Level 2 (Memory Chronicles) (16 page)

I stop, and he stops too. His expression is so wrecked, a sliver of doubt creeps in. Is it possible he does have my best interests at heart?

“Why did you get involved with the rebels?”

He shakes his head wearily. “Look, I know some of the rebels’ methods may seem questionable.”

“Questionable?” I sputter. “That’s an understatement.”

“But honestly there are only two sides here: the rebels and the Morati. I know what side I’d rather be on. Do you?”

“How can you even ask that?” I curl my lips with disgust and start running again.

He catches up to me in a flash and spins me around. “You’re going the wrong way.”

There’s a cracking sound. A few white pebbles trickle down the nearest hive and scatter in front of my feet.

Julian scoops them up and squeezes them to dust in his fist. “Ahh . . . you see? This is another sign that the Morati are weakening. Eli’s ops must be more successful than he thinks.”

“Better beam him that message,” I say angrily.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you can communicate telepathically with them. Eli told me about him and Mira.”

He shushes me. “We have to keep quiet. We’re lucky we haven’t attracted any drones.”

“Then I’d better get going.”

“Listen, yes we communicate telepathically. We have to. It’s not like there’s wireless reception here.” He extends his hands to me, palms up. “I’m sorry about your friend. You could make a difference, you know. If you stick around, maybe no one else needs to get hurt.”

And for once he really does sound sorry. “Can I go pick up Virginia? Make sure she’s safe?”

“It’s not up to me . . .”

I push him and set off again.

He catches my wrist. “But we’ll talk to Eli.”

He’s right about the rebels being the lesser of the two evils. At this point, while I’m still so weak, I need allies, even if I don’t agree with their tactics. Once I’m stronger, if it seems like Virginia is in imminent danger or if I get a good opportunity to slip out, I can always leave. I yearn to break away and never look back, but instead I nod at him grudgingly, and we walk back to the rebels’ hideout.

Creatures of habit, Eli sits at his workstation and Mira lounges on the sofa in a body-hugging pink leather catsuit that matches her hair. They both greet my return with stony-faced silence, as if they can’t quite believe I’m not 100 percent supportive of their plans.

Guess it’s up to me to break the ice. “Tell me this. How do you live with yourselves? How can you justify torturing innocent people with memories of their deaths?”

Mira pats the space next to her on the sofa, an invitation to sit down, which I ignore. “You know the story of the fall? When Lucifer was thrown out of heaven?”

“Yes, because Lucifer wanted to be more powerful than God.”

She smirks. “Is that what they’re teaching kids these days?” She reaches behind her for a pillow and then curls herself around it. “When God created Adam in his own image, some angels felt threatened. Though Lucifer and his minions vehemently refused to serve Adam, most angels, including the archangels, voiced their unwavering support
for God. But then there were still others who hesitated and said nothing. So what happened?”

She looks over as if waiting for me to answer.

When I don’t respond, she continues. “God cast out his dissenters and assigned his supporters the best jobs. The lukewarm ones? He sent them to be thankless caretakers of the afterlife’s waiting room, to serve humanity as a penance for their indecision. He called this third group the Morati, those who delayed.”

Julian speaks up. “And that’s why the Morati hate humans enough to trap them and use them to get back at God.”

“And it is why we have to fight them at all costs,” says Eli.

“So where do the rebels fit into all of this?” I ask, still not even remotely ready to let my guard down with them yet.

“The Morati used their collective materialization power to put the net architecture in place. And of course the power they siphon from humans in hives allows them to maintain the net. But some of the Morati were opposed to this abuse,” Mira explains. “As time went on, the dissenters grew more vocal and a group finally splintered off, with the hope of returning Level Two to God’s original purpose.”

“And that’s where I came in,” says Eli. “I came up with a three-phase plan for defeating the Morati.”

“Wait.” I shake my head, not quite understanding. “Why you? Why didn’t the rebels who are former Morati come up with the plans?”

Eli smiles serenely. “They did. Their plan was to find
humans who could help them. And that plan was extremely successful, wasn’t it?”

Ugh. Eli’s so full of himself.

“So, as I was saying, phase one was a simple system-wide breach program. When I had Julian upload it to the mainframe on a mission to the Morati’s palace, it imprinted whatever memories were being viewed with scenes from the viewers’ deaths. We thought it might push people to confront their bad memories too, get them on the path toward moving on.”

That explains why my Neil memory on the church camping trip ended in glass shards and pain instead of the real way it ended. And why Beckah’s animal shelter memory suddenly switched over to the one of her death. That jolt we all felt when we thought the system malfunctioned was part of the rebels’ plan. A horrible thought occurs to me.

“But wait, those memories aren’t permanently damaged, are they?”

“They better be. Whenever the viewer tries to access the imprinted memory, he should be confronted again with his death. It is the purpose of the program.” Eli’s answer is like an ice pick straight through my heart.

I shake my head in denial. I can’t bear to think that one of my favorite Neil memories will be lost to me. Sure, it’s still in my head now—that’s how I even know it’s ruined—but without my ability to retrieve it and relive it anytime I want to, sooner or later it will fade into oblivion. “How could you?” I punch the pillow Mira’s holding in front of her, and she recoils in surprise.
“You all are the worst allies in the whole . . . universe.”

Mira recovers and catches my fist as I lash out again. “I take it you were viewing an important memory when the program kicked in?”

“Yes. Very important.” My throat feels raw, my spirit ripped to shreds. I sink down onto the sofa.

Mira caresses my cheek with the backs of her fingers. “There, there. All is not lost.” She throws the pillow at Eli, and he deflects it in the air long before it can hit him. “It is time you try materialization out for yourself.”

She glides off the sofa and extends her hand out to me, as if to help me up. When I refuse it, she simply chuckles, wiggles her nose, and makes the sofa disappear right out from under me. I crash to the floor, where the thick rug dulls my landing somewhat.

“It may seem like magic to you”—Mira winks—“but here in the afterlife you have the power to change the code of your surroundings with only your mind.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . old news, Mira. But apparently I’m still too weak.”

Mira gives me a tight, preachy smile. “I suggest you practice, then. You can start by trying to repair your memory.” She forms an
O
with her lips, puts her hand under her chin, and blows. A cloud of gold dust sparkles and shimmers as it drifts slowly downward, forming a mirage of the sofa, which then solidifies. She sits down with a flourish. “If you want it badly enough . . .”

I give the three of them the most scathing look I can
muster, then enter my chamber to try to find a way to repair my precious Neil memory. I can’t lose it permanently. It will feel too much like I’m losing a part of Neil, too—and an important part of myself. Even though I know my memories are a pale substitute for actually being with Neil, they fuel my dream of seeing him again. They give me the strength to go on. And strength is what I need if I’m ever going to be able to save Neil and my friends.

The hologram screen flickers when I pull up memory number 32105, taunting me. I concentrate on my desire to purge it of Eli’s imprinting. As I am swept into the memory, heat rushes through me. I’m there in that forest that day, but I’m also somehow not. I experience the highs and lows of my roller-coaster meeting with Neil in a sort of split-screen reality. I feel the warmth of his skin, the nearness of his breath—but at the same time, it’s as if I am also outside my body, observing the proceedings from another dimension. When I touch Neil’s lips and close my eyes, I’m blasted with the squeal of tires and shards of glass. I surface in my chamber, gasping for breath, horrified to see that I’m covered in tiny cuts. It’s the pain of one thousand cat scratches, and it’s all I can do not to roll myself into the fetal position and surrender.

I wince as my sliced-up fingertips graze the control grooves, but I press on anyway. And I’m once again back in that glorious spring day, breathing the fresh air and anticipating Neil. As I relive the memory, I fight to keep myself as detached as possible from physical Felicia, though I long to feel the full weight of Neil’s hand in mine. My success will
depend on my absolute control of the situation. But when I see the naked look in his eyes, my resolve melts away and I fail for a second time.

It’s like that a third, a fourth, a tenth time. Each time I emerge with more cuts, more pain.

As I go in for the eleventh time, I am exhausted. My concentration is shot, and self-doubt nips at me from all sides. The sights and sounds of my memory barely register anymore, as if I am no longer viewing the original but a copy many times removed. I feel myself floating above it all, a neutral observer of a scene where I have no stake in the outcome.

The moment of truth arrives. I observe how physical Felicia reaches up and touches Neil’s lower lip lightly with her finger, and how she closes her eyes. I brace myself for the impact of sharp flying glass, but it doesn’t come.

In an instant I’m snapped back into my body.

The heady fragrance of
pine swirls around me, and my heart hammers in my chest. Neil removes my finger from his bottom lip. “Felicia . . . ,” he says, his voice raw, and I stop him from asking my permission the only way I can, by kissing him first. And then the buzz of connection between Neil and me explodes into a fierce passion of exploring lips and hands.

An owl hoots, loudly enough that I startle. My eyes fly open, and for a second I’m disoriented by the heavy darkness. I’d be set adrift if it weren’t for the anchor of Neil’s hand on the small of my back and his arm around my neck. I am not afraid.

“Did you hear that?” Neil whispers into my ear. It tickles, and my shoulder bucks involuntarily, knocking against his chin.

“The owl?”

“No . . .” His body goes rigid, as if he’s straining to hear something. “They’re singing. They started the campfire songs without me,” he says with genuine surprise. Of course. As the worship leader, Neil would be the one they would wait for to get started. We must have been away a long time for them to give up on him.

Sudden insecurity claws at my stomach. “Oh. Well. We better get back, then. It’s your reputation on the line.”

“Do you think that’s the only thing I care about?” he asks, a sharp edge creeping into his voice. “Because it’s not. I care about you. Even if you asked me to stay here all night long with you, I would do it.”

As soon as he says it, I feel it in my bones that it’s true. For some unfathomable reason, Neil believes I’m worth fighting for, worth giving up his high standing for. But still, I don’t want it for him. I know I could be selfish, like I have been every day of my life up to this point, and stay here wrapped in his arms, forgetting everything but this buoyant feeling of finally finding a place where I belong.

“We have more than tonight,” I say, reaching into his pocket for his flashlight. I slide the switch, and a beam of light comes between us. “I think we should go back.”

When I look up, I can see the conflicting emotions flitting across his face. “It’s okay,” I assure him. “Really. I feel like singing, you know?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “You got it.” He takes the flashlight from me and then laces his fingers through mine. We walk slowly, and not only because it’s difficult to find our footing in the dark.

When we reach the edge of the forest, the roaring campfire jolts me back to reality. The youth group is arranged in a semicircle around it, in small groups of two and three, blankets thrown over their shoulders to ward off the chill. Pastor Joe is playing the guitar, and everyone’s singing one of those happy, cheesy camp songs that make you laugh so much, you screw up the words.

We find an empty bench at the edge of the crowd and sit down, so close that our legs and shoulders touch. Neil drapes a blanket around our shoulders, and it’s only then that I dare to look up and see the reactions of the others. Savannah flips me a thumbs-up when she notices me, and I duck my head to hide my smile.

Even though Andy looks a bit pissed off, no one stands up and demands that I return their golden boy to them. I shift to lay my head on Neil’s shoulder and wrap my arms around his waist, feeling how his body trembles as he sings. The sound of it washes over me, and I close my eyes, content.

The singing stops abruptly.
I’m back in my chamber. I roll onto my side and support my head on my arm as I think about what I’ve accomplished. I’ve managed to repair a memory with my mind. And that’s when I realize that all
my cuts are healed, and I feel . . . strong. Powerful, even.

I emerge from the chamber with a renewed sense of purpose and survey the hive. Eli’s not at his bank of computers. He’s not here at all. Mira and Julian are seated in front of a chessboard, already deep into a game, moving the pieces with their minds. I sit on the stair and watch them.

Julian makes a move, and Mira squeals. “Oh, no, no! You will not take my queen!”

Why are they sitting around playing games? I run my hands down my starchy white shift and suddenly wonder why I am still wearing it. I close my eyes and form a mental picture of one of my most comfortable outfits back on Earth. My favorite pair of boot cut jeans, an emerald-green silk blouse with a frilly collar, a gray cashmere V-neck sweater, and my worn-in brown leather boots. I also imagine my long hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail with a green velvet-covered hair band. It’s exactly what I looked like on my first “date” with Neil.