by Scott Sigler
And yet, it must be done.
“Thank you for coming.” I almost ask him what he thinks of the view, of leaving Omeyocan, but I realize that such pleasantries are procrastination, delaying the words that need to be said. Because I don’t want to hurt him.
Perhaps there is still a bit of girl left in this ancient woman after all.
He’s smiling, yes, but it’s mostly empty. Hollow. He is happy to be alive, happy I’m alive, happy our people are safe. But, as I have, he’s left a trail of dead friends in his wake. This huge, strong man is no brute. He feels deep loss. He knows great pain. His heart has been shattered over and over.
I am about to shatter it yet again.
“We can’t be together,” I say. “I am telling you, once and for all, that there is no us.”
His smile fades. He blinks slowly.
“You…you’re breaking up with me?”
That’s not exactly right. I’m not the person he was with on Omeyocan—that was Em—but I nod anyway.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t want to lead you on in any way.”
“But…why?”
“Because I’m over a thousand years old. I have a millennium’s worth of memories and wisdom that give me perspective on life. You aren’t even twenty. You are a man, yes, a great man who has sacrificed endlessly for our people and will continue to do so, but compared to my age you are barely even a child. It would not work. I am doing the right thing by letting you go now.”
He stares at me for a few moments. He turns his head, gazes out at the blanket of bright stars.
“It’s not fair,” he says quietly.
I nod. “I know.”
He wipes away a silent tear.
“I did everything I was supposed to do,” he says. “I was a good person. A good man. I backed you every step of the way. Even when I knew I shouldn’t. I changed who I was to be with you.”
I reach out and take his big, scarred hand. I expect him to pull away. He does not. We lock fingers. Through his grip, I sense more of his pain—he desperately doesn’t want to let me go. I remember how his hands felt against my skin. That part of me wants him still.
“You are a good person,” I say. “Just not a good person for me. And I am not a good person for you, because the one you did those things for is gone. I’m not me anymore, Ramses.”
He hangs his head. Another tear drips down. He sniffs once, then nods.
“I think I knew this was coming. I sensed you were different. I understand, Mattie…I just don’t want it to be true.”
I start to say Reality is what it is whether we like it or not, but I stop myself. He doesn’t need a lecture. He doesn’t need this explained. He is hurting enough without me adding to it by being a know-it-all asshole.
“You look just like her,” he says. “I know your scars. I know how you got each and every one of them. Why do you have to look just like her?”
He lifts his head. Tears line his cheeks and he does not care. He is a warrior. He is a hero.
“We were made for each other,” he says.
I nod. “We were. But we’re mismatched in time. I know you’ll find someone. You will make some lucky woman on this ship impossibly happy, and you will have your family.”
He gives my hand a final squeeze.
Without another word, he climbs the ladder.
I watch him until he vanishes into the ship. Then I sit at my desk and gaze out at the stars.
Twelve centuries of wisdom, of watching people interact, of watching heartbreak and healing, it all tells me Ramses Bishop will be fine. That doesn’t diminish his current pain, not in the least, but before he knows it he’ll find love again.
Ramses Bishop will be happy.
Will I?
I am 1,208 years old. I have the body of a girl of eighteen. The Cherished are alien to me now, wrinkled black things that reek of a time of war and lies and blood and hatred. The Birthday Children are just that—children. The things they find important are mostly meaningless to me, things I left behind centuries ago. A few of the New People are a hundred years old or more, but even they seem like mere infants. Barkah and the Springers are another race entirely, friends but so different in the way they think and act.
My memories are coming back now. Although they are still a jumble, pieces are starting to fall into place. My final puzzle—that of my own past—is almost complete.
I open the book. I look at the picture of Lahfah, then flip to the first page.
It’s blank.
I dip the quill into the inkwell, and I begin to write.
I made the sacrifices that needed to be made. For my people, I did what had to be done.
Because of that, I am the only one of my kind.
My name is Mattie Savage.
I am alone.
This is the life of Matilda Savage.
This is the life of Em Savage.
This is the story of our people, and our continuing journey.
And now, we approach a new planet. Will this be the place our next chapter begins? We can only hope.
If that happens—when it happens—I will create Volume Two of our history.
But for now, Volume One is complete.
July 14, 3892
Signed,
—Mattie Savage—
I close the leather book.
I sit back in my chair, stare at the well-worn cover.
It’s finished. I can’t believe it.
I did it.
I finished my first book.
I’ve been alive for twelve centuries. I’ve accomplished so much. I didn’t think I could feel this way again, reel from that rush of accomplishment. As I stare at the book—my constant companion of the last four years—I realize this is among the greatest things I have done.
Footsteps on the ladder. I’m not supposed to be bothered here, which means it can be only one person—the leader of our people.
The Crystal Ball is a disaster. There are food wrappers all over the metal grate floor. Scrolls, both tied up and loose, litter my stone desktop, as do crumbs and smears of meals past. I’m ever grateful we didn’t bring ants with us into space, or they would live here for certain.
I’ve been wearing the same toga for days. For weeks, actually. I’m pretty sure I stink. Bad.
Some grand old matron of the human race I turned out to be.
I glance up: two people coming down, not just one.
I sweep as much of the garbage as I can off the desk and into the trash bin at its side, realizing too late the bin is already overflowing—I’ve made the mess worse.
The leader reaches the bottom of the ladder.
I straighten my toga as best I can.
“Hail, Maria.”
Maria D’souza rolls her eyes at me.
“Do you have to do that crap, Mattie? We’ve been over this before—you can just say hello.”
She wears a green toga dotted with polished bits of steel. The Springers manufacture most of our clothes now, and usually decorate fabric with bits of polished glass, shaped copper, buttons of gold carved from old storage drives, anything that is colorful and fun. Not Maria, though—the only accent she allows is steel, which matches the polished rectangle hanging around her neck.
She chooses steel because that’s what weapons are made from. She wants everyone to remember that war may come to us again, and if it does, we need to be ready.
Her forehead circle is gone. Kalle developed a way to surgically remove the symbols. No one has them anymore.
No one except me. I not only kept mine, I had it modified, added a line to it—my null-set symbol is part of who I am.
Maria didn’t come alone. Little sandaled feet reach the last rung. The three-year-old boy turns, looks at me and smiles wide.
“Auntie!”
He runs to me and I pull him in for a glorious hug. I tousle his curly blond locks. With his mother’s light brown skin and his father’s hair and dark-yellow eyes, this boy will soon be a he
artbreaker.
“Hello, Walter! Are you behaving?”
He kisses my cheek. When he does, his nose leaves a streak of snot on my skin. I don’t even care.
“Ew, Auntie,” he says, wrinkling his tiny nose. “Stinky.”
I’m twelve centuries old and can still get embarrassed? Stunning how we continue to learn about ourselves.
“Sorry, Walt. I’ve been too busy to bathe.”
He runs to his mother and hangs on her arm. She swings him lightly, absently, as if he’s nothing more than a giggling handbag.
Maria nods to the desk. “You finished it?”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve never seen that book closed before. Well, did you?”
A warm feeling in my chest.
“Yes, I did.”
Maria lets out a very unleaderlike squeal. With her free arm, she hugs me, kisses my cheek.
“Congratulations!”
My body stiffens. I can’t help it.
“Oh, sorry,” Maria says. She takes a step back. “I know you don’t like to be touched. I just got so excited for you.”
I nod. The moment isn’t ruined, but it’s become awkward.
Little kids can hold me, hug me, kiss me, but not adults. I don’t feel comfortable around adults. The Birthday Children mostly leave me alone here. The Cherished have learned not to bother—I can’t seem to exchange anything other than superficial pleasantries with them. The New People are the worst—they bow when they see me, treat me like I’m some kind of deity. I hate it.
“I’ll make this fast,” Maria says. “Three things.”
That’s her style. She communicates quickly and succinctly, then moves on.
When I stepped down as leader, Ramses didn’t want the job. Neither did Theresa or Xander. Borjigin won our first election. He worked very hard and established several new policies that helped improve the ship, but in the end he wanted to focus on building machines and repairing long-broken parts of the Xolotl. After his one-year term as Yalani—that’s what we call our overall leader—he didn’t run for reelection.
Maria has won every election since.
She and Bishop are married. I have seen them together many times. They were happy before the birth of their son, and now are even more so. She is in her third one-year term as Yalani.
Maria visits me more often than anyone else. All decisions are hers to make, but she frequently asks for my counsel.
“Three things,” I say. “Go ahead.”
“First, Barkah is trying to set up a puppet government again, with him as king.”
I’m reminded why I stay away from everyone: a ship full of children and their petty motivations.
“Is this the second time he’s tried that?”
“Third,” Maria says. “This time he’s claiming that since the Springers are a minority, he should have a louder say in government, that their rights are being infringed upon.”
“The Springers have exactly the same rights as everyone else.” I tilt my head backward, indicating the turquoise-colored planet we’ve been approaching for months. “He’s doing it because of that?”
“Of course,” Maria says. “I think he’s angling for a Springer-only homeland if the planet proves permanently habitable. Anyway, I need you in the next session of Congress to advise against any separationist movements. Will you help?”
I sigh, but I nod. While the Springers love Barkah, they realize Em is the main reason they’re alive at all. The Springers don’t really understand that I’m not her anymore, but since I look like her, I have significant sway over their general opinion.
“Second thing,” Maria says. “You’ve insisted on keeping our history in that book alone. Now that it’s complete, we need it properly recorded for future generations. I’m putting my foot down, Mattie—that book comes with me.”
I glance at it. The leather-bound tome has been my only friend for the last four years. I don’t want to let it go. But I’m not the leader, and it’s not my choice to make.
I pick it up off the desk, feel its familiar weight.
Before I can change my mind, I hand it to Maria.
“Wonderful,” she says. “Just one more debt the citizens of this ship owe you.”
This is the most talking I’ve done in months. I feel my skin start to crawl. I just want to be by myself.
“And the third thing?”
“Someone is coming down right after I go up.”
I sit in my desk chair.
“Please, Maria. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“Too bad, so sad,” she says. “Four years of hiding here is enough, I don’t give a damn how many lifetimes you’ve lived. Listen to me carefully—the person coming down made a choice. There was no coercion. None whatsoever. I conducted the interviews myself, repeatedly. So did Ramses and Theresa.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll see.” Maria kneels, holds the book in front of Walter. “This book is very important, honey. Can you hold it tight and not let go?”
A wide-eyed Walter nods solemnly, impressed with this new responsibility. He clutches the book tight to his chest.
Maria scoops the toddler up with one arm.
“Remember, this was a choice,” she says to me, and she climbs the ladder.
I watch her go. Part of me wants her to stay, but it’s useless. Conversation is always stilted, forced. I just have nothing in common with these children.
Maria enters the ship.
Someone else starts down the ladder. A man wearing a black toga. He moves with a certain grace, a certain dignity.
When he reaches the bottom, he turns to face me.
It’s Victor Muller.
“Hello, Mattie,” he says. “A pleasure to see you again.”
Other than a few passing words in Congress when I’m required to speak out against particularly stupid ideas, I haven’t spoken with Victor in years. He’s matured—I can sense it more than see it.
“I’m very tired,” I say. “What can I do for you?”
He’s become more handsome since we left. There is a scar on his cheek he didn’t have repaired. He has the face and body of someone seventeen or eighteen, with well-defined muscles and young skin. I know he and the other soldiers train for combat every day, teaching hundreds of New People and Springers in the ways of war. Victor, clearly, is in excellent shape.
“I thought we might talk,” he says.
I rub my eyes. “That’s the last thing I want, Victor. Whatever would we talk about?”
“Do you remember when I volunteered to join Matilda’s mutiny?”
I stare at him, feel my eyes narrow.
“I do remember. Who told you about it?”
“I didn’t need anyone to tell me about it. I was there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That was four hundred years ago, you weren’t even…”
He can’t remember that. He wasn’t there…his progenitor was.
The young man before me smiles.
“Please, call me Vic from now on. Victor was someone else. We merged. We are one.”
For the first time in years, I wish I had my spear. I stand up, so suddenly filled with rage I’m shaking.
“How could you do that to him? He was just a boy!”
“A boy who chose it,” he says. “Didn’t Maria tell you?”
She did. Her “interviews”…those were with Young Victor and Old Victor both.
“You…I mean…he…he wanted to be overwritten?”
“Such a harsh term,” Victor says. “But yes, that part of me wanted it, perhaps even more than the old part did.”
I feel a burst of excitement, of hope—someone I can talk to, someone who has been through what I’ve been through.
“But why?”
He reaches out slowly, takes my hand. I let him. For once, my skin does not crawl at the touch of someone else.
“Because Young Victor was in love with you,” he says. “And while
he never told you, so was Old Victor. And now, we both are.”
I pull my hand away. I can’t believe this is happening.
“You go through that process and you assume you can just come here and, what, that I’m yours?”
Victor—Vic—laughs.
“As if anyone could make Mattie Savage do anything she didn’t want to do. I don’t assume anything. I’m just a centuries-old man asking a centuries-old woman if she’d like to chat for a bit.”
The way he and Em fought together on Omeyocan. The way he and Matilda fought together in the rebellion. Brave. Selfless.
Both versions of him.
I remember plunging the knife into Matilda’s heart, her fury, her terror. But she was evil incarnate—she deserved it. Vic, the Vic I knew for centuries, did not.
“Old Victor helped us,” I say. “He shouldn’t have had to die that way.”
Vic’s smile widens.
“He didn’t die. He’s still alive.”
It takes me a moment to process that.
“But the ritual,” I say.
Vic shrugs. “The former young me and the former old me agreed there was no need for it. Everyone saw what happened to you, Mattie. When I…sorry, when he went to the X, he knew he would live on, as long as his body will allow. We have dinner together every night. We even started a book club.”
We’re all one people now—there’s no need for barbaric executions. So obvious and such a simple decision to make, yet it never occurred to me this was possible.
It’s nice to know that as old as I am, there can still be surprises.
Vic walks around the desk. He adjusts his black toga, sits on the desk’s front left corner, and stares out at the blue planet.
“Speaking of books, Maria told me you just finished yours. Maybe that means you’d like to take a break. If you want me to leave, I will. But if you’d like to sit with me and talk, I’d like that.”
The overwrite—perhaps now more accurately described as fusing, I suppose—carried risks. Young Victor knew the person he was would die in the process, cease to exist just as Em ceased to exist. He knew that. He did it anyway.
He did it…for me.
I shuffle more than walk around the desk. I sit on the front right corner.
“Yes, I’d like to talk,” I say. “I’d like that very much.”