by Zen DiPietro
She grabbed a scrub-sponge from the shelf and worked it over her shoulders, down her arms, and over her breasts, studying all of these parts that belonged to her. She traced the small, swirling tattoo inked over her abs to the left of her navel. It looked vaguely like the outline of a clover leaf, but in looping swirls, all in a flat black color. Other than that, she had no particularly noteworthy features. No scars or birthmarks to be found.
She took her time, enjoying the steam that clouded the air. Finally, she shut off the water and dried off, slapping the air-evac panel. The mirror immediately cleared and the humidity disappeared.
On a left-handed shelf in the closet, she found a soft pair of low-rise pants and a matching top. She slipped into them and worked at toweling off her hair as she returned to the living room.
“Better?” Wren asked from the couch, setting an infoboard on the side table.
“Yes. Thank you.” She made an irritated sound, scrubbing at her hair with the towel. “This stuff is like cold, wet snakes attached to my head. Ugh. Why do I have it?”
“Here. Let me.” Wren reversed positions with her, standing behind Em, rubbing the moisture-wicking towel over her hair in quick, practiced movements. After a few moments she stepped back. “There.”
Em put both hands on her head, feeling the hair, now only slightly damp. “Thank you.” She pushed it all back behind her shoulders. “I think I’ll get it cut tomorrow.”
“Seems like you’ll be happier that way,” Wren agreed. She walked around the couch and sat on the other end, giving Em plenty of space. She let out a long sigh. “So.”
Em met her gaze. “So.”
“Are you doing okay? Really? I can’t imagine what this is like for you.”
Em considered. “I think so. But I don’t really know what all I’ve lost. I imagine things must be harder for you.”
Wren’s lips quirked in a not-quite smile. “It’s not my favorite. But at the same time, I got lucky. You’re here, breathing. Alive and healthy. I’ll take that, however it comes, over the other any day.”
Em saw wisdom in Wren’s eyes. She knew Em might never remember. She knew their marriage might effectively be over. But she wasn’t complaining. Wasn’t crying. She was glad for what she still had. Em respected that, and it further improved her opinion of Wren.
Wren’s expression changed, showing satisfaction. She’d watched Em’s face and followed her thoughts, Em was certain. Wren’s eyes were knowing, in a smug sort of way. Almost challenging.
Em might just grow to like this wife of hers.
Em liked running. Wren had suggested that she go for her customary morning workout before her duty shift. Her body clearly knew what it was doing. She’d immediately fallen into an easy rhythm, and she enjoyed seeing her surroundings stream by as her muscles propelled her forward. Running felt remarkably good—easily the most enjoyable thing she could recall having done. Ever.
She even enjoyed the feeling of sweat soaking into her shirt and pants. Somehow, the damp sensation felt like proof of her hard work and her determination to be strong. After twenty-five circuits around the track, she slowed to a brisk walk to cool her body down. She didn’t know how far she typically ran, but five kilometers seemed like a good amount.
As her heart rate gradually slowed, she took the time to better study the gymnasium. It had space for a variety of physical activities. She saw a ring for sparring which piqued her particular interest. She felt an urge to get in there and start throwing some punches. Maybe tomorrow, if she could find a sparring partner. Wait. Head injury. Yeah, she’d have to check with the doctor about that.
The far wall had a climbing installation, which she also found enticing. Clustered in the center of the gym sat a wide array of cardiovascular and weight-training equipment. Em knew that there were separate rooms for target practice and pegball alongside this main complex. She looked forward to trying everything out. But she had a job to get to.
Brannin had suggested that she leap right into her normal daily routine. She saw no reason not to take his advice, so she’d spent the remainder of the previous evening quizzing Wren about what Em’s days typically consisted of. The woman had been helpful and forthcoming, and Em believed she could trust the information. Wren had even supplied details about her working relationships with various colleagues. That would prove helpful, since Em had no intention of letting on that she’d lost her memory. Brannin and a few key healthcare personnel knew, but they were bound by confidentiality. The doctor had certainly already briefed Captain Nevitt of the situation, but it wouldn’t be in her best interest to advertise Em’s memory loss either. You didn’t go around telling wolves that the chickens might not be as well guarded as they should be.
How the captain would decide to handle the situation, though, Em had no idea. Perhaps Nevitt would choose to put her legate, Arin Triss, in charge for the time being. But that would certainly put them all in an awkward situation. All Em could do was wait for the captain’s determination.
She took the stairs down from the track. PAC safety and accessibility standards required there to be a lift down from any elevated walkway, but that one probably didn’t get much use. Who would want to admit that they couldn’t take the stairs after a good run?
She grabbed her bag and headed to the showers. She nodded to two people who glanced up as she walked by, but kept moving to avoid any chance of conversation. She saw a lean, muscular guy on his way to the climbing wall, and her previous question about whether she felt attracted to men was answered. She did. She just had very high, somewhat particular standards, apparently.
Once in the women’s facility, she showered quickly, then toweled off. As she stepped into the pants of her PAC officer’s uniform, she traced the pattern of the tattoo on her stomach with her forefinger. Wren had told her that she’d gotten the tattoo on the day she’d graduated from officer training school. According to the story, she and a group of her close friends had all gotten tattoos.
She tucked her undershirt into her pants then shrugged into the jacket and zipped it up. Fastening her belt around her hips, she double-checked her weapon and comport to ensure they were secure. She ran her fingers through her newly short hair and studied her reflection. The blue-gray uniform fit nicely, and the fabric felt like it would be sturdy while allowing a great deal of movement. The bars on her shoulder indicated her rank as a commander, as well as her position on the station as security chief. She felt inordinately pleased about her new hairstyle. Mostly because she was relieved to be liberated from its previous length. Partly because it felt like a small rebellion to re-envision herself. Kind of like sticking it to the old Em, whoever that person had been.
Now her hair parted on the side, with the left side sheared short. The length elongated gradually toward the right side, with the longest point in the front right at chin length. She liked her new, much edgier look. The person in the mirror felt like someone she could be. Most importantly, her hair stayed out of her way now, rather than constantly moving around.
After drying her hair and finger combing it into place with a dab of oil, she grabbed the straps of her bag and headed back up to Deck Five to drop it in her quarters. After that brief detour, she returned to the lift and headed to ops control.
Em wondered if she should be nervous. She wasn’t. Perhaps that was a failing, or perhaps it was exactly what made her successful as a security officer. Either way, her only concern when the lift doors opened was seeing if Dragonfire’s ops control jogged any memories. She peered through the widening crack, staring at the bridge.
Nope. Not a wisp of familiarity. She had no recollection of ever being in this large room, though she did recognize the PAC esthetic, all smooth lines and angles, sleek surfaces, and a lack of excess. All of the materials used in ops control were the highest quality, and the contoured, padded seats surely offered comfort. But ornamentation and extras weren’t built in. This was a high-tech military station, not a luxury-stay outpost.
Em
recognized the various command stations by their configurations, and she knew their functions as well. She saw station control on the left side, the captain’s post in the center, and the security and science stations in the back. She scanned the view provided by the starport, which stretched across the entire bulkhead of the station, giving them a panoramic look at the universe beyond Dragonfire.
The previous night, she’d studied the ops crew, which allowed her to identify the engineer at station control, as well as the astrophysicist at the science station. She certainly recognized the regal captain, who stood and turned to fix Em with a hard look as Em executed the proper PAC bow for a superior officer.
“So you’re back to work. Brannin told me to expect that.” Rather than seeming impressed, the captain seemed resigned. She returned the bow, less deeply, according to protocol.
Captain Hesta Nevitt was tall and statuesque. Her skin and eyes were very dark brown, and she wore her thick black hair in short, textured twists. Her high cheekbones framed a thin-bridged nose that grew broader down to its tip. Her looks and bearing made Em think of ancient royalty. Certainly, her aloof expression heightened the resemblance.
“Yes,” Em answered. “The doctor thought returning to work would be the best thing for me.”
“So he insisted,” the captain muttered, almost too low for Em to hear. “Your condition remains the same?” Nevitt’s tone suggested skepticism. Maybe she planned to remove Em from active duty, after all. She might be right to do so, in spite of the doctor’s assurances of her mental competence. Em wasn’t sure she’d take the doctor’s word for it, if she were the captain.
“Yes.”
Nevitt frowned. “Carry on, then. But if you put my station in danger, I’ll launch you out the nearest airlock.”
It seemed Nevitt had faith in the doctor’s opinion, after all. “Yes, Captain.” Em gave the proper bow, then turned to her right and sat at the security station, scanning the current readings and reports.
She hadn’t expected any tenderness from her captain. Wren had told her about her difficult relationship with Nevitt. The woman was on the fast track in the PAC, destined to join the inner circles of admiralty one day. She’d been leading Dragonfire for two years when her previous security chief took an assignment closer to home. Nevitt should have been allowed to choose the former chief’s successor, but instead, Em had been foisted upon her at the insistence of Admiral Krazinski. Nevitt had spent the last year taking her displeasure out on Em. Wren had assured her that, in spite of the captain’s dislike for Em and her apparent lack of a social life, Nevitt did an excellent job for Dragonfire. Em could only hope that meant the captain would refrain from pushing her too hard while she tried to regain her footing.
She spent the next twenty minutes ascertaining the station’s well-being and noting the day’s arrivals and departures. Once that was done, she found herself at a loss. What did she normally do to use the time during her duty shift? Wren had not been able to provide many details.
Em went to stand in front of the captain with her hands behind her back. “Captain, all decks have reported in, well and accounted for. One minor injury was reported outside Docking Bay Five. A visiting Kanaran tripped and twisted an ankle but the doctor has taken care of the situation. We have three trade ships and one private vessel departing today, and four trade ships scheduled to arrive.”
Nevitt glanced at her. “Understood, Fallon. Dismissed.”
Em bowed and wasted no time in leaving ops control. It had a nice view, but not nice enough to compensate for the captain’s animosity.
Back down the lift she went. She considered checking in personally to the security office on each deck, but didn’t know if that was her usual practice. Instead, on Deck Four she disembarked, strode the short distance down the concourse, then stopped at her office. She input her handprint, retina scan, and the code that changed daily, based on an algorithmic cypher that only she knew. She felt almost surprised when the door whisked open. It seemed odd for her brain to know things that she didn’t realize it knew. What else might be in there?
She stepped in and locked the door behind her. She didn’t want any surprises. Actually, she probably always locked it behind her.
She liked the room. When she’d stepped in, it had automatically activated daylight illumination. The creamy yellow walls gave the room a bright, alert feeling. The space had an uncluttered modern Japanese design, as did almost all of the official areas of the station. She wondered if the décor had been her choice, or if it just happened to suit her taste remarkably well. Either was possible, since the PAC had a tendency to lean toward Japanese esthetics, possibly because the first PAC base had been stationed in Tokyo.
She had a comfortable-looking brown couch, a desk with a chair, and two additional chairs facing the desk. A painting of Dragonfire hung on the wall opposite the desk, showing the station sedately floating in its fiery nebula. Em immediately liked the artwork, which she supposed wasn’t a surprise. The other walls remained bare, and had no portholes. No staring out into space for her.
She walked behind the desk and sat. The voicecom display dominated the surface. Two infoboards sat to the left of the display. She reached for them and found that she had a general board, which was a portable, lower-powered voicecom display, as well as a separate menuboard of all the station’s eateries. Infoboards didn’t offer enough processing power to do major work, but they were incredibly convenient for smaller tasks.
She set the boards on the desk, then pushed her seat just far enough back that she could give the deck plate a good push with both feet, sending her chair spinning in slow circles.
It felt good to be alone. Truly alone. The night before, she’d had the bedroom to herself, but she’d been constantly aware of Wren’s presence on the other side of the wall. Now, she felt like she could just think. Except she didn’t quite know what to think. Was this her life now? Accepting that she was whatever other people told her she was? Doing a complex job that she seemed to completely understand, while she didn’t even know her own favorite color? Brannin and Captain Nevitt must have a lot of faith in her, at least professionally, to let her go about her business with a gaping hole in her memory. Which perhaps said more of Nevitt’s estimation of Em than her twitchy disdain did. Or did it?
Maybe they were all holding their breath, hoping that at any moment, everything would come flooding back to her. Perhaps circumstances would change if that didn’t happen. Nevitt might have enough reason to finally oust her from her position as chief.
Or what if things weren’t what she thought they were? What if someone was manipulating her? Using her for some purpose? But she didn’t know what anyone could stand to gain. Maybe she had information someone needed, and he or she was just biding time. Or maybe she’d had information someone hadn’t wanted her to know, and her accident in the shuttle hadn’t been so accidental after all. If that was the case, her memory loss might just be the only thing keeping her alive. That was a perplexing possibility.
She wished she knew for sure who she could trust. Even Wren might have a reason to want her dead. At the moment, the only person Em felt she could trust was the doctor. If he’d wanted her dead, she’d already be dead and no one would be the wiser. Nonetheless, she’d have to tread carefully with Brannin. Regardless of his kindness toward her, he was a PAC officer, and would follow PAC regulations even if they stood to endanger her. That was his job, and she didn’t blame him for it.
The sound of bamboo wind chimes had her slamming her feet to the floor to stop her slow rotation and sitting up straight. The sound wasn’t a standard door alert, so she’d clearly customized it. Interesting.
She checked the security camera and saw her legate standing there with an ambassador of somewhere or other. The ambassador wore elaborate white robes that swept the deck plate as he waited. Deck Four housed dignitaries of all types. Ambassadors, religious and government leaders, and higher-ranking PAC officers. Anyone who had political reason
s to need better security and privacy than the average visitor. Deck Four also contained meeting rooms and dining halls so that Dragonfire could host in-person briefings or exchanges between dignitaries, if necessary. The station wasn’t well-equipped for entertaining high-ranking officials, though, and most events like conferences or trade negotiations took place on Blackthorn station or planetside somewhere.
Since Dragonfire didn’t need an entire deck just for dignitaries, the rest of the space had been sectioned off for security. That allowed Em to have her office there, along with the security team training rooms. Convenient to have such a quiet, relatively unpopulated deck for such activities.
The convenience was tempered by inevitable dignitary drop-ins, though. Like the man on the other side of the door.
“Open doors and permit entrance,” she told her security system.
When the doors parted, Legate Arin Triss escorted the man into the room and indicated one of the chairs. He waited until the ambassador sat, then seated himself.
“What can I do for you?” Em asked from across the desk after nodding politely at the ambassador.
Arin said, “Ambassador Kovitz is from the Barony Coalition. He has an item of particular value, and he wishes to have it stored here.”
“The vault in your quarters is not secure enough?” she asked. The Barony Coalition was a group of five farming planets on the edge of the PAC zone. They provided a great deal of the foodstuffs used in the sector, and they traded with non-PAC entities in unregulated space as well. Barony ambassadors were treated well, everywhere they went. No one wanted to be regarded poorly by the Coalition.
“I’m sure it is,” Kovitz answered smoothly. “But the item in question is rare and exquisitely valuable. A gift, you see, in some particularly tricky trade negotiations.” The man was human, midforties, and handsome in a distinguished sort of way. No doubt he was quite successful in his job as ambassador. He had the pleasant and easy manner of a diplomat. Or a salesperson.
