Memory Care
In the memory markets, commodity is control.
Listen to the story below…
Sarah stretches out her naked body under the white linen sheets of the now sundrenched bedroom. The clock reads 11:00 AM, and outside, she can hear the birds of the late-summer day singing.
Oh my God. Last night was amazing, she thinks, her smile pinned brightly to her face. She slides out of the covers, finds a night shirt, and walks into the kitchen where a crisp Belgian waffle sits, snowed with powdered sugar and topped with a fresh strawberry. A small Post-it note sits near the plate.
Thank you. Had to catch a flight. Talk soon. -Chris
Sarah’s body vibrates like a plucked harp as her eyes dance over the note. She smells the waffle and pours herself a tall cup of coffee. She thinks over how, in only the past month, her life has changed dramatically. Her new job, followed by a chance encounter with this man, had shifted everything. But Chris. Chris’s presence, his attention, and his selflessness blew into her life like a hurricane, and it’s as if for the past three weeks everything has been a dream.
“How did I get so lucky?” she whispers, blowing her breath over the coffee.
The job was incredible – Navigator trader on the memory market floor. It came with the standard stuff: an open-plan office, free coffee, and a hybrid schedule, but there was one benefit that made her jaw drop. Free access to the cerebnets. When she got the offer, she could hardly believe this windfall.
“Did you say free access to the cerebnets?”
“That’s right,” the recruiter said to her on the other side of the screen. “Resolute is in the business of keeping its employees happy, and we understand that cerebnet access is just one of those offerings that can attract and keep top talent. And, of course, cerebnet access is used for the trading that has to happen every day.”
“Of course. It’s just…”
“And, I might add, you’ll have your cerebnet access installed at your residence at no extra cost to you. Do we have a deal, Sarah? Will you be able to start next month?”
Sarah remembers her breath getting caught in her chest, and a flush of gratitude exploding within her body.
“Of course. Of course I will. Thank you so much. I’m…”
“No, thank you, Sarah. I’m sure you’ll be very happy with us here at Resolute.”
“I’m so looking forward to it.”
The installation of her port was seamless and relatively painless. A few Ibuprofen and an early night to bed, and that was that. Hidden right behind her right ear, the device was discreet, unlike the cumbersome inputs that Sarah was forced to wear as she battled to gain a position up the corporate ladder. A Sony Model, a Jackelope. A stupid name, but a beautiful accessory that visibly showcased her worth to the company, and to others, should she choose to display it. The optionality of that…that was priceless. She walked into the trading floor in her best pantsuit, her white silk blouse tight against her chest, not too showy, but showy enough.
After all – you have to do what you have to do.
The trading floor at Resolute was an exact perfect cubit, 30 feet by 30 feet by 30 feet. The perfect number and proportion for a trading floor. The room was stark white, pure and bright, and as Sarah walked in, she was struck by the six others standing with her. Three agentic builds, crafted and shaped as humanoids, and a man, a woman, and an andro. DELTA TRADING FLOOR was imprinted against the white walls in the stark Resolute typography.
“Welcome, Sarah,” the man said, wearing a bright blue suit. His eyes, a cold blue, reminded her of glaciers standing in the sea. “We are so glad you are here. We’ve been patiently waiting for another navigator to join our crew. Your resume…it was impressive.”
Of course it is, she thinks to herself. I am impressive – I worked my ass off to be here.
“I’m happy to be here. This opportunity to engage in this type of trading is exhilarating for me.”
“You’ll find that memories are much more robust than carbon credits,” blue eyes says. “And I heard you even had a counteroffer from Amity?”
“Yes, but Resolute matched that and countered. It was like I was the belle at the ball. I am grateful and feel blessed to be in such a fortunate position.”
He smiles at this, but says nothing. “My name is Balaam. I’ll be your second on the floor. Are you ready to proceed? Control has us go live in fifteen, so I’m able to give you a quick rundown of the floor, if you desire.”
“Let’s meet the team first, Balaam. Thank you.”
Balaam nods and instructs the trading team. “Crew, report in.”
The woman and the andro approach followed by the bots.
The andro speaks first. “I’m Elle, a pleasure to have you, Navigator.”
“Call me Sarah. Please. And thank you for the warm welcome.”
“Sarah,” they correct, nodding their head.
The woman next, “Third – Qanna. Welcome to the floor, Sarah.”
“Thank you, Qanna.”
Balaam calls forth the traderbots next.
“Bots, report in to the Navigator.”
They are of uniform models - trading bots only slightly larger than the linked humans on the floor, but each painted with a distinct aesthetic to signify their functions. From their movement and sheen, Sarah knew these were newly constructed from Resolute’s own proprietary foundries - Channeler models.
“Greetings, Navigator Sarah, my name is Cell. I’ll be matrixing the memories on the floor for you and the team.”
“Thank you, Cell.”
“Navigator,” the second bot speaks, its voice and alloy shell are dark ebony. “You may call me Offset. Welcome to the floor.”
The last bot, crimson in color, nods its head and speaks, “Navigator. Query is my call sign. We stand ready to support you and the rest of the crew.”
Sarah smiles. “Thank you all for the warm welcome. All of you. Shall we begin?”
Query speaks, his firm, cool voice clipping within the cubit. “Cell, bring up the matrix and show the inputs for the Navigator.”
The crew moves into position, and Balaam makes the call, “Inputs on in three, two, one…”
Sarah presses the input above her right ear and the white-walled room erupts with an explosion of wondrous color. Sarah watches as the data expands across the three dimensions like a swirling galaxy. Colored pinpricks of nodes come online like individual starbursts, each one representing a memory, a thought, a digital representation of the commodity that can be bought, held, sold, and resold on the marketplace to the nueronet connected.
Qanna speaks up the chain of command to the second. “Balaam, the market opens in two minutes.”
“Ready, Navigator?”
“Ready.”
The first twelve-hour day is like a dream for Sarah. It takes little more than an hour for her to get the bearings of her controls and her calls to her team, but there is a clear moment when she locks in. The trading floor is chaotic. Sarah expected this, but she did not know that the memory market had this much chop. A swell of trades comes pouring in from Resolute’s competitors, and Sarah sees the sign of the bubble, a small convex growth of data points, swelling up. The beginnings of what could become a mountain, jutting up from the floor of the space.
“Commands Navigator,” Balaam calls, not a question. We need your orders. He throws his hands madly in the air against the projected controls that hover, steering the simulated vessel as the team bobs through the swells and chaotic fluctuations of the memory markets, each move a financial positioning in the space, representing the P/L of thousands of microtrades occurring in real time on the trading floor.
“Swell off the port bow, crew,” Sarah calls. “Looks like a run on security and safety. Am I correct, Balaam? Cell, run a 2D matrix on the build-up, let’s see what we are dealing with here.”
“Certainly, Navigator,” Cell calls, bringing up the chart, casting their axis out like a net over the building hill of the digital pixels that are beginning to stack upon one another. Sarah has seen this movement before in her last charter. Swells that culminate, first like an ant hill, and then like a termite hive, and sometimes into a piercing mountain of transactions. Cell’s net covers the bubbling transaction space, then casts the data up onto the wall.
“You’re correct, Navigator. Rapid interest in the growing security sector,” Cell reports. “Memories for nostalgia, for childhood, and for an overall remembrance of security and well-being. Memories…for home.”
Sarah calls, “Query, what’s the story they’re selling?”
“Navigator,” Query throws up a waterfall of stories against the left wall of the cubit from the nets. “Recent news of another war campaign opening up in Iraq, as well as signs of outbreak of disease in the Union state of Guatemala - a flu variant of some kind, amarga. These two events seem to be causing fluctuations in the market for this sector. Those with memory cores want to be happy…or safe with so much happening.”
“Differing opinions? We have six more hours.”
“Navigator, with all due respect, I don’t buy it,” Offset speaks, his black, featureless screen of face, turning to face her. “It’s too easy, too obvious. This feels like a pull from the hedges.”
“Balaam, Elle, Qanna? Thoughts?” Sarah calls out.
The calling of their names causes the human portion of the crew into full attention.
Sarah presses them, “Come on, folks, give me your thoughts. Now.”
Elle breaks their silence. “We usually only guide the floor, Navigator. We don’t speculate on the data currents. The bots do that well enough.”
Sarah cuts in, “Today, I’m asking for your thoughts, Elle. Come on, what have you seen in the past? You’ve navigated the memory market much longer than I. What’s the play?”
Balaam’s eyes are wide, shocked at this questioning. Then Qanna speaks.
“The riskier play is to short the narrative and go with Offset’s recommendation. If it is a trap, the swell will collapse, and we should get the hell away from it before it does. We have some time, but not much time, before the market closes.”
“Any competitive intelligence? Query?”
The crimson trading bot throws up a red colored lens over the whole virtual space, and five other cubits of trading floors appear before their eyes, navigating like them on the data sea. Each one of them draws closer to the swell.
“Competitors appear to be following the signs, getting closer to the buildup.”
“This could be a rocket, Navigator,” Balaam warns, his voice raised.
He’s excited. Too excited.
“Query, bring up the other Resolute floors. Hurry.”
Another lens sweeps over the floor, and four more white cubits appear in the mix, circling the nexus of activity like bath toys drawn to a pulled plug.
Too much risk. Too much risk. Too concentrated.
“Come about, and turn to the starboard, crew. Now!” She glances at Offset. “Offset, I hope to God you’re right.”
If Offset could smile, he would have. Sarah could feel his energy when he looked at her, a feeling of absolute confidence.
“Aye, aye, Navigator. My suggestion is to move over, closer to the pleasure-seeking markets or into the transcendental states.”
“Let’s ride through the border of the two and hedge the bet.”
“Aye, aye!”
The cubit turns around, navigating the floor away from the security and nostalgia build up, leaving the other floors circling like hungry sharks behind. In an hour, Sarah turns to look behind her, only to see the nascent peak of the nostalgia market begin to collapse, its buildup failing to materialize with only two hours left in the market time.
Holy shit. On the first day.
The collapse sends a wave of explosive energy across the rest of the market, and the crew feels their cubit rocket up in the sell. The profits from their position is head and shoulders above the others left in the now-swirling whirlpool of the security and nostalgia markets.
Sarah glances back, “Cell, status report.”
Cell speaks, another matrix pulls up on the screen, “Trading Floor Delta is in the black, 1000% increase over the others in the market. The collapse you called…”
“Offset called it, Cell,” Sarah corrects.
Query cuts in, “Navigator, the Resolute stock has doubled over the past five minutes, due to our positioning. Our play was not only enough to cover the loss of our other floors, but it has nearly sunk the competition. There are calls on the forums for Resolute to…purchase Amity.”
Qanna speaks, “Holy shit. Holy shit.”
Elle begins to laugh out loud, a cackle of glee.
Balaam blows a whistle, “Keep it together, people, we have one more hour. We aren’t done yet.”
He glances over at her and whispers, “Well done, sir. Excellent work.”
Sarah can feel the words Balaam has said and knows they are not spoken lightly.
She turns her attention back to the crew. “Balaam is right,” Sarah calls out. “Let’s keep our position strong before the market closes. We will celebrate then.”
That night, Sarah calls Chris and tells him to come over and fuck her brains out. Not sweet. Not pretty. Not considerate. But a torrent of raw and furious sex that sends her up and over the moon, again and again. He rushes over, and they go for hours without a single word between them, the afterglow of Sarah’s day culminating in a feeling of such success that she barely knows what to do with herself. In the moment, she loses herself and sees him looking at her.
His eyes. She swears it was a trick of the light, but it seems like she remembers his eyes as being brown…
But they are blue. A vivid blue-green.
He arches his back and releases, and with it a wave of relief he looks down at her, behind brown eyes.
Brown eyes. Thank God.
“Thank you, darling.”
She smiles, but her heart is still lined with a panicked beat she doesn’t understand. She shoves it away, not willing to investigate, and wraps herself around him. After all, everything is perfect. Everything is good.
How did she get so lucky? How did she get so fortunate?
Sarah enters a wide office on the top floor of the Resolute tower. The call came early this morning, a summons to the Chief Operating Officer’s office at 8:00 AM sharp. Sarah walks through the 15-foot mahogany doors and into what would pass for two houses for people on the UBI dole. A stone desk, hewn of white granite with a vein of pink streaking through its center, anchors the back wall. A crystal chandelier hangs elegantly above a recessed den filled with plush leather couches flanked by a wide, tiled fireplace. Slits of morning light cut through the room, through twenty-foot windows that run symmetrically down the east and west walls of this palace.
“Ah, Sarah. Welcome.” The voice is deep and resonant. The man to whom it belongs stands up and walks behind the marble table, his muscular body clad in a Faloni suit, his wrist shining with the weight of a gold timepiece.
“Good morning, Mr. Whitmore,” Sarah says, not knowing what any of this is about.
He ushers her down into the recessed sitting area.
“Can I get you anything, a coffee or a muffin? Or maybe you’d like a biscuit. There is this little shop, you know, local flair makes the best biscuits that you’ve ever tasted. Could I get you one of those?”
“All of that sounds great, Mr. Whitmore. I’ll just have what you’re having.”
“Perfect, Sarah. I’ll have Edna get that for us, and we can chat.”
A console sits on the coffee table, and with the flick of a button, Edna’s face fills the screen. “Edna, darling, would you please bring us a plate of biscuits from Eddie’s and two of your best espresso lattes?”
“Of course, Mr. Whitmore,” the digitized admin says.
Whitmore turns his face towards Sarah, and she feels examined by his cool, gray eyes.
“Sarah, I’m sure you’re wondering why you were called up here today. I know you’re worried about your floor, but I’ve instructed Balaam to take command so that we can talk as the markets open. It’s important that we talk.”
“Of course, Mr. Whitmore.”
“Your performance over that past month in the memory markets. Well, I don’t know how to say this other than the facts. It’s nothing more than exceptional what you’ve accomplished. Resolute is leading the competition in this commodity over our competitors and, of course, you’ve heard that our debt status was upgraded to a premium tier.”
“Yes, sir, I did hear that.”
A labor bot comes in carrying two trays, one piled high with biscuits and another, smaller one with the drinks.
Whitmore exclaims with praise to the bot, “Thank you very much, Alistair!”
“Of course, Mr. Whitmore.”
“Okay, Sarah, try these. You’ve never had one like this, I can assure you. Comes from an old Southern recipe, stemming from the plantations. After the Civil War and Pre-Union days, you know.”
Sarah takes a bite. An explosion of richness rolls across her tongue, followed by a whisper of salt. “Oh, my God. That is so good.”
“You’re my excuse to have one. Can’t eat many of these, you know.” Whitmore laughs.
After several bites and a sip of espresso, Whitmore continues.
“Listen, Sarah. I’ll cut to the chase. I want to promote you. Head of the Navigator division of the Memory Markets. We need your expertise and your vision, not just on one trading floor but all of them. Is that something that would interest you?”
Sarah blinks. Repeating his words in her head.
She finds a response, but it takes a beat.
“Sir, I’m honored. Of course. I would love to serve in that capacity.”
Whitmore claps his hands with glee. “Thank you, Sarah. I assure you you will be duly compensated for this work, and I am so excited for the possibilities. Every floor will begin reporting to you, starting tomorrow. I’m going to get you scheduled with your chief of staff laborbot, and we will get you settled in your new quarters today…”
“Sir?” Sarah interrupts. “If it’s okay, I have someone from my crew I’d like to have serve in that capacity with me.”
“Just say the word, Sarah. What’s the bot’s name?”
“Offset, sir. I’d like to have Offset join me in that role.”
“Of course, Sarah. We will make it happen.”
Offset enters Sarah’s office, his black metallic shell freshly polished.
“Chief Navigator,” he begins.
Sarah looks up from her vid screen, her eyes lost in the details of the trending margins of the Memory Floors. “Please, Offset, call me Sarah. No need for pageantry. It’s been three months.”
“It is not pageantry, Chief Navigator – it is programming. And it is highly uncomfortable for me to refer to you as that.”
“Very well. Then just Chief.”
Offset looks at her, and Sarah wonders if she can read exasperation on his blank reflective face.
“Very well…Chief.”
“That’s it. Thank you.”
“Chief, there is something you need to see. On trading floor Delta.”
“Bring it up.”
The office shifts, projecting a fantastic overlay, the holograms focused on Balaam, now promoted to the Navigator role on Delta, crewing his floor through the memory markets.
“I wanted to flag that it appears the Amity trading floors are moving in a coordinated pattern away from ours,” Offset warns. “Usually, Amity floors compete against each other, and are scattered shot in different domains, but today. Today they are…”
“I see it.” Sarah looks at the composition of the floors, their trades, and momentum through the live markets. “Where are they headed. What domain?”
“They are shifting into nostalgia, but in the depressive quandrant.”
Sarah’s face bunches up, and she looks at the laborbot. “Depressive nostalgia?”
“It could be a false flag, Chief. Or they could be laying bait to compromise our positioning.”
“What are the odds?”
“Estimated risk ratio on it being deviant game positioning, 45%, sir.”
“This is a tactic they are coordinating across all their floors?”
“That is certain, Chief.”
Sarah looks at the market map, her eyes drifting over each floor’s positioning.
“How should I instruct the floors, Chief Navigator?” Offset urges, his voice lilting up.
Damn it, Offset.
“Hold the course. Don’t take the bait.”
“Aye.”
A wave, a deep, unheard but felt bass note rumbles, cycling through the office. In the next moment, an avalanche of various inputs explodes over Sarah, and she realizes that whatever is happening is far beyond the competition between Amity and Resolute. First, a bright, painful pulse in the back of her head, right where her unit is installed, and the world flashes with a bright neon light that explodes and burns through her vision. She feels her body collapse to her knees, and she’s on the office floor, Offset running to her, until he too crumbles, his motor coordination and consciousness scrambled by some unseen breach.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Sarah watches the hovering vidscreen waver and watches Resolute’s cubit trading floors, buzz in and out, their connections getting severed, one after the other.
Sarah lies there, a downed doe felled by an arrow in its liver. She tastes blood in her mouth and feels the room lift, followed by a hollowing explosion.
Whatever this is. It is the end.
The sound of beeping in the darkness startles her. Her eyelids flick open, and she finds herself horizontal, her face staring up at blue burning fluorescents, her arms and legs bound to a bed. She opens her mouth to speak, only to feel a wide tube flowing deep down her throat.
Oh God. Oh God.
She looks around, trying to understand where she is.
This is not a hospital. Oh God.
Another explosion of flashing green light erupts from the back of her head, and then darkness. Only darkness.
“Sarah Panech,” a voice calls to her. “It’s time to wake up.”
The sound of her name causes her eyes to flicker open. It takes a moment for her vision to come into focus. Somehow, she finds a blurry shape in the blue light that she knows must be an IV bag. She anchors on that and slowly expands her field of vision.
A man stands over her like a vulture. Black suit and a red tie, a briefcase dangling from his left side.
What the hell?
“Sarah, it’s good that you are awake,” the man speaks slowly, deliberately, like he’s reading from a script. “Listen. You’ve been in a terrible accident. You are safe now. But…Resolute was attacked by a religious terrorist organization. The memory market floors…”
Sarah’s mind is flushed with fear. What happened to her crew —Ballam, Qanna, and Elle? No, not just them. The other five trading floors she managed?
“They’re all dead, Sarah. The attack was swift, and all of them have succumbed to their injuries. You were the only survivor.”
Without recourse, Sarah feels hot, wet tears fall from her eyes down her cheeks.
God. No. God…No.
“That is why I am here, Sarah. I’m a transition officer from Amity, Inc. In the current state of the chaos we’ve been brought in by order of the Union government to seize what remains of Resolute’s assets. We would like to incorporate your professional skills on behalf of Amity. I’m sure you’ll find that our package is most generous, should you consent to joining us.”
Sarah tries to open her mouth, but finds it will not open. A panic surges within her. She has to get out of here. Back to home. Back to Chris.
How the hell did this happen?
“Just a minute, my dear,” the man says. “I apologize.” He pulls out a remote from his briefcase and presses something. Sarah feels her jaw relax, and her tongue falls loose in her mouth.
“Chris! I need to speak to my partner, Chris. I need to talk to him before I consent to anything.”
The man stares at her, a little smile hiding on his face.
“Of course, I understand.”
Without warning, the man’s face fades and…
Oh God.
The man’s face…shifts. Morphs. Transitions.
And Chris stands over her, his eyes flicking between brown and blue.
“Hey, darling,” he says, and Sarah feels her heart explode in her chest, but her mind locks with fear.
“You’re not Chris,” she whispers, shaking. In a desperate panic, she flings herself against her gurney bindings, but there is no release.
“Oh…but I am. I was your programmed companion provided to you via your contract by Resolute Holdings, now an asset of Amity, Inc. Chris was always part of your package. You perform, and you get Chris, as well as all the other perks of the job.”
Sarah feels like she’s going to faint. “You…mean he’s just…a memory?”
“An expensive one,” Chris says, pinning her down with his deep blue eyes. “An asset that is reserved for top performers like yourself. Delivered to you on behalf of the company to ensure that you would never leave your position, Sarah. Amity will match it, and then some. You just need to consent to joining our memory market division – and everything you’ve lost can be restored.”
This can’t be happening. This can’t be what happened.
“None of this…was real?”
“What is real, Sarah?” the shadow man whispers, his face morphing back to the vulture state. “What is real about any of the experiences that you have riding between your ears? All of it – they are just inputs. Ones and zeros that are bought and sold by the world of others who want to orchestrate a better world for themselves. Is that so bad? To facilitate the dreams and desires of those who wish the world were just a bit better? More fair? More just? If you think of it, we make miracles, Sarah. We engineer realities for all those who have augmented themselves to the neuroverse. Miracles that can be yours if you just consent to joining Amity. You’re very lucky…you know that, right?”
The word rings in her ears. “Lucky,” she repeats. She flicks her eyes at him, a spark of defiance erupting against the darkness. “And if I refuse?”
“Then we have other ways to get what we need from you. Less pleasant ways, but just as effective. I’m giving you this one choice, Sarah. You need to decide. Now.”
Balaam’s face flashes up on the screen. “Sarah, we’ve got another swell, this one in childhood comfort. Positioning?”
“North quadrant,” Sarah barks the commands. She watches as Resolute’s trading floors outflank and outmaneuver their Amity competitors once more. She smiles, imagining how she and Chris will celebrate the week’s win, with an expensive bottle of cabernet, some sex, and a long weekend trip to the mountains. She will disconnect then, during their trip in the mountains, fully unplugging from the neuronets. They will go on a hike up to Max Patch, and sit in the sun and among the wildflowers. If the color of his eyes shifts…she will ignore it. She will take what she has and be grateful.
She loses herself for a moment, but Balaam speaks. “Positioned, Chief Navigator – any further orders?”
“Hold the position, Balaam. Let’s see what they can do.”
A swell of gratitude builds up within like a wave, not unlike the one Balaam navigates on her vidscreen. Is this feeling something that is bought on the market and piped to her input, reserved for her? She doesn’t know. How can she ever know?
The thought evaporates and diminishes as another burst of gratitude erupts within her, bringing tears to her eyes. It’s almost like she was…realizing something…something that wasn’t hers, but she loses it as the emotion swells up and up.
She’s lost it. It doesn’t matter now.
How did I ever get so lucky?