The descent into the underlevels took them through forgotten maintenance shafts and crumbling transit tunnels. The air grew thick with the smell of rust and stagnant water.
"These tunnels were part of the original city," Lena explained, her helmet light cutting through the darkness. "Before the Council raised the new districts above the flood zones."
Elias followed, his radiation badge glowing a soft green. "How did you find out about Thorne's research?"
"I was assigned to purge his files after his disappearance," she said. "But what I found didn't match the official story. So I started digging."
They reached a massive sealed door, its surface corroded but still intact. Lena worked on the manual release while Elias kept watch.
"The Council has controlled memory trading from the beginning," she continued. "They allow just enough authentic memories to circulate to maintain credibility, but the important things—the historical truths—they suppress or alter."
The door groaned open, revealing a chamber filled with antique server racks, their lights still flickering with residual power.
"An autonomous archive," Elias breathed. "I've never seen one still functioning."
"Thorne's work." Lena moved to the main console. "The system is isolated from the main network. It's been preserving memories here for decades."
As she worked, Elias explored the chamber. On a desk covered in dust, he found a faded photograph—his father standing with Aris Thorne, both men smiling. Behind them stretched the same blue sky from the memory.
"Lena," he said quietly. "I think you should see this."
She joined him, her expression softening. "They were friends, before everything. Your father believed memories were the foundation of identity. That without them, we're just blank slates."
She returned to the console. "I need to access the core directory. Thorne's notes mention a failsafe—a memory that can't be altered because it's encoded in a unique neural pattern."
"The Genesis Memory."
"Exactly. But the access protocol requires specific brainwave signatures." She looked at him. "Thorne keyed it to his own pattern, or someone related to him."
Elias understood. "You think it's keyed to me? Because of my father?"
"It's possible. Thorne was your godfather, though you probably don't remember. The memory of him was likely purged from your records."
Elias approached the console. "What do I need to do?"
"Just put your hands on the interface pads. The system will do the rest."
The moment his hands touched the cold metal, the chamber lit up with holographic displays. Patterns of light swirled around him, mapping his neural activity.
Then the pain hit—a searing headache that dropped him to his knees. Images flooded his mind, too fast to process. A childhood birthday. His father's laboratory. A woman singing—his mother, though he had no memory of her voice.
"Elias!" Lena was beside him, trying to pull him away from the console.
"It's okay," he gasped. "It's working."
The chaos in his mind coalesced into a single, clear memory. Not his own, but one implanted long ago, waiting for this moment.
He saw Thorne, older than in the photograph, his face lined with worry. "If you're seeing this, Elias, then the time has come. The Genesis Memory isn't a single engram—it's a key. A key to unlocking what they've taken from us."
The memory dissolved as suddenly as it had appeared. Elias found himself on the floor, Lena supporting him.
"What happened?" she asked.
"He left me a message," Elias said, his voice shaky. "The Genesis Memory is a neural key. It can restore what the Council has erased."
A noise from the tunnel made them both freeze. Heavy footsteps, approaching fast.
"They found us," Lena whispered.
Elias looked at the console, where a new file had appeared. "Not yet. But they're close."
He transferred the file to his portable drive just as the chamber door exploded inward.