by A A Woods
Shared Memory File of Esteban Santos
Assistant to Yasmin Abergel
Time Stamp: Wednesday, September 19th, 2195
10:47 P.M. EST
You are recording.
Your IRIS is plugged into the small, square device on the cherry-wood desk as you watch Yasmin Abergel, C.E.O. of Project Recollection, prepare to address you. Technicians swirl around the office as Yasmin consults something on the data-screen that takes up half her desk. Her hair is trimmed, curling tightly around the curve of her skull, silhouetted against the glimmering upper city in the window behind her. Her sky blue button-down is perfectly pressed, fingernails glossy with an elegant French manicure as they trace the simple silver chain glittering at her neck.
“Ma’am, the board is demanding a response,” says a prim woman in a pencil skirt hovering behind the C.E.O.
“Tell them I’ll have one by Monday,” Yasmin says, her eyes never leaving the data pad. “Are you including Alfonzo Nivens in the broadcast?”
“He’s already logged into the secure channel.”
“Excellent.” Yasmin’s eyes flick up, but they pass over you in favor of something that hovers behind your chair. “Are you ready?”
“Whenever you are,” says a voice, an arrogant male tenor that seems to purr with happiness.
“Then let’s start.” Yasmin’s eyes find yours. “Begin the broadcast in three. Two.”
Her mouth stills and you feel the tingle in your IRIS cable as the technicians fade into the backdrop. The window behind Yasmin darkens. Her face fills your vision, holding your eyes and the attention of those watching through you.
“Thank you all for signing on at this late hour. I recognize that this is an unorthodox way to share news, but I’m sure you will understand the need for secrecy when I reveal our latest innovation. Please be warned, this memory is being shared with the most up-to-date security measures, including a timed decay and a share-tracker. As you all know, there are those who would love to tear this company down, and I am not willing to expose our new project to the public’s fickle whims just yet.”
Yasmin’s hands are clasped on the desk. Her unblinking gaze never leaves yours. She might as well be carved from onyx, except for the movement of her mouth, the flashing of her white teeth.
“Now that you have been warned of the measures we have taken to protect this memory, I want to share with you the latest opportunity Project Recollection has to offer to our most loyal and generous investors. In our brave history, ProRec has challenged the nature of self, the isolation of the mind. Our work has brought people together in a way no other technology could. This company’s research has changed how we see the world, our social connectivity, and, most importantly, each other.”
Yasmin leans forward, the only external sign of the swirling fire in her eyes.
“But the Ankh Program will change the way we see life itself.”
She pauses, straightening.
“In such matters, words are cheap. I can speak all day of the professional and personal journey that led to our newest stroke of genius. But, of course, a demonstration will be a more valuable use of your time.” Yasmin’s eyes flick up and her hand stretches long, inviting someone to join her. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe you all know the inventor of neural wiring and our most loyal patron, William Barber. Or perhaps I should say knew.”
A figure steps around you. He is tall, thin, young, with ice-white hair slicing stylishly across one side of his face. He grins at you, his smile hesitant, as if he’s still learning how to use it.
His hand twines into Yasmin’s and you see tattoos, a delicate black feather decorating each finger.
“This morning, William Barber made history.” Her gaze snaps back to you, pulls your attention to her eyes like twin black holes. “And you can too.”
Releasing the boy’s feathered hand, she steeples her glossy fingernails, elbows on the desk.
“I understand there will be many questions. Attached to this memory is an invitation. Three nights from now, we are hosting a private gala. A demonstration, if you will, for those brave explorers eager to test out the promise of our newest technology.”
She leans forward, the silky fabric of her top pulling tight around the curve of her shoulders.
“This is more than just another program. This is the answer to a question that has plagued humanity since the beginning of time. Project Recollection has always carved the future. Now we mold it into something entirely new.”
Yasmin’s eyes blaze.
“You have the opportunity to be a part of the change. Don’t waste it.”
You blink. Your IRIS cable tingles.
And then the memory goes dark.
Tora
Wednesday, September 19th, 2195
11:23 P.M. EST
I wander through the Tunnels for what feels like centuries, accompanied by the crash of my rod against concrete buildings and my own roiling fury. The knees of my jeans are ripped and bloody from the amount of times I’ve fallen, and what feels like an impressive bruise is forming on my side where something sharp jabbed into me. Every so often a voice cracks the impenetrable silence—the whispering plea of a MemHead or the cocky catcall of a Gamer—and fear skitters up my spine. I am helpless in this darkness, more defenseless than I’ve ever been.
But none of them approach me.
They leave me alone, repelled, I imagine, by the anger that wicks off me in waves. And every time, I swallow irrational disappointment. It’s stupid, but a selfish, destructive part of me wants them to attack, wants a way to feel powerful again. To fight back. My more logical half murmurs calm, preaches restraint, and the storm inside me only grows.
Damn them. Damn them all.
I’m a tumbleweed down here, worth less than the trash in the guts of this dead city. In my most desperate hour of need, I stood alone against the twin goliath forces of Project Recollection and Kitzima. Like a fool, I tried to be strong. Defiant in the face of such power.
And I lost.
I think of Damien, who should have been there. Of Khali, whose absence somehow hurts more. My mother, who probably hasn’t even noticed my absence. Zhu, who left me such an impossible task.
My father.
I whip the walking-stick hard, swinging it like a baseball bat. It whistles through the air and hits something. The empty Tunnel fills with the sonorous warble of metal against metal and then with a soft thud as I collapse to the ground, head hanging between ragged knees.
Dad.
I slump, claimed by gravity and my own hopelessness, and picture the man who raised me. His round face lit with laughter. Big eyes gleaming, their whites somehow whiter in contrast with his chestnut skin; black hair tousled and glasses askew as he chases Zhu and me through the apartment. Before any of us had cables. Before the Kinder Program and mother’s addiction and Zhu’s disappearance.
He doesn’t look like that anymore.
You can always come to me if you need anything, Mei.
Those were words he left behind on the day he walked out. I remember them so clearly, the way his breath rasped and his rough hand touched my cheek. The way he seemed to fill our apartment—neither this one nor the one of my childhood, but one of our many transient homes after… after everything. His presence was huge and powerful and sad as he walked away. Left me alone. Mom had sobbed. Silent tears had left hot trails on my own cheeks, tattoos of grief I feel to this day.
He’d tried to talk me into going with him. Joining the Purists, getting rid of my cable, throwing my story into the brewing pot of anti-ProRec sentiment. And his disappointment when I’d refused had been like a physical blow, another crack in the foundation of myself, adding to the mosaic of scars I had become.
He doesn’t know how much I depend on my IRIS cable. Doesn’t realize the incessant torture of relying on the very company I loathe, being forced to use the technology that has stolen so much of my life. And he doesn’t know about the secrets Zhu left in my wi
ring, the mysterious something I’m supposed to protect. The answer to everything, just out of reach.
Letting the Purists remove my cable would be like accepting my brother is gone.
Now, kneeling in the Tunnels and swallowing sobs, I think of going to my father. Admitting that I’d failed. That I couldn’t, after everything, stand on my own feet.
It hurts more than a Gaming match.
I haven’t sunk that far. Not yet.
The steel rod hangs loosely from one hand as I droop my head, Fuzz Specs dangling from the bridge of my nose.
What next? I think.
Zhu’s voice blooms in my mind, low and frantic and so unlike him.
Never let them see what I did.
The imprint of that evening is burned into my brain. That night he wasn’t cheerful or laughing or warm. He was terrified, trying to hide it, trying to tell me something, and I just waved him off and went to bed.
My fingers tighten painfully over the rod.
I can’t let him down, not again. Wherever he is, whatever ProRec has subjected him to, I’m the only one left. Dad may fight the company and Mom may fight herself, but I’m the one still fighting for him. The only one who took what they did to our family and used it as armor. As fuel. If I give up now, Zhu will have no one.
Which means I need to find Damien.
Whatever his faults, Damien can’t turn away from me now. Not after tonight. I may be banned from the Gaming ring, but he’s not and the platinum-blonde Gamer is arrogant enough to follow even the stupidity of my plan. Because there are still a handful of players with keys, many of them with egos big enough to accept a private challenge. With my help, maybe Damien can win one of them. Get me into the tournament.
Kitzima’s words float over me like a storm cloud.
Maybe one day you’ll learn when to quit.
I jam the rod into the ground, use it to shove to my feet.
Not today, I think, making my way deeper into the Tunnels, determined to find Damien’s Gamer House.
~
Even if I could see, tracking the passage of time in the Tunnels would be hard enough. Without my PAP, it’s almost impossible. The hours stretch as I make my slow ponderous way through alleys, around corners, down sloping construction ramps, and deeper, always deeper, into the heart of the city. After six months of escaping Nova police while chasing hidden Gamer rings, I’ve come to develop a detailed map of the sprawling underground in my head. But still I get lost as I stumble through this sharp-toothed chaos, have to retrace my steps, run my fingers over the edge of buildings looking for this corner store or that ancient subway stop to mark my way.
By the time I hear the distant voices of the holograms echoing toward me, I’m shaking with exhaustion and half-sobbing from the bruises that form constellations all over my body.
“Come and play with me!”
“May I read you the daily news, sir, or perhaps initiate a cup of tea?”
With all the strength I have left, I grit my teeth and stumble forward, whipping the rod back and forth with more vigor than strictly necessary as I march up to the Gamer House. I feel the heat of lights on my skin as I pass through the holograms, pick my way over the tumbled stone and ruin of the street. A jagged piece of rebar claws at my leg and I feel skin and fabric tear, making my already sore calf throb. I swallow a scream of defiance and imagine Damien’s reaction when I storm into his room, picture his guilt and dismay when I show him what his flakiness did this time.
It’s a weak balm on my temper, but the thought of his horrorstruck face steadies my hand as I slide my IRIS cable into the port, unlock the door, and stomp inside.
Relief washes over me as I step into familiar territory. For a moment it’s so powerful that I just stand in the lobby, swaying as the greeter’s voice materializes, crisp and clean and undiminished by the endless lonely years.
“Welcome to Optica, your gateway to the world. We offer the best high-resolution holograms on the market at the most reasonable cost. May I help you find your next adventure?”
I wonder if the computer ever gets tired of repeating the welcome over and over to a world that isn’t listening, stuck uselessly in the same worn rut until the end of time.
I can sympathize.
Forcing my sore feet to move, I allow the rod to drag behind me as I propel myself past the door, through the lobby, up the stairs, counting my steps but barely noticing as my feet slip and my knee hits something solid. More pain. The rod clanks against glass, echoing through the vast building. A part of me wants to throw it away, send it flying into the shadows, never to be found again.
But that small, cautious part of my brain stops me with a repulsive thought.
I might need it to get home.
The ruckus of teenagers thickens as I reach the third floor, drawing me toward the Game Room. It’s amazing to me that in all my months of coming here, I’ve never seen it quiet. It’s almost as if these young people purposely choose not to sleep or rest, pouring their fervor and energy into a life that might end sooner than planned, into the very thing cutting it short. It’s an endless cycle of exhaustion and brain damage and cable alterations that pulls them further down this path, yanks them deeper into a hell of their own creation.
They say that the longer you live with an altered cable, the more it knots into your neurons. The braided-in Yuri Gamen wires grow like weeds, burrowing deep into the soft tissue of your brain and tangling with the Neurowiring until it’s inextricable from yourself, inseparable from your IRIS cable. It changes your brain chemistry, faster and more efficiently than addiction or black-market memories, until you’re trapped, bound by the strangler vines you planted.
I lift a tentative finger to the back of my head, tracing the banded cord to the sharp metal tip. Do I envy them? My cable might be safer, the changes streamlined and harmless. But it’s a burden as heavy and oppressive as theirs. And at least they have the camaraderie of making the choice together.
All I have is myself.
I sigh and let my hand drop, exhaustion lapping at the corners of my mind. The raucous sounds of the Game room fills my chest with a deep and lonely ache.
I wish I could share the update, spread Zhu’s genius the way he would have wanted. But, of course, I can’t access the core code any more than they can. IRIS technology is closed source, locked to everyone but active ProRec employees with access to their specific equipment. So Gamers continue to rip into their cables, physically tear apart the wiring to reach the tender, unstable center. And even after years of Banders and defected ProRec programmers, no one can quite fix the compatibility problem. Everywhere, Gamers wither, lose mental function, die, and no one cares because they’re different. Because they don’t conform.
I grit my teeth.
Yet another reason to bring my brother home.
Taking a tentative, shaky step into the room, I let the sounds of the match swirl around me, rising to a crescendo.
“Plug him!”
“Knock him down!”
“That’s cheating!”
I ignore it all, edging forward, my iron rod screeching against the glass floor. A bubble of hushed voices blows out around me. I feel eyes, sense heads turning.
Folding my arms, I face them with my chin held high. “Where’s Damien?”
I’m greeted by silence. The game continues in the distance, spectators cheering as one of the competitors does something dramatic. But around me, in this pocket of awkwardness I’ve created, there’s only a rustle. A whisper. And my heart drops because I know what it means. It’s the sound that comes before bad news, the wings of a predator about to strike.
“What is it?” I demand, forcing myself to stand tall despite my bone-deep exhaustion.
“Um, Tora, right?” It’s a boy, the cracking pre-pubescent voice who had announced me last time.
I turn in his general direction, holding the rod to my chest as if it might moor me against whatever’s coming.
“Where’s Dami
en?” I ask again, this time quieter, directed.
“No one’s seen him all day,” says the young voice. “He went off to meet that Anastasia lady and didn’t come back.”
My pulse begins to rise, begins to drown out the noises of the crowd. My blood is so thick in my ears that I almost don’t hear the last two words, the final condemnation.
“He’s gone.”
Damien’s obsession with Anastasia had always seemed benign, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was deeper, the sinister cousin of the addiction that plagues my mother.
MemHeads disappear sometimes.
I said the words only yesterday, a small comfort after the loss of Plastic Mike. But they echo back at me now with malevolent significance.
Stumbling away from the roaring crowd, I crash into the corridor, clutch the rod to my chest as I lean against the wall and breathe. Force myself to think.
Damien can’t be gone. He’s my last link to Kitzima’s Gaming ring, my last chance to enter the tournament. Without him, I’m nothing more than a wannabe in exile.
Worse than that, I realize now that he’s the closest thing I have to a friend.
I scrub through the last time I saw him, peeling the encounter apart, looking for clues. He’d tried to tell me about some invitation Anastasia had given him, claimed the celebrity wanted to meet in secret. He’d talked about his family, his tattoos…
The Purists.
Do you ever think about going back?
I lean my head against the wall, letting waves of fatigue lap over me.
Had he gone through with it?
Had the desire to live topside overpowered the love of his stupid channel?
If Anastasia led him on in even the smallest way, it would be easy to imagine him jumping off that cliff for her, diving into an ocean of normalcy for the promise of requited love.
Even though the idea of Damien going to the Purists seems about as likely as Damien passing a mirror without stopping to check his reflection, it’s the only lead I have.
I swallow bile, tilting my head against the wall. I’ve been avoiding this for months, running from the inevitable encounter I know is coming. But I can’t hide from it anymore. So many people are counting on me—Damien, Mom, Zhu. So many weights on my shoulders, crushing me one day at a time, growing larger with every breath. As much as I’d like to pretend there’s another way, it will only prolong the inevitable.