False Memory

by Dan Krokos

  I misjudge the distance. I drop too fast and my heart flies into my throat. Peter shouts something at me. I hit the wall, hands and feet scrabbling at the brick. The window rushes past my face, and I slam my hands down on the sill, digging in with my fingers so hard they bleed. I cling to the side of the building for a moment, fingers aflame.

  “Nice save!” Peter shouts from below.

  I risk a look down. Still way too high up.

  “Hey, there’s a ladder down here!” Peter shouts again. “Really?” I say.

  He laughs. “No. Keep going.”

  So I do. I swallow the doubt packed around my lungs and breathe again. “I can do this,” I whisper, then push off into space and twist around. I grab the next window down, and the next. Pretty soon I’m at the bottom. I fall into the same trash bags as Peter, then roll out of them and stand up. There is no trace of worry or fear in his eyes—he had complete confidence I would make it down okay.

  “How did I do that?” I say. “Or more important, why can I do that?”

  Peter shrugs like it’s natural. “They want us to be more than capable. Giving us this power wasn’t enough—we need the ability to take care of ourselves in a hostile situation.”

  “They. You mean our teachers.”

  He nods slowly. “Yes. Our teachers.”

  I want more—some explanation for my existence, some hint of my past. It makes me sick again, and suddenly I’m grateful for all the running and jumping. It’s hard to dwell on a terrible thing when your only focus is movement and precision. Peter must see the look on my face; his smile fades with the light. He steps forward, sliding his arm around my shoulders.

  He guides me down the alley, holding me close. “Come on, Miranda. Let’s go home.”

  If only I knew where home is.

  I learn soon enough—home is the forest.

  We find a Cavalier with the keys still in it. Peter says Cavaliers are good to steal because nobody looks twice at them. I pause when I realize that stealing the car doesn’t make any moral objection rear up inside me.

  In the car, I ask Peter why I don’t feel bad.

  “Your training taught you to take what you need to complete a mission. Our mission is to get home safely.”

  So that’s that, I guess.

  He drives us south, away from the city, until the roads narrow and are lined with trees instead of rugged buildings. We pass a few cows, some cornfields. Soon the trees are dense, suffocating the road. After another ten minutes, Peter leans forward and watches the forest. “There,” he says, when we come across a nearly invisible dirt trail leading into the woods. The Cavalier rocks over stones and bumps and depressions for a mile. At the end of the path, the forest appears whole again. It’s not. Peter drives the Cavalier around the illusion into a darker trail that goes back another mile. We don’t talk much—I just stare out the window and watch the trees. Until his hand moves off the shifter and brushes my thigh by accident. I jump like he’s stung me.

  “Jumpy much?” he says. He smiles at me, and I know he’s trying to make light of the whole situation.

  “Just nervous, I guess.” And I am, with nothing to back his words up against. It could all be a trap. For what, I don’t know. But Peter doesn’t give off any signals he’s lying. No shifty eyes or fidgeting hands. It doesn’t mean I trust him, but it’s enough to keep me inside the car.

  Our home is a squat one-story building made of concrete and painted to match the forest. The top is covered in vegetation to keep it hidden from planes or helicopters. Peter pulls around back, and I see the building is actually a garage filled with a few cars and motorcycles. On the roof, an unmanned turret follows us, tiny motors whirring inside it. The twin gun barrels look big enough to cut us in half, including the Cavalier.

  “We live underground,” he says.

  “Oh. I thought we lived in the cars.”

  He doesn’t offer a courtesy laugh, and heat creeps up my neck. He should not be able to make me feel embarrassed. “That was funny,” I say.

  “I know. But I’ve heard the joke before. I suspect I’ll have to hear all of them again.”

  That stings. He must notice, because he adds, “Not that I mind.”

  We step onto a square cut into the metal floor. “There are worse things,” I say.

  “I know,” he says, as white bulbs in the square light up. “Hands inside the border please.”

  The square descends smoothly. Once the walls surround us, Peter turns to me and cups the back of my neck. He tilts my head back so I have to look him in the eye.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen down there,” he says. His fingers burn hot on my skin. I am stuck between wanting to pull away, and wanting to stay in his grip. I don’t know why. I wonder if I could pull away, if I’m as strong as he is.

  “What could happen?” I say.

  “I don’t know. You went off the grid. I tracked you through a chip you have under your skin.”

  A chip under my skin? I doubt I consented to that. I may not know myself, but I don’t seem like the type who agrees to be watched. He found me, though, that’s the important part. I could still be wandering around that mall, hurting people.

  The elevator continues its descent. We have to be a few floors underground by now.

  He runs his thumb over my ear and releases me. Sweat prickles the back of my neck; maybe putting myself in a hole wasn’t the best idea.

  “You could’ve told me earlier,” I say.

  “Would you have still come with me?”

  Good question. “Yes. I don’t know.”

  “With Noah and Olive leaving how they did, Tycast might suspect you. Stay calm. I’ll be with you the whole time.” Peter offers me another smile, but clearly he’s worried too.

  The elevator slowly reveals a thick metal door, then stops. Our breath echoes around us. Too late to turn back now. The surface is just a dim square high above.

  The door clanks, followed by a scraping metallic sound that lasts two seconds. Then another clank.

  The door slides open from right to left, and many, many guns are pointed in our direction.

  5

  The scarier part of my brain takes over. The part that makes my body react first and think later. All I see is the threat—

  Four men, all in black, within armored vests and metal helmets. For all I know they could be robots. The helmets resemble motor cycle helmets but smaller, without the padding. Narrow black visors cover their eyes. Each carries what I recognize as H&K UMPs—these squat, ugly submachine guns.

  The fact I know what they are startles me. “Peter, I remember something.”

  He sidesteps in front of me, blocking their line of sight. In the middle of the four helmeted men is an old man. He doesn’t wear body armor, or a helmet. Instead he has a white lab coat, the pockets weighed down, rippling the fabric. Fine gray hair is combed back from his forehead. He’s wearing a thin headband, like the workout kind, but made of black plastic instead of cloth. I don’t know this man, but I feel a rush of affection for him.

  “What is this?” Peter says. “Doctor, it’s Miranda.”

  The doctor raises his hands, palms out. The men flanking him might be statues. “She left the reservation, Peter. This is a precaution. You expected this, I’m sure.”

  Peter stands stiff for a moment, then nods slowly. He steps back to put his shoulder next to mine again. Slowly.

  The doctor steps into the elevator. “Miranda, my name is Dr. Tycast. Do you remember that?”

  “No.”

  He nods. “We have to detain you. Will you come peacefully?”

  “Yes,” I say. What choice do I have? I doubt I could escape at this point anyway.

  He raises two fingers and half the men behind him split off and leave. Their boots thunk down the hallway.

  Dr. Tycast drops his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Thank you for bringing her back. Go to your room, I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Sir,” Peter says, “with
all due respect, I’m staying.”

  Dr. Tycast’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “With all due respect?”

  Peter holds his gaze for a few more seconds. “Sir—” “Good night, Peter.”

  Peter sighs and walks out of the elevator. His left fist is clenched.

  My heart pounds. Even if I didn’t trust him before, I trust him a lot more than anyone else here. I feel naked without him.

  Dr. Tycast sees this. “Relax. You’ll see him again. You might not believe this, but just a few days ago you trusted me implicitly. Come with me.”

  He takes my arm and guides me from the elevator. The men with the UMPs and creepy helmets fall in step behind us. The hallway is cramped and featureless, gray, with tiny lights embedded in the floor, showing us the way to wherever we’re going. The entire narrow ceiling is a light panel, glowing uniformly, illuminating every square inch.

  The first right is my holding cell. A cell, because we are immediately locked inside. The big metal door shuts and a bolt rams into place, followed by a too-loud buzz.

  Dr. Tycast pulls out one of two chairs at a metal table. “Sit,” he says.

  I wait just long enough to let him know I won’t jump at his commands, not even if I used to. Then I sit.

  A long mirror takes up the wall behind me and makes it impossible to not feel watched. Behind him is a wall that’s different from the others, like it’s covered in a fine film.

  He clasps his hands together and looks at me across the table. The chair is cold and sucks heat from my legs and butt.

  “Can I take this headband off?” he says.

  “Sure. It isn’t very fashion forward.”

  He breathes a laugh through his nose. “You’re not one for making jokes when you’re uncomfortable, Miranda.”

  “I guess I wouldn’t know that.” My curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s the headband for?” I ask, even though I think I know the answer.

  “It blocks the psychic energy you emit. Not as well as the helmets, but well enough. One develops a tolerance after so much exposure. But for those not used to it, being around a Rose is enough to cause discomfort, given enough time. Residual energy and such. But you’re not going to use your power on me, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” He takes the band off and sets it on the table. It contracts into a circle small enough for a pocket. He keeps smiling this familiar smile. My shoulders relax a little. Taking off the headband was a gesture of trust. He’s vulnerable now.

  “What do you remember?” he says.

  What do I remember? Good question. I remember waking up on the bench. I remember meeting Peter, who makes me feel safe even though it’s obvious I can take care of myself. I remember the mall. The people and their screams. The little boy’s voice. The man who fell. The blood and broken limbs.

  How will the victims explain that? When the survivors are themselves again, what will they say?

  Who will talk to the families of the dead?

  I swallow hard again, fighting the urge to vomit. I don’t want to talk about what I remember.

  “Let me help you,” Dr. Tycast says.

  Behind him, the wall sparks to life. It’s a screen. A massive screen playing a video. It shows a room, narrow but long. At the far end is a big steel door. Halfway into the room, bunk beds are stacked along the walls to the left and right, one set on each side. Two small trunks sit at the foot of each bed. There’s open space between the beds, but set farther away from the door, closer to the camera, is a big table ringed with chairs. For surveillance footage, the video is perfectly clear.

  I wait for something to snap into place, some hint of recognition. But it’s just a room. There’s a brown rug between the beds. Each morning, it must have been the first thing my feet touched. I don’t know if it’s coarse. Or if I feel it with bare feet, or if I sleep with socks on.

  In the video, I lie on my side, on the bottom bunk to the left. A boy kneels next to me. At first I think it’s Peter, but he’s too slim. Not smaller, just leaner. And instead of midnight black, his hair is wheat-colored and shaved close to his head. He has one hand on the side of my face. I bring my own hand up and tap the tip of his nose with my finger.

  He leans in and stops with his lips a centimeter from mine. He hovers like that until he finally smiles and I lean forward to give him a peck. We both laugh silently because the bed above me and the bed across from me are occupied by still forms. Then we really kiss and his mouth travels from my lips to my chin and down my throat to the hollow between my collarbones.

  I swallow as I watch, feeling heat bloom in my stomach and spread out.

  The boy gives me a final kiss, goes back to his bunk, climbs to the top, and slides under the covers. On-screen, I squirm around, pulling the blanket up to my neck.

  The video fast-forwards over our motionless bodies until, four hours later according to the video, the boy climbs down from his bunk slowly. He pads over to me. He places a hand on my cheek and I open my eyes.

  “Who are you?” I say in the video.

  He puts a finger to his lips. “Shh. Miranda, it’s me. Look at my face.”

  I stare at him for a few seconds, then slowly shake my head. “Where am I?”

  “I want you to come with me,” he says, easing me out of bed.

  He leads me from the room. Minutes later, a girl with black hair climbs down from my bunk and tiptoes over to the form that must be Peter. She jabs something into his neck, and he bolts upright but falls down almost immediately. She kisses her fingertips and presses them to Peter’s temple. Then she leaves, and the room is empty except for Peter.

  The video pauses.

  “Do you remember leaving with Noah?” Dr. Tycast says.

  Noah. The boy who kissed me. I replay the image of my head tilting back to give him better access to my neck. I don’t know what to think. I can’t remember any of it. I can’t remember what his lips feel like, or what his skin smells like. Or what I feel when our eyes meet.

  “Miranda?” Doctor Tycast says.

  “I’m sorry. No.”

  He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes so hard I wince for him. “That’s because he’d been altering your memory shots for days. I assume Peter filled you in on most of this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, well. You’re on them again, so you’ll be able to keep new memories. And though I can’t be sure, I’m afraid what’s lost might be lost forever.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say.

  His eyes widen. “No? Why not?”

  “Because I can’t change what’s already been done.” I don’t know if I mean it; the words come automatically. But I hear the truth in them, however hard it is to accept. I can’t get my memories back. It makes me feel cold. Helpless.

  He smiles a tired smile. The smile of a father. “Very true. You always were the one to deal best with change. The others, they would hold on to what was, rather than embracing what is.”

  I absorb that, try to glean something about myself from it. “Doctor, why can I remember some things, and not others? Why do I know what a mall cop is, but I don’t recognize myself in the mirror?”

  Doctor Tycast nods while I talk. “There are different kinds of memory, Miranda. The memory shots you take counteract decay in a portion of your long-term memory. You remember your name, but you don’t remember how the others celebrated your fourteenth birthday. You don’t remember the first time you put your martial arts instructor on his back.”

  I have nothing to say to that. We sit in silence that might be amicable under different circumstances.

  Dr. Tycast puts his glasses back on. “Noah and Olive took you from your home. They put one of my men in a coma to do it. If you remember anything, I want you to tell me now.”

  “I don’t. I wish I did.”

  “Noah was your boyfriend,” he says.

  “Yeah?” I say, almost a whisper. I don’t want to believe it.

  The wall-screen snaps on ag
ain. Video-me sits at a desk, staring into what must be a webcam mounted on a laptop. My fingers dance over the keys, then come up and tug on my lower lip. Behind me, Noah reaches over and pulls my hand down.

  “Stop doing that,” he says. He’s beautiful. My eyes trace his hard jawline to his lips. I try to remember what they feel like on mine, but again, there’s nothing. He looks into the camera, at me sitting here in this cold chair.

  “This is Miranda and Noah, and we’re doing an aftermission log,” Noah says.

  “Yes,” I say, “because we’re too lazy to do one by ourselves.”

  “And so we combine them,” Noah says, grinning.

  We talk about some training mission where we split into teams and had to find a snow globe by following clues across the city. Neither of us was impressed with it. Noah, our team leader, makes a few cracks about Peter, leader for the opposite team. There are only two people on a team, and we make a joke about that. We beat Peter’s team. Noah mentions the name of the black-haired girl—Olive.

  I don’t know how I could have no memory of him.

  The video ends abruptly and I flinch.

  “We think he was trying to keep you safe somehow. He took Olive, but kept you out of his plans, whatever they are. He thinks something is coming.”

  “What’s coming?” I ask.

  Dr. Tycast shrugs. “That’s your mission. To find out. Go see Peter. I’ll brief the both of you tomorrow morning.” He begins to stand but stops. Sinks back into his chair and spreads his hands flat on the table. “What happened in the mall was not your fault. For now, I need you to put it out of your mind. We will take care of the families. Do you understand?”

  Hearing the words doesn’t help, but I nod. Dr. Tycast tries to stand again.