Plague of Memory

by S. L. Viehl

  “You never liked talking to me,” he told the server in his hand, not me. “You always thought I said too much. We shared few interests. You often became bored or impatient with me.”

  “I have never said or felt such things,” I was happy to tell him. Whatever that stupid female had felt, I could not call Reever tedious or dull. “You speak of my former self.”

  “Yes. Your former self.” He lifted the server and drank from it. “However much I despise what you have done, Jarn, it gives me hope. Cherijo would have made the same choice to go to Vtaga.”

  He said the last with such venom that I flinched. Not because he despised me, but … “Did you love her, or hate her?”

  “I hated myself for not being the man she wanted. For not inspiring enough love in her.” Now he looked at me, and there was so much pain in his eyes that a sound escaped me. He ignored it. “She chose another man over me.”

  “Another?” I felt alarmed.

  “He is dead.”

  Why had Cherijo not written about this? “You are not,” I pointed out. “She remained with you, did she not?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Even dead, he always took first place in her heart.”

  I would have to discover who this dead man was. “A woman would not love a memory more than a real man.”

  “I thought what happened to you would at last give me some advantage.” He looked at the server as if he couldn’t quite recognize what it was. “You have no memories of him, only me. I took the first place in your heart … or perhaps I have not.” He rested his forehead against his fist. “I did not want you to know of him, so I erased everything she wrote about him in her journal files.”

  That explained the periodic gaps in the data. I couldn’t understand why he would do such a thing, but I saw no shame in it. Indeed, I thought his endless obsession with my former self unhealthy. Such fixations had nearly driven Teulon insane, although it had been more understandable in his case. He had lost his bondmate and every member of his House-Clan except his young son.

  Discovering Xan had survived the Jado Massacre had given Teulon hope and renewed interest in life. Could not Marel do the same for Reever?

  “I am not interested in the dead,” I said. “We are together, and even when we do not agree, we suit each other.” I glanced at the bedchamber. “If last night did not convince you of this, remember that we also share a daughter. She needs both of us. Can that not be enough for you?”

  “For me?” His head came up. “You don’t care that I destroyed some of your past?”

  It is not my past. I shook my head. “I might erase the rest of it myself; it would save me much confusion.”

  He seemed shocked by my words. “You should know how you came to be.”

  “I know I was made from a man and grown inside a machine instead of a woman’s belly. I cannot get sick and I may never die. If there are more unnatural things involved, please, do not tell me of them.” He did not respond. “You understand the Hsktskt better than I, Husband. I will need your wisdom when we reach Vtaga. And I … care for you. Do not let this become another wall between us.”

  He was silent for a long time. “If I agree, you must also make a concession.”

  “Anything.”

  “When we are among the Hsktskt, you must listen to me and do as I say.” Before I could speak, he put his hand over mine. “I know this species intimately. I served as a member of the Faction for years. Your death on Akkabarr may have lifted the blood bounty, but there are other dangers. You cannot recognize them, but I will.”

  I hardly heard the last of what he said, so busy was I trying to absorb the fact that Reever had once belonged to the Hsktskt. Cherijo had said much about him in her journals, but never this. That he had once been a slaver changed everything. “Perhaps it will be better if I summon Teulon.”

  “No.” His hand tightened. “I did not join them. I made a pretense of it. I never enslaved anyone.” When I jerked at his hold, his mouth became a thin line. “You will listen to me this time.”

  I felt a curious paralysis move up my arm. Before I could react, some unseen force rendered my body immobile. I tried to cry out, but something besides myself filled my mind.

  I can do more than read your thoughts, Jarn, Reever’s voice said inside my head. I can use your mind to control your body.

  My heartbeat raced as I tried to escape the invisible force he used to hold me in place. At the same time, I felt Reever’s own cool, focused thoughts enclose me as he somehow slowed my pulse and relaxed my knotted muscles.

  I had never felt such an invasion, not even when we had coupled. I should have been terrified, or outraged, but his thoughts held me as gently as his arms. How can you do this?

  I don’t know. I have never been capable of such a link with anyone else but you. Reever spoke as if my thoughts were my voice. It is the bond we have shared since the moment we first saw each other. Kiss me.

  The paralysis lifted, and I shifted forward, leaning across the table to press my mouth against his.

  He took his time enjoying the kiss before immobilizing me again. I can make you say or do anything I wish.

  My lips tingled. Why have you never done this to me before now?

  It is wrong to control another person. His fingers threaded through my hair. I’m only demonstrating what I can do. I will not lose you again. It nearly drove me mad when they took you from me the last time.

  The mild affection I felt for Reever tightened inside me. I had respected him before this, but now I understood many things about his relationship with my former self that had not made sense. You might have said something about this when we made our agreement. You hide too much from me. How can I trust someone as dangerous as you are?

  “Not dangerous.” He sat back. “Devoted.”

  The paralysis vanished, as did his presence in my mind. I lifted my hand to touch my mouth, and then looked down at myself. “This is why she worried about giving herself to you. Because you could do this thing to her. Because you did it to her without her say. She knew.”

  He nodded. He did not seem ashamed of it.

  “Do you understand nothing about women?” I demanded. When he didn’t answer, I got to my feet. Perhaps I had been made from a man, but I felt wholly female now. “You wish me to give you my trust, and then you do things like this as if you would destroy it. You wish me to desire you, and then show me that you do not even need my cooperation to have me whenever you wish.”

  “I demonstrated the power of our link so that you would know that I love you,” he countered. “If I did not, I would use it to take what I want.”

  “What is it that you want from me?” I shouted.

  Reever did not move. “You. All of you, mind, body, and soul. You are all I have ever wanted.”

  “Are you insane? Blind?” I threw my arms out. “You have me.”

  “I can never have you, just as I could never have her.” His thoughts filled my mind again, but this time with an aching longing. Only you can choose to give yourself to me. Not as repayment of a favor, or in fear of me because I am male. Your choice must be made because you love me as I love you.

  I knew Reever had loved Cherijo. No man would have searched as long and as hard as he had for a woman unless she meant everything to him. He had joined the rebellion on Akkabarr and fought a war not his own rather than abandon his quest for my former self.

  For a moment, I felt unworthy of this man and his love. I was not the woman for whom he had sacrificed so much, and yet he wanted me, and was apparently willing to settle for me—and love me in her place.

  Could I be happy with that? “Iisleg men and women do not love each other. Love cannot … is not …” My vision blurred and the room began to whirl. “Stop doing that, or I will puke.”

  “It isn’t me. The ship is making an interdimensional transition,” Reever said, his voice drawing near. “Close your eyes.”

  Darea had warned me that it would be disorienting, and I squeezed
my eyes shut as I felt arms come around me.

  Joey.

  “Jarn. I am Jarn. I will never be anyone but Jarn.” My skin crawled as I realized it was not Reever who had called to me. “Who …”

  Joey.

  “Jarn?”

  The two voices blended together, confusing me, and then they were lost in the darkness, as I was.

  FIVE

  I emerged from the oblivion, but not to myself or even my own body. I had arrived somewhere completely different, and I was not myself.

  “Okay, Chief Linguist, I can give you exactly one minute.” A woman who looked remarkably like me picked up a stack of charts from the desk. “What do you want?”

  I heard myself answer her with Reever’s voice. “We must confirm tomorrow’s agenda.”

  I glanced down at my hands, and saw that they were my husband’s. My body had grown taller, leaner, and was no longer female. I felt the absence of my breasts, and the new and rather alarming weight of testicles between my legs.

  Somehow I had become Reever, and I was speaking to myself when my body had been occupied by the mind and heart of Cherijo Grey Veil.

  Her expression blanked. “Tomorrow’s agenda for what?”

  “Your community-service quota.” When that didn’t register, I added, “You are scheduled to work in botanical fields.”

  “What has that got to do with you?” Before I could answer, she closed her eyes briefly. “Let me guess. You’re scheduled to supervise me.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Okay, Chief Linguist.” She glanced at her wristcom. “What do you need to confirm?”

  “A time and place to meet in the morning.”

  “I’m pulling a double shift, and I need five hours of sleep to be human.” She expelled a breath. “Meet me at my quarters, main housing building, west wing, at alpha shift commencement.” She moved toward the exam rooms, her shoulders hunched—as if she carried a heavy weight on her back.

  Did she consider me her burden? Forcing the issue would not instill trust. “I can request another supervisor for you,” I called after her.

  “Don’t bother.” She sounded resigned. “Someone obviously thinks I deserve this.”

  I arrived at Cherijo’s quarters the following morning at the time she had specified. She did not answer the door chime until I enabled it for the third time.

  “Wait a minute,” I heard her call out over the com panel. She mumbled something else before she opened the door. “Come in, Reever. I’m almost ready.”

  She had dressed appropriately in old, shabby garmerits, but was still consuming her morning beverage. A small, four-legged, silver-furred mammal approached me. It was something like a feral Vukta from Carsca VII, but smaller and without the venom-filled spine frills.

  I had fought a number of felines in the arena, and they were efficient killers. “A domesticated animal?”

  “Uh-huh.” She finished her drink.

  The creature was quite bold—it sniffed my footgear, then began rubbing itself against my calves and ankles. The odd sounds it produced from its throat were quite plaintive—but so were the Vuktas’, just before they pounced and stabbed their prey to death.

  If she had domesticated it, she had likely formed an emotional attachment to the creature—so she would not appreciate me shooting it. “What does it want?”

  “His name is Jenner,” she told me. “He wants you to pet him.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t you ever—” She halted, then began securing her hair. “That’s why they’re called pets, Reever. You pet them.” She bound the end of her braid. “Most alien cultures have domesticated animals, don’t they?”

  “No.” I thought of my former owner, who had kept me naked, collared, and chained to her side whenever she traveled. “However, there are several species that consume such small mammals as their primary dietary—”

  “Never mind. Forget I asked.” She crouched down and stroked the animal with her hands. The cat didn’t appear to want her attention, and continued to entreat me with its menacing yowls. It had blue eyes, like her—perhaps it was controlled by a mind-eating, sadistic parasite. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  She seemed impressed with my glidecar. “Who did you bribe to get this?” she asked as she entered the passenger side.

  “No one.” I wondered if she truly cared to hear the tale, or if she was merely making what humans called polite conversation. “It was a gift.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Okay, who gave it to you?”

  “A grateful Furinac who had been unable to communicate with colonial militia during an unauthorized transport.”

  “He must have been really grateful.” She trailed her fingers over the soft seat covering. “What exactly did you do for him?”

  “That requires a rather lengthy explanation.” Her moods were erratic and unpredictable, and that annoyed me. That she would have any interest in my activities seemed unlikely—or was she at last taking an interest in me? “Have you toured the Botanical Project Area yet?”

  “Some of it.” Her interest, and some of her color, abruptly disappeared.

  “You’re disturbed. What is it?”

  She closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat cushions. The way she sat made her look very young and defeated. “I lost a patient last night.”

  Surely a physician grew accustomed to watching a percentage of patients die—it was only logical that some would. Yet she seemed genuinely distraught. Terrans often avoided discussing painful topics, although I never quite understood why. Suppressing emotions appeared to be more damaging than having none at all.

  “We will be working in the hybrid cultivation area today,” I told her, changing the subject. “There are a number of off-world specimens being crossbred with native plants in production.”

  She yawned. “Excuse me.”

  “You did not get your five hours’ sleep.”

  “No.”

  That Mayer would verbally abuse her when she devoted so much of her time to his FreeClinic made my thoughts darken. “Charge Nurse T’Nliqinara told me you’ve worked four extra shifts this week.”

  “Uh-huh.” She avoided my gaze.

  “Is Dr. Mayer aware of your extended work hours?” If he was not, perhaps I should inform him. Among other things.

  She snorted. “Dr. Mayer probably spits whenever he hears my name. Drop it, all right?”

  Another painful topic. I would need help determining what to make the next. “What would you care to talk about?”

  “Nothing, Chief Linguist.” She made a negligent gesture with her hand. “You can be the conversational navigator.”

  “Very well.” I halted the glidecar near our assigned work area. “Tell me what you know about agricultural cultivation.”

  “Absolutely nothing outside of a few required botany courses during secondary school.” She produced another yawn. “All of which I gave little or no attention to.”

  “Well begin with something basic.” I thought of the various projects requiring immediate attention. Hydroponics required too much explanation, and grafting—something that, as a surgeon, she would likely be very good at—was restricted to experienced cultivators only. “Perhaps planting some seedlings.”

  I retrieved several flats of seedlings already removed from their hydroponics pods and prepared for transfer to the soil. The hybrids were particularly valuable, and the senior site botanist expressed his concern, but I felt the doctor could perform the simple task without difficulty. I set her to work on one side of the hybrid field and went to work on the other myself.

  I discovered how much I had misjudged Cherijo when the senior botanist stopped at her row an hour later and began shouting at her. I went over to find that she had placed the seedlings exactly where I had indicated. And every single specimen was planted wrong.

  “Do you see this?” The botanist, a Psyoran, was so agitated that he had turned monochromatic
and had distended veins popping from his multiple frill layers. “It took two cycles to germinate these seeds! Two cycles!”

  “This is her first assignment.” I knelt down and carefully removed one specimen. “She will not make the same mistake again.”

  “Not as long as I work this field,” the botanist promised.

  “You know, you should water them more,” Cherijo told him. “They might grow a little faster.“

  “They’re grown in water, you—you—” The Psyoran became incoherent.

  “Really.” She eyed the seedlings. “Then maybe you should stick some labels on them for the rest of us non-plant life-forms. You know, like ‘this side up?’”

  He stared at her before resorting to language that I had not programmed into the colonial linguistic database, and slighted everything from her mental capacity to her genetic origins.

  “Oh, yeah?” She didn’t understand the words, but she clearly grasped his meaning. “And what was your mother? A tumbleweed? Poison ivy?”

  Before the botanist could say more, I stepped between them. “There appears to be no permanent damage. I will personally correct her error.“

  “She’s not to touch another pod. Keep her black thumb out of my specimens.” He flapped as he stalked back to the cultivation center.

  “What did I do?” she demanded.

  I began digging out the next seedling. “You planted them upside down.”

  She scowled. “How was I supposed to know the white things are the roots, and the brown part is supposed to be above the ground?”

  I could not fathom how someone so intelligent could have done something so ridiculous. “If you had listened when I explained the procedure to you, you would have known.”

  “Reever, you never once said the roots were the white things.”

  I paused for a moment, wishing briefly that I could express a few words not contained on the colonial linguistic database. “I was not aware I had to specify that fact.”

  “Well, I didn’t kill any of them.” She leaned over me and peered at the row. “Did I?”

  “They’ll survive.”