THE EXTRACTION
The extraction took forty-three seconds.
Remy counted them in her head, the way she always did. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three. The target was sedated, his breathing shallow, his eyes moving behind closed lids as the needle in his temple siphoned his most recent memories.
She could see them in her own mind — not the memories themselves, but their shadows. A flicker of color. A pulse of emotion. The ghost of a laugh.
This one was rich. A mid-level water minister named Kaelus Dorn. He had been embezzling from the public aquifers for years, selling water to the black market while the poor in the Deep Warrens paid three times what they should. His memories were worth a fortune.
Remy’s extraction device hummed. A small silver box, connected to the needle by a thread-thin wire. The box glowed green as it filled.
“Extraction complete,” a soft voice said from the box. “Seven memories captured. Quality: premium.”
Remy pulled the needle. Wiped the blood from Dorn’s temple. Packed her equipment.
She was out the window and onto the fire escape in ten seconds.
The night air of Erebus Mons was cold and thin, even inside the dome. The sky above was dark, the artificial sun long since set. Below her, the city sprawled — a maze of neon lights, crowded tenements, and the glittering towers of the Spire, where the wealthy lived above the pollution and the poor.
She climbed to the roof.
Her transport was waiting — a small aircar, stolen, its engine silent. She climbed in, set the extraction box on the passenger seat, and flew.
Behind her, Kaelus Dorn slept on, unaware that his secrets were no longer his own.
THE GLITCH
The Memory Den was in the Deep Warrens, a labyrinth of tunnels beneath the city where the sun never reached. Remy landed her aircar on a hidden platform and walked the rest of the way, her boots echoing on the stone.
The Den was a cave, lit by flickering neon signs that advertised stolen memories in languages both human and machine. Rows of extraction booths lined the walls, their doors closed, their occupants anonymous. In the center of the room, a bar.
Juno was behind the bar, polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days. She was young, with dark skin and darker eyes, her hair shaved on one side and braided on the other.
“Rust,” she said. “You’re back early.”
“Clean extraction. Seven premium memories.”
Juno raised an eyebrow. “Seven? From Dorn? That miser had seven memories worth selling?”
“He’s been busy.”
Remy set the extraction box on the bar. Juno opened it. The green light pulsed.
“Let’s see what we have.” She touched the first memory.
The air shimmered.
They were standing in a room — Dorn’s office, judging by the expensive furniture and the view of the Spire. A woman was sitting across from him, her face blurred.
“The water shipments to the Deep Warrens are being cut by twenty percent,” the woman said. “The Oligarch’s orders.”
“The people will revolt,” Dorn replied.
“The people will do what they’re told. They always do.”
The memory faded.
Juno looked at Remy. “The Oligarch. He’s real.”
“He’s always been real. No one knows who he is.”
“Now we have proof he exists. Proof he’s controlling the water supply.”
Remy nodded. “That memory alone is worth a fortune.”
She touched the next memory.
They were in a different room. Darker. A warehouse, maybe. Dorn was standing with a group of men in expensive suits.
“The shipment arrives tomorrow,” one of the men said. “Five hundred units. The buyer is paying triple the market rate.”
“Who’s the buyer?” Dorn asked.
“You don’t need to know. Just make sure it gets through customs.”
The memory faded.
Juno whistled. “He’s not just embezzling. He’s smuggling.”
“I know.”
Remy touched the third memory.
And everything went wrong.