The Eve Illusion

by Giovanna Fletcher

  ‘Memory transfusion,’ I whisper.

  Miss Silva shoots me a look and I straighten my back to attention.

  ‘Why don’t you just extract the memory from his head?’ I blurt out. ‘You know, just take out the information you want.’

  The room is silent. Miss Silva, her soldier, Hartman and the doctor all look at me.

  ‘Good question. For two reasons. First, because the information he has been given is not his memory, it is Bram’s or whoever has told him. If Hartman had been there himself, had he seen where they’re hiding, it would burrow deep canyons into his synapses, but conversations are rarely significant enough, which leads to the second reason. A specific second-hand memory like that would take a painfully long time to locate,’ Miss Silva explains.

  I nod. It brings another question to my mind but I keep my mouth shut this time.

  Why give Hartman someone else’s experience of a memory? How is that going to get him to speak, unless …

  I pause. The answer is obvious.

  It depends what memory Hartman is going to receive.

  In my moment of understanding, I glance at Miss Silva and find her cool eyes gazing at me. She raises a thin eyebrow. She knows I’ve figured it out.

  ‘Death, on the other hand, is an extremely significant moment. It is crystal clear and, as it is the final memory ingrained on a mind, it is the easiest memory to locate. Not many people even contemplated the idea of a death memory. They’re obviously not much use to the person who died, but extremely useful to us,’ Miss Silva says, her blue eyes glistening as though she’s loving every second of this.

  ‘Whose memory am I getting?’ Hartman trembles.

  ‘Oh, we have a fantastic selection available tonight.’ Miss Silva nods and the doctor pulls a stack of files from his case and throws them on to the floor, all marked DECEASED.

  They scatter at Hartman’s feet and my heart freezes in my chest as I see the images now strewn across the cell floor.

  JACKSON WATTS KRAMER LOCKE

  21

  Michael

  Hartman tilts his head, trying to catch a glimpse of the files on the floor, desperate to see whose memory he’ll soon be experiencing.

  ‘No …’ he whimpers, like a dog, at spotting the images of his friends. I can only imagine the horror going through his mind. It was unbearable to witness their deaths the first time, even for me, let alone if they were my colleagues, my friends, dying as the result of my decision.

  ‘No?’ Miss Silva repeats. ‘You want this to be over? Fine! It can be. Simply tell me what you know.’

  Hartman pauses. Is he actually considering it?

  No! You can’t tell her now! You’ve come so far! I want to scream.

  Shut the hell up, Turner! My heart thuds as though I’m terrified Miss Silva can hear my thoughts. I glance at her but her piercing gaze is focused on Hartman. I flash a look at the soldier but he’s standing to attention, staring into his visor like a robot.

  My mind is betraying the EPO at every opportunity. I don’t know Hartman. I don’t know what they plan to do with Eve. My life is inside these EPO walls, walls that shelter me from the world beyond.

  A world we’ve turned our backs on.

  ‘I – I –’ Hartman stammers, still craning his head to see the photos of his friends. ‘I can’t!’

  Miss Silva sighs.

  ‘Very well, Hartman. Your way it is,’ Miss Silva says, giving Dr Chaudhury space as he follows the long silver wire from Hartman’s head to the machine and connects the cannula to the memory-storage device. The moment the connection is made, Hartman lets out a shriek of pain.

  ‘Had enough already? We’ve not even begun the transfusion yet!’ Miss Silva shouts over Hartman, and I see that the two needles have pierced Hartman’s temples causing two drops of deep red blood to trace lines down his cheeks, then meet in the middle under his chin. They are quickly joined by a single tear.

  ‘It’s ready, Miss Silva,’ Dr Chaudhury mumbles.

  ‘Very good. Hartman, you are about to feel something you’ve never felt before,’ she says.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Hartman sobs.

  ‘A synthetic fluid is being injected inside your skull,’ Dr Chaudhury mutters, clearly hating every second of this.

  The machine springs to life and the silver cannula jolts as liquid travels through it.

  ‘Won’t that kill him?’ I ask.

  ‘I hope not. Once complete, his mind will be physically connected to this “storage device”, as you so labelled it, and he will be able to access not only his own complex network of memories but also, if instructed, those we have stored here.’

  Hartman’s body shakes as it tries to resist the substance filling his skull.

  This is insane.

  Miss Silva has lost the plot. Has Wells actually agreed to use his technology to torture his own men? Or has she gone rogue?

  I’ve got so many questions going through my head right now.

  ‘Try to relax, let the connections take hold.’ Dr Chaudhury is rubbing the light stubble on his chin nervously.

  A burst of adrenalin shoots around my veins, reacting with the anxiety in my stomach and igniting a fire there. I feel as though I have been abruptly woken from a dream and seen the nightmare of this reality. My fingers instinctively roll into fists, my nails digging into my sweating palms. I’ve taken a wrong turn on to the road of loyalty to the EPO: now that I see where it leads I want no part of it.

  I want to grab the cable protruding from Hartman’s head, rip off the visor and run.

  But I don’t.

  I want to pull the gun from my belt, aim it at Miss Silva and pull the trigger.

  But I don’t.

  I want to run as far away from this place as I can and join the fight out there.

  But I won’t.

  What would be the point? I’d be just another so-called traitor and I’ve seen what happens to them. I’d be killed before I’d got anywhere near the streets. Whether I like it or not, I’m stuck on the inside.

  On the inside.

  My racing thoughts stop. If my loyalty is with Eve and I truly want to help her, then maybe I’m in the best place for it. Someone on the inside, a Freever who isn’t in a cell. Or dead. Yet.

  If I want to remain that way, I must play my part.

  Hartman’s body suddenly relaxes.

  ‘His body has accepted the transfusion,’ Dr Chaudhury breathes as Hartman’s vital signs are displayed on the device’s screen in front of him.

  ‘Good. Let’s begin with Jackson,’ Miss Silva says to the soldier, who suddenly springs to life, reaches into the outer pocket of his armoured vest and pulls out a small leather pouch.

  He hands it to the doctor who unzips it with trembling fingers to reveal four transparent discs secured inside. He slips one out and places the pouch on the datastore before holding the coin-sized disc to the light.

  ‘No … please … no!’ Hartman slurs, the effects of the procedure suddenly obvious.

  Dr Chaudhury looks up at Miss Silva, his eyes pleading with her not to do this, but she stares back with a strong and clear message. Do it.

  He has no choice and inserts it into a thin slot in the datastore.

  The black box instantly comes to life with a mixture of clicks and beeps along with the faint glug of the liquid being pumped into Hartman’s head. Blue light flickers from somewhere within the box, then suddenly becomes a solid red.

  Hartman lets out a deafening scream.

  His piercing voice echoes around the small chamber as though it were trying to escape.

  Dr Chaudhury covers his ears, trying to detach himself from the horror of what he is being made to do.

  ‘Hartman!’ Hartman calls out his own name, as though speaking to himself. ‘Hartman, you backstabbing piece of shit!’

  ‘Jackson’s final moments were full of hatred. Hatred towards one person, Hartman. YOU.’ Miss Silva speaks as she paces around the edge of the cell.
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  He starts to cough.

  ‘What’s he seeing?’ I whisper to the doctor as the lights from within the visor strapped to Hartman’s head flicker and flash.

  He looks me in the eye. ‘You don’t want to know,’ he says quietly.

  ‘No, no, show him, Doctor, show him,’ Miss Silva commands, overhearing us, beaming with pride, as though this despicable invention of Dr Wells were some miraculous breakthrough.

  Dr Chaudhury closes his eyes and releases a long sigh. He types something into the keypad of the datastore and a few seconds later a thin silver rod extends from inside it and throws a splash of light on to the concrete wall.

  ‘Is that … in his head?’ I ask, seeing Kramer, Watts and Locke standing around the cell.

  ‘Yes. The device is sending Hartman’s neurons down the synapses of Jackson’s mind, the clear, traumatic pathways that were carved into his brain as Hartman decided that the information in his head was more important than the lives of his friends. It seems your friends disagreed with you,’ Miss Silva says to Hartman, as his arm twitches in perfect synchrony with the footage being projected of Jackson, grasping at the glass wall of the cell.

  My stomach flips as I see my own face there.

  I’m looking at myself through the eyes of a dying man as I stand by and do nothing to help him. Even though I know it’s wrong, that they’re innocent, I do nothing.

  BAM!

  He thuds on the glass. Hartman’s fist punches the air.

  BAM!

  A second time.

  He’s becoming weaker.

  Weaker.

  His vision fades, colour disappears first as his eyes are starved of oxygen.

  He blacks out.

  Silence.

  Hartman slumps in his restraints.

  ‘Turner, be so kind as to wake him,’ Miss Silva says to me.

  I follow the wire that runs along the floor, then up into the top of the contraption on his head and give Hartman a gentle nudge.

  ‘Hartman. You alive?’ I ask, raising the visor to see his pale, sweaty face.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to be a little more forceful than that. His mind has just relived death,’ she says, as though this were something normal, something acceptable.

  I look at the exhausted, beaten person in front of me and raise his chin.

  ‘Hartman. Wake up,’ I say, tapping him on the cheek.

  ‘Harder,’ Miss Silva demands.

  I grit my teeth and slap him.

  ‘HARDER!’ she barks.

  I pull back my hand for a fuller swing.

  ‘JACKSON!’ Hartman screams, waking from one nightmare into another.

  I drop my hand.

  ‘Are you ready to divulge?’ Miss Silva asks. ‘Or would you rather relive another death?’

  ‘Kill me as many times as you want. I’ll never betray Bram like you did,’ Hartman spits.

  ‘Locke,’ Miss Silva instructs without a moment’s hesitation.

  Dr Chaudhury’s shoulders drop and his eyes close as he opens the little leather wallet of death once again. He slides out the second disc and puts it into the machine before replacing the visor over Hartman’s face.

  The machine cycles through the same beeps and clicks, flickering blue lights, then a solid red.

  ‘No!’ Hartman winces, his body becoming rigid as though receiving an electric shock.

  Then nothing.

  He hangs in his restraints.

  Slowly his mind finds the memory and his breathing becomes heavy.

  ‘I … I … I can’t breathe!’ He panics, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

  ‘My lungs. Help! Please, help!’ he cries.

  ‘You’re killing him!’ I shout over his screams.

  ‘Not him. Locke,’ Dr Chaudhury says, switching the projection on again, showing me what he sees.

  He’s back in the room, looking at Jackson on his knees beating at the glass. He glances at the terrified faces of Watts and Kramer, before finding me again through the window.

  He slumps to the floor as Hartman tries to clutch at his throat though his restraints hold him back.

  It’s over.

  He died faster than Jackson. Thank God.

  Hartman blacks out again, hanging lifelessly in his chains.

  ‘Turner, would you do the honours again?’ Miss Silva asks, not that I have any choice in the matter. I’m here so she doesn’t have to get her cold hands dirty. Like the doctor and the guards at either side of the door, we do her bidding, no questions asked.

  I walk to the motionless heap of a person, suspended in front of me.

  ‘Is he okay?’ I whisper to the doctor.

  ‘For now, yes. Physically he’ll hold up but his brain cannot cope with much more or his mind will be permanently damaged. Our brains are not designed to take on the consciousness of someone else, let alone four.’

  ‘Enough time-wasting. His is the mind of a traitor and it belongs to the EPO now, along with the information inside it. Wake him,’ Miss Silva orders.

  Brain damage? Permanent? I try to process the doctor’s words.

  If Hartman survives, he’ll never be the same person.

  If he survives. It sounds like he’d be better off dead.

  Would he be better off dead?

  I look at the broken human being in front of me.

  ‘Wake him,’ Miss Silva repeats. ‘Now.’

  Hartman groans.

  He would be better off dead.

  My heart races as I realize what I must do to help him. It’s the only way to end his suffering and I’m the only one who can do it.

  I must kill him.

  For Eve’s sake, and Bram, and all the Freevers out there, but mostly for Hartman himself.

  My first duty as her inside man.

  But how? I can’t be seen. My eyes dart to the soldier, standing at the glass. I have to be discreet, invisible. All I have with me is my gun. Definitely not. Knife? Again, too obvious. And my Pacify Glove … That might work, but how? Even if I could get the Glove on my hand without being noticed I’d have to deliver a full charge to his head to kill him.

  I feel Miss Silva’s eyes on me so I step up to Hartman and lift the visor to reveal his face. His eyes are glazed, rolling to the back of his head. White foam bubbles at the corners of his mouth as he breathes.

  I hear the high-pitched clink of the next glass disc as Dr Chaudhury removes it from the pouch. Miss Silva’s head turns to oversee.

  I have a moment, right now.

  I whip my hand down to my belt and start to unclip the conductive Glove, lined with probes ready to give one hell of a charge to whatever they touch.

  Enough to kill? In Hartman’s condition, I suspect just a fingertip would push him over the edge.

  ‘Is he ready?’ Miss Silva snaps, and I let the Glove hang back at my belt. ‘What’s taking so long?’

  I can’t activate it without being noticed.

  ‘No … more …’ Hartman mutters.

  ‘Ah, welcome back! You know how to make it end. Until then, we continue. Let’s see how Kramer felt when you killed him.’ Miss Silva nods to Chaudhury to start the system.

  ‘Please … Please, Turner. Make them stop,’ Hartman croaks.

  ‘Turner?’ Miss Silva hisses. ‘You think he’d help you? He’s lucky I didn’t do to him what I did to your squad. Isn’t that right, Guard Turner?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes … Yes, Miss Silva.’ I wobble, feeling the Pacify Glove weighing heavy on my belt now.

  Hartman manages to focus his vision momentarily and sees me. In the split second that our eyes meet I try desperately to project my plan to him, but I guess the last thing he needs right now is more thoughts from someone else’s head.

  Hartman contorts, and Miss Silva steps closer to me than she usually would.

  ‘Lower his visor.’ Her close proximity makes me shudder. I’m fighting every urge to run far away from this evil at my side.

  But I complete her command,
lowering the visor over his face once more, then step back, following the silver cannula to where it starts next to Dr Chaudhury.

  The projection plasters the wall: Kramer is remaining calm, conserving his air and trying to distract himself from his dying teammates.

  I suddenly see that Miss Silva, her security soldier and Dr Chaudhury are watching, their attention on the images. Now is my only chance.

  I plunge my hand into the Glove while it’s still attached to my belt and activate the charge.

  It emits a subtle high-pitched tone. The sounds coming from the machine drown it out as it pumps more synthetic brain juice into Hartman.

  He gasps.

  On the wall Kramer scratches his throat.

  It’s starting to happen.

  I position myself next to the storage device, and let the Glove hang over where the silver wire begins its journey into Hartman’s head.

  ‘I – I – can’t breathe!’ Hartman whispers.

  Kramer falls to the floor. Hartman jolts.

  He thrashes his head from left to right, trying to get the air that will inevitably escape him.

  In the flashing light from the projections I see Miss Silva’s lips twitch, as though she’s keeping a smile at bay.

  As Kramer dies for the second time, Hartman’s body responds as he is about to lose consciousness again.

  I feel the adrenalin of rebellion soar around my body.

  Can I do this?

  He’s an innocent man.

  I must. For his sake.

  For the future.

  For Eve.

  As he takes Kramer’s final breath I carefully unclip the charged Glove and let it fall.

  Silently.

  Unnoticed.

  It lands on the device and electrifies the cable, sending fifty thousand volts directly into Hartman’s brain for less than a second.

  As Kramer passes out, the projection cuts to black and Miss Silva fires a look of frustration at the doctor, which I don’t hesitate to use to snatch back the Glove.

  Hartman hangs lifelessly; only I know that this time he’s not unconscious.

  Rest now, Hartman.

  You’re welcome.

  22

  Michael