Undeserved
Steven Mathes
I, Chad, was young, spirited, a regular guy. I felt small next to the accomplishments of my family. My inheritance came as a full memory download from my famous Uncle Dick. A surprise came with it. The memories of Uncle Dick’s mentor Dr. Proust, the pioneer in memory transference. They both died of mysterious causes, which should have been a warning.
The new memories needed to settle enough to be useful. I could at least honor my luck, not desecrate it by pretending it was unimportant.
I went to a bar. I ordered a double, hoping to ease a feeling in the back of my mind. A figure on the next stool had a look of darkness. I knew dark souls were often wiser, definitely sexier.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey."
"If you were suddenly the luckiest man in the room, what would you do?" I said.
"Something like inheritance? Memories? I'd feel like a fat worm on a lawn full of hungry birds."
I chose to be, needed to be, oblivious. Clearly, she knew more than she should, although we lived in an age where material goods were available to all. Anyone could print up a new car, or a house, or whatever. Knowledge, what a person knew, was the new status. Memory was the new status. She guessed the obvious. That is all it was.
I ordered another drink. I would try to be a big boy later.
Her skin, her smell, her features evoked perfection, same as anyone. "Nice house, but nobody home," people once said of such beauty. This "house" was definitely occupied. But a recollection from Uncle Dick called out, ever so faintly in my new memories. I could ask if we had met because I sensed that we had. But it would sound pathetic.
"You mean mind pirates?" I said.
"Mind pirates. They want your memories, but they delete your life."
"Yeah, I know," I said. "Collateral damage from hackers. But I totally have staff."
I did! I took my phone, alerted Uncle Dick's office that I needed staff. I needed backup immediately. Soon after, I heard phones ping around the bar.
This woman had warned me. She had to be on my side. She made me feel safer, and I admit it -- a little lustful. Shadowy figures pressed in, calling for drinks.
Oh, I needed not just her worldly eyes.
"You think mind pirates are a myth? You need to leave with me," she said.
"Are you hitting on me?"
"No."
"What?"
I felt hands grab my elbows, and pull me from my falling stool. Bystanders yelped. My supposed protector dragged me by the shirt while many sets of hands on my back pushed. They dragged me out the door to irritated cries from legit patrons. Limo doors slammed shut. We snapped forward.
"What's happening?" I said.
"It took a lot to secure you, but now you're all ours."
I had inherited many valuable memories but searching for a helpful one felt like flipping through my unread emails. Mostly I wanted to black out from all the drink. Still, the limo had a familiar smell, a smell that finally jogged. This was Uncle Dick's car, now my car.
The woman pulled a syringe, and jabbed my listing body. Tricked? I expected to fade further, but instead my head cleared. Anti-tox, every party animal's salvation. Now my inherited memories made a little more sense. I looked at the mysterious woman again, remembering.
"You're Emily? Head of security for Uncle Dick?"
"Dr. Proust, also."
"Ah, it gets confusing with two sets of memories. Three counting mine."
Nobody in Proust's league would leave a legacy without protecting the heir," said Emily.
"So you're taking me somewhere safe," I said.
"Safe for me, anyway. We've been planning this caper."
"Caper?"
"We intend to take from you what should belong to everyone."
I tried to scratch my nose, and found I couldn't move a finger. I failed to shift my weight, then failed to reach for the door of the limo. Muscles dead, but mind clear, I searched my new memories and remembered: Uncle Dick's undercurrent of suspicion, the rumors, stories of an insider criminal, a security genius, a maniac revolutionary?
"We need your mind clear as a bell for the transfer."
"You plan to kill me?"
Surprise. I could talk, or at least slur some words.
"Wrong." she said.
"Wrong?"
"We can give your experiences to anyone. Everyone! Knowledge should not be just for you rich people."
"Isn't that an invasion of privacy?" I said.
"A world without privacy is a world without cheaters. Everyone can have the same things."
"But if everyone has the same thing, won't they search for another way to be superior? What everyone wants is luck."
"You won't die," she said. "That's luck."
They brought me somewhere. They slid my head into a vast, humming machine, and copied. As they copied, something sparked, either in the machine, or in my head. The spark hurt, but the aftermath felt heavenly as in…the feeling of seeing a spring sunrise. Maybe those happy drugs did it? All that bliss? I did not know.
I could not remember, for the love of me. Why was I here?
I sighed at the beauty of time and space. The buzzing machines, the smell of disinfectant, the overheated wires. All so lovely. Beauty came from all around. My thoughts floated in the brilliance of another day. I felt the teeming souls all around me, even the souls in the individual grains of dust. It made me weep with joy.
"I can't recall. Who am I?"
Everyone surrounding me babbled, concerned about something. They rushed at me with instruments, with equipment. I would have laughed, but it seemed so unfair. Clearly they lacked what I had, my bliss, my understanding, my insight. It all felt so simple, so underserved, so lovely.
The new memories needed to settle enough to be useful. I could at least honor my luck, not desecrate it by pretending it was unimportant.
I went to a bar. I ordered a double, hoping to ease a feeling in the back of my mind. A figure on the next stool had a look of darkness. I knew dark souls were often wiser, definitely sexier.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey."
"If you were suddenly the luckiest man in the room, what would you do?" I said.
"Something like inheritance? Memories? I'd feel like a fat worm on a lawn full of hungry birds."
I chose to be, needed to be, oblivious. Clearly, she knew more than she should, although we lived in an age where material goods were available to all. Anyone could print up a new car, or a house, or whatever. Knowledge, what a person knew, was the new status. Memory was the new status. She guessed the obvious. That is all it was.
I ordered another drink. I would try to be a big boy later.
Her skin, her smell, her features evoked perfection, same as anyone. "Nice house, but nobody home," people once said of such beauty. This "house" was definitely occupied. But a recollection from Uncle Dick called out, ever so faintly in my new memories. I could ask if we had met because I sensed that we had. But it would sound pathetic.
"You mean mind pirates?" I said.
"Mind pirates. They want your memories, but they delete your life."
"Yeah, I know," I said. "Collateral damage from hackers. But I totally have staff."
I did! I took my phone, alerted Uncle Dick's office that I needed staff. I needed backup immediately. Soon after, I heard phones ping around the bar.
This woman had warned me. She had to be on my side. She made me feel safer, and I admit it -- a little lustful. Shadowy figures pressed in, calling for drinks.
Oh, I needed not just her worldly eyes.
"You think mind pirates are a myth? You need to leave with me," she said.
"Are you hitting on me?"
"No."
"What?"
I felt hands grab my elbows, and pull me from my falling stool. Bystanders yelped. My supposed protector dragged me by the shirt while many sets of hands on my back pushed. They dragged me out the door to irritated cries from legit patrons. Limo doors slammed shut. We snapped forward.
"What's happening?" I said.
"It took a lot to secure you, but now you're all ours."
I had inherited many valuable memories but searching for a helpful one felt like flipping through my unread emails. Mostly I wanted to black out from all the drink. Still, the limo had a familiar smell, a smell that finally jogged. This was Uncle Dick's car, now my car.
The woman pulled a syringe, and jabbed my listing body. Tricked? I expected to fade further, but instead my head cleared. Anti-tox, every party animal's salvation. Now my inherited memories made a little more sense. I looked at the mysterious woman again, remembering.
"You're Emily? Head of security for Uncle Dick?"
"Dr. Proust, also."
"Ah, it gets confusing with two sets of memories. Three counting mine."
Nobody in Proust's league would leave a legacy without protecting the heir," said Emily.
"So you're taking me somewhere safe," I said.
"Safe for me, anyway. We've been planning this caper."
"Caper?"
"We intend to take from you what should belong to everyone."
I tried to scratch my nose, and found I couldn't move a finger. I failed to shift my weight, then failed to reach for the door of the limo. Muscles dead, but mind clear, I searched my new memories and remembered: Uncle Dick's undercurrent of suspicion, the rumors, stories of an insider criminal, a security genius, a maniac revolutionary?
"We need your mind clear as a bell for the transfer."
"You plan to kill me?"
Surprise. I could talk, or at least slur some words.
"Wrong." she said.
"Wrong?"
"We can give your experiences to anyone. Everyone! Knowledge should not be just for you rich people."
"Isn't that an invasion of privacy?" I said.
"A world without privacy is a world without cheaters. Everyone can have the same things."
"But if everyone has the same thing, won't they search for another way to be superior? What everyone wants is luck."
"You won't die," she said. "That's luck."
They brought me somewhere. They slid my head into a vast, humming machine, and copied. As they copied, something sparked, either in the machine, or in my head. The spark hurt, but the aftermath felt heavenly as in…the feeling of seeing a spring sunrise. Maybe those happy drugs did it? All that bliss? I did not know.
I could not remember, for the love of me. Why was I here?
I sighed at the beauty of time and space. The buzzing machines, the smell of disinfectant, the overheated wires. All so lovely. Beauty came from all around. My thoughts floated in the brilliance of another day. I felt the teeming souls all around me, even the souls in the individual grains of dust. It made me weep with joy.
"I can't recall. Who am I?"
Everyone surrounding me babbled, concerned about something. They rushed at me with instruments, with equipment. I would have laughed, but it seemed so unfair. Clearly they lacked what I had, my bliss, my understanding, my insight. It all felt so simple, so underserved, so lovely.
Steven Mathes lives miles from the nearest pavement with a spouse and a dog. When he isn't writing, he tends a garden. He gardens because he likes to cook. He cooks because he is passionate about eating. He is a full member of SFWA.