by Sara King
So, in his last two weeks of leave, alone and bored, Joe bought a yacht.
It wasn’t really fancy, just a few dozen million’s worth, but it was big and had custom Human-patterned seating and beds, so it wasn’t the scoop-shaped generic Ooreiki designs he was used to. At first, he had thought that the Human objects would be a well-deserved luxury, but the longer he used the chairs that seemed too flat, the mattress that had no concave slope, the sinks that were too tall, the carpets that were too soft, the more Joe wished he hadn’t wasted his money.
Joe was floating in the pool of his yacht, boredly eying yet another newscast of the Baga destroying a perfectly good Ooreiki freighter in a glorious ball of fire and twisted metal, when it occurred to him that maybe his life would be more fulfilling with a woman.
Joe thought about heading back to the barracks early and having his pick of the women there, then grimaced. That, he realized, was part of the problem. He could have any Congie girl he crooked a finger at. They idolized him. Adored him. Had pictures of him on their walls. Full color, with him twisted in a heroic pose, regally holding a rifle, his combat boot on a Dhasha’s head.
Joe had no freakin’ idea where they came from, but he wanted to slaughter whatever bastard had put them together, as it had made it impossible to find a girl that wasn’t starry-eyed with hero-worship, able to babble off the names of every battle he’d ever been in better than Joe could.
He briefly thought about hitting up the local bars on the off-chance he might find a civilian Human woman who would be interested in dating a Congie, then sighed. The chances of that were about as likely as surviving a spacewalk in his birthday suit.
Alone, bored to tears, Joe began surfing the species-specific, English-speaking Congie section of the local dating site with no real goal in mind. He was halfway through the first day’s personal ads when he ran across one that made him do a double-take.
Maggie P. 53 turns in service. Rank: Not Specified. Combat Experience: Not Specified. Height: 5’2” Looking for: strong man, 6’2” or bigr. gud in bed, descent cock. had tired of shity leys, lokin fer full-tyme relasionship. must be COngie…can’’t stand sivilyan wimps… gotta hve the bawls to stand up to a gurl. i’m sexy, intimadating, and self-relyant. real experyunced. I hve gud Rank, no i’m not telin. u shyoot me pic and i shyoot u mine. Want some1 dominunt and Taek-charge. welthy a big +
Joe sat there, staring at the ad for several tics. He glanced at the Create Account option. Then he closed his eyes and prayed to the Ooreiki ghosts for restraint.
Don’t do it, he thought, staring at the ceiling through closed eyelids. Mothers’ ghosts, don’t drop to her level. Just close the site and walk away.
When he opened his eyes again, however, he couldn’t help but read the ad a second time. He thought about every denied promotion, every overlooked kasja, every time he’d been forced to add time to his enlistment to buy gear or eat properly, and one question kept slamming through his mind, burning in his guts like a coal.
Why?
Why had she hated him so much? After so many turns, why couldn’t she just let it go? Why did she lie about him, sneer whenever she saw him, throw darts at his goddamn picture? What had he done to her to deserve that? Why couldn’t she just move on? Why did she hire private detectives to follow him, writing down every discrepancy, every tiny violation? What was wrong with her?
So they had been the only two survivors of their original groundteam on Kophat. So what? Millions of recruits died in that war. They bombed every barracks on the planet. So what if Joe hadn’t managed to keep them all alive? He still felt ashy about it, but he had moved on.
And, in that moment, Joe realized he needed to know. It wasn’t just a simple question, a yes/no answer or a multiple choice he wanted her to fill out at her convenience. He needed her to explain it to him, in person, so he could look in her eyes when she revealed to him that cardinal sin, that appalling crime that had made him worthy of so much loathing.
As soon as he realized that, he knew there was no going back. He began filling out an account under the name of Jimmy B. He put enough of his stats into his account to make it interesting without being recognizable, then sent her a message that said:
I’m a traveling Human merchant currently overseeing business in the Hev’asti textiles trade and I noticed your profile. I was intrigued! I’m not a Congie, but I’m wealthy and fit. I’m 6’4”, well-endowed, run my own inter-galactic shipping company, and can hold my own in Huouyt trade negotiations, so I am pretty confident I can be the strong personality you’re looking for. 53 turns! You certainly do have experience. I’ve always been fascinated with Congie women and would love to meet. If nothing else, dinner’s on me. How about tonight on my yacht? Say, 28:36? Hub 36A, door 139. Access code 2736009.
Joe hesitated, staring at the message for several tics before he hit SEND. Then he leaned back and sat there in his oddly-flat Human chair, watching the little flashing MESSAGE SENT light.
He couldn’t, he found, move from the chair. He kept checking and re-checking, waiting for her reply.
It came a couple hours later.
not ushuly my thng, but we can trie it. will be thare for dnnr. Hve sumthing too drink. i lyke kon-yak.
Joe stared at the reply for several tics before he nervously glanced at the time. 22:14. He had a little over six hours. He got up, took a shower, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, dressed and redressed, forced himself to eat half a hamburger, then just sat down beside the pool, nervously tapping his fingers on the armrest of the strange alien chair.
What do you think you’re going to accomplish with this, Joe? he thought as he watched the tics pass by with agonizing slowness. You’re just gonna ask her nicely what the fuck her problem is, and she’s gonna tell you?
No, he was not that naïve. She wasn’t going to just tell him what was wrong with her. He’d asked her enough times and she’d just laughed him off that that was painfully obvious. And, he realized with growing apprehension, the moment she saw his face, she would just leave. No way would she even hang around for the question. She would just get pissed, maybe fly off the handle, then go try to get him demoted again.
So what the hell was he thinking he was going to accomplish?
Yet, the more he sat there, agonizing over what Maggie would do once she realized just whose yacht she had stepped onto, Joe knew that he had to know. He had to get her to finally answer the question that had been burning at him ever since he’d graduated basic.
So he began to plot. He made dinner. He set out a note. He put on some nice Ooreiki music. He bought a couple alien flowers from the hub and set them in a glass of water. He left a trail of strategically-lit rooms and corridors, ending in the dining area. Then he stood in the shadows inside the bathroom and waited.
Maggie arrived ten tics early, dressed in wig, makeup, false eyebrows and lashes, and a body-fitting black dress. She’d taken out the contacts and now her soft gray eyes looked almost vulnerable. Joe actually felt his breath catch and his heart start to hammer, seeing for the first time the beautiful woman that had had nothing but sneering disdain for him for so long.
…the beautiful woman that, he knew, could have shared his life with him. They had so much in common, so many stories to tell…
He watched from the darkened bathroom as Maggie eyed her surroundings with a look of awe. “Hello?” Her voice was hesitant, almost timid.
Joe stayed where he was. He needed her to step deeper into the room before he could show himself, lest he risk losing the only opportunity he was ever going to get.
Maggie’s gaze finally came to rest on the note he’d placed on the coffee table inside the living-area, almost four rods into the room. She hesitated, and Joe got the feeling she was considering abandoning the meeting and going back out the way she’d come. He held his breath, waiting. He saw her eyes drift tentatively to the dining-room down the hall, where even then he had the light and music cranked up, giving it an appealing ambiance.
Almost reluctantly, Maggie left the air-lock and stepped down into the main living area, then crossed to the end-table. Setting down her purse, she picked up the note.
Joe knew what it read by heart.
Dear Maggie,
Tell me why. You owe me that much.
-Joe
Maggie started and dropped the note, but not before Joe had stepped from the bathroom and put himself between her and the air-lock. Seeing him, her soft gray eyes went wide, first with fear, then with fury.
“What the ash are you doing here?” she demanded, her decades-old sneer solidly back in place.
“I saw your profile,” Joe said. “Thought we could catch up.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the air-lock pointedly.
Maggie’s gaze flickered to the exit, then back to him. Her eyes narrowed. “Get away from the airlock. That’s an order. From a Corps Director.”
“So,” Joe said, staying where he was, “are you gonna tell me?”
Maggie’s look was deadly. “I could have you thrown in the brig.”
“Maybe,” Joe said. “Later.” He cocked his head at her. “Just tell me why, Mag. That’s all I want to know.”
“Why what?” she barked.
“Why do you hate me?” Joe asked.
Her pretty face twisted in a sneer. “You’re a traitorous waste of air.”
Joe kept waiting.
Maggie snorted and yanked her purse from the end-table. “Get out of my way.” She stomped up the steps to the air-lock and tried to push past him. When Joe remained where he was, he watched violence cross her steely gray eyes.
“Careful,” he warned. “You hit me and you will ruin that dress.”
“You’re threatening me,” Maggie laughed. “A superior officer.”
Joe just waited.
She must have realized that he was serious, because Maggie took a couple nervous steps backwards, away from him. “What do you want?” The sneer was gone, replaced with a hunted look.
“Tell me why,” Joe said calmly. “You’re not leaving until you tell me why you’ve been such an ashing backbiting vaghi bitch for fifty turns.”
Her pretty eyes darkened to the color of slate. “You really want to know?” It came out as a cold whisper.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Joe said.
Maggie set her purse down on a table-stand holding a fancy lamp. “All right, Joe. Here’s why.” Her gaze was like ice. “Once every few rotations, I’m visited by a Trith. They force me to watch my own death, again and again and again. Back in Basic, they would come to me every two or three weeks, while everybody else was sleeping. They’ll show me other stuff, too. Awful stuff. Like Earth getting wiped out. Covered in kreenit. Everyone getting eaten. Every time they come, they show me that soot, Joe. They show you in the middle of it. And I can’t stop them. They won’t. Stop.”
Joe frowned and he felt his arms loosen against his chest. “A Trith?”
“They want you dead, Joe.” Her cold gray eyes were becoming tear-filled. “And they won’t stop coming to me because they want you dead.”
“Mag,” Joe said softly, a wash of empathy flooding his chest. “I’m so sorry…”
“Oh burning shut up already,” Maggie snapped, swiping a forearm across her eyes. “You have no idea what it’s like, knowing your own future. Knowing you’ve got no choice in it. Knowing how and when you’re going to die. Having to see it over and over again. Makes me tempted to get out my gun and blow my own goddamn head off, to spite them, you know?”
“How do you die?” Joe asked softly.
Fear flickered across her eyes before Maggie looked away. For a long time, she just stared at the table. Then, softly, “An interrogation. Asking about you and that Geuji. Three days from now.”
Joe froze. “What?”
“It’s someone trained, but not military. Not Peacemaker, either.”
“Va’gan?” Joe demanded.
Maggie’s head snapped up. Slowly, she nodded. “Two of them. Working for someone powerful. Lots of pull.” She hesitated. “Joe, I think it was Aliphei.”
Joe frowned. “Ghosts, Mag! We need to get you out of here!” Jer’ait, he knew, would watch over her in the Sanctuary on Koliinaat, if he asked.
Maggie made a disgusted snort. “There’s nothing you can do. Don’t you understand that? They’re Trith, Joe. Whatever you try to do is only going to send me right into their arms.”
Joe opened his mouth to tell her that he was a vortex, that he could change the future, then he thought about that little docking slip sitting at a bar on Koliinaat. He closed his mouth and looked away.
“So now I’ve gotta ask,” Maggie whispered, stepping up to peer up into his eyes. Her hatred was there, as strong as ever, but there was also something deeper, something that reminded him of a little girl who missed her guppies. “What is it about you, Joe, that I’m going to die to protect?”
Joe opened his mouth. He almost told her everything. Almost.
Then he saw a rapt glint in her eye, a tiny window into a massive factory of sheer cunning, just for a moment, before it was gone, hidden away as if a shutter had been drawn. Joe blinked at her, every hair on his body suddenly standing on end in a bone-chilling wave.
“Burning ghosts,” he whispered. He took a step backwards, slamming his spine into the door, rubbing goosebumps on his arms. “Burning ghosts.”
The Huouyt gave him a long, deliberate look, then smiled. “I tire of her pattern, anyway. Fifty-four turns is too long.”
Joe was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he wasn’t carrying a weapon, not even a knife, and that there was no way he could get the air-lock open in time to escape his visitor.
“To answer your question,” the Huouyt said calmly, “I made your life a hell because Na’leen believed so much in you that he made stupid decisions. A hundred turns of planning, and he threw it all away because of the few whispered words of a Trith.” Maggie’s face smiled up at him. “And, because I failed Na’leen, I could never return to Va’ga. I had no place in society. No purpose. No meaning. You took that from me, Human. You left me as a pawn without a hand.” The Huouyt narrowed Maggie’s eyes. “So yes, nothing would make me happier than to see you die the dance of nine thousand slices.”
Joe swallowed convulsively, and the Va’gan returned his gaze for long tics, cold and silent.
“Now,” the Huouyt eventually said, Maggie’s pretty face still formed into a pleasant smile, “perhaps you will get out of my way?”
Joe was trembling all over, the tingles of alarm now a screaming cacophony in his mind. He was so sure he was going to die that he didn’t actually hear the words that had come out of his tormentor’s mouth. He blinked. “You’re not going to kill me?”
The Huouyt snorted. “Oh, believe me. I would enjoy nothing more.” Maggie’s eyes were cold and calculating. “But you’re going to destroy Congress. And I hate Congress more than I hate you.” Maggie’s face gave a bitter smile. “It’s a delicate balance.” The Huouyt gestured at the door and cocked its head at him, waiting.
Very slowly, Joe stepped aside.
The Huouyt gave him one last, long look. Then, “Tell Jer’ait he’s getting better, but he still has problems fully assimilating a pattern’s culture and psyche.” Then opened the lock and stepped into the hub beyond.
-END-
Note from Sara: Zero Recall is different. If you read it right the first time, it should’ve blown your mind. Now, if you read it right the second time, it should blow your mind again. It should still be perfectly entertaining the third time through. It was an experiment in layers. Like a cake. (Or an onion.) It was a complex biyatch to write, but I think (hope??) I succeeded.
So. Now that you’ve finished the book, I dare you to go back and read Chapter 1: Forgotten, and Chapter 5: The Hungry Kitten. I think it will answer a LOT of your questions, if you still have them.
Let me know! Oh, and if you liked this book, please leave me a review o
n Amazon! I can’t stress enough how, in the Grand Scheme of things, a few honest words from Readers Like You can really go a long way toward that World Domination thing I keep talking about. :)
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About the Author
My name is Sara King and I’m going to change the world.
No, seriously. I am. And I need your help. My goal is simple. I want to champion, define, and spread character writing throughout the galaxy. (Okay, maybe we can just start with Planet Earth.) I want to take good writing out of the hands of the huge corporations who have had a stranglehold on the publishing industry for so long and reconnect it to the people (you) and what you really want. I want to democratize writing as an art form. Something that’s always been controlled by an elite few who have (in my opinion) a different idea of what is ‘good writing’ than the rest of the world, and have been feeding the sci-fi audience over 50% crap for the last 40 years. (To get my spiel on character writing and what it is, jump to the Meet Stuey section of this book.)
To assist me in my goals to take over the world (crap, did I say that out loud??), please leave a review for this book! It’s the first and easiest way for you guys to chip in and assist your friendly neighborhood writer-gal. And believe me, every review helps otherwise unknown books like mine stand up against the likes of the Big Boys on an impersonal site like Amazon.
Also, I have an email! (Totally surprising, I know.) Use it! (Don’t you know that fanmail keeps writers going through those dark times when we run out of chocolate???) I love posting letters on Facebook—gives me something fulfilling to do with my time. ;) Shoot me a line! [email protected]