Remember (47 page)

I shake up everything violently, needing the various liquids to mix or separate, and I set it down. It needs some time to form those little air pockets of yellow jelly. I grab four, stemmed glasses from some hidden place under the bar, lay them out, gently shake to keep the jelly pockets intact, slam the lip to free the drink, and hold the cap close enough to act as a size filter. I pour into each glass, toss the shaker in the chute under the bar, and swipe my finger around the side of each glass. The glasses cool the drink to produce a mist over the top. It’s ready.

The bar opens and I come out. An extra stool waits for me beside Claire. Everyone gets their drink except me. I left it at the bar.

“We couldn’t have done it any better, even with years of experience,” Corrine adds.

“You did good Con,” Ian says.

“It tastes good. Here’s yours.” Claire gives me a glass. “Try some.”

The info to make the drink fades away, replaced with a feeling of wonder. The glass filled with a black translucent liquid with blue shallows waits in my hand. A white mist rolls over some yellow droplets marooned on the sea floor. I take a sip and inhale a portion of the mist, breathing in the salty ocean air. The drink has a transforming flavor going from various sweet and sour tastes. The fruity sweet taste of raspberry comes. It mellows out to the subdued libations of cranberry. The brightness of grape adds a little more. The medicinal taste of complex blueberry rounds everything out. I take an additional sip of the fruit salad like drink.

“That's everything we need,” Corrine says.

“We have to get back to
Zensation
and figure out an application for this,” Claire continues.

“We’ll have time for that later. Con just got here,” Ian concludes.

I take this as a cue to say something. “Today was a great day to be outside.”

“We took advantage of it for an evening jog. Conor was holding me back,” Claire says.

“Really?”

“I had to slow down and let you catch up,” Claire replies coolly.

“Anyway, we started talking about Claire’s hair and glasses.” This gets a chuckle out of those two, Ian and Corrine.

Claire absent-mindedly grabs my knee. “Yes, that was sweet and then…”

Wed 8/30/17 12:57 Midnight

L
onging to never escape, despite the near inhospitable heat and humidity inundating the air. Unwilling to trade this reality for any rivals, especially in my current state, having in my arms, something I would give anything, everything to hang on to. A beautiful creature being the cause of my existence on this Earth, the single reason I persist and thrive under these terrible, even torturous conditions. Cherishing every moment with her near or far, she is everything to me now and as long as she allows it. My wonderful Claire is with me wanting the same as I do in this time as any yet come.

We exist in a perpetual embrace, whether in reality or thought, bringing everything into focus. Within my encircled arms she lays sleeping the morning away, my feet cradling her own, despite the extremes of heat and sweat. We spent the night on this thin grass mat, unmoving, with the comfort afforded by the touch of the other. Claire maintaining her long hair allows those beautiful locks of silk to cascade over the strands upon my head. Claire aroused by something gives me a gentle push to signal her release. She gets up and offers a hand up, which I reluctantly accept, knowing that this is an omen of impending disconnect. Once outside the walls of our humble cell, there can be no outward signs of our connection, not even a word or whisper. Nothing matters besides the truth that we share, so I take a hold, waiting for the morning bell releasing us outside where we remain prisoners.

We now exit the agape door, into the imprisoned populace, side by side. The feared title of master within these walls belongs to Conor and Claire, granting a level of respect and obedience. Accounting for appropriating a shared bunk room, suitable food, and protection from attack, but a few. We enter into the rooftop exercise deck, around which the dense, rain soaked jingle stretches far into the horizon. The octagonal terrace hums with the activity of hundred or so drones, busily going about the daily threats and confrontation. With a look of purpose, strolling around the perimeter, near but never touching the fence or each other.

The name of the game today is escape, providing others don’t unwittingly fall to the depths. Each member of the congregation loyal to us dutifully grows the unfinished mound leading to the precipice wall. Despite the inexorable culmination of freedom, the resident gatekeepers of this terrible existence execute no repulsive action. The mundane actions of the condemned continue on, unimpeded as climax approaches.

Now, the conundrum of instigator leading to this unlikely result requires identification. The simple notion of separation betwixt Claire and I, by circumstance of prisoner transfer mustn’t be the sole truth. What other aberration of occurrence can foster these actions? Is the discontentment of the widening disparity between guard and downtrodden the predicate to the next stage of our journey together? Whatever the resolution of the question, the endless planning and strategizing comes to fruition on this day, demanding an answer, escape or suicide. The two are nonetheless equivalent on the basis of freedom. The difference amounts to whether in this life or the next.

The time to decide is now, as the mound nears completion. A muscle-bound tower of a man takes it upon himself to experiment with the mode and method of construction. Bounding up the embankment of the newly built, he tumbles over the outer rail to death below. A scream of such rage and resentment echo from within his cavernous mouth as to wake the sleeping dead. Amusement is the general consensus to the conversion of gravely baritone to the shrill, high-pitched voice of the feminine.

Our chance is now, forthwith embarkation on the never-ending path into the future, wherever it leads. The run up is everything in this case of expected trepidation and fear, noticing the wallows left by the behemoth in the crumbling mound construct lends me no pause. The most fleeting of handholds, signaling our significance on each other to all around, is the final moment of comfort before the deadly dive. The speed carries me up this conglomeration of fabrics, wood scraps, and stones braced on the fencing wall and over the wall. Sounds of my partner in crime reverberate through the silent and still air, rendering our post-incarceration goals of joint death apparent to the audience. An ever so slight rotation allots me a vision into the face of the pristine and divine. Following my thrown hand, Claire reaches for the assurances that only I can offer.

We plunge into far-reaching depths below resigned to that which awaits us. The rushing tower at entwined feet does little soothing and calming of the nerves compared with static vistas of the forest at our heads, expanding in all direction to no end. The last vestiges of the sky disappear as we make way below the clouds, nearing the end of mutual descent.

My shirt opens of its own accord, transforming into a set of leathery bat wings, from thin metallic extrusions and cloth of stark white. Flapping rapidly, slowing our descent makes me wonder about the wings of Claire as she hangs on just by my strong, heavily laden arms. Claire seemed lost at the modus operandi of escape, raised from ashes of almost certain death like a phoenix.

We drift through the smooth and mellow air tainted by the fleeting sun with an array of oranges, reds, yellows, and violets. This effortless glide, bolstered by wing flaps, seems never-ending over the blank landscape of the endless thick and expansive jungle. We slink off into the cloak of darkness and the brief respite of night looking for nothing more than escape and freedom.

(—)

I wake up to the night, right in my bed all along. The thought of implanted dreams comes to me once more. The discovery of Irena’s involvement with DIT renders everything she says questioned. Are these dreams mine? If not, what’s the point of it all? What impact can these dreams have on me? They try getting me to do something, but what? The real question remains who is doing this to me. The fact that Irena doesn’t say who implants the dreams — not that I believe anything she said — makes it possible for the Division or DIT to be at the controls. That means Jenna and Morris or Irena know about the dreams. Thinking about this now isn’t helping. I can’t do anything at this time of night. Those people need to be questioned ab…

Thurs 8/31/17 7:36 p.m.

I
stalk the restricted section — R10 through R15 — in the storage stacks. Irena wants me to retrieve some restricted materials for her personal reference. In her infinite wisdom, she chooses me to get it. The racks filled with bins of R-pads to transfer data, identified by the illuminated edges of the bins. The left side harbors stack upon stack of unused pads. I just get one. The paper backing feels oddly familiar — the storing of data in an easily destroyed material. Removing the pad from the Research Department, blackens and disintegrates the paper data drive.

I search for anything linked with Irena, select everything returned, and accept the transfer. An empty bin flashes. I load the pad. My tech says 3 hours for the transfer — mostly a security measure against quick access to data. Transfers take anywhere from 1 to 16 hours. People resort to starting the transfers before the end of the day. I have heard somewhere that it actually takes that much time to transfer the data onto paper.

My chance to get answers must come now. After this week, the Director’s office transfers to me. If anything goes missing, they would look at me first after next Monday. This is my chance. I have to take it!

Can I get caught? Of course and end up in a facility for criminals. The memory recovery procedure would get me in even more trouble. The Division can’t help me, but DIT might. The equipment cache is my ticket — everything I need for covert data collection and defense. Just a quick walk away at the end of the isle. I can do this! What if something or someone stops me from reaching my goal? I still carry through, if I start on this path. The defensive equipment makes it still possible. Just the will escapes me. I can’t start hurting people for this. They have hurt me just by participating in research here. I won’t allow that to happen without repercussions!

This stands in for a question that everyone has. Who am I and what am I supposed to do? I can answer one of those questions, today. Is this who I really am? Have they made me this way? I need the answers!

How can that help? I can’t do anything about it.

No, that doesn't matter. I need the answer first!

If I don’t find it, at least some measure of control over DIT by proving Irena’s ties to them. People won’t have the ability to control me,
anymore
. DIT has to do what I want! I have to do it!

I cross the restricted section to R20, open two boxes in R20 and one in R19 by touching them, granting a reason to be here — reviewing study housed in R19. The box slides out and the top tray slides open like with every storage bin. Just research equipment and research data inhabit R19. The equipment cache is as advertised. What do I need?

Data collection means the crack drive and server injector, except the aquarium organo-server offers no injector access, and the crack drive needs a password. The password I have from yesterday: User name: IreMek, Password: L2em’m8uck5, so take just the crack drive. For cover, borrow tech id and physical id, but what's the point? Suppressing my tech id doesn't help with a reason to be in the Research Department, except for the tech id loc tracking. Better safe than sorry. The physical id refuses helping with cams around monitoring any masking. The masked me receives my nametag. With assailants, the paradigm shifts — turning into a double of any one of them the preferred scenario.

V-tech works best, obscuring cams, granting an alibi as required, a smoke screen. Use a recording of me that I create and control with a remote. The people obstacles remain, but easily overcome with the NLIT or VNSP nestled in the cache. Irena waits in the lab. Few targets mean just the NLIT works. Everything I need: crack drive, tech id, physical cover (precaution), V-tech remote, and NLIT.

I put everything in my pockets and press the lid of the V-tech, starting it. A wave of cool air moves by me — the tech screen on its way to cover the cams in the Research Department — showing everything as it is. I close the three boxes, go back to the R-pads, start the recording — just me standing there. A map of the department shows up with everyone on it. Irena works in the genetics lab. The tech duplicate surveys the shelves in the same loc as me. I move to the side and look at the tech version of me — no difference between us except the cool temperature of the replica. I set the tech id with the last used cover and stick on. Then the V-tech should allow the cover id through. I use the map, planning a route upon starting the recording, directing it or the recorded me into the conference room in front of the office, then sit facing the stairs, pretending to read. Start. The tech mass moves as directed. I go to the front of the stacks, check that Irena stays in the genetics lab, and I’m clear to start.

I reach the doors onto the hallway. With the cold metal knob in my grasp, I prepare myself to do this. With a deep breath, I move through the hallway. I’m in. Irena leaves the lab. My tech alibi waits in position. I crouch down, remaining undiscovered and scurry behind the three rows of desks in a crouch. What to do about Irena? I can’t talk to her or she will know I’m responsible somehow. What about the NLIT? I can’t risk it. If the S-tech doesn’t work, I’ll have to keep her going for the 15 minutes, which might not work. I have to knock her unconscious somehow, maybe just a neck hold. That’s it.

Irena walks by the first row, heading towards the edge of the desks. I move up the isle to meet her. She almost passes the second desk. I rise up to my feet and almost run to catch her in time. Once she turns into the isle, the narrow space gives her the advantage, for some reason I know her ability exceeds my own, especially in close quarters. I throw something from my pocket to the right as a distraction — physical id tub. She turns her head, following the sound. My left arm comes around her soft neck, latches onto the other arm for added strength, and pulls tight around, cutting off her breath. She reacts too fast, serious combat training. She elbows me in the ribs, before I'm ready for a long hold. The thickness of her white coat takes the brunt of the attack. She shifts her weight on tip-toes, guiding me back into the walk. The luck of everything, this opportunity, the empty office, Irena feeling cold, deciding to work late almost slips,
almost
.