Zero Recall

by Sara King

  The air-lock between their ships remained shut. A closed-circuit message came to him directly from the other ship.

  Eventually, Rri’jan got on the com system. “I want you to know, Forgotten, that I am not here to kill you.”

  “The word of a murderer is unto the word of a Huouyt to me, and since you are both, forgive me if I find it hard to believe you.” Forgotten considered the current predicament of the Geuji imprisoned on Levren and decided that they would want, at the very least, to be able to communicate with each other. That, of course, would never happen with Yua’nev at the helm of the Peacemakers. Yet the Huouyt—psychopathic monsters that they were—traditionally maintained the Tenth through Twelfth Hjai of the Peacemakers, and their assassins would simply kill any non-Huouyt who had the audacity to try to claim a higher rank.

  “I am here to hire you,” Rri’jan said, the truth ringing in his voice at a ninety-ninth percent certainty.

  “I’m sure you are aware that the Huouyt are infamous for their ability to lie,” Forgotten said as he accessed Rri’jan’s ship’s database and pored through Planetary Ops records. There were several profiles that interested him. Daviin ga Vora would make a good Representative—if he had financial backing—and the Baga Traxxalihania had the familial ties to regain for his people thirty-two planets from the Huouyt and Ooreiki, should the Baga become aware of the discrepancy. Corruption and payoffs were increasing throughout the Peacemaker accounts, with over fifty percent of high-profile Sanctuary cases being fraudulently performed to increase the populace’s fear of Peacemaker reprisals, further suggesting the current Peacemaster needed to be replaced, preferably by someone with a conscience.

  Rri’jan seemed to understand that he would die as soon as he stepped on Forgotten’s ship without an invitation, for the airlock remained shut.

  “The Huouyt want what is ours.”

  Forgotten monitored Dhasha missives in the Old Territory as he listened. Several denned princes were attempting to foment war using new Dhasha planets along the distant outskirts of the Outer Line as staging points, and were conspiring with kin entrenched in the central Congressional planets. As if that was anything new. Mekkval couldn’t send a team after them, however, because nothing sent down a deep den ever came back, and, in desperation, Mekkval was considering going after them himself, which would mean his inevitable death. Considering how Mekkval was one of the only decent beings in the Regency at that moment, Forgotten wanted to avoid that if possible. To Rri’jan, he said, “You want me to arrange Mekkval’s death.”

  If Rri’jan was unnerved at how much Forgotten had deduced, he did not show it. “We want Na’leen’s seat on the Tribunal returned to us. If you can do it more easily without killing Mekkval, then—”

  “Mekkval must be killed for the Huouyt to gain the Tribunal seat,” Forgotten said. “Unless you would rather oust Prazeil. But you won’t. The Jreet are much more easily manipulated than the Dhasha, and Mekkval has a personal distaste for Huouyt, so he would be likely to thwart you on every vote he could.”

  “Then you agree to help us?” Rri’jan demanded.

  “I agree to nothing until I hear your terms.” Forgotten continued to monitor food shortages around the struggling new colony planets along the Outer Line. The military had overreached itself again, and the Ground Force was even then taking rations from starving settlers, turning several non-aggressive species’ planets into dwindling ghost-towns that would be easily swept up and re-colonized by Huouyt before the Planetary Claims board got around to making up the proper deeds. Further, Aez’s charismatic new clan leader Prazeil had whipped his followers into a blood-fever and all three Jreet bloodlines were on the verge of a full-sector civil war that would boil over into eighty-six other planets, including three peaceful Ueshi pleasure-planets, the Bajnan banking planet of Faelor, and Ooreiki’s hallowed temple-planet of Poen.

  But Rri’jan retorted, “I will only present my terms in person, and I am not stepping aboard your ship until I am sure you will not make the experience unpleasant.”

  “Then we are at an impasse because I am not going to be pleasant until I am sure you are telling the truth. As it is, I am only ninety-two percent convinced.” Forgotten studied the other feeds coming in from the Outer Line. An enterprising Dhasha prince had secured a planet very close to Earth and had given Human scientists a massive amount of classified Congressional documents, and Humans had taken the bait. Using his information, they had begun top-secret genetics experiments that would get Earth a severe Congressional rebuke—and finally give the Dhasha access to Earth for slaves. The Kophat-trained Human was the best candidate to help stave off that disaster, but in order to fulfill that destiny, his Va’gan tormentor was going to have to forgive and forget. Or at least move on.

  “Ninety-two percent is not enough for you?”

  Forgotten set his studies aside. “With my slow, painful death at stake? No.”

  “Very well,” Rri’jan said calmly. “What can I do to convince you?”

  “Take the pattern of a Takki and have your Jreet blindfold you and secure your hands behind your back with stasis links.”

  Anger hovered in the flatness of Rri’jan’s voice. “I am a Representative of Congress.”

  “And I am a myth. I would rather not be dispelled.”

  “You realize that by angering me, you are only increasing the chance that I’ll kill you?”

  “Probabilities are a tricky matter,” Forgotten replied. “You see, for every moment I anger you, not only does it increase your chances of future rash decisions, but it changes the probabilities of how you will react to future situations, thereby giving me an edge in any future conversations. Your anger also reflects on how likely it is you are telling the truth, which has jumped considerably after your last statement, all things considered.”

  “What probability will it take to convince you I come to bargain?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “And to do that, I must take the pattern of a Takki.” Distaste was thick in his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “And if I said I do not carry Takki patterns with me?”

  “Then you would be lying, though your probability would only drop slightly, since Huouyt have the tendency to lie uncontrollably and you still might be telling the truth, as much as it pains you.”

  “Very amusing, Geuji,” Rri’jan said coldly, “but I understand the symbolism. I will have my ships annihilate you before I assume the role of your slave.”

  Which meant Rri’jan was telling the truth. In certain situations, the Huouyt were as prideful as the Jreet. Had it been an assassination attempt, Rri’jan would have had no qualms with donning a demeaning pattern, since he would have simply made Forgotten’s death all the more painful for it afterwards. Being forced to wear the pattern of a slave, however, was unacceptable to a Huouyt royal.

  “You may board, Rri’jan,” Forgotten told him, deactivating the ship’s defense protocol. “I will suspend any unpleasantries until I have heard your proposal. You have my word.”

  Rri’jan hesitated. “That was a test?”

  “Of course.”

  Rri’jan said nothing. The airlock opened and he stepped inside. Forgotten immediately decreased the artificial gravity of the ship to be something more comfortable to the Huouyt’s ancestrally aquatic, boneless, three-legged frame. If Rri’jan noticed or cared, he said nothing. As Forgotten watched through the ship’s cameras, the Huouyt strode purposefully down the hall and stopped at the entrance to Forgotten’s chamber.

  “Open the door, Geuji.”

  Forgotten found the idea of having Death literally a few digs away strongly alluring. He opened the door before he realized how alarming that was.

  The Huouyt stepped inside, dressed in the gold and silver garb the Ze’laa family preferred—a testament to his success as a Va’gan. The writhing white cilia that covered every ninth of his skin were utterly calm and still, despite the fact that they both knew Forgotten held
the Huouyt’s life in his hands. His eyes were the bright, white-blue shade that most species found unnerving, even going so far to suggest the Huouyt could read minds and peer into souls with their eerie gaze.

  Forgotten preferred to think that the eeriness behind a Huouyt’s stare was simply due to their soulless nature. Of all the species he’d ever worked with, he found his experiences with the Huouyt the least enjoyable. It had actually been very satisfying to see Representative Na’leen’s grand schemes foiled on Kophat by a handful of raw recruits just over fifty-three turns ago. To think he might be working to regain what Na’leen had rightfully lost left Forgotten discomfited.

  “I warn you, Rri’jan,” Forgotten said, as Na’leen’s replacement to the Regency looked idly around his chamber. “I do not like Huouyt. Your offer must do much to persuade me, and I do not need wealth.”

  Unlike most species when confronted with a Geuji’s featureless mass, Rri’jan’s gaze did not fumble for some point of reference. Instead, it simply found a spot and stayed there, his unnatural eyes never moving.

  “Then perhaps I should warn you, Geuji,” Rri’jan replied casually, “that if our bargain here does not please me, I will tow your ship back to Levren and hand you over to the Peacemakers.”

  Oh, this was getting even better. Perhaps Forgotten would let the fool live…with permanent drug-induced mental instability. “You will not kill me?” he asked, as surprised as he could manage.

  Rri’jan’s expression was cruel. “Why would I do that? You are one of the most critically endangered species in Congress.”

  “So your offer is a threat?” Forgotten asked, amused. “Help you or join the rest of the Geuji in prison?”

  “Help me and I shall use the Tribunal to see the Geuji freed.”

  Though Forgotten had long ago considered this as a possibility, to have another species say it out loud threatened to steal all logic from his mind. Hope flared like traitorous sparks in his core. It required all his effort to ground himself, to remember the past.

  “Aliphei would not allow it.”

  “Prazeil and I can override Aliphei. ‘Tis the nature of the Tribunal.”

  “Why would Prazeil care about the Geuji?”

  “The Jreet have a soft spot for misfortune.”

  It was true. Forgotten realized with alarm that the sparks of hope had grown into something more. Rri’jan offered something Forgotten had always wanted but had never been able to acquire. Something that even his wealth had never been able to buy.

  Freedom.

  Despite his distaste for the Huouyt, Forgotten said, “The Huouyt will be given a permanent place by the Tribunal.”

  Surprise agitated his visitor’s cilia. “Permanent?”

  “Yes,” Forgotten said. “I see no need for the Huouyt to continue to struggle and bicker with other species for a seat whenever one becomes available. We should make your station as permanent as Aliphei’s.”

  Satisfaction rippled briefly across Rri’jan’s breja. “How long will it take?”

  “A turn.”

  “You already have a plan?” Though Rri’jan tried to hide his surprise, the ship’s monitors picked up the steady increase in Rri’jan’s biological functions.

  “Yes. For the Huouyt to gain a Tribunal seat, we must kill Mekkval.”

  “How?” Rri’jan asked, intensely interested, now, and trying unsuccessfully to hide it.

  “The first step is to start a war,” Forgotten said, already seeing it in his mind.

  “What kind of war?”

  “The kind Congress has never seen before.”

  CHAPTER 2: Zero Recall

  “Have you seen this man?” Joe held up the age-progression photo of his brother to the dirty glass window.

  The hollow-eyed man behind the booth scratched his greasy beard and said, “A man like that don’t come cheap. You a cop?”

  “I’m his brother.”

  The man looked him up and down and snorted. “Yeah. Right.”

  “Look at him, damn it,” Joe said, pointing at the picture. “We’re obviously related. Same chin. I’m just trying to find him. I haven’t seen him since the Draft. He could be going by the name Sam or Slade, okay?”

  The druggie’s hollow, skull-like gaze sharpened on Joe, for the first time taking in the rash that had developed around the newly-activated hair follicles of Joe’s face and scalp. Immediately, distrust tightened his features. “You’re a Congie?”

  Joe closed his eyes to keep from putting his fist through the glass and strangling the doping bastard. “Not anymore. I was forcibly retired a couple months ago. Please. I’m just trying to find my brother. I hear he’s still alive. Some sort of rejuvenation technology or something.”

  The druggie’s face darkened. “Thought you sounded funny. Get out of here ‘fore I get my gun.”

  “Listen, you sootwad,” Joe snapped. “I’ve gone through eight other furgs just like you, all of whom said the same thing, and all of whom ended up telling me exactly what I wanted to know. Think about it. I was a Prime Commander in the Congressional army. Been working in Planetary Ops for fifty turns. It was my job for a good number of those turns to make vaghi like you sing like canaries. You really wanna piss me off?”

  The druggie eyed him sullenly. “You weren’t in no Planetary Ops.”

  Joe slapped his right palm to the window, displaying the tattoo of a green, single-moon planet with a headcom, a PPU, and a species-generic plasma rifle leaning against the debris ring. The tattoo glowed slightly, a cell-by-cell gene modification that caused Joe’s skin to bio-luminesce. It was a government nannite tat, and no ink in the world could duplicate it.

  Even as the druggie’s eyes were widening with shock, Joe once more pressed his brother’s picture to the window.

  “Oh, shit, man.” The addict behind the window looked paler than ever. “You’re asking the wrong person. He’s a big-timer. I’m just a wanna-be, man. I ain’t got no idea where the Ghost is.”

  Joe had to fight back the frustration he had felt ever since returning to Earth to find his mother twenty years dead, his brother vanished into the world of crime. As of yet, every single person Joe had interviewed had responded in the same maddening way. They recognized his picture, but didn’t know anything else about him. It was like Sam really was a…ghost.

  “So tell me what you know of him,” Joe said, as calmly as he could. “Everything you can remember.”

  “Shit, man. Shit. I ain’t never seen him before, man. Just heard of him. Shit, I shouldn’t even be sayin’ nothin’.” The guy swallowed and looked around like he expected the very walls to be watching them. “Don’t care if you are his brother, he wanted to talk to you, he would’ve found you already.”

  “I’ve only been here a week,” Joe growled.

  The druggie nodded emphatically. “Yeah, man. If the Ghost had wanted to talk to you, he definitely woulda talked to you by now.”

  Joe was fed up. The last seven days of civilian life had been hell. Not only did they question him, but sometimes they outright refused to talk to him—something that had blown Joe’s mind the first time it happened. People were rude to him, especially when they realized he’d been a Congie. His PlanOps tattoo tempered that a little bit, but the hostility was still there. While he got along with every alien species even better than a Jahul, Humans, his own kind, hated him.

  Once more, Joe wondered if he’d made a mistake in coming back to Earth instead of settling on an Ueshi pleasure-planet like Kaleu or Tholiba. On Kaleu, he would’ve been treated with the same welcome and respect as any other of the three thousand, two hundred and forty-four sentient species in Congress. Here, he was just one of those kids that got brainwashed by aliens. Here, he was the alien. He might as well have Ooreiki tentacles or a Huouyt’s breja for the nervous looks and outright sneers he got. Earth simply didn’t want him.

  And yet, the Ground Force didn’t want him, either. Not anymore.

  Not after Maggie’s final bitch-slap i
n front of half of Congress.

  Thank you for your latest reenlistment application, Commander Joe Dobbs, but the Congressional Army is over-capacity and is no longer in need of your services. We’ve scheduled your shuttle back to Earth for tomorrow morning…

  Bitterly, Joe said, “Just tell me what you know about him, okay?”

  “They call him Ghost,” the druggie said. “Not because he’s hard to find, huh-uh. Because he—”

  “—bleached his hair white and wears contacts,” Joe interrupted. “Yeah, I know. What else?”

  The druggie’s greasy brow wrinkled. “No, man. Who told you that?”

  “Look,” Joe snapped, “Do you know anything that might be helpful? As I see it right now, you’re just wasting my time. Just like I told all the other ghost-burning sooters I’ve come across, I grew up with the little furg and he’s got blue eyes and brown hair. Even if he went all the way and had his eye color permanently changed—which, if he’s really as smart as everyone says he is, he didn’t—his eyes don’t fucking glow. How stupid are you people?”

  The guy raised his hands in surrender. “Man, I just know what I been told.”

  “Really?” Joe barked. “Then who told you? Maybe I’ll get some answers from him.”

  “I don’t know, man,” the guy said, rapidly shaking his head. “I know a lot of people. I was prolly stoned at the time. Karwiq bulbs, you know? The one good thing Congress brought with ‘em. You get a good one and it’s like you died and went to heaven.”

  Joe narrowed his eyes and leaned in close to the glass. “You wanna find out what that really feels like?” Joe growled. “I’ll show you, you Takki leafling.”

  The druggie sobered, really looking at him now.

  Joe tensed, realizing that this could be the break he’d been looking for.

  “Gum,” the druggie said finally.

  Joe waited, then when that was all that was offered, he blinked at him. “Gum.”