Memoria (9 page)

T
he locker room was the warmest place in the whole club. Frank sat on a bench next to an oil heater and drank the tea made by his coach.
Max
distrusted coffee and always made his own tea adding
his own secret choice of herbs.

Lockers lined the walls. Frank's wet raincoat hung on an open locker door opposite
Max
. The coach
sat on a bench next to Frank's.
He still looked
fit and strong
in his
shabby cotton tracksuit. He lowered his gray crew-cut head as he listened to Frank, examini
ng the dead Kathleen's posted
device.

"That's it, basically," Frank helped himself to some hot tea and glanced at his coach. "I've got nothing
else to tell you
.
That's all I know."

Max
put the device down onto the bench. He removed his glasses and rubbed his swollen eyes.

"I see," he glanced through the open door into the dimly-lit gym and nodded. "I need to make a phone call." He rose and motioned Frank to remain seated. "One phone call. You wait here. I'll be back and we'll talk about it."

He left the locker room. Frank sipped the tea and felt the hem of his raincoat. Still wet. Most of all he'd love to lie down on the bench, wrap himself
in something warm and fall a
sleep for a few hours at least. He gave the bench a longing look, forced himself up
and did a few bends and flexes to get
the
blood going.

His left side and shoulder echoed with pain.
He had to admit he'd got a good whack in the ribs in the post office.
Plus the old arm injury had
manifested itself when
he'd grabbed at the train
's safety
bar
trying not to fall onto the subway
tracks. Frank rubbed his wrist
and flexed his hand. His shaking fingers, hurting and strained, refused to obey.

Never mind. He'd have to ask his coach for something to bandage it with, that's all. No bones broken
, and a couple of sprains he could deal with.

He walked into the gym.
The wind bellowed through cracks in
the
window frames despite the thick curtains covering them. The light from the locker room
fell on
part of the boxing ring, a few gym machines and punch bags hanging on chains from the ceiling. To the left
of
the ring, a closed door le
d to the coach's room. There, Max
kept his trophies and champion
's
belts. The room was wallpapered with the pictures of his students.

Hand on the
boxing ring
rope, Frank walked along the ring.
He walked past the punch bag, hit it once or twice and stopped,
eyeing the machines with regret. It had been over twenty years since he'd first entered the club's locker room and met his coach.

The gym grew lighter. Frank turned around.
Max
closed the door and walked to
ward
him.

"I've
arranged for
an expert to
come and
have a look at this
thingy
of yours,"
Max
said walking around the ring. "He's on his way.
In the meantime,
"
the coach pulled up his track pants and sank onto a gym machine bench,
"I need to
tell you
something
about your father, the war and myself."

Frank's drowsiness was gone. He forgot abo
ut his sprained arm and sat on
the floor, resting his back against the apron of the boxing ring, his hands on his knees.

"His name was James Shelby," the coach started
,
looking Frank in the eye. "He was with
Bellville's
army. Oh yes, he fought against us, your Dad did. But that's none of your fault. And once the war was over and done with, James took the migrants' side.
Campaigning for their rights, he was, and he did it good."

His words came as a complete surprise. Frank had no idea Dad had been a migrant himself. He'd died from old war wounds a mere month before Frank was born.
Max
couldn't have met Dad during the war
,
but his job at General Hopper's HQ
reconnaissance unit
—
training saboteurs and venturing on rather successful missions
—
al
lowed him to gl
impse
into things.
Max
must have been good otherwise Hopper's men would have never overpowered Bellville's.

Frank's mother, wary that her husband's past could hurt her boy's future, had one day brought the nine-year-old boy to
Max
's and told him their story. In return,
Max
promised that he'd grow a man out of the Shelby boy without letting anyone know whose son he was.

Max
had kept his word. He had a good memory for the war and a lot of respect for his enemies. Frank
had
started
his
training. He
'd
inherited his father's competitive nature
and wanted to excel at everything he tried. And excelled he had.

Once again, his coach removed his glasses, pretending to wipe the already clean lenses. Giving his story
the
time to sink in.

"Now the important bit,"
Max
put
his glasses
back on
and
continued
.

He didn't sound like himself. Frank had never seen his usually reserved coach so excited. But now the subject was too delicate and too dangerous for comfort: apparently, everyone's duty to visit Memoria hadn't been an immediate post-war decision. It had taken the President ten years to
introduce
obligatory memory
cleanups
as he'd decided to put an end to
the
migrants' unwillingness to
reject
their past.

The only category of population allowed to preserve their memories were Hopper's veterans,
indispensable in case of a reserve call-up.
The rest of the population was
offered the easy choice between
either
preserving their agonizing memories
or
acquiring citizenship. This was when the color-tagging had come about: blue, green and orange bracelet lights.

Although migrants were also obliged to wear the bracelets,
theirs
came with neither citizenship nor electronic banking access.
Their bracelets were basic tracking tools. Their rights and movements restricted, migrants were driven together into camps where they were watched like some pre-war criminal convicts had been by means of radio collars.

" Your father was
one of its most vigorous opponents,"
Max
put the glasses
back
into a leather case, adding, "I have to admit I've learned a lot from him. But it took me years."

He raised his eyes
to
Frank. "So, what do
you
think about it all?"

"I really can't judge," Frank pressed
his fist against his chin. "It was
so long ago." He tapped two fingers on his temple. "I just don't g
et it, sorry. How come that you
—
a veteran, a sports coach
—
you speak as if you don't blame the migrants or my father. It's as if you're on their side."

"I want you to remember one thing,"
Max
stood straight, his shoulders wide, his chin up
. He looked down at Frank. "Only our memory can make us human."

"What are you
gett
ing at?"

"It took me too long to understand
a great many
things. I don't want you to repeat my mistakes. Had the President made all the
veterans
have their memories erased there and then, the who
le country would have revolted. They would have regarded such a step as betraying them
and their ideals
. S
o he'd chosen a soft approach.
Those who fought for Hopper got the right to preserve their memories plus t
he President's support once he was
elected. Plus all the aid and other perks that went with it. I have to admit the latter worked best,"
Max
grinned and patted the lifting bench. "I got this little
shop
thanks to their aid. Because I'm good at this
war business
...
was. All my life I've been training fighters.

"The rest of
the
population was
of two kinds," he went on. "
Those born after the war
automatically
became
citizen
s by birthright
. They
were not exempt from Memoria
's
visits
even though they were
voluntary
.
The second
were
the migrants: these visits were forced onto them if they chose to leave their camps. The only difference between the two is the color code of their bracelet signal.
As for the veterans, most of us are either dead or on
our
last legs." The corners of his eyes curled down in a sad grin. "Our cities have risen from ruins but millions of people still live below the poverty line. One-quarter of all
the population is
crowded in
to
migrant camps.
"

Max
's glazed stare scanned the gym. "What did the authorities try to
achieve
? You tell me, Frank."

"To bring
back
order," Frank
started and frowned.

"And? Go on."

Frank shifted in his seat stretching his numbed muscles and trying to guess what his old coach was driving at.

"They wanted to allow people
to
forget about the war. Shift their priorities." He looked up at
Max
. "Give them a sense of security."

"Closer, but not quite,"
Max
leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've always been the competitive kind.
You used to work for the government, dealing with migrant camps. Until today, that is."

"How do you know that
? It's classified information."

"Intelligence work leaves its stamp, you know. I can still analyze media messages. You read a few interviews, compare the facts and draw your conclusions accordingly. Okay, so in the case of
the
Bronx you've all failed big time. The migrants refused to surrender it to the city. I wonder why?"

"The Vaccination."

"Pardon me?"

"During our DC meeting the migrant
s'
repr
esentatives demanded we provide
information on the Vaccination program," Frank closed his hands and rested his face in them.

"And?"

"It didn't go the way we planned."

"Which is what?"

Frank
looked up at him
.

"The DC meeting didn't proceed as
expected
. Things w
ent awry right from the start. The m
igrant leaders refused to di
scuss anything until we gave them information on
the
Vaccination. They demanded its technology from Memoria."

"You know what it's all about?"

"No idea. First time I heard about it."

"Who spoke of the migrants' leaders?"

"Anna
Gautier
. When her demand was rejected she told them to go stuff themselves."

"The Steel Lady
has
bared her teeth," the coach chuckled. "Sounds like
her. She's the one who wears the t
rousers in their little shop."

"Exactly!
Had she not been
head of the Presiding Council, I'm pretty sure the whole migrant situation would have long been resolved.
Gautier's
well-known
for it. She fears no one, she despises authority, and is n
ext to impossible to convince about
anything at all."