The Kensington-Chelsea dome was surprisingly subdued for a weekday rush hour. Just after 5:00 PM, the air taxi dropped Serah off in front of the Nine Stones Café, an unassuming, free-standing, single-story stone structure at the point of a three-way intersection, surrounded by long-vacated offices and shops. She fought back a swelling tide of emotions as she saw the once familiar but now crumbling building. It had survived centuries yet still wasn’t considered historically significant. It had defied popular culture but would never be called “rebellious” or “underground.” It was a place of comfort and safety for so many at different times, Serah included, but no one was brave enough to think of it as home, much less fight to save it. If buildings had souls and feelings, Serah knew precisely how this one would feel.
Coffee houses were things of antiquity and hence only enjoyed popularity with the trendy youth in cycles, usually every fifteen to twenty years or so. The bohemians, the poets, and artists – whom Serah vaguely remembered being counted among at one time – thrived there. Let the kids have the sense clubs, chem bars, and Phrame-raves. To Serah, this was sacred ground she had neglected for far too long.
Looming on the horizon, now less than a block away, the enormous plascrete pylons of the Knightsbridge-Belgravia Arcology rose nearly a kilometer into the air and formed a dimly lit skeleton of what would someday be the fourth most prominent structure in the London Metroplex. It had been slowly rising upward and expanding outward for two years now, and it would be another four before the work was completed, but by all accounts, reclamators would start breaking down raw materials on this block to be ground into constituent chemicals sometime within the next two months. Plastics and concrete were reconstituted and meticulously assembled into the dome structure, while wood and other natural elements would become an organic restoration compound used to kick-start the growth of parks and preserves around the rest of the footprint. When done, the Plaza Tower would eventually house hundreds of businesses, factories, data centers, and living space for up to 20,000 Phramers and fluids. The particles that made up Nine Stones would be part of the particles that made the new arcology, along with an estimated twenty square kilometers of similar urban sprawl, most of which would be land given back to nature for the first time in centuries.
Serah passed through the glass entryway into the cafe. While the exterior façade was mid-19th Century, the interior was a hodgepodge of the 20th and 21st, although it was unlikely any of the patrons noticed the incongruity. The energy was a bit livelier than the subdued streets outside. However, it still seemed a morbid shadow of what she remembered. Had it really been five years? The furniture appeared to have been reupholstered to a more contemporary color. The music was a bit more danceable and less jazzy than she remembered. The scent of brewing coffee was precisely the same, however, and that, more than anything, was what triggered the memories and emotions of that point in her life.
In all, she decided the most notable change was the clientele. She remembered the crowd as being much less fashionable and more free-spirited — or maybe that was just her self-projection. As she glanced around, the patrons seemed much younger, more “hip” than her crowd. They busied themselves telling stories in larger groups, where the word “I” occurred far more frequently than in the average conversation. None of those people impressed her as being a part of the scene she was so fond of during her time here.
She thought about her old friends and wondered if they had heard about the imminent reclamation. Perhaps they had. Perhaps some had even dropped by to relive old tactile sensations and revel in memories of the past one last time. Perhaps, like her, they preferred not to admit to such nostalgia in the presence of others, even those who would understand. Sadly, the few friends from those days she still heard from — via the occasional vidcall, birth announcement, or holiday letter — seemed content with their Phrame lives and professions. It would probably take an occasion slightly more significant than this to get them to disconnect and drag themselves back to the Root Realm. She found she couldn’t condemn them for that. She, too, had abandoned her dreams of being a dramaturge for the life of a mainstream journalist since then, and she had to admit that the steady paycheck made the sacrifice of some small fantasies bearable.
Despite the dubious surroundings, she felt more comfortable and relaxed than in days. Nine Stones felt like home, and she felt secure in arriving alone. Even then, when she was far shyer than she was now, she would gladly be one of the people at the boisterous tables, laughing too loudly and telling stories ranging from exaggerated to fraudulent. If she didn’t know anyone that night, she was just as content to sit by herself with a glass of wine or a cup of coffee and read, write, or simply people-watch.
A quick glance confirmed she didn’t know anyone here tonight, as expected. Almost everyone appeared to be part of an established peer group. The stragglers sitting alone were degenerate fluids looking for a flesh experience to break up the monotony of the Phrame raves, or generic billys looking to rope in any sucker they could find to make their sales quota for the month. It took very little skill to determine which was which individually.
One, however, caught her eye as being particularly incongruous. He was slightly older than her, probably in his early 30s, making him far too old to be sitting alone in a coffee house that catered to the student crowd. His hair and tanned complexion were darker than the average dome-dweller, and his eyes were an unusual shade of steel gray, no doubt courtesy of artificial augmentation. Twice, she surreptitiously looked his way, and both times his eyes were fixated on her, and though a friendly, approachable smile accompanied his gaze, there was still something trance-like, almost inhuman about his expression that rang danger to her. She was flattered that the socially dysfunctional still considered her sexually attractive, but there was a fine line between flirty and predatory. She avoided making eye contact again, but she imagined she could still feel his cold, unrelenting stare.
Serah began to think that maybe she was making a mistake. Even if Michael … Robert … had been here, she couldn’t be confident that whatever led to his murder was related to this place and would have left some clue behind. While it was the only real lead she had as far as a story went, it was a thin one at best. It was doubtful anybody here would know or have seen anything remotely useful to her, and it would be foolish to simply walk up to one of the large tables of people and start asking questions about who witnessed a murder yesterday. She was certain she was just using her assignment as an excuse to revel in her glory days. There was truth to the adage that one can never go back, and Nine Stones had subtly altered itself to drive that point home for her.
Serah finally decided to just have a couple of cups of coffee. Maybe if she just relaxed, a better alternative would come to her. What harm could that do? It wasn’t as if she had more pressing things waiting for her at home. Somehow, being alone in the crowded room made her feel like she was socializing, at least on some level. That much hadn’t changed. She should embrace the insincere attention and flattery of complete strangers — or the thought that maybe the next person who walked through the door might be her long-sought-after soul mate, ready to take her away from the dreary, unending series of minor personal crises that had become her life as of late. Why not pretend, just for one more night, before progress took it all away?
She took a seat on an oversized couch in the corner, pulling up the personal directory on her trusty datapad. Her thumb scanned through a long list of old project folders, most of which she’d forgotten about, others which brought out feelings of embarrassed naivety. Finally, she found the one she was looking for: “Night Owl.” She hadn’t thought about the story in years. Serah had not seen it since a lifetime ago when she jotted down the first 2000 words on the very couch where she was lounging now – an arrogant acceptance of a juvenile challenge with her best friend at the time to see who could write a novel the quickest. It was going to be her first masterpiece, before she became frustrated with what, at the time, seemed an insurmountable battle against mediocrity. She smiled as she read through the half-finished draft, a period piece set back in the romantic mid-21st Century. The writing was a bit ambitious, almost naïve, but still nothing that couldn’t be salvaged by the talents she had honed over the years. It would be a shame to let any kind of creation go to waste without at least salvaging the pieces and learning something from it.
“Welcome back,” a voice said next to her. She looked up and saw a kindly-faced waiter standing over her. “I took the liberty of bringing you your usual. I hope that’s okay.”
Distracted, she thanked the waiter, took the cup from the tray, and inhaled the vapors from the thick brownish liquid. A rancid, musty scent burned at her nostrils. She squinted in disgust, spilling part of the contents onto her lap. Then, she quickly pushed the foul drink away. “What is that stuff!?” she asked between coughs.
“Thurinese Oolong,” the man said confusedly, taking a quick whiff to confirm that he was correct.
She regarded the waiter, trying to recognize the face. He was young. Too young to have been working here when she was a regular patron. “My personal preference file must have corrupted over the years,” she said, hastily dabbing at the stain on her skirt.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t even check the database. I was certain I served you a half-dozen of these yesterday. It’s so rare that anyone drinks semi-fermented off-world tea that it stuck in my head.”
Serah shook her head. “Wasn’t me. I haven’t been here in years,” she said, smiling. “I’ll just have coffee, dark roast, black, double-sweet.” She grabbed her datapad and transmitted her cred-id to the waiter’s order pad.
He fiddled with a couple of displays on his tray. “I’m sorry about that, miss. I must be working too hard. The faces are all blurring together. You know how it is.” He paused. “You’re certain you haven’t been here in years?”
“Positive.”
“You should call the police about an ID theft, then, Miss Wyles. It says you ordered five cups of Thurinese Oolong yesterday.”
“What?!” Serah strained to see the printout on the waiter’s tray. He obliged by kneeling so she could see clearly.
The screen displayed her current ID picture and her recent purchase history at Nine Stones. The first entries were dated five years earlier, and the last was made the previous day.
Serah gasped. “That’s odd. I was a bit out of it yesterday. Maybe I did come here. I suppose it’s possible. I honestly don’t remember.”
“Well, if it wasn’t you. The resemblance is uncanny.”
Her stomach sank as she thought about the missing hours in her memory. “Oh my god,” Serah gasped. “What time was that?”
He thumbed the display, bringing up the details. “You opened the tab at 11:09 AM and closed it at 12:48 PM,” he said.
Serah grew dizzy. She suddenly had flashes of being there the day before. Whether it was in her mind or a real memory, she could taste the foul tea. Her hands shook as she pulled up the police homicide file on her datapad. She scrolled through the pages, stopping on the picture of Robert Galloway. “This man,” she said half hysterically. Was I here with this man?”
The waiter regarded the picture. “Oh, he’s that billy those officers were asking about earlier. Like I told them, I vaguely remember seeing him here. Those guys usually don’t order much and tip even less. Now that you mention it, though, I remember him trying to talk to you, but you ignored him. Ignored everyone, really. You seemed very deep in thought, but your account was good, so I kept bringing you tea.” He paused for a moment. “You really don’t remember being here?”
“No, I don’t, and I’m starting to think this man must have drugged me somehow.” Her heart skipped a few beats, and she forced herself to breathe slower and deeper. “Tell me everything you remember.”
The waiter thought for a moment. “Heck, I don’t know. Like I told the officers, it was the lunch rush. I really wasn’t paying much attention.”
“Please,” Serah pleaded, “try to remember. It’s very important.”
The waiter closed his eyes in deep contemplation. “Let’s see. You were sitting right here, where you are now, in fact. Spent most of your time staring out the window at all the construction out back.” He spoke slowly, carefully running over the sequence in his mind. “That billy came in and walked up to you straight away. You might have talked to him for a few minutes at most. Then he gave up, went over to the other side of the room, and started talking to some other billys he seemed to know — trading contacts or leads or some such thing, I guess. I don’t think he spoke to anyone after that. You both left about the same time, though. I suppose you could have talked more outside. I was busy with the lunch rush.”
The room was spinning faster now, and Serah’s stomach was turning circles. She remembered feeling like this in the conference room the day before. Whatever it was, it was happening again. She started shaking. “I have to get some air,” she said, her voice cracking. Shakily, she got to her feet and started toward the door.
“Do you still want that coffee?” the waiter called after her.
She staggered into the street, bracing herself on the side of the building as the world swam sickeningly around her. The taste of salt crept into the corners of her mouth. She was on the verge of throwing up.
She continued to tell herself to calm down. She couldn’t have done what she was thinking. Even if that billy had drugged her somehow, for some reason, she wasn’t capable of something like that. Was she?
She wanted to scream. Tears of terror and frustration pushed their way to the surface. She stumbled away from the café, half trotting, grabbing hold of whatever she could to help her stay on her feet. Fighting the whole time to keep the contents of her stomach from coming up, she finally stopped a few hundred meters up the street, clutching the security fence that separated the plaza’s construction site from the general public.
It was getting dark now. Even with the construction site’s myriad lamps, glow streets, and lighted pylons, the neighborhood seemed eerie and run-down. In a mere five years, it had gone from being a charming old town tourist center — for those who still enjoyed such things — to a largely condemned quarter of crumbling eyesore buildings dwarfed by the larger, modern structures surrounding them. Though she could hear the rumble of machinery and the voices of workers in the distance, she understood at least how, even in the daylight, somebody could commit murder unseen.
It wasn’t her, she reminded herself. It had never been an aspect of any psychological profile Serah had ever taken. She was a victim. Perhaps she killed him in self-defense, and that’s why she can’t remember. She must be repressing the memory. Michael … Robert … could have assaulted her, and she fought back, somehow finding something to stab him with. Maybe she was subconsciously repressing the horrific memories. She struggled desperately to remember anything, even a vague impression. Nothing. It couldn’t have been that anyway. She had no bruises or cuts, nothing to indicate any kind of physical assault.
None of it made sense. Serah was sure she couldn’t kill anyone, even if her life depended on it. She was shaken by the first nightmare, exhausted from lack of sleep. Maybe she decided to grab a coffee and unwind at the café. Michael/Robert had followed her there and tried to redeem his potential sale. Perhaps she had just gotten irritated. Going to bed at 5:30 in the evening seemed to fit that pattern. There was no telling what the disruption to her sleep program the night before might have done to her. She might have re-run the sleep program three times without even knowing what she was doing. And the stress of the repeated sleep program might have produced the second nightmare and loss of memory.
He must have somehow hacked the machine and removed the safety protocols. Maybe he somehow programmed the machine to make her forget everything. The theory wasn’t any less likely than the one that said she killed a man, either intentionally or in self-defense, and had been so traumatized that she had repressed the memory.
She grasped the fence with both hands, her fingers growing numb with the pressure. She pressed her face to the cold metal and stared at the wondrous, kilometer-tall support pylons, illuminated in a sickly violet glow against a backdrop of stars. She felt a strange sense of déjà vu. The whole site seemed eerily familiar.
An repulsor sounded in the distance, growing steadily louder. A hovercar came into view, passed almost directly overhead, and streaked into the unfinished structure of the building. Its brilliant navigational searchlights traced streaks along the lift shafts as it sped several hundred yards inward, turned sharply, and vanished from sight. As the echo of the car’s engines faded, a series of images ignited in her mind.
The dream — the only clear memory she had from the previous day.
The reflecting lights from the passing hovercar striking the support pylons were eerily like the light sparks on the towers in her dream. It was as if her subconscious was trying to tell her something. Perhaps she had been to the construction site yesterday as well. In the dream it was night, however, and the imagery in her mind was too precise, right down to the violet glow of the construction lights. A newsvid, perhaps? Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. At least part of the dream made sense. The rest of the answers had to be beyond those towers.
Pulling her bag around her neck to secure it, Serah quickly scaled the short wire fence. A few minutes ago, she would never have been able to make that climb, but now she was renewed with a sense of purpose. She took a dozen strides across mud and gravel, stopping when she reached the paved access road that led into the sublevels of the Plaza. She had expected everything to look like it had in the dream, but it was much darker, quieter, and even more maze-like. Above her, the illuminated support beams glowed with life and activity as assemblers hovered around like chattering insects carrying enormous support girders.
Serah cursed herself for being so foolish. The Arco construction site was several kilometers long. The odds of finding anything of value, on foot and in the dark, were slim at best. Still, she had to know, so she followed each instinct or first impression, attempting to let her subconscious guide her through the maze of structures, just as the conveyor belt had done in her dream. After a hundred meters or so, the lights from the street were no longer visible, and the work lights above her provided barely enough illumination to keep her from tripping, perhaps even falling into an open maintenance shaft. At least, she hoped they were enough.
She guided herself along the makeshift walls of support beams with her hands, trying to make as little noise as possible. Every few meters, she looked back, trying to maintain her orientation to find the way out again. She was about to give up hope when she heard voices in the distance. They were faint at first but grew steadily louder as she moved through the darkness.
Eventually, she noticed a distant glow of light on her right. She picked up her pace and cautiously made her way toward them, hoping to make up for lost time. The ground gradually sloped downward into a service area. Obviously, this was the central processing point for HVAC and plumbing judging by the abundance of ducts …
… and pipes.
Dream or not, she was certain she had been here before.
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