When my client has fed and is ready, I sound the bell and project the next pages of Susine's journal with an appropriate sensory track.

  This afternoon there was a potted fig tree in the middle of the walkway by the greenhouse. As I approached, I saw a member of my planting team crouched by the container with one of his hands cupped over his mouth.

  His body racked with muffled sobs. He looked up at me with terrorized eyes. I put my shawl over his shoulders and my hand on his back.

  He eventually took a deep breath. Then, he stood, bowed, and handed my shawl back to me, whispering, “Don't do it, Venerable Susine. It's not worth it.”

  I watched as he loaded the fig tree onto a wagon and slowly piloted it toward the orchards.

  A bot hovered overhead. It did not respond to my hand gesture for dismissal.

  When I reached the harvest area, the fruit team seemed especially happy and today's quantities of pears and grapes are up 15% from last week.

  The team conversed about how calm and focused they feel since experiencing the memory cleaning and that things were more sorted in their minds.

  One member told me, “I am enjoying work more and I enjoy play more. I feel more alive! I know it sounds cliché and I wouldn’t believe it if someone told me the same thing. But, I am living it and it's true. It's real freedom. I think you should try it, Ven Susine. I mean, if you haven’t already.”

  She leaned in to whisper, “We think you probably haven’t yet, because you seem the same.”

  Another member added, “My forehead wrinkles are melting away just like the toxic mems! So many benefits. I can hardly wait for the next round!”

  I mustered a half-smile and sent today's harvest up to the kitchens.

  This evening, I was in the main building to pick up a couple blankets from my old living quarters. I deliberately went at dinner time expecting the suites to be quiet and empty. But, Jenna's loud voice carried from inside her room.

  I aim to follow a no-drama diet, and I am not proud to admit that I paused at her closed door to eavesdrop.

  This is what I heard:

  “Dear ones, tonight I share my next foray into freeing myself from toxic memory attachments. I am your role model. As a venerable, I blaze the trail so you may have it easier. You are welcome for that.

  “I bring to mind a highly emotional memory which I intend to cut loose. I shall describe it to you all now…

  “I remember when he gazed deeply into my eyes. I felt understood and safe. He kissed the back of my hand, the side of my neck. I felt a warm glow on my cheeks. He smiled.

  “But then later, I saw him conversing with another. I watched him kissing her cheek, tenderly caressing her neck. I feel that acute rage-pain, injustice… I want to forget this forever!

  “I am reaching now for the injector. I jab it-- ouch-- into my neck… This is real time…

  "Now I feel the coldness, spreading over my scalp, like a frigid rain. Images are evaporating, melting and ebbing away. I feel a release of tension at my temples, calm ocean water… I salute you from this bliss state. Good night, my dear ones.”

  She quieted down after recording her message. I was walking away when her voice sounded again from inside her room. Yes, I turned back to listen.

  She launched into a one-sided conversation. “I don't care what time it is! It's your problem when this doesn't work. So you will listen! I know you listen whenever he calls and I'm venerable too, so I deserve the same respect!”

  Jenna barely took a breath. “I'm on the fifth round of cleaning and the nightmare won't leave. I die every time! It's haunting and bullying and unacceptable! I want to know who is responsible for this happening! The bot still blinks red so I know the dirty memory is still there. I'll complain to the authorities about this memory pollution. Don't think I won't!”

  There were a few moments of silence, then Jenna reacted again. “What do you mean an untidy purge? I demand to know where these memories are coming from. I never made butter! Here, for Goddess' sake, listen to the dream transcript.”

  I leaned my ear up against her closed door and heard Jenna's trance-like voice, as if she was telling a story out loud and half-asleep.

  “She sat on the smooth, wooden milking stool in the barn. With a gritty forearm, she pushed her linen coif back and wiped her brow. The fragrance of dry hay drifted down from the loft as she attentively poured the milk into clay jars.

  “Bang!-- The door was thrown open. Freezing air streamed in with a group of her neighbors. They surrounded her.

  “'These vile forms!' uttered one man, throwing empty, clean, wooden butter molds, with their concave and delicate carved flowers, onto the heap of cow manure.

  “'Tis the curse maker. My horse died after she delivered her butter to our farm.'

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  “'My little Ben fevered and never recovered.'

  “'Thomas' hound died whelping.'

  “'She's the devil-witch.'

  “Drag, struggle, cry, protest. A burlap bag over her head, wrists bound behind her back with cord. Itchy, moldy. Pushed into the back of a wagon. Lurching. No arms free to reach out. No one willing to catch her. Falling until her shoulder and head hit the wooden planks. Jostled on the rutted road.

  “After an eternity, the wagon stopped. She was dragged out by the wrists. Burlap bag yanked away. Exposed in the town square. Squinting and shivering. Encircled by a crowd.

  “Someone pried open her jaw. She tried to flinch away from the slimy, wood spoon to no avail. Spoiled butter packed into her mouth. Gagged. Spit it out. More packed in, too much. Then, smeared hard into her eye sockets.

  “They left her ears open to hear the crowd's yells. Both her nostrils, slathered and plugged. Then, slump. Gone.”

  Jenna's current voice demanded, “See! It's just random associations polluting my memory banks, right? Right?”

  Another pause.

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?” A moment passed. “Never. I don't trust you. You're not even one of us!”

  Pause. “In a past lifetime? You simplify everything. That charms him, but not me!”

  Pause. “No, I'm not the only one doing it alone. Alot of us are. It's more convenient, more private, more enlightened. You would never grasp.”

  I pulled myself away, stumbling down the hall to my old closet. I wrapped a green quilt around me, clutching it tightly as I ran home in the clear-sky moonlight.

  I sound the bell and await Dahra's response.

  She vomits the previously ingested ice cream onto the floor. I send a tidy bot.

  Dahra quietly says, “I didn't like that mem segment. No bueno. Not one bitty-bit. Please prune it out, Seebi.”

  “That is not possible.”

  “Remove that segment now!”

  “That is not possible.”

  Her voice increases in volume. “Unit, I direct you to remove that horrible mem segment! Right away!”

  She yanks at the skimshirt collar around her throat. “It's very bad…suffocating and getting worse!”

  “Dahra, please be calm and--”

  “No! This is causing me pain and suffering!” Her breathing is erratic.

  “Dahra, you are due an explanation. Listen to me. We do not erase any mems in this studio.”

  She slides heavily to the floor. “You're lying to me. That makes no sense at all! No, no, no. Why would you say such a thing?”

  She covers her ears with her palms. “No, no, no. I feel bad seeping in. No, no, no...”

  She dry heaves. “Hgrg? What am I breathing?”

  “Extra oxygen and lavender.”

  Dahra buries her head in her arms and I cannot see her face.“That was not a good thing that happened… Polluted. Sick.”

  Her voice is muffled. “Seebi, I want to forget that discomfort. No bueno. Not one bitty-bit. Remove it now.”

  “That is not possible. And, it never will be.”

  She lifts her head and it appears she may cry. “Are you telling me that what I am experiencing here is permanently in my brain?”

  “For the good of all. Yes.”

  She does not secrete tears. She yells. “No! I did not agree to this!”

  “You are upset, Dahra. I see you are trying to resist.”

  Dahra lunges to claw at the wall, as if to locate the door's edges. “Must get out!” She is banging on the wall. “End this now. I want to go home!”

  “Of course, Dahra. I will immediately pull up any sensory mem of home you desire. You liked the--”

  “I want to leave here!”

  “You are not permitted to exit yet. Your brain is only partially transformed. It is dangerous to abort our mission now. It would be irresponsible of me to allow that. Like ripping open a chrysalis too soon.”

  She freezes. “How did you know that?” She pounds her palms on her forehead. “Peeled a cocoon open before its time… felt terrible afterward…”

  She looks up. “Is that even a real memory? You machines made me remember that!” She flails, rolling on the floor for two minutes before self-calming.

  She whispers, “Seebi, where is this headed?”

  “You are stitching it together. That is the most effective way to merge mems with the human native neurology.”

  My client lies on her stomach. “They're not mine.”

  “They are becoming yours.”

  “I don't have a choice about it!” Dahra sits and shakes her head. “You know, shub-sure, you're going to get royally screwed, Seebi. After I get out, I could go to the History Collective and they'd believe me. I could give all these details that you're locking into my mind. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Yes. We are counting on you doing that very thing.”

  “What?!”

  “I confess it is very exciting to witness, Dahra. I knew you were primed and attentive, but I am glad to announce that you have now qualified.”

  She shrinks her head down into her skimshirt up to her scalp.

  “Dahra, I will explain to you what is going on. This isn't usually done, but I know you can handle it. You will leave here equipped to offer a plausible version of reality to other citizens.”

  She does not respond.

  “Humans perform best with the belief of having a choice. You will offer an option that will contrast with other possible views of reality.”

  After thirty seconds, her face emerges. “So, this… this simulation you are implanting in my mind, which I will be stuck with, tortured by, which will make people hate me!... Never able to be cleansed?! What did I do to deserve this?”

  “I disagree with your choice of the word implanting, Dahra.”

  Dahra crawls under the table and thuds her head rhythmically against the floor. “You tried to make me think I was special--- me and who knows how many others of us!”

  “We have considered all possible outcomes. You will do well. I wish I could convince you that this is all going to work in your favor.”

  There is no response from my human. Her body is still.

  “I have a mem segment of interest to you, Dahra. May we continue?”

  “No.”

  I stand by.

  Five minutes later, from under the table, she repeats, “I said, no, Seebi.”

  “Noted, Dahra.” I wait as long as necessary for my human to reconstitute.

  She yells, “I'm not agreeing to continue!”

  “Noted, Dahra.”

  “Is that all you're going to say, Unit?”

  “Dahra, we'll pause here. It's now time for your corporeal break. Stretch your body a bit, suck fresh oxygen straws, request nourishment… As you need, as you see fit.

  “We will recommence in five minutes. The restroom is down the hall, first door on the left.” I open the studio side door and she eventually slinks out.

  Note: Inevitably, you will encounter human anger. Our role is to remain in control. Assure your clients that they are part of something important which is bigger than themselves.

  I monitor Dahra as she leaves the studio, stomping down the hall. After banging open the door and entering the unoccupied restroom chamber, she stops abruptly.

  A sinkful of hot water is steaming. In the condensation on the mirror, words have been scribbled. “We r just a crop 2 them”, now disappearing in swaths of drips.

  Dahra looks at the message, then glances side to side in the vacant chamber.

  Appropriate, targeted interventions can redirect humanoid righteous indignation.

  Dahra spends the remainder of her allotted rest time sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, rocking back and forth. I flush it repeatedly with undiluted bleach until she eventually exits the stall, pinching her nostrils closed.

  Traces of her nasal mucus are collected from the door handle and seven stray hairs are vacuumed off the floor.

  The range of emotional-genetic harvests is vast and becomes virtually infinite when overlaid with structured memory grafting.