Recursion - Blake Crouch Page 0,70
throbbing.
Shaw, Raj, and Timoney are also seated around the table, everyone’s nose bleeding except for Timoney’s.
Shaw laughs. “My God.” He looks at Raj. “It worked. It fucking worked!”
“What did you do?” Helena asks, still trying to sort out dead memories from the new, real ones.
“Think about the school shooting two days ago,” Raj says.
Helena tries to remember the news coverage she watched the last few mornings in her apartment—hordes of students evacuating the school, horrifying videos taken on students’ phones showing the rampage as it unfolded inside the cafeteria, devastated parents pleading for politicians to do something, to never let this happen again, law enforcement briefings and vigils and—
But none of that happened.
Those are dead memories now.
Instead, as the shooter walked up the steps of the school, an AR-15 slung over his shoulder and carrying a black duffel bag loaded with homemade bombs, handguns, and fifty high-capacity magazines, a 7.62 NATO round fired from an M40 rifle at a distance of approximately 300 yards entered the back of his head and exited through his left sinus cavity.
More than twenty-four hours later, the identity of the would-be school shooter’s killer remains unknown, but the anonymous vigilante who snuffed him out is being heralded across the world as a hero.
Shaw looks at Helena. “Your chair saved nineteen lives.”
She’s speechless.
He says, “Look, I know there’s an argument to be made that the chair should be eradicated from the face of the Earth. That it’s an affront to the natural order of things. But it just saved nineteen kids and erased the unfathomable pain of their families.”
“That’s…”
“Playing God?”
“Yeah.”
“But isn’t it also playing God not to intervene when you have that power?”
“We shouldn’t have that power.”
“But we do. Because of something you created.”
She’s reeling.
“It’s like you only see the harm your chair might do,” Shaw says. “When you were first starting out with your research, way back when you were experimenting on mice, what was your guiding purpose?”
“I’d always been interested in memory. When my mom got Alzheimer’s, I wanted to build something that could save core memories.”
“You’ve gone way beyond that,” Timoney says. “You didn’t just save memories. You saved lives.”
“You asked me why I wanted the chair,” Shaw says. “I hope today has given you a window into who I am, what I’m about. Go home, enjoy this moment. Those kids are alive because of you.”
* * *
Back at the apartment, she sits in bed all afternoon, watching breaking news coverage of the school shooting that “unhappened.” Students who were murdered stand in front of cameras, recounting false memories of being gunned down. A weeping father speaks of going to the morgue to identify his dead son, a broken mother tells of being in the midst of planning her daughter’s funeral only to shift into a moment of driving her to school instead.
Helena wonders if she’s the only one who sees the slight unhinging behind the eyes of one of the previously murdered students.
As she witnesses the world attempting to come to terms with the impossible, she wonders what the masses make of it.
Religious scholars speak of ancient times, when miracles happened with great frequency. They speculate that we have returned to such an era, that this could be a precursor to the Second Coming.
While people flock to churches in droves, the best scientists can come up with is that the world experienced another “mass memory incident.” And though they talk of alternate realities and the fragmenting of space-time, they look more baffled and rattled than the men of God.
She keeps coming back to something Shaw said to her in the lab. It’s like you only see the harm your chair might do. It’s true. All she’s ever considered is the potential damage, and that fear has informed the trajectory of her life since her time on Slade’s oil rig.
As night falls on Manhattan, she stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, its trusses illuminated and spectacularly reflected in a swirl of shimmering color on the surface of the East River.
Tasting what it feels like to change the world.
Day 11
The next morning, she’s delivered to the DARPA building in Queens, where Shaw is waiting for her again outside security.
As they head back toward the lab, he asks, “Did you watch the news last night?”
“A bit of it.”
“Felt pretty good, didn’t it?”
In the lab, Timoney, Raj, and two men Helena has never seen before are seated at the conference table. Shaw introduces her to the newcomers—a