by Ken Liu
Seven Conversations in Locked Rooms
Alex Shvartsman
The lawyer looked at his watch for what must've been the hundredth time.
"It's a good thing that they're taking this long. Means the jury is seriously considering our argument, at least. A quick verdict would've likely been bad news."
Lewis couldn't tell if Malcolm meant it. Was he merely trying to offer a glimmer of hope or, perhaps, just calming his own nerves? He watched his lawyer pace back and forth in the small holding room.
"I want you to promise me something, Malcolm," Lewis said after several more agonizing minutes of waiting.
"What's that?" The lawyer quit pacing and turned to his client.
"Claire's been telling me how there's all sorts of hoopla about my case. Talking heads discussing it on the news programs and all that. You and I are practically celebrities right now, fifteen minutes of fame sort of thing. That about right?"
"Well, yes. There's quite a bit of media attention. The ethical and philosophical implications of this case are rather important."
"Yeah, whatever. My point is, whether I win or lose, you're gonna win. You'll be the famous lawyer everyone saw on TV, and with that comes the big bucks."
The attorney made no comment, waiting for Lewis to continue.
"So, I figure, you owe me. Whichever way this goes, I want you to promise that you'll keep tabs on Claire and the girls. Help them out if they get into any sort of trouble."
The lawyer made all kinds of fancy sounding assurances. It was easy to make promises, Lewis thought, to a man who probably wouldn't even remember asking if they lost this final appeal.
Guards unlocked the door. "It's time," one of them said. They escorted Lewis back into the courtroom.
"Thank you for agreeing to this interview."
Talking to the lady Lewis used to watch on TV was a bit surreal. She looked older in person, sitting right across the table from him, with cameramen and guards positioned a few steps behind her.
"No problem. It's not like I have much else to do with my time."
He agreed to the interview because the network offered to pay twenty large for the exclusive. The money would help Claire catch up on her bills, and there would still be some left over for Linda's and Betty's college funds. But he wasn't supposed to mention getting paid during the interview.
"Time is something you have in abundance," the journalist said. "The judge sentenced you to fifteen years in prison after it was ruled that you had a right to decline medical treatment. That's an awfully long time to spend behind bars. Do you now regret opting out of the memory modification?"
"If you're asking whether I'm happy to rot in here for the next fifteen years, then no, of course I'm not. But it's loads better than a lobotomy. What you call memory modification is really mind murder."
"You equate treatment with murder," she said, "but your own actions resulted in a real, physical murder, to which you pleaded guilty. What do you say to those who might feel that your attitude toward treatment only makes it a more fitting punishment?"
"I didn't mean to kill that guy. It was a stupid bar fight gone wrong, and I'm sorry it happened. I take full responsibility, but erasing who I am won't bring him back. It would be a deliberate act, an eye for an eye punishment as final as a lethal injection."
"There's overwhelming scientific evidence that selective memory removal is a safe and effective way to treat sociopathic behavior," countered the reporter. "It's proven very efficient in people who've committed violent crimes with almost no incidents of recidivism. Don't you want to be cured?"
"I ain't sick," said Lewis. "I am guilty of a crime, and I'm being punished for that now. I'd rather spend time in jail than have my personality wiped by one of those Memory Eater abominations. I read up on the 'cured' people you're talking about. Shrinks went in and deleted whatever memories they say shaped the patient's personality and predisposed him to violence."
Lewis became animated as he spoke, causing the guards to tense up.
"Whatever the research you quote says, it's not an exact science. There are side effects. People whose minds are messed with like that, they come out different. Their tastes, desires and temperaments are not what they used to be."
"Why is that such a bad thing?"
Lewis leaned in, his voice overcome with emotion.
"Because no one knows exactly what kind of changes the memory wipe will cause. Because there's a chance I wouldn't love my wife, or my kids, anymore. I'm not willing to risk that for anything."
"Where's your mother?"
Linda looked down at the floor, avoiding eye contact. "She's working tonight. She's been putting in overtime hours now that I'm old enough to take care of Betty."
Lewis frowned. Claire used to come by every week, like clockwork, during the visitation hour. Sometimes she brought the girls, sometimes not. After a couple of years she began to miss a few weeks here and there. Nowadays he was lucky to see her once every two months. This was the first time Linda came to visit him on her own.
"I'm glad to see you, Kiddo," he said. "But fourteen-year-old girls shouldn't come to a place like this by themselves. It's not like Claire to send you over unattended. Does she even know that you're here?"
Linda looked down at the floor again.
Malcolm dropped a thick stack of paperwork on the table.
"Divorce papers," he said.
"The guy she's with now—what's he like?"
"I don't really know. I ran the background check like you asked, and he's clean. Other than that…" Malcolm shrugged.
"I don't blame her," said Lewis. "Seven years is a very long time." He leafed through the pages filled with tiny print. "I still want you to keep your promise and look out for her and the girls. Especially the girls with a stranger in the house."
Lewis picked up the pen and began to sign.
Malcolm walked into the room and shook his head.
"Goddamn it!" Lewis punched the table. "They wouldn't grant me furlough for Linda's wedding, and I get that, but for this… How could they say no?"
"They're holding a grudge," said the lawyer. "Do you know how much money it's costing the city to keep you incarcerated? Not to mention the others who chose prison sentences over the Memory Eater, citing your case as precedence? They're being petty."
"Did you find out how it happened?"
"Betty overdosed at a sorority party. The cops are still looking into it, interviewing her roommates and such. It looks as though she might've been using for some time. The other girls were too scared to call for an ambulance and by the time somebody did, it was already too late. I'm so sorry, Lewis."
"They say fathers should never live long enough to bury their children. But not being able to attend your own daughter's funeral has got to be even worse. If only I was there for her, things might've turned out differently."
Malcolm put his hand on Lewis's shoulder.
"Don't beat yourself up," he said. "This kind of tragedy can happen to good people, families, whether both parents are there or not.
Lewis's eyes were moist as he stared past Malcolm at the bare gray walls.
"I came to say goodbye."
Linda was a young woman now, twenty-two years of age and carrying herself with an easy assurance and optimism of youth.
"Peter and I have been accepted into the Prometheus program," she went on to say. "We're a young, healthy and educated couple, just the sort of people they're looking for to establish the Mars colony."
The speech sounded rehearsed, practiced in front of a mirror. His Linda was like that, even as a kid she always had to work up the courage to deliver bad news.
"It's a one way trip, Dad," she said slowly, as though he didn't understand the implications, the finality of her decision. "We won't be coming back."
Lewis managed to hold himself together long enough to wish her luck and say proper goodbyes. There was plenty of time to cry after she left.
On the day the colony s
hip landed safely on Mars, he told the guards that he wanted to see his lawyer.
"My name is Malcolm," said the stranger. "I'm your attorney."
"Thank God," said Lewis. "Finally, someone who can fill me in on what's happening. These people, they won't tell me anything!"
"That was one of the conditions of your deal," said Malcolm. "You asked to undergo a Memory Eater procedure in lieu of serving out the remainder of your sentence. You also asked that certain painful memories be edited out. As per the negotiated terms, you'll be given a new name and allowed to reintegrate into society with relative anonymity. As far as everyone else knows, you're still incarcerated."
"A new life sounds better than prison," said Lewis. "I don't even get how an old me could stand being cooped up in here for years. I wonder, though, if there are any friends or relatives, or maybe a girlfriend that I should contact? Any people who might be worried about me?"
"Afraid not," said Malcolm. "You're all alone."
© 2012 by Alex Shvartsman
First published in The Memory Eater, edited by Matthew Hance, 2012.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
* * *
Alex Shvartsman is a writer and game designer. His adventures so far have included traveling to over 30 countries, playing a card game for a living, and building a successful business. Alex resides in Brooklyn, NY with his wife and son. Since 2010, Alex sold over 60 short stories to a variety of magazines and anthologies. His fiction has appeared in such venues as the journal of Nature, Daily Science Fiction, InterGalactic Medicine Show, Galaxy’s Edge, and many others.
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Hank Quense
The ground rumbled under Captain Dave Stiller's feet as two M81 pocket tanks rolled by. Large red letters on the turrets spelled out B-U-D-W-E-I-S-E-R and negated the usefulness of the camouflage paint. The tanks threw up clouds of Fort Dix sand and scattered swarms of gnats.
Fueled by anxiety and disillusionment, Stiller's churning stomach growled almost as loudly as the tank engines. He hated these artificial battles. Too many innocent people died. As a West Point graduate, he followed Pentagon directives even when he disagreed with them and these battles brought in a lot of money needed to compensate for the deep budget cuts.
He glanced over at his heavy weapons platoon where a soldier dropped a round into a mortar. The tube was painted in the US Postal Service blue-and-white with the legend, "We Deliver." The mortar round exploded on the hilltop and re-arranged some rubble. Piles of stone and wood were all that remained of a village. Had any of the poor bastards survived the barrage? Most of them probably had no idea why they had been moved there yesterday. The platoon lieutenant gave a hand signal to cease fire and Stiller relaxed slightly. The contract called for twenty-five rounds and all had all been fired. His troops had completed Phase One.
He activated his cell phone and heard a lilting female voice say, "My panty liner is so wonderfully soft and absorbent that I don't even—" He held the phone away from his ear and wished the Pentagon would go back to using radios. Once the commercial finished, he called his lieutenants in charge of the rifle platoons, "Move out!" He clicked his stop watch.
The three rifle platoons stood up and moved towards the slope.
"Faster!" Stiller yelled into the phone. "Get those troops running!" Speed would help determine which unit won the grand prize and there was a lot of money at stake.
The lieutenants yelled and waved their arms; the soldiers trotted up the hill. Their bobbing heads transformed the Golden Arches decal on the back of their helmets into moving bands of color. They all wore a red-and-white bulls-eye patch below the division badge on their shoulders. The patch was the logo of the department store that was the official sponsor of his infantry unit. Stiller's wife liked the extra discount she received there on diapers for their infant daughter.
The soldiers fired from the hip—as stipulated by the producer to increase the drama—even though none of them could see a target. The bullets kicked up sand and rock splinters along the crest of the hill.
Recording the action, two camera crews stood on the beds of a pair of 4X4 trucks, while overhead, a helicopter circled the hill providing a different perspective. Blue and white letters identified the trucks and helicopter as part of the World-Wide Broadcasting Corporation.
"Come on." Stiller beckoned to Mathis, his company sergeant. They climbed the hill and were swallowed by an acrid cloud of cordite left behind by the rifle fire.
A hum-vee plastered with so many logos that it wouldn't be out-of-place at a NASCAR race rolled after the rifle platoons. The vehicle carried the two umpires and the referee in charge of scoring.
When the first rifleman reached the hilltop, Stiller clicked his stop watch: four minutes, thirteen seconds. Much less than the five minutes the goddamn producer allocated to the move. He should be happy with the time and with his men firing a truck-load of ammo to make his video look good.
His phone buzzed. "Sir," the first platoon lieutenant said. "I counted forty-five people alive. A fifty-five percent Kill-Ratio is an outstanding score, sir. Much better than anything I've seen from other units."
"Keep looking for more survivors." His stomach threatened outright rebellion. Out of a hundred illegal immigrants penned into the village, less than half had survived and would be allowed to stay in the country.
He and Mathis reached the village. The mortar-blasted area offered no shade from the mid-summer sun. Waves of heat radiated from the sandy soil and distorted everything in view. His troops faced a long, hot afternoon. Stiller removed his sunglasses and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. He found a spot where he had a view of the slopes and established his command post. A quick assessment of the area told him the counter-attack would come from the woods closest to the village, either the north-western or western slopes.
"I want the first platoon facing west," he told the assembled lieutenants, "the second fronting northwest and third due north. The woods on the east are too far away from the slopes, so I don't expect any trouble from that direction. Any questions?" He looked at the two men and a woman. All much younger than he. "Okay, go and set up your troops."
The referee walked over and gave him a signed form, the official tally. Fifty-two killed. Good. They found a few more survivors and he still had a great Kill-Ratio.
He and his men lunched on cold rations while a convoy of ambulances transported the survivors. After the last vehicle left the hill, the referee displayed his wristwatch to Stiller. "The counter-attack can take place anytime after fifteen minutes from… now."
Stiller nodded his understanding. The next event was deadly and involved a mob of people desperate enough to attack professional troops. Soon, five hundred bankrupt citizens, armed with machine pistols and high on booze and drugs would try to take the village from his company.
During the Terrorists Wars, Congress revamped the justice system and tilted it to benefit for-profit institutes. Insolvency was now a crime punishable by stiff prison sentences because individual bankruptcies lowered the profits of the lending companies. The Attorney-General then cut a deal with the entertainment industry to give the felons a chance to get out debt while reducing the number of expensive jail cells required. The Attorney-General proclaimed the arrangement a victory for the taxpayers.
"Captain?" Sergeant Mathis look worried. "I can't get air support." He waggled his cell phone over his head.
Stiller frowned.
"All I get is a loud squeal."
Stiller punched the power button on his cell phone. Nothing but noise. Not even a commercial! He leaned on a mound of rubble to keep his knees from buckling. Bile flooded the back of his mouth and left him with a horrid taste.
It had to be the producer! What was the fat fuck's name?… Zephyr… Zachery Z. Zephyr. 'Z-Cubed', as he liked to be called. The sonuvabitch wanted more bloodshed so he blocked the requests for air support. Without the cell phone, he also couldn't direct the fire of his weapons pl
atoon at the base of the hill, and his riflemen had used most of their ammunition on the way up the hill. He looked around for the camera trucks that should be in the village with his men. Both crews were still at the bottom of the hill, drinking beers. Even worse, the hum-vee with the officials sped down the hill to join them. Stiller almost threw up his lunch.
He took a deep breath. The whole day was an outrage. First, he had to shell the illegal immigrants because it was too expensive to send them back to their native countries. Second, he had to fight off a frenzied mob of bankrupt people. Third, Zephyr put his men in extraordinary danger to punch up excitement and to increase the ratings of his reality show.
In the last year, his respect for the Pentagon had plummeted because they supported this gross and dangerous spectacle to placate the entertainment industry, amuse the public and earn money. He could take no more of this immoral charade and he resolved to resign his commission before the day ended.
If he survived.
He pulled out the canteen-shaped bottle of sports drink, took a swig, spit it out and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Boisenberry! I hate that flavor."
Mathis chuckled and offered his own canteen. "Coconut-kumquat."
"Gawd!" Stiller swallowed a mouthful. "How can the supply people accept this shit? Better round up some runners, Mathis. We'll have to do things the old-fashioned way."
While he waited for the runners, he wondered if the other officers felt like he did. Two other rifle companies had undergone similar maneuvers recently. The producer would splice together a two-hour-long special from tapes of all the battles.
