Level 2 (Memory Chronicles) (15 page)

The drumbeat at the beginning instantly lightens my mood. I shuck my coat and boots and sit cross-legged on the sofa, waiting for Dad to arrive. I pull my cell phone out of the pocket of my jeans to check the time. 4:05 p.m. He said to meet at four, but then, Dad’s usually late. Mother always says he operates on Dad Standard Time, a full hour later than atomic time.

After the record winds down, Dad swoops in the door, his arms full of shopping bags. “You’re here!” He’s out of breath, probably from taking the stairs. “Can you help me with these?”

I take two of the bags from him and drag them over to his tiny kitchenette. “And put on some espresso while you’re over there.”

Once I place the bags on the counter, I dig out a packet of ground coffee from Café Wacker. I measure out the grounds and turn on Dad’s impressive coffee machine. “How about a ristretto instead?”

Dad laughs at our private joke. “A ristretto is the purest shot of coffee in the world,” he mimics Porter Huntley’s stuffy accent perfectly, and I dissolve into giggles.

Porter was attached to the British embassy in Nairobi, so we often saw him at official parties and functions. Dad found him arrogant and insufferable, especially his insistence on testing the quality of the waitstaff by ordering a ristretto, and Dad never passed up an opportunity to mock him.

After the machine sputters out Dad’s shot, I set it to brew again to pull my own espresso. I place Dad’s glass on his desk. “How’s the ultra fabulous goat symphony coming along?”

“Making fun of goats again? Goats discovered coffee, you know.” He downs his shot, smacks his lips. “If it weren’t for a ninth-century Ethiopian goatherd named Kaldi noticing that his goats were extra peppy after munching on a certain berry, you wouldn’t have the chance to sneak sips of coffee whenever possible.”

I retrieve my espresso and drink it with relish in front of him. Such bravado would not go unpunished by Mother,
who is convinced coffee will stunt my growth, but Dad lets a lot of things slide. Plus, I think he secretly likes it that I’ve turned into such a connoisseur, like him.

He smiles ruefully, pulls a penciled-in score from the shelf, and sets it on the piano. “Could you play the first few measures for me?”

I sit down on the bench, brushing my fingers over the keys as I scan over the notes Dad has written for the piano part. Like most of his music, it starts off pleasing and harmonic, utilizing safe major chord structure. But already by the end of the second line, the notes become dissonant and foreign. Dad always says it’s his way of waking up the listener. It works too.

As I play, he stands right behind me, his foot tapping against the wooden leg of the bench. It’s his usual modus operandi, but today it annoys me. I lose my concentration and flub up a full measure, and am not able to pull it together again. I can’t do this anymore. Can’t go on pretending everything is normal when I feel like my head could explode any minute. “Damn, Dad. Back off, okay?”

He shuffles backward, and the once light, playful atmosphere turns tense. I stomp my foot, slam down the cover of the piano, and retreat to the sofa to sulk.

Dad makes a show of being busy at his desk, probably thinking his difficult teenage daughter just needs her space. But really I crave his reassurance. Too bad it’s something I’m too stubborn to admit out loud.

I stare at him, willing him with all my being to put
down his papers and ask me what’s wrong.

Surprisingly, it works. “What’s wrong, sweet pea?” he asks finally, resting his chin on his knuckles and giving me the perfect concerned-father look.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

He gets up, comes over to me. “Can I sit down?”

“It’s your sofa,” I say, more sharply than intended. Why can’t I make it easy for myself to get what I want? What is wrong with me?

“You seem on edge today,” he says, stating the obvious. “You haven’t been like this since . . .” His eyes flicker with realization. “Are your nightmares getting worse again? Is that it?”

As an answer I hang my head and cover my eyes with my palms, using my fingers to rub my scalp.

“I’m so sorry.” He puts his arm around me and pulls me close. I tense at first, but then let him draw me fully into his embrace. He kisses my forehead. “I really thought moving away from Kenya did the trick. You were doing better for so long.”

“I feel like I’m falling apart,” I say. “To try to avoid the nightmares, I resist sleeping until I collapse. I’m sucking down ten cups of coffee to keep awake every day. I’m annoyed by everything Autumn says. And my grades . . .” I lift my head and look at him with pleading eyes. “Don’t tell Mother . . . but I got a C minus on my
Our Town
essay.”

He sighs deeply. He’s not happy about my news, but he can take it. “You know, your mother wasn’t always such an ironfisted taskmaster.”

“Oh, no. . . .” I groan and cover my ears with my hands. “This isn’t your speech about how Mother used to be such a free spirit, is it? And how I should cut her some slack?”

He chuckles and starts rubbing my shoulders, humming the Irish lullaby that always soothed me as a child. I let him massage me, and after a few moments I drop my hands into my lap.

“Okay,” I say grudgingly, blowing out my breath to show him how truly exasperating he is most of the time. “Tell me the story. I know you are dying to.”

He shifts his position on the sofa so he’s looking at me. “Your mother and I got to know each other in the malaria ward in Dakar. But that’s not the first time I saw her.”

“It wasn’t?” I sit up straighter. Of course I knew the story of how they met in Senegal. I’d heard a thousand times how they were the only foreign patients in the whole hospital. But I hadn’t heard about a prior sighting. Interesting.

“Word came to the rural mission school where I taught that a white woman had arrived with the peace corps for an agriculture project a few villages over. And, of course, I was curious.” He grins ruefully. “But I had a lot of responsibilities at the mission, and no mode of transportation, so I sort of forgot about her.”

He pauses for such a long time, I think he has decided not to tell me after all. “And then?” I prod.

“About a month later we had a special delivery. Someone in Dakar decided to donate a bunch of used bicycles to the kids at the mission, and there was a lone adult-size bike
in the shipment too. Since I was by far the youngest teacher on staff, they let me have it.

“Saturday came, and I rushed off on my new bike in search of adventure. Naturally I got lost.” He laughs. It’s a well-known fact that Dad has no sense of direction. “As dusk was falling, I happened upon a village. Her village, as it turns out.” He pops his knuckles. It makes me flinch.

“I heard singing. She had this lilting, otherworldly voice, your mother. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I hid behind a hut and observed her.”

I interrupt, “You mean you spied on her!”

He slaps the top of my head affectionately. “You see why I’ve never told you this part before?”

“Sorry. Please do go on, sir,” I say, in my best imitation of Porter’s haughty British accent.

“So there I am crouching behind this hut, utterly hypnotized by her song. And then she began to dance. And she was so free. So unburdened. Like she could take flight any second. Yes, I was a goner.” He smiles at the memory.

“That vision of her awoke something in me. Something restless and wild. And I knew when we ended up next to each other at the hospital in Dakar, fate had brought us together.”

“I wish I could’ve known her like that,” I say wistfully. I’ve known her only as an uptight disciplinarian who constantly judges me.

“Maybe you will someday, sweet pea. Maybe you will.” He has this faraway look in his eyes, as if he wishes she were
still such a free spirit instead of the hardened career woman she’s become. He gets up, goes over to the piano, and lifts the lid up, his smile full of encouragement. “Do you want to give it another try?” He wants me to be a full-time concert pianist someday, but we both know Mother would never allow it. Despite my talent, and Dad’s place in the classical music world, she has made it clear that playing piano professionally is out of the question. Though her ambition for me to be like her chafes, and I truly love the instrument, I’ve never been all that jazzed about the rigorous practice a musical career would demand.

“Is it okay if I don’t?” I stretch out my cramped limbs and lie down on the sofa, its buttery softness caressing my cheek. “I’d really, really like to take a nap.”

“Of course!” He looks pleased as he sorts through his piles of records. He selects one, and soon enough I hear the dulcet strains of Brahms. “Sweet dreams, honey.”

And for the first time in a long time, I drift off to sleep with a smile.

When I awaken and
see the hologram screen flickering above me, I squeeze my eyes shut again. It always feels so real, reliving these memories. Realer than this place. Normally I come out of my memories in a sort of daze, able to savor the sensations of my life on Earth for a few precious seconds. But no matter how hard I try to hold on to them, these moments slip away, leaving me hollowed out and hungry for more. In Level Two, time is a never-ending
burden. In my memories time is weightless and there’s never enough.

I sit up and pinch my arms, digging in my fingernails, hoping to draw some blood. Because maybe I’m not dead. Maybe I’m dreaming all of this. Maybe I am living my nightmares. But no blood comes.

I shake off my disappointment and try reaching out to my father with my mind. I gather all my strength and pour it into one thought: Dad smiling at me proudly.

As if I’ve developed radar, I sense hives and their occupants. But I don’t recognize anyone. And I know instinctively I haven’t been able to reach far enough.

I shift in my chamber, and I am about to get out, when I hear a tapping followed by Mira’s voice. I freeze and close my eyes again, in case they look over at me.

“Have you run phase two ops on any of our new high potentials?” Her heels tap against the floor.

“I did a small sample. They overloaded too.” Phase two ops? Overloaded? I may not know what they’re talking about, but it’s clear it isn’t good. Maybe it’s related to their failure rate.

“That’s disappointing. Did you try the friend?”

“No, I’m saving her for last.”

Are they talking about running ops on Virginia? But they can’t be. Mira said that we could try to pick her up.

There’s another set of taps followed by Mira’s laughter. “Well, look who decided to join us again.”

“Maybe we should just leave them alone,” says Julian. His voice is close.

“And let the Morati keep using them as batteries? Somehow I doubt God will be handing out rewards for that,” Mira scoffs. “Especially not if the Morati succeed in breaking through.”

“But they do look so peaceful like this.” He reaches out and touches my lips. I snap open my eyes.

He draws back his hand as quickly as if he had touched a hot poker, and backs away. “Aaah, you’re awake.”

I slide out of my chamber and salute them. “Drugged-up battery reporting for duty.”

Julian looks at me sympathetically. “You’re beating it, you know. Soon the Morati won’t be able to use you anymore.”

“Maybe, but everyone else is still addicted.”

“That’s why we’re hacking the system, blasting people with scenes from their deaths. Forcing them out of their drowsy numbness,” Eli says.

I must not have heard him correctly, because what I think Eli just said can’t be possible. “Wait . . . you don’t mean the rebels are responsible for the chambers malfunctioning?”

Mira raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Of course. What did you think?”

I’m stunned for a single instant, and then my long simmering anger boils over. “I thought . . . ,” I choke, trying to get the words out, “all these bad things—the malfunctions, Beckah disappearing—were happening because of the Morati. But I was wrong, wasn’t I? You don’t care who you hurt! You’re no better than terrorists!”

I get up and back away, needing to gain as much distance as I can. It’s imperative that I find Virginia before they do. If they hurt Beckah, they’ll have no problem hurting Virginia, too. Or Neil. Or anyone I care about. Or even me.

I don’t know who scares me more—the Morati or my supposed allies.

CHAPTER 12

I TURN ON MY HEEL
and make a break for the door. Praying it works for me, I pound out Neil’s code to open the hive door. Long, long, long. Short, short, long. And I’m out.

I’m so disoriented by the sudden view of the looming white hives, I forget which way we arrived. But right now I need to run. All I know is that Virginia needs me. And I don’t let my friends down.

I haven’t gotten far when something slams into me from behind. As I tumble, I’m twisted upward, and I land on top of a human form. The tingling sensation tells me it must be Julian, and I try to fight my way out of his grasp. But he’s too strong.

“Felicia! Calm down!”

I let my body go slack, and he loosens his grip. I roll off him and jump to my feet, pulling successfully away.

“Don’t bother running again,” Julian warns as he gets up, his eyes flashing. “What were you thinking? You’re too weak yet to get far on your own. You can’t even evade me!”

I throw my arms up. “I knew you were up to no good! How could I be stupid enough to trust you again?”

“Okay, so maybe I left some of the details out—”

“Some?” I hiss. “Like you don’t care who gets hurt as long as you get your way?”

“Keep your voice down.”

I step forward, closer to him than is comfortable, but I want him to feel the full force of my rage. “I am done with you.” I only barely restrain myself from spitting in his face. And then I walk away.

“You can’t do this.” Julian changes tactics now, a pleading note in his voice. “Going out on your own—against the Morati—it’s suicide! If they catch you, you’ll find out there are worse things than death.”

I turn and face him. He looks wild. Desperate. “Is that what Beckah found out? Please, just give it up.” I run.

“I won’t.” He runs beside me. “I can’t.”