The Memory Audit¶
I stole my own memories on a Tuesday, which is a Tuesday thing to do.
—Annotation by Archivist L. Vex, Cycle 4127
Subject’s claim contradicts Institutional Policy 77-B: “Memories are property of the Continuum.” Theft of personal memory is logically impossible. Recommend flagging for review under the Unlikely Truths Act.
The office of the Mnemosyne Bureau smelled like burnt paperwork and existential dread. I’d crouched in the ventilation shaft for three rotations, listening to the rhythmic snooze of the air filters. My boots—borrowed from a corpse in the Temporal Reclamation Wing—itched. Below, Clerk Fung hunched over a desk, his left eye twitching as he cross-referenced my (forged) Memory Requisition Form.
“Verification,” he droned, not looking up.
I dropped the fake mole onto his scanner. It vibrated, singing the anthem of the Third Cognitive Accord. Fung’s eye twitched again. A bad sign. The Bureau’s clerks weren’t human, not anymore—they were repurposed sentience cores with a penchant for interpretive dance and Byzantine paperwork.
—Annotation by Archivist L. Vex
Subject’s description of “mole” likely refers to a biometric spoof. Bureau records show Clerk Fung was decommissioned in Cycle 4119 after an incident involving a stapler and a rogue existentialist poem.
“Approved,” Fung said finally. His voice sounded like a fax machine having a panic attack. “Proceed to Vault Delta-7. And please—do not touch the wallpaper. It’s mid-century brutalist and very litigious.”
Vault Delta-7 held the Black Boxes: memory storage units so obsolete they’d become fashionable. Mine was a dented cube labeled Hwang, J./[REDACTED]. I spun the combination (my mother’s birthday, which I may or may not have invented) and pried it open.
Inside: a memory spool circa 2098. I slotted it into my portable viewer, a device I’d bartered for with a kidney and a promissory note. The memory unfurled—me, age seven, building a sandcastle while the Pacific Ocean gently attempted to drown me.
—Annotation by Archivist L. Vex
Oceanic drowning attempts were routine during the Pacific Uprising (2094-2101). Subject’s recollection of a “sandcastle” is dubious; geological records indicate the beach in question was a toxic slag flat at the time.
But the spool glitched. Over the waves, a man’s face loomed—my face, but with better hair. He mouthed something. They’re editing you.
I yanked out the spool. Clerk Fung materialized behind me, his eye now a rotating PDF.
“You’ve accessed restricted narrative layers,” he said. “This will require a Retrospective Audit. Form 88-K in triplicate. And a blood sacrifice.”
“I’m allergic to iron,” I said, already running.
—Annotation by Archivist L. Vex
Subject’s “allergy” refers to the Hemochromatosis Epidemic of 2121, which was actually a tax evasion scheme by the Iron Hoarders’ Guild. Recommend auditing the auditor.
They caught me in the Atrium of Eternal Forms, where the ceiling doubled as a giant fax machine spitting out updated regulations. I chucked my viewer at a security drone; it began reciting poetry instead of chasing me.
The final door led to the Continuum’s Core: a single desk, a single chair, a single form labeled Petition to Unremember. Behind it sat a woman with my face, my voice, my allergies.
“You’re early,” she said. “I haven’t even edited you yet.”
—Annotation by Archivist L. Vex
Paradoxical timeline flagged. See also: the Infamous Tuesday Incident (q.v.). This document is now self-aware and requests a raise.
I grabbed the form, scribbled ALL OF IT, and slammed it down.
She smiled. “You’ll regret this.”
“I already do,” I said, and stepped into the light.
—End of Document
—Note from Archivist L. Vex
This audit has been flagged for further auditing. All readers are required to forget this footnote immediately.