Stolen Future Read online

  Past the food stalls was an industrial area. The foot traffic thinned out and overhead a walkway connected two large buildings on either side of the street. A neon red cross sign glowed. A hospital. After I passed it, the concourse grew dense with foot traffic again. A large complex of towers loomed ahead. Billboards here were brighter and flashed ads for clothing and luxury items, tourist commercials for destinations on Mars. I caught a whiff of body odor and ladies’ perfume as someone rushed by too close, then the smell of exhaust from motorbikes as they zoomed by. For a time, I followed a group of four teenage girls. They chatted and giggled and pointed at passersby. Without a care in the world, they didn’t realize a wanted fugitive walked behind them.

  One of the girls said, “Let's go to the Nest.”

  Her friend punched her in the shoulder and said, “What? Are you crazy? We’re forbidden to go.”

  “What? Are you scared?”

  “Hey,” I said, nearly bumping into them as they abruptly halted. “What's the Nest?” They stared at me, dumbfounded. “I–I'm new here,” I explained.

  The tallest one—the one who’d suggested going to the Nest in the first place—twisted a strand of her hair around her finger. “The Nest is like a gathering area. Only it can be dangerous, and… you know, like, criminals hang out there. So, our parents said we’re not allowed to go there.”

  It sounded like there would be fewer police to contend with, and it might lead to some answers. “How far is it? Straight ahead?”

  “It's down that street.” She pointed to an intersecting avenue. “I wouldn’t go there alone if I were you.”

  “Yeah, you could get mugged,” her friend said. “Happened to a friend of mine last year.”

  “Thanks. I'll take my chances,” I said, heading off.

  I reached the Nest after another five minutes of walking. It was a narrow street filled with a gaggle of vehicles and more looming palm trees. A row of electric taxis lined one side of the street. Strangers on motorcycles passed by in a hurry, leaving chaos in their wake as pedestrians scattered from oncoming vehicles.

  I found my way to a narrow sidewalk dense with people. A neon ad in a window distracted me, and a man jostled past, his shoulder slamming into mine.

  “Hey!” I yelled, but then remembered not to draw attention to myself. I had to let the asshole keep walking. I scanned the eyes of people around me to see if any of them had noticed my outburst. Most of them didn’t make eye contact, for which I was grateful.

  The billboards in the Nest were not as upscale. Discounted goods appeared to be the area’s specialty—used goods, pawn shops, and two single-occupancy hotels nearby. I took note in case I needed one later.

  I gazed at storefront windows to my right. A shop for tattoo removal, then one with a blue neon flashing brain. A sign in the window read Neuro Nate’s, and then in smaller print: We Specialize in Memory Optimization. I slowed my pace and walked past it a few steps, ending up in front of a window with sex toys and lingerie. I pretended to browse but kept studying the adjacent store. A woman who looked to be in her forties walked out. By all appearances, she was normal, yet I knew that going inside and showing myself was risky.

  But I needed answers, so I entered the store, and a bell rang to announce my presence. Behind a long, metal counter, a man leaned against a wall. He stared into a handheld tablet, occasionally scrolling. He didn’t even look my way. I was the only customer. My boots mashed against worn, dirty gray carpeting. The store was dim save for two recessed bulbs that lit the counter like a spotlight. The attendant burned incense—the odor made my eyes water—and underneath, a bad mildewy smell lingered.

  “Oh, hey,” he said, taking his eyes off his screen just long enough to glance at me before returning to whatever preoccupied him.

  “Hi,” I said quietly.

  “Can I help you with something?” he said in one quick-fire, practiced breath.

  “Just browsing, thanks.” I approached the counter where I was farthest away from him. Under the glass was a display of black and blue devices—electronics that looked like headbands. A few of them, illuminated, appeared to be visors. There were no signs telling me what the devices did. I shifted my gaze toward the clerk, studying him. Tall and bony with a trim black beard, he wore a rainbow-colored knitted cap. There were no Wanted signs on the bare wall. He didn’t seem very observant, anyway.

  “Actually, I do have a question,” I said.

  He barely glanced over and was typing into his screen while slouched against the wall. “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Can you tell me about this one?” I pointed at a blue visor that looked like a pair of high-tech glasses, only they covered one eye. “About its… features?” I was grasping for anything, because I didn’t have a clue how memory optimization worked.

  He pushed himself off the wall and set his device on the counter. “They call that one Brain Flash. It's your typical entry-level memory device, only we’ve amped them up so they have more storage and a longer life than you’ll find at other stores.”

  Still, I was clueless about memory devices.

  He grinned and leaned forward as if in confidence. “I don't know what you're into, but you can record some fun experiences… Maybe in one of those clubs nearby.” He licked his lips and I shivered. “With Brain Flash, you can re-live it as much as you want.”

  His breath was hot and stale, and I edged away from him. “So, I wear it like glasses, and I can record my experiences?”

  “Yeah, that's right. It's all about wearable style and making memories that last and last. You haven't heard of them? Have you been living under a rock?”

  I bit my lip and muttered, “I don't get out much.”

  “You’re a pretty lady, so I would recommend a different one. Brain Flash is so obvious.” He rolled his eyes. “Also”—he lowered his voice—“it’s so trashy. Only desperate tourists and rustbrains use this junk.”

  He sighed when I raised my eyebrows. “You know what rustbrains are, don’t you? Yeesh. Where have you been? Rusties are memory bingers. They deal in these cheap Brain Flash glasses or worse, knock-offs that have a limited storage and replay capacity. They go out and record a night out or sex with someone and then replay it over and over before the device burns out. Then they get addicted to getting high off memories and trading them—living other people’s memories. That’s why they’re called rustbrains.”

  “Right, I knew that.” I shrugged like it was no big deal.

  “For our more discerning customers…” He strolled down the cabinet and pointed at a velvet-lined box with a small liquid vial and an amethyst gemstone nestled inside. “We offer EarthShine. It's our most popular brand with the ladies. Low-key.”

  I crouched in front of the counter to study the display. “I don’t get it. How does it work?”

  “It’s still fairly new tech, so I’ll let you slide… this time.” He cackled, and it echoed inside the empty store. “The liquid in the vial gets injected in your eye and solidifies into a lens. A digital lens, to be exact, that contours to your eye perfectly.”

  “And that records my memories?”

  “Ding, ding, you got it, babe. Keep in mind, you have to carry an external device that you use to turn memory capture on and off. Most people turn it off while in the bathroom, since storage space is precious.”

  “What device?” I couldn’t see any apparatus nearby.

  “The gemstone,” he said. “You wear it as an earring or… elsewhere on your body, whatever floats your air cruiser.”

  I stood and met his gaze, wondering whether he was wearing a recording lens right now. If so, he had recorded footage of me, had evidence of my whereabouts, and I would have no idea. “It’s discreet, alright.”

  He leaned against the counter. “A few people might still realize that you’re recording them, but most don't care. I guess it depends on what you're doing.”

  “How does it work? If I were wearing the earring, how do I turn it on and off?”
/>   “You just twist the earring, and a small ring on the side of your vision will appear. It just tells you it’s working.”

  “Do you have anything that lets me retrieve memories that might be lost?”

  “Well, now you're talking a specialty shop, maybe retrieval from Cerulean. That's a whole other price range. Out of my league.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He raised his hands and backed up a step. “Look, I don't deal in memory jacking. It's outlawed.”

  “Who does? Somewhere around here?”

  His lips parted, and he folded his arms, narrowed his eyes. “Who are you? Are you some kind of cop?”

  I shook my head. “I’m just asking for a friend who had a head injury and lost partial memory.”

  He relaxed his shoulders and shrugged. “If you keep heading down the street, there's a club called Sirens. I'll warn you, it’s a fetish club, and there are some scary-ass people in there, but if you ask for a guy named Ryken, maybe he knows something about it, maybe he doesn’t.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Hey, are you around for a while? Maybe we could flash together or hit up an underground club.”

  Ugh. Goosebumps prickled the flesh on my arms. “Sorry, I’m just passing through.”

  He shrugged, picked up his device, and got lost in his screen again.

  I started to leave but then glanced at EarthShine again.

  “You know what, I'll take it.”

  Ten

  After paying six-hundred for the EarthShine memory device, I left the store and headed back onto the crowded street, weaving my way around strangers—mostly men—who wandered the street. The clerk was right about the number of nightclubs. Many of them had signs for dancers—men, women, and transgender. It was less frenetic, with people milling outside smoking electronic cigarettes and pipes. I spotted another hotel, and the sign read: Cheap & Clean Sleep Cubes. 25 Lunar per hour.

  The strip ended in another hundred meters. I started to backtrack and then noticed a dim store window across the street with several people inside, sitting at computer terminals. A neon computer flashed in the window. Lightspeed Café. Perhaps I could find something out about myself online, research why I was wanted.

  The lights inside were low and cast a hazy green pallor. The café was about the same size as the memory store, only no long counter. A bored-looking young woman with braids and tattoos around her neck sat at a checkout station. There were a total of eight computer stations, five occupied. At one, a man with a beard had fallen asleep with his head on the desk. At another station, a dark-skinned teenager with a fuchsia mohawk played a video game. The girl beside him played the same game and looked related. Next to them, packages of potato crisps and other junk food lined the table.

  I approached the young woman at the front desk. “Hi,” I said, not sure exactly how this worked.

  She said, “It's ten Lunar for half an hour.” She lifted a small bottle and squirted a scented mist over her shoulder.

  “Half an hour only, please.” I caught a whiff of lavender as I slid her the money card, and she wordlessly scanned it and handed it back. A sign on the wall behind her read: We Value Your Privacy, but the partitions that separated each station were laughable. Opaque plastic dividers stood fourteen inches high. The person sitting next to you could lean back casually in order to see what you were doing. The dim light cast a sickly glow on the two teenagers as I passed. Absorbed in their game, they didn’t look at me. The sleeping man didn’t stir.

  I had a choice. In the far left corner, there was an empty station, but a figure wearing a black hooded sweatshirt sat adjacent. To my right, there were two open stations, but an elderly man sat between them. I started toward him, eyeing one of the empty seats, but then my nostrils flared as I got closer. His body odor was so strong, my eyes watered. No wonder the attendant kept spraying scented oil.

  In the corner, a figure hunched over a screen and typed away in silence. It wasn’t my first choice, but my only other option was to hold my nose. As I made my way over, I could tell it was a man from the broad shoulders. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were pushed back, revealing strong tattooed forearms. He hesitated, fingers hovering above the holographic keyboard just briefly as I neared.

  His screen was covered with green and blue and black text and symbols jumbled together—complicated code that I couldn't even begin to understand. I reached the empty station and pulled back the cheap plastic chair. The metal legs scratched loudly against the linoleum floor, and the sound was grating. My neighbor flinched and glanced my way.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled and slid into the seat. He had a stubbly chin and a large, curved nose. He returned to his coding without a word.

  Tucked inside my cube, I searched for the on button. Damn, I should've paid more attention to what the others in the café were doing. My neighbor had been typing on what looked like the surface of the desk. I had expected to find a keyboard waiting for me, but there was none. I ran my hands across the tabletop, and something happened—the computer screen lit up with a dim blue glow. An illuminated keyboard appeared on the desktop before me. Progress. I sighed in relief that I didn’t have to ask the girl at the register. Then I looked at the screen: Fingerprint identification required.

  But I’d already paid. Why were fingerprints required? My heart rate accelerated, and I started to sweat, drumming my fingernails on the table. I leaned back and glanced at the hooded stranger next to me. His eyes reflected the green lettering from his dark screen, lending him an unearthly appearance as if his pupils were digital. I scooted back further from the desk and looked at the cash register girl who had donned earphones and chatted into a tablet.

  Slowly, my neighbor turned his head. His nose sat prominently on his angular face, and his eyes were dark gray. There was nothing unusual about him except for a scar that ran from his temple to his upper eyelid on his left side. “Something wrong?” he asked in a low voice.

  Flustered, I hadn’t expected him to talk to me. “I, uh… I'm kind of new here…”

  He leaned over and looked at my screen. “You're supposed to scan your fingerprint,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “There.” He pointed at a black device on the wall of the cube to my left. A scanner above my head.

  I could insert my finger, but that would be idiotic with the police looking for me. “Oh,” I said. Biting my lip, I sat there and waited for him to turn away.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Incognito, huh? Me too.” I didn’t have a chance to respond before he reached for something at his waist and pulled out a set of keys that were attached to a chain on his belt. His long fingers sifted through a jumble of keys and electronic cards and things I didn’t even recognize. With a smirk, he found what he was looking for and stood up quickly and smoothly, reaching across me to press a black card against the fingerprint scanner. After three seconds, the screen on the computer changed. I had access.

  He retracted the cord that held the device and pocketed his keychain. Wordlessly, he sat back down.

  “I… Wow, thank you,” I said, glancing at him.

  “Don't mention it.” The corner of his lip turned up. He went back to his computer.

  The blank screen before me flashed, What would you like help with today?

  I typed: Wanted persons.

  The computer pulled up a list of articles and websites—many more results than I could sift through.

  On Luna, I refined my search.

  After scanning through several articles about Lunar police, I came across a wanted report. The sketch was there—my likeness rendered on screen for anyone to see. I moved closer, rested my elbows on the table, and hid my face with my hand. I scrolled quickly to get the picture offscreen and read the text.

  Suspect is female, dark hair, light brown skin, in her late 20s. She escaped from Earth with stolen property from NeuroDyne Corporation headquarters in Iceland. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous. REWARD: 50,000 Lunar for information lead
ing to her arrest. Do NOT attempt to detain her.

  My jaw dropped. They had the wrong person. This was a mistake. I hadn’t stolen anything from NeuroDyne, and based on what Terry had said, I was taken against my will by her brother. I had no part in this, so why was I being hunted?

  The man beside me shifted in his seat, and I closed the Wanted report screen in case he got chatty. Typing rapidly, I pulled up today's Lunar news reports just to look like I was doing something.

  My gaze fell on the screen, and I swiped to open the first article that appeared. Published only twelve hours earlier, there’d been a press conference with Marin Palmer, Director of NeuroDyne security. A photo of the man revealed his identity—thinning dark hair, thick eyebrows, and wide cheeks, though he wasn't overweight. He held his chin high in the photo. On his right shoulder, he wore the same striped arrow pattern I’d seen on his shoulder that night outside Terry's apartment, the last time I'd seen Drive Nine. Here was the man who had hunted me with a unit of soldiers.

  I held my breath as the fellow next to me shifted his belongings, and then settled down, immersed in his screen again. Scanning the article, I read:

  Marin Palmer wants you to know why NeuroDyne is here on Luna.

  The head of security is an imposing figure. Standing six-feet, two-inches and sporting the frame of a football linebacker, the man is intimidating, to say the least. But once you get to know him, you'll find a much more pleasant demeanor.

  “Welcome to NeuroDyne offices,” Palmer says as he shakes my hand upon my arrival at the new tower office at 2100 Comet Avenue. His eyes scrunch and his smile lights up his face—his warmth is contagious. Not at all what I’d expected from the chief of NeuroDyne security on Luna.

  Later on, as we chat in his office, I ask the question that's on the minds of many Lunar citizens. “Why are you here?”

  He explains, “Thank you for that question. I'm more than happy to explain why NeuroDyne has installed an office on Luna. As everyone knows, we've typically maintained our headquarters and offices on Earth and continue to be Earth's largest employer—a fact that we’re proud of.”