by Lea Daley
She seemed glad to sidestep the discord. “That can be arranged.”
“And my other music, as well?”
“That will be much simpler. Every note and nuance can be lifted from your memory.”
“My god! You can access any recording I ever heard!”
“Of course, Leslie-ahn.”
“Well, that’s your next assignment. I can’t believe I never asked you about this! It will mean so much to have music in my life again. Knock your socks off, kid!”
Shuddering at that crass bit of slang, Aimée left to do my bidding.
I felt restless and confined in my little suite, almost claustrophobic now that I’d seen the great outdoors. In the clutter on my desk, I found Serenghi’s book. Clutching it tightly, I stepped through the wall and into my courtyard.
To my astonishment, someone else was there, sitting on a bench in the late afternoon dazzle of sunshine and shade. A quizzical-looking girl child, skinny legs swinging in counterpoint. Huge dark eyes roved over me, making a risk assessment. Exactly like a swift little bird on the verge of flight.
“Who are you?”
The child responded with a burst of quicksilver sound. Those minor key intonations and trilling syllables were a delight to my ear—but completely unintelligible. I was sure it was the same language I’d heard the Elders use, though her higher pitch lent it a greater delicacy.
Hoping I could get closer, I moved slowly toward the bench. The girl stiffened when I sat, but held her ground. She was a slim, pretty little thing. Vibrating with energy. And in that stage where baby teeth give way to permanent ones. On Earth, I guessed, she’d be six or seven. Noting my inspection, she lengthened her gown to conceal scabby knees. Another torrent of chatter then, followed by a lift of shoulders, an enchanting laugh.
I bowed to her for lack of something better to do. She bowed back, eyes riveted on my jacket, examining the metallic threads, the wild splashes of color. Then she studied me. My pale skin. Green eyes. Stubborn coppery hair, made wild by my nap. How strange I must seem—I’d seen no one with my coloring on Jashari. Her own hair was straight and black, her complexion only a little lighter than the universal café au lait. Finally, the girl knelt and took my cheeks between grubby palms, turning me this way and that. For a moment, I forgot she was only a child. Her gaze had a penetrating quality, as if she surveyed the depths of my being.
Just then, a group of people approached the open gates of the courtyard. Instantly, the girl was off the bench, racing headlong toward a wall. Before she vanished, she held one finger to her lips in an ancient gesture: Shhh! Don’t tell!
So some things hadn’t changed! Picking up my book, I let it fall open at random. I found myself rereading a parable that was widely quoted in my day.
The Garden
There once was a garden of incomparable beauty, carefully tended by a workman of the highest skill. Each flower was more flawless than its neighbor. Every bloom was plucked before it began to fade. Not one petal was permitted to litter the perfectly proportioned paths.
Birds sang incessantly, filling soft air with their music. The sun shone each day and gentle breezes played among the leaves. So complete was the harmony of this place that peace radiated outward from it. Soon the surrounding countryside ordered itself likewise. A deep calm fell over the region.
One day the gardener found a thistle growing amid his beloved plants. It was a prickly, twisted thing, entirely lacking the cultivated beauty that surrounded it. Horrified, he bent to uproot this intruder. It stung his hands and tested his strength. He pulled mightily, thinking, The roots of this renegade must run very deep. Under his onslaught, leaves and spines stripped away. The stalk broke and sap blistered his fingers. Now the stub of the sturdy plant seemed to mock him, its singular ugliness even more pronounced than before.
With a final, enraged attack, the gardener ripped the sinister thing from the soil. Its roots were deep indeed, and multi-pronged, unlike anything he had ever known. He gathered up the mangled plant and tossed it on his discard pile, never noticing the tiny golden seeds released in its flight. After binding his lacerated hands, the gardener returned to work. He labored until dusk then left for home, feeling a gratifying sense of accomplishment.
But on his return the next morning, he discovered a new thistle in the garden, then another and another and another. Though he worked furiously, it took hours to root them out. And it took all afternoon to gather up their insidious seeds. Even so, he missed a few. The next day there were more thistles than before.
Each morning thereafter, the gardener came prepared to root out those trespassers. He worked with focus and diligence. He invented new tools. He never noticed how the rest of the flowers languished for lack of his attentions. Yet each day there were more thistles—wiry, resilient and indestructible, no two quite alike. Their seeds had drifted into every corner of the garden.
The caretaker became a man possessed. He lived for a single purpose—to weed out the upstart thistles. At last he had an idea. An excellent idea. One even the most intransigent plant could not withstand. By the following morning he was well equipped for his final assault.
Arriving before dawn, he trampled on thistle and rose alike while spreading his malevolent solution throughout the beds. Then he struck a match and tossed it to the ground. At once, the garden burst into a new, more brilliant blossom, flames spreading wildly, destroying all in their path. From a distance the gardener watched the thistles burn, rubbing his hands with manic joy.
By noon, it was done. Lighthearted, he turned his back on the blackened landscape and left for lunch.
There were no more thistles.
Chapter Ten
The VTO rejoined me while I was examining one of Serenghi’s delicate illustrations—a magenta flower spilling an arc of seeds onto verdant earth. I closed the book, stretching lazily. “Hello, Aimée-ahn.”
“Greetings to you as well. I have brought you something.”
All thoughts of my mysterious visitor fled when Aimée handed me a small, nearly weightless sphere, hinged like a Fabergé egg. I opened it carefully. The interior was packed with a mass of glittering threads, filaments so thin they were almost invisible. I reached out a finger but Aimée deflected me.
“You must not touch that.”
“What is it?”
“It is the analogue of your memory that I promised you.”
“This is it? This tiny little thing contains my entire life?”
“Until last night. To make it current we would have to add this day.”
I wasn’t brave enough to ask the obvious. “If the contents are so vulnerable to touch, why does it open?”
“So it can be updated.”
Swallowing hard, I lowered the lid until it latched. The surface of the sphere was covered with thousands of infinitesimal protrusions. “How does it work?”
“Witchcraft.”
I shot a withering look at the VTO. “I know I can’t understand the science, backward as I am. I meant, how do I operate it?”
“Oh. It is very simple. Cup it in your hand. Yes, like that.”
“It tingles!”
“That is the electrochemical connection. It links to your biological brain through those little projections. Now, shut your eyes.”
“I have to shut my eyes again?”
“It will just be easier in the beginning, Leslie-ahn. Close them and pick a memory.”
“What am I? Emily from Our Town? Maybe I should relive my twelfth birthday!” A joke, of course, but there it was, crowding out the insubstantial present.
It’s the sixth of December, and I wake to a white, white world. Climate change has had a noticeable effect on our seasons and while I slept, a freak snowstorm blew in. Early, extreme, exciting. My room’s cold, the bed warm. I leave the frosted window to snuggle under blankets, feeling an anticipation like no other. Downstairs, my mother may be doing the most ordinary things. Feeding the cats. Making a grocery list. Scattering salt on the
sidewalk. But nothing can obscure the splendor of this day. It belongs to me! And it’s snowing!
When my eyes snapped open, the past flickered out like a candle. Aimée came into focus, slowly. “Christ!” I breathed. “I’d forgotten that! I got the motorblades I’d been begging for, but couldn’t try them out because of the snow—it was practically a blizzard. I barely found my way home after sledding! My cousin came for dinner and got in trouble for telling Mom her mashed potatoes were lumpy—he’d never had the real thing before. My birthday cake was actual chocolate with fudge icing…I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
The VTO nodded, obviously amused.
“This is some weird shit, woman!”
If robots could look tender, Aimée did. “Practice makes perfect.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and thought Meredith!
“You mean the entire time I’m talking, Mer, you’ve got a running commentary in your head?”
“Yeah—that’s what it’s like for auditory processors.”
We’re at Tacana—a favorite restaurant. Customers and servers weave through the room. Flatware flashes. A waiter fumbles, then recovers a tray. “So, I’m talking, but you’re not really listening? You’re having a side discussion with yourself?”
“Not exactly, Leslie—it’s more like I’m hearing you in hypertext. Part of me is responding to what you’re actually saying, part of me is reminded of things that relate to what you’re saying—articles I’ve read, experiences I’ve had and so on. I not only hear you, I hear you on several levels at once.” Mer puts down her fork. “What are you doing when I talk?”
“Focusing on our conversation,” I say, wincing as a couple behind her struggles with their angry toddler.
Mer laughs, craning to see what’s caught my eye. “Right! I can tell I have your undivided attention.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re so damned visual, Les! I could be revealing the secrets of the universe, but everything that happens in this restaurant has an equal claim.”
I pick up my wineglass and clink it lightly against hers. “I only have eyes for you, my love.”
“Uh-huh. What did the gentleman to your left order?”
“Celluchicken, well-done, sauce on the side. Rice pilau. Artificial asparagus. Cabernet FauxVignon.”
“I rest my case!”
Reality reasserted itself when I opened my eyes. I was shaking as I looked down at the little sphere, glinting softly in artificial sunshine. I literally held history in my hand. “Feels like I’m on drugs.”
“And looks that way as well.”
“This thing needs a warning label, Aimée—Handle With Care.”
“It is pure, unadulterated you, Leslie-ahn. Nothing dilutes the feedback, no static from your subconscious, no environmental distractions. And it is amplified—the internal and the external systems run simultaneously.”
“How do I find a specific memory?”
“It is easier than you might think. You will learn to ‘call up’ whatever you want.”
“What if I’d like to play music while doing something else?”
“Let me show you.”
* * *
After Aimée taught me how to operate my new toy, I relived a dozen arbitrary moments. But I soon mastered the searching process. Which wasn’t without risk. Because I could recycle my finest hours. Sidestep any acknowledgment of my weaknesses. Get hooked on pretending I was home—so tempting! Just palm the sphere, think about Meredith, then sink into the illusion of a shared life.
I learned how to “random sample,” immersing myself in events long forgotten. I didn’t remember picking apples with Mer, for instance. Yet I saw her in some orchard, aglow in autumn light, firing a Fuji at me—“Heads up, Les!”
I didn’t recall arguing the relative merits of our turkey roasting methods, but I revisited the clash. It must have happened early on. Meredith’s hair was long and there wasn’t a trace of the tiny scar on her chin, souvenir of a skiing mishap on our fourth anniversary.
“Just back off, Leslie!” Mer’s waving a wooden spoon to emphasize each word. “This year we’re doing it my way.”
“Sweetheart, I’m only trying to help…”
“Don’t! I managed to feed myself before we met. And I promise you, dinner will be edible.”
“But this is stupid! You hate to cook!”
“It’s not stupid! I need to feel like this is my kitchen too—and I have to remind myself that I’m reasonably competent here!”
Tears dampen Mer’s lashes and from the set of her jaw, I know she’s serious. Cupping the back of her head in my hand, I draw her close and kiss her softly. Then I leave the kitchen, humbled into silence. And the turkey is delicious...
Even when I thought I recalled an occurrence with perfect fidelity, I quickly realized I couldn’t rely on my internal memories. Because I’d scrambled the facts of extraordinarily consequential events. Take the moment I heard that the Greater Chinese Empire had joined forces with both Japan and Consolidated Korea to create the most powerful political entity ever. If asked before receiving Aimée’s gift, I’d have maintained I heard this ominous news in my own home. Would have sworn the world had shifted into slow motion. Insisted that my head had panned our living room, recording each detail, knowing that every single damned circumstance had suddenly changed for the worse.
Not so. I’d actually been on a transatlantic flight. Crammed between a surly teenager and a man with oppressive body odor, my tray table in compuscreen mode. According to the insufferably accurate memory sphere, I’d checked the news feed, skimming that announcement with scant interest, then decided to catch a quick nap. Only after much dire political commentary had I grasped the fearsome potential of the All-Pacific Alliance.
Aimée had an explanation, of course. Conscious memory is susceptible to tinkering. People shuffle and reconfigure data all the time, never realizing their stories change with each retelling. Even worse, false memories are absurdly easy to implant. So suddenly I wasn’t sure of my own history! Definitive truth was encoded in a mass of shimmering fibers, nestled in a goddamned Easter egg! Occasionally though, the sphere and I were in complete accord. The night I met Meredith, for instance…
I’m self-conscious when I arrive at Sybil and Britt’s costume party, because my lavender T-shirt’s a shade too tight and those painters pants smell of mothballs. I’d bought them that morning and hadn’t had time to run them through the Sonar Suds. But still I feel frisky, ready for anything.
This gathering is an annual event hosted by old friends. I grab some hot cider and lean against a pillar, taking in the scene. Wall-to-wall women swirl through the room, wearing outfits ranging from witty to wild. Then I notice someone checking me out. She’s dressed as a troubadour. Velvet cap sporting a jaunty feather. Burgundy tights hugging beautifully muscled legs. A guitar slung over one shoulder. When she realizes I’m watching her too, she hides her reaction behind long, slender fingers. But our eyes have met and I know she’s smiling.
Suddenly it’s much too warm. I push off from the pillar, heading toward her. She steps forward, unslinging her instrument with a gesture so practiced I know it’s real. Matching one another stride for stride, we make our way outdoors, into the moonlight.
There’s a bite in the air, but such a roaring inside me I hardly notice. Crossing autumn grass, we sit on a chilly iron bench. I take a deep breath and stick out one hand. “Leslie Burke, at your service.”
“Hi, Leslie Burke. You smell like mothballs.”
“But you’re supposed to be too polite to mention that.”
“I never mastered the fine points of etiquette.”
“Like introducing yourself to a new acquaintance?”
“Yeah. Like that…” Her voice is so soft it’s almost drowned out by music drifting from the house. And then I understand: she’s equally shaken by this meeting. Finally she says, “I’m Meredith McAllister.”
“Oh, no! Pleas
e be anyone else!”
“Because?”
“Because I’ve been dodging you for at least six months…Sybil’s wanted to fix us up ever since she met you. Insists you’re perfect for me.” I pause for dramatic effect. “You know what this means…”
“What?”
“I can never see you again—I refuse to be that predictable.”
“No problem. I don’t even like you very much.”
“Liar!”
One song ends and another begins—the biggest hit of the season, filling the air, surrounding us with sensuous suggestion. Mer pulls me to my feet. We’re slow dancing when she whispers, “I am perfect for you.”
“You’re just plain perfect.”
And she was. I don’t know how we knew, but we did. From that moment on, Meredith called it “mothball magic.”
Chapter Eleven
Each morning I was outside at dawn, a warm tea bowl in one hand, the memory sphere nearby. The day was at its coolest then, my charming courtyard just beginning to take on form and color. The blossoms on the succulents slowly opening, releasing their perfume. The tireless fountain flinging droplets skyward, rainbows dancing in the spray as Na’Rahna scaled the heavens.
I kept hoping my little urchin friend would reappear, but there was no sign of her—nor of any other children. After two watchful weeks from the vantage point of my courtyard, I deduced that the transitional home was far off the beaten path—and concluded that was purposeful. Traffic was sparse and leisurely beyond my gates, all of it on foot. Whenever pedestrians neared, they walked more slowly and ceased their discussions. But dialogue quickly resumed as they moved into the distance. Soon, in classic paranoid fashion, I concluded they were talking about me. The alien redhead lounging within.
Each conversation was conducted in the same lyrical language, the only idiom I’d heard on Jashari. Maybe that made sense. This was an artificial asteroid, after all, with every aspect planned in advance. Language wouldn’t have ten thousand roots here—one would suffice, would form a sort of cultural glue, in fact. If I intended to have a real life in this place, I could no longer delay the inevitable—I’d have to learn the native tongue.
