The Memory Librarian: And Other Stories of Dirty Computer

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my nieces and nephew, Jorgie, Cecil, and Khloé.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction: Breaking Dawn by Janelle Monáe

The Memory Librarian by Janelle Monáe & Alaya Dawn Johnson

Nevermind by Janelle Monáe & Danny Lore

Timebox by Janelle Monáe & Eve L. Ewing

Save Changes by Janelle Monáe & Yohanca Delgado

Timebox Altar(ed) by Janelle Monáe & Sheree Renée Thomas

Acknowledgments

P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

About the Author

About the Book

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

Breaking Dawn

I am not America’s nightmare. I am the American dream.

~ CRAZY, CLASSIC, LIFE

Some new dawns are dark, like a silk hood slipped over a nation’s head, then choked shut. An eclipse. It started that way.

We ushered ourselves into the darkness—so many of us having grown too cool with civic officials and techpreneurs who believed we should, we could, be an all-seeing people. And with so many so long fatigued from warring in our homes and abroad, so scared of unforeseen bullet showers and continental storms of smoke, we accepted their offer that an eye in the sky might protect us from . . . ourselves, our world. We already believed in an infinite web, so why not hardwire an eye to each of its strands? A camera on your home. A camera on a phone. A camera on a badge. A camera on a drone. And so on.

In time, this new breed of techno-nationalist had to face what the sun had long accepted—that even all their overseeing couldn’t keep watch on the whole nation at once. There were the things we hid. The warm spectrums we kept alive within ourselves. They were flames, maybe some magic, that we only allowed to burn when or where our light could shine solely before trusted, beloved eyes.

As a nation, though, we’d already whetted the appetite of this new breed, this Dawn that hungered to see all. And what they struggled to see, they began to deem not worthy of being seen—inconsistent, off standard. Began calling it dirty—unfit to be swallowed by their eyes. The more places the Dawn’s eyes fed, the more they encountered those parts of us we encrypted—the clandestine networks of love and expression, curiosity and desire. All the brilliant bugs, the dirty circuitry, under our surveilled surfaces.

The social majority—those who were already so broadcasted, so commonly seen, that they felt the Dawn’s sight was the same as their own—for them, there was safety. The perception of it. The assumption that they had nothing precious, no different or unusual coding, to conceal. That they fit. But as the hungry Dawn grew ravenous, they found ways to chew into all of us—past the encrypted walls of our minds and into our reservoirs of glitches and emotion. Into our pooled memory—the fragments of where we’d been, of who or what we’d touched, those blood bytes that mapped the paths of our future steps. The New Dawn longed to scrub those maps, tidy our nation’s futures. Even before the Dawn, we lived in a nation that asked us to forget in order to find wholeness, but memory of who we’ve been—of who we’ve been punished for being—was always the only map into tomorrow. To the Dawn, that was nothing but data. Could it be overwritten, or just erased?

The New Dawn seemed to be rising faster than the earth beneath our feet was rotating away from its umbra of surveillance. And yet the threat of being seen as unseeable—deviant, complex—didn’t stop people from congregating secretly, from sharing their dirt. On the skin of it, the future’s blemishes appeared to be clearing, but they’d just been forced down into the sinews—a righteous inflammation burning, a flagrant flame in the flesh. A blooming part rebellion and riot, part expression repressed.

The eyes of New Dawn, sensing but unable to see the heat, teared with impatience. The impatience with what it wasn’t seeing, what it couldn’t see, swelled into a flood of deeper cleanings. More of deep memory’s reserves corrupted with Nevermind.

It would have been only a matter of time before we could no longer remember a way into our futures.

Our memory was only a matter of time.

To save memory, it was time to stop living only within the time we’d been given.

Where the notes of memory and time make a chord, do we hear the answers to the whys of this world, or do we hear the tones that tell us the world we see is not the only one—that the escapes we yearned for might not exist in this one line of time, in this single, part-seen world?

Beyond time and memory—where the computer cannot reach—is dreaming.

The Memory Librarian

The lights of Little Delta are spread before Seshet like an offering in a shallow bowl. What memories are those shadows below making tonight, to ripen for the morning harvest? What tragedies, what indecencies, what hungers never satisfied? Her office is dark, but the city’s neat grids cut across her face with a surgical precision, cheek bisected from mandible, eye parted from eye, the fine lines of her forehead, so faintly visible, separated from their parallel tracks by the white light cast up from her city. She is the eye in the obelisk, the Director Librarian, the queen of Little Delta. But she prefers to see herself as a mother, and the city as her charge.

Tonight, her charge is restless. Something has been wrong for weeks, perhaps even months before she knew what to look for. But now that she does, she will find it, and fix it. She always has, ever since her appointment as Director Librarian of the Little Delta Repository a decade ago. She has earned her privileges, her title, her sweeping view of this small gem of a city. From up here, it fits in her palm. Its memories span her eidetic synapses.

Unnoticed by her conscious, monitoring mind, her left fingers close into a fist, thumb tucked inside the others like a baby behind his brothers.

Seshet is this city. No matter what rebellion is being conjured by infiltrating subconsciouses, no matter what flood of mnemonic subversion clogs the proper flow of pure, fresh memory—she will not let it go.

THE PROBLEM CAN BE TYPIFIED IN A FEW OF THE MEMORIES, which are not, blasphemously, any kind of memories at all. Imagine the following bread-and-butter (or beans-and-cornbread) moments, the kind the recollection centers shunt to the Repository’s data banks by the shovelful: a flash of rage when the fancy razor-striped aircar drafts you in traffic; the quotidian beauty of a sunset bleeding behind a kudzu-choked highway barrier; your lover’s kiss when she climbs back into bed in the middle of the night (and where was she? But you never ask). Now, though, the car cracks down the middle, chassis splintering like an eggshell, coolant arcing from its descending airpipe in a shape suspiciously suggestive of an upright penis; a flock of crows rise from the barrier and fling themselves west, cackling a song banned a generation ago for indecency and subversion; your lover’s teeth puncture your lower lip and as your mouth fills with blood and venom she whispers, I’m not the only one.

These aren’t memories, they just look enough like them to get past the filter. And once past, they fill the trawling net with bycatch and rusted junk until there’s no room left for the good stuff. Fresh memory, wild caught in the clear upstream of Little Delta, has kept this town booming ever since the first days of New Dawn’s glorious revolution. What used to be a dying mining town at the whip end of the Rust Belt, home to a motley assortment of drug addicts moonlighting as grafiteros and performance artists, became the model city, the first realization of the promise that New Dawn offered all people—well, citizens (well, the right kind of citizens)—in their care: beauty in order, peace in rigidity, and tranquillity in a constant, sun-dappled present. The only person lower than a memory hoarder was a dirty computer, and that Venn diagram was very nearly a circle.

But the improved Little Delta doesn’t have memory hoarders; it kicked the grafiteros and unsanctioned musicians out past the burned warehouse district twenty years back, even before Seshet’s tenure. There’s been nothing, nothing to indicate a problem in their memory surveillance for years. Until two months ago. First a few blips, barely worth worrying about, odd nightmares accidentally caught in their nets. Now, so quickly it dizzies her, the trickle has become a flood. No one has mentioned it to her, but someone must have noticed. New Dawn is watching. Not just Little Delta. Not just the Repository. Seshet herself. If she cannot stop these new memory hoarders, these false memory flooders, these dream doctors, these terrorists—she will not last much longer in this place she has fought so hard to secure.

She doesn’t believe in everything New Dawn stands for. How could she, being who she is? But she believes she has done good. The obelisk’s gaze has been mostly benevolent in her tenure here. And whatever she believes of herself, this she knows: whoever they put in her place will be far worse.

Stomach clenched, eyes bright, as though determination is the sole topography of her soul, she turns herself away—a lifetime’s habit—from the mountain of guilt beneath that white-tipped iceberg. She won’t let them beat her, not after she’s played the game by their own rules and won.

She has allowed her mind to be altered and trained, made capable of remembering a hundred times more than the average human’s. But among all those clamoring souls within her cage of bone, it is that slippery whisper that pushes itself to the forefront:

I’m not the only one.

A KNOCK ON THE DOOR. SESHET DOES NOT ANSWER. BUT SHE changes: shoulders back, chin up, unacknowledged despair tucked neatly behind a steady, measured gaze. Seshet the matron, Seshet the Librarian, Seshet the wise, worthy of her divine Egyptian namesake, the goddess of wisdom and memory. She’s been Director for long enough to know to look the part. Even on the other side of the door, the presence of someone else summons this woman she has made herself from the more amorphous frontier of the woman she might, in fact, be.

Someone’s here, Seshet! chirps Dee, so helpfully. Would you like to retrieve their memories?

She sighs. She never has the heart to shut down her Memory Keeper AI at night, though there’s nothing for Dee to do before the morning rush and its processors require impressive amounts of energy even when semidormant. Dee doesn’t like to shut down, though. It enjoys having time to think. Or time to bust my cover, Seshet thinks sourly.

That’s okay, Dee, Seshet says. I already know his memories. Her outward calm is a counterweight to the turmoil inside her. Twenty years as one of New Dawn’s few Black women officials, suspected from the start of being halfway to dirty computer no matter how unimpeachable her conduct, has forged her like steel, with just the right amount of carbon to bend but not shatter.

She presses a button on her desk and the door slides back into the wood-paneled wall. Jordan stands in the opening, his hand still poised midknock. The hallway light limns him in a halo that makes her squint.

In the dark again, Director Seshet?

She sucks her teeth. Come in, if you’re going to. I don’t like so much light at night.

Yes, yes, he says, at the same time as she does. It ruins my vision.

She smiles, softening as always with her favorite protégé. The door slides shut and she regards him in the hazy pixelated vision of half-dilated pupils. Dee, stubbornly independent as always, turns the ambients to their lowest setting. Jordan’s changed for the evening into his street clothes: khaki chinos, blue button-down, loafers. White-boy chic for New Dawn’s golden age. A model citizen, so long as no one asks him his number and knows what those final digits mean: child of seditionists and traitors, ward of the state, a charity case, eternally suspect.

Seshet has no such recourse to camouflage, fragile as it is. These days, she will leave the grounds in the full golden headdress and robes of office. She has determined to embrace her distance instead of constantly hoping for an acceptance that will never be theirs. But Jordan is young.

What are you still doing here, Jordan? Go home. Sleep. Forget about this place for a while.

Is that a joke? When Jordan scowls, he looks even younger than his years, enough to make her want to hug him or slap him. Do parents feel this way? Do they ever want to shake that insufferable innocence from their children? Had his? Had hers? But now the thought veers into dangerous waters and she perches on the edge of her desk to hide the wave of weakness in her legs.

Memory Librarian humor, says Seshet, deadpan. After a moment, Jordan cracks a smile.

You should too, he says. Get some sleep, I mean.

I’m fine, Jordan. I’m your superior, remember? You don’t have to worry about us.

He takes a step farther into the room and then pauses, as though the force of her solitary preoccupation prevents him from getting closer.

He tries to reach her with words instead. Something’s wrong.

For a moment, as she watches his sad face in the low light, a fist closes over her heart. This is it, they’ve gotten to him, he’s noticed the false memories and he’s snitched, you knew this would happen, you knew—

Then sense returns and she takes a careful, steadying breath. Did Jordan notice anything? Oh, he’s staring at her, that worried frown even deeper now, a ravine between his eyebrows. She wants to smooth it away. She wants to tell him to leave her alone and never return.

What’s . . . wrong? she manages, at last. You’re slipping, Seshet. Gotten too comfortable up here.

He straightens his shoulders. You’re working yourself ragged, Director! Anyone can see it.

Her voice is thin. Oh, can they?

He shakes his head. You hide it well, but I’ve noticed, and so have the other clerks. We see you too often not to know the signs.

I appreciate the warning, Jordan. I should be grateful you’re all watching me so closely. Perhaps I should go in for Counseling soon.

Counseling? The Director Librarian? Director, of course I’m not—

"If my obvious mental state is impeding my work here, then clearly my duty is to—"

I’m not talking about your duty, Seshet!

Her name, bare of its title, cracks in the air like a slap. After an astonished blink, she raises her eyebrows. His muddy green eyes meet hers for a second, but he breaks like a twig beneath the full force of that practiced gaze.

I’m . . . my apologies, Director.

She sighs, looks away herself. She hates these games, their necessity. Especially with Jordan. She’s protected him ever since his initiation five years ago. One Librarian misfit ought to watch out for another, she thought.

Tell me what’s bothering you, Jordan.

I just wish you’d get out more. See the city.

I’m seeing the city right now.

"In the city, not above it."

I’m the Director Librarian. She gives her title every ounce of demanded weight.

To her surprise, he meets her eyes again. He’s brave, and she loves him for it, fiercely as a mother lion.

There’s a woman I know. Friend of a friend. I think you’ll really like her, Director. I think . . . maybe you could finally find a companion. A friend.

Dangerous ground, again. She has hinted things to Jordan over the years, but never said anything that could be held against her if his memories were monitored—and all their memories are monitored.

I have friends, she says.

Who?

She swallows. You. Dee. Arch-Librarian Terry.

Jordan checks them off on his fingers. Your clerk, your Memory Keeper AI, and your immediate superior? That’s not a partner. Or a lover.

Careful, Jordan. Steel in her voice. What would you know about that?

Jordan holds his ground. More than you think.

The moment hangs there, two swords locked in battle. She shakes her head. Her heart is pounding too quickly.

Jordan, she says softly, I’m going to have to suppress this.

I know. I don’t care. I needed to tell you. I’m worried about you, Director. I wish you could feel again what it’s like out there, in the world.

Who feels it more than me? I have their memories.

But Seshet, he says. This time her solitary name touches her like a caress. What about your own?

LITTLE DELTA’S DOWNTOWN SPANS FIVE BLOCKS OF SHOPS, RESTAURANTS, bars, and clubs, each one duly approved by New Dawn’s Chamber of Standards. It has the reputation of being small but well curated, and on the weekends people from several towns over fill the adjacent parking lots to reward themselves for their hard workweek in Standards-approved fashion. There are always lines outside the commercial memory recollectors on weekend nights, crowds eager to exchange a few memories for points to top off their cards and buy another round.

Seshet moves steadily through the crowd, hoping for at least medium anonymity. No one would expect the Director Librarian to be out among the citizens of her city on a Friday night, let alone looking for the newest bar on Hope Street. Jordan selected her clothes himself: Fashionable, but not trendy. Not calling attention to yourself, but not hiding either.

Seshet had sighed. A Black woman in the business district in better clothes than theirs? I couldn’t hide if I wanted to. The moment held. These weren’t things normally stated aloud.

Her clerk, who looked like the chosen of New Dawn but would never fit easily in their tight folds, gave her a faint, bitter smile. No, he said. That’s why you have to hide under a spotlight.

Perhaps that explained the navy-blue beret he’d put at a rakish angle over her close-cut hair. It was the finishing touch of an ensemble designed to make people pay more attention to her clothes than her face.

A group of loutish young men standing outside a crowded beer garden pay too much attention, giving her stares hard enough to break bones. She hurries past them, shoulders back, face slightly averted, as they laugh and elbow one another. Her heart starts to race, triggered by somatic memory, ancestor-rooted and atavistic, beyond erasure, even for the cleaners at the Temple. Hey! one of them calls. She ignores him. The map on her chronoband says the bar is just at the end of the block.

More laughter, pointed as barbed wire. Hey, you! Hey, Librarian Seshet!

She freezes for a fraction of a second, jerks her head sharply toward them: a blur of pastel-shirted white boys, folded over, eyes squinting as though in pain, lips puckered. Seshet, Director Librarian! the joker calls, emboldened by his fellows. Give me a good memory tonight, won’t you?

Does she recognize him? Would she know his memories from the thousands that crowd her mind? But shock and fear prevent her access to them as cleanly as a lungful of Nevermind. She does not know anyone. She does not recognize anything. Only luck breaks the spell: a woman from the next table over—Taiwanese American, architect, midthirties, went through Counseling last year after a tough breakup, hardly remembers her ex any longer, so Seshet does for her—swings toward the men and bangs her pint on the table hard enough for the maple-tinted foam to spill over the sides. Leave her alone, you assholes!

At first Seshet wonders if the architect is defending her out of gratitude. Then she remembers that they have never actually met. One of the Standards Authorities on the block belatedly approaches the men and they back away, laughing with a kind of sheepish bravado that she’s only ever witnessed in young white men. A beat too late, she understands: They don’t know who she is at all. They just saw what she is, and for them that was more than enough. Seshet nods with chilly dignity to the architect (she ignores the Standards Authority, laughing with the boys even as he issues a warning) and resumes a steady, even stride. She swings her arms so her hands won’t betray that ghostly rattle in her heart. She is the Director Librarian, after all, though they would never believe it. She will keep her head high until the day they take it off her shoulders.

She is carrying herself just like that, sharp as a hawk, graceful as a jaguar, dignified as a goddess, when she strides into Hope Street’s trendiest new establishment and sees her.

Her: a lone woman, legs crossed, quietly sipping a drink chlorophyll-green at the end of a long chrome bar, heart-stoppingly beautiful. Seshet has never seen her before, not even in her city’s memories. She knows anyway. Her. The one who wields the executioner’s ax. The one who will make Seshet bow before she falls.

HER NAME IS ALETHIA 56934. HER NUMBER INDICATES A known deviance, but also that she has been cleared for full reintroduction to society. She came to Little Delta four years ago. I needed a new start, she says, grimacing in that way that hints at a story but warns Seshet off from asking about it. I got lucky when Pinkerton Cosmetics had a chemist position open up.

And your number . . . Seshet lets the sentence dangle. Alethia’s open expression turns professionally neutral with a speed that hits Seshet in the gut. But she had to ask. Someone from New Dawn might see them together.

I’m trans, Alethia says, in a clipped, matter-of-fact way. Cleared years ago. Is that a problem?

Seshet wants to crawl under the bar and hide. No! Of course not! It’s just, I’m the Director— But of course Jordan would have told her that. Seshet’s words stick like seed pods in her mouth.

Alethia’s laughter is bitter, intoxicating as gin. We all make our compromises. She leans forward. Tell me something more interesting. Tell me why you came here.

Seshet frowns. Her heart is pounding so fast it’s a wonder she doesn’t pass out. Her hand reaches for her drink—impossibly, luridly blue, with a name like indigo flame—and she drains half of it in a gulp. It tastes like orangey seaweed. To Little Delta? she asks.

Alethia nods encouragingly. Seshet clears her throat and takes a deep, steadying breath. No one has ever affected her like this before, not even her first lover twenty years ago, when they were both novice Librarians, clean and freshly purged of their pasts, ready to make their newest memories with one another.

I was assigned here, she finally says. Eighteen years ago. Half a lifetime ago. Long enough to watch the steady grid, the illuminated heart of the reformed town, expand beneath the obelisk’s warmly glowing spire.

Do you like it here?

She stares at the woman: thick eyebrows, light brown skin, cheekbones to chisel stone, lower lip fuller than the top. Like . . . it?

Those eyebrows draw together, humorously confused. As a place to live?

Oh. There is a mole on Alethia’s left earlobe, easy to see because she wears no earrings. Seshet wants to kiss it. She wants to take it between her teeth and tug. It’s where all my memories are. I couldn’t leave even if I had the choice.

She realizes, a hard drop of a second later, that she’s implied a state secret that would mean instant disciplinary action if discovered. Luckily, Alethia looks more confused than ever and Seshet finds her tongue again. She asks Alethia what she does at her job, and discovers she spends all day in a lab coat mixing skin creams. Seshet tries to come up with ways to flirtatiously compliment Alethia’s perfect skin—maybe But I bet you don’t need any of it? She winces. Director Librarian and still such a cornball, Seshet. She is awkward as a teenager, mute as a memory hoarder. Her tongue feels wet and heavy in her mouth. Why is a woman like this even talking to her? Smiling, as if she sees something inside her that Seshet has long since lost track of?

Seshet finishes her drink.

Would you like another? Alethia asks.

Her expression is solicitous but neutral, and yet Seshet catches the faintest whiff of a side eye. For the first time that evening, she feels herself loosen up.

She lifts the heavy square cocktail glass, a tide pool of melted ice clinging to the bottom among fat drifts of blue-green pulp. She meets Alethia’s caramel-brown eyes, and, as an answering spark from a fire so deeply banked she had not known it still smoldered, Seshet laughs.

I would like, she says, to take you to a place with better drinks.

ALETHIA KNOWS JUST THE ONE: A DIVE BAR CALLED COUSIN Skee’s on the far east side, just one block from the old Woolworth Building that marks the frontier of Old Town with its dirty artist squats and dirtier crack houses. Cleared and abandoned now, according to Standards, but Seshet’s seen too many memories of clandestine, rebellious activities over that darkened border to believe them. She wonders what Alethia knows about that warren of gap-toothed buildings dressed in garish primary colors, graffiti streaming like skirts at the edge of broken sidewalks. The poised, immaculate woman who greeted her at that hopeless Hope Street cocktail bar should be as out of place here as Seshet is, but the man behind the bar calls out Lethe! as soon as they open the door and greets her with a fist bump.

Where you been, girl? he asks, reaching without hesitation for the cocktail shaker by the sink. He takes an unmarked bottle with a cheap plastic spout, mixes that clear liquid with the contents of three other unmarked bottles, throws in some ice and starts shaking, all in the time it takes for Alethia to give him a sweet smile that stings Seshet down to the tenderest points of the soles of her feet.

Working, Skee, says Alethia, sounding at once nothing like the woman at the trendy bar and even more impossibly herself. You know the drill.

Looks like you’ve got a good thing going, he says, taking in her designer shoes and purse at a glance. Alethia just shrugs. Skee’s hard expression softens. He pours the drink with a flourish and pushes it across the bar.

One mar-Skee-rita, on the house.

Alethia grimaces. You still trying to call it that?

"What you mean, trying? Been its name since back when you started—"

And ain’t no one but you called it that in all that time, says Alethia, leaning onto the bar with a strange smile, hard as glass. Skee stops short. At last, he glances at Seshet. He seems to sum her up and dismiss her in one swallow: You may be Black, but you aren’t one of us. He doesn’t know who she is. But he can smell what.

And for your friend?

Seshet perches on the bar stool, listing slightly to the side. A mar-Skee-rita, please, she says, diction crisp as fresh linen.

Alethia lets out a surprised yelp of laughter. Seshet shivers. Skee grins. That’ll be ten points.

Hard currency? she asks, because she is who she is, and here on that hard edge between new order and old chaos, she wants to know.

Skee gives her a long look. So does Alethia, hooded and opaque, as though there is another woman entirely sharing space behind those wide brown eyes. Seshet itches to know what memories underlie that cold inspection, that easy laughter, that gentle smile, but for now—until she gets back to the obelisk and their memory data banks—she has no way to know.

Skee turns from them with a shrug and starts making another drink. Don’t put recollection boxes all the way out here. Well, the check-cashing joint on the corner has one, works sometimes.

That was true enough. Memory recollection boxes were sparser the farther out from the center you went. But on the border of Old Town, the ones they did have went out of service with surprising frequency. Someone was always damaging the headset or the router, and somehow the vandals’ faces or their voices or their memories were never captured, not by drones or Standards Authorities or even automated street surveillance. She’d wondered about that over the years. But she knew who was most likely to live out here at the edge, and she never pushed for a deeper investigation. No one higher up in New Dawn had ever asked.

Seshet reaches into her wallet and pushes two five-point coins across the table.

Skee slides across the margarita, still frothy from the shaker.

Their gazes lock. She’s good at this game of mutual evaluation, but she can’t fully commit; she’s too aware of Alethia’s watchful curiosity beside her.

At last, Skee shrugs and cracks his neck. You happen to work around that obelisk, Miz . . .

Seshet allows herself a small smile. You wouldn’t want to know.

AFTER MIDNIGHT, THE BAR IS OVERWHELMED WITH A NEW crowd, diverse in a way she’s not used to seeing in downtown Little Delta (and certainly not in the corridors of the obelisk): the oldest must be in his seventies and the youngest still a teenager; all shades of brown, Black, and beige; men in dresses and women in sharp-cut suits and others who defy any gender categorization at all. She pretends not to notice. With New Dawn, any gender nonconformity is enough to get you a deviant code appended to your number—dirty computer, recommended for urgent cleaning—and she doesn’t want to flag anyone tonight. Seshet recognizes some of them. They’re still members of her flock, however wayward. Others are unrepentant memory hoarders, the kind who never so much as walk through downtown in case a drone recollector might land, light as a horsefly, on their temple and graze a few loose memories off the top while they’re waiting for the light to change. She cares even for them, though they don’t know it. The obelisk’s eye, like any panopticon, gives only an illusion of omniscience—Seshet has made an art of selective gazing.

And now she is down in the dirty thick of it, watching and being watched in her turn, a sensation so unusual she keeps drinking just to dull the edge. Three mar-Skee-ritas in, Seshet finds she does not mind at all being one more in a crowd of hoarders and deviants. She hasn’t gone in for memory collection herself in months—if anyone asked, she would have claimed work pressure, but no one has. The truth is that Seshet enjoys the sensation of memory hoarding, that sweet, leftover-Halloween-candy feeling of keeping something back for herself, however temporary. The new crowd is high on some kind of drug, singing songs she’s never heard of in harmony, finishing one another’s sentences. One of them, a light-skinned boy who reminds her of someone she can’t place, wearing a baseball cap with a stencil of an old man with a star blowing out of his forehead, dances Seshet by the shoulders and stares into her eyes as though he can see straight into her memory-scoured soul. He laughs and says something that might be full or bull—the music the new crowd has brought with them is so loud—and then spins away from her. He freezes when he spots Alethia, turning at that moment from the pool table where she’s just sunk another shot. Alethia raises her eyebrows. He opens his mouth