The Unhappening of Genesis Lee

by Shallee McArthur

  Mrs. Harward brushed a loose hair under the thin scarf that matched her red linen gloves. “Thanks.”

  I forced myself to look away from her too-perfect face. The development of SLS devices to share knowledge memories meant Ascalon BioTech could branch into other “life improvement” areas. Easy, when you could absorb someone else’s knowledge and become an instant expert on anything. No longer just involved in Mementi memory tech, Ascalon was now the center of a myriad of freaky-cool inventions for the entire world. Biomechanical prosthetics, gravity manipulation, paint that put electronics on your wall.

  Nothing to complain about there, especially when every Mementi had a share in Ascalon stock. But Cham treatments weirded me out. In a city where people barely touched, they inserted synthetic DNA into their bodies to mask the effects of aging. That was straight-up violating.

  I fingered my Links. Cora’s morning outburst flashed in my mind. A rage against the black hole of her missing years.

  A child’s voice rang out in the silence of the tram. “I changed my mind, I want my new Links like hers.”

  Talise Harward, her scarf falling off the back of her head, pointed at the beads beneath my transparent blue gloves. The mention of Links turned every head in the tram. A chill brushed my neck as if the sudden movement threw off a wake of animosity.

  “Shh, honey, it’s rude to point at other people’s Links.” Mrs. Harward whispered. She unconsciously brushed her own Links peeking out from her collar. She favored large beads that stored more memories, and of course, she had more than me. More years of memory to store. “Please apologize, and keep your voice down.”

  Talise swung her legs. “Sorry, Miss Genesis. But yours are cool.”

  Everyone turned away again, but a tingle of anxiety surged under my ribs. “Thanks.” The community calendar flashed into my memory. “And happy birthday.”

  She turned eight today. They’d buy her new, non-childproofed Links soon. A proud moment.

  Dad had bucked Mementi tradition, worried eight was still too young. Ren and I didn’t get our adult Links until we were ten. Now, looking at Talise, I thought she was too young. Too young to have no choice but to keep her memories outside her own mind, where they could be so easily taken away.

  Talise scowled. “It’s not a happy birthday. Mom, please can we get my Links today?”

  “We were just looking today.” Mrs. Harward got that awkward look that said she was about to delve into personal territory. She lowered her voice. “Genesis, I’m so sorry to hear about your friend. Please pass our condolences to Cora.”

  So the news had gotten out. No wonder everybody was extra tense today. Even when she didn’t mean to, Cora caused drama. I would’ve laughed if a lump hadn’t clogged my throat.

  Outside, the white cylinder of Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs’ lighthouse-­inspired home flashed past. Next to it was the Mower’s monstrosity of geometric concrete. Not what you’d call aesthetically pleasing, especially compared to the lighthouse and its ­other neighbor. People referred to the Larson’s place as the Dr. Seuss house. The bright ­yellow home had been designed without a single straight line.

  The tram stopped in front of these familiar landmarks, and a guy with curly blond hair stepped aboard. No Link buzz—­another Populace. He stood near the door, taking in the separation of sides. His eyes met mine and lingered.

  A pleasant female voice came over the speakers. “Passengers are reminded that standing is not permitted on Havendale City Trams. Thank you.”

  The boy took a few steps and sat on the Mementi side. Right across from me.

  The tram buzzed with the jump in heartbeats. My foot tapped a nervous dance on the floor, and I covered my Links with a gloved hand. Trams were video monitored. He couldn’t do anything to me here. Besides, he was no more likely to be the Link thief than any other Populace here.

  Or maybe he was just as likely to be the Link thief as any of them.

  My hands twitched when I found him studying me. His eyebrows gathered, giving an impression of a confused puppy. A very tall one. I’d bet he had a good ten inches on me, and I wasn’t short. He wasn’t going to do anything to me. He was a harmless, shaggy-haired Populace guy.

  He cleared his throat several times before saying, “Um . . . I’m Kalan?”

  My parents’ politeness lessons nagged at my tongue. I’d be polite to my own executioner. Licking my dry lips, I replied, “Gena.”

  He was kind of cute in a boy-next-door way. I leaned forward, then pulled back. Cute didn’t mean nice. The scariest ones were always cute.

  “Do you, um . . .” He cleared his throat.

  Do you mind handing over your Links so I don’t have to shoot you with this gun in my pocket? I pinched myself on the arm. Get a grip, Gena. Before anyone could say another word, Mrs. Harward spoke. Her voice shook, but she held her head high.

  “Excuse me. I don’t think she’s interested in talking to you.”

  I blinked. I’d never heard any Mementi be so blatantly impolite.

  “Hey,” a rough voice called out. A Populace guy in a blue workman’s shirt leaned into the center aisle. “He wasn’t doing anything. He was just being nice. I thought manners had been hardwired into your Mem-tard brains after they got all scrambled from that memory drug.”

  All conversation died. Even the Mementi couple across from me paused their gooey-eyed staring session. The slur was bad enough, but add that to the mockery of the Memor-X gene therapy, and this guy had just put himself on a few hit lists. Sure, Memor-X gave our grandparents incredible memory capabilities that had passed to us. It had also destroyed nearly as many minds as it had expanded. Including my Grandma Piper’s.

  Thom Lancaster, an intern at Ascalon, stood and straightened his high collar. “Being nice doesn’t mean she has to talk to every Populace cretin who thinks she’s got a pretty face.”

  Talise shrank as close to her mom as she dared.

  A smooth voice made me jump. “Passengers are reminded that standing is not permitted on Havendale City Trams. Thank you.”

  Mr. Blue-shirt planted his feet in the aisle. The two men swayed slightly in a counter-rhythm to each other, a physical banter that teased out the tension. I held my breath.

  The Populace boy, Kalan, raised his hands. “Hey guys, ease off, it’s fine.” He had the most expressive eyebrows I’d ever seen. They dropped, shading his eyes in a sad look. “I wasn’t trying to . . . I’ll just get off at the next stop.”

  “You don’t have to,” growled Mr. Blue-shirt.

  “I want to,” Kalan said sharply. “This isn’t worth fighting about.”

  The tram approached the last in-town stop. His eyes found mine again. “See you later.”

  I sure hoped not. I slumped in my seat as he left and hugged my arms to my chest. The tram emptied of most passengers, both Populace and Mementi. I didn’t say goodbye to the Harwards.

  The tram whirred on to its final destination, the ­Observatory at Havendale Canyon. When it stopped, I descended to the grass and crossed the bridge. The river rushed below my feet and I tasted moisture on my tongue. The dome of the Observatory glistened white at the top of a red cliff, housing the enormous telescope that I occasionally got to use. Day or night, this place gathered knowledge from observatories around the world.

  All around me, cliffs carved into the sky. Each rock face had been chipped and chiseled by the shifting hands of nature. Tiny shifts of dust and rock, wearing away each second. Even rocks had a dance. Slow and peaceful.

  Unfortunately, the grav-lift to the Observatory was busy and un-peaceful today. Employees poured from the monstrous elevator to eat their lunch under the carved wood pavilion and stroll in the shade by the river.

  People nodded to me as I passed the grav-lift and trekked deeper into the canyon. Kicking my way through tufts of sagebrush, I shed my gloves, scarf, and the gauzy long-sleeved shirt I wore over my green tank top. The sun warmed my bare shoulders. One of the benefits out here was not needing that extra la
yer of touch protection.

  As I hiked, frustration rose inside me. I was hiding when I should try to help my best friend. But what was I going to do, hunt the thief on my own and find Cora’s Link? My own helplessness squeezed me until I wanted to claw at it.

  The inconsistencies of the theft nagged at me. Dad joked that my memories were dominoes. If you tapped one, it would trigger ten others nobody else had realized were connected. But it made no sense why the thief had targeted Cora. No dominoes were falling right now. Something was missing, something I could almost reach, like a word on the tip of my tongue.

  A sudden shower of pebbles clacked down the mountain behind me. I spun, clutching my shoulder bag. The empty trail wound down the red cliffs. Must’ve been a squirrel. Stupid things were everywhere. I scanned the rocks, watching for it to reappear. No squirrel.

  A flutter of nerves sparked shivers down my bare arms. I hiked faster until I reached a wide crack in the red rock. I shimmied sideways, scraping my back in the tight spots, and broke into my haven.

  Sunlight danced around me. Shades of white and black streaked the orange rock. I trailed my hand along the gritty sandstone walls, tiny particles rolling beneath my fingers. Ripples of shadow and light skipped across the shallow pond that had nestled its way into the rock. A scraggly tree clung to the edge of the pond, its roots dangling over the cliff. Like a living lullaby, the scene soothed me.

  I took off my shoes and dropped my bag, then stepped onto the nature-made platform to the right of the pond. It was smaller than a normal stage, but plenty big enough to dance on. My bare feet found the familiar grooves in the rock. Mom and Dad had originally put me in ballet hoping the movement would give me the focus to handle my anxiety attacks. I’d been off meds with no problems for nearly a year, but today was threatening to end that streak. I closed my eyes and settled into third ballet position.

  The trickle of water, wearing the rock into patterns. The heat of the stone, weaving up my ankles. The dusty wind, working its piney scent into my hair. I inhaled and they filled me.

  I whipped my head around and danced.

  My music was the water and the wind and the rhythm of the ache in my heart. I flowed from the smooth, classical ballet steps my teacher Zahra had taught me into the sharper, dramatic movements of jazz. I blended the dances, flowing from one style to the other. Balancing them as they balanced me. My body arched forward and trickled back inch by inch.

  My parents would have died to see me dance so “promiscuously.” Cora had taught me jazz in secret.

  Cora. Her stolen Link. What was I missing?

  Something moved at the edge of my vision. My concentration shattered, and I stumbled.

  In the shadows of the rock tunnel, someone edged toward me. With a gasp, I dropped into a crouch. Like that would help. Blood beat in my ears. The figure emerged from the crack. Tall, with curly blond hair.

  The boy from the tram had found me.

  4

  Thou bring’st . . . letters unto trembling hands;

  And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam X

  My legs shook as I held my crouch. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other but didn’t come any closer.

  “How did you get here?” I meant to demand it, but my voice came out hoarse.

  “Through there.” He gestured to the crack in the rock. “I mean, well, obviously there, but I saw you heading up the canyon. Don’t freak out, I just want to talk. I won’t come any closer.”

  He seemed anything but threatening. Except that he’d stalked me into my super-secret space.

  “Talk about what?” I asked.

  “About last night. You told me to meet you here at the canyon.”

  My calves were cramping from my crouch. I stood, my bare toes clutching the sandy rock. Last night? Did he know something about Cora?

  No hyperventilating. Hyperventilating near stalker-boy equals Very Bad Thing.

  “I never said you should meet me here,” I said.

  “You did. Last night. That’s why I was on the tram, to meet you. Then I realized you didn’t remember.” His ever-expressive eyebrows pulled together. “I’m sorry.”

  I slapped a hand over my Links. Two words no Mementi knew the meaning of: didn’t remember.

  We remembered everything. My tongue burned from the sharp tang of the thirteen lemon drops I’d eaten at Grandma Piper’s when I was four, and I heard her words of scolding and comfort. My cheeks heated with the same thrilled flush when, at nine years old, my father had bowed to me and presented a rose and a box of powdered sugar donuts after my first dance concert.

  Which meant this boy was lying.

  Breathe. Relax. He had an agenda, and I needed a clear head to figure out what it was. “What, exactly, don’t I remember?”

  He shrugged, palms out. “Me.”

  “And you are?”

  “Kalan Fox. We met last night . . . briefly.” He frowned, his forehead puckering. “This is so weird. I didn’t realize they’d actually caught you.”

  Caught me?

  “I’m not missing a Link.” It was the only way I wouldn’t remember him. I ran a trembling hand over the beads on my arm. I didn’t have to count them. Just feeling them, I could tell they were whole. “I don’t remember you, and trust me, if we’d exchanged as much as one word, I could tell you what it was. What are you trying to pull?”

  Cora would be proud of me. Maybe I wouldn’t be pleasant to my executioner after all.

  Kalan took a step forward. “No missing Link?”

  He’d said he wouldn’t move from that spot.

  “No.” I pulled my hands to my chest, every exposed inch of skin on my arms and shoulders tingling. My gloves and overshirt sat crumpled on the ground several feet away, too far to reach. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t Mementi, so he couldn’t see my memories. He could only steal them. Steal my Links.

  His face hardened. “If you have them all, then why don’t you remember me?”

  “Maybe because we never met.”

  “We did meet.” A sudden intensity pulsed from him like a change in the music. “We practically collided last night. On the corner of Rowley and Tanner Street. Your name is Gena Lee, and you were running from someone, you said they were stealing Mementi Links. You told me to meet you here today.”

  I sucked in quick breaths. That was flat-out unbelievable. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  “Because I’m trying to help.” He tipped his head back and groaned. “Look, I made a detour on my way here. When you didn’t remember me on the tram.”

  He reached into his back pocket and held out a small white box.

  “I don’t want it,” I said.

  “Well, you’re going to take it anyway.” His voice came out ­almost as a growl. He tossed the box in my direction. It skidded across the rock floor before stopping near my feet.

  I flinched, clenching every muscle so I didn’t dissolve into a hysterical ball of nerves. How could this guy be so disarming one minute and so intense the next? What was I supposed to do with that?

  “Please, I can help.” His voice, soft now, brought my head up. Our eyes met and my cheeks tingled with heat. The tremor in my chest faded and breathlessness took its place.

  Cora would smack me. You don’t freakin’ fall for the loco stalker guy! Get a grip, Gena. An attractive loco stalker wasn’t any better than an unattractive one. Except possibly more dangerous.

  Kalan nodded toward the white box. “My number’s on there. Call me when you’re ready.”

  His confidence irked me. “What did you mean, you can help me?”

  “You’re not the only who wants to stop the Link thief. Hopefully we can help you get your memories back.” He gave me a funny half-smile that turned his face from intense guard dog to charming puppy. “And I guess I sort of wouldn’t mind getting to know you, Gena Lee.”

  I swallowed, one-quarter charmed and three-quarters freaked out. He
stepped into the shadows of the rocky tunnel. The second he was out of sight, I collapsed to the ground so hard I bit my tongue.

  I checked each of my three Link bracelets. Red, green, and blue. Metal and wood, all intact. It wouldn’t be easy to take one, like it was from Cora’s netted hairpiece. Each of mine was strung on a single strand of beading wire. No missing Links, no missing memories. So I’d never met Kalan.

  Except. On the tram, I hadn’t told him my last name.

  I lay down and the red stone heated my bare shoulders. Clouds brushed through the sky, twirling and wisping into thin strands of cottony white. So what, he knew my last name? That didn’t make the rest of his story true. It was almost impossible to lose memories without losing my Links.

  Except. Except . . .

  Like a punch in the head, memories connected across my brain, knocking into each other to make a story out of random pieces.

  The Mementi dancing at the Low-G, careful not to touch, not to see each other’s memories.

  Tiffani Donald, the only case of a Mementi stealing memories in two decades, serving life in prison for siphoning memories from her husband so he would forget his mistress.

  Siphoning. Stealing through touch, rummaging through another person’s Links like they were your own. Pulling memories away from their Links and into yours like some kind of memory vampire.

  It had only happened a handful of times in the sixty years since Havendale was established. Or maybe it had only been caught a handful of times. If nobody remembered what they had lost, it could be happening every day.

  No way. Not possible. I knew them all. Everybody who was Mementi. Friends and family and neighbors and smiling faces glimpsed on the street, all embedded into my Links. I couldn’t distrust everyone I knew because of the lies of a Populace boy.

  I sat up to be confronted with the glaring white of his mysterious gift lying on red rock. Kalan said he’d gotten it for me after he realized I didn’t remember him. What did that mean?

  My eyes darted toward the now-empty tunnel. I picked up the cardboard box and turned it around. In big, black letters, the logo of Happenings stood out against the white. Underneath it was a single word: MEMO.