Runan's dirt-crusted fingers gripped a clay cup as he waited on the tea shop patio for his sister, Messita. However, the dirt street before him, flanked by two and three-storey dwellings with bakers, tailors, and shoemakers on the ground floor, was still void of her presence. If she arrived with a grin that lit up her honey eyes, they could pay the irritable land-owners this month. But, should she clinging to her partner, Ju'rah's side and take her time, they'd have a tough month ahead. In that case, Runan really shouldn't have ordered this coffee. His 'only five-minute' wait had turned into an hour, still with no sign of Messita.
As hushed voices carried through the street, Runan perked up. A group of creators his sister collaborated with, led by Ju'rah, returned from whatever trendy adventure the Upper-Caldozzans craved. When the last person came into view, Runan's neck stiffened, and he scratched at it, unable to cure the unease. Why wasn't Messita with Ju'rah? The two shared a brain when it came to the memory creation business. Maybe she was picking up a few things at the market with her earnings.
Ju'rah glanced at Runan for a split second then leaned down to speak to a beautiful woman with dark make-up running down her pale cheeks. Ju'rah's shoulders slumped, and he split from the group. As the creator trudged to the cafe without his regular winsome smile, Runan tensed.
"Afternoon, Ru," Ju'rah's tone was flatter than the Lower-Caldozzan plains. "How are the fields?"
"It'll be months before the crops recover from the pests, even with the recent decline in the bugs."
All morning, Runan had fertilized and irrigated with rations Messita had generously purchased this month. Without her, he'd have to sell their parents' farmhouse and find a new job. His skin itched like it was covered in meroke fly bites. Honourable professions were becoming relics in Lower-Caldozza.
If an honest man couldn't support a farm, how did the Upper-Caldozzans plan to eat? Would they replay memories of other people eating to simulate their meals? Hundreds of thousands of people would keel over with empty bellies in both cities, though Upper-Caldozza would fare worse. They always had.
As Ju'rah nodded, he could hardly look Runan in the eye. "That's rough. I'm here if you need anything."
"Thanks. Messita's been my saviour the past few months."
The smooth, symmetrical facial features so many elite women paid money to swoon over sagged. Ju'rah fumbled through his pockets, pulling out a cigarette. Despite both growing up in families who contributed to the Caldozzan food bowl, the creator's hands were covered in creams and lotions instead of remnants of the land.
"I have news of Messita," Ju'rah's voice trembled just like his hands.
"Has an Upper-Caldozzan bribed enough judges to claim her as their memory maker?"
Many Upper-Caldozzans had purchased memories of his sister performing high-adrenaline stunts in clothing that would make their parents roll in their dusty graves. One day, she aspired to be an exclusive creator for a wealthy client, acting as a puppet who'd live through her client's every desire and take on their dangers for financial security. Freelancing came with risks and monetary losses that made a permanent employer more desirable, or so Messita said. Runan shuddered at both unnatural options.
After studying the dusty floorboards, Ju'rah fished out a lighter. "I wish, Ru. There was an accident."
Runan's heart thundered like deer hooves. "An accident?"
Was his sister hurt? It wasn't possible. That woman navigated a river like a salmon returning to spawn. Ju'rah's failed attempts to open the lighter and curses made Runan furrow his brow.
"Is she okay?"
Closing his eyes, Ju'rah slowly shook his head. Shaking hands lit his cigarette, and he took a quick puff. He sputtered out a cough seconds later. A sip of coffee wouldn't cure unease sprouting in Runan's stomach.
"Ju'rah, what happened?"
"She..." The creator grimaced like he'd been struck with a beam. "We got to these rapids... just normal rapids... and she froze."
"What do you mean froze?"
"I called her name, no answer. Gave her a paddle, she couldn't hold it. She was like a damned statue." The tremor in his voice grew and he buried his head in his free hand. "The current dragged us in before we were ready. I held onto 'Ita, but we hit the rapids, and she..." Ju'rah's tanned face drained of colour, and he exhaled a cloud of smoke.
Runan straightened his aching back. "What happened?"
"She's gone, Ru."
Runan's skin grew ice-cold despite the warm late-afternoon sun, and his lips curled into a frown. "That's impossible!"
Messita had grown up on the rivers, helping their mother fish to supplement the farming income. Then she sought thrills on them guiding tours for her friends as a teen. She would never freeze, nor would she get hurt.
As Ju'rah scratched his nose, his displaced sunglasses revealed dark circles under his glassy eyes. "I wish you were right." His voice cracked on his final words.
The weight of a stampede of horses trampled over Runan's chest. His rapidly blinking eyes searched the group. This had to be a cruel joke, Messita's attempt to get him off her case about memory-snatching and to admit it was vital to their farm's survival.
Tears trickled down Ju'rah's cheeks, and something clicked in Runan's mind. In the years they'd been friends, Ju'rah had cried twice: when he was thrown off a horse as a kid and at his younger brother's funeral. Runan's throat dried up, and his tongue sat limp despite the hundred questions his brain fired.
"She's at the docks with a crew member, now. If you..." Ju'rah turned away and puffed on his cigarette.
Runan could only muster a nod. Inhaling a shaky breath, he ran with Ju'rah down the dusty, narrow trails between shanty residences. He coughed, inhaling a cloud of harsh-scented yizza from a pack of old laughing men. Couldn't they find somewhere else to smoke away their troubles?
Off the riverbanks, young boys fished and others practiced risky stunts to crack into the memory selling business. Runan sneered. That would get them killed! He ran his calloused finger against his throbbing head.
Ju'rah slowed to Runan's pace. "She's not far, Ru."
Runan's breaths escaped his lips like he'd run to the top of a mountain. Ju'rah led him by the shoulder toward the wide wooden docks. Two officers with pistols on either hip blocked the path.
"She's going with Mem-Stem to be processed," one said in a deep voice.
Ju'rah frowned and placed his hands on his hips. "This is Runan Zaridi. He's Messita's memory guardian."
The two men stepped aside.
As Runan glimpsed a cloth covering part of a red dingy, the one from those insidious advertisements for Messita's crew's content, Runan's feet cemented to the path. A large but slim object lay beneath the sheets close to Ita's size. Beside the boat, a woman not much older than Messita sniffled and turned to Ju'rah. Her mouth opened, but tears swallowed her words. She ran to Runan and wrapped her arms around him.
"I-I-she...can't-believe-it. It's not right. How could this--" A sob cut through her words.
Runan's body trembled as his eyes burned.
Ju'rah patted them both on the back. "Something stole Ita... before she hit the water." His heads turned to the guards and he scowled. "Those Mem-Stem bastards don't even care."
This couldn't be real. Runan's legs moved without waiting for his stalled brain's instructions, and he pulled away from the unfamiliar woman and Ju'rah. His hand reached out for the stained sheet. Any minute, Messita would spring up and tease him for falling for the ruse.
As the seconds elapsed and the sheet remained immobile, his fingers shook. Swallowing painfully, he kneeled down and lifted the rough fabric. Long, black strands clung to sides of the raft. After glimpsing a red gaping hole in her scalp, he slammed his eyes shut and counted to ten as if the nightmare could melt away. Her blemished body remained. His fingers brushed the hair off her glacial skin to cover the wound. What an excruciating way to leave this world. His limbs went numb and the edges of his vision darkened.
Someone cleared their throat above, and Runan turned to a crooked nose and beady eyes. As the stranger assessed Runan, his nostrils flared and brow furrowed.
"This must be the brother," the man spoke in a raspy voice.
Pressing his palms into his slacks, Runan stood to overshadow the hunched man. The vulture held a clipboard and squinted at the paper on it.
"We need your signature to release her memories."
Runan's fists balled at his sides. "What use would you have for a dead woman's experiences?"
"People will pay a fortune for Messita's final thoughts."
Runan crossed his arms. "Absolutely not, you greedy mule."
The vulture leaned in closer, the stench of garlic and old milk on his breath. "Your sister owes us ten thousand dozis for the rental of our equipment and her supplies, due this Friday."
Ten thousand dozis! How was that possible? Runan scratched at the dry skin on his sunburnt neck. Selling the whole farm, equipment, and crops at their highest value could yield him four thousand at best. Messita had calculated it for him when she'd tried to charm him into a creator's lifestyle. His entire life worth less than a day's frivolous spending to please the Upper-Caldozzans. If he didn't act, his sister's final memories would be auctioned to the sick elite with a death fetish. His stomach churned, and he vomited all over the man's alligator-skin shoes.
With a sneer, the man narrowed his eyes at Runan. "I expect your money by Friday, and you will compensate me for these shoes. If you don't, we'll own your precious sister's final breaths and the rest of her memories too."
With a trembling breath, Runan narrowed his eyes at the retreating predator. There was no way he'd let some memory poacher profit off his sister's death. He'd get those memories and figure out what really happened to her.