Unremembered (Unremembered #1)(42)

I stifle a laugh at the thought of Zen sleeping on a pillow belonging to a five-year-old. ‘I mean, why aren’t you living at home?’

I watch him remove a tiny silver cube from his pants pocket and place it gingerly down on the table in front of him. He’s so noticeably delicate with it you would think it was made out of fragile glass.

I move towards him, keeping my eyes on the curious steel object. For some reason, it seems to be calling me. Like the gravitational pull of a large planet. Even though it’s barely bigger than my fingernail.

‘I can’t go home,’ he says simply as he presses his thumb against one side of the device. It glows green in response.

I completely forget about our conversation as I’m drawn further and further into the magnetism of the mysterious object, marvelling at how my hands tremble the closer I get. ‘What is that?’ I ask, refusing to take my eyes off it for even a second.

Zen follows my gaze until we’re both staring at the tiny radiant cube.

‘This,’ he says, picking it up and holding it protectively in his hand, ‘is where I’ve stored your memories.’





25


CONNECTED


The gun slips from my hand and lands on the floor with a loud thud. Zen gasps and lunges forward. ‘You have to be careful with that!’ he warns, scooping it up and placing it on the table next to the glowing cube.

‘My memories?’ My voice quivers.

‘Well,’ he amends, ‘not all your memories. Unfortunately I couldn’t get all of them. But these are enough to give you the general idea of what happened.’

He points to the device. ‘I stored them on this hard drive until I could convince you to come here.’

His explanation only confuses me more. ‘But how did you get them?’

He shrugs. ‘I stole them.’

‘From who?’

‘From the people who took them from you.’ He studies the bewildered look on my face and then quickly adds, ‘To be fair, they stole them first. I was just . . . you know, stealing them back for you.’

My legs feel wobbly and I collapse into the nearest chair – one of the small blue plastic ones clearly designed for a young child. It’s a long way down and I nearly lose my balance.

I hold my head in my hands. ‘What is going on?’ The words barely make it out alive. My throat does its best to suffocate them.

Zen hurries over to me and kneels at my feet. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being insensitive. I know this is scary and overwhelming for you. But I promise everything will be explained in a minute.’

He stands up and draws a small wooden box out of his other pocket, flipping open the lid. I crane my neck to peek inside and see that the box contains three very odd-looking discs. Each one is about two inches in diameter and made of some kind of transparent rubber.

He removes the first and leans over me, placing the disc just behind my left ear. It sticks on its own, practically fusing to my flesh.

‘These are cognitive receptors,’ he explains, removing the second rubber disc from the box. He places this one behind my right ear. ‘They will link your brain to this hard drive, allowing you to access anything that’s on it.’ He taps the miniature steel box gingerly with his fingertip. ‘It’s a technology that was developed on the Diotech compound. I think they call it re-cognization.’

‘And how do you know all of this?’

He shrugs and gives me a sheepish smile. ‘The truth is, I don’t really. I mean, I don’t know the science behind it. I knew the technology existed because my mom was on the team that developed it. And after I went back and stole the memory files from the Diotech compound and erased any backups on their server, I did a little test run on myself, to make sure it worked.’

‘Does it hurt?’ I ask fearfully.

‘No. It’s just a little . . .’ He pauses, screwing his lips in concentration. ‘Weird.’

‘Weird,’ I repeat, my stomach rumbling with nerves.

He picks up the third receptor and closes the lid of the now empty box. Then he steps behind me. I crane my neck, trying to see him, waiting for what he’ll do next. But he just stands there, awkwardly fidgeting with the disc. ‘Sorry,’ he says, extending his hand tentatively towards my head and then quickly withdrawing it. ‘I need to, um, move your hair.’

‘Oh,’ I say, suddenly feeling as awkward as he looks. ‘Right. Sure. Go ahead.’

He slowly reaches towards me and I hold my breath. I don’t mean to. The air just kind of traps itself willingly inside my lungs. I feel his fingertips graze the back of my bare neck. His touch causes my skin to prickle and heat up. He gently gathers my hair in one hand and sweeps it over my left shoulder, taking a moment to brush a few loose strands that didn’t make it.

The whole movement is so fluid – so practised – that it makes me 100 per cent certain he’s done this before. This is not the first time his hands have touched my hair. And I find myself silently hoping that it won’t be the last.

‘OK,’ Zen says, clearing his throat. I jump and my eyes flutter open. I didn’t even realize they had closed. He’s back in front of me again.

‘So,’ I say, trying to mask my embarrassment. ‘It’s done?’

Zen takes a deep breath and sits himself down in an adjacent chair. ‘Yes. You should now be directly linked to the drive.’