False Memory

by Dan Krokos

  “Why?”

  His voice crackles through again. “Why did they stop? Who knows. Maybe they’re tired. Or maybe they found the tracking devices I implanted and took them out.”

  He swerves around a Mustang and cuts back in before a truck coming the other way can obliterate him. I keep pace, enjoying the wind pushing against me and the way the bike moves with simple corrections of my body.

  “The same device I have? Why track us?”

  He looks over his shoulder at me, but I can’t see his face through his helmet visor. “In case one of you gets lost in a mall.”

  We ride on, only stopping to fill up our tanks, or to grab a quick meal. The five-hour trip will be closer to four; we can’t help racing each other when the road is clear and straight. As we get closer, silence reigns. I know he’s thinking about what we’ll find in Indianapolis. So I’m left alone with my thoughts, and one thing in particular just doesn’t fit with what I’ve been told so far.

  At the next gas station, I sit next to the pump eating a hot dog. Peter stands next to the bikes, watching the road like he’s expecting company.

  “Peter?”

  He keeps looking down the road. “Hmm?”

  “You said before we were meant for good, to end conflicts without bloodshed.”

  He shoves the last of his hot dog in his mouth, rubs his hands on his jeans. “Yeah,” he says through a full mouth.

  “I mean, I’m not an expert or anything, but the mall was pretty chaotic. People got hurt.” My throat is dry and dusty. “People died.” I don’t add because of me.

  “It’s better than bullets, right?”

  I stand up. “Yeah. But how do we know we’ll be used for good?”

  “That’s like anything. Anything can be used for evil. A gun can be used to murder, but in the right hands it can also protect.”

  I straddle my bike, feeling the heat from the engine seep into my thighs. My back aches from being hunched over. “I know. I just . . . I feel like a weapon.”

  Peter drops his hand on my shoulder. “I trust Dr. Tycast. He would never let someone use us. Whatever Noah and Olive are up to, we’ll know soon enough.”

  It’s enough to calm me. Again, I’m calm because he is. But I doubt anything will completely erase the worry chilling my skin.

  We start our bikes and take the road back to the highway. Indianapolis comes into view soon after.

  Once we’re in the city, Peter is stricter with the rules of the road. We obey the speed limit. We ride around construction. The police officer directing traffic eyes us the whole time. I lift my visor and smile at him. After a second, he smiles back and returns his attention to the cars.

  Peter lifts his visor just to roll his eyes.

  The signal leads us to a Holiday Inn on the edge of downtown. The building is four stories of pale brick, boring, the perfect place to hide, I would guess. Not too cheap, not too expensive.

  Two bikes identical to ours share a space in the back. We park in the next space, hidden behind a huge van in case Noah and Olive are watching their bikes from a window. Peter lifts the seat off his bike and pulls out two small semiautomatics —Walther PPKs. He tosses one to me; I snatch it out of the air, then snug it against my lower back. I pull my shirt over it.

  “They’re loaded,” he says. “I hope you remember how to shoot.”

  “Me too.” The confidence isn’t there, not yet. It always comes the second I discover I can do something.

  We enter the hotel like we belong there, not acknowledging the desk clerk. Really I’m just following Peter’s lead; all I can think about is the hunk of metal pressed against my spine. Hoping against hope I won’t have to use it.

  In the elevator, Peter checks his watch again, which he’s clearly using to track them. My hands shake. I don’t know if I’m afraid, or if I’m nervous about meeting Noah and Olive. The anger is a sure thing, though, thanks to Noah. I still can’t believe the boy I kissed in the video is the one who took away my memories.

  Peter leads me to room 496, and checks his watch a final time. He stands off to the side, holding his gun against his thigh, then nods to the other side of the door. I take up a similar position, listening for any signs of life over the pounding of my pulse.

  He knocks three times.

  8

  Nothing, no response.

  Peter knocks three more times. “Room service,” he says. We share a grin despite the situation. “C’mon. Noah, Olive. Open the door.” After a few seconds, Peter sighs. “All right, I’m coming in. Don’t shoot.”

  Neither of us has a key card, so Peter raises his foot and kicks above the doorknob. It sounds like a gunshot. The door swings open and bangs off the inside wall. It bounces back to hit us, but Peter shoulders his way through, gun up, muscles tense. I follow a second behind him, and take in the room at a glance—

  Bed. Small desk. Tube TV with a bulging screen. Wooden dresser on the far wall. Window overlooking a section of downtown. A dark opening to my left, the bathroom.

  Peter, frozen with a gun to his left temple.

  “Drop it,” says the person holding the gun.

  I recognize him immediately from the video. Noah. The

  boy I kissed. The gun is suddenly too heavy to hold up, but I manage.

  Noah’s eyes flit toward me. “Miranda?”

  Right then, as we make eye contact for the first time, anger flares inside me, white hot.

  Peter makes his move. He tries to knock the gun away with his left hand and punch with his right, but Noah is too fast. He swings the gun down and bounces it off Peter’s forehead. Peter stumbles a few feet and slams his hip against the desk, hand pressed above his eyebrow. Blood rolls down his cheek and drips off the end of his chin.

  “Don’t try it,” Noah says to Peter.

  “Thanks for the advice,” Peter says, leaning against the wall.

  I still have my gun up through sheer power of will, and I point it at Noah. Not that it’s heavy, just, I know I shouldn’t be pointing it at him. This is wrong, any way you cut it. We’re supposed to be a team. His eyes widen; I know he wants to swing the gun from Peter to me.

  He doesn’t. And I know why. I sense movement in the dark bathroom to my left. Before I can process it and decide to switch targets, a gun barrel nestles in my hair.

  “Drop it,” a girl’s voice says.

  Behind me, the main door shuts, closing us off from the hallway. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.

  “Don’t drop it,” Peter says to me. “She won’t shoot.”

  “Shut up,” Noah and the girl say.

  It must be Olive. I see her hovering in my peripheral vision, on the edge of darkness. The only detail I can make out is long black hair.

  We stand like this for a whole minute—me aiming at Noah, Olive aiming at me, Noah aiming at Peter, and Peter really just holding his head. Finally Peter blinks a few times and raises his gun at Olive.

  “I guess I’ll complete the figure eight,” Peter says.

  “Lower your gun,” Noah says calmly.

  Peter shakes his head. “Guys, just listen. For a minute.”

  He waits. We haven’t moved. I study Noah at the end of my sight. He’s taller than he looked in the video, as tall as Peter. Sweat beads his forehead and he has this look on his face. I recognize it.

  Suspicion.

  He thinks we’re the ones up to no good. It takes everything I have not to start giggling like an idiot. And not a ha-ha giggle, either. Definitely a Get this girl to the crazy house giggle. I’m looking at this guy who used to be my boyfriend, and something is definitely there. The Ghost of Feelings Past, maybe. But the idea that he suspects us when he’s the one who left the way he did...it’s so ridiculous that I doubt everything I’ve learned about myself so far. I believe we were together; I just don’t understand how. Plus that whole part where I’m pointing a gun at him doesn’t make things any clearer.

  “If you have something to share, please do,” Noah says
. His eyes keep cutting to me, searching for something. Recognition? He won’t get it. Maybe if he hadn’t altered my shots or whatever the hell he did...The anger I first felt has shrunk slightly, like turning down the flame on a stove. It’s no match for the emptiness in my chest, which seems to gobble everything moments after I feel it.

  Peter takes a deep breath. “A few days ago we slept in the same room, ate our meals together, took turns using the showers. Trained together. Had class together. Do you all remember this? I mean, except Miranda.”

  He smiles at me—his brilliant smile, the one that needs a trademark. Noah seems disgusted, but whether for me or himself isn’t clear.

  “I remember,” Noah says.

  “Me too,” Olive says from the shadows.

  “Okay then,” Peter continues, “is it reasonable to talk about this minus the guns?”

  “It is,” Olive says.

  “Shut up Olive,” Noah says.

  “Youshut up,” she replies. “Who made you boss?” “You did, when you followed me.”

  In the hallway, someone opens and closes a door. Kicking in that door wasn’t quiet, and I wonder if we’ll have company soon.

  No one wants to make the first move, that much is clear. Fine. Let the girl who has the least reason to trust any of them show she’s willing to talk. “Okay,” I say. Slowly, I lower my weapon until it’s next to my thigh again. The grip is slippery with sweat.

  “That’s my girl,” Noah says.

  “Item one, I’m not your girl.”

  His growing smile disappears like it was never there in the first place. He keeps his gun on Peter, who keeps his gun on Olive, who keeps her gun on me.

  “Guys,” I say, “I just lowered my weapon. Good faith, anyone?”

  Peter lowers his too, slowly. Noah and Olive don’t move.

  “Now,” I say, “you two have the guns. Why don’t you tell us why you left? Why don’t you”—and now I’m speaking to Noah—“tell me why I can’t remember a goddamn thing.”

  Noah swallows; I watch his Adam’s apple go up, then down.

  “I saw something,” he says, keeping his gun on Peter. “What?” Peter asks.

  “Don’t play dumb, you know what I’m talking about.”

  Peter’s jaw clenches. He squares to Noah. Noah aims the gun, I don’t know, harder at Peter. Before I can stop myself, I walk forward. If Noah won’t stop pointing his gun at Peter, maybe he’ll stop pointing it at me. One hopes.

  I slip my gun into my jeans, then reach out and put a palm on each of their chests. Both are warm. I feel the scales of their armor underneath the fabric. It shouldn’t be possible through the armor, but I feel their fast heartbeats thrum against my palms.

  I try to make my voice as calm as possible. “Either we talk to each other, or we shoot each other. Pick one.”

  I should’ve done that in the first place.

  9

  Noah tells us a story.

  He was snooping in Dr. Tycast’s office last week, searching for pain pills. He’d hurt his back during a training mission. It was my fault, apparently. He was only allowed so many but the pain was flaring up, so he wanted to see what the doctor had in his desk.

  We tell him to get to the good part.

  Noah closes his eyes and seems to fall into a kind of trance. “Just . . . stay with me,” he says. “This is what happened.”

  Two seconds after finding the pills, he heard Dr. Tycast in the hallway and slid into the small closet Tycast keeps some personal stuff in. It was already late, and he figured the doctor would be in and out. Instead, Dr. Tycast sat down and something vibrated on his desk, like a cell phone.

  Dr. Tycast said, “On-screen,” and a video appeared on the far wall, like it had in the holding room for me.

  Noah didn’t see who was on the screen—the door to the closet was shut, with only a sliver of light coming through. But he heard the voice just fine.

  “Are you alone?” the voice said, which was female and familiar.

  “Aren’t I always?” Dr. Tycast said.

  “I mean physically, Brett.”

  “Yes. Go ahead.”

  “We’re moving ahead with the dry run.”

  “I know.”

  “No, I mean now. Two weeks.”

  “You said I had another year with them.”

  “I did.”

  “I told you they won’t be at full potential until then.”

  “You did, yes.”

  “And you want to test them why?”

  “Because our buyers want them now, and they demand a test.”

  “Who are the buyers?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  “Why do I have a feeling it isn’t our government?” “Because it’s not our government, Brett.”

  “They backed out again.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “Do they know about the children?”

  “No, they do not.”

  There was a long pause here, like Tycast was thinking hard.

  “When you say dry run, you mean—”

  “What we talked about, Doctor. You said you were okay with it.”

  “I said we could talk about it. We had a year to talk about it.”

  “And now we don’t have a year. The Beta team will move into the facility and you can have the extra year with them. Beta team will take part in the dry run to make up for the power Alpha lacks. The longer we wait, the higher risk we never recover a cent from this project.”

  Another pause.

  Finally, Dr. Tycast said, “Hundreds could die. Thousands. We don’t know how far it will spread.”

  “Hence the test, Brett.”

  “We can do this indoors. We can simulate—”

  “We have a buyer locked in. A deposit has been made. But they have requested a real-world demonstration. We voted today, unanimously.”

  “These are good kids. They won’t go along with it. You know this.”

  “We have ways of convincing them. You know we won’t deliver them to their buyers without security measures.”

  “Security measures,” Dr. Tycast repeated. “The tattoos.”

  “Yes, the tattoos. You’re on board, Doctor.”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “I’m asking. Come on, Brett.”

  “I want to know where they’re going. After the dry run, I want to know.”

  “Of course. They’re your children as much as they are mine.”

  “Right.”

  Noah pauses here. He lays his palms flat on either side of his head. He says he wants to get the words right. It’s important. It’s why he’s here. Why he did what he did.

  “There’s one more thing, Doctor, the woman said.”

  “Yes?”

  “The rogue.”

  “You’ve found him.”

  “No. Not yet. We last tracked him to Indianapolis, but lost him. He might be hiding there. Or he might be back in the city.”

  “You think Rhys will repeat his actions.”

  “I don’t see why he wouldn’t. You saw the aftermath of his escape. Four Roses dead in a matter of minutes.”

  “You should’ve let Rhys go! You knew he was stronger than the others.”

  “Yes, well, we’re trying to keep him away from the teams. He’ll either kill them, or try to use them against us. In that situation, I hope he chooses the former. If you understand.”

  “He can’t get in here.”

  “I hope you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  “Good night then, Doctor.”

  “Good night.”

  The light from the screen went dark. Dr. Tycast pounded his fist on his desk and swore softly, like he’d hurt himself. After a minute, Noah heard him crying. He sobbed for five minutes before pulling himself together, sniffing back tears and snot. Finally he left. Noah went to his desk and tried to find the video in his files, but it was gone.

  He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but h
e knew enough. They were going to sell us, make us hurt people. A lot of people.

  “I wanted you safe,” Noah says. “I switched your memory shots for the next few days until the drug was out of your system.”

  He wanted me safe. Those people in the mall are dead because he wanted me safe.

  “I took you away, and . . . There’s no excuse, I know. I just needed you safe.”

  Everyone is looking at me.

  He brushes a hand over his short hair. “Then I went to find the rogue. This Rhysthey talked about. He could change everything. He could help us.”

  “Or kill us,” Peter says. “Sounds like he kills Roses for a living.”

  Noah raises his hands and spreads them wide. “Yes. Roses. Plural. More people like us. I had to know if it was true. And I knew if I found the rogue, there was a good chance he’d kill me outright, including Miranda if I brought her with me.”

  Leave me at home, and I’m sold off as a weapon. Take me with him and risk death at the hands of someone who’s already killed four separate Roses. Yeah, I get it now. But it’s the furthest thing from right I can imagine. He took away my choice.

  Oh, and there’s one flaw in his argument.

  “It was okay to risk Olive?” I say.

  Olive holds my gaze. “I don’t agree with what he did, but no one risked me. I came because we have to do something.” She licks her lips, sighs. “By the time I knew what Noah’s plans were, it was too late to stop him.”

  “And did you find the rogue?” I ask Noah.

  He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Shakes his head slowly.

  “You had no right,” I say, feeling more empty than angry again. It’s tiring to attempt understanding. “Why did you leave me downtown, if you wanted me safe?” I can’t even begin to wrap my head around Dr. Tycast’s betrayal. If he’s up to something, I can’t trust anything he said to me last night.

  Olive and I sit at the foot of the bed. Peter leans against the wall with his arms folded, looking out the window, holding a red-spotted towel to his forehead. Noah paces, occasionally reaching up and lacing his fingers behind his head.

  “I didn’t leave you downtown. I took you to Columbus,” he says.

  “I woke up in Cleveland.” I must’ve traveled, forgetting along the way. Heading home, even if I didn’t know it consciously. Still, that’s a long way to be unaccounted for.