Lost Past

by Teresa McCullough

  He pretended he was tired to get rid of Cara. After she left, he justified it by taking a nap. Upon awakening, he decided to look over his life.

  The only books in a narrow bookshelf were medical textbooks. He had few possessions. His clothes easily fit into the small closet and dresser, with room for one extra set of sheets and towels. A small filing cabinet held financial information and school transcripts. He apparently took a number of courses online, and wondered why. He knew he would want to get to know the teacher and fellow students.

  His cabinets contained a minimum number of dishes and food. There were three pill bottles, none prescription: vitamins, an over-the-counter allergy pill, and pain medication which was almost expired and almost full.

  His computer was obviously an important lead. Fortunately, it wasn’t password protected. His bookmarks gave him a number of other clues. He apparently listened to several news and talk radio stations in Spanish and French. It didn’t take him long to realize that his Spanish was Mexican and his French was Canadian. But he did not have any idea of what he did with his free time. According to Cara, I don’t have any, he thought.

  The computer remembered his email password. He had two accounts, one for work and one for home. He meticulously went through all his new email. His work-related account had work-related emails. His private email had a few confirmations of online purchases and little else. His browsing history gave him no information. He occasionally used an online dictionary. He looked up things in Wikipedia. He didn’t visit porn sites or Facebook. He apparently clicked on news stories that appeared on his homepage, but he didn’t detect a pattern to it, except he read a lot of news, local, international, and business.

  He had a small television set positioned so he could watch it while eating. It was tuned to CNN. Realizing he was hungry, he went to his refrigerator. He pulled out a chicken Caesar salad that thoughtfully had a container of dressing beside it. There was a receipt from a local grocery store dated that morning. He suspected Cara put it there. He ate it while listening to the news.

  He went through his financial papers and discovered he was pretty well off, for someone who was still a medical resident. He had no debts and owned his apartment free and clear. He had a nice stock portfolio and a comfortable amount in CD’s and in his checking account. He wondered where the money came from.

  He called his broker using the telephone number on the statement. Fortunately, he didn’t have to explain his condition since his broker heard the news. His broker told him that he largely managed his own account. His statements over the past several years told him that he did a good job. He was richer than when he entered medical school, in spite of paying tuition.

  I have no life, he thought. No sex with an attractive willing colleague, no recreation, no friends, if you don’t count Arthur.

  What did Arthur’s warning mean? It was frustrating not to know.

  He took out pencil and paper and started writing in the language Arthur spoke in. Vigintees, he thought. That’s the name of the language. He didn’t know how to spell it in English. The sounds were different.

  He knew the alphabet. There were thirty-four letters and each having a different sound. There were also four distinct sounds from pairs of letters, and one sound from three letters. His writing was awkward at first, which pleased him. He didn’t want this mysterious language to be a major part of his life.

  The more he wrote, the less happy he became. It was all too quickly evident that this language was very basic to him. Perhaps it was his native language. He was quickly thinking in the language. When he thought about numbers in the language, he realized they were base six. To his surprise, he had no difficulty doing arithmetic in the language.

  He tried writing and thinking in Spanish. He was fluent, but it clearly was not the same. French was worse. He switched to English and started writing about psychiatry. He was distressed to learn that he understood it better in Vigintees than in English. There were words for concepts in Vigintees that he didn’t know in English. He found himself doubting the words existed in English.

  As he shredded the papers, Arthur’s warning rang in his ears. He had to talk to Arthur, because, apparently, he was the only one who knew anything about him. Feeling energetic, he searched the apartment. This time, he looked through drawers for something between his neatly folded clothing. There was nothing, not even a condom.

  He went back to the computer and opened AOL. His other mail was on Thunderbird, so he had assumed that Outlook wasn’t used. A third email account was there, containing personal mail. He started looking through emails from Arthur. Almost all the emails were arrangements to meet. If he believed the emails, they routinely worked out together at a local gym. Sometimes these meetings were cancelled by one of them, but it seemed pretty innocuous. In nice weather, they apparently jogged together about twice a week. They sometimes went swimming in the pool at the gym, and a few times attended exercise classes, everything from Pilates to self-defense classes.

  He got excited when he found emails from Tom and Linda, but his excitement died when he realized they were Arthur’s grown children. Tom was in medical school and Linda in graduate school in computer science. Tom often sent pictures, but John didn’t recognize any of the people.

  Tom and Linda clearly confided in him. His replies were often thoughtful advice which later emails confirmed both of them usually followed. His emails to Linda were that of a parent, or at least a loving uncle. Tom was more of a friend, but he saw that neither he nor Tom considered the relationship as one of equals.

  He sent emails off to Arthur, Tom, and Linda, explaining the situation and apologizing for not remembering them. He doubted they were ignorant about it. It occurred to him that Tom and Linda were not Asian. Mary Chen was Asian, so she was not their biological mother.

  CHAPTER 3

  John woke up with less pain than the previous morning. After cautiously bathing, shaving, and eating cereal for breakfast, he gave in and took a half dose of the medicine the hospital gave him for pain. That eliminated the possibility of driving, but allowed him to spend several hours on the computer. It gave him few new clues. He frequently visited pages that discussed cars. That seemed odd, in view of his old Honda and his wealth. If he was so interested in cars, why didn’t he buy a fancy one? He wanted a trouble-free, safe car. Was he different before?

  There clearly was nothing else in his apartment. His doorbell startled him and when he moved, there was the stiffness of having spent too much time in one position, but his pain was manageable, even though the pill must be wearing off. He looked through the peephole, worried that his background would give him enemies, but it was Cara. She brought Chinese food and groceries.

  The meal was for both of them, and he pulled the chair from his desk up to his tiny dinette table. He must not have company often.

  “I have a session with a patient I’d like to show you,” Cara said, pulling out a DVD and putting it in his computer drive. “You would never do this before and I have his permission . . .”

  He reached over and ejected the DVD, Arthur’s warning ringing in his ears. “No,” he said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be doing things I refused to do before.”

  “You might expand your horizons,” she said suggestively. She was obviously thinking about more than the interview with the patient.

  He shook his head, but was smiling. Cara led the conversation away from psychiatry. John let himself get lost in the pure pleasure of talking to someone who was interesting and entertaining. She brought up current news stories that had no impact on either of them, such as unemployment and interest rates. John was not surprised he knew about these topics from his computer’s history, but he was surprised she knew about his interest.

  Cara made no further attempt to push intimacy on him, which allowed him to relax while they talked. After she left to return to work, he analyzed the conversation and realized Cara studied his interests. Again, he wondered why he wasn’t hav
ing a relationship with her, since there was a mutual attraction. “Mutual attraction” didn’t say enough, but he apparently hid his strong feelings. Why?

  He used emptying the trash as an excuse to walk around outside, meeting a neighbor who parked next to John’s car. She identified herself and asked if he was feeling better. The buildings in the neighborhood didn’t seem familiar to him, but instinctively, he knew he paid little attention to these buildings because he was much more interested in the people. The economically built apartments didn’t reflect the people, because people lived here for the location, not for the architecture. The cars gave clues to character. He knew which cars were expensive and which had a reputation for being reliable.

  As he walked back to his apartment, he understood why he studied cars. The type of car a person drove was a clue to his personality, but he would need to know about cars to understand the clue.

  Arthur’s prediction that he would discover he wasn’t behaving naturally was fulfilled. He wished Arthur gave him a hint as to why, or at least told him where he could find an explanation. There was a voicemail message when he returned. He was frustrated that he didn’t know the password to retrieve it. Caller ID said it came from Arthur. He tried returning the call, but the phone went into voice mail. He replied, explaining his inability to retrieve the voicemail, then for good measure, went to his computer and dashed off an email to Arthur, duplicating the information. As he did so, he realized why he had not bothered to password protect the accounts on his computer. The computer contained no secrets.

  He took more pain medicine and slept. When he woke, there was an email from Arthur:

  “John, we must talk. I’m in an airport in Melbourne and boarding soon and I’ll see you when I get back. Arthur.” The message said that it was sent from his cell phone.

  Another twenty-four hours, John thought. More than that if I give him time to go home, shower and sleep. Two days at the most and then I’ll find out what the hell is going on. He tried to put it out of his mind and rested.

  INTERLUDE 1

  Jorxt hated being interrupted when he was budding. Admittedly, he just started, but any fool could see what he was doing. A package with material to implant a catheter was open, but untouched, within reach. He was naked, had an IV in, and the remains of a huge meal were on a tray on the counter. A tube of flesh with a knob on the end projected out from his side. The knob would first enlarge and then take the form of a biped. It wasn’t really a Plict, because Buds were different. They weren’t true Plict, and didn’t have full Plict rights, which was proper.

  Jorxt-Bud VIII should have seen the situation, apologized, and left, ideally taking the tray away. Instead, the idiot signed that he needed to communicate in writing.

  Scratch that thought, he’s not an idiot. He has my brain, at least, as it was a year ago. Not my looks though. Buds lacked mouths and many internal organs. The Bud’s face with the missing lower jaw looked inferior to Jorxt. Jorxt-Bud VIII did have a beautiful gray complexion, a well-placed blowhole, and lovely pink eyes. Jorxt was immensely proud of his pink eyes, because most Plict had orange or purple eyes.

  Jorxt-Bud VIII handed him a slate with the words, “Recordings from Earth you must see. Hernandez is out of control.”

  “Later,” Jorxt said. “It’s too early in the Budding process.”

  Jorxt-Bud VIII left, showing a proper amount of servility. Jorxt knew the servility was an act, because his Bud wanted to leave permanently, which is why Jorxt was budding so soon. He had to admire Jorxt-Bud VIII’s negotiating skill. He knew exactly how much he could push. He told Jorxt that he would stay a full year and a week, to allow Jorxt to bud again, but Jorxt’s share of his future earnings would be one-fifth, not one-fourth. It was worth it, because hiring someone else’s Bud never worked out as well. Buds I through VII were out there, earning money.

  Jorxt was smart enough to realize he must keep his skills current to make his Buds able to earn more, but he was tired of the work that took. A devoted Bud’s presence made the work more bearable and Jorxt was getting lazy. He was more tempted by short-term gain than he was when he was younger. It would be nice to have enough money so he wouldn’t have to worry about the future. The only real way he saw for that to happen was if the bets on that human Hernandez paid off.

  For the next hour, Jorxt concentrated on budding. After a point, it became automatic, but the beginning took effort to get right. Eventually, Jorxt-Bud VIII came in and silently handed him the remote. Jorxt usually read during the passive part of budding, but this would be entertainment enough.

  The first segment was a series of news stories from Earth about the bombing of a school. There were subtitles in Vigintees, and the heroism of John Graham was mentioned. Well, surprise, surprise. Zhexp was being noble. So what else was new? Jorxt-Bud VIII shouldn’t have interrupted him for that.

  Jorxt was mentally composing an insulting speech to his Bud when the recording from Hernandez’ implanted camera came on. There was little sound at first, but enough showed that identified Hernandez placing the bomb in the school. How many deaths were there? He backtracked to the newscast to get the number. Eighteen, he thought with excitement. He started calculating the totals. He would earn one thousand credits for the first murder, two thousand for the second, that’s three thousand. Three thousand for the third, that’s six thousand. He realized that was too much to do a running total in his head while budding, and resolved to figure it out afterward. But it would be a satisfying total, which he predicted before Hernandez was born. Eleven thousand credits was a huge amount of money to bet, but when he looked at Hernandez’ genome, he was sure Hernandez would be a killer.

  He went back to where he left off and saw an edited version of Hernandez’ bringing Katrine to a restaurant near the school. What was Hernandez thinking? Katrine shouldn’t be on Earth. Her immune system wasn’t good enough.

  Jorxt-Bud VIII mercifully left out the boring details. Hernandez gave her a phone, told her how to use it, and dialed a number. Katrine spoke about being alone and afraid and how she needed John to help her. Hernandez returned to a spot where John would pass, allowing him to detonate the bomb just before John came by the school.

  Then there was a replay of the number of deaths and a calculation, giving 171,000 credits. Not bad, almost three year’s income. Of course, he would have to pay taxes on it, but he couldn’t risk making his bets at places that didn’t report taxes. They might not pay up.

  Next came a recording of the kidnapping of Arthur Saunders. Jorxt was unhappy about that; Saunders was a Plict citizen, even if he was from an inferior species. They shouldn’t have risked Saunders. Actually, they shouldn’t have kidnapped Saunders to begin with, but Hernandez probably was unaware of the legal technicalities. Would this mean that Hernandez wouldn’t earn him any more money on bets for future actions?

  A subtitled news story from Earth came next. Jorxt subtracted one from the report of the deaths, because presumably Saunders was still alive. Hernandez was sure to be stopped after this. But wait, each of his successive Buds had worse handwriting, because Jorxt only used the cumbersome print that the computer could read so his Buds would be able to program. He would have his new Bud write a report, and Saxant would have trouble reading it. The delay might give Hernandez time. Nevertheless, the calculations that came on the screen showing a total of more than eight million credits were very satisfying.

  He finished the budding process several hours later, lost in the pleasant thought of all the money he would have. He was no longer worried about problems with collecting the money. They would use it as advertising and others would make long-term bets, just on the remote possibility that they would become rich in the future.

  His Bud, Jorxt-Bud IX, finally disconnected and stood up shakily. Both the Bud and his progenitor were the same size, adding up to what Jorxt was before. Fortunately, neither was too thin, since thin Buds didn’t live as long, and too thin progenitors often had health problems.

&n
bsp; The two of them implanted the catheter, which would keep the Bud alive for another forty years or more, if he was lucky. He felt sorry for his Bud. He would never feel the pleasure of eating or of sex. Twice a day, he would connect to a machine, which would both feed him and clean his blood. Buds were inferior to mouthed Plict, even if they had the brains of them. Something about being a Bud changed them.

  When the task was done, Jorxt-Bud IX found a tablet and wrote, “Congratulations on your successful bets. What a wonderful day for me to start my life as a Bud.”

  His handwriting was as bad as Jorxt hoped.

  CHAPTER 4

  The phone rang. “John, this is Mary. Mary Chen. Do you remember me?”

  “Yes, from the hospital.”

  “Your memory hasn’t returned?” she asked.

  “No. What’s wrong?” From her voice, there was obviously something wrong.

  “Arthur’s plane crashed. They think there are no survivors.”

  “Where are you? I’ll be right over.”

  MapQuest gave him directions and he found their condo easily. This time, Mary accepted a hug from him, the kiss in the hospital forgotten. Somewhat to his surprise, John found himself in charge. Mary answered his questions and showed brief annoyance when she answered things he should have known. She then accepted the questions and John realized she found the distraction of the questions better than the alternative of just waiting. There was nothing to be done until more news came out.

  ***

  Linda sensed John’s familiar presence just before her flight landed. She felt his presence grow stronger as the airplane taxied toward the terminal, and the lack of change of intensity when the airplane stopped told her John wasn’t currently moving. She always wished she could get a sense of direction from her awareness of someone, but all she could do was play “warmer-colder.” When she walked the wrong way due to the vagaries of airport geography, her consciousness of him diminished until she headed to the exit, allowing her to walk confidently toward the increasingly stronger signal.