Memory's Exile

by Anna Gaffey

  29 Sep 2242

  Timer: 22:02

  “One of our final stops. There’s a bunch of stellar phenomena outside. Interesting to the astros, I guess.”

  [Pause. Log cut, time counter jump]

  “I’ve been giving ample thought to the process after we go public. I think we need to bring in someone from the psych and marketing departments, perhaps in our prelim test phases. We need people to show us how to spread this thing. It’d be a waste if we just treated it as a clandestine act of philanthropy. So I suggest we create a campaign, similar to the one he was planning. An exaggerated ‘formulating of the serum’—I think that should last a year or so—and then finally, the momentous unveiling of our cure. The whole hokey storytelling angle. I’m thinking possibly Miranda Gutierrez from Helsinki Dome, she’s nice and pliant. Any marketing suggestions? I’m open to other interpretations, too. I’m surprised you haven’t suggested anything yet.”

  [Pause. Log cut, time counter jump]

  “I just remembered. We shouldn’t have any trouble from the Defense side of things, but Gutierrez is related to General Witega, who has a big in with Director Osakwe. Could make trouble if we’re not careful. So tread lightly when you start bringing people into this. We don’t want to get tarred with the ‘potential pandemic’ brush.”

  [Pause. Log cut, time counter jump]

  “Last thing—we’re going back to berths now. Superstition will be the hardest prejudice to overcome. Might be good to tie it into the Combined Belief System, if at all possible. We’ll have to speak to the publicity units about branding, too. Oh, and I received the transfers, thanks. I’ve completely changed my mind about testing on Earth, thanks to your tentative support. I’ll try to fill out the Harmon’s berths completely with station personnel, wangle them when I talk to Stationmaster Carmichael. He should be easy to circumvent.”

  05 Oct 2242

  Timer: 17:06

  Silverman, eyes gleaming, glassy, zealous. Jake shuddered.

  “I’ve done it. I’ve done it. I—oh. It’s incredible. I apologize for going against the majority decision, but it couldn’t be helped. Boudrette. Mahine. I’m sorry. But this was our last break before we reach Selas. With the diversion of personnel, I have no idea what kind of testing availabilities I’ll have. No mice, no swine. Any attempt to surreptitiously test one of the Harmon crew…likely would’ve set me following in Jake Jeong’s footsteps, all the way to the Bends. So I took the risk. Today, October fifth, 2242, oh-one hundred central space time, I injected serum 42B into test subject one, myself. And I understand now. I understand so much.”

  “So far I have skipped two boosts with no ill effects. My immune system appears repaired. Completely repaired. Incredible. With the final stop and access—even for one night only—to lab equipment, I should be able to reproduce 42B, enough to introduce the entire crew of the Harmon. I plan to mix it into their cryo systems once we push off from Selas. No one should be denied this. No one. It’s such a powerful, clean feeling. Like rebirth, or resurrection. Maybe we could name it that. Rebirth. I like it.

  “I’ll continue to monitor my symptoms throughout the rest of the journey. Again, I apologize. But you’ll see. You’ll see.”

  30 Oct 2242

  Timer: 20:13

  “We’ve arrived. I, ah, haven’t had a chance to do more than get dressed and reclaim my belongings, but I’ve successfully reconnected again with Griffin. We’re meeting here after the general disembark and check-in. Details to follow. But I can tell you that something’s changed—he’s no longer reliable. I’m not clear on what he plans to do, but I’ll protect myself. And the serum.

  “About that, the serum, I mean. I may have…misrepresented the overall effectiveness of it. I admit, I was excited on the fifth. My immune system readings were, in all scans over a forty-eight-hour period, well beyond our expectations, on par with the available information on pre-Leech humanity’s immune systems. However, further scans reveal a consistent degradation period, one that stays consistent no matter how many times one takes the serum. So maintenance injections are necessary to sustain the effect. I’ve needed to take three since my initial injection of the serum. There are also some interesting side effects. Nothing like what our pilot was describing, though I suppose there’s no surprise in that. Rebirth is clearly not Restore, in her lethal or non-lethal variations.”

  “This is still a breakthrough. A maintenance injection of once a week is far more efficient than the daily boostings we currently undergo, although mass production and dissemination of the serum would be required. So this hasn’t been in vain. Just another step, a profitable one, on the way to the cure. I’m willing to reconsider Jeong’s involvement.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Mahine. The greater good. Always. Ha! Ha!

  “It’s a cliché, isn’t it? But it’s true. By our next communication, I should be on the station, or better yet on first leg to Marathon, with our pilot either back in the reins or out of the picture back to Earth. Hopefully the latter. This…backwater of a solar system feels strange. Like it’s tugging on me. Anyway. I’ll report more then.”

  ---------------------------

  ---end of log entries---

  ---------------------------

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “…no, forensic autopsy isn’t my specialty. I haven’t cracked a corpse in eight years. No one’s died on my watch here at Selas, and I won’t lie to you, that’s mighty satisfying. But I’ve always been a Jill of all ailments. Closed-environment disease, Dome morgues, forty years of heading off the coughs before they come. Truth be told, I’m not sure what you want to know, with these kinds of questions…

  Am I tired? Of course. It’s one long space day out here. I’m tired of blood and sick. I’m tired of the smell of my breath all day behind a mask. I’m tired of dealing with soft-shells fresh out of their Dome, for that matter. Damn right, they’re soft…listen, let me tell you about the residencies in the morgues. The Courses were hitting their stride then, and we had a crush of wannabe doctors. And, well, pranks come and go, but the one in vogue at the time was to slit open the first years’ practice stiffs and replace the hearts with peach pits. So they would all look Leechy, see?

  Peach pits. Peaches? Fruit. You do know fruit, I hope? Well, I hear they’re growing them in San Salvador’s Dome.

  Anyway. That was the fourth year students doing that. A medical initiation rite, I guess. Some kids fainted. One gal got downright hysterical, she locked down the morgue and tried to comm the whole Dome, tell everyone there was a Leech corpse on the premises. And there was one who just untied his apron and walked out. I heard later he transferred down to a Historical Studies degree. Something about pre-Leech Russian Literature.

  Nah. My gurneymate was a fourth year, gods knew how since he never really took to anatomy. He messed up the ventricles and stuck my initiatory pit right smack between the lungs. Pathetic.

  What did I do? What do you think I did? I plucked it out and made him eat it.”

  Excerpt: biannual psych interview

  27 February 2241

  Dr. Katherine Lindy, M.D.

  Head Physician

  United Worlds DS 2075-5 [Selas Station]

  Satellite 1H-24HM, 24HM System [updated: Eos]

  [Archived: United Governance Board tri-system mission records, Earth]

  2 November 2242 AEC

  01:21

  The holoscreen darkened, and then shifted back to the slow-shimmering green layout of their flight plan. Jake shook himself out of the daze.

  “They erased me.” Fried me. Fry him, she said. “I didn’t do it myself. When did they do it?”

  Con tipped the memory gem out of the well and pushed it toward Jake. “I don’t know. Sometime before Dome Security and the Gov Board Defense team showed up at your lab that day.”

  Another thing Jake remembered only in flashes. The lifeless, contorted forms of his test subjects humped on the floor, the sudden vibrating crashes against
the entrance, a thick arm around his neck, restraints cutting into his arms. Those bits weren’t included in the penitence program, they were his own. The pod’s shimmering display wobbled, and he gripped the seat arms. He circled the distinct gap that the chip couldn’t plumb, the source of the inexplicable flashes of Con, genetics, other formless memories that appeared and then smoothed away like a drift of dust, without base or connection. It was cold comfort to find out he hadn’t been responsible when responsibility did nothing to change the end result.

  Unless he had taken the fall for more than just frying his grays. What if Silverman had been responsible for everything that had happened that day? Her face wavered before his eyes, and he still couldn’t see her without focusing on the dead Silverman with her cold livid flesh, and the customary surge of sour guilt flooded through him. Why in the rapturous fuck was he feeling guilty about her? She’d just told him to his face that she’d fried him, or helped to fry him. And there was her trial testimony, and her silence while he was locked deep in the Bends. Had she hated him that much? Had he been that detestable? Or was it wrong to think she’d cared either way?

  But Con was speaking again. Jake twitched back to attention.

  “…when I took this commission, I got a high priority summons to meet with some people from Science’s top deck. Only a month before liftoff. That’s out of the ordinary. So I ducked the meeting.”

  “You ducked a Science meeting? You idiot. That’s just begging for scrutiny.”

  Con rolled his eyes. “Yeah. The next day, I got a notice from Mission Control that my freighter had been sold to new owners. They were going to drop my commission unless I met with them. And because the owners were real particular about who flew their ship, it had to be soon, before the next mission. Couldn’t argue with that.

  “I walked into this tiny conference room and there she was, sitting at this big round table surrounded by tablets and mem gems and even stacks of paper. I sat down, and ‘I’d like to talk with you about your relationship to Dr. Jake Jeong,’ she says. No intro. No hedging. She had my commtexts to you, my logs, my Defense history. She had everything I’d ever sent you after the accident. And she had her theory about me and Restore. You saw what she said on her logs. All she needed was a DNA sample from me, and she got one somehow. She waved the results in front of me, and told me I needed to fall in line unless I wanted to be stuck underground for the next fifty years while Science and the Gov Board figured out how to duplicate your work on me.”

  “So you caved, then.”

  “I—no. She wanted you. She was coming out here whether I helped her or not. She had colleagues. And she was misinformed about some stuff.”

  Such as how malleable you’d be? Outside of vague professional knowledge, the other names Silverman had mentioned meant nothing to Jake. “Did anyone receive those logs? I mean, her colleagues, her little buddies on Earth, Boudrette, Mahine—did they get them? Did you get any of their messages?”

  “Yes, and no. I tracked all her encoded submissions except for the last one. Could’ve missed something.”

  Jake rubbed his temples. “How much time to do we have before we hit atmo?”

  Con checked the flight plan. “Few more minutes.”

  “Right. And I don’t think I can handle more in the way of surprises, or nonlinear storytelling. So please start at the beginning and keep going till you’re done.”

  Con blinked. Then he began to laugh. “Chapter one,” he said, chuckling. “I am born. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life…”

  “…or whether that station will be held by anybody else,” Jake finished before he could snap his stupid repeater-jaw closed, but Con was smiling so unaffectedly at him, as if it was a private joke of theirs. Another one Jake didn’t quite remember, even if he could recite David Copperfield. “Funny. The beginning?”

  “You know most of my history. Born in 2207, entered Defense 2223, a couple of years after you fixed St. Paul Dome’s integrity. We met at—”

  “The Historical Society gathering.”

  “Yeah.” Con looked pleased.

  “Don’t get excited,” Jake warned. “I don’t remember much after that. Could we skip ahead?”

  “I dunno.” Con considered. “That sounds sorta…nonlinear.”

  “Hey, inconsistency is the only comfort I have these days. So the meeting?”

  “The meeting. That was where you asked me about Science liaison credits. I said I didn’t have any yet, but I was willing to do some guinea piggery to get some. Safest side job available, you know? First do no harm.” Con frowned. “One tour in Defense, and you learn otherwise.”

  “Particularly in black ops, I suppose.”

  Con didn’t react visibly, but the temperature in the pod dropped about fifty degrees.

  “Sorry, but what, are they gonna come after you? Even if I say it? I’ve said some pretty stupid things since, oh, forever, and the dark side of Defense never bothered to come by and knock my head in.”

  “Habit, I guess.” Con shrugged. “You got two Defense guys in a room. You suspect one of them is black ops. But how do you know which one?”

  “This is a trick question, isn’t it? It sounds familiar.”

  “No, it’s a joke. You can’t know. Because they’re both dead.”

  Jake thunked his head back against the seat. “Hilarious. Defense has the market on humor cornered, don’t they?”

  “Superstition, too.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, there are plenty of things done in Science for—” The greater good. Always, Alice Silverman finished for him, her tone both sardonic and fervent in his mind, and Jake bit his tongue. “In violation of the things we’re raised with.”

  “Things.”

  “Well, first do no harm and the greater good, they don’t really stand up well together. It’s balancing the two, that’s where the ethics in Science come in. Since we’re not completely compatible with either, we try to work between them. Learn to hold the two conflicting ideas or you—” Jake realized he was parroting again. He tried to organize his thoughts. “Er. Or you never move forward. We talk a bit about that in post-Coursework. Ethical dilemmas of the human race.”

  Con gave a snort of disbelief. “You all acknowledge it.”

  “Yes. The Division recognizes—”

  “Then it was excessive,” Con interrupted, “to send you to the Bends.”

  “The court found that the death of willing test subjects with signed next-of-kin orders was negated by such obvious personal motivation on my part. You know all this. Deleted test files? Missing formula information and testing history, all of it accessible only to me? The deletions done under my name and security code. Not to mention the dashed-off permissions and my conveniently missing memory.” He thought about it. “If it hadn’t been for the permissions, and if the majority of victims hadn’t been valuable—scientists, you know—I might have got right off, no questions. A shortened interrogation session, probably without Clarify in the mix. They would’ve trusted me.”

  There was a short silence. Con coughed. “Sorry.”

  “Right, go on.”

  “We were at the meet-up, talking guinea pig.”

  “Meet-up?”

  “Summit Hill, the Historical Society meeting. You remember. The tunnels.”

  “Yes.” Moonshine. Wabasha. Con sifting warm ashes, Con’s eyes a gleam in the dimness. How could he remember those things, and not this? Jake swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Anyway, I told you I was interested. And you got very cagey. Said to come by Icebreaker so we could talk in more detail about a project you were heading with some other big names.”

  “Silverman.”

  “The biggest names were you and Rebecca, you two doing your thing. And even then I remember you had…a problem with crediting. The way it was going, you were worried it’d be touted as her breakthrough, not yours.”

  Shame and sharp hunger for detail warred briefly within Jake, alo
ng with a smidgen of suspicion. “I told you all this the first time we met?”

  “No. That came later.” Con made minor adjustments to the console. “So. Silverman was only a consultant. Had some impressive credentials. You stuck her on data logging. Not really on your radar, until she started squirreling away some of the serum data. That was where I came in.”

  “You.”

  “Yeah. You wanted to do initial tests away from Silverman. And, I think, away from Rebecca. You were jealous of her. A little. I think.”

  “You think.” Jake chewed his lip. Shame was winning. To have your many faults, remembered or otherwise, laid out in a blasé recitation was humiliating enough, but it was worse when you’d asked for it. Worse still when you already knew no redemption or rescue waited at the end of the story.

  “We went to an old underground lab. One of the older newt ones. I think it was somewhere around the Monticello crater.”

  Jake grimaced. “Charming.” Science newts generally spent their first few years of work “down-lab” under Earth’s surface, in the bowels of the windowless Gov Board bunker-style labs where projects were assigned based on the lowest common denominator, the shifting concrete walls dripped, and the air tasted like whatever the makeshift cafeteria had whipped up for breakfast. Even with an endless march of newts, various bunkers sat empty and waiting for a turn. The perfect location for clandestine testing, if you were willing to chance a solo decon and exposure to any possible elements. Like a stray flu bug. Or scavs.

  “I helped you with the prelim testing,” Con continued. “What was left of it. You were very close.”

  “Close to killing a bunch of people.” Did I?

  Con hesitated. “But I was your first test subject.”

  Our one successful human subject, confident vid-Jake had beamed. You know, the guy who gave you this memory gem. Yes, he remembered, despite a distracting interim of head-bashings and crewmember betrayal. “So you got lucky while everyone else who tested it died?”