Sara was unable to bring herself to release him, and he wafted like marsh-grass in her embrace.
Jemmi stood transfixed until he swept beyond her range of vision, and said carefully, “Neh, Yee. I don’t think I want to go with you.”
Yee faced her, and his voice was cold with threat. “That is unacceptable, Jemmi. You have a great responsibility to humanity, and I need you by my side for the great works I will do. You will be my empress. One way or another you will accompany me, and I assure you that you will rejoice in the opportunity.”
Jemmi averted her eyes from his. She reached out and placed a thought in Roycer’s mind: Roycer, kill Yee. It’s important.
Roycer sized up Yee with a stony glance, and quietly shucked his heavy pack. He took a few wary steps, and then rushed him. Suddenly startled, Yee snapped his head around, and Roycer froze in mid-stride. His muscles shuddered horribly as Jemmi leaned the force of her mind against Yee’s. Blood trickled down Roycer’s chin from where his jaw had clenched on his tongue.
“Is this the best you can do, child?” Yee sneered. “Use the last gasp of an exhausted puppet against me? Countless others with real weapons have made the attempt, and they have all failed.” His stoop disappeared, and he became a towering presence in the white chamber. “I am the immortal Andrew Constantin Fujiwara Borsanyi, founder of the Cosmopolis, eternal First Lord of the League of Man, and architect of all mankind’s history. Who are you?”
Jemmi had no answer to that.
She released her pressure on Roycer, and he fell backwards towards her across the invisible floor. Instead, she reached out to Sara. She had to grope because she no longer knew where to find her, but at last they touched, and Jemmi’s urgency roused Sara’s attention. Jemmi concentrated all her awareness on the launch bay, dead Albiorix, and Yee standing next to the shuttle.
He’s the one! She flung the rage and fear towards Sara. He killed Albiorix! And now he’ll do worse—
The thought suddenly bloomed in Jemmi’s mind that the most clever and crucial thing she could do was get down on her knees and bow her head. She welcomed the idea as an inspired stroke of brilliance, and rushed to kneel in submission. She heard Yee’s footsteps snap against the crystal floor as he sauntered towards her, and it did not trouble her.
They felt the rumbling through the walls and the floor then. It started hushed and far off, a sustained roll of thunder that rushed up and overtook them.
Yee cocked his head and frowned, and then his eyes widened as he identified the sound: Sara had spasmed her entire boneless body in a long rolling wave, like a rope snapped across miles of ground. It was the roar of an earthquake, focused and aimed right at him.
Jemmi grabbed Roycer and spurred him with an intensity that sent him scrabbling maniacally past her into the cover of the stairwell. She dove in after him.
Yee dropped the canister and extended his arms overhead, not to fend off Sara’s body, but to reach into her mind. He stood there for the space of a heartbeat, but there was no time to learn to contact her, and he abruptly broke and fled for the stairwell, all gangly arms and legs.
He snatched at Jemmi’s ankle, and from somewhere she found the wherewithal to shout, “Your nanos!” throwing all the weight and urgency she could into the thought. Yee stared at her and hesitated a moment—perhaps it was the power of her suggestion, or perhaps it was the age-old habit of cherishing his burden—and then spun back into the launch bay.
At that moment the living ceiling of the chamber lurched high up with a great solid heave that pulled the air screaming past their ears and whiplashed back down into the launch bay. It hammered against the invisible floor in an paroxysm of violence that obliterated Jemmi’s scream. The shuttle and its equipment, which could bear the forces of vacuum, fire and ice and had stood unmarked for centuries, were instantly pulverized into a thin stratum of wreckage. Yee, standing among them, was mashed into nothing.
The wave rolled off again just as quickly, trailed by the sound of receding thunder. A stunning silence stretched for several minutes, punctuated as bits of unrecognizable debris rained down towards the stars from where they were embedded in Sarasvati’s side, clattering or splatting to a stop against the crystal.
Jemmi pressed her face hard against the stairwell wall and waited until the world had stopped reverberating. It took a long time before she judged it was safe to move.
“Let’s go, then,” she said to Roycer—no compulsion, just an order. “Ah, wait.”
She threaded her way into the launch bay and picked through the ankle-high detritus until she found Yee’s canister. It was dented and scraped, but almost none of the paste had been spilled. She took it.
“Now we can go.” She led Roycer back into Sarasvati, and up the long stairs. She was careful not to touch his thoughts again. Near the top of the climb, he stumbled to his knees, and clear-minded for the first time in weeks, sobbed with horror and loss. Jemmi sat several steps above him with her arms wrapped around her shins and waited patiently, mindful of all the things Roycer had seen and done, allowed no feeling but solicitude for Yee’s needs. He doubled over and retched. When he began glaring at her during his pauses for breath, Jemmi picked herself up and continued climbing. He hurried to follow.
Jemmi stepped out through the ragged hole at the surface and climbed to the top of the mound. The air tasted to her as if it were filled with pain and righteous fury. A raw pink line now ran from the end of Sarasvati, crossing over the stairwell, and continuing deep into her interior. A strip of ground more than a hundred paces wide had wrenched itself clear, exposing the bare flesh beneath it. Trees, stones, earth and bits of homes lay tossed and scattered to either side for as far as she could see. In the hazy distance, a series of aftershocks or convulsions raised dust clouds and sent ripples running back towards them. Jemmi’s own body burned in aggrieved empathy. She would never let anyone hurt Sara again.
Roycer joined her on the rubble and surveyed the destruction.
“What are you?” he asked.
Jemmi blinked for a moment, and while she considered, he shifted his weight and raised his fists to strike her. She flicked his mind and he went still. And that gave Jemmi her answer.
“Bow down,” she told Roycer. “Get on your knees and bow down before me. I am the priestess of Sarasvati. I have come, and everything will change now.”
With that, as her boy knelt with earnest awe and reverence, Jemmi walked to the place where Sara’s wound was the worst, and poured the contents of Yee’s canister out into it.
* * *
Originally published in Twenty Epics edited by Susan Marie Groppi and David Moles.
* * *
The Mind is its Own Place
Carrie Vaughn | 11153 words
Professional fingers pried open Mitchell’s left eyelid, and white light blinded him. The process repeated on the right. He winced and turned his head to escape. The grip released him.
“Lieutenant Greenau?”
He lay on a bunk in an infirmary. It wasn’t the Francis Drake’s infirmary. The smell was wrong; the background hum of the vessel was wrong. This place sounded softer, more distant. Larger. With effort, he shifted an arm. His head hurt. He felt like he’d been asleep for days.
“Lieutenant Greenau? Mitchell?” The figure at the side of his bed gave him something to focus on. A middle-aged man in a white tunic, with a narrow face and a receding hairline, frowned at him. “How are you feeling?”
“Groggy.” He struggled for awareness.
“You were sedated.”
“Can you give me something to clear it up?”
“I’d rather not put anything else into your system just yet.”
He wished he didn’t have to ask: “Where am I?”
“You’re at Law Station, Lieutenant.”
Law Station was a Military Division forward operating base and shipyard. It would have taken the Drake days to get here, and he didn’t remember the trip. Law also housed an extensive medical f
acility.
Softly, as if afraid of upsetting a fragile piece of equipment, he asked, “Why am I here?”
“What do you remember?”
He’d arrived on the bridge for his shift. He’d checked in with Captain Scott. Then he assumed he’d taken his place at the navigator station. He must have done his job as he had a hundred times before. He checked in with the captain, the duty log scanned his thumbprint—
“I was on the Francis Drake. On the bridge. I said good morning to the captain. Then—I don’t remember.” He kneaded the sheet draped over him, cramping his fingers. He was wearing a patient gown, not his uniform.
“That’s all right.” The doctor smiled, but the expression was shallow, artificial, a forced attempt at bedside manner. “I’m Doctor Dalton, one of the supervising physicians here. If you need anything, a pager is at the side of the bunk.”
“Doctor—” Mitchell forced himself up, rolling to his side and leaning hard on his elbow. The effort left him gasping. “What happened?”
Dalton’s manner was implacable, as if he’d had this conversation before, with other patients, over many years. “This is the neurophysiology ward. Are you familiar with what we do here?”
His heart pounded; his tongue was dry. “Yes.”
“You were brought here because you have OSDS.”
Among themselves, in private, the navigators called it Mand Dementia. The condition was degenerative and incurable. It was one of the risks of the job. An acceptable risk.
“But I feel fine. I don’t feel—” Except for the sedation—why had he needed to be sedated? “I don’t feel sick. I’m not—” I’m not crazy.
“I know, Lieutenant. I’m sorry.”
Mitchell slumped back against the mattress.
He kept a close count of the time. It seemed important, to prove he wasn’t sick. Everything he did had to be 11normal and healthy. He wasn’t sick, and the doctor was wrong.
Halfway through his first waking day cycle, he heard voices coming from the office next to the infirmary. Doctor Dalton was one, and he brightened to hear the other: Captain Crea Scott.
Dalton said, “He didn’t exhibit any symptoms before?”
Scott answered, her normally brash voice hushed and brittle: “He didn’t. I know what to look for. He was fine at the start of the shift, and an hour later he was screaming about flying monkeys to starboard—”
Mitchell lay very still.
“He hasn’t exhibited any symptoms since he’s been here. He also doesn’t remember anything that happened. We won’t know the extent of the damage until we run tests.”
“Could there be a mistake? Could it be something else?”
“I reviewed the log myself, Captain.”
“May I see him?”
“That should be all right.”
Mitchell lay with his back to the door and didn’t see them enter. He waited to turn when Scott said, “Lieutenant Greenau?”
Scott stood a few feet away from the bed, her petite frame tense, her arms crossed. Her face was drawn; she looked ten years older than the last time he’d seen her— when?
He sat up and smiled, relieved. Like she was going to rescue him or something. “Captain Scott. It’s good to see you.”
She didn’t return the smile. “How are you feeling, Lieutenant?”
“Still groggy from the sedative. But I’m okay. I feel fine.” He glanced at Doctor Dalton to make sure he heard.
“That’s good.”
“Captain, I don’t understand why I’m here.”
“That’s okay. Just rest. Don’t worry about it.” After putting a hand on his arm, she bowed her head and turned away.
“I did something, didn’t I? What did I do?”
Scott didn’t turn around. Her voice was painfully steady. “Just take care of yourself, Mitchell. Don’t worry.”
Dalton followed Scott out of the room, and Mitchell heard his captain say, “He’ll be safe here?”
“Yes. As safe as we can make him.”
Then Scott said, her voice low and angry, “Make sure he never remembers what happened.”
A door slid open, then closed again, and the captain was gone.
He pressed his thumb to the duty log, he said good morning to the captain, he went to his station—
He only knew that much because it was the routine, what he’d done over and over for years. Was he remembering some other time, or that time?
Compared to his quarters aboard the Drake, the room he was given here was spacious, an eight by eight square with a bed, desk, computer console, and private washroom. For the whole of his adult life, Mitchell had slept in closets, with a narrow bunk and a cupboard for his belongings. He’d shared washrooms with other junior officers. Who needed more? Who ever spent time in their rooms? He’d always been so busy.
The door to the room locked from the outside. He couldn’t leave without escort. Orderlies brought meals and returned to take away the trays. Mitchell counted two of them, Baz and Jared, working in shifts. They were polite. Mitchell said thank you, and they smiled at him. He had a change of clothing—pale blue hospital-issue jumpsuits—every day. He could read or watch entertainments at the console to pass the time, when he wasn’t in therapy.
That first night he didn’t sleep, but lay back on his cot and stared at a bubbled security monitor in the ceiling, wondering if this was a test.
The second doctor he encountered had an unflappably optimistic professional demeanor, and Mitchell distrusted her for no good reason except that nobody was that genuinely enthusiastic about anything. In spite of himself, Mitchell shook her hand after Baz escorted him to her lab.
Her space was a bit more inviting than other areas of the hospital. Handheld terminals lay strewn across the desk among forgotten drink bottles and writing implements. A sweater hung over the back of a chair. Photos shone from wall displays: image after image of human brains, parts color-coded and labeled.
A dark-skinned woman with short hair and an eager smile, she came around the desk. “Lieutenant Greenau? I’m Doctor Ava Keesey. I’ll be starting your therapy today.” She offered her hand.
“Not Doctor Dalton?”
“I’ve requested your case. I hope that’s all right?”
He didn’t know what his choices were to be able to make one, so he said nothing.
“Have a seat right over here, Lieutenant.” She guided him to a reclining chair surrounded by unidentifiable equipment. Gingerly, he climbed in; its cushions molded under him, supporting his body. The chair tipped back until he was horizontal.
“Any questions before we start?”
“Is the Drake still in dock?”
“I don’t know. I can check for you.”
Her smile was fake; he didn’t think she would check.
“What happened? Why was I brought here?”
“It’s better if you remember on your own, rather than construct false memories based on anything I tell you. If you can please keep your head back, I’d like to start the scan.” Her cool hand on his forehead eased him back against the headrest. “You’ve been through a cortical mapping session before, yes?”
“Yes.” Every navigator had one done at the start of their career. A baseline.
“Then you know all about this. Just relax.”
Machinery closed over his crown, sensors pressing against his scalp, tickling the fuzz of his hair. He looked straight up to off-white ceiling.
“Can you hear me?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I’d like you to move your left thumb. And again. Left index. And again. Left middle. And again.”
And so it went, through the range of motor skills, then across the range of sensory input. Keesey played music and noises, offered him tastes, put sandpaper and cotton into his hands, recording the results with straightforward efficiency.
“Now I’m going to show you some colors, each one for a few seconds. Pay attention, please.”
A screen swung into vie
w over the chair and flashed to life, displaying solid blue, then green, then yellow.
He went to the navigator station, slid into his chair and belted in. Ready for the jump in three, two—the monitor showed a swirl of color. The wrong colors, circling like predators—
Orange, red, purple. Mitchell blinked. Solid squares appeared in sequence on the screen. Harmless.
“What is two plus two, Lieutenant?”
“Four.”
“Two times two?”
“Four.”
“Four times four?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen squared?”
“Two hundred fifty-six.”
Yellow, orange, red.
“Thank you.”
The wrong colors. They were the wrong colors.
Keesey moved away, her footsteps clicking on the hard floor of the lab. He remained locked in the chair, unable to turn his head.
“Can I sit up?”
“In a minute, Lieutenant.”
He wished he could see what she was doing. He heard clicks, movements, maybe fingers tapping on a keypad, or machinery shifting into place. All the sounds were inexplicable.
Mitchell waited a painful, silent minute before saying, “Doctor?”
“Patience, Lieutenant. I want to get a little more data.” Did her voice sound stressed? Uncertain?
She went through the entire sequence again, generating a second cortical map. Finally, she released him from the equipment.
“What’s wrong?” he said, sitting up.
Her smile didn’t seem any different than the one she gave him at the start of the session. “How much do you know about OSDS?”
Occupational Synaptic Dysfunction Syndrome. It was the bogeyman, the monster in the dark. The price they paid for crossing the void. Some people said M-drive propulsion violated the laws of physics, and the Universe took the cost of that somewhere else: in the minds of the navigators who plotted courses through the unreal. Their minds became . . . nonlinear.
Forever Magazine - January 2017 Page 10