Someone to Remember Me: The Anniversary Edition

by Brendan Mancilla

  “Stay with us.”

  Eight marveled at Null’s certainty; the absolute conviction that reinforced her words. Her assurance anchored Seven into the waking world and he steadied noticeably. Twenty revved the boat to life and it carried them away from the pier as it raced towards one of the small islands in the distance.

  Ahead of their boat, spread across a large area of ocean, was the island chain the Unimatrix had spoken of. They were small and unremarkable but the nearest, which supposedly housed Rose Garden, displayed no extraordinary qualities.

  “I touched the Sphere,” Seven groaned. “It was cursed. I should’ve listened…”

  “You let him touch that thing?” Eight shouted at Twenty.

  “You’re surprised that I’m incapable of stopping either of you from doing stupid things?” Twenty yelled back at her, his uncanny knack for steering the boat managing to spare her from the brunt of his furious sarcasm. “We just have to get to Rose Garden. We’ll be fine there…” he reassured himself.

  The next ten minutes were excruciating. Seven’s modest reinvigoration persisted but Eight didn’t know if it was the Sphere and its fabled curse or the encounter with the monster that was to blame. When the boat finally motored alongside the pier at the island closest to Haven’s northern shore, Twenty killed the engine and an eerie silence swept over the survivors. He tethered the boat to the pier, masterfully recreating the knot he had seen at the Pala Ferry, and one by one the travelers filed off the vessel. Beyond the pier lay a dirt path that went in a straight line up a steep hillside.

  Eight realized, belatedly, that the hillside was green.

  “Color!” Ninety-Nine gasped. “There’s color here!” she cried hysterically.

  The discovery contributed to the weight of Rose Garden’s merit. After the work it took to get here, this place had to be special; there must be a worthy revelation contained within it. That small blades of grass grew alongside the dirt path was a worthwhile start.

  Their combined breathing became labored as they fought against the steep slope. Eight took the lead and dragged Seven along at her side. At the top of the path the survivors found that the trail dipped into a basin, a wide bowl. Eight gasped.

  A field of roses occupied the crater stretching ahead of them. Heavily scented air assaulted Eight’s nostrils and her eyes watered from the air’s sting. Red, white, yellow, and pink complimented the green of the basin’s encircling hillside.

  “Life,” Ninety-Nine whispered.

  If she were to die here Eight would not complain. In contrast to the hell of Haven this place was paradise. Temporarily dissolved, the group splintered and disseminated across the beautiful rose fields. Eight wandered through the flowers alone, captured by the grandeur and exceedingly careful not to trample them.

  Being without a direction suited her. Getting lost in the flowers felt like a dream. What had they come here for? The thought escaped her. What had they been looking for? It didn’t bother her. Eight’s fingertips touched the petals, trembling from the fear that the roses would disappear after prolonged contact. When they did not disappear, Eight thought that they pushed back against her hands.

  And so it was that the survivors discovered Rose Garden.

  “Over here!” Null shouted. “Come look at this,” her panicked voice cried out across the Garden. Eight converged with the others at the center of Rose Garden where Null stood adjacent to a squarish structure covered by roses.

  Gently, Null brushed away the curtain of roses to reveal a metal door. On the door was a familiar mark.

  “That’s the same symbol from the crates,” said Twenty.

  Ninety-Nine, standing to the side of the door, pushed a clump of foliage out of the way. Doing so revealed a silver panel mounted on a glass wall beside the door. “This whole structure is made of glass with the exception of this door and the panel,” she concluded and fearlessly placed her hands on the smooth plate. She shivered as the doors parted. “Elevator,” Ninety-Nine concluded when the metal door revealed the chamber’s empty interior.

  “Rose Garden must be an underground facility,” Null concluded, surveying the basin with a renewed awe and comprehension. “They hollowed out the island, built the facility, buried it in dirt and planted the bed of roses on top.”

  “Why build such an elaborate complex out here?” Ninety-Nine wondered.

  “Probably so they could make something worse than the AdvISOR,” Twenty guessed.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” said Eight.

  “Why aren’t you listening?”

  Eight didn’t recognize the voice at first. It was fearful, panicked, and almost childishly high-pitched. The soft, almost indiscernible, patter of water dropping against the dirt reached her ears. Out of curiosity Eight turned away from the entrance to Rose Garden. She saw that Seven must have been the one to speak.

  Seven fell to his knees.

  “Seven!” she screamed, running to his side.

  Two wide trails of blood dribbled out of his nose. The sides of his face and his cheeks were smeared with blood draining out of his ears. He was choking, his breath catching in his throat, oblivious to the bloody mess on his face. Seven’s eyes twitched up at the sky.

  He fell backwards and convulsed violently. Staring blindly at Eight he asked: “Don’t you remember me?” Eight lowered him against the ground and tried to wipe away the blood. Nothing in particular came to her, except the terror of knowing that he was in danger.

  “Yes! I remember you!”

  It was obvious that Seven’s mind was firing off random, unconnected thoughts. “I should have told you sooner,” he babbled. Twenty ripped open his bag. Unwinding a roll of gauze, he realized that he had no idea where to place it or what to do.

  The only option left for Eight was to hold him. Tightly. Feeling Seven writhe and spasm in her arms, as his eyes focused in and out on her face, caused her tears to flow readily. His blood smeared against her hands, her fingers, her arms, her clothes. Whatever Seven was experiencing, it was nothing short of a living nightmare.

  “Seven,” she cried. “What’s wrong?”

  Seven’s eyes frantically searched everything he could see and it occurred to Eight that he wasn’t with her anymore. He was somewhere else within his mind, lost and desperate to return. “Come back!” she shrieked, louder and more urgent than she thought herself capable of.

  Seven’s eyes swiveled back into focus. They were the only unbloodied feature of his face and they locked onto Eight. Slowly, the convulsions lessened and his breathing steadied. A familiar sadness overwhelmed his wrecked expression. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Come back,” he repeated hopelessly.

  And then One-Six-Two-Seven died in Eight’s arms, his empty eyes staring into the ones he thought so highly of.

  Part Two: Rapture

  Chapter Six:

  In Memoriam

  On the night of the art exhibition at the Imperial Galleria, Seven knew that the evening’s events would decide Haven’s future. Its citizens, soldiers, and rebels depended on Seven and his companions. Still, an intense anxiety threatened to isolate Seven from the night’s fanfare but Twenty’s persistent badgering bought his compliance. Three days since delivering his requests to the others outside of the Great Library, Seven felt himself slipping into a dangerous lethargy. Maybe the others would fail? Maybe they would refuse his outrageous requests?

  What if none of the others wanted the War of the Begotten to end? What if they wanted the status quo to endure, preferring that to actual change? He wasn’t sure that he wanted to escape it himself, not anymore, not when he understood what would be required of him. Seven pressed his forehead against the window of the car and watched the lights of Haven’s commercial districts danced against the glass, losing himself in their beauty.

  Years later and they could still mesmerize him. Sometimes, on the shores of Rose Garden, Seven would sit in the sand and watch the lights shimmer across the towers on the mainlan
d. That seemed to be Haven’s boundless gift to the world: light. It was fitting given that the city had brought an unthinkable darkness into the world as well.

  “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.”