Amygdala

by Harper J. Cole

  It seemed for a moment that the task might not prove too difficult – she felt a definite movement as soon as she began to exert herself. But then the heart seemed to jam in place and, when Bala tried to free it with a sudden jerk, the dagger again slipped out of position, the tip cutting her painfully in the abdomen as she lurched forward.

  Bala’s impulse was to jam the blade back in and try again, but she was beginning to choke on the cloying black smoke. She forced herself to straighten up, lift her face to the distant heavens and draw in two good lungfuls of relatively clean air before giving it one more try.

  It was a strangely peaceful moment. The calm at the heart of the storm.

  One more try.

  Holding her breath, she plunged back down into Krikili’s darkness. Something sharp jabbed into her thigh. She ignored it, fingers deftly repositioning the point of her dagger on the vital spot, knees bracing her against the edge of the metal body. Once the blade was in position she moved both hands to the hilt. No jerking motions this time, she decided, just a steady increase in pressure.

  Krikili couldn’t buck its body to throw her off like a human might, but it had blades of its own. Bala felt the point of one of its scythe-like appendages strike her below the shoulder, penetrating skin and flesh. Her left hand went numb, and she almost lost her grip. The scythe began to work its way down her back, running over her ribs one by one, the pain spiking as each bone was cut open to the marrow.

  Bala reached the same progress point as before, the heart shifting several millimetres before sticking in place. She kept the pressure steady, working her dagger almost imperceptibly back and forth, trying to worm her way inside.

  Krikili’s scythe reached the base of her spine, and then it too began to work the tip, rotating the end like a drill. It was trying to sever her spinal cord, Bala realised. If it succeeded then she’d be paralysed from the waist down.

  She resolved that she wouldn’t drop the dagger even if that happened. She’d stop for nothing but death.

  The mind, body and soul of Bala Abayomi were united in common purpose. Her lungs cried out for air, her back for relief from the intrusive scythe, but she heeded neither the pain from without, nor from within. All that mattered was to maintain the pressure as she worked her dagger slowly up and down, up and down, up and down …

  Until, with shocking suddenness, it was over.

  One moment Bala was straining over her task, unsure whether she was making even one iota of progress, the next she was lurching forwards, the dagger slipping from her grasp. She gasped in surprise, admitting a mouthful of smoke into her lungs. Choking, she wondered whether her blade had slipped free again, or worse, whether it had broken.

  Then her brain processed a sound that had reached her ears seconds before. A soft but distinct pop. The heart had sprung loose.

  With unnatural speed, Krikili’s shroud dissipated, then vanished forever. The monster that had pursued and terrorised them for all those hours now lay revealed - a pathetic sight, nothing more than a jumble of dull metal parts, all lights extinguished save for the heart, which lay glowing faintly beside the tubular torso.

  For several moments, Bala was too exhausted to do anything but stare. She was only peripherally aware of Annie crawling across the floor to join her. The technician’s hands clenched briefly into fists when she reached Krikili’s remains, then relaxed. She picked up the heart.

  “Let’s get outta here.”

  Bala’s mind had become a cloudy mess, but Annie’s words brought their situation back into sharp focus. Suddenly, Bala remembered their companions, Gypsy, Rivers … and Iris. Iris, who’d had her throat cut during the fight. She might already be dead.

  From the sudden widening of Annie’s eyes, she was coming to the same realisation. The two of them twisted about, their eyes fearfully scanning the spot where Iris had fallen. The young doctor lay sprawled on the floor, quite motionless.

  Crouched over her was Gypsy, face blank but eyes clear and focussed. The mathematician’s legs were bare again; she had bunched up her dress and was holding it to Iris’ throat, applying steady pressure to the wound. The once yellow fabric was now dark red.

  XIV

  … It’s hard to know how to feel in a situation like this. Is it disrespectful to celebrate the improbable return of five of our friends when three more lie dead?

  I’ve not been pressing either the survivors or the captain to describe what happened in the Zakazashi. Their grief, and their need to heal must be respected. But, from what I gather, it’s a miracle anyone made it back, Iris in particular.

  We’re fortunate that the Gatarans let Dr. Little travel down to the planet’s surface to add her knowledge and expertise to the fight to save Iris. Our junior doctor had lost a lot of blood and would surely never have made it if the cut she received had been a quarter of an inch deeper.

  Nor is hers the only scar that will be borne. Sandra Rivers has suffered her second concussion in a matter of months. While Bala Abayomi has narrowly escaped paralysis, she’s complained of a numbness in her legs since returning. Dr. Little is hopeful that this is merely psychosomatic and will pass, but can’t completely rule out spinal cord damage.

  For all that, the physical wounds may not be the deepest. We have now lost six crew members – six women with friends, parents or husbands back home who will wait in vain for their return. Each death is a tragedy. But how much worse for this crew are the losses of Kiaya Ferguson and Alice Cumberland?

  Now one of us grieves for a wife. One of us grieves for a mother. Each of us, in our own way, shares the burden of that grief …

  – Daniella Winters, Journal Entry #541

  “It’s an amazing thing you did down there. You saved a life.”

  “Oh, thanks,” replied Gypsy. She was startled, in a distant way, by the sound of her own voice. Flat, calm. Bearing no relation to the turmoil beneath the surface.

  She wanted very much to cry but wouldn’t do it so long as Wanda Little was here. The doctor was evidently reluctant to leave her alone but would have to do so eventually – she had other patients in worse condition, after all.

  They were standing in her mother’s room. Gypsy was doing her best not to look around too much. In particular, she avoided glancing in the direction of the easel. The sight of a painting that would never be finished was too much to bear.

  Never, never, never, her merciless mind sang to her.

  No …

  “I read it somewhere,” she said to distract herself. “Or maybe I saw it on the television. Apply pressure. I didn’t really know what I was doing.”

  “But you acted.” Little was trying very hard to make her feel better. “In spite of all you’ve been through, you didn’t freeze, and you saved a life.”

  Gypsy’s obsessive modesty kicked in automatically. “Others did more. I was no help during the fighting.”

  Little was silent for several moments. Gypsy stared at the doctor’s shoes without seeing them and wondered what the other woman was thinking.

  Trying to reach me, she decided. Trying to reassure herself that I’ll be alright. She wants to feel like she’s helping.

  “I haven’t taken serotonin regulators since the night before the Zakazashi,” Gypsy said aloud.

  The doctor slapped her forehead. “Your pills! I clean forgot about them. Do you feel alright physically?”

  “A bit fuzzy in the head. Should I take extra tonight?”

  “No, no – just the usual. Your brain ought to get back in its rhythm in a day or two. Get some sleep as well, that’ll help.”

  “Yes, perhaps I’ll do that now. Thanks for everything.” Gypsy started to drift towards her bedroom door.

  The doctor still didn’t seem entirely satisfied, but she didn’t protest as Gypsy opened the door and stood upon the threshold.

  “Don’t forget that you can call me literally at any time with your wristband. If you have trouble sleeping, I can help with that too. It’s not easy to get over a loss li
ke this, but we’re all here for you, all of us.”

  “Oh, thanks, that’s thoughtful, good…” Gypsy commanded her facial muscles to form a smile, nodded in the general direction of the doctor, then stepped into her room and gently closed the door behind her.

  A loss, a loss. Getting over my loss.

  After a few seconds, she heard Dr. Little walk over to her mother’s cooking equipment. Gypsy heard a drawer open, and the sound of several metallic implements being removed. Confiscating the knives, she realised. Not really a necessary precaution, but she could understand why it was being taken.

  The doctor’s footsteps receded toward the exit. Swish. Door open. The footsteps passed through into the corridor, growing slightly louder as they passed from carpet to metal flooring, then fading as Little made the short walk to Medical.

  Swish.

  Gypsy was alone for the first time since Annie and the others had found her.

  My loss. They’re all here for me, and my loss.

  But they’re not. Not all. Flora died months ago, and now …

  No. No. No.

  In time, Gypsy’s mind would create barriers between her and cruel reality. But until then, she had to face it. At least she could cry, now that she was alone. She waited patiently for the dam to burst, for the deluge.

  But nothing happened. It was as if the distant, emotionless quality that had crept into her voice had now infected her soul. The sweet release of tears was denied her.

  She advanced woodenly into her room. Noticing the jar of pills, she selected one and took it, washing it down with a sip of water from her bedside glass. She looked about her, at the familiar surroundings. Clock, window, desk, chair, screen, cupboard, bed.

  Bed. Gypsy was tired. But should she sleep now? Could she?

  Acting on a sudden impulse, Gypsy moved her chair aside and crawled feet-first under the desk. She couldn’t entirely fit underneath, as she had as a child – the desk had built-in drawers and limited leg room – so she lay on her back, half in and half out, feeling overgrown and awkward.

  The ceiling above, white and featureless, held no answers. Gypsy remembered praying while gazing up at it as a child, towards the God that lived beyond. Up among the stars.

  She hadn’t found him up here. Perhaps she needed to reach a little further? Gypsy stretched with both hands upwards, beseeching …

  That was when she noticed that her right hand wasn’t empty. Clutched in her palm was a silver, heart-shaped object, glistening slightly in the gentle light of the room.

  Her mother’s medallion.

  Gypsy was momentarily surprised – she’d been holding onto it for so long that she’d forgotten it was there. It had become an extension of her hand, continuously present since it had been thrust upon her in the caverns below Gatari.

  She hadn’t even put it down while she was trying to save Iris’ life, Gypsy realised with a jolt. Why not? That could have cost the other woman dear. In fact, it had never even occurred to her to set the medallion aside; not then, not during the panicked moments when they’d manoeuvred Iris and Rivers through the newly opened exit door, not while the floor had rumbled beneath them and raised them up, up to the waiting light above. For two days, she’d sat and watched and waited, dozing sometimes, but never dropping the medallion.

  “It’s her last gift to me,” she whispered with a deep pang of realisation. “That’s why I can’t let it go. As long as I’m still holding it, the act of giving isn’t really over.”

  Subconsciously, Gypsy had been clinging onto that idea, but saying it aloud broke the spell.

  It is over. All over.

  She studied the medallion. It was heart-shaped, palm-sized, and had a small hinge on one side, which had been digging into her hand – there was a faint line on the skin where it had been pressing.

  A hinge. In all the years she’d seen her mother wearing it, Gypsy had never noticed that the medallion was hollow. Typical of her powers of observation. She located a clasp. It took her some time to open it, as she was a habitual nail-biter and there wasn’t much there to grip. Eventually though, the medallion popped open and a small, folded piece of paper fluttered out, brushing her cheek and coming to rest in her hair. She plucked it out and looked at it.

  On one side of the paper was a drawing. It was crafted from crude pencil strokes – the artist had evidently been a child. Though she had no memories to support her, Gypsy had no doubt she had been that child. She could imagine herself, aged six or seven and finally coming out of her chrysalis. Perhaps this had even been the first proper picture she’d ever drawn.

  It showed two people – a girl and a woman. Around them, at the edge of the page, vague and frightful monsters lurked, brandishing claws and teeth. But the girl sat smiling happily upon the floor. She wore a dress and was playing with little blocks.

  The woman, who sported a long ponytail, stood protectively over the girl. She too was smiling; her hands rested on her hips, and her feet were planted confidently, shoulder-width apart. An Amazon who would always be there: indestructible and indomitable, patient and loving.

  “Mum.”

  The page fluttered to the floor. Slowly curling into a ball, Gypsy Cumberland pressed her hands to her face and wept the helpless tears of a lost child.

  * * *

  The Bona Dea was outward bound. The Kohler-Schmidt Drive being unsafe to use within close proximity of a star, they had a two-day journey ahead of them before they could complete the first of an estimated eight jumps towards Kerin, their next destination. Already, Gatari had fallen away behind them; outer space once again held the ship in its passionless embrace.

  Darkness all about the ship, reflected Hunter. Outside and in.

  She sat at her desk, eyes fixed dead ahead and seeing nothing. Habit alone kept her back straight while her spirits sagged. Jess Ryan had left this room half an hour ago, and the impression of anger and grief she had left behind could still be felt. Cut into the captain’s soul. She’d had nothing to say, nothing to do but act as a punching bag and a cushion by turns.

  That was her duty, as the commander who had sent Ryan’s wife to her death.

  The door to the office opened and someone entered. It took Hunter some seconds to refocus on the new arrival – Annie Grace, dressed brightly in a red shirt and white jeans. Sartorial choices made to fight depression, Hunter guessed.

  “Can I speak to you for a bit, Captain?”

  “Yes, of course.” Hunter gestured to the chair opposite her. “What’s the trouble? Are the engines okay?”

  “Yeah.” Annie seated herself, drawing one foot up into her lap. She had an inch-long scar across her forehead and her arm was in a sling, but she had escaped with less long-term damage than most of the Zakazashi survivors. “Engines are fine, KSD too. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Why then?”

  “We all gotta stick together at times like this. I wanted to check whether you’re alright.”

  Hunter’s eyebrows rose. “Me?”

  “Uh-huh. I figure it must’ve been torture, what you went through. It was a nightmare being there in the firing line, but at least we could do something about it. Just having to sit there and watch it all playing out? That must’ve sucked!”

  The captain’s lips twitched ever so slightly at Annie’s choice of words. Somewhere between juvenile and worldly-wise, that’s my Chief Technician.

  No, Lorna’s the Chief. Odd slip.

  “It was … difficult.” She sighed. “You’re right. ‘Torture’ is very much the word. Each time one of you fell, it was a fresh dagger in my heart, and in the end, I couldn’t even take solace in hating the woman responsible.”

  “Minister Nomi?”

  Hunter nodded. “Trying to save her daughter. Demoted now to a lesser post.” She drummed her fingers thoughtfully on the desk. “Annie, there was a cash prize for beating the Zakazashi, in addition to the fragment of Vitana’s stone. I had it sent to the minister, to help pay for her daughter’s treatmen
ts. Was that naïve?”

  The technician frowned and scratched at her scar. “Wow, I don’t know, I mean … it’s not the kid’s fault what her mother did, right?”

  “I can’t be sure that Nomi even has a daughter. She might have made the whole thing up.”

  “Can’t see why she’d do that. Anyway, that’s why we voted for you, right? To be our moral compass. And to get us home – we’re a step closer now.”

  “We are. But is it worth it? I’m leaning towards ‘no.’” With a sigh, Hunter opened a drawer by her right hand, and drew out the fragments of Vitana’s strange artefact that her crew had gathered. They now had the entire top half, the Gataran fragment having proven to be the piece between the two they’d traded for on Ramira.

  “You’ve stuck ‘em together,” said Annie, accepting the flattened semi-circle. “I can’t even see the joins.”

  “Neither can our strongest instruments,” said Hunter. “We joined the pieces in the lab earlier. The instant the edges touched, they welded together at a molecular level. It’s all recorded if you want to take a look, but it’s not the most spectacular bit of magic. No flash of light, no sound. Three pieces simply become one, with nothing to prove that they were ever apart.”

  “So we’re halfway there,” said Annie, running a finger along the jagged edge where the extra pieces would be attached. “We’re gonna do this.”

  “I do like your optimism,” said Hunter with a slight smile, “but the more women we lose, the heavier the load for the rest of us, and I’m not just talking about the work involved in running the ship. I expect Jess will still be able to function, but I’m not so sure about Gypsy.”

  “You leave her to me. I reckon I’m starting to get her a bit.”

  “Dr. Little is our Psychiatrist. I’m sure she’d welcome the help, but you’ve taken a lot on already. Learning to fly the ship, training Ms. Winters as an assistant technician, and don’t forget that we’ve only four full technicians left now.”