If Memory Serves
The last train had gone by the time Elias packed up his computer, drained his fourth and final energy drink of the day, and swept the crumbs off the desk for whoever would be using it next. He slung his messenger bag across his back and caught an empty elevator down twenty-six stories to Neuroluxe’s heinously-bright lobby. The midnight crew would be arriving soon, and Elias wasn’t due back until eleven the next day.
Security guards were posted at every entrance, a measure that had been implemented after the suspicious death of MemoryForge’s CEO last month. Astrid Phoenix wouldn’t be missed, that was for certain, and her death gave Neuroluxe an edge in the intense memory design market. Still, the company wasn’t going to take any chances. Elias scanned his badge, allowed one of the guards to rifle through his bag, and finally was released from the claws of capitalism.
There was a bite to the air outside, so Elias zipped his jacket up to the throat and stuffed his bare hands in his pockets, resigning himself to the three-mile walk home. His only consolation was stopping at the corner market near his apartment building and buying a tub of ice cream. He could justify it after nearly an hour of walking.
“What’d they have you working on this time?” Skye asked as he came into the apartment. It was nearly one in the morning now—basically midday for them. They didn’t look away from their game. “Rewriting someone’s childhood memories so they can remember Christmases being happy and joyful?”
“Worse—designing a two-week vacation for someone to the Maldives.” The client had had an endless list of complaints—her outfits and her hair weren’t quite right, he hadn’t rendered her wife correctly, she wanted different memories about the experiences they had done, you name it. “It would have been cheaper for her to have actually gone there, at this point.”
“Not your problem,” Skye said with a shrug, and while they had a point, Elias was still the one who had needed to put in six extra hours at the office today, and he wouldn’t see a penny of the extra fees that had been charged to the client – except on a presentation slide at the end of the year, when Neuroluxe undoubtedly reported record profits. “You staying up?”
“Nah, I’m gonna eat my weight in ice cream and pass out.” On a normal day, Elias put in his eight hours (plus half an hour for lunch), and then had time before bed to work on his freelance projects, but he didn’t have the energy for it now. He would have to pull an all-nighter tomorrow, probably. Some of his commissions were due by the weekend.
He slept until nine the next day, and then dragged himself into the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, and Skye’s door stood open, showing an empty bedroom. They had probably gone to their girlfriend’s.
Elias jumped as someone pounded on the front door. It was a heavy fist, angry and impatient, and his first thought was police. Heart jammed in his throat, he crept over to the door and stood on tip-toes to peer through the peephole.
Not police. A man in plain clothes, though not someone Elias recognized. He couldn’t make out much through the foggy lens, except that the man’s expression was decidedly unfriendly and his hair was the color of straw. He pounded his fist against the door again, and shouted, “I know you’re home! I’m not leaving until you answer the door.”
The last thing Elias needed was something else to anger his landlord, especially since he was chronically late with rent, so he quickly opened the door.
“What the hell is your problem, man?” he demanded.
“You are. Elias Norr?” The man pushed his way into the apartment, and Elias couldn’t have stopped him if he tried. He was a big man, taller than Elias by at least six inches and built like a linebacker—broad chest, broad shoulders, broad everything.
“What do you want?”
“The Celestial Woman,” the man said. “It was stolen from the Art Institute six months ago. The police finally arrested someone last week.”
“Good for them,” Elias said. “I don’t know what that has to do with me, so get out.”
“They arrested the wrong person.”
Elias rolled his eyes. “Did they scan the suspect’s memories?”
“Of course,” the man said. “The suspect—my friend—has a set of memories showing that he was the one who stole the Celestial Woman.”
“Then it sounds like they’ve done their job right for once.”
“The memory is false,” the man said, “and you’re the one who created it.”
Elias’s heart tripped in his chest. “What are you talking about? I work for Neuroluxe. We don’t create memories about crimes.”
“You do when you’re off the clock,” the man said. “You’re good at covering your tracks, Norr, I’ll give you that. Took me almost a month to untangle all the threads and trace them back to you. I still don’t know who hired you or why they wanted to pin this theft on my friend, but I do know that you’re the one responsible for creating the memory in the first place. You’re going to undo it, or I’m going to turn all my evidence over to the police and expose you.”
“Look, I didn’t do this, but I can help, okay?” Elias held up his hands. “I’m a memory artist, it’s kind of what I do for a living. Your friend gets an appeal, right? I’ll just create a memory for him that overwrites the one that shows the art theft. You’ll have to get it to him somehow before the appeal. The police will scan his memories again, and voila! It turns out their original scanner must have been faulty, because the memory is no longer there.”
The man hesitated. “It has to be indistinguishable from a real memory. No false memory markers.”
“That’s the idea,” Elias said. “It’ll cost you.”
“I can pay.”
“Twenty thousand creds.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“Half upfront, today, and half upon delivery.”
The man nodded like it was nothing. It probably was nothing, to him. The clothes he was wearing likely cost more than Elias made in a month.
“Who are you?” Elias blurted, and the tips of the man’s ears went pink.
“Thane Selwyn,” he said, and Elias’s eyes widened. A member of the Selwyn family, famous for Selwyn Industries. Not the head of the company, who Elias knew was ancient as hell, but maybe one of his sons or grandsons.
“When’s the appeal?”
“Three weeks, so I want the product in two.”
“Deal.”
Selwyn stared at him, like he couldn’t believe it had been this easy. “Do I…sign a contract or something?”
“Fuck, no. You do realize what you’re asking for is extremely illegal, right?” It technically wasn’t even possible—false memories were always detectable, and even if they weren’t, memory artists were required to leave tags in the memories they created, markers that let a scanner know that the memory was an invented one.
Except that Elias had figured out how to make false memories indistinguishable from real ones. He could create memories that even scanners wouldn’t register as false, and he picked up commissions through the black market for these valuable commodities. He never saw his clients though, never met them, and never signed any paperwork. He didn’t ask questions, either. He did a commission, he delivered it to a third-party, and he got paid in various untraceable ways.
How the hell had this guy found him, then?
Still, he wasn’t about to turn down money, especially since Selwyn let him name an outrageous price and hadn’t even balked at it.
“What happens now?”
“You pay,” Elias said, holding out his hand. “I assume you have untraceable creds? Half upfront, half on delivery. You do not come here again. If you have to get in contact, do it through a proxy. We can’t be seen together. We agree on a delivery date and place, and I’ll be there. Otherwise, you get out of my way and let me work.”
“How do I know you’ll actually come through?”
“You don’t,” Elias said. “But look where I’m living. You think I want to turn down that kind of money? You’ll get your memory.”
“All right,” Selwyn said. “Delivery two weeks from today. I could…find a warehouse for us to meet?”
“You watch too many movies,” Elias said, rolling his eyes. “We’ll meet on your turf. Say, your office? Near the end of the workday? You can pencil me in as a client.”
Selwyn’s eyes swept him head to toe. “I don’t think anyone would believe that.”
“Rude. Figure it out anyway.” Emboldened, Elias reached out and walked his fingers up that broad chest. Selwyn’s eyes widened. “I want to see where a fancy guy like you works.”
Selwyn cleared his throat. “I’ll send you a time and the location once I have…added you to my calendar.”
“Great. Now pay me and get out.”
#
Crafting a memory was as much art as it was science—in fact, Elias would argue that it was more art than science, which was what had drawn him to the profession in the first place. He’d started out as an art major before switching to graphic design, but then he had discovered the niche memory artist degree and pursued that instead, much to his parents’ chagrin. It was a booming industry and made sense at the time, but competition was fierce, and in his decade in the field, he had only managed to claw his way up to the illustrious position of Memory Artist II at Neuroluxe.
He was twenty-eight, living with the same roommate and in the same apartment he’d had since he was nineteen, and rent and groceries kept going up every year while his meagre salary stayed the same. When he first began freelancing, it had been for legitimate projects, and it had been purely by accident that he stumbled onto the black market side of things. It had been freeing, the ability to stretch his design skills in this way, not bound by the regulations of the memory artist industry he had to follow during the day.
The money was good. The money was spectacular. If he could take illegal commissions all the time, he’d be a millionaire already, but he had to be careful. He could only take a couple here and there, making sure his tracks were untraceable, and then he would lay low for a couple of months to make sure the authorities hadn’t caught on. Then, he could re-emerge and find a few more. It was a slow way of building up some kind of financial security, and he wasn’t about to do anything to jeopardize it.
Including falling for broad-shouldered, green-eyed men who barged into his apartment and shoved him around. That had been kind of hot, and Selwyn was nice to look at. Still, he couldn’t let it distract him from the job at hand, and the money it would bring.
Selwyn’s commission helped him through the drudgery of his days at Neuroluxe. He turned the project over in his mind as he constructed memories of lavish vacations or elaborate birthday parties, imagining all the details he would add to the memory to give it legitimacy, how he would make it undetectable to the memory scanners. The project consumed him each night, and he thrived. He loved the excitement of illicit projects like this one, loved the ability to stretch his artistic abilities to their very limits, and especially loved the ten thousand creds that would land in his secret account when it was all over.
Selwyn took to calling him every couple of days. At first, it had been to check on how the project was going, but soon enough their conversations veered off in other directions. Elias was somewhat dismayed to find out that Selwyn was easy to talk to, and his dry sense of humor was appealing.
“You’re sure this is a secure line, fancy tech guy?” Elias asked one evening. He had three large monitors on his desk where he did work for his commissions, and a smaller portable screen that he had set up near his elbow. Selwyn’s face filled this screen. “No one’s listening in or recording this?”
“Of course not.” Selwyn sounded affronted. “I’m not an idiot. We always speak on a secure line.”
“So no one’s going to hear me ask if there’s a Mrs. Thane Selwyn in the picture?” Elias winked at him. “Not that that would stop me, truthfully.”
Selwyn sputtered for a minute before stammering out, “No, there isn’t, and—and that would be cheating if there were!”
“Sure,” Elias said with a shrug, “but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that you have to take what you want. Steal it, if you have to. No one’s going to hand it to you, so you have to grab it for yourself.”
“I am not something to steal!”
Elias grinned. “Does that mean you’ll give yourself to me instead?”
Selwyn was beet-red now, and it was adorable. “Good night, Norr.”
Elias winked at him. “Night, big guy.”
#
It took Elias twelve days to construct the memory, and then he spent thirty-six hours over the weekend testing it, looking for any possible weakness that would trip the scanners and alert them to a false memory. He came back with none. The memory was airtight.
Thane penciled Elias in for a Monday afternoon, an hour after most of the office would have gone home. Elias gave his name to the front desk, and he was buzzed through a set of glass doors to a private elevator that took him up to Thane’s office.
“Fancy place,” Elias said, leaning against the door frame. God, Thane looked good in a suit. Clean-cut and gorgeous, but it also did nothing to diminish his imposing frame. Elias wanted to climb him like a tree, and then rip it off him.
“I see you found it without issues.” Thane got up from behind his desk and came over to him, hand outstretched. “Thank you for coming. I take it you have the product?”
“Tested and ready to go. You have the creds?”
Thane rolled his eyes. “I’m good for the money. May I see it?”
“Sure.” Elias pulled the small device out of his pocket. It was shaped like an oval and fit neatly into the palm of his hand. “It’s right here. Have you ever implanted a memory before?”
Thane shook his head. Of course he hadn’t—it wasn’t something most people knew how to do or bothered with. They left it to the experts.
Or people like Elias.
“It’s easy. The trick will be doing it while no one’s watching, but that’s your problem to figure out, not mine.” Elias raised a hand, gesturing at Thane’s neck. “May I?”
Thane turned his head, and Elias brushed a hand through his fine hair, pushing it aside to expose the port on the back of his neck, the one that everyone had installed at birth. He pulled a second device out of his pocket, showing it to Thane.
“This is a dummy,” he said. “Just to show you how it works. You press it into the port, leave it there for a few minutes, and then remove it. It takes about half an hour to an hour for the new memory to solidify. Once it incorporates into the subject’s synapses, it will be indistinguishable from a real one. The subject may be woozy for a while, but it will pass.”
Thane let out a slow breath. “Thank you.”
“Hey, you paid for it.” Elias set the other device on the desk. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” Thane caught his wrist. “Dinner.”
“Dinner?” Elias let a slow smile spread across his face as he slid into Thane’s space, pressing against the other man. “I don’t go to dinner with men I haven’t kissed yet.”
“I…don’t believe that’s the proper order of doing things.”
“Loosen up a bit, Selwyn,” Elias said, and he tilted his head up to press a gentle kiss against Thane’s mouth. Thane responded immediately, pulling Elias to him and parting his lips under the gentle press of Elias’s tongue. Elias wound his arms around Thane’s neck, luxuriating in the kiss. Thane’s broad hands cupped his hips, and Elias committed every bit of it to memory—Thane’s taste, his smell, the feel of him through the suit.
Elias whined when Thane pulled back, but the other man reached around and grabbed a small screen off his desk. He tapped it, entered a few commands, and said, “There. You’ve been paid in full—yes, the creds are untraceable. I am no longer your client. Come here.”
The command sent a zing of pleasure down Elias’s spine, and he was only too happy to comply. They made out against Thane’s desk for a long while, until Thane broke the kiss once more and rested his forehead against Elias’s.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Just…feeling a bit dizzy.”
“Let’s sit down.” Elias steered him over to the couch. “Want some water?”
“Sure.” Thane rubbed his temples while Elias fetched a bottle of overpriced water from the refrigerator. “Sorry, I don’t know what…”
He trailed off, blinking rapidly. Elias unscrewed the cap and handed him the bottle, then pulled over one of the chairs.
“Like I said, you’re going to feel weak and woozy for a bit. A little bit like you’re drunk. It’ll pass.”
Thane stared at him. “What?”
“The memory is still solidifying. You’ll have it soon.”
“But I didn’t—you said—”
“I lied,” Elias said. “It wasn’t a dummy. In a few minutes, you’re going to remember being responsible for a high-profile murder, and when the police scan your memories, they’ll find that they’re real. They’ll also find details in the memory that hadn’t been released to the public, so there’s no question that you’re the one who did it.”
“But.” Thane was having trouble focusing on him, and Elias pressed him back against the couch, settling him against the cushions. “Elias, why?”
“It was a nice idea, having someone know my secret. Dating them, sharing every part of my life with them,” Elias said, cupping Thane’s cheek. “But I can’t take that risk. I can’t have anyone know what I do. My commissions excite me. They make life interesting. They also pay the bills. Someday, I might even be able to retire, and who can say that these days if they weren’t born into wealth? Anyone who knows that secret is a threat to my livelihood and my future, and I can’t risk that. I’ve worked too hard for it. I’m sorry.”
“Elias…” Thane’s words were thick, like he was drunk. “Please…please don’t—”
“You’ll be okay.” Elias stroked his thumb across Thane’s cheekbone. “Your family’s rich. They have influence. The death penalty was outlawed years ago, so you don’t have to worry about that. You’ll be in prison for life, but they’ll make sure it’s a good one. I’m sorry, Thane, but the work is too important to me. I’m selfish like that, I guess. I can’t let anything get in the way of it.”
#
Thane had paid handsomely, as promised, and Elias used an app to hire a private car for the ride home. He never got to indulge in something so luxurious as a private car, with real leather seats and a minibar he didn’t have to pay for.
As the car drove smoothly through the streets, he flipped through the pictures on his phone. He had downloaded a handful from Thane’s social media. It wouldn’t be difficult to construct a set of memories that depicted them in a relationship—a few romantic dinners, some trips abroad, a lot of truly mind-blowing sex. Would Elias have preferred the real thing? To a certain extent, but not enough to risk his livelihood. This was the best of both worlds—his freelance work was safe, and he could construct a reality where he had a handsome boyfriend. Win-win, in his opinion.
Elias switched over to the keypad and dialed a number. Someone answered on the first ring.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Yes, I’m trying to reach the tipline.” Elias took a sip of complimentary champagne. “I have some information about the murder of Astrid Phoenix.”
Alexis Ames is a speculative fiction writer with works in publications such as Escape Pod, Pseudopod, and Radon Journal. You can find more of her stories at www.alexisamesbooks.com.