He approached the entrance to his home away from the Kepler. A small holo screen appeared with the image of a hand palm. He placed the palm of his hand upon it, and waited two seconds for it to flash green, and grant him access.
A scanner in the ceiling shone blue lines of lights across his body, finishing at the back of his head. He panicked briefly, hoping he didn’t enter the wrong unit.
“Alert, HNI not detected,” the computer said. “Switching to legacy mode. If this is an error, please ensure your implant is working correctly.”
“It’s no error,” he said.
“Understood, continuing forward with legacy interface.” Holographic screens appeared next to Pierce and followed him everywhere he went.
It took him an hour, but eventually he figured out the basics of using the screens that allowed him to set the suite’s interior temperature and access his personal computer. He sat down on a sofa and played the stimulating game of scientific catch up, the task he didn’t get around to finishing when he left Odelea and Nereid in the lab.
The rate in which the zooming of flying cars zipping back and forth decreased as the night went on, as did the number of people walking on the sidewalks outside below. Pierce remained exactly where he sat reading, the trove of discoveries was too fascinating to ignore. Eventually he stumbled upon internet news sites, featuring articles talking about the brilliant minds he knew of during his days living on Earth. Many of them were still alive thanks to gene therapy. It was a reminder of the future he awoke into.
New hope massaged his thoughts. Perhaps she’s still around.
“Computer, since I don’t have HNI, would it still be possible for me to make a call to someone that has it?” Pierce asked.
“Yes,” the computer replied while loading a holographic dialing pad in front of him. “You may interact with this screen here.” A second screen with a local directory appeared next to it. “Use this screen to search for contact information of the person you wish to speak with.”
His hands tapped the directory screen and conducted a search for his old friend, Pernoy. The directory outputted a small list of possible matches, none of them featuring the profile photo of Pernoy or the corresponding Hashmedai title.
“Computer, there’s a person I’m searching for that used to live in the greater Vancouver area, Surrey to be exact. I suspect they moved. Would it be possible for you to conduct a search and locate where they might have moved to?”
“Please state the name of the person and any relevant data pertaining to them.”
He provided the computer with everything he could think of. Pernoy’s full Hashmedai name, mate’s name, the name of his brother, the fact she used to live in Surrey, with two children, Lyir and Eupiar, a Hashmedai-human hybrid.
“No information is present,” the computer replied. “Please be advised that some of the first generation of displaced Hashmedai on Earth, left to return to the Empire in the early 2040s. If that is the case, then you will need to know their Imperial HNI codes. Please note that directories listing Imperial citizens are unavailable in the UNE and Radiance.”
An uncountable number of minutes passed with him performing internet searches. There were a lot of old news reports about the HLF that popped up. Other reports went on to talk about Pernoy’s daughter, Eupiar, and how she was involved in the battle of Barnard’s Star. His inquiring mind wanted to know more about that battle, and so new searches were made.
Wikipedia had a trove of information pertaining to the Radiance cult known as the Celestial Order. The reading of that page lead him to pages about Whisper, the intelligence branch of Radiance, and its involvement with that fiasco.
And their ability to create fake memories.
It got him thinking.
“Computer, is it possible for the Radiance Union Whisper organization to erase memories of an individual?”
The computer gave its chilling reply.
“Whisper agents are known to implant themselves with fabricated memories to infiltrate various organizations, terrorist groups, exile settlements, and governments. Creating exact copies of real memories is also possible, as well as the ability to doctor them to remove segments of them or replace them with fabricated ones. So, yes, a skilled agent can create the illusion of erased memories.”
Could Whisper be behind our memory wipe? He thought. The Abyssal Sword which allegedly entered Sirius was Radiance after all.
A yawn interrupted his thoughts and internet searches. It was time for bed rest, it had been a long day, and he still had an apartment to finish setting up. Pierce stretched himself out on the couch, grabbed a pillow, and nodded off.
Pierce saw Nereid in his sleep. She was wearing the same tattered Poniga robe as when they first met, pestering him about Pernoy and knowing exactly how she looked, since fragments of his memories were copied and stored within engram orbs.
“She’s very beautiful. Hashmedai, if I’m not mistaken?”
Her soft soothing voice was blissful to hear. Back and neck pains made her image and voice fade away, replaced with his apartment’s living room. Pernoy waved to him, she was sitting at the barstool-like chair next to the kitchen counter. Too bad she wasn’t real either and faded away as he sat up from the couch, dampened by his body from a short sleep.
His floating holo screen was still active, and its screensaver had a cartoon character shaped like a cherry dance around it. It was quite a peculiar thing to wake up to, as he recalled, he never set the screensaver to display that image. The desktop appeared when he went to resume where he left off with his readings. A flashing red envelop icon caught his attention, a new qmail message.
Who could that be? he thought and searched for his wrist terminal. There were no missed messages on that, ruling out that he missed a comm from Foster or a member of the crew. The message was from an outsider.
He opened the message.
To: Travis Pierce
From: Diamondrose
Subject: (NO SUBJECT)
Sent: October 15, 2118 00:54 SST
Come see me at AOK-14 pub in the atrium tonight. The Mary Pickfords there are fabulous.
XOXO
He had doubts this was simply an advertisement. The establishment in question had much brighter ones located throughout the atrium. Cheap qmail ads like this were beyond them as far as he was concerned.
His inquiring mind wanted to know more and typed a reply.
Who are you?
No less than thirty seconds after he minimized the window, the new qmail message chime sounded. The sender was quick to reply.
I’m a friend, offering a helping hand to help you locate Pernoy and her kids :) The Carl Sagan’s science officer deserves to know what happened after all those long years. Don’t you agree?
XOXO
He didn’t type in a reply. He sat back and watched the screen as an apprehensive feeling held his body still. The sender, Diamondrose, knew his name, his qmail address, knew he was part of the Carl Sagan’s crew, and knew about his recent searches in regard to Pernoy. He stared at the screen long enough for its screensaver to reappear, and the cartoon cherry danced around once again, almost mocking him.
There was no way this was the default screensaver. A quick glance at the terminal’s settings confirmed that. According to its logs, it was changed recently, like when he was asleep. His mouth twisted as he adjusted the settings and changed the screensaver back to its original splendor of random colors and lines, from the animated maraschino cherry.
Atrium Arm, A-OK Fourteen Pub
Amicitia Station 14, Arietis system
October 15, 2118, 01:15 SST (Sol Standard Time)
As the years go by, things change. Life evolves, plants grow, people are born, age and grow into adults. Stars die, and new ones are formed in the aftermath of the violent, yet dazzling, supernova. But music? It just gets weirder and weirder as time goes on, to the point where Pierce couldn’t tell if the sounds that came from the loudspeakers of the A-OK pub w
as real music, or just the computers glitching out.
The music that played at the bar was a headache-inducing mixture of electronic noises, with no lyrics, or recognizable instruments. It was just pure beating sounds and irritating racket. Pierce being too old for this was an understatement.
He took a seat at the bar, and strobe lights flickered about bringing temporary light to what otherwise would have been an extremely dimly lit environment. Humans and aliens mixed and mingled behind him, slurring their drunken words and laughing. A Qirak and a Vorcambreum played a game of cards in the back as shimmering jewels were piled high on the center of the table between them. They were playing for keeps. A human man wearing an UNE Marine tank top and dog tags approached a group of young Aryile women wearing brief and backless dresses. Pierce wondered if the women bathed in a pool of glittering makeup beforehand.
Holo screens hovered high up on the walls, some played sports games from across the galaxy, and others had the local news on. The bartender’s hands were full, literally, with blue-colored bottles tending to the needs of navy personnel with empty glasses. Pierce opted to watch and listen to the news playing, listening being the hardest part with what was going on around him.
The news broadcast had a number of people sitting at a round table, debating a hot topic he figured. The headline at the bottom of the screen read ‘Terran Legion, friend or foe?’
“So, what is your take on the Terran Legion group then?” The journalist on the news broadcast asked a man wearing a business suit.
“You know, a few months ago I would have said they are undoing the work humanity had done over the last one hundred years,” the man replied.
“Being?”
“Look at us today? When was the last time you heard someone use a racial slur against another human? Put someone down because of their gender or sexual orientation? William Steward, the last president of the United States, said during a speech to the UN, that in order for humanity to survive in the galaxy, we must unite and put aside our differences, and view one another as humans, and nothing more.”
“And then he was promptly attacked by Hashmedai assassins.”
“Yeah, yeah, then the Empire attacked us and nearly sent us back to the Stone Age. The human race uniting as one, allowed us to rid ourselves of the Empire. In comes the Terran Legion group spewing their anti-alien and pro-human messages across the UNE.”
The debate on the broadcast continued. Focusing on it helped Pierce forget about the racket in the background that was considered to be music of the twenty-second century.
“Which is disgusting if you ask me,” said another journalist. “Yes, we had a rocky start with our rise as a galactic superpower. But look at what we’ve accomplished thanks to the help of aliens? Hell, we’ve even managed to convince both the Empire and Union on entering a ceasefire. Nearly all of our exterior colonies were helped to be built by the hands of Hashmedai seeking to escape from the totalitarian rule of the emperor and empress, or Radiance races that were exiled all because they didn’t pray enough in the eyes of their peers. In the past, those aliens had fled to the Morutrin system. Now? They have a second option, live here in the UNE. We’re making the galaxy a much better place.”
“Are we truly though? And at what cost?” said the man, who was clearly in opposition to the presence of extraterrestrials living in UNE territory. “Six million Jews were killed by the Nazi’s during World War II, thanks to Hitler. Two billion human lives were killed by the Hashmedai during the Empire’s invasion of Earth, thanks to Empress Y’lin. Y’lin was worse than Hitler, and now we’re making friends with her daughter, Kroshka.”
“Oh, please.”
“And let me remind you, thanks to gene therapy and cryostasis, some of those Hashmedai that were loyal to Y’lin, are still alive today. Some of them still hold a grudge against us and live in our cities on Earth and across the UNE. This is why groups like the Terran Legion exist; they’re putting human interests first. The Terran Legion is here to remind people that alien leaders like Y’lin won’t hesitate to wipe our species out. Here to remind us that fanatic Radiance cults like the Celestial Order, wouldn’t hesitant to sacrifice our people in bizarre rituals to please their Gods. Here to remind us that perhaps a direct show of force against the Draconians is a better plan that will ensure the preservation of the human race, rather than Rebecca Foster’s message of peace.”
“The galaxy has seen enough war thanks to the conflict between the Hashmedai and Radiance, the invasion of Earth, the Celestial Order wars, and the dragon incursion. Captain Foster’s plan might be what the galaxy needs to put an end to this chaos.”
“Assuming she’s not under alien influence, something EISS had long suspected, and something some of us are after watching Mitrovica’s interview with her the other night—”
“Blah, blah, blah . . .” said Paul the bartender, yanking Pierce’s focus back into the bar, while the people on the news broadcast continued to squawk back and forth. “People always got something to bitch about. Want anything to drink?”
“Oh, yes,” Pierce said facing him. “A Mary Pickford cocktail.”
Paul snickered. “Sure thing, bud.”
Paul disappeared to mix the drink. It gave Pierce the chance to watch an interview of Foster taken shortly after their arrival on the station, well the last thirty seconds of it. When the interview ended, the screen returned to the debating group sitting calmly at their round table.
“Yet another question few people took the time to ask,” said the man in support of the Terrans. “Foster has alien tattoos she refuses to comment on. Her ship, the Johannes Kepler, is the only one to make it out of the Kapteyn’s Star system, and she just unleashed hordes of survivors onto the station who had been cut off from humanity for months. How can we be sure they can be trusted?”
“Foster? Or the survivors?” spat the journalist.
Paul returned with a martini glass full of a pink liquid and a white froth over topping it, garnished elegantly with a single maraschino cherry. Pierce began to understand why Paul snickered when he made the order. It wasn’t the most masculine thing to request.
But the taste and kick it had. It made Pierce smile warmly as he returned to watch the news.
“Both? We don’t know what the Draconians did to them, we don’t know if EISS was right and Foster and her crew has been brainwashed.”
“But I fail to see how an anti-alien response helps.”
Pierce felt the tempting touch of an index finger stroke across his neck, then across his shoulder. It gave him goose bumps. The smell of exquisite perfume from the owner of the finger didn’t help.
The person sat next to him and spoke. “Cheeky fellow, isn’t he?” She spoke with an English accent.
He looked at the woman that took interest in him. She sat cross-legged, wearing dark, smooth designer jeans. Her top, if you could call it that, was translucent enough to see the full shape and color of her bra if you looked long and close enough, which Pierce did. He counted at least ten pieces of jewelry on her, ranging from rings, bracelets, gem-studded black collar, and a pair of oversize twinkling earrings beneath her thick silver hair, draped over her shoulders.
If it wasn’t for the cold emotionless gaze she gave him, and her glowing red eyes, he would have thought she was human, not Hashmedai.
“The Terran Legion just wants an excuse to continue lynching Hashmedai on Earth,” she continued. Her fanged teeth made visible when she spoke were another sign of her nonhuman origins.
“Earth based Hashmedai still exist then?” Pierce asked her.
“Of course, we do,” she said using her hands to highlight her femme fatale body. “I’m from Essex, born and raised, just like my parents, who were descendants of the Hashmedai fighters left behind on Earth after the invasion.”
“I apologize for the comments that bigot is making,” Pierce said, nodding to the news broadcast. “Not all humans hate your kind.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of
that,” she said, still not showing much emotion in her face. “The actions of the HLF are the reasons why my grandparents were able to live on Earth as long as they did. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, Doctor Pierce?”
She knew his name. He didn’t know hers. He poured the remainder of his drink into his mouth, hoping the liquid courage within it would help with what would come next. He placed the empty glass down on the smooth bar counter.
“Where you the one that—?”
“Let’s get to that part later, we barely know each other,” she said. “Well rather, you barely know me.”
“Who are you?”
“Diamondrose,” she elegantly said. “Penelope Diamondrose.”
Diamondrose was the name of the sender of the qmail that asked him to come here and order the Mary Pickford drink. This was her. Her full name made sense the more he thought about it. Penelope was a human name, whereas Diamondrose was clearly the Hashmedai title given to her. Her Hashmedai family had probably been living in England so long, they most likely adopted human lifestyles, customs, and giving their children human first names.
Penelope cocked her finger, beckoning Paul to come to her. Her credit chit came out, paying for the cost of Pierce’s drink.
“Is this your way of picking up men?” Paul asked her. “Buying them drinks with a cherry on top?”
She licked her lips, staring at Pierce. “The cherry helps seal the deal.”
“Consider yourself lucky, pal,” Paul said grinning at Pierce.
Penelope left her stool moving to the exit. The cold grip of her hands pulled on Pierce’s arm. “Care to show me around your place, Travis?”
Pierce left his stool and moved with Penelope. He didn’t have a choice; her grip was firm.
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