the user agrees that the manufacturer is absolved of all liability if said user is stupid enough to try what follows. The last ten percent is what she’s about to do.
“To me,” she says. “I want…I want the memories.”
“To clarify,” says the Memory Vault. “You would like to attempt a cross-species memory transfer?”
Sarya takes a deep breath. “Yes,” she says.
“Mandatory warning number six hundred: this device is legally obligated to inform you that even same-species memory transfer carries a substantial probability of error, the likelihood of which is dramatically exacerbated by cross-species transfer. Among the possible outcomes are permanent personality alteration, confusion, temporary difficulty forming new associations—”
“I understand,” says Sarya, ignoring the small voice in the back of her mind that says wait, actually maybe she doesn’t. It says that maybe this isn’t such a hot idea, that maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal to let Roche help her. Or Eleven, at least. Maybe it was a dream. Or maybe, says that part of her mind, grasping desperately, maybe it’s just useless recollections and she’s risking her own sanity for memories of a vacation—
Yeah. Because that’s the kind of stuff that Widow mothers hide in encrypted Memory Vaults, locked with the blood of their daughters.
“Furthermore,” continues the device, “the memories in question have been stored with the highest security available on this device. They will be erased after this procedure, whether it is successful or not.”
So. She has one all-or-nothing shot and a decent chance of coming out brain damaged. This is stupid.
“Your response to the following questions will be recorded and notarized,” says the device. “Do you absolve AivvTech of all responsibility in the following operation? Please state your consent as a complete sentence.”
“I—” says Sarya, and stops. The swirl of symbols fades through several configurations as the machine awaits the rest of her sentence. “I absolve AivvTech of all responsibility,” she says.
“Consent duly recorded and notarized as per Network requirements,” says the Memory Vault, the glyphs in its holographic sphere shifting into a new configuration. “Do I have your permission to access your mind? Please state your consent as—”
“Yes,” says Sarya.
“Please state your consent as—”
“You have permission to access my mind.”
“Please assume the original mindset used for the lock procedure.”
And it’s go time. Sarya runs her fingers over the two objects lying in her lap. One is a medical device, the kind with a sub-legal intelligence that is capable of basic cross-species first aid. The other, though—it’s cold and heavy when she picks it up. Roche let her borrow it when she pounded on his hatch and requested something that would, quote, hurt a lot. She should not have been at all surprised when he detached one of his own fingers and handed it to her.
It’s an industrial grinder, he told her cheerfully. I’m told it’s excruciating.
She thanked him, refused his too-eager offer to act as operator, and returned to her room where she began doing dry runs. This is all well rehearsed now—except for the important part, because she only gets one shot at that. It goes like this. Legs folded, check. Medical device here, in easy reach, check. Vault held to her temple, elbow on folded knee, check and check. She feels the manufacturer’s logo digging into her skin and resists the impulse to move it; she won’t care about minor discomforts in a few seconds. Her room is invisible; she could be outside the universe itself, for all she can see on the other side of those swirling glyphs. She finds herself trying to focus on the holos as they orbit through her line of sight, anything to take her mind off the free hand that is bringing up Roche’s finger. It makes real light, unsimulated light, a flickering danger-color that merges with her Network unit’s own automated imagination. HOPE THIS HURTS, say the orange letters that follow it like a cloud of insects. Very funny, Roche.
And then there are no more steps.
She hears the sound of her own pain before she feels it, that strangled heave of a convulsing diaphragm. And then it comes, waves of it rolling down every nerve in her arm. A section of her skin has sunk under Roche’s disembodied caress, a wet rectangle ground half a millimeter below the level of the surrounding area. Her breathing quickens as she watches the blood begin to well up and drip down her arm, and she can feel the sweat begin to prickle her body.