Someone to Remember Me: The Anniversary Edition (18 page)

“Are you
still
trying to get that song down?”

Pulling his head away from the glass, Seven met Twenty’s curious gaze. The other man pointed at the notepad resting on Seven’s knee.

“Trying,” Seven grunted. Twenty rolled his eyes.

“Did you talk to Tobias about…
them
?”

“About what?”

“Don’t play dumb. The images.”

“You mean my memories?”

By calling them that Seven made Twenty noticeably uncomfortable. Twenty shifted his weight in his seat and his eyes flitted away from Seven’s. It was the clash of common sense with loyal friendship that Twenty dealt with when it came to the topic of Seven’s memories.

“Did you talk to Tobias?”

“Tobias is an idiot. Why would I talk to him?” Seven demanded, animated with a ferocity that came to life at the mention of Tobias Clay. Again, Twenty appeared uncomfortable which prompted Seven to continue. “He obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about because I know I’m not lying! What I’m experiencing aren’t delusions. They’re memories. Old memories.” Seven defeatedly tossed the notepad over to Twenty. Holding it gingerly, Twenty recited the lyrics as they appeared to him.

“
Day of wrath, oh day of mourning. See fulfilled the Founders’ warning, Haven and Earth in ashes burning. When from skyward we descend, on whose sentence they depend.
” Twenty’s voice betrayed no judgment or interest in the lyrics he read aloud. To Seven’s friend it was an act of emotionless recitation. Twenty looked at Seven. “A bit morbid, don’t you think? And strikingly coincidental,” he added as he passed the notepad back.

“If you don’t believe me...” Seven began warningly.

“I think I’m the only person that believes you,” Twenty snapped. Reaching over to Seven, he took the writing utensil and began madly scribbling on the notepad. Finished, he tore the page and handed it to Seven. “That’s what you asked for,” Twenty insisted. Seven slipped the note into his pocket without speaking.

Twenty was the first to provide Seven with what he asked; arguably the least important to the plan, but useful still. A list of the city’s elite and their home addresses, a harmless enough item at first glance, but in the wrong hands…

Seven let Twenty withdraw from the conversation and watched as his friend returned his attention to the computer tablet in his hand. As thick and as heavy as a piece of glass, and with a chipped edge that confirmed its owner’s carelessness, Twenty’s swift hands slid across the device. Seven’s writing tools might be archaic but they were also untraceable. Twenty’s vote of confidence, the note that resided in Seven’s pocket, was an acknowledgement of their friendship and of the trust between them. Seven was grateful to Twenty and he desperately wanted to say it aloud, but the moment passed and silence enveloped them.

Unlike Twenty, who basked in the infamy granted to them by their positions, Seven could hardly stand the attention thrust upon him whenever he made social visits to Haven. Everything about Twenty and Seven reeked of special treatment, of exemptions and exceptions, that felt unearned. Taxied to an art exhibition by car in a city where cars were expressly forbidden; given unrestricted access to the city, rebel territory, and the neutral zone that separated both; Seven and Twenty were treated as venerated heads of state.

“We spend so much time on the inside looking out. And here we are again,” Seven breathed.

“If you want to get out and walk, be my guest.” Twenty kept his eyes focused on his work.

Seven allowed a broad smirk to cross his face.

“Maybe I will.”

“Like hell you will. Do you know the strings I had to pull to get this exhibition to happen in the first place? The curator is a close personal friend and I may have implied that Ilana would shutter the Imperial Galleria if the curator didn’t cooperate.”

“Ilana Robbins is, perhaps, the most ruthless Speaker of the Voice in Haven’s colorful history. I can’t believe you threatened your curator friend with
her
.”

“Did I say friend? I meant associate. Nevertheless…” and Twenty finally looked up at Seven, “This is important.”

Twenty made the remark with an emphatic certainty that closed the subject from conversation. Defeated, Seven nodded in acquiescence.

“I hope Ninety-Nine is there,” Twenty said but Seven wasn’t sure if Twenty was being serious or baiting the conversation in a different direction. “I know you asked everyone to be there, but I asked her to come in person, too.” His brow furrowed and he went back to whatever task awaited him on his tablet.

Upon their arrival at the Imperial Galleria, the car pulled along the curb and Seven did not wait to be freed from the vehicle. Instead, he stepped out into the night’s refreshing air and caught the attention of the gallery’s attendants. Seven buttoned his jack and followed Twenty as he led the way into the most visited gallery in Haven. The glass facade of the Imperial Galleria made it one of the most unique buildings in the city and Seven immediately understood Twenty’s affinity for the building.

From their brief vantage point outside the gallery they could see the lights emanating from the four floors within and several of the exhibited pieces of artwork. There were no secrets within the Imperial Galleria because its contents were visible to all, regardless of if the patrons were inside or out. Seven regretted that he and his friends would desecrate that honesty by conducting the business of war and subtlety within its walls.

Seven dragged himself from his lethargy by awkwardly socializing with people that physically and symbolically looked up to him. He and Twenty were noticeably taller than their hosts, making any discussion between them particularly difficult, and Seven was reduced to the role of an unwilling participant in the gallery’s spectacle and grandeur. When Null and Ninety-Nine arrived, they staged a glowing reunion with Seven and Twenty during which the two women casually slipped their notes into his jacket’s pocket.

After liberating himself from the oppressive barrage of inquiries about the truce, the barbarous rebels, and the infamous Tobias Clay, Seven excused himself to the gallery’s fourth floor where Twenty’s artwork sat on display. Per his instructions, the fourth floor would not be opened until he ordered it to be. There, in the relative seclusion afforded by Twenty’s artistic brilliance, Seven reviewed his treasures and felt his chest tighten. Only Eight’s was left, the piece without which his plan was impossible, and he turned to rejoin his friends.

“What?” Seven breathed, his fury mixing with terror when he saw his own name on a plaque besides a canvas-sized photo he had taken. “How did this get here?” he reached out to rip the photo from the wall when Twenty caught him.

“What’re you doing?”

“You didn’t tell me about this! I didn’t want any photos I’ve taken to be displayed!”

“It’s just one picture,” Twenty protested. “And it’s really good!”

“It’s a picture of Eight!”

It was Eight amid the roses at Rose Garden, unaware that her hands lingering against a blossom were being captured; the moment stolen from her and recorded by Seven. Seeing it on a wall in a public space made the gross violation of her privacy even more apparent to Seven.

“If Tobias sees this…” Seven whispered, suddenly afraid for Eight.

“Who cares what Tobias thinks? You’re right about him, he’s an idiot and everyone knows it.” Then, after a pause, Twenty added, “Even Eight knows it.”

“Why aren’t you listening? Take it down!”

“No, I will not take it down! It’s a good picture. It’s good art and you should be proud of it. You should be proud of yourself!”

“I’m not!” Seven shouted. Then, forcing himself to be calm, he said, “I’m not proud of any of it, Twenty.” Trembling, he left the Imperial Galleria when an irrational claustrophobia overcame him. On his way outside he thought he saw her, mingling with the gallery’s other visitors, but he refused to acknowledge her. Finally outside the Imperial Galleria, Seven gasped for air.

Twenty had planned tonight with an ulterior motive just as much as Seven had. Seven saw the exhibition for what it really was: Twenty’s thinly veiled attempt at correcting Seven’s worsening mental state. What was Twenty thinking? Haven’s elite, its social hierarchs, justified Seven’s withdrawals. They vindicated his opinions of them, his disdain for their opulence and their greed when the rebels lived in squalor and containment at Grand Cross and the neutral zone around it.

Seven walked away from the Imperial Galleria to the water fountain in front of it, far enough away that he would have a reprieve from the conversations and the stares. Atop the fountain was a statue, possessing an unusual likeness to Twenty, and its dark gold surface reflected the light coming from the gallery. Glad for the respite, Seven sat down on the edge of the fountain and contemplated his existence.

Haven depended on him, whether it liked it or not. Without him, without his friends, the War of the Begotten would assuredly resume but at a pace and level of carnage previously unknown to Haven. The memories that Seven was experiencing, the vestiges that reached out to him from a time and place before Haven, simultaneously injured and emboldened his dedication.

Why, in the middle of the day, would distant memories as clear as the sunlight strike him? Were they messages and, if so, were they warnings or encouragement? Seven couldn’t know, not for sure. Haven was repeating history and it was a history that Seven recalled precious glimpses of. The increasing rapidity of the resurgent memories confirmed to Seven that desperate action was needed if he wanted to avert the worst of the War of the Begotten.

Seven’s mind was anywhere but the present when a finger violently jabbed him in the shoulder and his attacker stepped in front of him. His heart soared while his stomach plunged.

“I need to talk to you. Right now.”

Seven woefully looked up at Eight and said, “I didn’t know that he was going to put that photo on display.”

“Does that matter? What matters is that you took it in the first place. Exactly what do you think you’re doing, Seven?” Eight hissed, looming over him, forcing him to lean towards the water at a dangerous angle.

“It was just a picture from a few months ago. I took it with a camera that Twenty gave to me. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Eight rejected the explanation.

“Why do we keep having this discussion?” she glanced over his shoulder at the gallery and Seven hurriedly stood. Following her gaze, he realized that she was making sure nobody saw them speaking. Eight never wanted to be seen near him, especially without Tobias present to act as a buffer.

“If you came here to lecture me then I would appreciate it if you didn’t waste your time. Twenty displayed that photo without my permission so, regardless of what you think, there’s only one reason that I asked you here tonight.” Surprised that Seven bothered to defend himself, Eight regrouped.

“Your fixation with me needs to end, Seven. We can’t keep going on like this, especially not when it’s on display at the Imperial Galleria!” Eight had a way of becoming harried and frantic whenever she found herself berating Seven, as if deeply conflicted with her own anger.

Seven decided to pull the conversation in another direction.

“Who cares what’s on display at the Imperial Galleria?” Seven inquired coldly. “Do you think their opinions matter, Eight? They might not be the Builders themselves but the Descendants are just as bad. What does their opinion matter?”

Temporarily halted, Eight considered her reply.

“You are oblivious! I was late because HARM detected a pack of rebels trying to sneak through the sewers to get here,” Eight explained. “Tobias took me to talk to them because your phone has been off all night. Do you know what the rebels wanted? To learn about the arts. To learn about what it means to be creative…”

“Let Twenty do that for them,” Seven shrugged. “Let him help them know what it means to be alive. To be an individual. To have a soul!”

“Do you hear yourself? You’re going to get yourself into trouble because of the claims that you’re making, because of the things you’re saying! Do you think that nobody has noticed where your sympathies are? Tobias has. Ilana has.” She let her accusations hang between them. “That’s your problem. You never think anything through.”

“You have no right to comment about what goes on in my head.” Seven spoke the words in such a rage that Eight’s confidence was shaken. “Can we just cut to the chase?”

“I thought we had.”

“We haven’t. Don’t try to lecture me about my responsibilities or my sympathies or whatever you want to call them. I was in love with you, Eight. From the moment I met you, I knew it without thinking. Then the memories started, from a time before Haven. From a time when a different Seven knew a different Eight. You were threatened by that and I wish I could understand why. You hated me without trying to understand me and whatever you think I feel towards you now…” Seven let his disdain seep into his words, “It isn’t love.”

Seven turned his gaze skywards, hoping to find encouragement in the stars hovering above Haven. “I was in love with an Eight that doesn’t exist anymore.” Narrowing his eyes to a glare, Seven added, “And that means that I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

“You’re as much of a slave as the rebels were except that your master has a different name,” she whispered in kind after regaining her composure. “Destiny. Purpose. Memory. You can call it whatever you want but you’re still a slave to it.”