Nemecene: The Epoch of Redress (21 page)

W
e've made some progress over the last four days, mostly due to Stitch's efforts. Ever since our trip to the restricted sector, he has devoted every free minute to sinking his probes deeper into the maze, even while his drained energy levels were working against him. It took him a full three days before he could regain complete motor capacity after that night. None of us have been able to determine what afflicted him and spared us, and the only person who might have some answers has disappeared. Caroline is not responding to any comms, and she is nowhere to be seen on campus. In fact, I don't even know if she survived the ventilation shafts after we split up. Eli has been concentrating on securing an interview with Dr. Tenille, completing extra assignments and staying late after class to prove her commitment, and I have been overcompensating for my unauthorized late start at work the following morning in order to regain the curator's favor after explaining my delinquency with a fictitious post-tag headache. So you see, Stitch has really taken the lead.

It's a mystery though, how Eli's gash healed so quickly, and even her episodes, she tells me, have been less frequent. If a bump on her head was all she needed, then I would have gladly obliged on several occasions. A specific instance when we were fighting over your board game vividly comes to mind. Perhaps it is related to her malfunctioning biochip, or conceivably whatever is blocking scans into her room could be affecting her space and her in it. Well, from the physical perspective at least. The voices may have decreased, but the extensive lapse she suffered in the shafts clearly indicates a partial recovery at best. I imagine that is what is driving Stitch's intensive research, even though he is only aware of one aspect of her sickness. According to the packets he has managed to intercept and decode, every single case of memory loss has led to an MPD diagnosis and subsequent permanent GHU hospitalization or premature death.

My conscience struggles with continuing to withhold information from him, especially given his genuine concern for Eli. He could easily dissect her medical history just like he did Mashrin's, if he has not already done so, and expose our true family history. All he needs to do is investigate far back enough into the GHU records to find you, and ultimately draw the connection between us, providing the details are still present. I fear that not revealing ourselves to him is actually endangering Eli beyond my ability to protect her, slowing our progress while the hunters regroup, yet part of me will not trust, not even myself. In his desperation to hide the truth from us, Father has groomed us well. As with any gifted apprentice, we have surpassed our grand master in his craft of deceit and have built relationships on a foundation of lies, including our own with each other and ourselves. But not with you.

The reports are conclusive. A common mark, disclosed only to the parents of children detected with it by the GHU, connects the victims with their fate, a fate that by association would befall Eli and similarly myself. However, through a fortunate yet traumatic chain of events, we are coincidentally in possession of the precise knowledge that can alter the course of a sinister destiny we were not even aware of. This ignorance began, as expected, with another one of Father's lies. About a year after the accident, Eli was in her room stroking her hair with your hand carved brush, just like you used to. It had become a daily ritual for her, at first light, to soothe her weeping, and it lasted until she heard Father stir. One morning, after a particularly intense night, I found her sitting at her vanity, brushing and brushing and brushing while tears rolled down her face. She was trying to make a ponytail, but her hands were still too tiny, so I gently took the brush from her and started at the back. That's when I saw it. The mark that sent Eli's nails digging into my arm at the medical lab. Alarmed, I called for Father who chastised me for frightening my sister and told us it was just a birthmark, and that because we were twins, I had the same one. He then forbade us to discuss the matter any further with anyone, or the GHU would take us away.

Since the daze, almost as a means of survival it seems, we have been avoiding any meaningful conversation about our increasingly precarious circumstances, preferring instead to occupy our minds with the day to day and foolishly expecting that by some miracle the nightmare will vanish. Was a reprieve what Eli needed in order to restore her shattered spirit? She certainly was more open to listening to our theories earlier today, especially considering the GMU secret bulletin Stitch uncovered that listed a third defender murdered at the main campus entrance on that very evening. I also confronted her directly about the three officials who chased us, and she admitted that they were in fact the ones who have been sniffing around since the first day at the transport station, a confession which aggravated Stitch's already resentful attitude towards our apparent distrust of him.

Fortunately, Eli adeptly diffused the situation by accepting full responsibility for her fears with respect to close relationships, without belaboring the effects of her oppressed childhood. She explained that it has been in no way a reflection of his character. I don't blame him for his outburst though. We had accepted his unconditional trust, at great personal risk to himself, and had offered nothing but lies in return. I could see the shame in her eyes, so I grabbed her hand and squeezed, further exacerbating the exchanges and gave my consent at last.

He already knew about how the sweep had bypassed Eli's room and her lapses, having witnessed two already, but the nightmares, the voices, the officials, our flight, and our true connection as brother and sister were a total revelation to him. We apologized that there was too much detail to convey all at once, and that we had probably overlooked key components that could provide a better grasp of how our accidental involvement in these crimes could impact the future. The two significant areas I personally avoided mentioning, other than your own affliction and its pivotal role in our lives, were the marks and malfunctioning biochips that each of us carry, although from our description of Eli's delicate mental state, it is not difficult to imagine that he has already inferred a direct link to her malfunction at least. Highlighting the mark would only have served to raise his level of anxiety beyond what is necessary to stay focused on our mission to save her.

Having patiently listened to the agony of our plight, Stitch graciously reciprocated with a tortuous tale of his own. His mother's brother and sister-in-law had perished on a barge crossing of the Magyar Sea, and their infant son was found floating near its shores, amazingly alive and conscious. The next of kin was swiftly traced and a sweet woman arrived at their doorstep with his cousin lovingly wrapped in her arms. They were born just one month apart and immediately formed an inseparable bond, which he fondly recalls as "the unified front against Jicaro the Tyrant", his older brother. That's where all the mischief began I'm sure. Shortly after Zbrietz's third birthday, he developed a second personality that the duo adopted as their imaginary friend. But his parents became concerned and the GHU became involved. There were months where he would lie in his cell, listless, sedated and restrained while they ran their series of tests, always claiming to find nothing, then releasing him to his heartbroken guardians. Then one day, after his ninth birthday, he simply disappeared. His body was discovered a few weeks later. Since then, Stitch has been searching for answers. He finally laid his cousin to rest that afternoon with me in the archives. The child with the mutilated brain was undeniably Zbrietz.

By the time he had finished his story, all was said that needed to be at this juncture, and we bowed our heads in quiet meditation. We then improvised a group chumbuds salute and recommitted our energies to the present. I had a shelf to buy, and Stitch knew the perfect shop to suit my peculiar tastes.

A few buildings west of the hostel where we'd spent our first night in the city, there is a glass courtyard centered around a jade fountain and bordered by quaint shops, tightly stacked side-by-side. An ornate white boutique with a patched clay roof lies on the western edge of the square, with an enchanting view of the mythical horse of Tir-na-nog reenacting the last voyage of Oisin, hovering on the mirrored surface of the wishing well. While Eli and Stitch attempted to distract the holorider with a water fight, I captured their childlike enthusiasm with my recorder. It was the first time in recent history that I had seen her truly enjoy a carefree moment, and I wanted to ensure I could rely on this feeling to lift me above the challenging trials that lay ahead. This afternoon was dedicated to whimsical exploration, but on my personal agenda was digging for treasures.

An attractive gentleman sporting a white fedora greeted Stitch with a thunderous laugh as he toyed with Stitch's hair. Apparently, Mr. G had introduced him to the wriggly mess, which Stitch promptly adapted from its original purpose of sensing harmful frequency waves, to key off emotional vibes instead. Eli, I noticed, was quite taken by his lean physique, long neck, and sharp features, as she commented on how he reminded her of a beautiful gold statue she had seen in the Museum of Antiquities. Much to her embarrassment, she started to blush when she realized how audacious her comment must have sounded, but his good-hearted response rapidly put her at ease. I must concede that he does have the stoic appearance of a Roman emperor.

I must also acknowledge Stitch's keen design sense, for at least half of the items in this store were physically crafted ages ago, many having the perfect decorative touches for my faux marble walls. While I deliberated between the various book display units, refreshingly devoid of sharp teeth may I add, Stitch browsed the small bioclothing section, while Eli terrorized an early model crabseat. She has never forgiven the species for her sudden dunk in Bermuda Gorge, as we used to call it, when her reclining model instinctively scampered into the waters taking her along for the ride. Hybrid architects have the best jobs. There never ceases to be a playful side to their creations although it is always more amusing when the "special" features have their fun at someone else's expense.

As Mr. G was congratulating me on my eventual choice, his entire body suddenly began violently tossing back and forth to the rhythms of his breathing. I clamored for the nearest counter as I noticed myself writhing in tandem. Stitch snatched Eli from beneath the collapsing mezzanine and hollered at us to "Clip out!" By the time we reached the fountain, the tremors had stopped, the entire loft had crumbled, the back wall lay open to the neighboring waterway, the courtyard had transformed into a random mosaic of transparent shards capriciously held together by a thin protective sandwich, and the sky was filled with shooting stars flying past the blinding sun setting in the east. The channels comprising the perimeter of the square had spilled onto the adjoining walkways, leaving them slick with lavender and green, covered in stray petals of white, rose, purple, and blue, but the structures intact. The quake had only compromised the commercial sector.

As the skies continued to rain tiny balls of fire, I shadowed Mr. G's enraptured gaze towards the falling meteors. "Isn't she beautiful?" he sighed to me. When I asked who he was talking about, he replied: "My sky, her tears caressing the earth with such passion," but through the shell-shocked crowd, I could distinguish a female form fading in the distance. Eli, quick with the rib as always, teased me about him being afflicted by the same virus I had caught on the hovertrain platform our first day in. "He may look like a warrior," she commented, "but he whimpers like a pup," no doubt referring to my formidable canine guard.

The emergency crews would soon appear to attend to the injured, so we trusted our safety to the integrity of the platform, ran back into the shop to gather our purchases and fled to the central corridor as the red crafts arrived. After we had dropped off the two shelves at my quarters, we continued on to the campus oval for a meal at the commons, where Stitch proudly modeled his blindingly bright new coveralls. I honestly do not see the logic in owning a wilderness suit in the city, but somehow I am sure he will find a use for it, or otherwise create an entertaining opportunity to wear it, but after the freak seismic activity we had just survived, a lifeshield would have been a wiser investment, in my opinion. Regardless, the city secretary was likely already fabricating some semi-plausible fiction about the event, and Stitch wanted to be the first to debunk it, so he packed down his food and assalammed.

Eli and I retreated to her room where we could safely resume our earlier discussions. The altercation at the club still troubled me. The three ministry thugs were getting too close, and with another colleague eliminated and Eli's porous alibi, I feared they might consider her suspect. They could have already scanned through the student roster, matched her picture against their internal flashes, and tracked her to this floor, making her vulnerable to detainment. A quick comm to Stitch calmed my nerves, as he had already doctored her registration records the morning after the daze with a credible alternate image. With that exposure eliminated, we delved deeper into their obscure interest in us from the start, prompting Eli to admit their role as the voices outside our kitchen window.

They are looking for something important and the clues may rest in the flashes we took from Father's office. Eli had already reviewed them soon after we arrived here and had found nothing out of the ordinary; however, given that we had gained so much new awareness since then, we decided to inspect the images within a different context. We also chose to interact with the main viewing room instead of one of the thirty-six satellite offshoots around the center branch perimeter on level zero, which would give us more than enough space to accurately recreate most experiences on a one-to-one scale, especially the ones recorded inside the rooms of our childhood home. Although usually reserved for group communications and motion capture productions, the ongoing lockdown confined the use of shared facilities to a restrictive schedule, making them conveniently accessible to wily participants like ourselves.