Hyacinth dressed in her finest clothes to sell her memories.
It didn’t take as long as it once had, she had sold many of the better items to pay the bills, but she didn’t want them to think she was desperate for the money.
So, she found herself wearing the last of her pearls as she sat in the sterile-looking consultation suite while a Memory Technician ran through basic health and lifestyle questions on a tablet. The technician was young, blond, and had a dragon tattoo on her arm that Hyacinth did her best not to look at. Instead, she stared at the pristine white walls and wondered what kind of name Kioxia was for a woman.
“Do you understand, Mrs. Routledge?”
“Sorry?”
“Just the potential issues I explained to you. Fatigue, loss of appetite and all that,” said Kioxia with a warm smile. “On rare occasions, people suffer more adverse effects, but I haven’t seen those yet.”
Hyacinth stifled a sniff. That wasn’t a surprise, Kioxia looked like she had walked into the room straight from school. “I will keep my memories, yes?”
“Absolutely. You sell us a copy, nothing more. You keep the original. Just like those old-timey paper scanners.”
“Fine,” said Hyacinth, who very much remembered those scanners from her first and only job. The one she had worked for two years before marriage all those years ago.
Kioxia wheeled across a trolley of wires and blinking lights, attaching a few extra cables and sensors to it as she talked. “It can take up to an hour to fully assess your memories. Then we will review how marketable they are, and give you a price.”
“I anticipate the full hour. We were fortunate to have a very blessed life. I do find that a liberal arts education helps one to truly appreciate the finer things in life?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Kioxia shrugged. “I did an associate’s degree at Wyke Community College.”
Hyacinth smiled; there wasn’t much more she could say. The poor dear would probably think The Brothers Karamazov was a burger joint.
Kioxia mumbled to herself as she attached a metal cap and sensor pads along her arms and neck. Each pad was preceded by a moist wipe that smelled of citrus and alcohol, reminding Hyacinth of limoncello on the Amalfi coast.
“We’re ready to go. Think of happy memories.”
Hyacinth did her best, but it had been a lot harder to think of happy times since Richard’s fatal heart attack. With him went the business, then the money, the holidays, and finally the house. All that came to her were the debts he had hidden from her to provide it all.
Now she lingered around a cramped apartment with little more than a head full of memories. Forty years of three holidays a year, tennis lessons with professionals, and a lifetime of the finest dining would surely net her a great sum.
Hyacinth used the rest of the time to imagine spending her newfound wealth. Upgrading her domicile felt unlikely, especially in this economy, but perhaps a few holidays more were in order. Some new boutique clothes, the return of her club membership. And, of course, proper Christmas presents for the grandchildren at last.
By the time Hyacinth had finished spending her memory money, Kioxia was already removing the sensors and packing up the trolley. As she wiped the sensors with alcohol wipes before storing them, Hyacinth sat back and sipped the horrible coffee such places provided. Just for a moment, there was an unusual feeling of bliss. Soon she would be free. And life could, if not go back to normal, then perhaps at least afford the odd slither of respectability.
Hyacinth coughed politely. It was that or finish the coffee.
Kioxia didn’t look up, merely said, “Your report should be on the screen.”
Hyacinth opened the report and bit her lip. “There must be a mistake. This isn’t enough to pay this month’s rent.”
“Would pay for two of mine,” said Kioxia. “I do apologise, but this happens a lot. People spend a lot of money on fun activities, which is fantastic. Life is meant to be enjoyed.”
“But?”
“But, to sell well they have to be unique. There’s millions of available memories of people going on cruise ships, eating nice meals, and drinking over-priced wine.”
“It wasn’t just wine. It was the best wine available in the Bordeaux region of France! It is very exclusive,” said Hyacinth quietly.
“And I’m happy you enjoyed it. But drinking that wine was its own reward. Now if you’d made the best wine, that’s the sort of memory people want to see.”
“I am very well-travelled!”
“You were a tourist.” Kioxia snapped the equipment case shut, clashing with her patient tone. “You didn’t experience anything, you just floated in a boat and stared at things that other people experienced. Perhaps people would care if you had hiked up mountains or cut your way through forests. You need to interact with life. Not just consume it.”
“You think people want to feel the sweat as they pick grapes in the Bordeaux sun rather than enjoy the wine it creates?” Hyacinth tittered.
“Very much so. That’s what people love. They want to be crafting something, conflicting or connecting with people or spaces. They don’t want the memory of someone watching the Super Bowl from the VIP booth, they want to be the one throwing the game-winning pass.” Kioxia stood up, and wheeled the trolley to the door. “If you want to sell your memories, then please tell reception on the way out.”
Hyacinth didn’t watch the technician leave. She just stared at the room and realised it reflected her last forty years; sterile and lifeless. Perhaps if she took the money provided, it might be enough to start a course at Wyke Community College.
Rick Danforth
resides in Yorkshire, England, where he works as a Systems Architect to
fund his writing habit. He’s had several short stories published in a
variety of venues, including Hexagon and Translunar Traveler's Lounge.
Two of his stories have been shortlisted for British
Science Fiction Association (BSFA) awards. He one day hopes to be able to introduce himself as an author without feeling awkward about it.
Rick followed “Patient Diplomacy” with “Thanks for the Memory,”
a story set in the same world as “All We Have Are Memories” and the story that
introduced Kioxia, but in this one she is working a very different angle.
It begins like this:
“Another grocery store robbery isn’t going to cut it,” said Kioxia with a yawn.
“Why the hell not?” asked Chris. “Do you know how hard it is? Last time that security guard chased me for two miles!”
“And that was fantastic, you know it was February’s bestseller?” (read more…)
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