by A A Woods
And between them is the long, trunk-like middle, smooth and snake-like.
The axon.
There’s nothing to hold on the axon.
I dangle from the lowest edge of the dendrite. The men are getting closer, gathering above me in thunderous, angry clouds. Fear pulses in my belly like food poisoning, but there’s no time to be afraid. No room to doubt.
Swinging inward, I wrap my thighs around the axon’s stem. Take a deep breath and release my PAP.
A boot appears in the epileptic swing of my vision.
Too close.
I let go, throwing my torso inward.
And then I’m sliding, falling with the bare guidance of the axon pillar burning the skin of my arms, ripping my bandages, fraying the thin fabric of my leggings. A shriek escapes me, tearing through my clenched jaw. Too fast. I’m moving too fast. I try to hold tighter to this elongated middle, but pain is a wildfire burning through my limbs, my palms, my bruised torso. The men above me are distant, their voices angry but meaningless as I fall, fall, fall…
And then I hit the bottom, my legs slamming against the widening synapse. The sculpture swings, shuddering at the sudden shift of weight, but I can’t move. Can’t even think. I clutch at the iron, gulping air.
Voices still shout above me, but they’ve changed. There’s something more than surprise and anger in the guards’ voices. There’s a new flavor in the air.
Fear.
I hear the squeak of boots on tile and a metallic click.
“Hello, boys.”
My panic surges at the sound of that new voice, filled with gleeful, vindictive satisfaction. Kitzima chuckles darkly and my instincts rise in a scream. She’s about to pull a trick, do something to the guards on the statue, hanging so conveniently over open air.
I need to move.
Gathering the tattered remains of my strength, I pull my shaking knees up. Dig my toes into the tangled vines of the synapse. With one hand, I twist Khali’s PAP and find the closest balcony.
Without waiting for my fear to curdle into something stronger, I close my eyes and leap.
Just as my body folds over a solid metal railing, I hear a ripping sound, a cry.
And then something enormous rushes past me, carrying screams.
Memory File of Sam Baker
Host and Broadcaster of Veritas
Time Stamp: Saturday, September 22nd, 2195
10:14 P.M. EST
Your voice echoes in your own ears as you glare at the squat gray building, gaze roaming over the officers fighting to keep reporters at bay. The crush of people call out questions like hungry birds, but you’re tucked into one corner, mumbling to yourself and anyone watching through you.
“Lads and lassies, just look at this chaos I’m seein’ in front of the Nova Police Station. ProRec won’t be able to hide this one, no siree.” You peek your head around the glass building, peering at the crowd. One finger shoves cracked glasses up your nose in a gesture as automatic as a flinch. “I mean, we’ve known they’ve been corrupt for years, but now that there’s an insider memory about murderin’ innocents—”
Suddenly, the ground seems to roll. A metallic crash fills the night, coming from the direction of the ProRec super-scraper.
There’s a heartbeat of silence as even the reporters go still.
The distant wail of an alarm splits the air.
You glance at the opening between towering super-scrapers, eyes focused on the tallest of them, and see red lights pulsing through glass windows.
“Do you hear that? The sirens going off in their headquarters?” Your voice is thick with relish. “I’d like to see Yasmin silence this.”
A heavy-set man in a pressed uniform steps through the sliding double doors of the station. A chorus of shouts greets him, pulsing, thrumming. The man ignores the questions, following two young officers as he steps toward the gated garden of aerial vehicles beside the station.
You lift your handheld above your head, trying to glimpse where the chief of Nova police might be headed as you continue to narrate your broadcast.
“In the past half-hour, the recollection has been experienced more than eight hundred thousand times. All around the world.” Your words tumble out, laced with fervor. “And now, with whatever’s going off in Project Recollection’s H.Q., I sure hope they’re feelin’ the heat. It’s happening, my lads. It’s finally happening.”
Three police vehicles rise, filling the air with a thrum, hovering over the crowd like hungry raptors.
“It’s all up to you now,” you say, tilting your head back to watch. “Will you fight against their chokehold? Will you throw away the chains of their oppression and be free? Or will you let Project Recollection continue to feed the rot that’s swallowin’ this city?”
The questions float away with the foggy shapes of the police cruisers, their edges swallowed by the light of Nova’s beating heart.
Tora
Saturday, September 22nd, 2195
10:15 P.M. EST
The crash reverberates, rocking the super-scraper like an earthquake. I gasp, roll over the railing and stumble into the wall. There’s no time to contemplate what just happened. Bracing myself and clutching Khali’s PAP, I take in the row of labs and locked doors that stretch out to either side of me. Howling alarms shatter the air like glass. Everything pulses red. For an insane moment, I wonder if we’ve all been sent to hell.
A female voice breaks the cacophony, polite even in her urgency. “All employees, please proceed to the nearest exit.”
I clutch the railing, gulping air.
How many men just died? I think with a wave of nausea.
No, don’t go there. Focus. My mind is already running wild with what Yasmin might be doing, how she might be covering her tracks. I remember what Khali said.
There’s a high-security prisoner in the lower labs.
Six months.
Who else could it be?
Gruff shouts and Vixen howls echo down, beating against my eardrums with a simple, pulsing message.
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
I plug into the wall port, yanking through a tangle of firewalls as I hunt for a route, a crack in their security. A cackle curls down through the open center of the lobby, followed by a tinkling smash. I force myself to focus. To dive deeper into the code. Khali’s PAP grants me access to the mainframe, but I can’t even glimpse that dark abyss below me. If the ProRec super-scraper is a fortress, this floor is an iron box, watertight, completely removed from their core network. I see surges of power spike out of it, but I can’t pinpoint the source. It’s like looking into a black hole and watching light get sucked inside.
For a moment, hopelessness crowds into my mind, threatening to take hold as I scratch against the hard edges of my target.
And then I find it.
The crack.
It’s a ventilation hood, snaking up from the basement like a plume of smoke from a fire I can’t see.
Trying not to think about all the terrible things that could be wafting through that shaft, I unplug myself and fumble down the hall with one groping hand, moving too fast, my footsteps barely audible over the ongoing destruction of the super-scraper’s lobby. My toes catch on nothing and I grab at the wall to keep myself upright. An enormous shattering sound disrupts the symphony of alarms and a swell of new voices join the fray. I duck, even though the chaos is happening far above me. Frantic terror bubbles in my brain. I focus on counting doors. Five. Ten. Twelve.
Lucky number thirteen.
I plug myself in, rip apart the lock with inelegant mental claws, armed with Khali’s stolen security codes.
The door dings open and I stumble inside, shoving my IRIS back into Khali’s handheld, panting and shaking as thick walls muffle the battle Kitzima is raging. Scanning my PAP around me in a swift circle, I take in the room.
It’s a control station, filled with blinking lights and panels and sophisticated desks.
All of them empty.
/> I edge into the abandoned office, goosebumps popping out on my arms.
Like schools at night and empty factories, there’s something eerie about a silent place that should be filled with noise. It hits me in a strange, surreal wave that, despite the war-zone this the super-scraper has become, the world outside still exists. Most of Nova’s citizens are enjoying a relaxing Saturday night, so many people out there living glorious, oblivious, normal lives.
I swallow and shove the thought away.
Holding the map of the building in my mind’s eye, I guide myself around a desk, feeling my way to the far wall in the flashing red light. Letting Khali’s PAP fall to one side, I lift my free hand and rap my knuckles against the paint.
Hollow.
Behind that wall runs a ventilation shaft, descending into the shadowed belly of the super-scraper. And I need to get inside.
Lifting the PAP, I scan the room for something, anything. Screens and buttons crowd my vision. IRIS ports wink at me, inviting and red. I ignore them, blood rising in a frantic flush on my neck.
I can’t fail Zhu again, can’t be too late…
My breath hitches.
There.
A metal-frame umbrella, leaning against the far wall. Simple and stylish.
Perfect.
I leap forward, knocking over a rolling chair on my way. Pain skitters up my legs from smashed toes, but I ignore it, let it fall into the backdrop of my aching hands, my exhausted legs, and the innumerable bruises I’ve accumulated over the past few days. Running back with the umbrella, I don’t hesitate, don’t even stop moving as I swing the molded steel handle at the wall with all my strength.
A satisfying crunch fills the air.
I swing again.
Hear the dusty sound of drywall hitting the carpet.
I swing a third time.
There’s a clang of metal on metal. Dropping the umbrella, I reach in and begin to tear away the crumbling façade. The wounds on my palms stretch, complain, threaten to open again. But I grit my teeth, pull Khali’s PAP around to see what I’ve done.
The vent glistens in the red light like water, reflecting my own smudged shadow. I run my fingers along its length, gulping air.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper.
The torn remnants of my bandages snag on a metal edge, the division between two nailed plates. I try to shove into the crack but it’s too narrow, too thin to grasp.
Airtight.
A resounding crash rolls the ground beneath my feet, sending me tumbling into a desk. Another sharp thread of pain lances through my hip like a static shock.
What the hell is Kitzima doing?
But I can’t think about that now, can’t wonder how Kitzima and her Vixens have made the super-scraper sway on its foundation.
The distant rumbling means only one thing to me.
I’m running out of time.
Dropping the PAP, I spin the umbrella around. Grip the molded handle with my bandaged palms as tightly as the pain will allow. The umbrella tip is dull, but I don’t care. This is the only thing I can think of, the only option I’ve got. I bounce my knees, picture the vent, hold it in front of me and imagine it’s a target. I coil my muscles. Step back.
Fueled by a desperate rage, I lunge toward the vent like a jouster.
It might be airtight, but it wasn’t built to withstand this kind of attack. The plate bows under the full force of my body. A warbling sound fills the air and I drop the umbrella, grabbing Khali’s PAP.
There’s an opening, just wide enough for my hands.
Swallowing a scream, I plunge my fingers inside and tug, yank, wiggle. Agony lances up my arms as scabs tear and new wounds open where the sharp plate digs in. But I don’t stop. My adrenaline is a living thing, crawling up my throat, burrowing into my brain, driving me with a single-minded intensity.
After what feels like an eternity of wrestling with the vent, the opening feels big enough. I right the overturned chair, drag it over. Holding the umbrella in one bleeding hand and my borrowed PAP in the other, I swallow. Climb onto the chair, the muscles in my legs quivering to keep my body stable.
And then I’m climbing into the vent.
Hooking the umbrella’s handle over the edge, I manage to lower myself into the darkness. The nerve endings on my palms shriek as I clutch the folds of the umbrella, but my attention is in the PAP. Scanning below me. The vent is black as ink, but it doesn’t matter. The PAP’s camera is stronger than human eyes. I zoom in on a white tabletop, illuminated by flashing red lights.
Terrifyingly distant.
But I’ve come too far to turn back now.
I count to three and let go.
Darkness flies past me. I bite back a scream. Then I’m slamming, compressing, crashing against something hard and unforgiving. I hear a crack of plastic as my body crumples. My knees ache and my feet sting, but nothing’s broken. Well, nothing in me. Something wet is spreading over the tabletop and I catch the acrid stink of alcohol and bleach.
I reach for Khali’s PAP.
Holding the device in front of me, I see sleek workstations lit by the unnerving half-light of the alarms. It’s a lab. I’m curled up in the fume hood, peering into another empty room. Everything is polished and shining and orderly, the back wall lined with red-tinted incubators, the door’s lock blinking red.
I leave a bloody smear on the glass as I shove the hood up and roll out from beneath the vent. My whole body shudders as my feet hit the ground, but I haul myself upright. Sweep the PAP around.
Guided by the whisper of instinct, I grab a scalpel from the nearest bench with my free hand, clutching tight despite the stinging soreness that pulses up my forearm.
I inch toward the entrance, unplugging myself from Khali’s PAP as I go. Bracing for whatever strange security they might use down here, I plug into the door.
The entrance slides open without a fight.
I tense. Someone’s already unlocked it. I can see the glowing lines of code like ghostly imprints, the complicated chains that usually keep this lab secure. But they’ve been thrown off. Haphazardly cut with a command even Khali doesn’t have. It’s as if someone came down here in a rush and didn’t care who followed.
Or wanted to leave an open path…
A trap?
I step into the hallway, plugging back into Khali’s PAP with trembling fingers. The silence is oppressive. Terrible. A physical weight against my chest, pressing down.
Something’s very wrong here.
As if in a dream, I make my way down the hall, third door from the elevator.
It’s already open.
I step around the corner and my heart stops.
On a white table, ghostly in the flashing lights, is Zhu.
He’s sprawled like a corpse, skin bleached from months without sun, face sunken and emotionless. It’s like looking at a statue, at a mutated reimagining of my smiling, brave, present brother. I hold my PAP aloft, scan his face for something that seems to have leaked away, his blazing life force evaporated like burnt candle wax.
His cable is wrapped in white medical tape. Altered. Plugged into the table beneath him.
“Zhu,” I say, but he doesn’t answer. The machinery of the table whirs and clicks. It’s glowing, pulsing, doing something.
I take a stumbling step forward.
“I’m afraid you’re too late.”
I spin, my head whipping to the side, Khali’s PAP close behind.
Yasmin Abergel sits on another table beside to my brother’s. She’s slumped with her elbows on her knees, head hanging, IRIS cable dangling loose. She looks crumpled, diminished, but strangely triumphant.
My blood freezes.
“What have you done to him?” I growl, my voice breaking.
“Nothing that can be stopped,” Yasmin says, lifting her head. Her eyes are like struck flint as they snap to my face. Her lips twist in a sardonic smile, resigned and chilling. “All I wanted was to save my daughter. The gala, the tou
rnament, the Ankh project… it was all for her. Only for her. I suppose I hoped the world would accept it when they saw what it could be. But I know what’s coming. And I can’t let them stop me, not when I’m so close.” Her gaze drops to her hands. “So very close.”
“What are you talking about? What have you done?”
“What I must.”
The IRIS port on Zhu’s table is glowing now, sun-bright, pulsing with the kind of energy that could power a super-scraper.
Realization creeps in like dreadful fog.
In order to transfer into a body, first you have to clear it. Wipe out the mind that’s already there.
Yasmin’s resigned eyes are burned into my brain.
The scalpel clatters to the floor.
A shriek explodes out of me. “NO!”
I lunge forward, fumble along Zhu’s scalp to rip his cable free. But the light is already dying. I’m too late. I can see the brightness fading on the wall behind me as Khali’s PAP swings against my spine. Yasmin doesn’t speak, and I spin on my heel, tears beading, spilling over into a world that’s suddenly shifted beneath me.
I grab the PAP, face her with everything I am.
“Bring him back,” I whisper, hating the desperation in my voice.
Yasmin looks up and I know her expression will haunt me for the rest of my days.
“I’m afraid we can’t both keep the ones we love.”
Memory File of Khalidah Abergel
Daughter of Yasmin Abergel
Time Stamp: Saturday, September 22nd, 2195
10:32 P.M. EST
You swing your foot and it collides nauseatingly with a stomach, sinking between the soft armor plates of a ProRec guard.
“Come on, you pansy, is that all you got?”
Your voice comes out in a growl, a smile spreading over your lips as you lunge, strike, slap one side of the guard’s head and then hit the other with a swinging fist. Your dress is a tattered mess, tangling around your legs, but you bounce on bare toes as if you were born to it. As if you do this every day.
