Glasshouse - Charles Stross [73]
My biggest reason for wanting you to have undergone major memory erasure prior to injection into YFH-Polity is this: I suspect that when the incoming experimental subjects are issued with new bodies, they are filtered through an A-gate infected with a live, patched copy of Curious Yellow. Therefore preemptive memory redaction is the only sure way of preventing such a verminiferous gate from identifying you as a threat for its owners to eliminate.
I watch myself writing this letter to myself. I can read it as clearly as if it’s engraved in my own flesh. But I can’t see any marks in the paper, because my old self has forgotten to dip his pen in the ink, and he’s long since fallen to scratching invisible indentations on the coarse sheets. I seem to stand behind his shoulder although his head is nowhere in my field of vision, and I try to scream at him, No! No! That isn’t how you do it! But nothing comes out because this is a dream, and when I try to grab the pen, my hand passes right through his wrist, and he keeps writing on my naked brain with his ink of blood and neurotransmitters.
I begin to panic, because being trapped in this cell with him has brought memories flooding back in, memories that he cunningly suppressed in order to avoid triggering Curious Yellow’s redaction factories. It’s a movable feast of horrors and exultation and life in the large. It’s too much to bear, and it’s too intense, because now I remember the rest of my earlier dream of swords and armor and the reversible massacre aboard a conditionally liberated polity cylinder. I remember the way our A-gate glitched and crashed at the end of the rescue as we threw the last severed head into its maw, and the way Loral turned to me, and said, “Well shit,” in a voice full of world-weary disgust, and how I walked away and scheduled myself for deep erasure because I knew if I didn’t, the memory of it all would drag me awake screaming for years to come—
—And I’m awake, and I make it to the toilet just in time before my stomach squeezes convulsively and tries to climb up my throat and escape.
I can’t believe I did those things. I don’t believe I would have committed such crimes. But I remember the massacre as if it was yesterday. And if those memories are false, then what about the rest of me?
NOT entirely by coincidence, the next day is my first run with the shoulder bag. It started life as a rectangular green vinyl affair. It now sports a black nylon lining that I’ve stitched together with much swearing and sucking of pricked fingertips to conceal the gleaming copper weave glued to its inside. It looks like a shopping bag until I fold over the inner flap. Then it looks like a full shopping bag with a black flap covering the contents. Right now it contains a carton of extremely strong ground espresso, a filter cone, and several small items that are individually innocuous but collectively damning if you know what you’re looking at. It’s a good thing the bag looks anonymous, because unless I’m hallucinating all my memories, what I’m going to take home from work in that bag today will be a whole lot less innocuous than coffee beans.
I get in to work at the usual early hour and find Janis in the staff room, looking pale and peaky. “Morning sickness?” I ask. She nods. “Sympathies. Say, why don’t you stay here, and I’ll get the returns sorted out? Put your feet up—I’ll call you if anything comes up that I can’t handle.”
“Thanks. I’ll do just that.” She leans back against the wall. “I wouldn’t be here but Fiore’s coming—”
“You leave that to me,” I say, trying not to look surprised. I wasn’t expecting him so soon, but I’ve got the bag, so . . .
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“Yes.” I smile reassuringly. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll just let him in