by Zen DiPietro
He turned from his console to look at her. “Yes, I noticed that. It’s a good sign.” He stepped across the room, stopping at the end of a techbed well outside her personal space.
“Is it?” she asked.
“Yes, a very good sign. It means that your actual memories weren’t damaged. Not all of them, anyway. Think of your brain as a highly complex computer. You might not have information in your RAM, but you have files stored in the hard memory. When those files are accessed, you might be able to restore some of the programs and files that were in your RAM. It’s a clumsy analogy, but I think it does the job.”
She liked his metaphor, and it did seem to fit with her ability to pull information from her brain. She also liked how he presented information to her, upfront and without any touchy-feely prevarication. She had a feeling she was a hard-facts sort of person rather than a thoughts-and-feelings sort. Perhaps Brannin already knew that about her. He might very well know her better than she knew herself, at this point. She supposed she should feel comforted by that, but she felt a lot more caution than trust. Regardless of how well he might know her, Em’s instincts urged her to proceed carefully.
“So how do I go about restoring all my programs?”
“That’s where the metaphor breaks down,” he explained, somewhat apologetically. “The brain is a living organ—almost its own organism, in fact. And each brain has its own idiosyncrasies. The damage your brain sustained is located in your memory center, but how that will affect you remains to be seen. Though your active memory seems to have gone on sabbatical, your core memories are clearly intact.” He paused, his eyes going unfocused for a moment. Then he shook his head and continued. “I advise you to return to your regular life as much as possible and go through the motions. Familiar actions might restore those memories, just as using the voicecom did.”
“So, what? Return to my quarters? Go back to work?” She had no mental image of her living space, or her job.
“Yes. As much as you’re able.”
“The captain won’t have a problem with her security chief having a hole in her head?”
Brannin’s nose wrinkled. “I’d hardly call it that. You remember enough about your job to pull up classified documents. If you can do that, I’m willing to wager you remember things like import-and-export laws and protocols.”
At the suggestion, the information began populating in her mind. When Brannin arched his eyebrow at her, she nodded. Yep, she knew them, all right.
“And the required maintenance schedules for ships operating within the PAC zone,” he added.
She nodded again.
“And how to handle an attack on the station.”
Her mind blazed with defensive and offensive capabilities and tactics. So many thoughts sprang forth that she actively had to stuff them back into the recesses of her mind before she could answer. “Yeah.”
Brannin smiled, looking very pleased with himself. “As I suspected. I’ll talk to the captain. My recommendation, along with an agreement for you to work closely with your legate, Arin, ought to do the trick.”
“Arin?” she asked warily.
Brannin made a dismissive gesture. “You’ll like him. You handpicked him as your second in command of the station’s security.”
“Fine. If the captain okays it, and you think going back to work is the best option, then I’ll do that. What about my living situation?”
“You have crew quarters on Deck Five.”
“With Wren, right?” She didn’t like the idea of sharing space with a stranger. Especially one she was married to. According to the records, they’d been married six months ago, making them newlyweds.
“Of course.” When he saw her distaste for the thought, he gave her an understanding smile. “Don’t worry, Em. Wren is great. You’re a very lucky woman.”
Of their own design, her eyebrows raised in a way that felt both disdainful and satisfying. Yes, she liked disdain. It suited her.
The doctor spoke quickly. “I mean, she’ll be understanding. She loves you very much and will do whatever she can to help.”
She let the eyebrows ease back down. “Hm.”
“I want to keep you under observation today, but if all remains as it is, you can go home tomorrow.”
How could it be home when she didn’t remember it? But all she said was, “If that’s what it takes, I’ll do it.”
Em studied Dragonfire Station with almost obsessive interest after her release from the infirmary the next day. She already understood the station’s layout, thanks to the design schematics she’d scrutinized. Now, as she walked along the concourse toward the lift, she scrutinized the station’s details. She memorized every decorative element, each area where people tended to congregate, and every face that traveled past her.
She’d already realized that she possessed a nearly eidetic memory—what people used to call a “photographic memory.” Perhaps that was an irony, given her loss of personal memories, but at least it would give her an advantage in getting her life back. Brannin had given her every test he could think of, and had determined that the only memories she seemed to lack were ones that involved her personal identity and experiences. The phenomenon seemed to fascinate the doctor, though he’d tried to dial his enthusiasm back every now and then, when he remembered himself.
The woman walking beside Em evoked as much familiarity as her surroundings did—exactly none. She pretended she didn’t notice Wren’s surreptitious glances or her obvious anxiety. Em sympathized with Wren, who had essentially lost her wife, only to have her mate replaced with a lookalike. Em’s sympathy didn’t alleviate her unease, though. Instead, she had only distrust and suspicion. She bristled with it as they rode the lift upward to the fifth deck.
Deck Five, which housed the crew quarters, was the highest of the decks, farthest from the docking bays far below. Only two things sat above Deck Five—the service bays that housed the majority of the systems that kept Dragonfire Station running, and the station’s bridge, known as ops control.
Em appreciated the station’s functional design, which made the most sensitive areas the hardest to access while also cushioning the habitat decks between other layers of the station that could be evacuated in the event of an emergency. A minimal “crisis” ops control was buried in the center of Deck Five, behind many layers of security. Em hated to think of the disaster that would necessitate using crisis ops.
Too soon, Em and Wren arrived at the one section on the station Em really didn’t want to see. The placard next to the door indicated the quarters’ designation. Five-eleven. Her home.
Wren smiled nervously and stepped toward the door, causing it to whisk open. When Em didn’t enter, Wren walked into the room then turned, waiting for her with an expectant look.
Em suppressed a sigh, then entered. The doors efficiently swished shut behind her, sealing her in. Trapping her. She fought an urge to bolt. Instead, she walked slowly around the living room, noting a couch and a table with a voicecom display alongside a slim chair and a much more comfortable-looking reclining chair. An abstract painting hung on the wall, and the colors suggested that either she or Wren preferred warm, earthy tones. The living room seemed cozy, its low-slung furniture designed for use rather than style. Not that everything didn’t look attractive—it did, in a relaxed, homey sort of way. There was a mix of Japanese and beachy Sarkavian elements that created a unique but relaxing ambiance.
Em supposed she and Wren had compromised on the room’s décor, which seemed perfectly logical. At the far end of the quarters she saw a kitchenette, as well as a dining area with a small table with two chairs. She turned to look for the bedroom, but an image screen on a side table caught her attention.
She picked up the picture. She saw herself, wearing a gauzy pink and white dress with flowers in her hair, standing barefoot on a beach. She faced Wren, who wore a long, breezy blush-pink dress and a small hat with long ribbons. They appeared to be laughing as the wind carried the ribbons in
to twirly shapes. Joy clearly radiated from both of them.
“Our wedding.” Wren sat on the couch, gesturing for Em to do the same.
She hesitated, then sat at the opposite end. “Six months ago, according to what I read.”
A flicker of something showed in Wren’s pale eyes, but Em couldn’t discern what it meant. Loss, maybe? “Yes,” Wren agreed. “It was a wonderful day. My whole family was there, at the beach temple on Sarkan. We kept it all very simple, very relaxed.” Her mouth softened into a romantic smile.
“Have I always been a lesbian?”
Wren’s lips parted in surprise, then she laughed softly. “I should have known you’d ask something like that.” Her laugh was warm and for some reason made Em think of a thick, hearty stew. “I actually didn’t know that word until you taught it to me. Sarkavians don’t recognize sexuality as something that’s governed by gender. But that suited you fine, because you said you’d never felt like you needed to pin yourself down to a particular type, either. Pansexual, some people call it.” Wren’s lips twisted with humor. “You were less enthused about my skepticism when it comes to monogamy. That’s not a usual thing for Sarkavians, either.”
Wren’s laughter had brightened her features, and the glow remained, eclipsing her earlier sadness. Her body language had relaxed as well.
Until Wren had mentioned it, Em hadn’t really considered the Sarkavian approach to sexuality, which consisted of unfettered, though tactful, indulgence. Sarkavians considered monogamy to be antiquated and limiting. “Right. I imagine that must have been quite a conversation.”
Wren laughed. “You convinced me to give it a try. If I didn’t like it, you said, if it didn’t give me a greater sense of closeness, we could try it my way.”
“How did that go?”
“Okay so far. I mean, we’re still newlyweds.” She made a small, tasteful shrug.
“I see.” Em returned the picture to the table, then faced Wren. She didn’t really want to delve into the details of their sex life, which meant it was time to move the conversation along to other topics. “So far, nothing is familiar to me. It’s possible that I might not regain my memories. Brannin told me that my brain sustained an unusual degree of injury in comparison to the amount of damage done to my scalp and skull. I don’t want to be harsh or unkind, but it’s possible that you’ll never get back the person you married.”
Instead of looking upset, Wren cocked her head to one side and her eyes narrowed with sly amusement. “Now, I did expect you to say something like that.” She seemed pleased about it too, for no reason that Em could fathom.
Wren reached behind her head and released the clasp that held her light-pink hair in a twist. She put the clasp in her pocket and ran her fingers over her scalp. “Ahh. That feels better. The only bad thing about being a mechanic is all the grease I get in my hair when I wear it down in the shop. You always say you like it up, but I think it makes me look like my mom.” She stood. “Come to the bedroom.”
Em froze. “I don’t think…”
Wren laughed. “To complete the tour. Try to jog some memories, and all that.”
Right. Fine. Stiffly, Em stood and followed her to the bedroom. A quick survey revealed a bed covered with a blue comforter. A starscape mosaic hung above the bed, which was flanked by a pair of nightstands. A wide closet and a doorway to the necessary stood at the far side.
She stepped closer and the door opened. The necessary had all the basics—shower, toilet, and sink—with only a few personal effects here and there to clutter it. Em barely spared those elements a glance. Her attention was focused on the rectangular mirror above the sink. She found herself in front of it, skimming her fingers through the black hair that hung just past her shoulders. She’d already found that she disliked the feel of it sliding over her shoulders and back. It felt untidy. Fussy.
She touched two fingers to her forehead, watching her own eyes in the mirror as she traced the contours of her cheekbone and chin before letting her hand fall to her side. She tilted her head, examining her face from different angles.
She was attractive enough, but unremarkable. Forgettable. Good. She might not know the face in the mirror, but she knew she must have lived and breathed security protocols. They ran through her mind constantly, spurred by whatever her situation and surroundings happened to be. Having a face that people wouldn’t particularly remember was in her favor if she wanted to go about her business unnoticed.
“Have I always worn my hair so long?” She turned away from the mirror and stepped back into the bedroom. The door to the necessary closed behind her.
Wren’s forehead creased. “Yes, for as long as I’ve known you, anyway. Why? Don’t you like it?”
“I don’t.”
Wren nibbled her lip, looking thoughtful. “Well, we can always get it cut to something you like better.”
“I think I’d like that.” She sat on the edge of the bed, running her hand over the blanket, measuring its cottony texture against her palm. She looked up at Wren. “I’m sorry, but nothing here seems familiar.”
Wren’s gaze didn’t waver. “Don’t be sorry. It isn’t your fault.” When Em started to speak again, Wren cut her off. “And now I bet you’re going to say that since you don’t know me, you don’t feel comfortable sleeping in a bed with me.”
Her surprise must have shown, because Wren chuckled. “I may seem like a stranger to you, but you’re still the same Em to me. All your gestures. The thoughts I see on your face. You don’t have to worry about offending me. I know you, how you think. Just be real with me, and I’ll be real with you.”
Em didn’t know whether to find that comforting or disturbing.
“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.” Em stood and smoothed the nondescript infirmary-patient pants she still wore.
“Like Prelin, you will. You just had a brain injury. You’ll sleep in the bed. I’ll take the couch.” Wren folded her arms over her chest.
“You’re taller than I am.” Wren stood about a forehead taller than Em. “Makes more sense for me to take the couch. Besides, it’s your home. I don’t want to put you out of your own bed.”
“It’s your bed too, Em.” Wren’s voice didn’t rise, but she enunciated each word like precision strikes.
Em opened her mouth, then closed it. Some battles weren’t worth fighting. “Very well then. I’ll take the bed.” She frowned, displeased by the exchange, even though she felt relieved by the idea of having the bedroom. It was more defensible than the couch and she knew she’d sleep better there.
Wren’s pale eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Good then. Glad that’s settled. Now, are you ready for dinner? I made your favorite. Bennite stew and Sarkavian biscuits. My mom’s recipe.”
“Dinner sounds good.”
Wren led the way to the small table Em had noted earlier, and gestured for her to sit. “Go ahead. I’ll just make up a couple plates.”
She felt like she should help rather than sit and be served, but guessed that the suggestion would only provoke another spat. So she sat. Wren’s efforts created soft clattering and clinking sounds. Finally, she transferred bowls, cups, and a plate of biscuits to the table before sitting down.
“Smells great,” Em said, breathing in the rich, meaty aroma of the stew.
Wren smiled and bit into a biscuit.
They ate quietly, with little conversation. Em appreciated that. She made short work of her stew and neglected to notice how many biscuits she went through.
“That was delicious. Thank you. I can see why it’s my favorite.” She folded her napkin and set it on the table.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Wren sipped from her water glass. “My mom always makes biscuits when she knows we’re going to visit. She enjoys spoiling you.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. She’d have to study up on Wren’s family later. The bedroom had a voicecom terminal built into the wall and there’d been a display on the nightstand as well. Maybe after she retir
ed for the evening she could do some investigating.
“It must be nice for you to work on Dragonfire, given how close we are to Sarkan. I imagine you visit quite often.” It seemed like the right thing to say. Personal. Em felt somewhat surreal, attempting dinner conversation with a wife she didn’t know, as part of a life she didn’t remember.
“Yes. Dragonfire isn’t the fanciest station, but being so close to home is lovely. I’d like it here even if it were far away, though. Being a trade hub, we see a big variety of visitors. You never know when someone’s going to show up with a load of hungry cats, or some outdated technology I’ve never seen. There’s always an adventure around the corner.” Wren popped the last of her biscuit into her mouth and chewed slowly.
“No doubt that keeps me busy securing everyone’s safety,” Em surmised.
“Your attention to detail has earned you respect here.” Wren laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. “As well as a few disgruntled adversaries intent on some not-so-legal enterprises.”
“Sounds like there’s a story or two there,” Em said.
“More than that.” Wren’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll fill you in on them if you don’t end up remembering them on your own. It would be fun, telling you your own stories.” She rose and began clearing the table with relaxed, graceful movements.
“Can I help?” Em stood.
“Not tonight. Why don’t you go have a shower? Change into some of your own clothes. Left side of the closet is yours.”
That sounded good, actually. She didn’t care for the plain pants and shirt. “All right. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Take your time,” Wren called from the kitchenette, her back to Em. She’d relaxed tremendously through the course of the evening, apparently because Em’s personality hadn’t changed at all.
In the necessary, Em peeled off her clothes and stuffed them into the wall-unit processor. She turned on the shower at a medium heat setting and stepped in. Brr. She quickly dialed up higher heat. She saw two cakes of soap. She sniffed the pink one and found it floral, perfumey. No. The green one smelled of sandalwood and nutmeg. Yes. That one must be hers.
