Dear Qin citizen, do not open your beautiful eyes.
For the next minute, listen to my voice as we prepare you for your upcoming experience. Understand that this will not resemble other memories you have purchased for your Mindbank. Soon, we will permit you into the body of our hero, to witness the world from his perspective and live out the struggles he faced—but this time, let us invite you into the production of our Memory Epic too.
Give us a moment to calibrate your device. Perfect, the Producer has given us the green light to proceed. We are confident that your Mindbank has the processing power to optimally deliver this memory experience. Please relax, gently open your eyes, and join us when ready.
Now, allow me to begin this story as if it were an American-white fairy tale . . .
*
Once upon a time, there was a man who abandoned his island to save his wife’s life. He tried to achieve this by selling his most valuable possession, one that held little value for him and yet might fetch significant coin on the mainland. Of course, he would have preferred that his treasure were a pearl, some tangible symbol of wealth from the ocean that he could hold between his callused fingers and show off to his neighbors. But men of humble birth can hardly expect to choose the nature of their riches. Our hero is no exception.
If this story were a parable, our hero would likely suffer some ignoble end as punishment for his moral failings. But this story will not be a parable, our Producer says. The Qin audience needs no reminders of scorpions lying in wait. Let us make the tale thrilling instead of tragic.
The Producer is a rich man, so my team and I listen intently. Yes, we can edit the islander’s memories into a thriller. Yes, we can try to fulfill the Producer’s every request.
I encourage my team to smile and bite our tongues in the studio. We have no room to offend our benefactor. How else do you imagine that we artisans of Memory Epics can bring such stories to life for you, our audience?
*
Our hero’s story begins before the era of Mindbanks, the spinning drives in our temples that flawlessly record our memories. To be precise, it takes place during the period when the devices were first introduced, when only the wealthiest in Qin could afford to relive the memories of strangers. Back when it was still rare for ambulance workers transporting bodies to the morgue to secretly extract the past from deceased citizens, downloading their memories to be delivered to the Towers for the entertainment of our most privileged.
Only on the island does the Mindbank remain a myth.
What need did islanders have for such technology, given their paradise of natural riches? Thick rainforests blanket the ground, hibiscus blooming under every tree. With each step, our hero passes another banyan, its limbs reaching toward the sun. Monkeys scurry along the branches with surefooted confidence, obscured from below by the brilliant sunlight.
If trees were sentient, how would they judge our race? But that is a quandary our hero has never considered, for he has always seen himself as a simple man, the insignificant manager of a humble hostel. Unlike others, he never had any interest in visiting the wealthy nations from which his guests came, perpetually in search of rest and relaxation. Yet, since the start of the War, the hostel has not entertained a single guest, not even tourists from Ri-Ben.
“Be patient, my love,” his wife says. “Do not worry. The War will soon be over.”
On the eve of the Incineration, clasp her hand as you sit beside her atop the terrace roof of the hostel, enjoying the sunset on wooden chairs our hero carved himself. Stare through this man’s eyes at the radiant orb descending on the distant silhouettes of Qin skyscrapers. It is a miracle that their island has maintained its independence so far, given the sliver of blue that separates it from the mainland.
How can he not worry? Since the Qin empire began its global military campaign, every nation in the Pacific has fallen along its path, not to mention the powerful Western nations across the ocean whose militaries seem to be faltering.
“Feel these strong kicks from our son in my belly,” his wife says, reminding him of their good fortune. “Soon, our family will grow.” The man grunts, preoccupied with the survival of his business. His wife squeezes his wrinkled hand. Does he even notice her brave attempts at cheer? Or the sweat dripping down her sunburnt face?
The Incineration will occur the next day. This is a pivotal scene, so shall I ask my assistant, Fang, to adjust the sunlight filters? How about dialing up the background sounds? Please wait a moment as our team discusses how best to escalate the suspense of what is to come.
*
Dear Qin audience. The world must appear strange as you peer through our hero’s eyes. Your eyes now.
Look up, islander. It’s the Incineration. It’s happening right above us.
Listen to the explosions erupting only a few hundred kilometers away on Ri-Ben. Release a sigh of relief that the Qin missiles did not target your island, or one of your neighbors. So long as the War ends and your guests return, should it matter who wins? Let them own Tai-Wan. Let them own America and the white men walking on those foreign lands.
Marvel at the mushroom cloud billowing in the distance. Mutter a quick prayer. Then run. For as you lift your head and stare at the ferocious haze above, can you not see that winged monstrosity hurtling from the clouds?
Run and don’t look back. Not even when you find yourself underneath the shadow of the jumbo jet that will shroud your island in darkness. Run before its silver snout collides with the earth, before the plane explodes into a million shards of metal, engulfing everything in heat.
Run. Before the whole world turns black, as if to signal the end of a scene, a lowering of curtains so that you, our audience, may take a breath to recover.
*
Make it more exciting, the Producer says. Make the action sing louder.
Naturally, I wait for him to finish before expressing my opinions; I have been in this business long enough to know to let the wealthy man share his ideas first.
Can we slow the plane’s descent? Before it erupts in flames? the Producer asks.
I nod vigorously. So what if his idea is clichéd? As long as he pays us artisans on time and ensures our good standing with the Party, why should my opinions interfere? It is miraculous enough that I found a Producer willing to support this Memory Epic with references to Ri-Ben, the historical enemy of Qin. He must have faith that our product will be a high-grossing masterpiece capable of stimulating our economy, an outcome always appreciated by our Party.
It is my first time working with this Producer. He is rumored to be related to high-ranking Party officials, so I send his orders down the line. How can I call myself their leader if I do not look out for my creative crew above all other considerations?
Please accept my regrets. Of course my loyalty cannot belong to the audience alone.
*
There is only one hospital on the island, more of a clinic financed by Ri-Ben to serve their tourists. It is dumb luck that the building finds itself unscathed by the plane crash; further luck that our hero finds transport there after pulling his unconscious wife from the wreckage of their home, the charred rubble that once represented their livelihood.
Shall we fast-forward past the blood and gore of the hospital? Just as we’ve sped through the trauma of our hero seeing his home destroyed, the blood streaming down his wife’s face. Shall we muffle the screams, the screech of gurneys? These are the choices we make to prevent the Censors from attaching any content warnings, so this Epic has a chance to reach the wide audience it deserves.
All the beds are occupied by the time our hero arrives. But as every Fourth Worlder knows, everything has a price. So when the Doctor examines the wife’s injuries and names an exorbitant sum, our hero agrees without hesitation.
Relax, dear audience. Allow the Doctor a moment to revel in his imaginary profits and ask his nurse to retrieve an extra rollaway. Before long, the wife lies on the bed with a peaceful expression on her face, on morphine and oblivious to the chaos that surrounds them. Breathe a sigh of relief, even if you have already realized that our hero is doomed—since what wealth he possessed has disintegrated into little more than rubble.
For the next three days, our hero silently sits on the bloodstained floor beside her bed, trying to accept that their baby is lost and his wife may never awaken. Fast-forwarding, our hero grieves not only for what he has lost, but also for the moment when his inability to pay the hospital will come to light. What will happen to his wife then? Immerse yourself in his despair.
The Producer finds this scene moving, so I ask Fang to send it to post-production.
All of us in the studio pray in secret that the Qin critics will not find the scene emotionally manipulative and penalize us during awards season.
*
“One week,” the doctor says coolly. “If you do not find the money, I will throw her out of the ward myself.” Although the man has already earned a fortune from this disaster, he has no empathy for our hero, furious that he wasted a rollaway bed on someone unable to pay.
Remember, this story is no parable. It is only a memory, so we cannot punish him.
Bear witness through our hero’s eyes; stare at the dried blood along the floor. Listen to the fans thrumming above, passing the stench of death between rooms. Embrace his helplessness.
Even if the hostel had not burned, he would still have been unable to pay the Doctor’s price. What choice did he have but to lie? What else could he have done to save her?
“Wait, you were standing near the crash when it happened, right?” the Doctor asks, his voice suddenly calm. “When the plane tumbled from the sky?”
Our hero nods.
“I mean, with your own eyes. Did you see the plane fall?”
Our hero only wishes that he could forget.
“We may be in luck then.” The Doctor smirks. “A couple of days ago, a few men from Qin came to the clinic. They asked if we knew anyone who had witnessed the entire incident. Apparently, their boss is willing to pay significant coin. For the right memories.”
Memories? Only then does our hero recall the rumors of the mysterious innovations on the mainland, devices capable of extracting a person’s past.
Were the stories true? Was such technology real?
One day our hero may learn of wealthy Qin citizens paying exorbitant coin to download and relive the most revolting crimes, from the perspective of defendants and victims alike, in service of their sexual desires. But at this moment, all he cares about is the stranger on the mainland who might pay him enough for memories of the plane crash to save his wife.
How will he get across the water? The harbor has been closed since the beginning of the War. Not even the island gangs operate boats anymore for fear of the Qin coast guard.
“That’s not my problem,” the Doctor says. “Just take down the hospital’s phone number. Oh, if you do get across, ask to speak to the Merchant—”
*
The Merchant! Did I hear that right? The Producer asks. Did we not agree to cut the crime boss from the narrative? Are you trying to get the Censors to reject our Memory Epic?
In the amorphous digital space between our minds, I make my avatar bow in the direction of the Producer’s form. How many times did we need to have this debate? Thankfully, we are conducting this conversation via Mindbank; otherwise, it would be impossible for me to hide my frustration, to blame my avatar’s expressions on a glitch or processing lag on the Cloud.
Reminding the Producer that our islander’s original memories had been sourced from the Merchant’s trial, I explain that it would be impossible for us to eliminate the Merchant from our Epic. Moreover, how else would we explain the islander risking his life to cross the ocean? The story wouldn’t make sense.
The Producer’s avatar scoffs.
I reassure him that we will not glorify the Merchant or his crimes.
Our Epic needs to promote good Qin values, the Producer says. Otherwise, the entire project may be placed in jeopardy.
Thank you for the feedback, I tell him. In the studio, we artisans can get caught up in the minutiae of our stories and lose sight of the bigger picture.
To my surprise, these words make the Producer’s avatar cheeks flush red. I did not expect such a reaction, assuming wealthy men must often receive such obsequious praise.
I hope that I haven’t interfered too much with the magic of this Memory Epic, he says graciously. One cannot be too careful when it comes to the Censors. But you know that.
I smile. Perhaps I had been too quick to judge the man’s capitalistic tendencies.
*
Dear audience, forgive the icy spray hitting your face, the unrelenting wind piercing your cheeks as we rejoin our hero on his journey. You are alive. We fast-forwarded through our hero’s memories to save you from the trauma experienced by your body as it nearly shut down for good. The worst is over.
Stop thrashing like a fish out of water. Accept that you are alive due to sheer luck and allow the strangers around you to swaddle your drenched body in blankets. Take time to warm up. You are no longer in the freezing water, fighting to keep your head above the waves as you float toward the mainland. If not for that rainbow beach ball you clung to, abandoned by some hostel guest, you would have drowned long ago. Not only because the ball helped you stay afloat but also because its vibrant colors allowed a Qin coast guard vessel to spot you from a great distance.
Have the blankets given you enough warmth to melt your tongue? To call his name?
“The Merchant!” you scream. There is so much adrenaline flowing through your veins that your words fail to sound coherent, even to your ears. “The Merchant!”
Ocean foam rises and falls behind you, dissipating across both sides of the small boat.
Boat! The half dozen men aboard stare at you blankly, their uniforms identifying them as the Qin coast guard. They were the ones who saved you, yes. Wait for your teeth to slow their clattering, for your senses to return before you try to use your voice again.
Be grateful that the seamen saved you, even if they did so out of curiosity rather than kindness. Wouldn’t the sight of a grown man trying to use a rainbow ball to cross a violent strait seem absurd to you too?
You’re alive. Let them enjoy a laugh at your expense.
At last, your tongue warms enough to try again. “The Merchant! Take me to the Merchant!” It is your good fortune that they comprehend your dialect, even more so that the man whose name you speak aloud is well regarded for compensating the coast guard handsomely for their cooperation.
The men on the boat argue, pointing fingers in your direction as they discuss what to do. Then, one of them places a hand on your back as you continue to shiver beneath the blankets. Pay no heed to the aches in your body, the growing fear that your numb fingers and toes may never be able to feel sensations again: look up and thank the man with your gaze. Pray that your good fortune has not yet run its course.
*
When I discover that the Censors have rejected the first cut of our Epic, I nearly break down in the studio. Before we started, the Producer assured us that the Party had granted us preliminary approval; if the Censors could still send back our project, what was the point?
Clearly, I had put too much faith in our Producer’s rumored ties to the Party, that his connections would push our project through no matter what. Could I even guarantee the safety of my crew? We would not be the first memory artisans to be sent to reeducation camps for creating unpatriotic content, given the blurred lines of what constitutes moral propriety. Our families could be dishonored in public, our personal memories confiscated for storage inside the Criminal Archives.
My Mindbank pings with a call from the Producer; unable to face him alone, I add my studio crew to the conversation. He is livid, of course. Even the nostrils of his avatar are flared.
At last, he asks one question: Can we save this?
For a while, I say nothing, even as every avatar stares in my direction. In the history of Memory Epics, has any project ever been approved following a first-cut rejection?
Still, I refuse to give up on our dream.
I tell the Producer a rumor I once heard in passing, that a truly extraordinary Memory Epic could bypass the Censors if it received an innovation exemption from the Party.
Promising, the Producer replies, then hesitates. But what kind of innovation would qualify?
The room falls silent as each of us wonders how we could innovate on a storytelling medium as tried and true as memories.
*
The islander awaits the Merchant beneath a glass dome.
Follow our hero’s gaze as it wanders across the room, its endless collection of bounded parchments meticulously arranged along wooden shelves. The scale of the cavernous space overcomes him. In his estimation, it is larger than every room in his hostel combined, including the terrace. Above him, the curved glass is stained with different colors to form a kaleidoscope of images he does not recognize. Lowering his eyes, our hero discovers that he is too afraid to walk over to the shelves and touch any of the books, for fear that they might crumble upon contact with his coarse hands.
“I hope I did not look as wide- eyed as you when I first came to the mainland.”
The Merchant’s words echo. Before he can turn toward the voice, the islander is stunned, never having been in a room large enough to produce such reverberations. Was there something wrong with his ears? Or was the soaring ceiling of colors responsible for the repeating sounds? His eyes become transfixed again by the beauty of the dome, its magnificent architecture.
“Marvelous, isn’t it? This library used to be the crown jewel of the Qin system,” the Merchant says with a chuckle. “Long after books became obsolete, this room remained open to the public, so the Party most certainly shared your admiration.”
Shifting his gaze, our hero sees the Merchant for the first time and gasps. Never has he witnessed a man of such stature, the width and height of his enormous physique dwarfing the two Qin bodyguards standing at the library entrance. Uncertain how to react, our islander bows in the manner of the Ri-Ben guests he once entertained, his mind racing.
Did the Merchant live in this building? On the island, our hero had seen certain hotels stacking books onto shelves for tourists—but never has he seen such a grand collection.
Is this the breadth of all Qin knowledge? he asks.
The giant laughs. A moment passes before our hero realizes that the Merchant does not speak through a translator. How can the man understand the island dialect?
Confidently, the Merchant strolls across the hall, clothed only in a loose shirt and shorts.
“It has been a long time since I’ve talked face-to-face with someone from my birthplace,” he explains, placing a hand on the back of his fellow islander. “Perhaps now you can understand my interest in what happened to our home.”
Our hero lifts his eyes cautiously to meet the giant’s gaze.
“Tell me about the explosion,” the Merchant says. “Do not leave anything out, my friend.”
*
Dear audience, what if we abandoned this Memory Epic and left the ending to your imagination? What if I told you that stopping here was one innovation that our crew considered to qualify for the exemption? After all, how many stories from your life truly ended in some neat resolution?
Doesn’t our hero deserve a happy ending? Perhaps you can imagine the islander receiving safe passage home, bringing enough coin with him to save his wife. What if I told you that they rebuilt their hostel and went on to raise two beautiful children? A boy and a girl who held their hands, helping their parents in old age to slowly ascend the stone steps of the hostel every night to watch the sunset. What if I told you that the couple died in their sleep on the same starry night, so they never had to live a day without the other? Would you still believe me?
Why open the story with “once upon a time” if our hero’s journey does not end like some American-white fairy tale?
*
In the library, the Merchant listens attentively.
He sighs at the right moments along our hero’s voyage. He places his hand over his heart when our islander describes the instant of collision, when the plane transformed into a fireball upon contact with the earth, the panic of awaking concussed in the smoke. Our hero shares the horror of finding his wife unconscious in the rubble of their burning home, then the long struggle to convince other survivors to help them. The Merchant shakes his head in sympathy when he hears the gruesome state of the clinic following the Incineration. He does not bother asking after the wife’s health, since he understands that our hero would not have crossed the strait had she regained consciousness.
Yet when the story is finished, the giant apologizes for his inability to offer any coin in compensation for his fellow islander’s ordeal.
“Unfortunately, it is one of my principles that I cannot pay for anything worthless,” the Merchant explains. “Sadly, nothing you shared was new. The explosion you described only confirms my theory—that the plane crash was collateral damage from Qin’s large-scale military attack on Ri- Ben. I’m sorry. But you wouldn’t ask me to compromise on my principles, would you?
“You don’t even have a Mindbank I can connect to in order to verify your story!” The giant spreads his arms to gesture at the labyrinth of pages, then throws his head back in cackling laughter. “Trusting your memories would be like flipping open one of these books—and expecting to read the whole truth!”
Had our hero risked his life for nothing? For a long time, he stands beneath the dome, lost in thought. Until he decides that no—he refuses to accept this pathetic end, to allow this giant to dictate all the terms, surrounded by the walls of infinite parchment. No, he cannot go back to the island without the coin to save his wife. And that is when he realizes that the Merchant is wrong, because there is one way for this wealthy man to verify his story.
“Take my memories,” our hero demands quietly. “Take all of them and check.”
The Merchant smiles, unable to take our islander seriously. “Oh, do you know how much trouble that would bring me? The Party is already investigating my business with the ambulances. There is a reason why we only extract memories from the terminally ill. Go home, my friend. Trust me.”
Our hero calmly reminds the Merchant that neither of them are from Qin.
“Why would the Party care about what happens between two islanders?” he says, knowing the answer. “If you promise to save my wife, I will give you all of my memories. Surely that’s worth something. More than enough to satisfy your principles. My entire past can be yours.”
Allow the Merchant time to reconsider, as we move into his perspective. Although they have just met, the crime boss is surprised by the fondness he feels for this naïve islander. Even if they can agree on a deal, the Merchant decides that he wants the exchange to be fair. Or at least, for them both to appreciate the full consequences.
“It’s true. I may be able to earn a small fortune selling your experiences from the island. Your life would appear exotic to the Party scions who’d bid on and revel in your memories.” The Merchant lifts his hand. “Still, you must understand and accept the costs.”
Our hero frowns, uncomprehending.
“As I said, there is a reason why we’ve only been extracting memories from the dying. The technology remains in its infancy. We cannot pick and choose which memories to extract. If I take your memories, you won’t be able to get them back.” The Merchant’s voice softens. “Maybe the technology will evolve, but if you sell me everything today, you won’t remember your wife tomorrow, nor recall any reason to return to the island. You may senselessly wander the mainland until you die. Is that worth the gamble that your Doctor can save her? Are you certain enough to sacrifice your remaining time on this Earth?”
The Merchant needs only one look at our hero’s face to understand. In the islander’s eyes, the giant imagines the depth of our hero’s devotion to make such a sacrifice.
“Very well. I accept your proposal.”
That evening, the operation is carried out. In the final seconds before the anesthesia is administered, our hero thinks of his wife. He does not return to their wedding day, nor to the happiest periods of their marriage; instead, he finds himself revisiting memories of reconciliation following their most frivolous fights. As his eyes close, he relishes every moment that they chose to love each other despite their faults. It is this final sensation that our hero enjoys before he loses consciousness, along with his ability to recall any arrangements made in the past.
Thankfully, the Merchant stays true to his word. Because when the giant experiences our hero’s memories, he unexpectedly becomes attached to the wife’s fate as well. He soon sends his men to compensate the Doctor in full, accompanied by not- so- veiled threats of consequences if she were not to receive the best care. And after the wife miraculously recovers, she is shocked to receive an unmarked envelope with the details of a digital wallet generous enough to rebuild the hostel, without any return address to send her thanks.
So moved is the Merchant by our hero’s devotion that he never sells the memories but keeps them in his private vault to experience at his leisure. And that is where our hero’s memories remain for many moons, until the Merchant is arrested and convicted by the Qin courts of illegally profiting from the sale of unregulated memory content, and his assets are wholly transferred to the Criminal Archives. Where the memories are stored for many moon-millennia, until they are accessed to produce this Memory Epic.
Rejoice, dear audience. The memories of our hero’s sacrifice are forgotten no more.
*
Our deepest gratitude to the Party for granting us the exemption.
Thank you for inspiring this hybrid approach so that we may share our islander’s journey alongside our creative struggles. We wish to thank the Censors too. Even if The Islander is one day deemed inappropriate for Mindbank consumption, we honor your tireless work to defend the cohesion of our Qin society.
To our Producer, the true genius behind this project. None of this would have been possible without your unparalleled vision and gracious presence in the Memory Epic. I cannot wait to work together in the future. Thank you to the Archives for allowing us to repurpose the islander’s memories from the Merchant’s trial. Most of all, I want to thank our audience for purchasing this Epic. Know that we take none of your generosity for granted.
Everything we have today, we owe to you and our glorious Party.
Excerpted from These Memories Do Not Belong To Us (McClelland & Stewart).
