My skin feels like it’s been ripped into ribbons. My veins feel like they’ve been chopped into confetti.

  But Scar Face can whip me as much as he wants. Because before I went down, I found my answer. There is a placard next to the door where I collapsed—a golden rectangle with four snail scrolls decorating each corner.

  The room number is different, but it doesn’t matter. I know where my future self killed my sister: in a room numbered 522…

  Somewhere in this very wing.

  7

  A few minutes later, I am hunched in a chair in front of a simple card table. Sweat soaks through my jumpsuit, and my heart sits in my chest like a worn-out toy. My fingers continue to clench and spasm, still battling the ghosts of the electric whip.

  Scar Face stands behind me, the handle of the whip jammed in my back, as if I’m in a condition to be a threat to anyone.

  I twist around, even though my body screams, and give him my biggest smile. “I hope I didn’t make you look bad. Wouldn’t want anyone to think it was easy to get away from you, especially when you have that big, scary whip.”

  His lips press together, as if he would like to hurt me for such comments. But he can’t because the Chairwoman is coming. “Face forward. Now.”

  “I’ll be sure to warn you if I make another break for it. That’s why you had to whip me so many times, huh? Because you were afraid you wouldn’t be able to catch me if I crawled away.”

  In response, he shoves the handle deeper into my back.

  The door opens and Chairwoman Dresden, head of the Future Memory Agency, strides into the room. Even though this is exactly what I wanted, I’m not sure why they sent the most important person in the agency to meet me. Aren’t there plenty of cases like mine?

  She looks like she did on the morning of my birthday. Silver hair cut closely to her head. Impeccable navy uniform. Her features as cold and beautiful as an ice sculpture.

  She nods dismissively at the guard. “You can wait outside. I’ll take it from here.”

  The pressure of the handle eases off my back, and he leaves the room.

  She turns to me. “Lovely to see you again, October Twenty-eight,” she says, as if she knows me. “I regret it’s not under more pleasant circumstances.”

  I rack my mind for something biting to say, but my bravado seems to have fled with the guard.

  “You’ve made my life difficult, October Twenty-eight. Very difficult.” She taps
her fingernails on the table. They’re long and narrow, polished translucent silver so they resemble ice picks. One wrong word and she may stab one of those nails into my eye.

  “You’re not convinced,” she says. “I see the incredulity written all over your face. But you have no idea what your little show of defiance may have cost us.”

  Standing, she stalks around the room in her five-inch heels. If her nails fail to do the trick, those heels can always double as a weapon. “I was ready to write you off. We have your administering guard’s account of what happened in your memory. I was ready to let you languish away in Limbo for the rest of your life. Just another screw-up in the system. But your little stunt today changes things.”

  She stops in front of me, and I tuck my bare feet underneath my chair, away from her heels. “We’ve built our society around a system of future memories. This system is efficient, productive, and very, very prosperous. But it is also delicate. It depends entirely on the assumption that the memories come true. The slightest change in a person’s life may cause ripples that spread throughout the rest of society—ripples which we cannot predict and for which we cannot prepare.”

  She places her palms on the desk. “You grasp, then, the dilemma we face when we encounter the future memory of a crime. While we have an interest in protecting society, we also have a very strong interest in making sure these memories cause as few ripples as possible.”

  I nod, unable to say a word.

  She settles back in her chair, crossing her ankles to the side. “Most of the ripples are meaningless. They affect only a small circle of lives. But once in a while we get a future criminal whose personality is so aggressive, we can tell her ripples will be stronger than most. They may even have an overarching impact on society.”

  “I’m not aggressive,” I burst out. “I haven’t said a word since you came in here.”

  “You’re playing meek. I like that. I appreciate intelligence as much as the next person. But it’s no use, October Twenty-eight.” She leans forward, her eyes glistening. “We scanned your brain when we first arrested you, and our computers have been busy analyzing the videos of your behavior. I saw the way you raised your hands and marched straight to our officers. The uproar you created in the detainment cells. But the clincher was how you risked—and received—multiple lashes of the electro-whip just to run down a single hallway. You weren’t going to escape. You must have known that. But you still tried. That’s the mark of a girl who will stop at nothing to win. Our computers have given us a definitive answer. You, my dear, qualify as aggressive.”

  No! I want to shout. You’ve got it all wrong. I wasn’t trying to escape. I was looking for the placard. Trying to figure out where my sister will be killed. That’s all.

  But I don’t know how to explain without revealing my memory.

  “This is our compromise,” the Chairwoman says when I remain silent. “While we have changed the course of the future by arresting you, we will endeavor to make pieces of your memory come true. Where’s the black chip, October Twenty-eight?”

  I lick my lips. I really don’t think knowing the color of my shirt or getting my sister’s hair style right will make a difference in anyone’s life. “I must’ve dropped it in the woods, before the officers arrested me.”

  She arches her eyebrows. They’re dyed silver, to match her hair. “We searched the grounds and didn’t come up with anything.”

  “I don’t have it.” With any luck, it was smashed between the river boulders or washed downriver and lost forever. “Why don’t I tell you what happened? I’ll be happy to go over every detail until you’re satisfied.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she says, baiting me, waiting for me to say the wrong thing. “We already have William’s account. From you, we need a more precise picture of the future, so we must resort to…other methods of getting the information.”

  My mouth goes dry. “What other methods?”

  She doesn’t respond. She just raises her eyebrows as if to say, “What do you think?”

  Torture. They’re going to torture the information out of me.

  My teeth knock against each other, so hard they might chip. As if the whippings weren’t enough. I don’t know if I can handle any more. Razor blades carving into my cheek. Drowning in a bucket of water. My fingers broken one by one.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I have to be brave. But I’m not brave. Not really. I’m not anything. I’m just a girl. Only a girl. Nothing but a girl.

  No, that’s not true. I’m a girl who will kill my sister in the future.

  My teeth stop clicking, and I take a deep breath. That’s right. I’m going to kill my sister. The worst is already going to happen. There’s nothing they can do that will hurt me more. If anything, I deserve their torture.

  I open my eyes. Chairwoman Dresden watches me the way one might look at a line of ants carrying away bits of food ten times their body weight—curious, but ultimately unconcerned if she squashes me beneath her platform stilts.

  Without taking her eyes off me, she raises her hand and snaps. A moment later, the guard comes to the door.

  “Please escort October Twenty-eight down the hall,” she says. “Dr. Bellows is waiting to examine her.”

  I find my tongue again. FuMA already has the hourglass insignia. So which agency has the snail scrolls? “Where are we?”

  The Chairwoman smiles. “The science labs, of course.”

  A cold dread seeps into my stomach. I knew it. TechRA. I’ve spent the last six years protecting my sister from these people, doing everything I can to make sure they don’t treat her brain like a science experiment.

  I never worried about myself. But maybe I should’ve. Because I’m about to suffer the exact same fate I tried so hard to prevent for Jessa.

  8

  A hard, plastic chair sits in the middle of the room, reclined so far it is almost horizontal. Sort of like a dentist’s chair, but worse, because a thousand different wires poke out from the armrests, winding around the nearby machines like coils of snakes. At the dentist’s, only my teeth are at risk. Here, those little wires could slither right into the deepest regions of my brain.

  A man, presumably Dr. Bellows, sits at a desk next to the chair, his hands a blur of motion as they move around a spherical keyboard. His hair and beard are black, like sticky asphalt before it hardens, and a small yellow stub is tucked behind his ear.

  A pencil. Nobody uses pencils anymore. I probably wouldn’t have even recognized it if my father hadn’t done the very same thing.

  The memory hits me right in the stomach.

  I’m climbing on my father’s lap. The smell of rubbing alcohol surrounds me, and his sandpaper beard brushes against my cheek. Quick like a hummingbird, I dart in and snatch the prize from behind my father’s ear.

  “What is it?” I turn the yellow cylinder over in my hands.

  “A pencil. A tool our ancestors used for record keeping.” My father wraps his large hand around mine and shows me how to scratch out the letters I see on my desk screen. “We’re surrounded by the most advanced technology civilization has to offer. But the best inventions don’t have to be complex.” He spreads his palm over his chest. “They come from right here. The heart.”

  “Is that why you wear the pencil? So you don’t forget?”

  “No.” My father’s almond-shaped eyes flash. “I wear it so I remember.”

  I was too young, then, to understand what the difference might be. And by the time I was old enough to ask, he was long gone.

  Bellows turns from his desk, waves my guard out of the room, and jerks his thumb at the wire-infested chair. “Sit.”

  I limp to the seat, a shiver running through me. Dr. Bellows might have the same profession as my absent father, but that doesn’t mean I trust him. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  He looks me over, clucking his tongue. “What did they do to you?”

  “A few lashes of the electro-whip.”

  He sighs, as
if majorly inconvenienced by my pain. “They know I need my subjects to be in top physical condition. The formula takes better that way. But never mind. We’ll give it a try. If it doesn’t work, we’ll have another go in a couple of days. Good thing injuries from the electro-whip don’t last. You’ll be back to normal in a matter of hours.”

  “Give what a try?”

  He fastens three thick harnesses around my body. “I understand the black chip recording your future memory was…misplaced?”

  I nod.

  “Well, your future memory isn’t gone. It’s stored in a part of your brain called the hippocampus.” He taps the side of his head. “I’m going to root through your brain and induce the memory. Make you relive it, in order to give us a second chance to record it.”

  The breath gets stuck in my throat. “What do you mean?”

  He blinks, as if he is a camera snapping consecutive images. “The memory will come to you again. Like the first time. Only this time, we’ll make sure the black chip isn’t lost.”

  No. No. In the future Jessa will be at the mercy of TechRA. The moment Bellows sees my real memory, he’ll recognize the hallways and the placard. He’ll know my sister will be a subject in these labs.

  My memory will give him the evidence he needs to arrest Jessa now, in the present world.

  I can’t let that happen. My future self is already going to betray my sister. I refuse to do it in the present, as well.

  “Will it hurt?” I ask, stalling.

  “Only if you resist.”

  So resistance is possible. But how?

  He squirts gel onto oval sensors the length of my thumb and sticks them all over my head. The gel feels cold and sticky against my scalp.

  He attaches the wires sprouting from the chair onto each sensor. “Open your mind, the way you did before. The memory will come to you.” He reclines my chair and leaves the room.

  I don’t need to open my mind. I can call up the memory in an instant and it will play across my mind like a movie. I can freeze images and zoom in on shots. I can do everything at least as well as his recording device.