Recursion - Blake Crouch Page 0,80

a long-dead dictator or whatever—wins.”

Helena says, “You’re saying it’s in everyone’s best interest to use the chair.”

“Exactly. And as soon as possible. Whoever rewrites history in their own interest first, wins. It’s too big a gamble to let someone else get there first.”

Helena glances at the television again.

Now the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco’s financial district is burning.

“Could be a foreign government behind these attacks,” Helena says.

“Nope,” Albert says, studying his phone. “An anonymous group just claimed responsibility on Twitter.”

“What do they want?”

“No idea. Often, the mere creation of mayhem and terror is itself the endgame.”

Now a woman is onscreen at the news-anchor desk, looking shaken as she speaks to the camera.

“Turn it up, Albert,” Shaw says.

“Amidst conflicting reports of terrorist attacks in New York and San Francisco, a report from The Guardian’s Glenn Greenwald has just been published, alleging that the US government has been in possession of a new technology called a memory chair for at least six months, which it pirated from a private corporation. Mr. Greenwald contends the memory chair allows for the consciousness of its occupant to travel into the past, and according to his confidential sources, this chair is the actual cause of False Memory Syndrome, the mysterious—”

Albert mutes the television.

“We have to do something right now,” he says. “Any moment, reality could shift us into a completely different world, or out of existence altogether.”

Shaw has been pacing, but now he slumps down in his chair and looks at Helena. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“Now isn’t the time for—”

“I thought we could use it for good. I was ready to dedicate the rest of my—”

“It doesn’t matter. If you’d done what I said and destroyed the chair, we’d be helpless right now.”

Shaw glances at his phone. “My superiors are on their way.”

“How long do we have?” Helena asks.

“They’re on a jet up from DC, so about thirty minutes. They’ll take over everything.”

“We’ll never be allowed back in here,” Albert says.

“Let’s send Timoney back,” Shaw says.

“To when?” Albert asks.

“To before Slade’s lab was hacked. Now that we know the location of his building, we can raid it earlier. There will be no cyber theft, and we’ll be the sole custodians of the chair.”

“Until we arrive back at this moment,” Albert says. “And then the world will remember all the mayhem that happened this morning.”

Helena says, “And the people who currently have the chair will just rebuild it from a false memory. Like Slade did. It’ll be harder without blueprints, but not impossible. What we need is more time.”

Helena rises and heads over to the terminal, where she takes down a skullcap and climbs into the chair.

“What are you doing?” Shaw asks.

“What does it look like? Raj? Come give me a hand? I need to map a memory.”

Raj, Shaw, and Albert exchange glances across the table.

“What are you doing, Helena?” Shaw asks again.

“Getting us out of this jam.”

“How?”

“Will you just fucking trust me, John?” she shouts. “We are out of time. I have stood by, offered counsel, played by your rules. Now it’s your turn to play by mine.”

Shaw sighs, deflated. She knows the pain of letting go of the promise of the chair. It isn’t just the disappointment of all the unrealized scientific and humanitarian uses to which it might be put under ideal conditions. It’s the realization that, as a deeply flawed species, we will never be ready to wield such power.

“OK,” he says finally. “Raj, fire up the chair.”

* * *

It is the first real taste of freedom the girl has ever known.

In the early evening, she walks out of the two-story farmhouse and climbs into the blue-and-white ’78 Chevy Silverado that is her family’s only vehicle.

She never expected her parents to give her one when she turned sixteen two days ago. Her plan is to work next summer lifeguarding and babysitting, and hopefully earn enough money to buy her own car.

Her parents are standing on the ever-so-slightly sagging front porch, watching proudly as she slides the key into the ignition.

Her mother takes a Polaroid.

As the engine roars to life, what strikes her most is the emptiness in the truck.

No Dad sitting in the passenger seat.

No Mom between them.

It’s just her.

She can listen to any music she wants, as loud as she wants. She can go anywhere she wants, drive as fast as she wants.

Of course, she won’t.

On her maiden voyage, her plan is to venture into the dangerous and distant wilds of the convenience store, a mile and a