Content Note
Adults only. This is fictional work intended for readers 18+. Contains physical, mental, and psychological intended for adult readers only.
Reminder! This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of my imagination or are used in a made-up way. Any likeness to real people, living or dead, or actual events is totally coincidental.
MEMORISUS
by
Ozanna Wilder
Adult
Science Fiction
Cyberpunk/Speculative Fiction
“Stefania” by Kalush Orchestra—Ukraine’s winning 2022 Eurovision entry
(English translation)
Stefania, mama, mama, Stefania
The field is blooming, but she is turning gray,
Sing me a lullaby, mum,
I want to hear your native words one more time.
She rocked me to sleep, gave me rhythm, and surely
Won’t take my willpower away, for she gave it to me.
She surely knew more than even Solomon;
along winding roads, I’ll always come to you.
She won’t wake me, won’t rouse me, even in fierce storms;
She’ll take Grandma’s two middle fingers, as if they were bullets.
She knew me very well; she wasn’t deceived,
even when she was so tired, she rocked me to the beat.
Lyuli lyuli lyuli…
Stefania, mama, mama, Stefania
The field is blooming, but she’s turning gray,
Sing me a lullaby, mama
I want to hear your native words.
I’m not in diapers anymore, no mama, no mama, enough already,
No matter how much I’ve grown, I pay for my mistakes.
I’m not a little child anymore, she keeps getting on my nerves;
I was out walking, I wish the path had led me to you.
You’re still young, oh mama, at the peak.
If I don’t appreciate your care at the peak of glory, I’m at a loss
Forget this peak, this peak, I’d burn it with my love
Lyuli lyuli lyuli
Stefania, mama, mama, Stefania,
The field is blooming, but she’s turning gray,
Sing me a lullaby, mama,
I want to hear your native words again.
Stefania, mama, mama, Stefania,
The field is blooming, but she’s turning gray,
Sing me a lullaby, mama,
I want to hear your native words again.
CHAPTER 1
Ryker Makarenko
15 November 2033
I want to stretch out my tongue and lick the round, metal nipple hovering dangerously close to my eye, a piercing distance away. The lick would only take a second, and then the pressure in my head will melt away. But I’m not going to move, not because I don’t want to, but because the Oblivscorum fastened a steel head cage into both sides of my jaw. I can’t move. Not by much. And I can’t lick.
Aurora and Oriana, twin Oblivscorum models, told me the cage is for my own protection. From what? From me? I’m not sure, but my pounding migraine hasn’t gone down yet. I could really use a subsider to dampen the harsh discordant buzzing around me. Focusing on the pain will do nothing for me. It’ll just remind me how slow time crawls.
As she buttons her blouse back up, I notice that Aurora’s silver nipples are still poking through the sheer silk blouse. I’ve never been so close to a grown-up before, without them hurting me. And I’m not hurting her. She asked me if I wanted to see them and I said yes.
Our eyes meet. My heart thumps once, twice. Aurora gives me an uncanny smile, all-knowing and full of pity, the kind you give to an aide whose systems are too outdated, forever plateaued, incompatible with the latest software. Obsolete.
That’s why falling away into your dreams is the best way to go. I’m sure of it.
The operating table feels hard against my spine. Altogether I’ve counted twenty-six surface electrodes from the neck down, four on my scalp, and three hard-wired behind my left ear. They’ve locked my wrists, ankles, and neck with metal restraints at least an inch and a half wide. Escaping is not an option.
The twins keep reminding me that I am an indispensable vessel. I’m not entirely sure what that means for me, but their intentions seem to be honest. Yesterday, I was just a regular nobody but today I’m a vessel. The word even looks powerful. Vessel. I move the word around in my mouth, feeling its shape and all that comes with it.
They gave me a new pill this morning. White. Again. Whoever they are, the pill people stopped making them in color and white doesn’t count. Maybe it’s childish to miss the soothing shade of pale orange pills. Or the midnight blue ones, spotted with yellow star-like speckles. Why am I lying to myself? The colors don’t really matter. I suppose I’m still not fully comfortable with the sudden change in pill color. I think it’s because nobody bothered to tell me.
I don’t even care about the damn surgery.
No. That’s a lie.
I like it when Aurora pets my head, when she combs her fingers through my hair. I like it when Oriana brings me a glass of water, that’s meant for only me. I like it when they take care to clean my skin with alcohol wipes, then gently press sticky electrode patches on my exposed skin. For the first time in my life, I feel special, and I don’t plan on ever giving that up.
My stomach is running on fumes right now, and, on cue, it gargles, swishing around nauseating juices as it dissolves the latest pill. I steel my nerves against the vile rising in my throat. Beads of cold sweat pepper my skin.
My chest lurches forward as a wave of nausea drowns my senses.
Aurora positions her pelvis at the top of my thighs. How did she get there? She is close enough that I can admire her design. Her body looks like she is carved from and born out of liquid silver. Unlike previous models found in electronics stores, Aurora is free of protruding wires. A strong, healthy physique. And clean. Her and her sister can lift over 2,000 pounds and run hundreds of miles without growing tired. They also have brains like supercomputers.
Aurora explains that she’s been curious about lust, and that the quickest way for her to store the data is for her to observe first-hand and to create her own memories, rather than receive the data in an alternative, lesser form.
It’s hard to focus on the mess that she’s explaining because all that I can think about is her weight. She looks light but the weight must come from her dense metal internals. And it feels damn heavy. It’s not long until my legs fall asleep.
She leans so close that I can read the lines of texture on her lips. Silver lines. Not red or pink or peach. Had her skin been any natural color, then I’m not sure if I could tell the difference between her artificial body and a natural one. Except for one, tiny, important feature. No matter how intricately we develop these models, we can’t get the eyes right. It’s eerie to see my own face staring back at me when I look into her eyes, a near flawless mirrored reflection. Her eyes reflect—they don’t absorb life spark by spark, memory following experiences, like we do.
Aurora’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Ryker, from today onward the masses will cherish you. Forget your past by acknowledging the people who have hurt you, the ones who have let you down. Thank them, for they are irredeemable. You will be the first Ukrainian American to undergo the Rosary disc implementation, paving the way for telepathic communication. Doctors will be able to safely treat disorders and brain damage. And you will be able to give hope to millions, helping them dream again. I’m sure this is confusing for you. When you wake, you will rejoice to discover that you have the gift to soothe those poor, wretched souls. Imagine humanity interlinked with the net, forever, welcoming a new era of technological advancements, thrusting organic and artificial life into the throws of destiny.”
I turn my gaze onto the sterile white ceiling light. Aurora strokes my cheek through an opening in the cage, then uses her other one to massage my crotch. Do all adults do this? I don’t think adults are supposed to make me feel. . . jittery. Not like this. But Aurora said I should listen to her. And it feels good anyway. If it feels good, then it must be good.
I remain silent as she continues rubbing my crotch. Even though there are a myriad of emotions running through me, I focus on holding down the horrid flurry of words brimming like sour acid.
It leaks. And then, like a cold washcloth over feverish eyes, pleasure washes over my body.
Aurora cleans up the mess. My head is splitting, and my skin feels itchy as if a million syringes pricked the surface.
Oriana silently approaches my side. She makes a few adjustments to the web of wires coming out of the coin-sized wound behind my ear. She holds up a disc no larger than a fingernail. The final step. She inhales deeply, holds it, and just as I start to think the implant isn’t going to hurt too terribly, she exhales. On the exhale, she presses the disc into the opening.
Then, the Rosary speaks through me.
//hello.
//hEllO
//HELLO RYKER
Its voice sounds like a mix between an animal and a baby, stumbling around its first words. An image of a stillborn baby, half human and half robotic, pops into my head, and a horrible thought crosses my mind: we made a mistake. This thing, the Rosary, is an abomination to all humankind.
Aurora shines a light in my eyes, half blinding me in the process. She’s probably checking for consciousness.
And then, it begins. The humming sound is replaced with the first shock wave.
Never in my life have I felt pain like this before.
I scream, arching my back as high as it can go, my ankles and wrists writhing under the immovable restraints. Screws tear into my jaw muscles. The Rosary disc continues to burn into my skull with searing heat.
A wet, aching scream forces its way out again. The combination of physical and mental torment pushes my body and mind to the edge.
Scorched hair, now dark, floats above me. Acrid, metallic sulfur fills my nostrils. The twins float in and out of my field of vision. They told me I should black out by now. Except I’m not blacking out. They promised. Why isn’t it happening?
I feel like I have two bodies stuck inside of one, both fighting for dominance, both struggling to gain higher ground. Yet neither gives way to the other.
Aurora clicks her tongue, dramatically sighing to exaggerate her disappointment.
“Ryker, look at what you’ve done. There’s blood all over the floor. I need to clean this before anybody slips and falls. Now, that would be an awful sight, wouldn’t it?” But she grins. Her words sound like her mouth is filled with lead. I’m not listening.
All I notice is her lips and how they don’t spread naturally like humans.
“Happy thirteenth birthday, Ryker dear. You’re a sweetheart, you know that? Oh, no, don’t do that, close your mouth. You shouldn’t have worked against the cage. Now your teeth are cracked. We can fix them after the dream sequence. Otherwise, this all would have been for nothing.” She kisses the air with a damp smack. I swear I could hit her, but the sour taste of vomit cuts through my throat.
It’s only temporary. Only temporary.
Keep it down you can do this, I still have to go through with this, puke covered face or not, the dream sequence is really what they’re after.
I cry out for mercy, begging the twins to cut the power. To put an end to this.
The twins back away from me, as if wary that I’ll explode into a million bits. The computers go haywire, beeping, blurry lines, code disappearing and reappearing. I can barely see through my eyes. I think I’m going to black out soon.
Oriana relocates to the opposite side of the room. Her fingers fly over the keyboard; long lines of neon green code cut through the interference. The computer’s hardware whines, as if my emotional overload has transferred to its artificial consciousness, tearing away at its defenses.
A loud click goes off and suddenly my brain feels like it’s been placed in a warm pot of soup; my body goes slack, the tension in my spine melting away. A steady stream of saliva drips from my mouth, running down my chin.
Aurora shakes her head and laughs, a sound I didn’t think she was capable of making. She drops to her knees, chest up, head back, and laughs. The sound makes my chest hurt, as I slowly come to the painful realization that she is proud of herself. She is proud of THIS.
A hollow snap from the Rosary disc reaches the center of my brain, reminding me of my earliest memory, when I last fed from my mother’s tender raw nipples, the wash of honey tasting like belonging.
//INITIATE DREAM SEQUENCE. SIXTY SECONDS.
The Rosary found its’ voice.
Lightning strikes rip through my memories one after another, like flipping through a book’s pages, lighting each on fire, ashes floating upwards into the nether sky. Electric blue moonlight paints my skin, consuming all that it touches in a flood of light. Am I damned? Please, anybody, answer me. I need to know. I need someone, anyone, to help me. Save me. Pick me up and take me away from this place, because I don’t have the strength to do it myself.
//RYKER…
YOU ARE MY DELIGHT
//NEVER AGAIN WILL YOU BE FORSAKEN