Memoria Read online

  Memoria

  Alex Bobl

  Sky Bridge (2012)

  * * *

  Rating: ****

  Tags: Hardboiled Sci Fi

  They control your memories...

  They tell you how to live...

  In the bombed-out streets of New York, the corrupt bosses of Memoria

  Corporation make billions by erasing people's traumatic memories. But their

  bubble bursts when a humble citizen Frank Shelby becomes a murder suspect on the run. Betrayed by his friends and hunted down by mysterious killers, Frank has to penetrate Memoria and find evidence of their real plans before it's too

  late for all of us.

  Alex Bobl

  MEMORIA

  A Corporation of Lies

  Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

  Alex Bobl

  Published by Sky Bridge Publishers, 2012

  Copyright © Alex Bobl 2012

  Cover Art © Vladimir Manyukhin 2012

  English translation copyright © Irene Woodhead 2012

  Editor Neil P. Mayhew

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any correlation with real people or events is coincidental.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One. Who? When? What For?

  Chapter Two. The Men in Black

  Chapter Three. The Letter from the Dead

  Chapter Four. One Against All

  Chapter Five. Nowhere to Run

  Chapter Six. The Mentor

  Chapter Seven. It's a Small World

  Chapter Eight. The Expert's Lodgings

  Chapter Nine. A Pattern Starts to Form

  Chapter Ten. The Vaccination Project

  Chapter Eleven. Underdogs Bite

  Chapter Twelve. Code Red

  Chapter Thirteen. Rappelling into Hell

  Chapter Fourteen. The Tape

  Chapter Fifteen. Questions Without Answers

  Chapter Sixteen. The Migrants' Camp

  Chapter Seventeen. No Justice

  Chapter Eighteen. The Bent Cop

  Chapter Nineteen. Personality Correction

  Chapter Twenty. Things Fall into Place

  Chapter Twenty-One. Chasing Tails

  Chapter Twenty-Two. The Murderous Friend

  Chapter Twenty-Three. The Final Combat

  Epilogue. The Lull Before the Storm

  About the Author

  The author would like to express his sincere appreciation to Tais Khulish, Yulian Zagorodny, Cyd Athens and Sergei Grushko for their wealth of advice.

  Chapter One. Who? When? What For?

  Frank didn't like the cab the moment he saw it.

  The ancient Ford Victoria had tinted windows, a rusty rear fender and a massive brush guard mounted on the bumper. The driver pulled out of the cab line that stretched all the way to the airport exit, cutting off the car that already waited for Frank. Brakes screeching, it came to a halt by the curb.

  Frank had a bad feeling about it. The car raised questions. First, what cab company would keep this rust bucket in their fleet thirty years after the end of the war in the city? Secondly, what kind of taxi driver would so brazenly cold-shoulder his fellow cabbies?

  The driver rolled down his window and yelled at Frank, his voice drowned out by an airbus landing in La Guardia. The plane's shadow darkened the bombed-out skeletons of buildings along the road. Crossing the faces of people waiting on the sidewalk, the shadow brushed the glass façade of a newly restored building and fleeted away.

  "You deaf? It's half the fare!" Frank heard once the whine of the jet's engine subsided.

  He stepped toward the car, opened the door and looked inside. An unpleasant face stared back at him, its cheekbones high and eyes deeply set. Smooth skin was drawn tight over the man's skull, and a thick white scar ran from his right temple to the back of his head. The man's skin, although perfectly natural, looked too smooth to be real. It gave Frank the impression that the bully had slapped on some makeup before pulling in at the terminal exit.

  "Get in," the baldhead barked.

  Frank had another look at him and stepped back.

  "I said, get in," the man glanced up impatiently at the road in front of him. A spot of light fell on his face, causing his pupils to contract, and Frank gave up his initial idea of the driver being a spaced-out junkie.

  Behind Frank's back, unhappy voices tried to hurry the line along. Another cab pulled up by the sidewalk, causing the whole line of cars that snaked around the terminal's perimeter to edge forward.

  "Move it!" the bald-headed driver wheezed through his teeth. He stuck out a sharp chin and shifted in his leather seat.

  The cab behind him tooted and pulled too close, locking his bumper. Its front door swung open, letting out an indignant middle-aged heavyweight with a fat mustache.

  About to comply, Frank laid his hand on the door handle when a familiar stinging filled the bridge of his nose. His eyes watered. He glanced inside and cringed at the view of battered leather seats.

  Leather.

  He let go of the door and shoved a shaking hand into his coat pocket for a tissue. All gone. Shit! Wretched allergy, always messing with his life!

  He stepped back and forced a smile to the baldheaded driver.

  "Sorry... I can't go with you... It's not your fault, I'm allerg-"

  "You piece of crap!" the baldhead lunged across the cab and grabbed Frank's hand dragging him inside. Frank pulled his hand free and slammed the door, barely missing the man's fingers.

  His heart pumping, he looked around him at the staring people, mumbled something about giving up his turn and stepped over to the mustached cabbie's vehicle.

  "I'll go with you, if it's okay." He reached for the door.

  "Hey you! Get lost!" the baldheaded cabman croaked behind his back.

  Frank turned round. The bully driver pushed aside a passenger who was trying to load his suitcase into the trunk. He waved to Frank again. "Come on, quit stalling!"

  Frank chose to ignore him. The angry passenger picked up his suitcase and mumbled something. The bald driver slammed his fist into the man's shoulder. The crowd recoiled.

  "I think the guy could use a lesson," the mustached cabbie said. "I can teach him one if he insists." He stepped toward the first taxi, but the bully driver jumped into his cab, rolled up his window and took off, his intent eyes fixed on the road.

  "Don't bother," Frank wiped his stinging eyes and said out loud, for the crowd's sake. "I'm a lawyer. I work for the Government. I'll take care of it."

  He made a show of marking down the departing Ford's plates as well as the company's logo and phone numbers from the trunk. Then he checked the other cab's fabric upholstery, got in and gave the mustached driver his West Side address.

  His heart was still pumping hard. The bald man's bosses got to know about this. His poor conduct shouldn't be tolerated. Nor should Frank himself head for Memoria in order to erase the unpleasant incident from his mind. The bully had to get his comeuppance: be punished, demoted, fired — let him take his pick.

  Of course, the man could always go to Memoria himself and erase the memories of his dismissal and the airport incident that had caused it. But it wouldn't help him much: his name would be blacklisted by all cab companies' databases, or maybe even the New York police department files. That would be more than enough. The L
a Guardia bully would never be able to appear in public again; he'd lose his driver's license, and no amount of Memoria wipe would help it. He could erase his memories every day if he wanted to, but every time the bald son of a bitch tried to get a job, the incident would come up until the day the sanction was lifted.

  Satisfied, Frank reached for the cell phone in his pocket. After a brief hesitation — whom to call first? — he dialed his home number. Wouldn't it be wonderful if Kathleen had remembered his arrival and was now waiting for him?

  Under the gloomy sky, Queens' half-restored ruins flashed past the cab window. Shame if it was going to rain: he'd been looking forward to a breath of fresh air. Provided Kathleen picked up. Provided nothing had come up to keep him from seeing her.

  The phone rang. Frank shifted it to his other hand and leaned back. Theirs was a strange relationship indeed, Kathleen’s and his, nothing normal about it. High time they sat and talked about it. You couldn't expect a successful lawyer like himself, a government advisor, to keep dating someone he'd met six months ago at some Mayoral event without even knowing her full name. Kathleen was an intelligent and educated girl, all designer clothes and sports cars, but she'd never spoken about herself.

  He tried to remember when exactly he'd given her the key to his place... Was it their second date? Third? Come to think of it, it had been her idea to begin with. Pretty irrelevant, but still, they had to talk it all over. Frank didn't look forward to falling victim to a jealous husband or anything like that. In the light of his position, and especially his potential promotion to a post in EPPD, it wouldn't be a good idea to take his relationships lightly. So he needed to weigh up all the pros and cons and approach their future discussion with some seriousness. He had to practice what he was going to say and how he'd say it — his arguments, his body language... Then they'd decide where their relationship could go from there.

  Her voice echoed in the receiver.

  "Hello? Frank?" She sounded hoarse and nervous, breathing in short fits.

  "Oh, hi," he said. "You okay? I thought you'd given up on me."

  "I'm fine, thanks."

  He heard her sniffle. Frank's heart skipped a beat. "You sure?"

  "Yeah. I got soaked in the rain so I'm not feeling very well, sorry. You'd better tell me how it went in DC."

  Her voice softened. Even her breathing sounded more even.

  Frank glanced at the driver. You couldn't tell what he was thinking: no reaction was evident on the back of his head, and the part of the broad face seen in the rear-view mirror didn't betray any emotion, either. The cabbie kept his eyes on the road, steering with one hand and stroking his mustache with the other.

  "It didn't go well, I'm afraid," Frank said. "Not for us, anyway. The talks have been rescheduled."

  "So what's so bad about that?" Kathleen's voice asked, caring and sweet.

  She was good at it. You could trust her to find the right words of support when a man could use some. She knew how to strike the right note in a conversation, ignoring her own problems.

  "Just my future," he started pouring his heart out. "My career, and this promotion, too... I've been laying the groundwork for this deal for a long time. Too long, in fact. Now it's back to square one."

  "I don't think so! It wasn't your fault that the talks didn't go through, was it?"

  "No, it wasn't." Frank could almost see Kathleen's foxy smile and, unconsciously, his lips curved into a smile, too. "I've no idea how it happened."

  "So you see! Your career is in no danger."

  Her words soothed him a little. Frank had even forgotten about the bald cab driver, let alone the failed talks. Kathleen was the best pill ever. Her voice sounded soft and musical.

  "Frank, I miss you. Please come soon."

  In his mind, he saw her lying on their king-size bed in her designer lace underwear — the girl wouldn't wear anything less, or at least he'd never witnessed it. Her groomed skin glowed golden against snow-white sheets; the dark lace teased, promising passion and pleasure.

  He choked, swallowed and shifted in the seat. "I will. I'm coming now."

  "Please do," she paused. "Oh, and this old lady next door, she dropped in..."

  "Mrs. Fletcher? What did she want?"

  "She still can't get the hang of her remote. She needs help to set up the cable channels."

  "Did you do it for her?"

  "No. I didn't let her in. She didn't seem too eager to see me, anyway. She said, she'd better wait for you to come back."

  "Looks like I'll have to pay her a visit."

  "Just make sure you pay me a visit first."

  He got the hint in her voice. "Sure."

  She hung up. Phone in hand, Frank lingered for a couple of seconds, then slowly exhaled and turned to the window.

  They'd already left Queens behind and were crossing Queensboro Bridge. To their left, barely half a mile away, rose Manhattan. If traffic permitted, he'd be there in minutes. Along the East River, towers stood in ruins; their burned-out, bomb-smashed skeletons crowded the ocean shore, black squares gaping where windows had been.

  The only memory of the city war that had ravaged the center of New York. Try and erase this out of the memories of millions.

  They hadn't tried to. Yet.

  From afar, the blackened concrete stumps looked as if they could fold any moment like a house of cards and then slide down the shore into the ocean at the slightest poke. And once their remnants were done with, you'd be able to see the towers of the New Financial Borough in the process of construction. There, the enormous edifice of Memoria's HQ had already arisen: the corporation that had stopped the bloodshed thirty years back. It was Memoria that had given people hope and a sense of security. Had it not been for Memoria, the whole Eastern shore from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico would still be engulfed in flames, fighting the resources war.

  Bellville's army — migrants from Texas, New Mexico and other Western states — had wanted to secure their own grasp on the country. But they had lost the oil war. Jacque Bellville himself had been tried and executed in DC. His entourage had fled abroad. Those of their combatants who had failed to escape had been locked in migrant camps, stripped of their right to vote and subjected to round-the-clock monitoring through security cameras and the personal electronic bracelets that Memoria had enforced on the entire population.

  Frank's gaze followed the enormous orange spot of Memoria's flag fluttering over the corporation's tower.

  "Jesus. Things seem to be improving much faster in DC," he said. "Most of their buildings are already restored. The Capitol building is as good as new. Memoria's branches are mushrooming on every corner. And there aren't so many migrants left there, you know, most have already gotten their citizen status."

  The cabbie braked at a red light, turned round with a smirk and showed Frank his electronic bracelet. An orange light flashed on the man's right wrist which meant that he'd fought for his citizenship in General Hopper's squads.

  Frank lowered his eyes, embarrassed. His own bracelet was flashing with a little green light which meant that he'd been born after the war. His own citizenship was an automatic after-war privilege.

  "You don't know how lucky you are, kid," The cabbie clasped the steering wheel and moved off when the light turned green. "Having a house, a job — a girl..." He glanced at Frank through the rear-view mirror, grinned and added in his strong, low voice, "You never had to lose your friends or family."

  "But why—" Frank stopped short.

  It had been a long time since he'd had a chance to talk to a veteran who'd chosen to preserve his war memories. All the old people he knew — those who still remembered the battles between Hopper and Bellville — had died since, or had Memoria erase their recollections. Somewhere in this city lived Frank's old boxing coach. Like so many others, he too must have visited one of the corporation's numerous branches, having forgotten the war and with it, his old students. Frank wasn't even sure the man still lived here — he could have relocated
from New York for all Frank knew. His coach used to talk a lot about freedom, the word acquiring many new meanings through his interpretation. In the young Frank's eyes, he was the wisest man that ever lived, his mentor and his role model.

  How long had it been since Frank had seen him last? Had to be nearly a decade. Occasional phone calls and seasonal greetings didn't count. He absolutely had to see him. Make him meet Kathleen, maybe...

  Frank rubbed his face hard and interlocked his fingers. Wasn't he a jerk, after all? How could he forget the man who was, in fact, his second father? What if the man failed to remember him?

  "What was it you said?" the ageing cabbie squinted in the rear-view mirror. "Why won't I get rid of my past?"

  Frank nodded and unclasped his fingers.

  "When half the civilian population happily erase their memories, apparently content with living below the bread line," the veteran looked back to the road, "when I live next door to a migrant camp packed with those motherfuckers..." he cut himself short, locked his hands on the steering wheel and hunched over it, tucking his head into his wrestler's shoulders, wide and sloping.

  Well, well, well... Frank leaned against the door keeping an eye on the cabbie and wondering what this sudden candor could mean and whether the cabbie was indeed candid and not demented. The latter seemed more likely. Success is never blamed, so the victors in that war guarded their presidentially granted right to preserve their memories. They didn't have to visit Memoria three times a year, like all the others had, and the recollections of the past war remained entirely their own business.

  "Here we are, kid," The cabbie pointed at the meter.

  "Would you mind waiting a bit?" Frank reached into his pocket for his wallet. "I'll go get my girlfriend," He handed the man his fare.

  "No problem, kid," The mustached face softened. The man ran his thick strong fingers over his mustache and added, "I suggest you pay Memoria a visit, too."