Heritage Lost

by S M Wright

  "I figured as much with the new ship and your lack of proper uniform. Not to mention your beautiful hair hacked to pieces—" He took a deep intake. "An Oneiroi child."

  He lurched from his chair, pushing Pollux aside, and cupped Aquila's face with his hands, further bewildering the boy by tilting his head in different angles to better examine him. Aquila scrunched his nose and eyelids, a familiar face he made every time she or Mina put something in his mouth he hated.

  "How did you come by him?"

  "We'd just finished dropping off a Magistrate crew with The Maelstrom and were on our way to R-56 for maintenance, but instead, I led us to a crippled ship. As you must suspect, it was an Oneiroi vessel."

  "The Aletheia."

  Katya nodded, her jaw tightening. "Aquila was the only survivor. We took him from the ship but ran into Breks and had to make a jump. We've been on the run ever since, though I'm not sure if they've connected us individually to the incident, not yet anyways."

  Her father slid next to her on the sofa and stroked his goatee. "Why did you not approach the proper officials to sort out this misunderstanding? You've only made it more difficult for yourself by running, especially now with the amount of time that has passed. They'll be less likely to believe—"

  "Oh, they'll believe us, because they already know what happened on that ship, and it's not what they've been spreading over the news." Katya brought Aquila further onto her lap to give her father more room. "The Magistrate issued the orders for that ship to be destroyed, but only after most of the occupants had been executed. Why? I don't know, but it was obvious that we'd stumbled onto something we weren't meant to. I believe we know too much."

  An expression she had never seen before lined her father's face, adding further age to it. Clearing his throat, he pushed Pollux away again and snapped his fingers toward a large dog bed.

  "This is . . . troubling." Faustus stood and paced, his hands positioned behind his back. His strides quickened, then he stopped and faced her. "Very troubling. The Magistrate wouldn't turn on the Oneiroi unless something forced its hand. Of all the species the Magistrate has tethered to itself, the Oneiroi are one of its most valuable commodities; the magistrates—or the military, for that matter—wouldn't jeopardize that relationship."

  Katya rested her head against the sofa, unable to support its weight with her neck at that moment. "It had to be something big." She moistened her chapped lips with her tongue. "But it would seem we've inadvertently sealed our fate: We're going to be snuffed out. Anything to prevent the Oneiroi from discovering the truth."

  Hissing, Katya dropped her head into her hands. Her limbs shook, though her father held them, fingers pressing flesh into bone, grounding them, her. The tendrils—Aquila—tugged, beckoning her to leave consciousness behind. That's truly what it was: an insistent call for her attention. Between her fingers, she saw that Aquila had succumbed to sleep. Her father was speaking to her. She tried to focus on the words, not the tethers Aquila had set in her mind, which clawed at her, pulling, begging her to join him.

  Katya woke sprawled on the sofa with the lights dimmed, her father's cologne calming her. Twisting, she sought the light source. Someone hummed. The melodic tune harkened up childhood memories: an unlit room, her father leaning over each of their beds, giving goodnight kisses, and that song. He would scold Katya sometimes for concealing a book under her pillow, but then he would always leave it where he'd found it. She wiped her eyes, regaining some control of her limbs, which might as well have turned to stone.

  "Where's Aquila?" she asked.

  Her father turned from his desk, where he had been examining a book. "I thought he'd be more comfortable in my bed."

  He grabbed the bound book he'd been reading. Ah, the journal she'd removed from the Aletheia, recognizable by the particular black leather it'd been crafted from. Its texture was different than other leathers she'd handled, leaving her to assume it'd originated from an animal of their world.

  "His original name was Sotiris," Faustus said, tapping on its unadorned cover. "But I admit, the name could belong to someone else. Given the number of times it occurs in this journal, and from my limited understanding of their language, I would say it's a safe bet that I'm not wrong."

  He handed the journal to Katya after crossing the small space between them. Then he crouched and cupped her face between his hands. "Things are much more serious than I originally thought."

  Katya let her head rest in his hands, relishing the warmth, the comfort, and remnants of childhood. "I was going to get around to telling you." Tears filled her eyes as her head pounded, particularly behind her eyes. She squinted in an attempt to lessen the pain. "There's something wrong with him . . . and it's affecting me."

  "He was born with what the Oneiroi call 'the defect.'"

  "'Defect'?"

  Faustus dropped his gaze before returning it to Katya. Removing a kerchief from his pocket, he wiped the tears from her face. "Let me get something for the pain." He left her and opened a drawer on his desk, returning with a pill and a glass of water.

  "The defect is hush-hush. The Magistrate and the Oneiroi are doing all within their means to hide it," he resumed after she swallowed the small round pill. "Perhaps the best way to describe it is as a mutation of the Oneiroi's abilities that has manifested to the utmost. As a people, the Oneiroi have taken extreme steps to lessen the number of children born with it due to its danger."

  The corners of her father's lips dipped. "Those with the mutation pass from consciousness to sleep at alarming rates. Sometimes they remain asleep until they inevitably starve to death, because once they are so far into their minds, they can't be roused. There are, of course, other consequences. Given the excessive amount of time they spend in a sleep state—even if they don't fall into an endless slumber—it produces wear on their bodies. Muscle atrophy. Lungs weakening to the point of failure. Vitamin deficiencies. Congestive heart failure. Increased susceptibility to viral and bacterial infections. The list goes on."

  Faustus poured himself a glass of something, something stronger than water by its amber coloring. "But that's not the only thing. They're a danger to others as well. Normally, an Oneiroi depends on vision to form a connection either for communication among themselves or to bring forth phantoms and terrors in those they interrogate. Those with the mutation don't have that limitation. No, when they are asleep, their abilities run rampant, and they can trap others with them, killing them as well if the poor soul isn't fortunate enough to outlast them."

  "How do you know all this?" Katya eased into a seated position as the drugs dulled the pain. "Especially when you said both the Magistrate and the Oneiroi keep this mutation under wraps."

  Her father took a deep gulp from his glass, coughing afterward. "I've been around for quite some time, as you know, and as a member of the Cassius family, I've lived a privileged life. I've worked closely with the government on many projects, enough to garner a reputation." Another sip from his glass, and then Faustus set it down, perhaps more roughly than he'd intended, but shaking hands were prone to do that. "Long before I adopted you or your brothers and sisters, I had an Oneiroi boy who had the genetic mutation in my care. The Magistrate housed him with me temporarily—for research purposes, of course."

  Faustus rubbed his eyes. "He was taken from me after about a month to parts unknown. I've never been able to contact the child. It's my understanding that none of the Oneiroi parents have any contact with their children once they've handed them over to the Magistrate. It's all handled by their council, I hear."

  "You never said anything," she said.

  "It was classified, and it was a sad chapter in my life to see him go, to know he wouldn't have any semblances of a normal life." He swallowed hard. "It was perhaps one of the sparks for me to decide that the Magistrate government has no business raising children."

  Seeing her glass was empty, her father reached for a crystal Vergian whiskey jar and uncorked the lid. "You're not supposed to
mix them, but I won't tell if you don't." He partially filled her glass with the amber liquid. "Given the circumstances . . ." Even more of the liquor went into his glass. "I think it's deserved."

  Katya shifted her gaze toward the ceiling, noting how little light penetrated the high-tech fabric. "What time is it?"

  "Eh, don't worry. I've already contacted your friends and stated my intentions to keep you longer. They were quite accommodating, especially after I mentioned there'd be a home-cooked meal in the morning. Also, your mechanic's still having issues with a variance." He snorted. "You could have had that variance nipped in the bud by now, aye, Kat'ee?"

  A genuine smile crossed her face. "But then I wouldn't be here talking with you."

  She sipped from her glass, unused to taking Vergian whiskey straight. The liquid scalded her throat as it went down and numbed her tongue and lips, but it left a comforting burn in the pit of her chest. They drank in silence for several minutes before her father cleared his throat and abandoned his drink.

  "You need to be careful, Katya." Faustus ran his hand through his thinning gray hair. "The defect brought the Oneiroi into the Magistrate's fold. After years of struggling with its increased frequency, they reached the point where there was nothing to lose by joining the Magistrate, not if it helped the children born with the defect and their people as a whole. They've willingly handed over their children born with the genetic mutation for further study and a hopeful treatment to counteract it."

  "And has the Magistrate helped them?"

  Her father shifted in his seat. "I've been told—and that is all—that the Magistrate has increased their life spans. More importantly, there've been no accidental deaths due to the Oneiroi's collective natures."

  "So Aquila—Sotiris—is acting on that social need?"

  "Yes." He tapped his fingers against his chair's arms. "In the month I had Euripides, I noted this characteristic. But maybe because I only had him for a month, or perhaps there was something else lacking, he never attempted to access my mind or pull me under, though he was about the same age as your little boy here, so he should've been as eager for the contact."

  "Did you find anything that helped him?" Katya asked.

  "I've composed a document on your slate with everything I'd learned. It's far too little."

  She inhaled the whiskey, relishing its hints of vanilla. "And you've heard nothing else? About what the Magistrate's doing?"

  "Top secret. Even my friends in office don't know . . . or they can't tell me. My own brother stonewalls me." He exhaled and stood. "If worse comes to worst, you'll need to attach an IV to him and force movement to prevent complete atrophy, but even so, he'll be susceptible to other medical conditions." He rested his hands on her shoulders. "And he'll continue to seek out mental connections; it's too ingrained in his nature for him not to. You've been very fortunate, my little girl. One of these days, you might not be so lucky. He might be a child, but in this case, it makes him more dangerous because he doesn't know better."

  "What would you—what can I do?"

  "Ah, Kat'ee, that's not a simple question, not a simple question at all. There really is no absolute answer. His people can't help him. They'd turn him over to the Magistrate." He nestled next to her, his shoulder brushing against hers. "You could give him directly to the Magistrate, where his outcome is unknown. Yes, he might live more comfortably and even have a longer life than what's natural for an Oneiroi with the mutation, or he might become a guinea pig for trial and error, no different than if he were with you."

  "What would you do?" Katya struggled to keep her voice from breaking, utterly failing.

  Her father chuckled, draping his arm across her shoulder. "I think you already know what I would do, no?" He squeezed her against the bulk of his body. "But this is your decision to make, Katya. Weigh each option as you are wont to do and pick the one that'll bring the least amount of regret. But in the meantime, I might be able to help you lessen his grip on your mind." He shook his head when Katya straightened. "No guarantees, little one. This is speculation on my part, but perhaps the Yolarian moving meditation stances will shore up your mental strength."

  "Anything is worth a try at this point." Katya yawned, the medicine and alcohol setting in.

  "Good, good. I'll add some videos detailing the rituals to the other things I'm sending with you."

  "Oh please, Papa, no more vases or anything like that."

  "No, just information. Though you'd do better to appreciate my gifts!" He nattered on about significant gifts he'd given her, and Katya really didn't have the heart to stop him or tell him of the one vase's destruction. "Ah, it's late. Finish your cup and head back to sleep, a natural one—er—more natural one."

  He returned to his desk. Katya, meanwhile, stared at the flexible rods and fabric of the tent's ceiling, tired yet unable to close her mind to the waking world. Somewhere, an old-fashioned clock ticked. She hadn't noticed it before, not over the conversation and her pounding head. But now, her muddled state brought clarity to her surroundings. Biting her lips to stop the giggles from erupting, Katya fought the urge to ask her father for the rest of the bottle. It did seem to keep Aquila—no, Sotiris—at bay; but then again, she could be so out of it that she wouldn't notice his presence.

  A few more ticks of the clock, and her father resumed humming. "Down the road, I will go, down the road to where you wait. Never for a time will we be apart . . . though you may have gone, never will my legs fail to take me where you are. Down the road, I will go, down the road to where you wait, laid beneath the willow tree . . ."

  The words floated through her mind along with days spent in the nursery with her siblings. By the time she had been brought to the Cassius household, there had already been five. They would join their father, melodic in tone; even though, at the time, she couldn't understand the words, she'd known it was beautiful. It'd sparked something else, something that she'd later bury, like the faint, fleeting metallic scent she'd catch every so often. Or perhaps she'd simply forgotten the memory or inkling of one that surfaced periodically, over the steady march of time. And now she couldn't even place her finger on the odd sensation that filled her gut.

  "How—" Katya cleared her throat and tried again. "How did you . . . come by me?"

  The humming ended, but her father did not speak. Katya could almost hear him thinking.

  "There were a lot of Mramor orphans after its war. And they were offered to the Magistrate upper class in the Core sectors since Mramor had so few resources and its people couldn't take in extra mouths. Some, however, became wards of the state." Her father's chair squeaked when he shifted so he could see her. "As I said, I firmly believe the government has no business raising children that . . . and it was the right thing to do.

  "You were a small string bean when I met you, and you wouldn't say a word. I couldn't tell if you were shy, confused by the language I was speaking, or had experienced trauma."

  "I don't remember," Katya said.

  "You were very young." Faustus moved something on his desk; it scraped across the wooden surface. "You shouldn't brood over that, nor should you regret any sudden interest in that forgotten past. It's actually more of a surprise that you haven't asked sooner." He adjusted the built-in lighting, which had been woven into the tent via special fibers, lowering it further. "His and yours are eerily similar situations; it's understandable that his plight would awaken memories and questions. Besides, it's only natural to want to know where you came from."

  "My name—"

  "I gave it to you. You didn't come with one, no background." The clock ticked a steady beat. "I only knew you were found in or near the capital of Moscanov Imperiya." He said something else, but she couldn't focus. " . . . A lot of the kids from Mramor were much the same way, though the older ones knew more about themselves." Katya barely heard this explanation as her eyelids grew heavier.

  "Th-thank you . . . f'r e-every . . ." Katya tried to finish her ramble but only mumbled something inco
herent, the whiskey lulling her to sleep.

  Breakfast was a quiet affair, each helping themselves to the bread that had been prepared—along with olives and cheeses—by her father and dipping it in the wine, though Mina was only allowed milk. Katya ignored the bread and ate the fresh fruit and smoked saxum fish, a luxury one did not find on board spaceships outside of personal vessels or pleasure crafts. Katya plopped another piece of saxum fish into her mouth, relishing it and wishing she could drag a barrel of it onto their ship.

  The main source of conversation came from Faustus, who kept topics light and neutral, choosing to share some of the finds he had made over his career. And among the innocuous factoids, he sprang personal questions to one of his breakfast guests.

  "And what of you, young lady?" he asked Mina. "What do you plan to study?"

  "Ship controls," Mina said around a piece of bread she had crammed into her mouth, along with a couple of grapes.

  "Just that? No greater mental challenge, no schooling?"

  "Papa, leave well enough alone."

  "A monkey could oper—"

  "Papa."

  He muttered something about the importance of higher education before stating more clearly, "I'll load up a slate for Miss Mina as well. Speaking of slates, I've already loaded several videos and documents that might hold some solutions to your little problem."

  "Am I going to need another slate, or is there still storage left in mine?"

  "You know I'm not good at that type of thing!" Her father waved his hand about before diverting the conversation. "So, Rein, have you managed to correct the variance?"

  "All's in order." The man didn't even lift his face from his now-empty plate.

  Distrust blossomed in the pit of her stomach, a blend of her own and Aqu—Sotiris's. The toddler harbored such dislike for him, which had existed well before he'd been injured by him, only to be amplified by the abuse he'd received from the mechanic. That foreign sensation . . . he had been tapping into her mind since the moment she had found him. Had Aquila brushed against Rein's mind? And if he had, what had he seen or felt in it? What she'd give for that answer.