by Peter Heaton
Her name came to his lips, regardless of the pain ripping across his throat as he spoke, “Kelli, I miss you.”
At the sound of his voice the tube came alight, a soft, gentle thing. Izaac had to shield his eyes and let them gradually adjust. Then he heard a faint humming and pop as the end of the tube opened, and he slid out into the room.
It was white, smooth. Decorated with arts from any of a hundred thousand worlds. He was still in Memory Hold.
A human with bright porcelain skin stood over him.
“You’ve recovered,” the Custodian stated. By the remains of its facial features and the small bust that pushed against the silk strips of the robes, Izaac knew this one had once been a female.
“I need to go.”
“You do.”
“I’m free then?”
“Why wouldn’t you be?”
Two reasons, Izaac thought, a knife wound in the chest of an oversized man and three holes left in a woman’s head.
“Because . . .”
“The two you killed?”
“Yes.” Izaac tried to sit up, but his back froze him with sharp pains. “I have a certified Imperial Bounty for the man.”
“Ibor Nabaldian is with us now. We know everything. His past earned him his death.” The Custodian’s eyes narrowed. “Although, there are some who are upset with you. You have robbed us of a new acolyte.”
So that’s what it was, Izaac thought. They were turning him into a Custodian. Izaac remembered how Nabaldian’s eyes had been when he first saw him in Memory Hold: great black pools. No wonder he had been so calm. He had become one with the Custodians. One with all the moments locked inside.
Could they access them all? Endlessly?
Izaac felt his stomach twist as he remembered touching slimy, black skin, remembering how the creature had looked, attached to Nabaldian’s face.
What had the Custodian said to him before? But I am so much more than that now. Was it odd that he could understand that? He had spent most of his life deciding between one thing or another, and never knowing which was right. Maybe none of them had been.
The Custodians. No doubt they were bonded with the lystere, the creatures like the one that he had seen locked on Nabaldian’s face. And their connection seemed something more than even he and his seeker had felt. Maybe more than he and Kelli had ever felt. And to them it always felt right. They had purpose, a service to perform. And they had each other too: each of them connected and knowing that it was how it should be, how it always would be.
A sensation that Izaac had always yearned for: replacing wondering with knowing.
There! Kelli’s face. Right this time. Clean. Beautiful. But not perfect. Her hazel eyes were sad:
Don’t you think it’s time, Izaac?
Probably. But I don’t know if I’m ready.
When then? When will you ever be?
[Silence]
When, Izaac? When? Say something.
I don’t know.
Do you love me?
I do.
Then let’s have children, Izaac. Isn’t that really our purpose anyway?
That’s why you want to do it?
No, I want to do it because I want to. I know we would be good at it, together. We’d raise beautiful, sweet children. We can make a perfect family together.
But it never goes that way. I was part of a family once.
I know it won’t be perfect, Izaac. I know it won’t be. But it’s us, Izaac. We can do anything together, can’t we? I mean, we survive with you disappearing for months at a time. And we still love each other.
But . . . I don’t think I’m ready.
Fine, Izaac. Fine. You go now. Run away. I’ll see you in a couple months.
It’s not like that, Kelli. I have to go.
Part of you wants to go.
You used to like what I did.
I still do. When you’re here, I feel safe and happy. But when you’re gone . . .
And if we had children, they could fill the empty spaces?
They could. Our lives are connected, and I wouldn’t change anything. I know that this is what you always wanted to do, needed to do, but don’t forget what I give up.
What?
You, Izaac. I lose you for months, and I’m just . . . alone.
I really do love you, Kelli. More than anyone.
But?
I’m not ready. Look, I shouldn’t be gone for more than a few months. Hawk thinks it will go even quicker. He said we’ll have the slaver in custody in a month. They know where he went. It’s just a matter of putting the chains on him.
Okay, Izaac. But when you come back?
When I come back, I’ll know for certain.
I really want to, Izaac.
I know. I’m not promising anything, but at least I’ll know one way or another.
You really might not want to?
I didn’t say that. We said we’d talk when I get back, right?
Yeah.
Okay. Hey, I love you, all right?
I know, Izaac. I know.
The cool hand on his cheek brought him to the present. “You have to go,” the Custodian repeated.
“Okay. I’m all set?”
The Custodian had undone the straps, and Izaac tested his body. His muscles were sore, and his back still groaned unhappily.
“As good as you will be with what we have. When I said ‘go,’ I meant you have to leave. You have to go and never come back.”
“What do you mean?” Izaac asked. “I thought you said . . .”
“We do not kill or imprison. That is a human punishment. We believe in one punishment. Permanent exile. I told you that there are some among us who are angry with you. They urged that you should be banished from Memory Hold for your actions, never to return.”
Izaac thought of the precious memory he had stored away. He would lose it. Forever. It would become nothing but another, ever-fading moment.
“I have a memory stored.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Can I access it, one more time?”
“No. You have no more credit.”
“I have money!”
“No. I’m sorry, Izaac. Besides, if you do not leave, the Stenched One will kill you.”
He already should have.
“Where are my things?”
The Custodian pointed, and a recessed door swung open. His belongings were hanging there. With a glance at the Custodian, Izaac got out of his gown and back into his own clothing. His nose wrinkled when he saw the crimson holes on the backs of his blastsuit, shirt, and coat. His chain blade was there in its sheath. His gun too. Izaac checked the readout above the hammer. Eight bullets left. He reached to the pouch on his belt where his two spare cartridges were. They were gone.
Well, Izaac thought, if I can’t kill him with eight bullets, I’m probably dead anyway.
At the door, Izaac had his gun out, expecting Verzatz to be waiting just outside. But the hall was empty.
He was in another of the round open atriums, where it appeared there were additional medical bays. He remembered hearing about patrons of Memory Hold overdosing on their own brain chemistry: it wasn’t good business for the Custodians to let their more addicted clients die. Another purpose for the medical bays: the occasional physical confrontations between rememberers, brought on by the echoes of the more violent memories.
He walked over to an information panel. A map of Memory Hold appeared on the screen: the medical bays were located at the topmost level of the main spire. His ship waited in a bay out on the exterior ring. It shouldn’t take him more than half an hour. Half an hour and then he could be away from Memory Hold without ever coming back.
If his ship worked.
There was a chance the seeker had been able to determine how Verzatz had disabled their ship. Not once had he considered that Nabaldian had been bluffing: Verzatz wouldn’t have risked letting Izaac sneak away anymore than Izaac would have with Nabaldian.
Can I go? Can I put this behind me and be okay?
He knew his own sanity’s foundation was trembling. Verzatz had pushed him to a breaking point. He wanted to stop picturing Annelle’s face. He wanted to stop remembering the empty place in his mind.
But there was a strange thing comforting him about the Custodians: simply knowing there was a place where everything could feel right, no matter what. Something that was as easy as flipping a switch, or rather, as easy as placing a slug on your face and injecting liquid silver into your body.
For Izaac, that knowing was beautiful. He had felt it too, that sensation of togetherness and wholeness that had overwhelmed him as the Custodian had embraced him. The same feeling that had been repeated in his remembering, the moment shared with Kelli. The very feeling he had lost when the Custodian’s arms had released him.
That was their existence—better, more pure than a remembering.
Footsteps behind him.
He turned, as fast as his body would allow. His left side roared, pain shooting through him with the sudden spin.
A man wearing the scrambled mess of someone who has visited many worlds, stood staring at him with his hands up. An odd fur hat sat on his head. Pearl and rose feathers were attached at the brim, covering the sides and back of his head.
“Don’t shoot! Hey, man. I just saw . . . I saw the blood on your coat.”
Izaac lowered his gun. “It’s an old wound.”
“It looks pretty fresh,” the man responded.
“It’s old enough.”
“Do you need help or something?”
“Are you a doctor?” Izaac asked.
“No.”
“Then what do you care?”
The man gave Izaac a rude glance and muttered, “I knew it was time to leave.”
The part of him that was still alert, still trying to find a way out, nudged him. How is he leaving? There were no private or publicly run shuttles to or from Memory Hold. Everyone who was here had brought their own ship.
Even Annelle, the Starkisser.
If she had an Imperially registered rig, he’d be able to commandeer it.
It was either that or the Crimson Talon. But that would take a bit more work, considering it was a slaver’s ship, custom-designed. He could shut it down, but taking it over would be another thing.
That gave him a thought. Izaac took one last look at the map and headed for the descender.
Somehow he knew that no matter which way he went, Verzatz would find him.
See you soon, the words had read.
If he got lucky, Izaac might find him first.
But—he needed bait for his trap.
Chapter Six: Finger Crawl to Oblivion
The yazzat had all been there. Behind he had left a note. It read:
What has a silver and red heart?
Dead Ibor.
He’d smiled when he’d written it. But now, thinking about it upset his stomach. He had killed Nabaldian. Not just Nabaldian but Annelle too.
He had killed.
Murdered.
But hadn’t he always known that was part of the job? Somehow Hawk had shielded him from the worst part. At least until the mess on Nabaldian’s slave transport ship; but none of them had known what they’d find there. They’d expected Nabaldian and his cohorts. Expected an early end to their job even if it hadn’t been the single month Hawk had guessed.
Instead they found nothing but empty rooms. Empty because the bodies and the blood had become part of the ship’s landscape.
***
Izaac grabbed anything edible he found lying around. He was sitting in the empty bay he’d found, the whole of Verzatz’s yazzat inventory spread by the door. Beneath it he’d buried the striker, the button for it attached to his belt.
Verzatz would find him here, he had no doubt.
Then he’d get home. Somehow.
He didn’t think anyone would care if he stole a corpse’s ship. Not out here in darkspace.
Izaac had done his best to move with the crowds, not sure or wanting to find out how the Custodians would enforce his exile. It was better if they assumed he was already gone.
Izaac had set up by the door but realized Verzatz would pick something much more subtle. Likely there were a dozen ways in that Izaac hadn’t considered, so he had built a crude barrier in the center of the bay using storage barrels. In case Verzatz had his own gun, he wouldn’t have to depend solely on his blastsuit.
He changed his position at random, trying to keep himself from relaxing, his ears straining for any sound other than the faint hum of the structure. If he had the seeker now, there’d be no way Verzatz would get the drop on him.
Did he really only think about the seeker in times of need? Sure, there was the ever-present sense that he was missing a piece of himself, but he felt a bite of shame realizing that he hadn’t once thought about the creature otherwise. No, Izaac thought, that’s good. You need to stay focused on the present.
Then a great groan washed over everything else—the sound of something huge refusing to move, but—with a great grinding effort—relenting
Izaac let out a wicked laugh. Is there anything less subtle?
The noise ended, echoing through the empty bay. There was a long silence.
Izaac turned towards the source of the noise, thinking that he might be wrong.
Another groan stretched out, followed by the clang of the bay’s outer airlock closing.
Shit! he thought, scrambling over his makeshift fortress, spilling barrels and crates as he went, making for the stairs of the rampart. He crouched down on them, trying to remain motionless.
Then another groan, closer this time. The bay doors appeared to fight the command with every inch as they reluctantly spread apart. Behind it a ship appeared: a small star runner.
Izaac connected the dots. Verzatz had also known that there was a ship that no one would care about. He recognized the model, an old commercial vessel that had been converted for long trips and harsh environments. The sensor array was the only thing that looked like it had ever been upgraded. Hopefully Annelle hadn’t found the need to add any combat modifications.
The ship floated into the bay. Behind it an eerie moan emanated from the doors as they closed.
His gun was out, pointing.
The ship hovered in the air, a bright spotlight sweeping back and forth, washing out the dim, uneven lighting coming from the high ceiling. The pilot—Verzatz, he was certain—was having a hard time keeping the ship steady, more than once almost losing control and crashing it into the wall or floor.
Izaac lowered himself as best as he could, lying flat on the rampart’s upper level. His body pressed into the ground. He’ll have to land eventually. Especially when he sees his yazzat.
The light continued to sweep back, searching the corners. Now it was sweeping the steel stairs and landing of the rampart. Izaac held his breath. As he did, he could feel his heart panicking, threatening to leap out of the hole in his back.
The craft drifted again, its focus moving elsewhere. Apparently satisfied, Verzatz brought the runner down on the other side of the barrels.
Izaac could feel the stickiness on his palm, wiping his hand against his coat before regripping his pistol. He moved now, running in a crouch across the rampart to try to get an angle on the ship’s exit ramp. However, the barrels were blocking most of his view.
The ramp opened with a serpentine hiss.
Izaac aimed his gun, focusing on the small gap above the left side of the barrier. It would be a difficult shot. Eight bullets, Izaac reminded himself. His other hand went to the striker’s button, but he had no need to rush things. He could wait Verzatz out. He’d left a note that would see to that.
Clattering. A barrel on the right side skidded, rolling towards the closed bay doors. His pistol aimed. Thankfully he didn’t waste a bullet. But there it was in the gap, a brief rush of movement.
This time he did fire. The bullet hit a barrel.
Izaac checked his position. If Verzatz has a gun, I’m out in the open. He did his best to prop himself up against a steel column that supported the rampart and ran up to the ceiling. Peering carefully out into the bay, Izaac waited with gun drawn for more movement.
“Zackie boy, Zackie boy!” Verzatz’s cruel voice rang through the air. “Don’t waste your bullets. There’s so much more fun for us to have!”
Footsteps. Quick. Impossibly fast.
“How many bullets does it take to kill Verzatz?” the creature called out.
“One,” Izaac answered.
“No, no, NO-NO-NO, Izaac! That’s wrong, w-r-o-n-g. I think it’s nine. Ha! Hope you’re not looking for any spare bullets. I sent them out a garbage chute.”
Verzatz darted out from behind the barrels, running towards one of the steel beams on the other side of the bay.
Izaac aimed and fired, once, twice. But he was too far away.
Stop, Izaac told himself. Not like this. Be smart. He had the blastsuit. If Verzatz had a gun, he’d need a clean shot to kill Izaac.
He ran across the rampart, his eyes focused where Verzatz was now hidden. He checked his descent, not wanting to trip over the stairs.
“Just tell me where it is, Izaac. Tell me where it is, and I’ll let you go. Okay, I won’t let you go, but I’ll kill you quick. All right, it won’t really be quick, but it will be quicker.”
Izaac didn’t bother to reply—he was barely hearing the words—he was focused now. He didn’t want to die. Especially not in whatever horrible way Verzatz would do it.
Izaac reached the bay floor. His gun aimed at the shadowy corner where Verzatz had scampered. Izaac heard motion. A blur darted in the shadows, behind an autolifter tucked against the far wall, into the shadows of the upper rampart.
Holding his fire, Izaac circled into the center of the bay, towards the star runner, trying to get a clear line of fire.
