The Event

Chapter 5

"Don't you know what she is?"

Evy narrows her eyes at him, and Robbie wonders what she sees. Evy isn't his first choice for gossip, but she's a safe option. Better than one of the performers who promote all of their memories, even the ones containing private conversations. Evy's family are originals; they still value the printed word and the gamble of retaining their own memories, the natural order of things. They upload their required five memories a day, but nothing more. Three now, he remembers and shudders. Where is his mother? Why hadn't she come home last night?

"Would I be asking if I did?" he asks, joining her against the wall. School hasn't started yet, but like most people their age, they get to the grounds early because it's one of the best places to talk. Even if there are rogue cameras like his mother fears, there are too many people here to watch closely, too many hallways and wide angled floors. They can't disappear, but they can blend.

She gives him another look. He's always admired Evy for her stamina, but liking her is something else entirely.

"Aliyah's a creative."

"How do you know that?"

The creatives are buried among them, meant to stay hidden. The government doesn't acknowledge them, doesn't dare admit that their current structure encourages performances, falsities, alternate histories--and that certain talented people might be fueling them.

"Well she isn't one of us, is she?"

"What does that mean?"

"Look, do you want a reason to approach her or not? You don't like her, do you?"

Evy pouts, her bottom lip pushed forward so far he can see darker and lighter layers stacked one on top of the other. It reminds him of a broken shell, and he hopes this interaction doesn't come back to hurt him.

"I need to know more about her."

"So talk to her."

"She doesn't seem to like to talk to people."

"Neither do you."

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

"Not willingly."

She drops her eyes and drags her hand across her arm. He fights the urge to tug her forward, to tear through the white marks her fingernails leave.

"So I just ask her for an idea?"

"There's a code for it."

"What's the code?"

Evy laughs, the sound brittle and careless against the mass of students that move behind them, generating moments. She stops short, her mouth still open. He can tell she doesn't want to be the focal point in someone else's memory, even just for a moment, inadvertently. He's often wondered what happens when memories overlap too frequently, when two people share too many experiences. Are they tied through their feeds just as they are in life?  Could they one day be asked to pay each other's debts?

"What's your mother doing?"

Evy leans in just as he steps back. Asked yesterday, the question might have surprised him; today, it scares him.

"Why do you care about my mother?"

"My father does."

"I tell you something about my mother and you tell me something about Aliyah."

"Precisely."

"I'll get my information from someone else," he offers, the words hanging somewhere between regret and threat. Bartering is just as dangerous as plucking ideas for memories, the infinite made definite when discussions are uploaded and shared.