By Lauren Miller

The chapel was teeming with sweltering, sweat-slick bodies. We were glowing. Filled with God. Men stood with fiddles made from spruce trees and women shouted praises as the music grew louder, holding their babies up towards the rafters as if they were offering lambs for
the slaughter. The flesh of my cheek was all that I had tasted in days. I felt the hunger reverberate in the shaking of my hands as I raised them above my head, but nothing else mattered as I watched Cyrus move across the stage. Not even the feverishness permeating my skin from my
mother’s overheated body could draw my attention from him.
He was speaking a language none of us understood, slurring words sent from the Lord and letting them drip onto the little boy he held in his arms. It was the newborn son of one of the congregation members who lived outside the ranch. Cyrus didn’t often let strangers onto the
property, but this was the grandson of one of his oldest disciples. The child, who was only a few weeks old, had been born blind. One of his eyes never opened. Cyrus said that he would live a life half-asleep, one eye always roaming, looking for the Devil.
“This child,” he said, “this dear, dear child. He was born with evil inside him.”
The boy, who was called Isaiah, looked up at Cyrus with a silence I had never witnessed in a human before. I wondered what kind of sins his mother had committed to create that sort of unnatural quiet.
Cyrus held the baby to his chest, swaying back and forth, whispering something into his ear. The child stared up at him with his one good eye as if he was seeing the sun for the first time after knowing only fog. It was the way everyone looked at the Messiah. Cyrus continued to
murmur to the child, his lips circling around the prayer in the most beautiful oval shape. His mouth hadn’t touched my skin in so long. I ached for it even more than I ached for food.
After a few more seconds of muttering, Cyrus held up his palm, asking for the musicians to cease. The hush that overtook the crowded chapel was immediate. The only noise carrying on was the sound of Isaiah’s parents weeping. The Messiah gazed out into the congregation with his
face sweat-slick and gleaming. The hues of the stained glass skylight above the stage casted a crimson shadow across his face, morphing the perspiration into blood.
“This child needs to be cleansed of his wickedness. He needs to become holy in the heart of the Lord so that he may follow Christ with perfect sight.”
Shouts bellowed from the throats of the congregation as we celebrated the miracle that was about to occur. I opened my mouth and hollered, screaming as loud as my lungs would allow. I wanted him to hear me. I wanted anyone to hear me.
Cyrus nodded in acknowledgement of our praise and waited for us to calm before he spoke again. “God asks the faithful to lay their hands on the sick, for they shall be healed by the
true believer.” He looked out into the crowd, eyes glazing across people’s faces, until he reached mine. My stomach writhed under his stare and I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat as his
gaze intensified. My trembling fingers grew still. Whatever hunger had been growing inside my body was gone. “Lou Parson, will you join me, please?”
I had only heard my name in the voice of the Messiah once before, during my baptism. He never invited others onto the stage when he was preaching. Even those who played music for the services stood in the altar rather than on the wooden platform, because Cyrus said that the
Word of God was the only thing we should hear with complete clarity.
I felt the sure, guiding hand of my mother press against the small of my back, and I turned towards her. She nodded, just as the Messiah had, and shifted so that I could leave the pew our family was sitting in. Envy penetrated the air, rising from the rest of the congregation like the uncomfortable wet of morning dew. I willed my body to stand, and began to pray, asking God to give me mercy for the pride that I felt with each step I took towards the Messiah. A lightness was boiling over inside me. It was sinful and ugly and I had to bite my lips to keep from grinning at the pleasure of it all.
When I reached the stairs, the Messiah beckoned me closer with one pinkish hand, still holding the child with his other. “Lou,” he said when I approached, “are you a true believer?”
“Yes,” The word was hurried as it left my tongue. I glanced at the crowd of my neighbors, waiting for someone to object to my response, but no one did. They looked so inconsequential from where I now stood. Not people, just bodies. I knew then that this was what God felt like. I looked at the Messiah and waited.
“A true believer shall lay their hands on the sick and they shall be healed.” As the Messiah spoke these words, he bent down at the edge of the platform and handed Isaiah back to the arms of his father. His eyes never left mine as he stepped back to the podium where the Bible was closed, waiting, waiting, waiting. Cyrus opened the Book, exposing a long piece of silver that shone in the dappled morning light. His touch was delicate as he lifted the knife from the pages. “A true believer, if he shall be righteous, will hold the Balm of Gilead in their veins.”
Cyrus held the weapon out for me to take and I knew without question what was being asked of me. To bleed was to heal.
My body stilled. I glanced at my mother’s face in the crowd, at the child. My stomach writhing as I hesitated, the pungentness of my fear. Cyrus did not waver. He knew that I was going to obey, and after a moment, I took the knife. My hand was clenched into a fist that I forced open with the jagged edge of my fingernail, and then I laid the tip of the blade along the length of my palm, from my middle finger to my wrist. If the congregation was making noise, I could not hear it. I was not aware of anything but the coolness of the blade on my palm and the steadfast eyes of the Messiah. I took a breath, inhaling the scent of sweat and God, and I pressed the knife into my flesh. Blood rose from the cut and I sunk my teeth into my tongue to keep from
screaming at the horrible ripping open of my flesh. The Messiah stepped forward, taking my injured hand in his. He lifted my palm, the blood spilling out from the incision onto the wooden floor of the stage. He looked at me, and he beamed, kissing my marred skin. When he lifted his face to look at me, his mouth was the color of a poppy bloom.
“Beautiful,” said the Messiah. “Just beautiful.”
I heard the truth in his words and smiled. I watched the blood spill out of my veins and it was so astoundingly beautiful. Light radiated from every inch of my body. There was no more pain, no more doubt.
I walked to the edge of the stage and knelt, just as the Messiah had done moments before, holding out my hand so that my palm hovered above the baby. The blood trickled from my hand onto the infant’s face, splattering against his forehead. His face turned sour, as if preparing to weep, and then the boy opened both eyes and looked at me with wide, blue irises, seeing everything there was to see.
Although they couldn’t see the boy’s face, the congregation began to holler, clapping their hands, and shouting praises. Even the youngest children, ones who had only heard of miracles happening before, knew what they were witnessing. We all knew who the Messiah was.
We all had faith. Glorious, gorgeous faith that spilled out of us like blood.
Cyrus moved beside me, reaching for the child. The boy’s father held him out to The Messiah without even a moment of hesitation. His wife fell to the ground, hands grasping at the dirt-encrusted carpeting of the altar, writhing from the force of the sobs that echoed throughout
her body. The father was pious, quiet, waiting. Cyrus looked out into the reverberating crowd, and then to me. He turned the baby so that only I could see him.
“Lou,” he said, “tell me what you see.”
I flinched, unsure of what he wanted to hear. “His eyes are open.”
“How do you know?”
I flicked my gaze away. “Because I can see them.”
“But how do you know that your eyes are open?”
“Because my heart is holy. Because I have God in me.” I had been baptized five years ago, and ever since then, each Sunday during worship, I would partake in the same ritual as the adults. Cyrus knew when you were ready to hold God not only in your heart or your soul, but in your earthly vessel.
On this day we had not yet done it, and Cyrus led me back to the podium where the Bible and the bloodied knife sat, waiting or forgotten, I didn’t know which. Perhaps there wasn’t truly a difference. There was one other thing on the rostrum; a little bowl filled with white powder.
I gazed at Cyrus. Isaiah had been placed in the arms of his parents. Maybe he’d never left them. I couldn’t see anything but Cyrus, and I wondered if this was how the boy felt. His parents looked down at his face, marred with my drying blood, and his eyes were clouded, unfocused. Open, but seeing nothing. Isaiah’s eyes roamed toward the Messiah’s voice but couldn’t find its source. His parents cooed at him, wiggling their fingers as if they were worms over his line of eyesight. He didn’t blink.
Cyrus motioned for me to stand next to him and placed the moonscape of his thumb onto my bottom lip, pulling it down over my chin, exposing the flesh and bone of my mouth. His finger tasted of saline and I couldn’t resist swallowing the saliva that pooled with his sweat on
my tongue. With his other hand Cyrus swiped at the powder that shifted inside its porcelain bowl. His eyes were wide as he pressed the dust into my gums, his pupils dilating, a wild grin forming at the sensation of my spit on his skin. Bitterness filled my mouth as the powder seemed to seep into my blood. Cyrus placed his hands on my cheeks and kissed my forehead, his lips warm and wet.
“The bones of Jesus are within you,” he said, and I nodded, allured by what I knew was to come. The powder and its euphoria. It had a different name outside the ranch, but I didn’t know it. All I knew was the brightness and the bitterness and the beauty. He then waved his hand towards the crowd, indicating for them to stand. “Anyone who has been blessed by the Water and the Father may come to taste the skeleton of the Lord.”
There was a tumbling of movement throughout the chapel as people stood, waiting for the others in their pew to line up at the steps of the stage, one by one readying themselves for Cyrus to place some of the white powder in their opened mouths. As people began to climb the
stairs, I turned to go back to my seat, but the Messiah caught my bloodied hand in his own. He pulled me into his body so that his voice could only be heard by my ears.
“God has chosen you, Lou,” he said, kissing me again, this time on the lips. I could taste my blood on his mouth. He looked at me and smiled.
As I passed Isaiah’s parents on my way back to the pew where my family sat, I glanced at the boy, searching for the blue, but all there were were little pinkish eyelids on a sleeping child who would never wake.

By Ricardo Bernhard

If visitors had access to this side of the Chamber, they would never be able to tell one archivist from another. A procession of shifting shadows gliding along the corridors, appearing and dissolving like will-o’-the-wisps. Slow-paced, slightly hunchbacked, in trench coats, unruly hair on top, not unlike projections of memories from fairy-tale books. Neither quite men, nor women, nor animals, but some form of ghostly incarnations. With a surprising gravitas to them. Or is it the place? Would a stampede of toddlers seem dignified while careening through the hallways, dropping cartridges on the floor, vandalizing the terminals? It feels possible. And what doesn’t, when there is some religious quality suffusing the air with a promise of greatness?

Here comes Aiken, late for a session but not rushing a single step. He feels dissolved traversing the Chamber, in a good way. Being a guardian of something so rich—it folds him into the vastness. Not that it is an articulate sensation. Archivists are masters of understated discretion. On the inside and on the outside. Bound for his appointment, he passes by many colleagues and does not exchange a single glance. It is mutual. No hard feelings, no feelings at all. Not even a stray question about what the other must be thinking. They know. This is where they wanted to be their whole lives, so they gave their lives to be here. Only fair that now there is nothing to hold. Sacred void.

Before leaving the restricted Chamber, Aiken turns back to glimpse the mighty temple. It is like a small ritual, and so rewarding. The intricate, comfortably dark corridors, the winding wooden staircases connecting multiple floors, the shelves lined with cartridges like a colorful library of dreams, the strategically placed hardware—reminders that this is all for the mission—the curved dome that lends both grandeur and intimacy. What a privilege to belong to this. But if he stares at the view for too long, it feels like his own mind becomes the temple, which brings him a chill. So he blinks and shuts the door. Too much of anything magical turns to venom.

A young man is waiting for him in the designated room. Young, yes, but with incredibly weary eyebrows. He speaks unprovoked, in a hushed tone.

“This is not my first time, but you must know that. Do you also know that I think my heart is mute? I may never feel anything special. In the end, how many memories will I have damaged?”

Aiken sets up the machine, doesn’t look over his shoulder. “Sometimes, Mr…” he checks the visitor’s chart, “Benton, what people need most is to be struck by a purity they could never have predicted.”

The young man is unconvinced. “Do you have that?”

“We have the whole of humanity.”

“But how am I to be surprised, now that you told me?”

“Words are such poor things. Just look, and feel.” He slides the cartridge into the machine.

###

No one is allowed—or needs—a cup of coffee in the Chamber, except for Hollier. He comes swirling his steaming potion, looking at the shelves as if an inspection were long overdue, whistling but not from joy.

“Aiken, give me a minute, will you?”

Aiken turns off his monitor. No archivist is ever idle, except, he feels, when the boss asks for a minute.

Hollier blows the steam. “You’re next with Dr. Edrin. Tomorrow morning, first thing, in the lab.”

Aiken frowns.

The boss sips. “Blessed silence among you, huh? Edrin thinks he’s spotted something unusual in the memories and is conferring with each archivist.” He scoffs. “If your soul’s unhappy, you’ll find a flaw in anything. Not even infinity will suffice. What else do we need here?”

Aiken smiles endearingly. “I will be glad to help.”

Hollier pats his shoulder and talks closely, too closely. “But not too much, will you? We want these guys back in their screamingly-lit labs. Leave the dim treasures to us, for the benefit of all who still have functional souls.”

Aiken nods, holding his breath, waiting for the acidic fog of the coffee to disperse.

###

“It’s been so long, I can’t wait!” A woman jumps up and down outside a Remembrance Vault, clasping her hands together. Aiken’s final visitor for the day. “But you look sad to see me here. Do not. You must have hope. Maybe this is the one, yes?”

He unlocks the room and rereads Ms. Talley’s chart, this time more attentively. They are rationing her access to the Chamber, as a last resort. In the latest vote, she avoided a permanent ban by a single count. He asks her to sit. She is not old by any means, but her hair is growing gray, her skin is tissue-thin, she is evidently not ingesting enough calories. He checks the memory chosen for her the previous time. The well-being felt by a man when he realized he had overcome his alcohol addiction. Aiken narrows his eyes. Some of his fellow archivists have simply lost their touch.

“What do you have for me today?” Ms. Talley bounces in place.

A twinge of uncertainty weakens Aiken’s legs. Hollier’s visit hadn’t allowed him time to select something tailored for her. He’d picked a cartridge he believed might be fit for anyone. He now concedes that this can never be true.

“What, are you not hopeful?” She inches closer.

The question feels so empty to him. He extends a quiet arm to dismiss it. No chance of leaving her here and going back to the Chamber to retrieve something creative, which could enlighten from an unexpected place, and ground her in the receding reality. Protocol forbids it, not to mention his sense of competence.

He asks Ms. Talley to recline, administers three drops from the vial, attaches the electrodes to her head, slides the sorry cartridge into the machine. From a low stool in the corner, he monitors her experience. But not quite. For the first time in ages, he finds himself unable to follow the memory that is playing out. A pier. Some running. Words he cannot catch. How to stay with these specters on the screen, when a sore, twisting spot drifts, both lightly and not, from his head to his heart and everywhere?

###

A windowless cubicle. A wooden table, two chairs on opposite sides. Dr. Edrin, the Chief Scientist, reclines on his. He looks up at the spotless beige ceiling as he explains that they’ve noticed a troubling recent change in the Archive: the memories that convey love are degrading more quickly than those shelved under other headings. They have a few theories why this might be happening, but first he wants to hear what Aiken makes of it.

“Maybe they’re being experienced more often than the others?” he suggests.

Dr. Edrin frowns. “That was our first thought, but it’s rather straightforward to test the hypothesis, don’t you think?” He exhales deeply. A faint, smoky smell reaches across the table. “We checked the logs, of course. Proportionally, love isn’t in vogue. In fact, one could say the opposite. Cartridges full of little hearts are being replayed less and less. Maybe because they’re not as powerful anymore?”

Aiken feels an urge to return to the Chamber, to be among the shelves. “I can’t understand how that could be.”

Dr. Edrin covers his face with both hands. “My God, these empty fellas…” Was that what he said?

“I beg your pardon?”

A sudden laugh. “Are you British now?”

Aiken stares blankly. The Scientist leans in, voice low.

“We’re losing love here. If it’s gone from the Archive, what’s to stop it from disappearing out there?”

“We’ve got love.”

“Didn’t you hear…” Dr. Edrin slaps the table, then reins himself in. “My daughter keeps telling me I’m not the same anymore. But don’t you see the people coming to the Vaults? Haven’t they changed, too?”

Aiken feels the flutter of his sore, twisting spot, but can’t locate it. “I don’t think they’re different from when I started.”

“That’s what you’d think, isn’t it? Time has no sequence to you. It’s a collage of disparate longings.”

“I’d like to help.”

The Scientist flicks his hand, as if dismissing him. “You want to help? Fine. Start playing love memories. Watch how they react.”

“Should I record their responses?”

“Obviously. Take notes. Look for patterns. Try playing the same cartridge for multiple visitors.”

Aiken’s face sags. “What if they degrade?”

“It’s happening anyway.”

###

“I’m not sure I even I want to do it anymore. I’ll tell you: I feel like giving up here, there, everywhere.”

Aiken gently ushers the young man from the corridor into the Remembrance Vault. “Mr. Benton, I’ve selected something special for you.”

“You said that last time. Your words are poor things.”

Aiken smiles. He can’t help but think the young visitor might make an outstanding Archivist one day. Still too enamored with himself, but once he sheds that, his potential for boundless emptiness is immense. What riches he could hold. Someday, not today. “Come.”

Grudgingly, the young man lies back in the chair. The drops from the vial, the electrodes on his head, the dimming lights, the cartridge sliding into the slot. Despite what Aiken said, it isn’t true that the memory was purposefully selected for Mr. Benton. It’s just one of the love memories he’s now forcing on the visitors. Is that being conscientious? Aiken brushes the thought aside.

He has his notebook and well-sharpened pencil in hand, ready to record his impressions, both of the memory and of the young man’s reactions. The screen brightens, floods with color. Some gentleman—the hands emerging from the sleeves of a green sweater are strong, dark-haired—stands in a kitchen. He drips coffee, heats milk on the stove, prepares something in a pan. It’s French toast. The house is like a page from a home décor magazine sprung to life: open-plan, palm trees framed by floor-to-ceiling windows, the sky as translucent as the water in the backyard pool. Some kind of exotic instrumental song is playing on a stereo. The gentleman finishes his preparations, sets everything in fine white china on a tray, and ascends a curved staircase. He enters a darkened room. Someone lies on the bed. A woman. He sets the tray on the nightstand and draws the curtains, just enough. The woman is not asleep. She looks sad, maybe unwell, but when she sees the French toast, she smiles so delicately. The gentleman grows melancholy, too, but you can feel it’s laced with happiness. They embrace, and cry together.

Aiken’s pencil slips from his hand. He hasn’t taken a single note, and doesn’t even bother to retrieve the pencil. Something is off.

“I don’t know… nothing really struck me.” Benton’s voice is weak from the drops, or perhaps the disappointment. “So bland. Banal. Could it have been the memory of an actor from one of those old commercials? Are you even allowed to donate memories from a scene? I guess if it meant something to you… Not that it did to me.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Benton.” Aiken must stay with him in the Vault until the effects wear off, but he’s struggling. “This isn’t supposed to happen.”

“What isn’t? So it was a commercial?”

“I think that gentleman was m…” Aiken stops. “I need to report this to the Boss immediately.” But he knows he can’t bring himself to step into the Chamber again today.

###

“The Boss is looking for you,” a fellow Archivist whispers to Aiken, passing him in one of the Chamber alleys. He’s not the first.

“Yes, I’ll go shortly.” Will he? It depends on the results of his searches.

Memories feel unique, but they are so alike. Teaching a class. Operating a large machine. Playing catch with a boy. Taking a girl to an ice cream shop. Lingering late in a bar. Running at sunrise in a park. Moments like these could be sold by the sack, commodities of modern feeling. And he’s not even sure the glimpses are his, or trinkets snatched from the ores he digs up, sifts, and stashes away in the Chamber. The catalogue anonymizes all memories, in keeping with the philosophy of extracting reality’s purest form, stripped of incidental associations. He just can’t retrieve cartridges in which the gentleman with the strong, dark-haired hands appears anew, if they even exist. How many hours can he watch someone running through a park under the morning light before his eyes shut with hopelessness? The Archive contains the whole of humanity, and men were made to run on a delicious pain. Can he catch the echo of that pain if he peers hard enough inside? There is no coherent self beneath his eternal present. No searchable timeline.

“The Boss is after you,” another Archivist mutters as he walks past. Or is it the same fellow? The trench coats, the uncombed white hair, the stale voices… they blur together. But this one stops. His nose has the slope of an inverted U.

“Between us,” he says, “some are complaining that your slack is aggravating everyone’s workload. Just saying, beware.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll go.” Aiken shoos him away.

He once overheard some archivists speculate that personal indexing criteria must exist, but remain invisible to them. Such metadata would invite attachment, preference, maybe even obsession, and isn’t that the stuff of identity, of personality? Layers of protection. Restrictions to ensure professionalism. For efficiency rides on limited knowledge. Can the Boss see it all? Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to check in after all. But how could he raise the subject without drawing concern? No, he needs more time. And what is an Archivist but a gymnast of time? Somersaults and cartwheels across the shelves, until he finally lands. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

REFER TO MANAGEMENT IMMEDIATELY

The message appears on the screen. Now his monitor is locked. He tries another one, in a neighboring alley. The same message promptly comes up. Aiken slumps, then drags his feet toward Hollier’s office.

###

Hollier is sipping from a steaming cup when Aiken arrives.

“At last.”

He gestures for the Archivist to sit, then presses a button on his desk. A video is projected on a side wall. The green sweater, the able hands, the palm trees tickling the air outside. But no, they are not tickling the air anymore, what happened to the outside? It’s no longer sunny and balmy, but dark and stormy. The gentleman isn’t preparing coffee and milk, but a miserable concoction mixing disparate ingredients such as bananas, Kalamata olives, and… scallops? No French toast sizzling in the pan; instead, one sees shreds of meat that could be from chicken breast but are definitely not. Aiken lets his head fall.

“Who replayed the memory so many times it degraded like that?”

“Here, have some tea,” Hollier offers. Aiken doesn’t take the cup.

Hollier presses the button again. The memory freezes. It does nothing to soothe Aiken. He never knew who he was, still doesn’t, but now that hurts. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to work in the Chamber again.

“I don’t think you’ll ever be able to work in the Chamber again,” Hollier says coldly, as if reading from a record of legal proceedings.

Aiken looks him in the eye. He feels plundered, dominated.

“Do you have any idea how you came to work in the Archive?” Hollier speaks in a hush now, his eyebrows shaped in a way Aiken has never seen.

The Archivist shakes his head.

“I didn’t think otherwise. I’ll tell you. In my view, all of you deserve to know when we come to this point. It’s happening more and more frequently these days. It comforts me, at least, that I’ve never believed in anything and never will. Huge as it is, the Archive is as insubstantial as other weighty concepts, such as Time, God, and the Universe. Anyway, let me make you some fresh tea. I won’t take no, it’s quite the brew.”

In silence, Hollier rises, goes to a side table, reheats water in an electric kettle. The office fills with the scent of a flowery meadow. Aiken accepts the mug, wraps both hands around it. The tea tastes like stepping in from the rain into a room wrapped in peach wallpaper. Has he ever?

“Where were we?” Hollier sits on the desk, breathes in with gusto. “Yes, I’ll be brief, I must be. You were once a kind of saint. You all were. You believed in the Archive. You would have died to preserve it, to expand it, to make it perfect. In a sense, you did. You gave all your memories to it. You emptied your soul and became a shell. Empty flesh, ready to serve the Archive. But a body must have some minimal spiritual structure to function in the physical world. So we gave you one: a collection of deteriorated memories, ready to be discarded, from random individuals. That’s who you are, or were, until…” Hollier gestures to the now-dark wall. “It’s sad, in the end, isn’t it? You give everything. Then there’s nothing. And yet it’s all here. There. Some say there’s beauty in that. I can’t see it, and that’s okay. You once could, maybe still can, but it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Such an improbable misstep. No matter. I now need to let you go.”

He presses a different button on his desk.

###

Aiken is running down an alley in the Chamber. Dr. Edrin manages to stop him, grabs him by the arms, and grins.

“No need to rush anymore. I figured out what’s happening to the memories. It’s not degradation. It’s absorption. Nothing’s being lost, it’s building into something else. Larger, stranger.” The Scientist arches his back until he sees between his legs. “Is it here? I don’t think so.” He guffaws. Aiken had never noticed how crooked his teeth were.

It no longer feels necessary to run. Is Hollier after him? Nah, he doesn’t truly care. Look around. Every ghostly incarnation busy with its cherished routine, its petty concerns. Actually, he’ll gladly leave the Archive, if that’s what Management wishes. Will anything he sees and feels out there stick to the blank board of his soul? It’s thrilling, somehow.

He passes through the area where the archivists attend to the visitors. Ms. Talley is there. She darts toward him and starts pounding his chest.

“Do you know how long they kept me from coming back? All because of those moronic observations you had to write in my file.” Her fists on his vest are cloud-like, delivering misty caresses. “You’ve lost your bearings, can’t choose anything that makes sense. Behold: I’m still here, still desperate.”

An Archivist leads her to a Remembrance Vault. As soon as she crosses the threshold, her body misbehaves, collapses as if in a seizure. By the time the Archivist bends to help, she’s gone, dispersed like fog. She was quite fragile, wasn’t she? He must carry on.

He walks past another Vault and sees Mr. Benton through the glass, ready for his session. The young man waves goodbye and begins to cry. He’s trying to convey something by exaggerating the movement of his lips. Aiken thinks he captures the word fault. He leans closer to the window, which is surprisingly cold, but the accompanying Archivist quickly closes the Venetian blinds. So impolite.

Enough distractions. Aiken finally reaches the outside door and pushes it open. What a remarkable thing: the gentleman whose memories he was obsessively chasing may not be his younger self after all, for he’s standing right there on the sidewalk, arms open, green sweater and all. Aiken embraces him, just as Hollier appears and closes something over his head with a sliding motion. Aiken has no idea what it is, but everything goes nightly black. The swoosh is disturbing, disorienting, and after that, there’s really nothing left. Nothing able to feel anything at all.

###

A beep from the monitor confirms integration:

ARCHIVE LOG / FINAL AWARENESS / UPLOAD COMPLETED

Hollier places the cartridge in its case and slots it alongside its neighbors on the shelf.

“It had to be done,” Dr. Edrin says.

“Quite regretfully. Not all tunnels can be explored.”

They leave the room.

“His memories will live on,” the Scientist says, patting the Boss’s back.

Hollier laughs.

“What a foolish sport. If memories made anyone wiser, we’d be the wisest men on Earth.”

“Precisely,” Dr. Edrin says, pausing for a moment. “And aren’t we?”

They disappear at the end of the alley, as an Archivist salutes them with deference.

By T.S. Carney

Ally the Martian was dreaming of catastrophe. In the first dream, her husband Gar-knack’s head exploded, leaving her alone with the kids and zero Martian Life Insurance. In the second, Earthmen arrived in gleaming ships—muscular, loud, and ruining the landscape with their lack of telepathy.

That morning, Gar-knack sat at the table sipping a thick brown sludge.

“Gar-knack! I had the worst dream. Your head exploded, and I was left destitute.”

“That’s an awful thing to say before coffee, Ally.”

“You need to get insurance through my brother. Unless…” She narrowed her eyes. “Gar-knack, do you even have a job?”

“I scoop sand, Ally! Sort the red from the slightly-more-red. It’s a career.”

“Well, hurry up. Because the second dream was worse. Earthmen are coming. They’re coming to take our country and our support.”

“Honey, humans don’t have telepathy. They’re basically toddlers with rockets. Don’t worry—Mars is forever.”

That night, Ally screamed into the dark: “Acnalb! Acnalb! Take me away from Gar-knack! You’re so much better than him!”

Gar-knack flicked on the lamp. “What the Martian hell was that?”

“What?”

“Who is Acnalb? You screamed his name. Told him to take you away from me.”

“He’s nobody,” Ally stammered. “I was watching the news. Must’ve seen the Earthmen again. They’re migrants, Gar-knack. They need our support. It’s exciting.”

“Fine. Tomorrow I’m digging holes. Go to sleep.”

The next morning, Gar-knack was fuming. “I heard it again. Acnalb! Acnalb! Who is he?”

“I don’t know anyone with a name that stupid,” Ally said, oblivious.

“We’re calling Dr. Zo.” Gar-knack pressed his fingers to his temples. Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba. “Calling Dr. Zo…”

“Gar-knack, it’s 6:00 AM,” the Doctor’s voice echoed in their heads.

“My wife is dreaming of other men!”

“If it’s an emergency, make an appointment. Your wife is fine. You’re just insecure,” Zo snapped.

Ally tapped her head. “Thank you, Doctor.” She looked at her husband. “See? Now eat your breakfast. Oh wait, your telepathic tantrum burned it.”

At the dig site, Gar-knack complained to his friend Xylar.

“She’s dreaming of Earthmen, Xylar. It’s humiliating.”

“Can’t be helped,” Xylar said, leaning on his shovel. “They’re exotic. Two eyes? Two legs? Zing!” He thrust his hips. “They’re like a different species. Like being into a Gristle-worm. Gross, but compelling.”

“She screams for some guy named Acnalb.”

“Keep digging, you Mire-Maggots!” their manager, Mr. Grabdor, shouted. “Sort that sand!”

When Grabdor left, Xylar whispered, “It’s xenophilia. Half the planet’s obsessed. They want to see what a two-legged alien can do. If you want it to stop, you have to kill one.”

“Kill an Earthman?”

“Shoot one, and the rest will leave. I know a guy. He’s got a weapon. Point, pull the trigger. Simple.”

“I’ve never killed a thing,” Gar-knack whimpered.

“Do it at the Earthmen Depot. Tell Ally you’re out with a girl. She’ll be so mad she won’t notice the blood on your shoes.”

That afternoon, Gar-knack went to the Depot. It was crawling with humans—disgusting creatures with their single reproductive parts and loud voices. He sat at the bar, nursing a drink, when he heard it.

“Hey, Acnalb! Sit with us!”

Gar-knack froze. Acnalb. He had to lure the man away. He closed his eyes and scanned the humans’ messy, loud minds.

Pee-Pee-Who-Who-My-Mother-Said-To-Pick-The-Very-Best-One…

Gar-knack focused on a movie he’d seen on a hijacked Earth signal. His body shimmered and popped. Out came the fangs, the cape, the widow’s peak. He had transformed into Dracula.

“Hello, Count!” one of the humans laughed as Gar-knack approached.

“Bleh-Bleh!” Gar-knack opened his cape wide. “Which one of you is named Acnalb? Bleh-Bleh!”

“I am,” a man said, looking confused.

“Great! I invite you to dinner at my summer home. My wife—Mina, I mean Ally—is cooking. Bleh-Bleh!”

“Is this guy for real?” the humans laughed. “I vant to suck your blood!”

“Yes, yes, bleh-bleh,” Gar-knack muttered. “Follow me.”

Acnalb followed the Martian Dracula into the blistering sun. “Something doesn’t seem right. Why do you live in a ranch house if you’re a vampire?”

“It’s a vacation rental! Bleh-Bleh!”

They entered the house. Ally was there. “Ahh! An Earthman!”

“I’m Acnalb,” the man said.

“I thought your husband was a vampire,” Acnalb added, looking at the Martian.

“He’s an idiot,” Ally said. “Gar-knack, why is there a human in my kitchen?”

“He’s your lover! Make him dinner!” Gar-knack commanded, still wearing the cape.

Ally sighed and turned on the Electrical Combustible Food Processor.

“Is that an oven?” Acnalb asked.

“Oven?” Ally swooned. “How sophisticated! Gar-knack, he called it an oven.”

“Stop being nice to him!” Gar-knack pulled out the gun. “I’m going to kill him, but first, we eat. We aren’t savages.”

They sat at the table. Gar-knack, fueled by jealousy and Martian gin, started pounding drinks through his telepathy. Acnalb poked at a brown, coiled blob on his plate.

“What is this?”

“Chitinous Exoskeleton,” Ally said proudly.

“It looks like crap,” Acnalb said. “Tastes like it, too.”

Gar-knack was drunk now. His judgment a blur of red sand and capes. “Meal’s over! Time to die!” He stood up, swaying, and fired.

Bang! He missed.

Bang! He hit a lamp.

“You’re a terrible shot, Count,” Acnalb remarked.

Enraged and blind-drunk, Gar-knack looked down the barrel of the gun to see why it wasn’t working. He pulled the trigger one last time.

BOOM. His head exploded exactly like Ally’s dream.

“Ahh!” Ally screamed.

Acnalb didn’t wait. He ran back to the Depot. “The alien’s head blew off!” he told his friends. “WOOT! WOOT!”

Back at the house, Ally wiped blue blood off the table and dialed her brother. Gar-knack was gone, but the Martian Life Insurance payout was going to be massive.

Finally, she could afford to visit the Earth Depot in style.