Unchanged

by Jessica Brody

  Today, this is my obstacle.

  With shaky hands, I select the file.

  The screen fills with blackness and I see a duration meter appear at the bottom, indicating it’s not a memory, but a capture file.

  Then suddenly, he’s there. Filling my entire wall. His dark, searching eyes lock onto mine, as though he can see me across our eighty-four-year separation.

  I instinctively back away from the screen, which is foolish and naïve. Am I really afraid he’s going to come through the wall and grab me? I brace myself, grit my teeth, and take a step forward.

  I recognize the room he’s in. It’s the guest bedroom in Cody’s town house in Brooklyn. A time stamp appears at the bottom of the frame: September 23, 2032. Approximately seven months after I left with Kaelen and never came back.

  He appears older than when I last saw him, his face fatigued and marred by purple shadows. His hair is matted and greasy, as though it hasn’t been washed in days. His cheeks and chin, normally smooth and clean, are covered with dark brown stubble.

  I remember he used to glow when I looked at him. He used to shine under any light. His deep maple eyes were always gleaming. Now they’re dim and faded. Like someone cut the power source.

  He looks …

  My throat goes bone dry as the answer comes to me.

  Destroyed.

  Like a city that’s been bombed beyond recognition. A priceless painting that’s been left out in the rain.

  “Seraphina,” he says, his voice thick with grief.

  It’s too much. The voice. The lost eyes. The mouth forming a name only he and Rio called me.

  “Pause,” I practically yell at the screen. He freezes. Safely trapped on my wall. If he can’t speak, he can’t hurt me. If he can’t move, he can’t make me feel anything.

  But the fact that I feel anything means I’m still susceptible.

  I’m still failing.

  I sprint to the bathroom and activate the cold water. I splash it on my face over and over again until I’m shivering. Until my cheeks are numb.

  I return to the living room and resume the file.

  “It’s been two hundred and twenty-three days since I woke up to find you gone,” Lyzender begins. I sit on the foot of the bed and pull my knees up to my chest. It’s all I have to protect myself.

  “Cody says you left with a Diotech agent to find the cure to save my life. The fact that I’m alive means you succeeded. But the fact that I’m here without you means they succeeded, too. Diotech got to you. Maybe they destroyed your transession gene. Maybe they erased your memories again. I’m not sure. I can only speculate. And trust me, these are the best possible speculations I’ve had. My mind has come up with far worse. It’s amazing the dark places the mind can go if you let it.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, I know what he’s experiencing.

  Back when I was still under his spell, trapped in a prison cell in 1609, I thought he had died. My imagination got the best of me. It showed me horrors I never thought I could have created.

  “If you’re watching this, though,” he goes on, “then you found the drive. And that means some part of you still remembers. That’s the only thing that gives me hope right now. Knowing that you can never really forget me. Because you never have.”

  My throat burns as I try—and fail—to swallow.

  They are words, Sera. Only words.

  He’s trying to pull you in again.

  He’s an enemy of the Objective. His only goal is to destroy Diotech. He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t love you.

  It’s all a ruse to crack your heart open again and make you bleed.

  “How many times did they erase me from your memories?” he says. “How many times were you turned into a blank canvas? And yet some piece of you never forgot. If you are watching this, then please try to remember me. Try to remember us. They are not stronger than you. They never have been. Diotech’s only goal has been to conceal your strength. To fool you into believing you are weaker than them. It’s a lie. It’s all a lie, Sera. Don’t trust them. Don’t give up on us. I haven’t. Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments, remember?”

  I remember. I wish I didn’t, but I do.

  He’s reciting the beginning of our poem. Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare. He claimed it was my favorite. He claimed it brought us together. Because it was about a constant, unchanging love that withstood the test of time. It was the reason we chose the year 1609, when the poem was first published.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, my lips are quietly whispering the words of the next line. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove…”

  On the screen, moisture brims in Lyzender’s eyes. I want to look away, but I force myself to keep watching.

  Fake tears.

  Fake emotions.

  Fake promises.

  “We can still do it,” he says, his voice shattering. “Be together. Love’s not Time’s fool.”

  I am shaking now. Fighting against the pounding of my own heart.

  “Will I find a way back to you, Seraphina?” He leans forward, staring through the drive, through the wall, through time.

  Right through to me.

  “Yes … always yes.”

  The screen goes dark and the air that’s been trapped inside my lungs shudders out. I sit motionless, somewhere between a sob and a scream. The light from the cube drive on the nightstand casts my entire world in a suffocating green glow.

  I grab the drive, run to the window, and fumble against the operational panel, swatting it clumsily with clammy fingers. Finally, it slides open and the cool night air hits me in the face. I cock my arm back, ready to throw the drive as far as I can. All the way to the Pacific Ocean. Where this nightmare began.

  Do it!

  My arm trembles.

  Now!

  My muscles throb.

  Throw him away!

  Shaking uncontrollably, I collapse onto the bed. I tuck my knees into my chin, curling my quivering body around the tiny cube.

  Maybe if I squeeze tight enough, the green light will extinguish forever.

  Maybe if I shut my eyes long enough, I will forget.

  19

  SILENCED

  I don’t sleep. I lie in bed for hours, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of this unfamiliar place. A dishwasher running ten floors below. A dog barking in the distance. Someone tapping furiously on their Slate.

  At one point, I swear I can even hear the ocean waves crashing on the beach ten miles west of here. Although I know that’s unlikely.

  When you can hear everything, it’s impossible to focus on any one thing. Every little noise is demanding to be heard.

  I suppose it’s better than the alternative. Being left alone with my thoughts.

  Especially given the state my thoughts are in right now.

  I turn on my ceiling screen and flip through the streams. The first thing I see is a news bulletin.

  The bodies of two paparazzi capturers were found in East LA earlier today.

  Police suspect gang members responsible.

  I know, without having to click through for more information, that the faces of the capturers will match those of the two people Kaelen killed today at the hyperloop station. So that’s how Diotech disposed of the bodies. Dumped them in a bad neighborhood infested with crime, while the memories of the other four were erased and recoded to fill in the blanks.

  A far too easy solution for something that shouldn’t be that easy to fix.

  I flip to the next stream.

  Crest’s favorite show, The Rifters, is on. I try to watch it for a few minutes, hoping it will distract me from the noises that are competing for my attention, but I’m unable to follow the plot. I have a feeling it’s the kind of show you can’t just start in the middle. I flip streams again and suddenly Pastor Peder is in the room with me. His large, round face projects through the air as though he’s hovering
over me, talking down at me. Judging me from behind those blue-tinted glasses.

  “What exactly are you saying?” an off-screen interviewer asks.

  “I’m saying,” he replies, looking straight into the cam, straight into me, “Diotech is using these monstrosities they call ExGens as an attempt to control us.”

  “Diotech’s position is that the ExGen Collection is meant to improve our lives,” the interviewer argues. “Make us better. Stronger.”

  Pastor Peder snorts at this and I almost want to check my face for droplets of his snot. “Improve our lives? God created us in his own image. No man—or corporation for that matter—can improve upon that which has already been perfected. These ExGens aren’t ideal specimens of humans. They’re mockeries of God’s will. They’re mockeries of us all.”

  Flustered, I deactivate the screen and grab a pillow, shoving it over my head.

  I try to remember Dr. A’s assurance to me. That this man is not a threat to us. It would be a lot easier to believe it if he wasn’t everywhere. If every streamwork in the country wasn’t feedcasting his face twenty-four hours a day.

  “Those who seek to change the world will make more enemies than friends,” Dr. A always says. “If we gave our energy to every person who wanted to stop us, we’d have no energy left to do what we’re trying to do.”

  Through the synthetic down pillow, I hear the sound of music outside, a MagCar taxicab on the street below asking a passenger where he would like to go, Crest’s quiet breathing a few rooms away.

  I fling the pillow across the room and stand up, padding into the bathroom of the suite. I run a bath, programming my desired settings into the control panel.

  Temperature: 108 degrees.

  Scent: lavender and honey.

  Water tint: aquamarine.

  Bubbles: 10 percent saturation.

  I slip out of my clothes and into the giant tub. The water feels wondrous. Hot and satiny. I sink in, allowing myself to be drawn further and further into its inviting embrace.

  The last thing I hear before my head goes under is a couple having an argument in the building next door.

  And then … silence.

  Glorious, blissful silence.

  I could stay here forever. Or until I run out of air. Which would be exactly seventy-two minutes.

  Dr. A tested us once.

  Being underwater is one of the few places in this world where I can enjoy absolute quiet. It’s as though the water is our only weakness. The one thing they didn’t account for. I can see through it fine, but my ears are practically useless.

  I don’t mind one bit.

  I close my eyes and bask in the gorgeous nothingness.

  When I surface seventy-one minutes later, I hear Dr. A’s voice. At first I think he’s inside my suite and I jump, the water sloshing around me as I rub my eyes. But I soon realize the sound is not coming from this room, but from down the hall. Most likely the Owner’s Suite.

  I glance at the clock on the ReflectoGlass: 4:18 a.m.

  Apparently I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.

  “Yes, everything is progressing according to plan,” Dr. A is saying. “The first interview of the tour is today. Mosima Chan has the exclusive.”

  The empty silence that follows indicates he’s speaking to someone through an earplant. His voice is terse and edgy. It’s certainly not a pleasant conversation. Then again, what conversation at four in the morning is ever pleasant?

  “Yes, I realize how delayed we are and I apologize. We’ve had a few unexpected setbacks, but I’ve taken care of them.”

  I start to rise from the tub and reach for a towel but freeze.

  Setbacks.

  Is he talking about me?

  And since when does Dr. A apologize to anyone?

  “No. There’s no need to send someone. You gave me this responsibility and I’m handling it. The girl just took a little bit longer than expected to adjust to the Memory Reassociation procedure, but she’s fully functional now. One hundred percent on our side. She won’t betray us again.”

  Memory Reassociation?

  What is that? Why have I never heard that term before? I thought my previous uploads included information about all of Diotech’s procedures.

  I quickly run “Memory Reassociation” through a search on my Lenses but I get no results.

  “If you want to help,” Dr. A goes on, “may I suggest you do something about Pastor Peder?” He practically spits his name.

  “I realize he’s popular,” he says after a long pause. “That’s the point.”

  He waits. I wait. We both listen. Then Dr. A lets out a sarcastic laugh.

  “Rylan Maxxer? I can assure you she is not an issue. That problem has been dealt with.”

  Dealt with?

  What does he mean by that?

  Is he referring to the fact that the last time I saw her was in the year 2032 and her transession gene had been repressed? Meaning, she can’t cause any more trouble in the present because she’s trapped in the past?

  But there’s something about the way he says it—with a chilling finality—that makes me feel like I don’t know the full story.

  Dr. A sighs as he listens to the other end of the transmission. When he speaks again, I can tell his teeth are tightly clenched. It cuts his words into jagged, tiny pieces. “Yes, of course I understand what’s at stake. You don’t have to keep reminding me.”

  He lets out a snarl and a curse that is immediately followed by the sound of something shattering.

  The conversation is over.

  20

  STYLED

  The next morning, in my dressing room, an epic debate is waging between Dr. A and the streamwork stylist about whether or not to put cosmetic enhancers on my face. The stylist is in favor. Dr. A is adamantly against it.

  “I could give her a very classy look with eye tints,” the stylist says. “I have a color palette that would really bring out the purple in her—”

  “The whole point is for the world to see how beautiful she is without exterior enhancements,” Dr. A argues, and he inevitably wins. Whether it’s because he made a valid point or because, like the rest of us, the stylist quickly realized how terrifying Dr. A can be when he’s angry, I’m not sure. Either way, it’s decided that only my hair needs help.

  I’m somewhat grateful there’s a professional here so I don’t have to do it myself. Or rely on Crest’s well-intentioned efforts. Not that Crest would have had time this morning. She’s too busy remaking Dr. A’s coffee for the fifth time after he swore the last four cups tasted like sawdust.

  The stylist is very good at her job. After about an hour, my hair has been washed, dried, waved, and pinned into an exquisite pile of undulating layers atop my head. It looks like every style Crest has ever attempted. Except this one is not lopsided.

  When Dr. A comes back to check on our progress, the stylist gestures at my hair with a flourish, seemingly proud of her work. She looks like one of those models on the competition reality shows, when a contestant is trying to win a new hovercleaner.

  “Her hair should be down. Not up,” Dr. A barks, and then leaves the room again.

  The stylist looks like a wilting flower as her arms slowly droop. I turn away and pretend not to notice when her eyes glisten with tears.

  Thirty minutes later, Crest breathlessly rushes into the dressing room, carrying a garment bag. She hangs it on the rack and unzips it, revealing a stunning knee-length, A-line dress. The top half is a gorgeous iridescent blue-green that reminds me of Kaelen’s eyes and the bottom half is completely covered in nanostitching that has been programmed to reflect. When I glance at the skirt, I see my own mesmerized face mirrored back a thousand times.

  “Wow,” I say. It really is something.

  “You like it?”

  I nod. “I do.”

  Crest’s eyes light up at my words, probably because for the first time, they aren’t poorly veiled lies.

  “Dr. A wanted somethi
ng that represented the Objective,” she explains. “The color is to match Kaelen’s eyes, obviously, but the bottom is supposed to symbolize the reflection of what this world can be with the help of Diotech. Everyone who looks at you becomes a part of you. Becomes like you.”

  My heart swells at her touching description and how much thought she’s put into something I thought was just a silly dress. Crest really does care about the Objective. She takes her part seriously.

  I could learn a few things from her.

  Once I’m dressed, I slink into the hallway that leads to the soundstage. Kaelen is waiting for me. He’s dressed in an immaculate gray suit with purple accents in the hems and collar. A clear reference to my eye color.

  Upon seeing me, Kaelen goes deathly still, his eyes slightly unfocused and floating. For a moment, I’m convinced he’s staring at something in his Lenses until he blinks hard and smiles at me.

  “You are radiant,” he says, his voice throaty and thick.

  “No. That’s the dress.”

  “No. That’s you.”

  I stand awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

  “Thank you.” Crest pops her head between us and beams.

  I laugh. “It was all Crest. I just stood there while she secured me into it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Crest says, winking at Kaelen. “It’s not as hard to get off as it is to get on.”

  I feel my face color. Thankfully, I’m saved from further embarrassment when Dane appears at the end of the hallway. “Are we ready?” he sings in his falsetto voice.

  Kaelen reaches out to take my hand. I slide my fingers into his tight, reassuring grasp. For a moment, the image of those same hands pounding against that man’s face flickers through my memory but I swiftly push it away. I can’t think about that. I can’t let myself think about anything else except my obligation right here. Right now.

  Crest fiddles with my hair, folding it neatly around one shoulder. Then she gives me a nod.

  It’s time for us to be unveiled to the world.

  21