By: Ulysses Simon

 "In the face of our maker, we are all liars."

He had heard it in a dream, within the translucent chaos of subconsciousness. People aren't designed to remember their dreams. It's the most abstract of their memories. At the end of their life, when scheduled to meet the final abstraction, the only thing safe from scrutiny would be your innermost thoughts and dreams. So they're considered the lesser priority to the memory machine. The machine only concerns itself with truth and reality, or so we say…

Inspector Raylan Kerby's 2 o'clock appointment was with a fresh boy named Charlie. It was Charlie's first time in the probing chair, and he felt all of the pain and displeasure of the presumed embarrassment about to be inflicted on his life. He had turned sixteen last month, which proved to be a very ostentatious day for him. All of his friends gathered at his favorite water park. His mother spent every dollar of her holiday bonus to make him happy. Not his sister, not the bill collectors, not her gaudy hair stylist, but just him. She bought the biggest cake from the highest-rated bakery and plastered his name all over it. Ray could feel Charlie savoring every bite as all his friends feigned their adoration for him.

Even his school crush was there. Kerby didn't need his inspector title to figure out his fondness for this particular girl. All of his friends punched him in the arm whenever she walked by and egged him on with affirmations like "Go get her, Charlie" or "She has to say yes. It's your birthday, Charlie."

The birthday boy eventually worked up the courage to approach her. But he was caught entirely by surprise when she hugged him, letting a bikini that probably should've been vetoed by her parents press against his bare skin. Charlie then made an excuse to sneak to the bathroom to take care of the little saluter down under.

Raylan watched the moment of self-intimacy in that bathroom stall. It was his job. He had to watch all of it. Not a single moment of any life in his chair snuck past his eyes. He'd seen moments like these a thousand times before. No more than any other inspector.

 No doubt this was the reason Charlie was so nervous coming into his office today. The kid was in near tears for his first probing. Raylan wondered if there was a way to ease him and tell him it was okay without indirectly saying, "I saw what you did in that bathroom stall, you sick freak."

The rest of the month was the typical first-timer experience. Monotonous high school lectures, mediocre food, and the occasional harmless mischief. Though it was becoming increasingly evident that Charlie was nearly drooling for that girl who showed up to his birthday. Raylan could've laughed at the insistent goo-goo eyes being tossed between them. She obviously liked him back, but neither had the nerve to say it despite the thousand opportunities.

Then it led to today. Charlie and his mother were walking into the building with the giant "Anamnesis" logo on the front, and would turn the corner down the hall where Raylan's office lay.

"Is it going to hurt at all?" Charlie asked his mother.

"Of course not. It's just like taking a nap. Just relax and don't engage the man too much. Remember, he's just doing his job."

"Sure. So he'll even know what we're saying right now?"

"Yes."

"And he'll report it to the police?"

"Only if you've done anything wrong." His mother brushed his sleeves and straightened his eyebrows. "It's as weird as it feels, I know. But everyone has to do it, Charlie. You don't want to go to prison, do you?"

Raylan removed the Anamnesis Headset and gave a thumbs-up to his assistant, Blaire. The young woman nodded and began typing on her little chromium computer, marking the boy as "clean." Charlie emerged from his temporary stasis and rubbed his eyes, waking from a silent dream. Inspector Kerby was there to greet him with a dignified smile.

"Congratulations, Charlie. You passed with flying colors," he said.

Charlie didn't respond. He was still cementing himself in the reality of what he'd just been through. Though he didn't experience anything, he knew that Raylan Kerby had. He stared at the inspector, hoping he'd missed the little moment at the water park. They both sat for a moment, unsure of what words would best move things along.

"By the way," the inspector said. "I would write her a note. A little old-school, but writing it down will help with the nerves. Go get her, Charlie." He tried to smile again, but it came off as a patronizing grimace. And unbeknownst to Raylan, the words all but confirmed the boy's fear.

"Leave me alone, creep." The teenager angrily grabbed his jacket and ran out the door, undoubtedly, to transfer his frustrations onto his mother.

"Blaire, schedule Charlie again next month at the same time," Raylan said.

"Already done."

"Is Andrew Hilltop here yet?"

"He hasn't checked in, no."

"He's certainly not one to be late for his appointments. Did he respond to the reminders?"

"No. Should I report it in?"

"The man is only twenty minutes late. No need to send the police kicking down his door just yet."

Blaire put Andrew's file on hold. Then she proceeded to find some files to sort through so she could look busy. Though it didn't seem to help in her cause. Raylan kept his eyes pointed in her direction.

"Do I really come off like that much of a creep?"

Blaire kept her head down. "Maybe the next one will be more receptive, Inspector."

He looked down at his watch as if it would make Andrew arrive sooner. His four o’clock arrived first.

He had two more patients that day. One was a senior who worked as a cashier at a local grocery store and chain-smoked enough to kill a small child. They got a fine for reckless endangerment when they nearly side-swiped someone off the road. Raylan only flagged it because he had a bad habit of ripping a cig when he should've been looking at the road.

The other was a twenty-six-year-old who lived on unemployment checks. The highlights of his days were whenever he found someone to troll in the video game of the week. Raylan had to give him his third formal warning for not taking active steps in seeking employment. He would have to be flagged.

At the end of the workday, as customary on Thursdays, Raylan accompanied fellow Inspector Theodore Marshall to a quiet bar across from the Anamnesis building. Marshall was an older man with the stoicism of an undercover cop. His face sagged from disuse. The two sat at their tables, sipping their untainted bourbon in silence.

Inspector Marshall's eyes tracked the people around him. In his head, there was absolutely nothing. The lives of human beings had sunk to the bottom of his boredom chasm. He'd experienced all of their lives to every last excruciating detail a hundred times over by now. So he saw himself as having little reason to talk, much like most inspectors. The people-watching was just a natural motion of his eyes responding to movement. Their Thursday drinking sessions weren't meant to be social but rather a way to get everyone else's memories out of their heads.

However, the lack of someone else's memories occupied Raylan at the moment. Andrew Hilltop never showed. Not a message or a phone call to explain himself. Andrew was a good kid, twenty years old, the son of a wealthy public servant. He respected the law and his civil duties. Through every journey in the Anamnesis machine and Andrew's memories, Raylan never found a single violation. Most people had at least thirty by the time they were twenty.

He'd be in jail already if Raylan had a mind to report it. It happened rarely. Sometimes a patient was irresponsible enough to sleep through their appointment or be too busy nursing a hangover to remember their civic duty. But most of the time, the ones who didn't show were the ones who had something to hide and had skipped town to avoid being found out.

"What's the point of it all?" Raylan's thought interrupted Inspector Marshall out of his meditation. He didn't mean to say it aloud, but was surprised to hear Marshall answer as if he had probed Kerby's mind long ago.

"Money... A comfortable living," he said, putting his finger up for another round.

"Let me ask you something." Raylan leaned into the table. "The first thing we learned at university was not to go on vacation in our patients' memories. But that’s a purple elephant. Once it's in the air, you can't help it. I used to wonder how much more exciting other people's lives were. Anything had to be better than the constant studying and desensitization training. Then, after my first ten patients, I realized that ninety percent of people's lives are just tedious nonsense."

"They preach it for a reason. It's no better than a play with an unconvincing cast. If you take heart in too many, it'll warp your view of reality."

"Did you ever try? Don't give any details, but have any of your patients ever sparked an interest?"

"No," Marshall said without a hint of consideration. "They're a bunch of lifeless corpses. The best you'll get is the occasional good samaritan. Still, they have just as many violations as the closest bottom feeder. One of mine is an old homeless man..."

"Ted, remember your confidentiality."

Inspector Marshall waved his hand, dismissing the notion. "As if it matters." He took another drink. "Every time he gets in the machine, I want to vomit. I have to watch once a month as he puts a half-cooked rat into my mouth and calls it dinner. I have to live as a sewer monkey and then an accountant and then a barber."

Kerby stopped him. "You should really take your oaths seriously, Ted. They'll catch that in your next probing."

"Haven't been fined for it yet. We inspectors don't really have much else to talk about. Unless you prefer we sit around and talk about your divorce... If you care so much, I suggest you enjoy your drink in peace or stop being so anal-retentive."

There was a short silence before Raylan consciously decided not to give in to Inspector Marshall's request for silence. "Well, we have a responsibility to the citizens. If every single one of them can commit to sitting in the Anamachine every month for the safety of mankind, then we can at least commit to not chatting about their personal lives so nonchalantly."

Marshall groaned.

"IN FACT, we can do much more for them than that. If you wanted, you could give that patient the resources to never have to eat another rodent ever again. We could help them with so much because we've literally seen hundreds of people do the exact same thing to the tiniest minutia. And who would have know of more resources than a memory inspector?"

Marshall stopped looking at him then. "But they don't ask you your opinion, do they, Inspector Kerby?"

—

It came time for Friday's services, and Inspector Kerby attempted to pursue his workday with the same optimism he had shown to Inspector Marshall. He found himself getting lost in the minds of several patients. Back in his secured station with his headset on, he felt days of their lives pass in a matter of literal minutes.

"That boy is ruining your life!" he heard his mouth yelling.

"It wasn't his decision. It was mine. You knew from the start that I never wanted to go to college."

"I paid for it! You don't get to decide to just drop out!"

"You're not the one that has to go through it! I don't need to go to college!"

"Well, I hope you don't think you'll be staying with me. I've got no room for freeloaders. Go stay with that deadbeat."

"Fine, Dad. I will because I never want to see you again!"

Raylan didn't have any children. But the tiniest feeling of loss overtook him. It was an unusual feeling. Last time, he told the man not to worry so much about a college degree. Her curiosity and ambition were more likely to make an entrepreneur out of her, if those traits were nurtured. He did not take the advice.

"It's not supposed to go there. Stop it," a shrill voice loudly whispered. "Please, I don't want to ruin our first time."

"Okay," Raylan said.

The room was lit by the effervescence of moonlight creeping through the curtains. Raylan could see but couldn't feel the shuffling that was happening beneath him. There were two bodies, naked from the waist down, attempting to fit together like puzzle pieces. They had been talking about it for days, and this was the culmination of a year-long relationship reaching its emotional peak. At least, that's what the thought was.

"It just doesn't feel right, Luke."

He buried his face in his hands as the woman of his desire left him for the bathroom. The door shut and remained that way for at least ten minutes. The water ran with no interruptions in its path to the drain. He knew the trick. Masking the sounds of tears. She did it often.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked through the door.

"It's just... It's not supposed to hurt so much. You’re too rough.”

"How could I possibly be any gentler? What am I going to hurt anyway? You can’t have kids." He heard shuffling inside the medicine cabinet. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up." He tried to force his way in, but the click on the doorknob sounded, and he was shut out. "Open the door! Laura, OPEN THE DOOR!"

Laura recently discovered that she had Endometriosis after a string of painful periods. It made her infertile and borderline suicidal. But there was a surgery for that. Expensive, but Raylan knew of a program that raised funds for that specific thing. Too bad Luke was out of his chair and out the door before he could say so.

"Damn it. She's gonna get put down if we don't find her."

"I didn't know she wasn't trained, dude. Otherwise, I would've kept a better eye on her."

"I still can't believe she dug a hole under the fence. She's never done anything like that before."

"You saw the hole. I had the gate closed."

"I know. It's not your fault. But my kids grew up with that dog. They're gonna be devastated."

"It sucks. We'll find her, though."

But just before, Raylan saw himself coming out to his friend's backyard, finding the dog missing and the side gate wide open. After a brief panic, he knelt down under the gate and dug a dog-sized hole with his hands. Then he closed the gate and clipped his fingernails before calling his friend to tell him the upsetting news about his dog.

The day ended the same as any other Friday. Inspector Kerby let Blaire leave early. Young people like her had places to be that weren't work. He would close out everyone's file himself. Because there was one in particular that he wanted to go over.

Andrew Hilltop still hadn't made an appearance from yesterday. At this point, he'd be doing the young man a disservice by not reporting him. Dare say, if something happened to him, then at least there'd be a search warrant so the police would be looking.

He stared at the profile. At the bottom of the screen was the "report absent" button. Kerby hadn't had to press it in over a year. Maybe that's why it was difficult to do. To think that something could've happened in this world where safety and procedure were paramount. No crime went unpunished, and no secret was left in the dark. But his finger inched toward the screen.

Then he heard a ruckus coming from out in the hall. He left the chromium computer and walked out to the front of the Anamnesis building. The building security had someone halted outside, repeatedly proclaiming that the building was closed. But the young man was insistent that he just had to see Inspector Kerby. Raylan approached with a curious eye. There were towering men guarding the door, so he couldn't see who was asking for him.

Sensing a responsibility to inject himself into the situation since his name was called, he told the men to stand down. Then the inspector was greeted by what felt like a pleasant surprise. It was Andrew.

Kerby waved the security guards away and let the young man in. He didn't notice that it was raining, but Andrew was soaked from head to toe. The young man didn't even try to wipe himself down, but rather gazed deep into Raylan as if he had a sermon to speak. But it would've been out of character. Andrew said nothing.

"Well, you're lucky I decided to stay late today. I assume you're here to fulfill your appointment."

Andrew nodded.

"By god, what happened to you?" Kerby looked upon the man's face. It looked like he hadn't had a proper meal in days, let alone any sleep. It was a face that had undergone harsh psychological torture. His eyes were near black, his skin dried, and a scarlet whelp stained his neck. His hands were cut and bleeding. His shoulders were shrunk and turned inward. Despite Raylan's concern, Andrew didn't answer the question.

"I suppose you're right…" Raylan relented. "I'll find out soon enough."

Andrew sat firmly in the patient's chair in the center of Inspector Kerby's office and even managed to secure himself to the Anamachine without Blaire's assistance. The armed security guards stood firmly by as Inspector Kerby prepared for his last probing of the week. He was sure there wasn't anyone else in the building besides those guards, but there was still this feeling that the world was watching, anxious to see how this session evolved.

But before he could do anything, he gazed upon the boy. He was clearly suffering with no relief upon making his appointment. The life in his eyes had died when he put on the helmet. The cuts on his hand began to flow.

Raylan approached with a warm towel and lifted the Anamachine from Andrew's head. Without asking, he wiped the rain from the young man's face and then placed the towel in his hands so that he might warm them and cool the bleeding. The inspector was a doctor in educational terms, but it was rare that he had to act like one.

Disinfecting Andrew's hands, Inspector Kerby had a few flashbacks—a young boy learning how to ride a bike at 17 because his father was never around to teach him. He fell the first few times, and there was no one to pick him up. He was quiet and socially awkward. None of his peers came close to him. They were either afraid of his father's status or afraid of him. But he never lied, never harmed a bug, and never spoke out of turn.

Now he stared into Raylan's eyes, disturbed by the sudden show of affection. The inspector didn't acknowledge it. He returned to his space and applied his half of the Anamachine. And then he was sucked into a perfect recreation of Andrew's memories.

Andrew was a student, so he spent most of his time in class as he prepared to end his second year of a psychology degree. Nothing much to note. He wasn't in any university clubs or a part of any other extracurriculars. His professors regarded him well. He lived on his own in an apartment right off campus that always smelled like wet dogs. He would nod at the pretty girl who was always leaving when he was returning, and she would give back that bashful smile young church girls were known for. In his apartment, he'd study through the night, order whatever fast food sounded good, and watch reruns until he fell asleep.

The cycle continued for the next two weeks, until one day, Andrew was toying with his gun. (Wait… No. That’s not right.) After classes, Andrew walked around the apartment with it in his hand. He didn't hold it up. He didn't wave it around. He didn't point it at anything. The feel of the cold metal resting in his hand seemed to be a point of meditation. It was with him on the couch. It was on the desk as he studied. It was on the sink as he brushed his teeth. The sight of it put him in a trance and had him staring off for minutes at a time. (Since when did he own a gun?)

Andrew suddenly got a call from his aunt. "Your father wants to see you, Andrew."

"Why?" Raylan felt his mouth moving.

"You know he always has his reasons."

"Then what are his reasons?"

"I don't know. He says it's urgent and wants you at the cabin. Will you go?"

A brief silence. "I'll go. Is he there now?"

"That's what he says."

"Okay."

The cabin was an old black house in the woods at the back of his family's estate. Inspector Kerby had rarely seen it, but always got the feeling that the cabin was important to Andrew's childhood. But now watching it, Raylan felt like it was full of dead bodies. In fact, it was the first time he had heard it mentioned in years.

He walked through the forest of dead trees and mulch over the short path to the cabin. His father was there waiting, smoking a big cigar in an all-white three-piece suit. Kerby felt the smoke enter his lungs, and he only resisted the urge to puke because he wasn't in control of the body smelling it. But even Andrew had to clear his throat.

"Well, you were always a soft one," Stanley Hilltop snickered. "How do you do, son?" The entire apartment reeked of scented candles masking filth. The added puffs of smoke made it nearly unbearable. His father caught Andrew staring around the room.

"You’ll answer when spoken to, boy,” he man commanded, putting his cigar out. The ashtray was almost full. The couch looked hastily cleaned, and his father was hesitant to sit. But eventually, he descended on a velvet pillow and crossed his legs.

“I’m fine,” Raylan said. “Why did you want to see me?”

“You’re my son. I deserve the right to see you every now and then. You may have no love for me, but I still have some obligation to you.”

“Okay then.”

His father pondered the small one-room cabin, twisting his fingers around a marble rabbit on the nightstand next to him. “How long did it take your stepfather to build this cabin?”

“We worked on it whenever I got home from school. Took about a month from planning to furnishing.”

“That’s pretty quick. You two must’ve been quite the team. There isn’t much to it, though, is there? Did your mother help at all?”

“She helped buy the supplies,” Raylan said.

“You mean with my money?” His father was scornful.

“I guess...”

“It must’ve made him feel awful knowing your mother had only half of my money, and her net worth was still a hundred times greater than his. No wonder they didn’t last.”

Stanley Hilltop finally stood. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve bought this property back. And I’m reselling it.”

In the first burst of emotion Kerby had ever witnessed of the boy, he sprang forward as if he could’ve throttled his father. But stopped himself short, saying, “You don’t have the right.”

“I own the property. Of course, I do.”

Raylan swallowed his tongue. “What do I have to do for you not to sell it?”

“Oh, son. I’m not a spiteful person. This isn’t some punishment. Just a business decision. The property was escalating in value, but your mother no longer had the money to maintain it, so I’m going to ensure it goes for the highest value possible in this evolving market.”

“Is money all that matters to you?”

“I do care about my family. But you haven’t exactly acted like family for a long time, so as I said... just business. Unless you’d like to come work for me. Reconnect. Bond over a common interest like the laymen do. Then at that point, the property could be family-owned.”

“I’m studying psychology, not politics.”

“Yes, you want to be one of those silly memory inspectors, I know. But don’t worry. You wouldn’t even have to work part-time. I’d just need you to make a formal statement on my behalf.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mom has been a thorn in my side for as long as I can remember. Her PR campaign against me destroyed half of my businesses. But now that she’s finalized her second divorce, that leaves people plenty of room to figure out that she was the crazy one. They’d just need a little push in that direction.”

“No,” Raylan said.

“No?” His father looked affronted. “That’s all you have to say?”

“That’s all I have to say.”

There was a long pause. “I hope you understand how disappointing this is, Andrew. For the both of us. What happens next is on you. Don’t think your memory inspector will save you, either. Mine happens to believe in the power of disciplining unruly children,” Stanley said as he got up to leave.

“Do what you have to.” Andrew grew inattentive and began reminiscing in this childhood room of his. He didn’t seem to be noticing anymore when his father slammed the door on the cabin. All the stenches he brought with him stayed in the aftermath. Raylan’s hands were shaking as he stared down at them for minutes at a time. (Those aren't my hands.)

After a while, he moved to leave, but when he put his hand on the handle, he found himself locked in. He yanked and fought the door, but it didn’t budge. He yelled for his father or anyone to help him because that door was the only way out of the cabin. The place was designed by a child. There was only one loosely built door. The windows weren’t designed to open and were too small to fit an adult body through its frame. No one heard him. Or at least no one came. (That prick!) Andrew didn’t show any signs of anger or even any frustration. He only seemed bitterly annoyed. He had no choice but to wait for hours.

Stanley Hilltop did make a second appearance later that evening. But he only came to gloat and see if Andrew had changed his mind. Thereby proving that the actions were deliberate. Inspector Kerby was sure this was enough to charge the man with kidnapping, but the way the man smiled at his starving son... It was not the smile of a man fearful of the Anamachine. Andrew’s non-responsiveness gave Stanley his answer. And so his father left again without even so much as dropping Andrew a glass of water.

He remained trapped in that cabin for two days. Only feeding on a box of expired nutrition bars left in one of the cabinets. There was no water supply, and it never rained enough for anything to seep through the roof. His father never bothered to return again. It was clear Stanley planned on slowly killing his son. If he didn’t do something to escape, he would die in that cabin.

The door didn’t budge when he attacked it, so he turned his attention to the small window next to it. He used the last of his strength to push the couch to the window and managed to break it with the marble rabbit. He used his hands to clear the glass and a large shard to cut the adhesive holding the frame to the wall. Though his hands were dripping red, he wriggled out until the hole in the wall distorted his body to an unnatural crunch. Then he fell through to the dirt below him. His body had twisted and popped in several places, and the glass clawed him from his neck to his ankles.  

Andrew dragged himself back through the path to his car. His body was in enough pain to scream a sonnet. He was a wounded soldier in enemy territory, straining to make no noise, even when he saw his father had been dead on the back patio.

The body had been shot twice in the chest. His white suit was stained scarlet, and his eyes were frozen in terror. It was a clear shock to Andrew, who fell on the ground at the sight of it. He sat next to it awhile, despite his pain or maybe because of it. But then he left in his car without saying another word to anyone.

He went home and overindulged on everything in his fridge. Most of it was puked up on the floor from eating and drinking too much too fast. He then dragged himself to the bathroom, where his gun waited for him. (When did it get in the bathroom?)

A few moments later, he was in a cold bath with his gun sitting on the toilet. The inspector only counted two blinks in the several hours Andrew sat in that tub. Raylan could sense the cold contemplation oozing from his mind. Then the barrel of the gun dug under his chin. Raylan’s fear coursed through his bloodstream, as if he himself were about to die. (I’m only watching.)

Andrew thought against it. Instead, he stood and started a hot shower. Seemingly not for the purposes of bathing, but when the steam filled the room and the fog covered the mirrors, he wrote in the dense glass, “I trust you”. (I trust you?) And the words disappeared as quickly as they came. The memory had suddenly stopped in place. Inspector Kerby turned it off.

It was time for Kerby to do his job. There were several crimes to report: Kidnapping, murder, and failure to report a crime. At this point, Stanley Hilltop’s corpse would be a day old, and despite his blatant narcissism, he didn’t deserve to rot underneath the winter winds.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Andrew. I saw everything. No wonder you’re in such bad shape.”

The young man was shivering. The inspector borrowed one of his assistant’s heated blankets and wrapped it around him, guiding him into his office. Raylan began to pick up the phone to inform the police of the body, but he stopped himself short.

“Andrew… why did you run?”

Andrew looked puzzled. Raylan didn’t expect him to speak now of all times, but he desperately wished he would. He could attribute it to a fight-or-flight response or a lapse of judgment under traumatic circumstances, but Andrew was too cold. None of his actions indicated panic or even grief. Andrew reacted as if quietly accepting death.  

To attempt to comfort him, Raylan spoke on the words he did have. “I’m not sure if you were referring to us, but if so, your trust is well protected. This is why the Anamnesis Machines exist. To protect people like you. So that no injustice goes unpunished and people can be inflicted with the integrity of truth. The inspectors are granted a temporary eye of god to make others face the truth. We’re not here to judge you. The ones truly guilty are those who are afraid to acknowledge their own actions. But you have… so what were you afraid of?”

Andrew sat quietly for a while until he finally said, “You’re only human, Inspector.”

—

Inspector Theodore Marshall emerged from his Anamachine with a contemptuous sneer. He typically worked late hours for his special patients who required extra attention past working hours.

“Well, what’s the damage, Inspector?” His client today was a former high-ranking military officer who served as counsel to the governor. If he had any room in his brain for excitement, Marshall would’ve been eager for this particular visit.

He pulled up all of his marks from the probing. “Well, Mr. Mathews... That’s seven traffic violations, the usual money laundering charge, and several domestic assault charges.”

“Just give me the number.”

“Thirty thousand.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“That’s because I’m inside yours, Mr. Mathews. And I’ve discovered that you do not love your wife very much. The assault on her alone would put you in jail for a year, but the adultery is far worse than that. At least for a god-fearing man in office. I’m sure that news would circulate faster than the moon around us.”

The man grunted and transferred the thirty thousand dollars to a private bank account that Marshall held under a pseudonym. That account would make him a millionaire, but under the code of conduct for memory inspections, what he had just done would be considered unlawful. So he had to maintain the veil that he held the very modest wages of a memory inspector while his offshore money gifted him a new three-story house from his distant family.

Marshall retreated to his office and fetched his special batch of pills. Inspector Marshall stared at the clock, waiting for the right timing, then he swallowed a five-milligram pill and waited the required half hour. He was interrupted by a phone call.

It was alarmingly warm in Inspector Kerby’s office. The young man in question sat shaking in the corner. Despite his body retracting like a tortoise under attack, his face remained stone.

“They’ve found the body,” he told Kerby. “Did he have anything to say?”

“He did nothing wrong, Ted. Don’t say that as if he has to defend himself.”

“Then what do you have to say?”

“Exactly what I just said. He did nothing wrong. He’s a victim. His father locked him in a cabin, and was killed while he was still in there. Nearly killed himself trying to escape. Why are they here?”

Some security guards came in after Inspector Marshall. One held a pair of handcuffs in his hand, doing a poor job of hiding them.

“Just for protection,” Marshall clarified. “And just until we figure out everything that’s going on.”

“Well, tell them that’s what the Anamachine is for. Get out.”

“Don’t panic, Ray. You’re better than that.”

“I’m not panicking. I just want to discern your intentions.” Kerby peered back at Andrew, who remained unmoved in the new commotion.

“To talk.” Marshall knelt down next to Andrew. Their frosted eyes were the same—stubborn and still, as if they had both seen the worst of death and knew how it would react here. “Andrew… Your father must’ve had a lot of enemies. Inspector Kerby’s report says that you were on the property when it happened. Was there anyone else there?”

Andrew bit his lip. “Ask the inspector. He would know better than I would.”

“The inspector wasn’t there. Think of what he knows as a secondhand experience. While you have the first... So there was no one else you saw?”

Kerby jumped in. “The boy is traumatized. He clearly needs medical attention. Shouldn’t this wait until we get him to a hospital?”

Inspector Marshall analyzed Kerby for a moment. In short order, he realized he was questioning a child in front of their parent. He put a hand on Kerby and politely guided him to the hallway.

“I’ve told you about getting sentimental with these people... I’ll be frank with you. Those men have come to arrest that boy.”

“The hell they have. Did you read the report? Andrew wasn’t anywhere near his father when he was killed.”

“Mhmm. Were there ever any points in the probing where you were unsure of something? Anytime something appeared where it shouldn’t have? You were in one place where you should’ve been somewhere else?”

“What do you think, I’m losing my mind?”

“It’s not your mind that would be the issue.”

“Andrew has a clean bill of health. I’ve seen no signs of any mental illnesses. His motor functions are intact, and he’s always been stable. Not always normal but stable.”

Marshall shuffled in his back pocket for something, and he pulled a rattling plastic bottle and shook it in Kerby’s face. It was an unlabeled bottle of pills. “These are Thought Blockers. They’re not hard to get for someone with his connections. They stop certain memories from reaching the subconscious, preventing them from ever being retrieved. Not only by the user but more importantly, by the Anamachines. He wouldn’t even remember that he thought about taking it. You’re not all seeing, Inspector.”

“I’ve seen them.” Raylan shook his head. “But what does it matter? Andrew was and is in no position to ever have something like that.”

“He had a gun in his apartment?”

Kerby hesitated. “Yes.”

“His father was shot...”

“I never heard a single shot, let alone two. There isn’t a way he could’ve gotten something like that past me.”

Their eyes met, and Kerby felt as if the veteran inspector were trying to intimidate him in some way. He was talked to as if he were losing his mind when he knew what he saw. Still, the way the inspector looked at him… (I didn’t shoot him. Did I... he?)

“Well, to be sure,” Inspector Marshall turned his head. “The governor wants a re-evaluation of the boy.”

Kerby stood stone still. “Please, Ted.”

“As you like to say, this system doesn’t operate without trust, Ray. If your judgment is sound, I will come to the same conclusion as you.”

“Please, Ted. If you even call me a friend, believe me on this.”

“Don’t worry…” Marshall put a hand on the shoulder of a longtime acquaintance. “I trust you.”

—

A few afternoons later, Andrew was euthanized in front of a television audience. The death of Stanley Hilltop made the top of the news. Murder was always at the top of the news. It happened so rarely that the media always made a colossal show of it.

Kerby figured it was envy.

Envy for the few who knew they were being watched by their creators and chose to defy them anyway. But the few would usually run, calling for an immediate warrant for their capture and mandatory time in a detention center. Then, when they hit the Anamachine, their secrets would be revealed, and if it was murder, the sentence was always death.

Certain people couldn’t handle that kind of defiance. They would say the only killer of humankind is their free will. Then they would use it as justification for the creation of slaves.

Kerby’s patients likely thought of him as a slave master, and his clipboard as the whip. No wonder they didn’t care for his “sentimentality.” Did it matter if your slave master was a little nicer than the others? The threat of the whip still remained.

They would say Andrew was killed for the sake of justice. But Raylan Kerby had none. Andrew was one of his, and he felt as if he had lost a son on this day. For that, he would have justice.

The gun in his hand was the emergency weapon given to all inspectors. On the very rare occasion, patients would be so upset by their fines or sentencing that they would lose themselves in a violent rage. Raylan’s rage was calm, basking in the light of sweet surrender. His gun looked a lot like Andrew’s, he noticed.

He then entered Marshall’s office. The inspector waited for him, sitting at a great desk that looked to be made of platinum. His own gun sat loaded on its surface, facing the door. He didn’t react, only turned and nodded when Kerby entered the room.

Raylan’s gun rested at his side. He was told once that he should never aim a weapon until he was prepared to kill with it.

“I could have your license for this,” Marshall said with his usual stone-faced expression. “And institutionalized in a psych ward.”

“You think I didn’t come here prepared to lose everything?”

“No... I’ve told you about your sentimentality. It never works out.”

“What did you see that I didn’t? Tell me, Ted. Why did you kill him?”

“I’m not the one who killed him. But why does anyone die? Because someone wanted them to. Whether it be a god or one of us. You didn’t share this sentimentality for his father, I noticed. As an inspector, you know our obligation is not to your patients alone.”

“Our obligation is to absolute truth.”

“Your obligation is to make this society function. Just like the rest of us. Now put the gun down, Ray.”

Raylan didn’t listen. Unconsciously, he found himself aiming the gun right at Marshall’s chest. He thought to himself that the only reasonable way out would be a murder-suicide. At least he would know then that he deserved to die.

“He knew you were watching, Ray. He knew how to play you. He woke in the middle of the night. And took a Thought Blocker to make you think he didn’t wake until the morning.”

“That’s a convenient explanation, Ted. Hope it helps you rest easy.”

“Think on it. If he didn’t do it. Why would he run? I reported what I saw.”

“So did I!” Raylan screamed. “I was in the cabin for days… Nothing happened. I… He ran because he knew what would happen. He was afraid of someone like you. People like his father. There’s a killer on the loose, and they’ve been set free. Have you thought of that? What society can function when killers are out on the streets?”

“The only killer I see is you.”

“I’m not a killer.”

“A vigilante, then? Do you feel like what you’re doing will change something—taking justice into your own hands? It takes a true narcissist to believe his judgment should outweigh all others.”

“No, that’s not what...”

“Look at me, Ray. If that man had lived, the gun would’ve been aimed at us. We would’ve been persecuted as corrupt and blamed for disguising our reports to make him seem innocent.”

“He was innocent.”

“Would it be worth your life if there was even a chance that he wasn’t? Look me in the eye and tell me that it was absolutely impossible that Andrew was guilty, and I’ll hand in my resignation now.”  

Raylan Kerby tried to think, but he found it difficult. Doubts were creeping, and his memories became shrouded in abstractions. (I didn’t have the gun. I didn’t shoot him.) Andrew’s life had suddenly become like a dream.

Marshall wouldn’t give him a chance to contemplate, not with the gun aimed at him. “The world is at peace, Ray. Why would you want to jeopardize that? I’m sorry about your patient. You know I wouldn’t do anything if I had the choice.”

“That could be another lie.” Raylan tightened his grip.

“They weren’t your memories. You are a passive reader, and you’ve been following this character for so long that you hoped that he was innocent.”

Raylan’s arm faltered. “He… was mine…” Marshall stood and relieved the gun from his hand, placing it next to his own. Kerby’s head dropped in defeat. Marshall then pulled out that familiar rattling bottle. 

“Here.” He placed a pill in Raylan’s hand. “50 milligrams. That’s enough for an entire day. Just delete this stain from your memory and go back to work. I’ll take one myself, and it won’t be spoken of again. Then we can go together to see a desensitization counselor. You just got too involved, but you’re alright.”

Raylan Kerby hesitantly took the pill and swallowed it. In half an hour, he would forget what happened to Andrew. Someone might try to tell him, but at least he won’t feel what he felt today. Marshall would ensure that he’d never truly remember again. That was okay, he thought. Memories seemed to be unreliable anyway. It was a shame. Truth couldn’t be conquered. (In the face of our maker, we are all liars.)

Before he left, he heard a short snicker coming from behind him. “Why are you laughing?” he asked.

“Was I?”

“Yes, you were.”

“Sorry, just reliving a memory,” Ted said with his hand over Kerby’s gun. “It isn’t perfect, you know, our memory. And neither is the truth. In the face of our maker, we are all liars. I’ll see you at your next appointment, Ray.”