Asimov's SF, April/May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I jerk awake, shudder, trying to get the images from my head. Leona wants me to remember.

  I don't.

  I get up and take a blanket off my bed. Then I stop and look at the wall, the only wall I have decorated.

  An old blanket—a quilt, to use the proper term—adds color to the room. Pinks and reds and glorious blues, mixed together in a wedding ring pattern. The quilt has been in my family for generations, given, my mother said, to an ancestor as the Fleet embarked from Earth itself.

  I don't know for certain because I've never tested the quilt. I keep it out of harsh light. It's preservation framed, done by my grandmother, and its beauty should remind us of tradition, of homes we'll never see again, of family.

  I have cousins on other ships in the Fleet, family, some distant in corridors down the way. We are not close. My sister has a daughter, and if I never have children, this quilt will go to her.

  I wrap the blanket around myself and walk back to the divan. I recline on it again, look out the portal, see that brightly lit blackness, threatening starshine, but not delivering it.

  And—

  I'm still climbing. The sunlight beats down on me, the heat nearly unbearable. I've been praying for the wind to stop since I got here, but now that it has, I want it back, if only to get rid of the insects and the stench.

  I am the only one alive. I do not want to look but I do—faces, eyes especially, eyes glazed over and an odd white. Blood everywhere. I climb, standing on people and if I look up, I can see an edge to the pit I am in.

  I stop, listen, hear only my ragged breathing. If I can hear it, someone else can hear it too. Someone lurking out there. Someone who will—

  I can't do it this way. There is no comfort in this apartment, in these rooms. If this is a memory, then I do not want to be alone with it.

  If it is a nightmare, I want it banished.

  If it is an example of how I will live from now on, I cannot. I will not. I will die before I continue like this.

  I contact Leona. Her face appears on my wall screen, looking concerned. I do not give her time to speak.

  I say, “I'm going to have the evaluations."

  And then I sever the link.

  * * * *

  The guards escort me to the medical unit. I'm not used to being escorted. I'm used to leading. But these two men, both bigger than me, walk beside me, brushing against me, making it clear that I'm in their power.

  They lead me down one of the main corridors in the ship, so it's wide enough for people to pass us. Everyone who does averts their eyes, partly because I no longer look like me, and partly because I'm being escorted.

  Just because there are five hundred of us on the ship doesn't mean we all know each other. Some of us apprenticed on other ships. Some of us grew up elsewhere in the Fleet. I met Coop on the Brazza, when we were going to school. That we both ended up on the senior staff of the Ivoire had less to do with our designs than with our abilities, and a gap in leadership at the Ivoire at the time.

  Back then I was young enough not to realize that I profited from other people's failures. I notice now.

  Just like I'm being noticed, even though people are looking away. They see a crazed woman, hair down, so distracted she forgot to put on shoes before she told the guards she wanted to go to the medical unit. I'm walking through the cold corridors with bare feet, wearing a knee-length white shirt and matching pants—my comfort clothes—in a place where almost everyone else is in uniform.

  The medical evaluation unit is on the fifth level of the medical wing. Everything here is as white as my clothing, with nanobits that keep the walls and floors clean. My bare feet leave footprints that get erased by the nanobits after just a moment. The dirt from the guards’ shoes evaporates as quickly as well.

  The staff working in the medical unit must work one week in other parts of the ship. This area is too sterile for good human health, and the medical personnel who do not leave find themselves developing allergies and sensitivities to the most normal things—like skin cells and cooking oils.

  I've put in time in the medical unit as well—all of the linguists do as part of our training. We program the medical database with medical terms from any new language we've learned. We also train the staff to speak the most rudimentary forms of many languages—enough to ask after another person's health—and to understand the answers.

  The guards lead me to the fifth level. There a woman waits for me. She's not the woman who invaded my apartment. Nor is she anyone I know.

  She's tiny, with raven black hair, black eyes, and a straight line for a mouth. She extends her hand.

  "I'm Jill Bannerman,” she says. “I'll help you through the evaluation."

  "I can't do anything until my advocate gets here,” I say. The words come out awkward and ungracious. I'm excellent at being accommodating, at saying the right thing at the right time—or I used to be.

  "I know,” Bannerman says. “I'll get you ready, and then we'll wait for her. She should be here shortly."

  I don't know what ready means. It makes me nervous. I shake my head. “I'd like to wait."

  "All right,” she says, as if she expected that. “Sit here. We'll get started as soon as she arrives."

  She leads me to an orange chair that curves around my body as I sit. I'm so paranoid that I wonder if it's taking readings from me.

  But the Ivoire—the Fleet, actually—has privacy laws. Even if this chair records information off me, no one can use the information without my permission.

  Have I given permission by agreeing to the evaluation? I have no idea. I should have checked with Leona first.

  That's what she'll say.

  Jill Bannerman speaks softly to my guards, then she leaves the room. The guards move out of the main area and back outside the doors. I'm alone in a room with half a dozen chairs, with walls that reset themselves, and furniture that changes color every ten minutes. First orange, then red, then mauve, then purple, then blue. I watch the furniture, a bit unnerved by it all.

  There is nothing else to watch, no entertainment, no open portals, no other people. Just me and the constantly changing furniture.

  I tuck my cold feet underneath my legs and make myself breathe deeply. I want to tap my fingertips on the chair, but someone will read that as nervousness, I'm sure. I don't know why I'm worried that they will notice—it's hard to miss, and if the system is recording my vital signs, the nervousness will show in my elevated heart rate, my slightly higher than normal blood pressure, and even in my breathing.

  The only thing I'm not doing right now is regretting my decision. I'm suddenly quite happy to be out of my apartment. I hadn't realized how claustrophobic I felt in it, how shut down I had been. How terrified.

  The doors slide open and Leona sweeps in. Her green tunic changes the color scheme in the room. Now the chairs float through forest colors—green, dark green, blue-green, blue. She slides into a chair across from me.

  "We can still leave,” she says.

  I shake my head.

  "We need a consult, and we can't have it here,” she says.

  So I am being monitored. “I'm doing this,” I say.

  "You made that clear,” she says. “Now we determine how to do it best for you."

  Whatever that means.

  "There's a privacy room just over there,” she says. “We're using it."

  I've read up on advocacy. She's not supposed to give me orders. She's supposed to follow mine. But she's worried and I'm not strong enough to fight her. Besides, I'm not leaving the medical evaluation unit. I'm just stepping into a private room for a few minutes to consult with my advocate.

  I don't have to take her advice.

  She touches the wall and a door slides open. I hadn't noticed it while I was waiting, distracted (apparently) by the constantly changing furniture.

  This room is also white with a black conference table that has grown out of the floor. Two chairs sit side by side. I suppose if more people walk
in, more chairs will grow out of their storage spots on the floor.

  The overhead lights spotlight the chairs and nearby, coffee brews as if someone set it up for us. Leona ignores it, but I help myself. As I touch the coffee pot, pastries slide in from the far wall. Pastries and an entire plate of fruit, some of it exotic.

  "I thought we're on rations,” I say to her.

  "We are, but maybe the medical wing is exempt."

  The food gets her up and she stacks a plate with strudels and danishes and things I don't even have a name for. I grab a banana which looks like it came from one of the hydroponics bays, and something with lots of frosting and raisins.

  My stomach actually growls. I'm not sure when the last time I ate was.

  We sit down with our food and our coffees, suddenly so civilized.

  She picks up one of the danishes, but doesn't take a bite. “I know I can't change your mind, but I want you to know what's at risk."

  I eat the banana first. It's green and chewy, not really ripe, almost sour. I don't care. It feels like the first food I've eaten in years, even though it's not.

  "I found out why they brought you back to the ship,” Leona says.

  That, of all things, catches my attention. It sounds ominous.

  "Why?"

  "They need to know what happened planetside. They need to know if it's our fault."

  A shiver runs down my back. If it's our fault. Of course it's our fault. The Fleet meddles. That's what we do.

  "What do the other two survivors say?” I ask.

  She doesn't look at me. Instead she takes a bite of that danish and eats slowly. I want to push her on this. I want her to tell me everything right now.

  But some vestiges of my training remain. I sit and watch, counting silently to myself because it's the only way I can keep still. Stillness used to be my best weapon. I could wait for anyone. I could listen forever, and learn, without making a move. But I seem to have lost that ability. I'm restless now, and time feels like it has speeded up. Even though I know it has only taken a moment for her to eat that small bite of pastry, it feels as if she has taken an hour.

  "What do they say?” I ask because I can't wait any longer. So much for stillness.

  "I don't know,” she says. “I haven't spoken to them directly."

  "But you know,” I press.

  She shrugs a shoulder—a sorry-said-all-I-can shrug.

  Then she sets the pastry down and wipes her hand on a small napkin. “Look,” she says. “If that mess turns out to be our fault, then you'll probably be executed. Now do you see why I don't want you to do this?"

  "I need to do this,” I say softly.

  "Why?” she asks.

  "The memories are coming back. I can't experience them on my own. It's better if they all come back at once."

  She stares at me, and then sighs. “I'll see what I can do,” she says, and leaves.

  * * * *

  I sit in that room for what feels like forever, but really is only about an hour. There is a bathroom next to the service area, and I'm able to use that, but I'm not able to leave the room itself. I pace. I count to ten in fifteen languages. Then in six more. And then I start over because I can't remember all the languages I just tried.

  I've just started counting to one hundred when Leona returns.

  "Jill Bannerman is outside,” Leona says. “When she comes in here, you tell her what you told me about not being able to cope. Be dramatic. The more threatened you feel the better."

  "I won't be lying,” I say. “I can't do this alone."

  Those words are so inadequate. If I close my eyes, I can feel the heat, the blood drying on my skin, the bodies rolling beneath my hands. I can't sit still with that. I have to move. And the more of it that comes back to me, the more movement I need to make.

  "You tell her that,” Leona says. “Make it very clear that this is a medical issue."

  "Why?” I ask.

  "Because that gives you legal protection. You'll be considered a patient, not a criminal. If they had taken you that afternoon when you called me, you'd've been a criminal. Just like you would have been if you hadn't waited for me today. This way, you'll be able to say anything, do anything, and it won't come out in a legal proceeding. At least not in detail. The ship's staff can have an advocate in the room, and he can testify to what you say, but it won't have the force of your testimony. It can only be used to start an investigation, which they're already running."

  I stare at her. She thinks I've done something wrong. They all seem to think I've done something wrong. Is that why I can't remember?

  "Before you decide,” she says, “this is your last chance to go back to your apartment. You can do this on your own and no one will ever have to know."

  My stomach clenches. “And then what?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Will I ever be able to leave my apartment? Will I be able to return to my duties?"

  She shakes her head. “You'll be alive. Isn't that enough?"

  I think about the view from my portal. Stuck in foldspace with nothing to see. The same walls, a different view, if we're lucky, but the same walls for the rest of my life. No more languages. No more work.

  No more friends or family.

  Just me. Alive. In my apartment.

  Becalmed.

  "Send her in,” I say, “and I'll tell her the truth."

  * * * *

  The truth is that I am terrified of my own mind. The truth is that I'm afraid my memories will kill me. I'm afraid if I never access them, they will kill me, and I'm afraid if I do remember, I can't live with them.

  Somehow I stammer that out to Jill Bannerman and she takes some kind of notes and Leona gets her dispensation or whatever it is and I meet the senior staff's advocate, a man named Rory Harper, whom I've seen before, but I can't remember in what context.

  He's older, fifties, sixties, silvering hair and a dignity that I don't like. I don't want someone like him to see me go through the tests. I don't want anyone to see me.

  But I have no choice.

  So I agree to everything, and end up here.

  * * * *

  You never see the whole ship, no matter what ship you're on. About fifty ships have a specialty. Those ships never go on planetside missions because we don't want to lose them. I got the last of my education on the Brazza. The Brazza specializes in education, the Sante specializes in medical training, the Eiffel specializes in engineering, and the Seul specializes in officer training, just to name a few.

  And even on the Brazza, adventurous and young, I never explored the entire ship. No one did, no one could. There was just too much to see, too much to do.

  And here, on the Ivoire, even though I've worked in the medical wing, I've never seen these rooms.

  The testing rooms.

  They're dark and strange, buried deep within the ship. They feel like the very center of the ship, even though they cannot be. The Ivoire, like all of the vessels in the Fleet, has a birdlike design—a narrow, curved front, expanding to a massive body in the center with wider sections that seem like wings, and a final tail toward the back. This makes the Ivoire sound small, but it is not.

  The medical unit is in one of the wider sections, with easy access from several areas of the ship. The unit is several levels down, with a lot of material between it and the exterior, unlike my apartment, which is right on the edge. If an attack destroys a section of the ship, that section mostly will not include the medical unit.

  Or these testing facilities.

  They seem close, cavelike, and my breath catches as I step inside.

  I will be alone in here, with doctors of all kinds, as well as my advocate (Leona) and the ship's advocate (Harper) observing through the walls. Or through something. I am a bit unclear on the mechanism.

  Jill assures me that I will be safe, that the monitors in the floor, the walls, the very room itself, will know when I am too emotional to continue, and will pull me back. I will rest, the
n, and maybe even receive something to help me into a dreamless sleep.

  I do not like this room. I do not like the low light, the dark interior, the cushy floor. I want a portal or a screen or something familiar. Before the door closes, I catch her arm.

  "Is there somewhere else to do this?"

  She shakes her head. “This room is safe."

  "I don't like it,” I say. “There's nothing here."

  She gives me a sad look that I suspect she intended as compassionate. “We need the room to mold around you. Nothing in here can contradict what's happening inside your mind. That's probably what's making you uncomfortable."

  I cannot go inside. I remain in the doorway. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I can't do this."

  "It will help you."

  I shake my head—or rather, I shake my head even more. I don't realize until this moment that I've been shaking my head all along.

  "No,” I say. “I can't go in this room."

  Somehow Leona has found her way to my side. “If she doesn't want to go in, she doesn't have to."

  Leona's voice is firmer than mine. Its forcefulness makes my stomach muscles tighten. I feel nauseous.

  "People often balk before going in,” Jill says. “It's part of the process. Your memories are difficult, and the fear you feel has to do with them, not with the room."

  I'm still shaking my head. “No."

  Leona slips her arm around my back. She leads me out of the area. Jill follows, uttering soothing words, trying to coerce me back into that room.

  I can't. I won't.

  We get to the main room—the room that constantly changes—it's white now, with yellow accents—and I burst into tears.

  Part of me stands aside and watches myself cry. I don't cry. I can count the number of times I've shed tears, including the day my parents died.

  The crying feels alien, as if there is a part of me that I cannot control.

  "I'm sorry,” I manage.

  "It's better,” Leona says.

  But it's not. I'll be alone, in my room, dealing with the memories all by myself.

  At least I'll have a portal.