“No,” Matt says, “but it was kinda cool, a neat trick, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, neat. So how about you, Matt? What costume did you wear? The garbage lying next to me?”
Apparently not, judging by his frown.
“Matt was running the gear,” Madison says, and pats him on the back.
His goofy smile returns and he launches into an animated explanation. “Yeah, I networked the system through a spectral randomizer, riding a hundred-sixty-two gigahertz, then two-ninety-eight, back down to sixteen, that kind of thing. A couple nanoseconds here, a couple there, no way they could triangulate that action.”
This guy is one hell of a nerd, and proud of it.
I ask, “And what were you hoping to accomplish?”
Dave slaps me on the back and points that big white grin my direction. “Like I said, we thought it might spark your memory. Figured it was worth a try.”
A bunch of goofballs. Where do they come up with this nonsense? I shouldn’t ask—I have a strange feeling I know the answer. Reminds me of the sort of goofy thing I would do.
“Let’s say you did spark my memory. Then what?”
Dave fumbles for an explanation. “We didn’t really finish the whole plan, exactly. We probably thought maybe talk you into going somewhere safe, then figure out how to pick you up, I think.”
Confidence like that makes me wonder—who’s in charge here? No, don’t tell me.
“But that didn’t happen,” I point out. “No, you sparked my memory all right, then I said the magic word, whatever that was, and the goon patrol showed up.”
“It might have worked,” Dave says, “if not for that thunderstorm.”
“Yeah,” Matt says. “It’s tricky guiding that kind of photon energy through a lightning disturbance, really, it’s tough. All the ionization fouls things up. I tried though, really, I did.”
Madison says, “Don’t worry about it, Matt, you did fine. Adam, none of that matters, everything worked out okay. We got you back, all that counts. Actually, things worked out pretty good. Snatching you out of the body reduction flue was a great idea. As far as they know, you didn’t escape.”
“Worked out good?” Arms out, I turn and turn, calling attention to the soot covering me, then tap the base of my skull and wave my bandaged hand. “You call any of this good?”
Dave’s gleaming smile melts. “It could have been worse.”
Madison gazes at me with sad eyes, and Matt stares blankly, stringy hair crossing his brow. I know these people, but not like this. They really miss me, and dread what might have happened.
“Okay, so you have a point. I’d be dead right now.”
Dave and Matt exchange puzzled glances.
Madison studies me curiously. “Adam, you realize—”
“Not yet,” Matt says. “He doesn’t remember.”
“Remember what?” I ask.
Dave brings an arm around my shoulder. “Take it slow, Adam, one step at a time. Let’s sit down and I’ll explain everything, at least, all we know.”
* * *
For the first time in my short memory, I may have found others I can trust. That I actually have friends, or might ever trust anyone, are both difficult to believe. More odd is what creeps in from the void. No clear memory confirms the notion, but there is no denying it. Our small group earned each other’s trust long ago.
To one side of the compartment is a makeshift kitchen, little more than a narrow table opposite a counter below three metal cabinets. This craft is no luxury liner. On the opposite side are workbenches and bolted-down toolboxes, which have plastic drawers with translucent faces, giving hints to the contents, a variety of tools and other gadgets, perhaps spare parts. Mounted to the wall are large clear tubes that store yellow pressure suits, some with helmets. This aircraft must fly high, where the air is thin.
Dave suggests that we gather at the table. Madison carries a metal carafe from which she pours a cup of dark liquid, then hands it to me. The cup is warm, the aroma inviting.
Madison watches as I sip the beverage. “Better?” she asks.
“Yes, thank you. I haven’t had a good cup of coffee since—”
That’s not right. I’ve never had coffee before. I don’t even know what coffee is. What? Of course I do. I’ve had coffee many times. But when? Doorways are drifting open, and clues to my identity are pouring out. Memories emerge, and one is the last time I had coffee.
“Since when?” Madison asks with a clever grin.
Strange—for every new question, there is more to remember. Within the mind, a dormant function awakens, that of an obedient servant prepared to fetch any answer, until this moment left lonely, waiting only for the questions. The question becomes the key that unlocks the door, and the servant ventures past the veil of certain knowledge, to retrieve answers hidden deep within my darkened memory.
“When I left,” I realize. “We said our good-byes over coffee. You tricked me into remembering that.”
“Very good,” she says. “But it’s not a trick. I was hoping, but I didn’t trick you.”
The coffee is warm and flavorful, a delight I have sorely missed. “Thanks. I’ve been tricked enough lately.”
“Right,” she says. “Tricked by the Association.”
“The conformists,” Dave says. “Out to make everything the same, their same.”
“Yeah, I heard all about it, up close and personal. But why?”
“I guess they believe it’s the answer to social problems. Maybe it is, but damn, who wants to live like that?”
“Not me.”
“Right. And me neither, or Maddie, or Matt, or a lot of other people. And according to the Association, that means we get eliminated.”
“Why can’t they just do what they want, and we’ll do what we want?”
“Oh no,” Dave says. “They don’t see it that way. They’re totally unreasonable. All must conform or the grand scheme doesn’t work. I’m telling you, these guys are fanatics. They won’t stop until the entire galaxy is the same.”
“That’s insane. Someone has to stop them.”
“Right. Someone like you. Why they want you out of the way.”
“Out of the way?” A surprising choice of words. “That’s putting it mildly. Looks more like they want me dead.”
“No doubt they’d love that, but there’s one little problem—you don’t die.”
“What are you talking about? Sure I’ll die, someday.”
Madison jabs me in the chest. “No, Adam, that body will die, not
you.
”
“Are you both crazy?”
Dave sighs. “I’m not talking about your body. When I say
you,
I’m talking about you as a being, a soul, an essence, whatever you want to call it.
You.
You’re not a body. You remember that much, don’t you?”
Another key turns and the door swings open. Of course I remember—being, body, and mind are separate entities. I have known this all along. But I’m confused. The memory exists, I am certain, but it was out of reach, hidden in a safe and the combination thrown away. But his words unlock the answer. The simple truth cannot be denied—I am not a body. I am me. I am I.
Old habits die hard. I reach for my head in a useless attempt to rub out pain.
Matt notices. “You don’t have to do that anymore, remember? I took it out.” He holds up the tiny capsule he removed from my skull.
He’s right. I’m chasing after a pain that no longer exists.
Madison says, “They can destroy our bodies, but they can never destroy us, what we feel, or believe, our thoughts, our passions, our love of life, or our way of life. And what they can never change is that we don’t agree, and we never will, no matter what.”
This is too much. We don’t die? No, we don’t, and more odd is that I already know that, or knew it, I just forgot. No, I didn’t forget. It was taken from me. I was made to forget.
Gathered around the table, my trio of friends stare at me, their long faces dreading a bleak future. But if what they say is true . . .
“If we don’t die, what are we worried about?”
Dave says, “They invented something worse.”
“Worse? What could be worse than dead?”
“I don’t know what they call it, but we call it
dead forever.
”
* * *
Out the corner of one eye, I catch a glimmer of light. Past the open hatch, a scorching beam strikes the ground and explodes a fireball.
Dave and Matt scramble to the cockpit. Madison slaps the hatch shut and chases after them. The ship launches to the sky, I struggle for balance, then duck into the corridor leading to the cockpit, right on Madison’s tail. Along the passage are steel rungs like a ladder, but oddly, they run sideways. The cockpit is big, not at all what I expected. Roomy enough for a dozen crewmembers, and the ceiling is tall, covered with controls well out of reach.
As I stand gawking at the ceiling, a blast strikes and foils my footing. The craft rocks hard, tossing me into Dave and almost knocking him from his seat. He doesn’t notice. Besides strapped in nice and tight, he’s consumed with guiding our craft through a maze of fireballs lighting up the sky. To his side, Matt is buckled in facing a screen and terminal, keys clacking and fingers a blur.
“Who is it?” I ask.
Across the cockpit, Madison says, “Looks like a scout craft.”
Dave says, “Get the shields up, quick!”
“I’m working on it,” Matt says, no chance to clear the stringy hair from his brow. “They’re running circles around my calculations. This junk is obsolete.”
Dave asks Madison, “You got a shot?”
She stands facing another screen and controls below. “I might if you quit bouncing around. I keep losing it.”
“I have to!” Dave snaps. “Or we’ll lose it for sure, when we’re hit.”
“Can you outrun them?” I ask.
Dave stays focused on the view ahead. “I’m giving it all she’s got, and they’re still on our ass. It doesn’t look good.”
“But it’s only a scout craft, and we’re—”
Like mental adrenaline, the past feeds an analytical marvel that springs into action, computing our scenario and solution at a speed beyond human comprehension. I don’t know how, and can hardly believe it, but I know exactly what to do.
I hurry to Madison’s console. The screen is mostly black, with a small image of the pursuing craft. “I need to see that ship. Can you zoom in?”
“What for?” she asks.
“I have to see it, to know what to do about it.”
“Okay, how’s this?” The enemy craft enlarges to fill the screen.
Come on, fire at us. Their weapons strike, our craft shudders. Another shot misses, and confirms their weakness.
“Where are the weapons on this ship?”
Madison is puzzled. “Why? Are you going to hang out the door and shoot at them yourself?”
“
No!
The ship’s guns. How are we equipped?”
“Two inducers forward, one aft, and—”
“Forward the most powerful?”
“Of course,” she says. “But don’t expect much, they have shields, too. We’re better off making a run for it. We’re not riding around in a battleship, you know.”
“But could we do enough damage if we made a direct hit without their shields interfering?”
She stares at me like I’m a nutcase. “What makes you think their shields are going to stop interfering any time soon?”
My wacky plan has yet to impress her. It might if she stops being such a smart-ass.
I ask Dave, “Can you put us nose to nose with them?”
“What in blazes for?”
“Can you or not?”
“Sure I can, I can do a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I want to.”
“Fine, I’ll get back to you on that. Matt, can you match their shield frequency?”
“What are you up to?” he asks.
“Just tell me if you can.”
“Of course I can, I’m a genius.”
“All right, Mister Genius, after we turn around, figure out their frequency and match it, quick.”
“Okay, but what are you talking about? After we
turn around?
”
* * *
A mind is a great tool, I should have more. I don’t know where these crazy ideas come from, but the supply appears endless, particularly in times of stress. Put me in danger and this mind dispenses a solution, it seems without effort. Even stranger is the sudden recall of the craft’s capabilities, weapons, and shields. Yes, we have shields, as does our enemy, and that is the answer.
Following my command, Dave slows our craft to a hover. The pursuing enemy duplicates our lazy speed and pounds us with blasts. Matt maintains the shields, keeping us from harm, but we can’t stay this way for long. We’re far too vulnerable.
“Get on their nose,” I tell Dave. “And stick with them no matter where they go.”
He whips the craft around and aligns us nose to nose, hulls nearly touching. The blasts stop pounding us, and instead, the sizzling beams whiz past.
Our adversary is a scout craft, its armaments designed for defense, mounted to the sides. Like a prey animal with eyes set in opposing directions, for a wide view of potential threats. But the design has a flaw—a blind spot in front where their weapons cannot reach. Our vessel, on the other hand, is an attack craft. A predator. A wild cat with eyes set tight.
We have rendered our enemy harmless as long as Dave can maintain this precarious alignment. Our adversary maneuvers for an angle of attack, shifting position and darting back, but Dave keeps us in their blind spot. Engines scream, crashing shields ignite sizzling arcs, and two craft dance across the sky, one struggling to break free, the other staring down its prey.
“Matt, you got it?”
His fingers torture the console. “I’m working on it.”
Dave struggles with controls. The engines howl.
“Matt, we don’t have time.”
“Almost, hang on.”
The enemy wiggles free and a blast grazes our hull. Dave quickly realigns.
“Come on, Matt, now’s the time.”
“Almost, almost . . . got it!”
The crashing arcs cease. Having synchronized our shields with the enemy’s, neither provides resistance, rather they blend together. With little distance between the two, the shields combine to form a single energy field surrounding both craft. We have slipped inside our enemy’s bubble of protection.