Grandfather’s bedroom, like every room in his mansion, was more than twice the size of any room in our apartment and reflected the wealth he’d earned as a Supreme Justice of Ameriga. But it smelled of dust, urine and bleach. Like the entire mansion, it had the stuffy feel of a room too long closed up. Once Grandfather had become a justice, I doubted he’d ever set foot outside the mansion, except to tour the Federation courthouses in a Ministry airship. There were too many citizens who’d do a justice harm if given the chance.
I eased close to the bed. A nurse stood near the head, her attention focused on the machines.
“Come … closer,” Grandfather said in a wet, rattling whisper. His skeletal hand twitched in a beckoning motion, causing the tube running from it to snake across the silk sheets. My eyes filled with tears as I leaned forward, the mattress top pressed against my stomach. I rested my hand on his. I had few memories of Grandfather, but every one of them was good, and in all of them he was smiling and full of life. Now, he’d become a shrunken, fevered ghost of that man.
“Ask,” he said.
I glanced back at my mother. She had coached me on what to say, and how to say it: about my father and his unexpected death, how I’d not inherited his memories like my cousins would inherit their parents’, how my father had always said that I reminded him of Grandfather. And that my father’s dream had been to follow in Grandfather’s footsteps, and for me to follow them both.
I was not to mention that she’d bought my Core Competencies illegally off junkies who’d traded their memories cheaply for drug money. Mother worked hard to keep us constantly one step ahead of being Plebs, but we couldn’t afford the sanctioned memory auctions.
I turned back to Grandfather. “Father always—” My voice choked. In Grandfather’s face I could see the face of my father, stiff and waxy in his casket. “I want to remember my father, when he was alive,” I said. “I want to remember what he was like growing up. And I want to remember that family trip to your lake cabin when I was a little kid.” That was one of the last happy moments I’d had with my father. And the last time I’d seen most of the people in the room with me now.
I heard the sharp intake of breath through my mother’s nose, and the chuckle of one of my cousins followed by a harsh whispered admonition. I felt sure the reprimand was more from fear of looking bad than any concern for my feelings.
Grandfather squinted, and focused on me. “What do you want to do with your life, Trystan?”
I could feel Mother’s intense stare on the back of my head. I knew what I wanted to say, but it was not what Mother would want. I looked back at her.
How many hours had she worked on her hair this morning, crying and yelling at the mirror? How many different dresses had she tried on at how many stores before finally picking that one? How many times had she fretted over her makeup on the way here, the makeup that failed to hide the exhaustion lining her face and shading her eyes?
She’d put everything into raising and educating me since Father died, without any help from Grandfather. Now was the moment that all the work and sacrifice had been for—as she’d reminded me a thousand times.
I turned back, and hunched my shoulders as I said, “I want to be a justice, like you. And I know it’s what Father wanted too, before he died, even though I didn’t get his memories.”
Grandfather sighed, and closed his eyes. After a second of complete stillness, the relatives started edging close to the bed. “Grandfather?” one cousin asked. Grandfather didn’t stir. “Oh God,” another cousin whispered loudly. “If he’s dead, does that mean—”
“I’m not dead,” Grandfather said. “I’m just thinking.” The words launched him into a coughing fit. My two aunts swooped in and fretted over him, offering tissues and bottled drinks.
“Enough,” Grandfather rasped, waving them away. “Everyone, please leave. I want to be alone for a minute.”
I started to turn, but Grandfather clutched my hand. “No, you stay.”
That caused a ripple of confusion and anxious glances among the rest of the family.
“Why does he get to stay?” a sour-faced cousin whined.
“Grandfather,” Auntie Louise said, “I really should stay, in case you need anything.”
“I’m the one with the nursing experience,” Auntie Eleanor said. “You go ahead, I’ll stay with him.”
“You have great-grandmother’s nursing experience, Eleanor. I don’t think he needs leeches.”
“Leave! Now!” Grandfather said, and began coughing again. My mother stepped up and put her hands on my shoulders as everyone fled the room. Grandfather shook his head weakly at my mother. “No. You too.”
“But—okay.” She squeezed my shoulders. “Remember your manners, Trys.” And by manners, I knew she meant the reason we’d come. My mother left the room, closing the door behind her.
“Now,” Grandfather said, and his words rushed between wet breaths. “What do you want to be? And tell the truth.”
I looked at the door. Even if Mother pressed her ear to that thick wood, she wouldn’t be able to hear me, I hoped. “I … I want to be a mind healer.”
“A mind healer? Why?”
“Because then I could help people.”
“And you don’t think a justice helps people?”
“I guess. Yes, sir.”
Grandfather smiled, yet he looked sad. “You’re so like your father, so like Daniel.” He looked to the chessboard on his bedside table, and his eyes appeared unfocused for several heartbeats. He coughed, and said, “Speak honestly, Trystan, it’s okay. You guess we help, but?”
“But … a justice punishes people to help them, because they did something wrong. And there’s a lot of people who wouldn’t even have to be punished if you helped them, so they didn’t ever have to do something wrong in the first place.”
“Didn’t have to do something wrong? People have a choice, you know, Trystan.”
“Sometimes.” I picked nervously at the edge of the wool blanket hanging over the bed. “But … sometimes, doing something wrong is … not the right choice, maybe, but the best choice. Or better than anything else. And sometimes, it is the wrong choice, but it’s—they just don’t feel like they have any other choices, or don’t really believe any exist.”
Grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “You’re how old, Trystan?”
“Twelve, sir.”
“And you didn’t receive your father’s memories?”
“No, sir.”
“Hmm.” Grandfather closed his eyes and breathed deep rattling breaths for a minute before saying, “Those are strange thoughts to be hearing from anyone these days, but particularly a twelve-year-old. Especially when you talk as though you know these things from experience.”
I opened my mouth to give an excuse, and realized it was too late. I’d said too much, and he knew I had tainted memories.
If I’d gotten my Cores from sanctioned donors, then the memory bleed—the connections and context needed for the other person’s memory to be cohesive and make sense in my brain—would have still been there, but controlled, minimized, and sterilized. Instead, I’d gotten raw dumps of memory clusters from people for whom the important bits of knowledge I needed were interwoven with personal experiences and feelings that, given the nature of the donors, were often unpleasant. Memory Mike, the guy who’d done most of my transfers, had tried to convince me that this was a good thing, because I was getting “life lessons” in addition to the Core Competencies.
But Grandfather, whose job had been to put men like Memory Mike away for a long time, would not see any upside to me having illegal memories.
“Mother says I’m mature for my age.”
“I see. And what does that maturity tell you we should do differently then?”
“I—I guess I don’t know. If I was a mind healer, maybe I’d know what to do, th
ough. I mean, that’s part of being a mind healer, knowing how to help people, right?”
Grandfather chuckled, which sent him into a fit of coughing that grew loud and forceful. The nurse and family rushed back into the room. They were joined by Grandfather’s personal lawspeaker, a woman in a black suit with a bright orange and scarlet flower pinned to her chest. Auntie Eleanor grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me toward my mother. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you in here alone. Out! Now!”
“Actually, everyone back out, please,” the nurse said.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Auntie Louise said.
“And unlike her, I can actually help,” Auntie Eleanor said. “You heard the nurse,” she said to the rest of the crowd. “Everyone out.”
We all shuffled out of the room as Grandfather’s coughs eased into gasping breaths. The lawspeaker closed the door behind us.
The room outside the bedroom was part library, part den, and filled with souvenirs—flintlock pistols and rifles, a display case full of coins from pre-Federation Ameriga, the bicentennial flag, a collection of law books used by famous lawspeakers and justices of the past, a marble chessboard covered in fallen pieces, and a handful of clockwork curiosities shaped like animals and birds. Most of the items were decades old at least and blanketed in a fine layer of dust.
A bald man in a black suit sat waiting in a chair in the corner, a large trunk on rollers sitting beside him. Mother spoke to him, and though I couldn’t make out her words, she was trying to work her charms on him judging by her tone and sweeping gestures. But he just stared ahead silent and stoic. He shifted in his seat, and a silver infinity symbol flashed on his lapel. A memory doctor.
I looked back at the door to the bedroom, and my eyes burned with fresh tears. Why had Grandfather waited so long to give up his memories? He should have transferred his law memories to Uncle Blaine or Uncle Tagg years ago, should have kept his wealth and other memories and lived a happy retirement. If he had, he might not be dying now, worked to death, surrounded by these greedy, selfish people.
Or even if he’d become a clean slater years ago, given my uncles everything and they’d refused their obligation to care for him after, he couldn’t have feared the life of cheap food, inadequate nursing, and mindless labor most found in a public retireage. He would have had his choice of the best Federal Retirement Communities in the nation. He could have finished his life as he started, a happy child, free from obligations except to learn and play.
I suddenly remembered him laughing like a child when I splashed him in the lake. Him and Father both.
I turned away from the door before the threat of tears turned to actual crying.
“But I’m the one he bought it for,” Uncle Tagg said, drawing my attention. He and Uncle Blaine stood beside a small clockwork statue of Lady Justice, a blindfolded woman wielding a sword and balance scales. Uncle Tagg flicked one of the dangling scales with a finger. “I played with it whenever I visited. I’m sure he’d want me to have it.”
“He bought it as a symbol of his job,” Blaine said. “I’m sure when he passes his law knowledge to me, he’d want me to have the symbols of his office as well.”
And I was sure that their argument had absolutely nothing to do with Lady Justice’s skin being made of real gold.
Mother approached, a questioning eyebrow raised, but Cousin Sour Face rushed up and loomed over me first. “What did he say? Did he gift you any memories?”
Uncle Tagg glanced over from his argument. “Why would he get anything? He barely qualifies to be called family.”
Mother’s face flushed, and her hands gripped the sides of her dress. “If being an ass is what it takes to qualify, then maybe not. But he’s your nephew, and he has as much right to his grandfather’s memories as anyone here.”
“He can have whatever he wants,” Uncle Blaine said, “after Father’s gifted me and Tagg, and our sons. And you should watch how you talk to your betters.”
My jaw clenched. I’d felt out of place since the minute we’d arrived, but I knew how to deal with bullies at least. I took a step toward Uncle Blaine—
The door opened, and everyone fell silent. Grandfather’s lawspeaker stepped out. The aunties were still at Grandfather’s bedside, talking to him. Though I couldn’t make out what they said, their voices had a hysterical edge to them.
“Justice Blakely is ready to bequeath his memories,” the lawspeaker said. The memory doc stood, and wheeled his trunk into the bedroom.
Uncle Blaine also strode toward the door, but the lawspeaker raised a hand. “He has granted Trystan Blakely first request. Trystan, please come with me.”
My mother burst into tears. I looked up surprised, but she was smiling, practically giggling. She nudged me forward. “Go. Go!”
“What? No!” Blaine stepped up to the lawspeaker. He glanced past the woman at Grandfather, and lowered his voice. “I want … I want a competency review. He can’t just—”
“Denied,” the lawspeaker said. “Justice Blakely is showing no signs of dementia or rapid memory loss. Now, Trystan, if you will please—”
“I protest on religious grounds then,” Uncle Tagg said, moving to stand beside his brother.
The lawspeaker shook her head. “Denied. Religious exemption applies only if the memory donor is unable to communicate, and has no living will. Your father has made clear that he approves of the memory transfer. And, may I point out, a religious exemption would prevent you from receiving his memories as well.”
Uncle Tagg blushed, and took a step between me and the lawspeaker. “I don’t know how a woman was made lawspeaker. But I’m not going to take—”
Uncle Blaine put a hand on his shoulder. “Tagg! There’s nothing we can do. Yet.” He glared at me.
I understood perfectly well what he meant by “yet.” As soon as Grandfather passed, they would appeal and try to get the memories pulled from me. If that failed, I might find myself kidnapped and hauled to some back-alley mem doc. They could claim afterward that I’d given them the memories voluntarily— after all, I wouldn’t remember. Possession is everything when it comes to memory.
“Trystan,” the lawspeaker said, showing no reaction to Uncle Tagg’s outburst, and motioned me forward again. I edged past my uncles and followed her back into the dark and musty bedroom. She waved the aunties toward the door. “Ladies, if you will please excuse us?”
From my aunties’ pale expressions, you would’ve thought the lawspeaker had announced a prison sentence. I suppose if they thought their family might end up in a pleb neighborhood, it wasn’t much different, from their perspective.
The servant closed the door behind my aunties, and the lawspeaker guided me to the head of the bed, to stand beside the memory doc.
Grandfather rested with his eyes closed.
“Grandfather?” I whispered.
He opened his eyes, and after a second they focused on me. “Trystan. I’m about to grant you my memories of the law. Do you understand what that means?”
I nodded, and glanced at the memory doc as the familiar fluttery feeling swelled in my stomach and chest. I would not be the same person in a few minutes. Who knew how Grandfather’s memories would change me, change how I felt, how I acted, what I liked or feared, what I believed was right or wrong. I used to have a dog, Max. I loved him. Then I got dumped a memory of being attacked by a dog as a young child, and we had to get rid of Max because I would break down crying whenever he got close.
But that wasn’t what Grandfather was asking.
“It means I’ll be a lawspeaker,” I said. “And maybe a justice someday.”
Grandfather’s head wobbled back and forth on his too-thin neck. “Not a justice. They’ll never allow it with your past.”
“Then why me? Why not Uncle Blaine?” The words burst from me, and I snapped my mouth shut. Mother would be furious if she lea
rned what I’d said. “It’s just—I don’t even want to be a lawspeaker.”
“It is for the same reason I never sent your mother money. And I hope you’ll forgive me for both decisions.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Not yet. But you will. And you’ll have twelve years before you’re of age, free to do as you wish for most of that time. Think of that.”
Twelve more years. I’d expected to be assigned a labor post next year, but they didn’t assign decision posts until twenty-five, when the brain was fully developed.
“And I shall grant your wish,” Grandfather said. “You’ll receive all my memories of your father.”
Tears welled in my eyes, and I rubbed at them roughly with my wrist. “Thank you.”
“Are you ready then?” Grandfather asked.
I nodded. The lawspeaker handed me a document, and I signed. The memory doc opened his roller trunk, revealing a memory box, the design virtually unchanged since Newton and Hartley created the first one. Memory Mike often ranted about that, said the Elites kept the design from changing because their power depended on their control of knowledge, on keeping everyone in their place.
I was strapped into a chair. Both Grandfather and I had our heads immobilized, and memnets placed on them. Then they pumped in the drugs, and I fell asleep.
Mr. Blakely?”
I opened my eyes. I lay in one of Grandfather’s guest beds. Mother sat in a bedside chair. The lawspeaker—Jennie, her name floated to the surface—stood patiently awaiting my response.
“Yes.”
“Please state your full name.”
I pushed myself up into a sitting position. “Trystan Xavier Blakely.”
Jennie nodded, and commenced with a series of questions about the current year, and my own past, questions prepared by me to make sure my own memories weren’t lost in the transfer. Full memory overwrites were illegal, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t people rich or ruthless enough out there to attempt immortality, who believed they deserved to live more than the next person.