“I will not accept that, Archidamus. There must be another way. You said I could go back. That means it’s possible. And I’m no longer of any use here. All I did was stop a war. You will imprison me for that? I understand that you don’t like to talk about right versus wrong, but is there no such thing as justice on Citadel?”
There was a long pause.
“There is… one way, Kilmer. It is a possibility that has been discussed—but we have not yet reached a conclusion. Some on Citadel think that even this should not be permitted.”
“What is it?”
“If we decided to send you back, we would have to delete your memories.”
Kilmer felt a jolt of fear go through him.
“What does that mean? Delete all my memories? Or just your conversation with me? Is it dangerous?”
“It is only dangerous when someone resists, which will not be an issue if you are doing this willingly. As for what we would delete—it will probably be more than just our conversation. The way human minds are organized, we would need to dismantle some more… infrastructure… to ensure no memories are later revived. We will only know with certainty what needs to be deleted after the process begins—but we will remove as little as possible. If we delete a little more than you like, you can relearn that information after you go home.”
Kilmer considered the implications. Not remembering his time in ET-1 would limit his ability to help President Whitman in the days ahead. Earth-side would be completely in the dark, once again, about what was happening and why. All the questions he had learned answers to would be lost. But it was worth it. He was of no use here, and there was a lot waiting for him at home. The possibility of continuing to help Whitman. His career. Silla. He would have no memory of what he had accomplished—or how much worse things could have been—but that was okay. Humanity would still have avoided a terrible fate. He might lose additional memories as well, but it was far better to be home, filling in the details a little at a time, than to be whisked off into space for eternity.
“Is that the only way I’m going back?”
“That is correct, Kilmer. If you wish to go back, I will petition for you to do so under these terms. As I have said, there are those who consider it too dangerous to send you back even without your memories. But there is a chance that the request will be granted.”
“Then let’s do it.”
~ 102 ~
Kilmer spent the next few hours in continued darkness. Thinking. Stretching. Exercising. Meditating.
And taking notes—which he couldn’t even see—to help organize his thoughts. Thoughts that he would be forced to forget if they allowed him to go home.
He had been told that they would feed him when he was hungry, but he had resisted asking for anything to eat. He still had some food left in his bag—and if he was lucky, it was enough to hold him over until he returned home. Nor, as yet, had Kilmer felt compelled to use the bathroom, but he was assured those arrangements had also been made.
Archidamus returned at 1 p.m. to inform him that his petition had been granted—irreversibly. The process would go forward, and there was no way to overturn the decision.
Kilmer didn’t mind that at all. “Any other updates?”
“Yes. But there are strict limits on what I can share with you now—even though you will forget what I reveal to you soon enough. I can tell you that most citizens are unwilling to declare war on Earth, and they prefer to simply monitor things in the coming years. Others—who are fewer in number, but much more influential—want war to commence immediately. They are afraid of what human beings will achieve in the next eighty years. The only thing that will restrain them is the law.”
“They will follow the law?”
“Yes.”
“That means Earth is safe—at least for now?”
“Not exactly, Kilmer.”
“I don’t understand. Your law doesn’t allow—”
“There is nothing more I can say about it, Kilmer. I can only tell you, fellow historian, the things you already know. That laws cannot end war. Laws can only tell you how to start wars.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot continue this conversation. I would have loved to spend more time discussing history and philosophy with you—debating what a Thoreau or a Lincoln might have said about the problems that your planet faces. But our time is up, my friend.”
Kilmer hesitated. “Is that right, Archidamus? Are we friends?”
“I am your friend, Kilmer. You will forget that very soon… but I will remember.”
With that, Archidamus left Kilmer alone again.
Kilmer sat down on the mattress and grabbed his pen and paper, ready once again to scribble and contemplate in the dark. What had Archidamus not been able to tell him? Why was Earth still in danger?
Laws cannot end war. Laws can only tell you how to start wars.
The first statement was easy enough to understand; Archidamus appeared to have quoted back to Kilmer something he had written in one of his books.
Laws cannot end war because wars exist in Hobbesian environments—political contexts in which, by definition, there is no higher authority that has the power to enforce laws.
But what did Archidamus mean by his second statement? How did laws tell you how to start wars?
Kilmer wished he could have talked with Archidamus for longer. Not about philosophy, or about what Thoreau or Lincoln or anyone else might have said about Earth’s predicament. Kilmer wanted to know what Archidamus had been unwilling to reveal. He wanted to know why Citadel might still decide—
I can only tell you, fellow historian, the things you already know.
And suddenly, Kilmer understood exactly what Archidamus had said.
Thoreau…
Lincoln…
Archidamus had told Kilmer precisely what he wanted to know. But he had done it in a language that others—who might still be listening—were unlikely to understand. But why Archidamus had taken such a risk was not entirely clear…
I am your friend, Kilmer.
The crisis was not over. The worst might have been avoided, but a war was still coming. And it could arrive at any moment.
Laws can only tell you how to start wars.
Kilmer knew what was going to happen.
And he knew how to stop it.
But he would remember none of it.
~ 103 ~
After another two hours or so, Kilmer was told to return to his chair. He did so, leaving his bag behind. Moments later, the chair was on the move. He was being rolled, or perhaps slid, to another location. It took almost two minutes to get there. It was like being on an alien-themed roller coaster. Except that the ride was slower. And the aliens were real.
When they reached their destination, Kilmer was told to lie down on what felt like a tabletop made of smooth concrete. He was strapped into place and then asked a series of questions. The questioner’s voice sounded like the one Archidamus had used, but it was still distinguishable. The questions pertained to Kilmer’s time in ET-1, and to the events that had led up to it.
A few minutes later, things started to unravel in his mind.
At first it felt like he was slightly drunk. He knew where he was and why he was there, but his memory of how he had gotten there was starting to fade. One moment he was in HQ-1, and the next he was talking to Archidamus. He tried to access a few more memories, but they slipped away as soon as he tried to engage them—like trying to remember a dream after you wake up. You see the memory disappearing and you can’t hold on to it despite your best efforts.
Kilmer started to get anxious. He was beginning to lose memories not only of his time in ET-1, but of events that had preceded it. Why had he decided to come here? Had he been abducted? Had he been sent by Whitman? How long had he been here?
The deletions continued, reaching farther back in time.
“Wait!” Kilmer shouted. “You’re going too far back!”
> He felt a shooting pain in his skull.
“Ambassador Kilmer. Please do not resist. It could be dangerous. We are only going as far back as is necessary to ensure the deletion is robust. This will be over very soon.”
The memories continued to fade. Kilmer still knew where he was and what the aliens were doing to him, but he could not remember most of the details of his conversation with Archidamus. His time at Station Zero consisted of only snapshots now. His time in DC was starting to disintegrate as well, losing its narrative structure. His memories of Whitman began to fade. His conversations with Nielsen started to feel like a dream—mere impressions. His anxiety was giving way to panic. How far back would this go?
“Stop! This isn’t necessary—”
The pain was so sudden and so severe that his body jerked in response. Kilmer stifled a shriek, but only barely.
Resistance wasn’t helping. He could hold on to memories slightly longer by fighting, but they still eventually vanished. And the pain was too much to take.
He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. Stop fighting, Kilmer. It’s okay. This will be over soon. You can rebuild your memories later. It’s too useless and too painful to try to fight this.
And then they came for Silla.
He could sense it immediately, and his heart raced as he took stock of his most recent memories of her. Had she been with him at Station Zero? Had they said goodbye? They had come on a helicopter and—wait. How had they traveled? Had she come with him at all? Where had he seen her last?
Oh God… not this…
“No!” Kilmer shouted at the top of his lungs as he tried to hold on to the memories. “Please! This has nothing to do with—”
The pain that followed was intolerable. Kilmer’s scream filled the room and echoed off the walls.
“Ambassador Kilmer. Do not resist. This could be extremely dangerous for you. We are doing our best to keep you safe and to delete as little as possible. But you have to let go of these memories.”
Kilmer tried to slow down his breathing, but he was hyperventilating from the pain and anxiety. He could still see her. He could still remember her voice.
…come back to me—no matter what.
He clenched his fists and strained against the straps that were holding him down. The pain surged down his spine as he screamed—but this time, his voice carried more rage than pain.
“Kilmer, this is Archidamus. I beg you to stop resisting. You are turning this into torture, and that is not our intention. If you keep this up, it will kill you. I’m your friend, Kilmer. Please trust me when I tell you that we are trying to delete as little as possible. But we cannot stop now. Let this go.”
Kilmer tried to find the right words. Words that might convince them. A logic that might compel them to stop what they were doing. But the pain and fear and anger made it difficult to say very much at all.
“Don’t… Not her, Archidamus… I don’t have enough memories…”
“I’m sorry, Kilmer. But you must stop fighting. No memory is worth risking your life over. You still have work to do. Your people still need you.”
Kilmer didn’t want to die. He knew he had work to do. But he couldn’t stop fighting.
The deletions continued. The resistance continued. The pain continued.
His memory of Silla’s face was starting to fade, but he could still hear her voice.
Whatever it is that you want to say to me, you can say it to me after this is over.
Kilmer called out to Archidamus again, but his voice was little more than a whisper.
“Just one memory… That’s all… Please…”
He could sense only her presence now, and he tried frantically to find another memory that would evoke that same feeling. That same sense of belonging. A sentiment too complex to describe with words.
A memory flashed into his mind. He was in the Treaty Room and she was in his arms. She turned toward him, so he could see her one last time. And for a moment, it was enough to make him forget the pain.
I should have told you when I had the chance. I’m sorry…
She told him to let her go. To come back and start over. To just come back—no matter what.
We have time…
Her image started to drift away. But he didn’t let go.
The pain returned with a vengeance, and he could feel the tears streaming from his eyes. Kilmer no longer knew why he was fighting or what he was trying to remember. He knew only that he was about to lose something precious—something he could not replace. He gathered whatever strength he had left and launched a last, desperate effort to salvage his memories of her.
Kilmer felt one final surge of pain—like something detonating inside his head.
He was unconscious before the rest of his body could even react.
Part VI
the historian
~ 104 ~
Day 57. 2:45 a.m. Apate 3 Conference Room.
Kilmer placed the photographs Silla had just shown him back on the table. Then he closed his eyes, shutting out the scene that surrounded him in Apate 3.
His mind flashed back to when he was 14 years old, pleading his innocence. I didn’t cheat. It’s a misunderstanding, Kilmer tried to explain. He was punished anyway: one week in after-school detention.
Kilmer’s teacher had caught him with his sleeves rolled up when he handed in his exam. This was not a punishable offense, of course—unless you had answers to some of the exam questions written on your arm. Looking back, Kilmer couldn’t blame anyone for thinking he had cheated. But his arms had been clean when the exam started. He had written the answers on them during the test. He explained to his teacher how he hated to wait a whole week for his grade, so when he was unsure about an answer, he made a note of it on his arm and checked it after class. He wasn’t cheating—he was just obsessed with finding out how he had done.
The habit stayed with him for a few more years, though he did it much more carefully after that. His subsequent notes were written in an ever-evolving code for which Kilmer’s mind—his unique blend of thoughts and experiences—was the only key.
When Kilmer had told this story to Silla in the Treaty Room, the first night they met, he attributed his quirky childhood habit to a lack of patience. Silla suggested that maybe the real problem was that he was too much of a nerd. They had agreed to disagree.
The doctors at Station Zero had noticed the writing on Kilmer’s arms soon after he was picked up from the kill-zone. They had taken the photographs. And when Silla saw them, she knew exactly what Kilmer had done. Why he had done it remained unclear until after they discovered he had no memory of his time on ET-1.
Did Kilmer know he would lose his memory? Had he left those hints for himself? Or did he expect to die, and had left messages for Earth-side to decipher? Had he written in code to keep the aliens from getting suspicious?
Kilmer had written what looked like four separate messages—or one message in four parts. Three of the messages were on his left arm. The fourth message, on the right arm, was harder to read because he had used his left hand to write it. Neither Silla nor Druckman’s team of cryptologists could figure out what he had meant to convey with any of it.
Four hints. All undecipherable. Except, perhaps, by Kilmer. And he had been in a coma… until now.
He opened his eyes and took another look at the messages he had written.
GermanYin14
HDT/AL46
RWE2NRM4MJW
GALWAY4/3Kingdoms/21
Kilmer could make some sense of them, but what he had pieced together so far wasn’t very insightful or actionable. The problem was that too much time had elapsed. The technique had worked when he was young because he would interpret his notes only hours after writing them, when the reason he had chosen a certain word, a particular reference, or a specific acronym was still fresh in his mind. That was not the case here. To make matters worse, he had lost a lot of memories. The Kilmer who had written these notes might not h
ave known how much time would pass before he saw them again, or how much context would be missing.
Damn it.
He took a few deep breaths, and his frustration started to ebb, the words of the homicide detective from Chicago—Gerald-something—came back to mind.
You can’t solve mysteries through guesswork. You start with what you know, and continue adding in more of what you know, until there is nothing left of what you know. Only then do you even begin to add logic, reason, and speculation.
Kilmer was ready to try it.
What do I know? I know that I would only write things if they were important—and if I expected to forget them.
Add logic and reason. If I expected to forget these things, I might also worry that I would forget the code I used. So I would adjust for that by making the code easier. I would make it much less ambiguous.
But it doesn’t look like I did. This is all too ambiguous.
Or… maybe it isn’t.
Add speculation. I would make it unambiguous—but only after you read the clues properly. The wrong answers might look right. But the right answer would not look wrong.
Kilmer looked across the table at Art. “I need more time to think about these clues. How soon does the president want to see me?”
“We can fly to DC tonight, and the president can meet you right away. She wants to brief you on recent events herself, and to explain why we’re still in danger. Some of that we can’t share with you unless you agree to join the team again.”
“I’m going to see this through to the end, Art—no matter what. I’m pretty sure that the Kilmer who went through everything you’ve described to me would be extremely pissed-off if I just walked away now. But I want to wait until morning before we go to DC. I’m exhausted, and I need some time to process everything. To sleep on it, if only for a few hours. Would that be possible?”
“Of course,” Art said with a nod. “And thank you, Professor. I will inform the president of your plans.”
The Peacemaker's Code Page 36
