Chapter One: The Taste of Water
Prague does not rain, but cries silently. In 2049, the sky no longer belongs to everyone. The glass "upper city", where skyscrapers and corporate headquarters such as Odyssea reside, was piercing the clouds to steal the remaining sunlight on the Old Continent. But here, in the Lower City, there was nothing but darkness, dampness, and the remains of a civilization buried underground. Specifically, in the basement of an abandoned church in the Malá Strana neighborhood, the air was heavy with the smell of old incense and burning ozone. The stone walls that witnessed prayers centuries ago now witness another type of ritual. Soul manipulation rituals. Lucien Varga sat in the middle of the basement, lit by a faint blue glow emanating from antique screens. He was twenty-two years old, but his eyes bore the weariness of a man who had lived a thousand years. On his right hand, he wore a strange glove, a distorted masterpiece that he made himself from copper wires that he uprooted from an old train, optical fibers, and nerve sensors that pulsed like luminous veins. This glove was not just a tool, it was an extension of his soul, his gateway to the minds of others. In front of him, on a rickety leather chair resembling dentists' chairs from the previous century, lay a woman in her late thirties. She was a tourist from Vienna, fleeing the excessive idealism of her city to seek salvation in the lower alleys of Prague. Her name is Elara. "Are you ready? Remember, once the memory is implanted, it will become your reality," Lucian said in a low voice, a little hoarse from the lack of words. "The mind does not differentiate between what actually happened and what was encoded." Elara opened her eyes filled with tears and said in a shaky voice: "Please. Just make me remember that he loved me. Make me remember Venice. The honeymoon we never went on before he died." Lucien nodded slowly. There was no room for pity in this work. Since the "Information Crisis" of 2033, selling memories has become a licensed business for the wealthy, but for those who cannot afford official oblivion, unlicensed memorysmiths like Lucian have been the only recourse. Lucien placed his bare hand on her forehead, while his gloved hand touched the back of her neck, where the silver nerve port was implanted under the skin. He closed his eyes and began to blend in. Crafting an Illusion As soon as the glove connected with its neural network, the first wave hit Lucien's mind. His gift, or curse, was his ability to "taste" raw emotion. Elara's true memories flooded into his consciousness. taste the taste of sadness; It was like cold ash crumbling on the tongue, dry and suffocating. Taste loneliness; Mineral acidity similar to the taste of rusty copper coins. Lucien began his work. The memories were like wet clay between his nervous fingers. He began to remove the ashes and knead something new in their place. He summoned from his own database a bundle of raw memories of Venice: the reflection of the sun on the water of the canals, the sound of gondolas, the smell of Italian coffee mixed with the dampness of ancient buildings. Then came the turn of emotion. love. When he started formulating false feelings of love within her consciousness, he felt the taste of it. Hot blood, sweet and sour at the same time, ran down his throat. He knew it was a lie, but Elara was soaking it up like a barren land swallowing the first drop of rain. Lucien wove in details: the laugh of her imagined husband, the touch of his warm hand, a candlelit dinner. He connected each nerve thread with great care, making sure that there were no logical gaps that the subconscious mind might reject. Cost Forty-five minutes later, he was done. Lucian pulled his hand away sharply, panting as if he had run for miles. Elara opened her eyes, and she was different. The brokenness that resided in her pupils disappeared, replaced by a warm, dreamy, and peaceful glow. "It was a perfect day...Venice is so beautiful," she whispered, smiling with terrifying sincerity. She got up, paid him the encrypted credit chips, and left the basement without looking back. Lucien remained alone in the darkness. He took off his gloves, his hands shaking. This is the price. Every time he created a new memory, his mind paid a tax. "Cognitive debt" was not only haunting clients, it was eating away at his own mind as well. He closed his eyes and tried to summon the face of his brother, Adrien. Adrian's image was fading day by day. Today, he forgot the color of his eyes. Were they brown or green? He tried to remember, but all he saw was fog, and heard the terrifying roaring sound of water. Danube floods in 2039. Muddy waters that swallowed everything. The water that swallowed his brother. In the dark corner of his mind, he imagined the pendulum of the Prague astronomical clock. Whenever he lied to himself or to others, whenever he tampered with the fabric of reality, the hands of that psychological clock stopped for a moment, issued an annoying squeak, and then returned to work with difficulty. The clock now stopped for two full seconds, before it resumed its heavy ticking. Adrian was not suicidal. Lucian was sure of it, even if he completely forgot his face. Adrian was killed because of a false memory. A memory that Lucien himself planted out of love, to save him from some pain... but it killed him. Because of this sin, Lucian beat himself up every night, refused to forgive, and refused to forget. Neurological echo Three days have passed. Lucien was sitting in an underground bar called Selective Blindness, drinking a glass of tasteless artificial liquid, watching the news ticker slide on the holographic screen above the bartender. The news was talking about the achievements of the Odyssia company in Vienna, and about its CEO, Líal. Just seeing her name was enough to make Lucian's stomach clench. Lyall, Adrien's ex-fiancée. The woman who holds him responsible for her lover's death, and the woman who carries in her head the first lie Lucien has ever created. Suddenly, the news broadcast was interrupted to show local breaking news: the body of an Austrian tourist was found in a luxury hotel in the upper city. There is no criminal suspicion. Cause of death: drowning. Lucien's body stiffened. He slowly placed the cup on the table. The victim's picture appeared on the screen. Elara. The voice of the automated announcer, devoid of emotion, echoed: "Europol police reported that the victim was found drowned in a swimming pool."