Star stuff, p.2
Star Stuff, page 2
But it always led to that other memory. The path of light always led to darkness.
He always had to pull back fast enough.
No, he would not dredge up that memory.
He looked at his clock, and he realized that hours had passed. It was dark now, and the wind rattled the shack's rotting walls. Dust fluttered across the threadbare rug and a rat hissed in the crumbling hearth.
Phil knew he should fix the place. Replace the rotting floorboards. Repair the cracked beams. Scatter the mice out of the attic. He should light a fire, top the table with fruit and flowers, maybe even get a dog. Once more, this could be a place of life and light.
"But it's all worthless without you, Luna," he whispered.
He should eat. But he wasn't hungry. He only had a few cans of beans left, and they tasted like ash. Everything tasted like ash since the poison that had withered the world.
Joints creaking, Phil lay on the tattered rug, and he gazed into the cold hearth, at the rat droppings over the logs.
He summoned the memory, and he dived back in.
The hearth crackled with fire again, warming him, painting the room with golden hues. The rug was lush beneath him, soft and comforting. Artwork hung on freshly painted walls, and the scent of baking rhubarb pie filled the cottage.
And she was there.
His beautiful Luna, her eyes like the forest. She smiled and kissed him.
"I love you, Phil. Always. No matter what happens. No matter where they send you in the war. Remember me."
He kissed her. "Always."
They made love in the firelight, and they laughed and told stories and slept in each other's arms.
The memory ended.
Phil found himself in a rotting cabin, the artwork dusty and tattered, the hearth cold, and Luna buried in the cold ground.
A tear flowed down his wrinkled cheek.
He closed his eyes, and he returned to her. In the Memo-Real chip, she was still alive, as real as now.
* * * * *
A knock sounded on the door.
"Papa?"
The knocking intensified to pounding.
"Papa! I know you're in there. Open the door!"
Phil opened his eyes and shuddered, rising from the memory. He had just been holding Luna, kissing her on the grass, lost in her forest-green eyes.
"Papa!" More pounding. "Open this door or I will kick it down."
Phil blinked and looked around him. It was morning. He had been lost in memory all night, not sleeping. Blades of light slipped between the window shutters, illuminating clouds of dust. The pounding sounded again. The door creaked and splintered.
"Dad!"
A feminine voice. A young woman.
Luna?
But no. It was another woman.
Her name resurfaced from the muzzy depths of his natural memory, the soft storage of his wet brain. Tasha. Her name was Tasha.
She began kicking the door. The wood cracked.
"All right, all right!" Phil pushed himself to his feet, joints creaking, and grabbed his cane. "I'm coming. You goddamn beast."
He limped toward the door, cane tapping, and unlocked it.
Tasha burst in, eyes flaring.
"Papa! I've been trying to call you all month. You don't answer your phone. We thought you were dead. I had to fly all the way over, then got lost in this damn forest."
Phil looked at her. A tall, striking woman with pale skin, jet-black hair, and eyes the color of a frozen lake. He blinked. She was speaking Russian. Phil did not speak Russian. And yet he understood her perfectly.
"Tasha," he said. "Your name is Tasha."
Oddly, he was speaking Russian too. Well goddamn.
Tasha looked around at the cottage. Her shoulders stooped, and the light left her eyes. "Oh, Papa, why do you live like this?"
She began to move through the cottage, picking up empty cans, trying to dust, to clean, to bring some life back to this place of decay. But finally she fell to her knees, lowered her head, and wept.
Phil looked at her. And he saw a stranger.
"You have to leave."
"I'm your daughter! Why do you cut me off like this? Your family needs you."
Phil took a step back. His heart pounded like her fist on the door. "No. No, I have no daughter. I have no family."
Her tears flowed. "Papa, it's me. Your little Tasha. Don't you remember?"
He blinked at her. "I don't. I don't have a daughter. I never got married. The woman I loved died."
Tasha covered her eyes, sobbing. "Ever since you got that damn machine in your head. That damn Memo-Real. It's like you're a different person. Like you're not my father. Not Anatoli Morozov anymore."
Those words hit him like hammers.
He stumbled back. "What did you call me?"
She took a step toward him, gripped his arm. "You are Anatoli Morozov! I'm your daughter, Tasha Morozov! You have to remember yourself! Your real self!"
His head spun.
He took another step back.
"No. No!" He trembled. "I don't know that man. I'm Phil! I'm Phil Bester. I …"
She dug her fingers into his arm, stared into his eyes. "Phil Bester died, Papa. He died long ago. He's not you. You have to come back. You have to be my papa again …" She succumbed to weeping.
"No, I'm not dead," Phil whispered. "I'm here. I'm Phil. I'm alive. I …"
He had buried that memory.
But it was still there. On the microchip. The Memo-Real remembered everything, and the memory sucked him up.
The cabin around him vanished. Tasha vanished. The old man with the creaky joints vanished.
And Phil was young again, wearing a tattered uniform, running through a battlefield as artillery shells burst around him. Fire bloomed across the sky. His brothers in arms ran around him, screaming, firing their rifles. Falling. Falling one by one like leaves from poisoned trees.
But Phil kept running.
He saw the enemy ahead. Pale faces under dark helmets. Eyes filled with rage. Their guns boomed, and pain stung Phil's leg, but he kept running.
Beside him, his best friend screamed and fell.
Phil knelt, shook the fallen corporal, but his hands came back covered with gore. His best friend stared without a face, without eyes.
Another man screamed and fell.
A man sat against a charred tree, trying to shove his insides back into his slit belly.
An artillery shell exploded nearby, tossing men into the air, ripping off their limbs.
Phil knew what he had to do. What a hero should do. He should charge at the enemy, fire his gun, kill as many as he could. He should die a hero.
Instead he turned and fled.
He fled through the gore, the corpses, the mutilated men begging for help or mercy. He ran around a crater, crawled under barbed wire, and then kept fleeing. A coward.
But he had promised.
"I promised to come back to you, Luna. I love you. I—"
An artillery shell landed beside him.
Fire blazed across the world, and Phil kept running, arms pumping, and he realized that he had no legs. He was running on stumps.
Another shell exploded. Pain blazed across his chest, and his skin burned.
When Phil hit the ground, he knew he was dying. As he burned and bled, he reached deep into his mind. He accessed the Memo-Real chip.
The battlefield vanished, and he was with Luna again. They were running through the forest, and they were making love on the grass, and it was as real as now.
And he was gone.
He opened his eyes.
The memory was over. He once again stood in a rotting hut, gazing at a young woman with black hair and teary blue eyes.
"Who am I?" he whispered. "I died. How am I here?"
"Look inside you," Tasha whispered. "Remember."
* * * * *
Anatoli Morozov stumbled down the street, his shoes splashed with blood, his jeweled rings cracked.
What have I done?
His hands were shaking. His hands never used to shake after a job. They used to call him Iron Anatoli. The man with the metal heart.
But this job …
He lurched toward a trash bin and threw up.
"Gee, mister, are you okay?" A young man in a polo shirt approached. "You need me to call you a doctor or something, sir?"
Anatoli turned toward the Good Samaritan. He could see himself reflected in the kid's sunglasses. He was a burly beast of a man, wearing a red tracksuit and golden chains. A man covered in blood. None of it his own. Tufts of hair were caught between his rings, he noticed. Long flaxen hair.
With his hound-dog eyes, Anatoli stared at the young man.
"They were younger than you," he said. "The father deserved it, but the kids … Oh God, the kids. The girl was so young. Younger than my daughter. Younger than my beautiful Tasha."
The kid stumbled backward, paling. Then he turned and fled.
Anatoli looked at his hands, and he knew he could never wash them clean.
"Wish you could forget everything?" came a voice from behind.
Anatoli turned. He faced an electronics store. Televisions were stacked in the display window, all streaming the same channel. A man in a yellow polyester suit grinned, his teeth sparkling. His fake tan looked like butter left too long in the pan.
"Are bad memories just bogging you down?" the tanned man said. "Well, then, try our special resale deal! Grab a refurbished Memo-Real chip for 50% off! Want to remember Caribbean cruises, jungle adventures, athletic triumphs? How about some … saucier memories?" The man waggled his eyebrows. "Those memories can be yours today! Ditch your boring old memories. Swap them for better memories today. Memo-Real: As real as now."
The man winked, then vanished. The TVs began broadcasting a generic nature show. A polar bear stood on an ice floe, pawing at a seal.
Anatoli looked at his bloody hands.
He remembered the boy trying to fight. The girl begging. The father dead as his children cowered. The last thing they ever saw was a burly man with hound-dog eyes. A man? No. A monster.
"This was my last job," Anatoli whispered. "I can't go home and face Tasha like this—a beast, a killer. I want to be another man. I want other memories."
He found himself standing in the Memo-Real clinic, tears on his cheeks. The receptionist gave him a forced smile.
"We can certainly help you with that, sir. Just sign here. And here. And this indemnity clause. Thank you, Mr. Sokolov. The doctor will see you shortly. While you wait, please browse this free catalog of used Memo-Real chips."
Anatoli sat in the waiting room, catalog in hand. A few other people were waiting. They were all quite old. Perhaps they had led boring lives, and they wanted some fresh memories for their golden years. Anatoli was only fifty, but he had made enough memories to last an eternity in hell.
He browsed through the catalog. Each page featured another donor and their story.
There was a movie starlet, a gorgeous blonde. Her page boasted that she remembered yacht trips, a vacation to the Galapagos, and a tryst with a billionaire lover. She had died at twenty-seven in a car crash. But her memories would live forever. Her Memo-Real was available now for only $39,999.
Anatoli was no crime boss, just a lowly thug. He couldn't afford that. And he didn't want to remember any trysts with billionaire lovers, thank you very much. He flipped to the next page.
This one showed a handsome rock star with long, luscious hair. His page promised memories of cheering fans, ear-crushing concerts, and adoring groupies. The star had died at age thirty, choking on his own vomit while drunk. Anatoli, no stranger to passing out drunk, didn't want to remember that life.
He kept browsing. The used Memo-Reals were all wrong fits or too expensive. There were only a handful within his price range.
"Mr. Sokolov? The doctor will see you now."
Clutching the catalog, Anatoli entered the doctor's office. The doctor was a pasty man with white hair and soft cheeks. He was busy typing at a workstation, barely sparing Anatoli a glance.
"Good morning, Mr… ." The doctor checked his notes. "Sook Love? And how are we today?"
How are we today? I've come in to replace my memories! I am horrible. I am a monster. I am a child killer. I …
The doctor looked at him, his bifocals perched low on his stubby nose.
"I'm good, thank you," Anatoli said. He raised the catalog and tapped a page. "I want this one."
The doctor glanced at the page, back at Anatoli. "Oh, you don't want him. Phil Bester died a young man on a battlefield. He never accumulated many interesting memories. There was one good day, cavorting in the forest with a beautiful woman, but not much more. That's why his Memo-Real is so cheap." The doctor shrugged. "You don't want to remember life as a rock star? An actor? Maybe a famous gangster?"
"I want an ordinary life," Anatoli said. "A quiet life. Give me Phil Bester."
Anatoli lay down on the operating table, and before everything went dark, he saw the used Memo-Real chip on a tray. Such a small little thing. And it contained a lifetime of memories.
The doctor lifted a saw, and Anatoli dived into a black, dead realm.
* * * * *
When he woke up, he was a new man.
He was Phil Bester.
New memories flooded him. There were no memories from childhood. Phil had not installed a Memo-Real until his late twenties. But once installed, that Memo-Real had recorded a wealth of experiences.
Anatoli could remember the other man's life. Many memories were just long hours toiling in a factory, mopping floors. Those were dull. But there were beautiful memories too. Days in the forest with Luna. Kissing her. Holding her all night. Laughing with her. Vowing to marry her once the war ended. Sweet memories recorded in perfect fidelity.
Anatoli took a deep breath, savoring them.
No, he was not Anatoli anymore. That man, that murderer, that beast—he was gone.
"I am Phil now." He hugged the doctor, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I am Phil."
Driving home, it was a struggle not to summon all these new memories. They could so easily consume him, so rich with colors, sounds, feelings—every sensation. They felt so real he would forget the present moment and crash his car.
Halfway home, he couldn't resist. He pulled over, and right there on the roadside, he remembered.
He was walking through a forest, the scent of bluebells in his nostrils, the breeze in his hair. He was holding a beautiful woman's hand. It was unlike any memory he had ever experienced. It was all in his mind, but it felt so real, a flawless illusion.
"As real as now," he whispered.
He hit the gas pedal and made a U-turn.
He would not return to his apartment in the city. That was no longer his home. He had a new home now. Or rather—a place that had always been his home.
He drove for hours, passing fields and mountains, and finally drove through the forest. The season was different. No bluebells carpeted the forest floor. But he knew every turn in this road. Every hill and valley. Each gust of wind through the leaves rustled new memories.
Phil lived here, he thought. I lived here.
This physical body had never been here. But it was as familiar as home.
The asphalt road became a dirt road. And finally there was no road at all, and Anatoli parked his car and walked. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of oak and birch leaves, the song of birds, the gurgling of a nearby stream. He approached a peaceful cottage, its windows bright, its garden lush with flowers.
The door was unlocked. He stepped inside and saw the love of his life.
Tears sprang into his eyes. There she was. A beautiful woman with long red hair and eyes like forests. The woman from his new Memo-Real.
"Luna," he said. "I'm home. I'm back again. It's me."
The woman leaped backward and screamed, "Get out!"
He frowned. He stepped toward her. "Luna! It's me, Phil."
She snarled, raced toward the kitchen cabinet, and grabbed a bread knife. "Stand back, or by God, I'll slit your throat!"
He caught his reflection in the blade. He no longer looked like Phil. He looked like a craggy, fifty-year-old man, wearing a red tracksuit and golden chains.
He sighed. "Luna, I get it. You think I'm still Anatoli. But I'm not. I'm Phil! Your Phil. The man you loved. I'm back from the war."
Tears flowed down her cheeks. "Don't you dare mention the man I love. Phil died in battle. A hero. Don't you dare desecrate his memory."
"Luna, please." He took a step toward her. "I used to be a man called Anatoli. A horrible man! A gangster. A killer. But I got new memories installed. I've got Phil's Memo-Real chip in my brain now. All his memories are mine. Our memories, Luna."
He reached toward her.
She screamed and lashed the blade.
It scraped across Phil's arm. Or was it Anatoli's arm?
"Luna!" He stumbled back, his blood spraying.
She lashed her blade again. "Stand back, or I'll carve out your heart!"
She came at him again, blade thrusting.
And something inside him awoke.
Anatoli awoke.
The doctor had suppressed Anatoli's memories while installing Phil's. But there was something deeper. Primordial. Instincts in the brain stem. Muscle memory. An inherent fire. And that fire blazed forth.
He grabbed Luna's wrist, twisted it, and the blade fell.
He drove his fist into her face. She screamed, bloodied, and clawed at him. Her fingernails ripped his neck.
Anatoli howled. Yes, he was fully Anatoli now. The gangster was back. And he had one more job.
Luna bit him. Her teeth cut through his sleeve, his arm. He roared and gripped her throat, squeezing, crushing her windpipe. She gasped for air, reached behind her, and grabbed a fruit bowl. She swung it, and apples rolled across the floor, and the ceramic shattered against Anatoli's head.
He roared. Blood dripped onto his shoulder. But he wouldn't release her throat.
