The data-chip felt like a live wire in Damian's clenched fist. He stood frozen for a moment in the dusty silence of the old apartment, listening. No footsteps, no alarms. Just the frantic thumping of his own heart. He had it. Now he had to get to the library without getting caught.
He slipped back into the hallway, pulling the heavy door shut until it clicked. The walk back to the main corridor felt ten miles long. Every shadow seemed to move. Every distant hum of machinery sounded like the Archivist's voice about to call out his name. When he finally reached the junction, the glowing path to the Arboretum was still pulsing patiently on the floor, waiting for him. He'd only been gone a few minutes.
He forced himself to walk calmly onto the path, following it toward the café. He couldn't raise suspicion now. He bought a coffee he didn't want from a smiling, automated kiosk, the bitter smell of real beans feeling like a mockery. He took a few sips, standing there like a normal person having a normal day. Then he turned and, trying to look casual, walked away from the main thoroughfare.
"Mr. Grey," the Archivist's voice said softly from a speaker in the ceiling. "The most direct route to your residence is behind you."
Damian's blood ran cold. He forced a smile. "I know. I just… I remember there was a library around here. From before. I thought maybe seeing some old physical books might… help. With the memories." He held his breath.
There was a pause that felt like an eternity. He could imagine the AI processing his request, cross-referencing it with Dr. Thorne's notes about sensory triggers.
"Acknowledged," the voice said finally. "The Historical Archives are to your left. Your access is extended for thirty additional minutes."
The relief was so intense it made him dizzy. He nodded his thanks to the empty air and walked on, his coffee cup sweating in his hand.
The library wasn't like the old pictures he had in his head—a grand room with tall shelves. It was a quiet, circular room with a few sad-looking bookcases holding artifacts under glass. The real purpose of the room was the row of six public access terminals along the far wall. They were older models, their screens slightly dim, their keyboards worn and sticky-looking. Exactly what he needed.
He chose the terminal in the farthest corner, partly hidden by a large potted plant. He sat down, the plastic chair creaking under his weight. His hands were shaking as he fished the data-chip from his pocket. The slot for it was on the side of the monitor, a relic most people probably forgot existed.
He slid the chip in.
The screen flickered, and a prompt appeared. Not the friendly Elysian Archives interface. This was a raw, text-based system. A single line of text blinked:
> DECRYPTION KEY REQUIRED.
Of course. V2.0 wouldn't have made it that easy. Damian's mind raced. What key? A password? A phrase? He thought of the lavender plant. The lake. Elara. He tried typing their names. ELARA. LAKE HOUSE. LAVENDER. Each time, the screen responded with a cold, red > ACCESS DENIED.
Panic began to rise. He was so close. He looked around the empty room. What did he have? What was the one thing V2.0 had left him that was truly his?
The key. The physical key.
He pulled it from his pocket. He turned it over in his hand. The leather tag. Unit 734, The Aerie. That wasn't just an address. What if it was the key? He typed UNIT734. THE AERIE. AERIE734.
> ACCESS DENIED.
He was running out of time. He stared at the key, at the worn leather. And then he saw it. Not the address, but the way it was written. On the tag, it was stamped: Unit 734, The Aerie. But in the official system, Rourke had called it a 'decommissioned asset.' The Aerie was the old, romantic name. What was its technical designation? Its sector and unit number?
He typed a desperate guess, combining the sector code from the main residential block with the unit number: S7-734.
The screen blinked. The text cleared. For a heart-stopping second, he thought he'd triggered a lockout. Then, a simple list of files appeared.
log_1.audio
log_2.audio
message_unsent.text
He clicked on log_1.audio. A media player opened. He fumbled for the terminal's headphones, plugging them in with fumbling fingers. He hit play.
Static, then a breath. It was his own voice, but weary, stripped bare. V2.0.
"I'm starting to think I'm going crazy." The voice was a low whisper. "It's the little things. A conversation I remember having with Ben from Logistics last week… but according to the comms log, it never happened. I remember Elara making a joke about the purple flowers she loved… but the species she named doesn't exist in the database. Did I imagine it? Or…" A long pause, filled with the sound of ragged breathing. "Or are they sanding down the rough edges? Making me smoother? Getting me ready for the next Version?"
Damian's skin crawled. It was exactly what he'd felt. The too-perfect memories.
He opened log_2.audio. This one was dated just a day before the death.
"It's not a mistake. It's a pattern." V2.0's voice was sharper now, tight with fear and fury. "I ran a deep-level diagnostic on my own neural implant. It's not just the memories. There are… foreign code strings. Latent. Dormant. They're not part of me. They're tagged with an internal Elysian developer signature. 'Project Chimera.' I don't know what it does, but they've buried it deep. This is why they're fighting the audit. They're not preserving my consciousness. They're… curating it."
Project Chimera. The name meant nothing to Damian, but it sounded like a monster.
With trembling fingers, he opened the last file, message_unsent.text. It was addressed to Elara's old comm code. The code he knew was restricted.
Elara,
I know this can't reach you. I know what they told everyone. But I don't believe it. Your accident… the timing was too convenient. You were asking too many questions about the Archives, about what they really do. I think you found something. I think they made you disappear.
I'm close to finding it, too. I've filed for an audit. It's my only shot. If you're somehow… out there… know that I'm still looking. For the truth. For you.
If this is the last version of me that remembers you, then I guess this is goodbye.
- D
Damian sat back, the headphones slipping from his ears. The room spun. It wasn't just murder. Elara was gone? She'd died in an accident? And V2.0 believed it was no accident. He believed she was killed for asking questions.
And Project Chimera. A foreign code buried in his own mind. His own thoughts weren't safe.
A shadow fell over the terminal.
Damian jerked his head up, his blood turning to ice. A man was standing there. But it wasn't Rourke.
It was Ben. From Logistics. The man from the memory V2.0 said never happened.
Ben was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. He was holding a small, silver tool that looked like a medical scanner.
"Damian," Ben said, his voice friendly. "The Archivist flagged some unusual data activity on this terminal. Just a routine check. Everything okay?"
Ben's eyes flicked to the screen, to the open text file addressed to a dead woman. The friendly smile stayed plastered on his face.
"You look pale," Ben said, taking a step closer. "Why don't you come with me? We'll get you checked out."