by Alex Powell
“Karl, I know you’ve been giving Joanne all the information she needs. You’re the primary researcher on this, aren’t you?”
Memory-Karl froze. “King, I can explain.”
“No need to, old friend. I have some information I think you should know. We can work together on this, and soon we’ll be able to bring two different sources of controversy to light. With you on the inside, this should go much more smoothly.”
Memory-Karl and Memory-King bowed their heads together and King began making gestures in the air as he laid out his plan.
“I gave him the information he needed—a different entity that wanted his patent and would be more than willing to pay him for it. His company was the middle man in this scenario, and Karl finally had a way to cut them out.”
The scene faded and moved to yet another memory, this time of King in a little shack somewhere in the archives. He had an old twenty-first century computer screen running, and was watching a scene unfold. The Cat and the Reaper in their IRL bodies were talking to IRL Karl. The exact scene that had housed King’s memories played out.
“He went to them to see if he could sell his patent to them directly. Obviously, they were suspicious. No one was supposed to know about their connection. How had he found them? In exchange for his patent and being left alone, he gave me to them.
“I knew I didn’t have a lot of time to act. I needed to get the word out, but I didn’t yet know where it was, the facility where they were keeping all the agents. It was top secret, and I still hadn’t found it. So I made a plan that I was going to tell all of my team except Karl. I would be taken; the team would have my memories and would find a way to track down my body. I prepared my memories in advance. I even took the precaution of making sure one of my team was physically close to my body.”
As King’s gaze fell on him, Fox realized something. “You were the one to request a travel writer come to Winnipeg. I wondered why anyone would want a piece done on a city like Winnipeg in the middle of winter.”
“Yes, and I was planning on telling you all what was going on, but I needed Karl to leave without becoming suspicious. I had everything set up. I was certain they would take longer to find me, because the weather had largely shut down transportation between cities. Winnipeg hasn’t had that much snow in years, and the city was so busy clearing and re-clearing roads, I thought it would be impossible for them to find my physical body so soon.”
“But then you got dusted in the middle of the meeting,” Joanne said. “And the agents attacked.”
“I was entirely unprepared for that to happen. It was too soon. I hadn’t put all the pieces of my plan in place, the foremost of which was telling all of you the plan. It occurred to me within the few minutes of time I had that their secret location must be close to mine, within the city limits of Winnipeg. I knew where to find them, but no one else did. Not only that, but I’d brought Fox into unknown peril with no time to warn him.”
“That worked out better than I thought,” Fox said. “I came to the same conclusion you did.”
“I had only a few minutes in which to act, and I knew they absolutely could not get hold of my memories. So I erased them, and hoped you would all be able to figure it out without my help.”
Fox looked at Joanne. “We did alright, didn’t we?”
Joanne nodded. “Yeah. So that’s the story. Come on, Fox. It’s time for us to leave.”
“Come with us,” the RCMP instructed. “Your link-ins are located in the Government domain.”
Seven came up on Fox’s other side, and Fox took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. Far from looking like someone whose liberation had finally arrived, Seven had trepidation written all over his face. Either that, or he had a stomach ache.
“It’ll be okay,” Fox said, squeezing his hand again. “I’ll be waiting on the other side.”
Seven hung onto his hand as long as possible, but eventually, they had to part. For just a second, Seven’s hand clenched painfully on his. Fox didn’t mind. Seven was safe, but now he had to face a new challenge: reintegrating into the world outside the Cerebrum.
Before they parted, Seven said, “Fox, even though I don’t know what I’ll be like on the other side, I want to thank you.”
“Thank me?” Fox asked, puzzled. “What did I do?”
“You saved me, you dolt,” Seven said, and his face wavered between humour and terror. “And I—”
“Time to go!” Stonesmith snapped behind them. “We don’t have all day!”
“I’ll be there, I promise. I’ll wait for you,” Fox said, and kissed him swiftly, right on the mouth.
And then, Seven was gone. Hopefully they would return him in one piece.
Fox allowed himself to be led away, although he was reluctant to leave Seven when he was unsure of everything that was happening. But he had to go, because inevitable bureaucracy was taking over the situation. Seven had a past, and a link in, and a body. He just needed to find it. Fox couldn’t help with that, or anything else, until he was back IRL.
Fox finally let himself breathe. This was over. The hiding, the fighting, the fear were all things of the past. He didn’t have to worry about being taken captive or having his memories erased or tampered with.
It was time to go home.
Chapter 11: IRL
Seven took a deep breath and shuffled his feet as he waited in line, right behind Eighty-Eight and Twelve. They were both pleased to see him; Seven saw it in the quirk of Eighty-Eight’s mouth and the way Twelve’s shoulders relaxed. They weren’t physically demonstrative, but they didn’t need to be. Seven knew them.
The RCMP had rounded up everyone and started taking them to their link-ins. They’d been found deep in the Government domain, all labelled with numbers. Strangely, the numbers had not been in numerical order, and so the line in which they stood seemed like a jumbled mess. At least until Seven had realized they were grouped based on ability and had helped them all get organized. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to leave. He was free now, but that didn’t mean he really needed to abandon the Cerebrum, right?
The only thing that kept him in this freedom queue was the fact that Fox had said he would be waiting for him. Fox had left ages ago, in the company of Mr. Stonesmith. He could be out there now, looking at Seven’s physical body. Seven fretted. What if his body wasn’t all that Fox desired? He had no idea what it looked like.
Twelve and Eighty-Eight showed signs of agitation.
“Are you sure we’ll be okay?” Eighty-Eight asked when it became his turn, looking anxiously at Seven.
“We’ll be right behind you,” Seven said.
The link-in was a simple thing, just a glowing bluish console on the wall where one could rest their forehead. It had “088” written on a placard. Eighty-Eight shot them one last terrified look before blinking out of sight.
Twelve inhaled sharply, but before he could release it, he touched his link-in with his forehead and also disappeared.
This was it. Seven’s placard was there in front of him, “007” etched into plain, dull steel. The numbers loomed in front of him, closer and closer as he leaned forward. Just before his forehead touched, Seven realized he didn’t have a name yet.
Then he felt a whooshing sensation, and a sense of falling, before he slammed into reality.
He gave a choked gasp, then felt heavy and slow. His muscles trembled and his mind crawled, and for a few seconds, he was too scared to open his eyes. He lay for a minute or two before he blinked, and blinked again, until the room came into focus.
He ached all over. The bed on which he was lying felt too hard, and the sheets scraped against his skin like sandpaper. A murmuring came from all around him, almost too loud for his ears. His mouth was too dry. He felt rusty, like a machine that needed its joints oiled.
Finally, Seven sat up and looked around to find rows and rows of beds, each surrounded with machines, presumably to monitor the well-being of those lying there. He raised a hand to his face,
discovering sensors stuck to his temples, the place where the link-in to the Cerebrum formed.
Someone in the bed next to him was crying. A woman. In shock, he stared at her, and she wiped her face with the sleeve of her flimsy blue robe. She was dark all over: dusky skin, ebony eyes, and the buzz-cut ends of her hair were jet black. Seven had almost been expecting everyone to look the same on the other side, like agents IRL. He’d even expected them all to be men.
“I knew there was something wrong,” she said and wept into her hands. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.”
“You’ll be okay,” he said, and his voice sounded a deeper than it had in the Cerebrum.
“Seven?” she asked, looking up.
The agent in the bed on her other side peered around her. He was just as dark.
“Eighty-Eight?” Seven said to the woman, just to confirm that he could still tell who was who. “And Twelve? How do I still know who you are?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.
“We’re easier to tell apart IRL.” Twelve shrugged. “What do we do now?”
Before Seven could answer, his stomach made an odd gurgling noise, loud enough that Eighty-Eight looked at him incredulously.
Seven looked down at his stomach. “I think I’m hungry. Food?”
“I’d rather a shower first,” Eighty-Eight said glumly. “Whoever had the job of hygiene upkeep around here was not as thorough as I would have liked.” At least the chance to complain about something seemed to have roused Eighty-Eight from her despair.
Several people in scrubs came to check them over, and Seven let them ascertain his health before they lead him to a shower room. It was hard to walk—it was strange to have gravity pulling him down, and his legs felt weak. Afterward, the nurses provided him with clothes, and they hung off his thin body like he was an ill-dressed scarecrow. He rejoined Twelve and Eighty-Eight so they could finally eat an actual meal.
It was all so strange and felt like a dream. Something as simple as water running down his skin was absolutely fascinating, as was the rough scratch of fabric. The nurses gave them bland edibles to get them used to having actual food in their stomachs again, but even that had a taste, and a texture in his mouth.
He still didn’t know what he looked like. He had long, slender fingers, and stood taller than both Eighty-Eight and Twelve. His skin tone was lighter than theirs, but not by much. It was certainly darker than how it appeared in the Cerebrum. He had a small nose and a thin mouth. This, at least, he could feel with his hands.
Everyone seemed focused on getting the newly awakened agents settled. In spite of the fact that he wasn’t sure Fox would like him like this, Seven still wanted to see him. Surely Fox had asked to see him by now. Why weren’t they letting him in?
Seven asked if he could see people on the outside, but the government officials told him they were still trying to ascertain from which country everyone originated. Over a hundred people didn’t just disappear without leaving behind records. He might have a family looking for him.
Seven waited impatiently, but it was taking a long time.
He eventually persuaded one of the nurses to give him a handheld mirror. He had an oval-shaped face, hooded eyes, and strong brows. He had straight, white teeth, although he couldn’t tell if he’d had dental work done or not. His cheekbones stood out harshly on his face with hollowed cheeks. His hair, like Eighty-Eight’s, was buzz-cut, and running his fingers through it made his scalp prickle. It was closer to brown than black. In comparison, he could see a resemblance to Eighty-Eight and Twelve’s facial structures. His eyes were blue. Not the same hue as in the Cerebrum, but darker blue shot through with grey-blue streaks.
He gave the mirror to Eighty-Eight, who immediately started rubbing a hand through her stubbly hair in agitation. What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked angrily.
“Now you can grow it as long as you like,” Twelve replied calmly.
Seven couldn’t help but notice that the vast majority of the former agents were similar in colouring and facial features to Eighty-Eight. It bothered him. The difference between their appearance in the Cerebrum versus IRL was startling, and something about the entire operation was bugging him, besides the fact they’d all been brain-wiped, imprisoned, and made into drones. He just couldn’t find the words for what was wrong.
“Seven?” One of the nurses approached him. “You have some people who are here to see you. Is that all right?” she asked in a gentle voice.
Seven nodded curtly and got to his feet, following her out of the room and down a long hallway. It was a bit chilly, and it startled Seven to find his skin erupting in tiny bumps. He rubbed his arms with his hands and tucked them in close to his torso to conserve warmth. He seemed too thin to keep any warmth himself.
“They’re through there,” she said, indicating a door. “I’m not allowed in, so you go ahead.”
Seven raised his hand to knock, but stopped and took a deep breath, trying to calm the erratic flutter of nerves in his stomach. Seven might not be what Fox was expecting in person, and he had been too overwhelmed to think of what Fox might look like. They were going to be different, all of them.
Finally, he knocked, and the flutters in his stomach intensified.
A tall, black woman answered the door and smiled. She stood eye level with Seven and gestured for him to enter. “Seven. Welcome.”
Seven apprehensively eyed three others sitting around an oval-shaped table. A young blonde woman wearing a professional-looking outfit sat next to a man in a military uniform with close-cropped dark hair, sitting rigidly. The third person wore casual black jeans and a sweater-vest. He looked up, smiled, and Seven froze in place, completely unable to move. Breathing was also something of a problem, unused to it as he was.
The door behind him banged open, and a short, black woman in smart clothes and carrying a large handbag hurried in.
“Sorry I’m late, everyone. Traffic out there is just terrible.”
“Good, we’re all here. Let’s start the meeting.” The tall woman who had greeted him at the door went to the head of the table, and Seven cautiously made his way to one of the empty seats.
“King?” Seven asked the tall woman.
“Yes, it is me,” King replied. “As I’ve already explained to everyone else, I prefer male pronouns, and my gender presentation in the Cerebrum reflects that.”
Seven nodded, internally correcting himself, and waited.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Properly introduce yourselves to Seven,” King addressed the rest of them.
“I am Simón,” said the man wearing the military uniform. “In the real world, my name is José, although if you like, you may still refer to me as Simón.”
“Joanne,” said the blonde woman with a pronounced French accent. “It is actually Dr. Delacroix. However, as you know me already, Joanne is acceptable, I suppose.”
“I’m Mrs. Parks,” said the lady with the handbag.
The last man at the table raised a hand and smiled more widely at Seven’s astonished face. “You can call me Fox, if you like. It sounds exactly the same as my real last name, and everyone calls me by it.”
Fox had more of an accent than he had in the Cerebrum. He had an impish face and decidedly British cheekbones. His hair, far from being bright red, was a dark brown that reminded Seven of mahogany. He looked like a fashion model, and Seven found that he couldn’t speak. He swallowed hard to try to get moisture into his dry mouth, but even if he found his voice, he couldn’t think of what to say.
King interrupted their staring contest. “We’re holding this meeting today because it is our very last one. After this, none of us will be able to continue as we once did.”
“What?” Fox’s eyes snapped back to King, then he turned to the other three. “What did you do?”
Joanne sighed and looked down. “We were unable to simply locate this facility and break you out, as much as we would have preferred to do that. In real life, I am not much of a
fighter and I would hardly be considered stealthy. I can break through all the Mindwalls you like in the Cerebrum, but out here, I am ordinary.”
“We had to use the resources we had at our disposal,” Simón continued. “The only way to free you was to expose this story to the world. However, in doing so, we also exposed our own identities. Our real identities.”
“We tried to think of another way,” Joanne said, “but without the cooperation of the government, we never would have found your physical bodies.”
“Yes, we are all free now, but it comes with a price,” King said. “Our anonymity is forfeit.”
“You doxxed yourselves,” Fox said, voice raw. “And me. How many people know who we are now? Our real identities?”
“Everyone,” King said. “The whole world.”
“Our lives will never be the same again,” Joanne said.
“I don’t have a name,” Seven said, snapping out of his daze. “I don’t even have a life. What will happen to me?”
“You do have a name, if you want it,” King said, grabbing a leather briefcase from the floor. From inside, King pulled out a folder. “This is your file.”
Seven took the substantially sized folder, and when he opened it, he could see the wear in the folder, which had obviously been handled by numerous people. The first few papers also looked old and creased. It was his birth certificate and medical file.
Etienne Levesque, twenty-five years old. Parents deceased. Born in Winnipeg, Manitoba. Seven then flipped through newspaper articles regarding the car crash that had killed his parents. Drunk driving; his survival had been labeled “a miracle.” His parents were Métis. He had an aunt whom had been deemed an unacceptable caregiver by social workers and he was placed in the foster system.
He had been adopted, not by people, but by an unknown corporation, but there were no records thereafter of him having attended school or having gotten a job. He disappeared from legal public records after that, at the age of thirteen.
After that, all the records were written memorandum-style and referring to him as a number.
