by Pintip Dunn
“I’m reminding you.” She walks forward, her eyes more intense, her figure more menacing with each step. “Reminding you why your mom is stuck working as a bot supervisor, a job that gives her migraines from being around machinery all day, a job that chews up her soul and spits it back out. This is a unique time in our society, one you should take advantage of. Half of our employees no longer have their future memories, which means the hiring process is pure chaos as people are scrambling to figure out what to do, how to hire. All of a sudden, there’s an opportunity for someone like your mom, a good worker with a solid basis of knowledge. Don’t you want your mother to have the career she trained for? A career she would love?”
“Of course I do.” I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at Dresden anymore. Mistake. Because what I see, instead, is the way my mother sinks into a chair, massaging her temples, when I drop by her house. I see her turn off all the lights and lie flat on the tile floor when she doesn’t know I’m there.
Whatever her faults, my mother works hard. She may not love me, but she’s made a point to see me every day for the last four years. That’s something, right?
If I turn down Dresden now, how am I any different from my mom, when she chose her personal desires over me?
“One word from us, and that medical assistant job is as good as your mom’s,” she continues. “In fact, I’ll do you one better than that. I’ll make her a memory.” Her eyes glitter, as deep and black as jewels. “In the past, there was no way to manufacture future memories because it was impossible to make one that seamless, that real. A fake could be spotted in an instant. But now that the memories are deteriorating, it’s made room for a black market. It won’t be perfect, but your mom can just claim that her future memory is fading, and her employers would be none the wiser. A fading memory may not be as valuable as a pristine one, but it’s still better than nothing.”
I open my eyes and see the crisp navy suit, those transparent icicle heels. That uniform used to taunt me as it wove among the white lab coats. Of course Dresden is talking about fake memories and unethical conduct. I’ve known for ten years that’s what she’s about.
They…they tortured me back then. Strapped me to a chair, made me live memories that weren’t mine. Nightmare after nightmare of all the phobias known to man. Falling from a cliff, drowning in the ocean, being buried alive in a coffin. Over and over, until they found the one phobia specific to me. The one horror that made me scream louder than the rest.
They played that memory, again and again, until I curled into a fetal position and whimpered. Until, at six years old, I wished my life were over.
It was ten years ago, and my time with the scientists lasted only a few days. But I still live that memory they gave me, the one they played over and over again. The one of me betraying my family, of the shock and hatred on their faces. Of the bloody knife in my hands and the bodies at my feet.
The memory isn’t mine. They took it from a hardened criminal tripped out on fumes. I could see his long, ropey limbs; the hands holding the knife were calloused and masculine. And yet, several nights a week, I still jerk awake, drenched with sweat, and know how it feels to be a traitor.
That’s why I won’t work with the scientists. They can dangle whatever they want in front of me. I won’t cave. It’s the principle of the matter.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t work with scientists who torture children by giving them fake memories. Not now, not ever.”
“Only a few of them were involved in that project,” she says smoothly. “The vast majority of TechRA didn’t even know about it. I can assure you, we no longer undergo such…experiments. The only fake memories we deal in these days are the innocuous ones. Would you really hold the shortsightedness of a few against an entire agency?”
“Yes,” I say evenly. I am quite certain who authorized such “experiments,” as she calls them. “I believe I will.”
“Oh, really? Maybe this will change your mind.” With a smirk, Dresden lifts her hand and presses a few buttons on her wristband. And then a holo-vid starts playing in the air.
I don’t want to look. I’m loath to do anything the chairwoman asks me to do. But like a spectator to a hovercrash, my eyes are drawn to the vid.
A prison cell is stuffed with teenage girls in dirty school uniforms. At one end, a brunette roars and leaps onto a redhead’s back, grabbing her hair and yanking until it detaches in clumps. Another girl in the corner sings at the top of her lungs. Her head lolls around in a pile of feces, streaking her once-blond hair with brown.
I swallow hard. It’s not like the memories the scientists made me live. Instead of experiencing the memory across five senses, I’m merely watching the scene—and yet, it’s so vivid, so intense that I almost feel like I’m there.
Two people appear at the end of the hallway. They converse briefly, and then the tall one walks toward us. She wears a navy uniform and has silver hair cut closely to a well-shaped head. The face is more lined, but the features are unmistakable. Chairwoman Dresden.
She strides briskly to the cell and stops in front of one of the prisoners. “Mom,” a young female voice says. “You have to call off the execution.”
“I told you, Olivia,” Dresden says. “You knew the price of receiving a mediocre memory, but you wouldn’t listen, would you?”
“My future self sent me a happy memory,” the girl says. “In it, I held my newborn baby and felt at peace with the world.”
“It was mediocre! You of all people should’ve known what was coming.” A muscle ticks at the corner of Dresden’s mouth. “It was your vision of the future that showed us what we could become. A race of superhumans.”
My mouth goes dry. Dear Fates. This isn’t a memory but a vision of the future. The vision, in fact, that the six-year-old Olivia showed Callie. The one that made her stab a needle into her heart. Logan’s recounted it enough times for me to recognize it. Why is Dresden showing it to me now?
Dresden wraps her hands over the girl’s on the bars. “I know you’ve got talent, Olivia. You’re my daughter, aren’t you? Why didn’t your future self send a better memory? You could’ve chosen any memory. One that showed off your superlative skills as a violinist. One that illustrated your mathematical genius. Why did you send this one?”
“I don’t know why she did it, Mom,” Olivia says. “Maybe my future self thought it wasn’t right to execute ninety-nine percent of the population on the basis of their memories. Maybe she knew this was the only way to get you to listen. To show you there’s more to humanity than pure talent. There’s also happiness. And love.”
Dresden drops her hands from the bars. “Not in this world, I’m afraid. We can’t allow any mediocre genes to contaminate the breeding pool. The execution has been set. You and the other Mediocres will serve your sentence in two hours.”
She turns and strides away, her heels clicking against the floor, toward the person with whom she entered the hallway.
“Mom!” Olivia calls. “You can’t do this. I’m your daughter. Your daughter!”
“No. No daughter of mine is mediocre.”
The vision should end here. That’s where Logan always concluded his telling. But it doesn’t. I tilt my head, squinting at the vid. The worms wriggling around my stomach begin to crawl up my throat. Something’s about to happen. Something…bad. Dresden is showing me this vision for a reason, and it’s not just to satisfy my morbid curiosity.
Dresden flings out her palm and knocks to the floor the handheld device her assistant is carrying. The device smashes into a million pieces, and the assistant gets to her knees to retrieve them.
MK Rivers, I’m guessing. The chairwoman’s assistant back then and, ten years later, her assistant now.
She stretches to retrieve another piece, and her shirt gets untucked from her pants. It lifts up and reveals the splatter-paint birthmark at her waist. One that consists of a splotch that radiates in five directions. Just like the fingers of a blobby hand.
I can’t breathe. The air gets stuck somewhere between my lungs and my windpipe, and no amount of pounding will dislodge it. No. No. That can’t be my birthmark on that girl’s waist. I would never be on Dresden’s side, let alone be her assistant. Never.
And yet, there’s no erasing the image. That birthmark like a splatter of paint. The splotch that radiates into five fingers. That’s my birthmark. Mine. With me since my birth and catalogued into ComA’s records of identifying characteristics.
“You might as well stop fighting the inevitable.” Dresden crosses her arms, smirking. “Now we both know you’ll be working for me someday, after MK gets promoted.”
I’m trembling, my knees, my arms, probably even my hair. But I shake my head forcefully. “No. You’re wrong. This is just one possible vision of the future. It doesn’t have to come true. Callie proved that.”
Dresden’s eyes flash. “You can tell yourself that. But we both know this vision is more than just a prediction. It originates from your very genes, Jessa. Why do you think, as a child, you reacted so strongly to the memory of betraying your family? Somewhere, in your chemical makeup, you already know this is going to happen. This is who you are. Accept it. Perhaps your sister was able to fight Fate. But you will never be able to fight your very nature.”
A weariness descends on me, one that goes beyond my bones to the molecules themselves. Maybe it’s from the infection. More likely, it’s from this guilt I’ve been lugging around like the hydration packs sewn into my hoverjerseys.
She’s right. This is who I am.
My sister ended her life to save mine. But never once did she stop to consider whether my life was worth saving over hers.
Callie was the strong one, the noble one. She’s the one everybody loved. Logan’s heart ripped in two when she injected herself, and my mom walks around like she has some essential organ missing.
All I have to do is look into their eyes to see how they really feel: The wrong sister died. The one who lived is nothing but a girl who can’t get along with her mother. Nothing but a slacker whose only goal is to find another cliff to fling herself off.
If I could go back to the past and undo my sister’s decision, I would. But I can’t. So all I can do now is thwart my sister’s enemy. As long as I live, I will never betray my family.
Even if I’m as unworthy as the chairwoman says.
Squaring my shoulders, I stare down Dresden. “The answer is no. No matter how many visions you show me, I will never, ever be on your side.”
5
Magnificent in its swirls of color, the ramp is part of a system of banks, half-pipes, and undulating waves that make up Eden City’s best hoverpark—and Tanner Callahan’s favorite hangout.
My heart pounds like I’m on the last leg of a marathon, and I’m burning up under all this padding. I swallow, tuck the stray hair under my helmet, and swallow again.
Not only do I have to go down that ramp, but I have to do a heel-flip trick as my entrance. Without falling on my head. In front of a growing audience of hoverboarders.
Maybe this is my punishment for defying my future. Maybe, after conquering skydiving and cliff jumps, I’ll fall and break my neck on an incline that rises a mere twenty feet off the ground.
A guy with stringy brown hair nudges his friend, and they both look at me, broad smiles on their faces. Of course they’re happy. The crowd loves to watch boarders land cool new tricks. They like it even better when we crash against the concrete.
But this is all part of the plan. After Dresden left, I decided my mom was right. As much as I hate the scientists, I need to talk to Tanner. I have to find out what infected me.
I catch a glimpse of Tanner now next to a girl in a white tank top. His lips rest against each other in a straight line, and he stares at me, his eyes dark and unfathomable. He’s got a hoverboard balanced against his hip. Like everyone else, he’s waiting for the show.
I swallow hard. Despite myself, little pinpricks of awareness sprout all over my body. It’s like my every nerve has come alive because of his presence—which is just ridiculous. I can’t stand the guy. I only want to pump him for information.
Exhaling slowly, I square my shoulders. I’ve already been standing here too long. Much longer than my allotted twenty seconds. I either need to put down my board or move aside.
That’s part of the plan, too—I need time for the crowd to gather. Time for Tanner to become interested in watching me.
I take one more breath and hop on my hoverboard, balancing on the balls of my left foot at the back end, the toes of my right foot just peeping over the front edge.
“Make sure you get enough air,” the girl in the white tank top shouts.
“Timing is everything,” the guy with the stringy hair says.
“I’ve already got the medics on the line.” His friend smirks.
And Tanner? He watches me with the same attention he gave the mouse’s severed leg and says nothing at all.
Go time. I slide my front foot forward, catching the edge with my heel and flipping the board. For an infinitesimal moment, I hang in the air. Don’t worry about the ramp. Just think about landing on the board.
That’s all I have to hit. That’s all I have to hit. That’s all I have to—
My feet catch the board in midair, and then the magnets below the concrete latch on. I bend my knees, and all of a sudden, I’m racing down the ramp. The wind rushes over my ears, and my eyes water with the speed.
I laugh, wild and reckless and free. I did it! I landed the trick, and now I’m flying. This is what I love best about extreme sports. The adrenaline pumps through my body; my senses jumble together; and for a single, untouchable moment, I feel like I can do anything at all.
Even the impossible.
I charge up the opposite ramp and jump off the hoverboard. Ryder gives me a high five, thinks better of it, and then sweeps me up in a hug. “You killed it! On your first try, too.”
He sets me down, but the hoverpark keeps moving, a kaleidoscope of colors and movement and people. “I had a good teacher.”
“Damn straight,” he says, grinning. “Too bad Rat Boy’s not impressed. He’s leaving.”
I whip my head around. Sure enough, Tanner’s setting his hoverboard on the edge of the coping.
“He can’t leave yet,” I blurt. “He’s supposed to congratulate me on a job well done.”
That was the whole point of the trick. I had to impress him, to give him a reason to approach. Because if he takes the initiative, then he won’t suspect me of pumping him for information. I have to stop him. But how?
Before I can come up with any bright ideas, Tanner puts his foot down and charges away, locking onto one of the racing circuits that circles the hoverpark. Great.
“Father of Time,” I moan. “Only, like, five people in this park could’ve landed that trick. What do I have to do to get him to notice me?”
Ugh. I gag just saying the words. It kills me that I’m even trying to get his attention. In any other situation, I’d rather pull out my nails, one by one, than talk to him. Prop open my eyelids with toothpicks and read the history of the pre-Boom era, over and over again.
And now, I’m stooping to tricks in hopes of getting a single word of congratulations? I think I’m going to throw up.
“Dude, Rat Boy doesn’t care about tricks. He’s the best wind sprinter we’ve got, but he won’t touch the vert walls.” Ryder adjusts the magnifying goggles on his head, the ones he wears everywhere in case he needs to examine the cellular structure of something. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back. He’s probably just nervous, and who can blame him? I’d be scared of me, too.”
I smirk, but he has a point. In spite of his techno-geekiness, Ryder looks like he could kill large animals with his bare hands.
Underneath the tough exterior, though, he’s not so scary. Once upon a time, when we were kids, I caught him lining a homemade coffin with acorns so that a squirrel would have something to eat in its
afterlife. That was the moment I decided I wanted him as my best friend.
Good thing, too. A few seconds later, Tanner comes barreling back down the circuit, just as my best friend predicted. Ryder gives me a little shove. “Quick, do another one of your tricks.”
My mind whirls. “Which one?”
“Does it matter? Just go!”
Moving fast, I set my board on the coping. But when I push off, my balance is wrong. The board doesn’t feel glued to my feet. Instead, it slides right out from under me.
Keep loose! I hear Ryder’s voice in my head. Roll.
Ooommmpppphhhh.
I hit the concrete with my shoulder, keeping my elbows tucked in. I roll with the fall, spreading out the impact. I do everything right, but curse the Fates, it hurts. A lot.
“You okay?” a voice says from above me.
I squint against the sun, and my eyes travel up over a pair of baggy cargo pants. I hit the low-slung waist, and my breath—what little there is left of it—catches. Because the light gray thermal shirt hugs his abdomen, and I can see every line, every ridge of his six-pack. My gaze continues up, and I see a broad, well-defined chest and long, ropey muscles. I swallow hard. Whoever my rescuer is, he’s hot. Really hot.
Almost in a hurry now, I drag my eyes farther up. Surely his face will be as pretty as the rest of him. Surely he’ll have the kind of eyes that will pierce right through me. Surely—
I see a lean, chiseled jaw and soft, kissable lips. Tousled black hair brushing up against dark eyes framed with thick lashes. But the eyes don’t pierce right through me. Instead, they’re…laughing…at me.
Oh, good Fates. Was I actually checking out Tanner Callahan? What in Limbo is the matter with me?
He holds out a hand to help me up. “You know, the six-inch curbs are over by the entrance. Maybe you should master those before you attempt a real drop-in.”
My cheeks flame. “I’m not a beginner. I’ve been dropping in practically since I could walk.”
“Oh, really?” His eyebrows rise, so that they disappear under his fringe of hair. “Could’ve fooled me.”