“I am a soldier,” he says.

  “That’s good; that’s real good. Now, I want you to hold onto that for a second. Think about being a soldier. Are you thinking about that?”

  “I am.”

  “Okay, now…what is your rank?”

  “Sergeant Major, United States Marine Corps,” is his immediate response.

  “That is correct, Sergeant Major. You are doing just great.”

  “Where am I?” he asks.

  “We’ll talk about that in a minute. Just a few more questions if you don’t mind, Sergeant Major.”

  “Proceed,” he says.

  “What is your name?”

  He doesn’t know how to reply.

  “Sergeant Major?”

  “Yes?”

  “What is your name?”

  “My name?”

  “Yes, your name, your moniker, the word with which encompasses you as an individual.”

  “My name is…”

  “Go on,” the tech prompts.

  “My name is…Boeman…Trey Boeman.”

  The tech claps his hands.

  “Perfect!” he almost shouts, clearly pleased with the results.

  The man stands there grinning for a moment in triumph, then grabs a stack of cardstock with funny shapes in black ink.

  “Okay, I’m going to have you look at some pictures and describe to me what you see.”

  He holds up one of the cards.

  “What does this picture look like?”

  “Hannah,” Trey says.

  The tech looks confused, glances at the card with an arch of his eyebrows.

  “Could you repeat yourself, Sergeant Major?”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t…I don’t understand who you are talking about.”

  “Tell me where she is now,” Trey says, standing to his feet.

  “Whoa there big fellow,” the tech says nervously. “Sit back down; take a load off.”

  Trey reaches out and grasps the man around the throat before he can back up more than a step. It feels so flimsy, pliable, as if he can squish it between his fingers like putty. The tech starts making a strange sound, banging his hands against Trey’s forearms. They are weak slaps, like a child’s.

  “Where is she?” he asks again, but now there are others and they are grasping him around his neck, his waist, pulling on his arms, forcing him to the ground.

  Someone is shouting and still there is that strange rattling sound at the end of his reach. He turns to ask a face pressed close to his the same question but before he can something slams against the side of his head and he knows nothing once again.

  It’s near dusk and the artificial light mixes with the true ambient waves that make it through the dome to create quite the beautiful sunset. Hues of ocher and violent rays of red imbued with streaks of the brightest yellow glare off the reflective windows of the buildings as well as the numerous transports surrounding them.

  The colors are almost too beautiful to ignore, and though there is much more that needs to be addressed at the moment, Trey finds that he cannot tear his gaze away from the sky.

  The portrait of the sunset speaks to him in a way that he feels is familiar, a certain joie de vivre experience that tugs at the edges of latent memories. He closes his eyes for a moment and it’s almost as if he can hear their voices over the cacophony surrounding him.

  Hannah…I’m coming…

  “Major! MAJOR!”

  He blinks and the spell is broken. He turns immediately to the sergeant at his side, a new revival, so fresh you could still see the glow from the collagen scaffold that passed for new skin on the fresh models.

  “Tell everyone to keep the crowd back,” Trey yells at the sergeant, unclasping his side holster.

  They are at the south entrance of the Pantheon, just past the last stretch of gardens. The bees are still buzzing close by but their sound is slowly being drowned out by the murmuring. The marines are keeping the crowd back for now, though within another minute it will grow to a point that will be difficult to handle.

  “You tell them to come here!” the man at the center of their attention yells. “I want them here!”

  Trey doesn’t know his name but he can see that it’s a marine, a young man by their standards, possibly thirty years of age, still fresh enough that very few wrinkles adorn his features.

  He’s surrounded with no exit and at least two dozen rifles pointed at him, but he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are wild and grief stricken, and in each hand he’s carrying unpinned grenades. A string of them are also hanging around his neck. At his feet is a small body wrapped in a sheet, tiny booted feet protruding. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what is happening here.

  Trey makes certain the clasp of his holster is tucked so there will be no friction for the draw. He steps past the ring of soldiers, holding his hands out in placation.

  The singular marine sees him and stops shouting, recognition on his face.

  “Major? Is-is that you?”

  “It’s me, Marine,” he says, advancing slowly, his eyes locked to the young man’s. “Everyone back away slowly; give us some space.”

  The soldiers shuffle a bit from foot to foot but hold the ring.

  “I said BACK UP!” Trey shouts, and this time they retreat, giving them another ten yards.

  “I’m going to put my hands down now, Marine,” Trey says. “You hold onto those clips, you understand me?”

  The young man looks to his hands as if affirming what he is holding.

  “Y-y-yes…yes, Sir,” he says before his eyes glance down to the shrouded body at his feet.

  “Marine!” Trey shouts, and is relieved to see the soldier’s gaze snap back to him. “What is your name?”

  “S-sir?”

  “Your name…what is it?”

  “Fieldman…Private First Class Charles Fieldman, Sir,” he replies.

  “Okay, PFC Fieldman, I’m going to walk towards you just a bit so we can talk privately.”

  The marine starts to shake his head erratically and Trey pauses, still a good twenty feet away.

  “Don’t come any closer!” he shouts. “I’ll blow us to goddamn hell!”

  “Marine!” Trey yells at him but the soldier’s eyes are starting to glaze over even as he looks away. “Charles! CHARLIE!”

  That seems to do it. The young man’s gaze is back and for a few seconds the frantic grief seems to clear. Trey takes that moment.

  “Charlie, look at me,” he says, taking a few steps closer. “Charlie, listen to me. I want to help you.”

  “Help me?” he replies, panting, eyes like a trapped animal, but at least he’s speaking.

  “That’s right, Charlie. I’m going to help you.”

  Trey glances down at the bundle at the soldier’s feet.

  “I’m going to help both of you.”

  Fieldman looks down at the covered body.

  “Both of us?” he asks, and this time his tone drops to a near whisper.

  “Both of you, Charlie,” he reassures him. “You tell me what you need. You tell me and we’ll make it all right.”

  The marine’s face crumples, his arms dropping to his sides.

  “It’s my boy,” he says. “He’s…he’s…my boy is dead.”

  Sobs start to make his shoulders hitch.

  Trey shuffles a couple of steps closer.

  “They s-s-say,” Fieldman stutters, the snot dripping from his nose. “He’s too young…he’s too young to be revived.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” Trey assures him. “We’ll talk to them together. We’ll make them understand.”

  The marine looks up, and for just a brief moment there is a shining glimmer of hope that rises up behind the shadows in his eyes. Trey takes that moment to draw his piece and put a bullet in Fieldman’s head.

  The young man wobbles on his feet, jaw slack. Trey covers the last few yards and wraps his arms tightly around the soldier, just before the blast shreds them apart.

  “Touch your thumb on the left hand to each of your fingers, starting with your pointer to the pinkie and then back again.”

  Trey does as asked.

  “Good,” the tech says. “Now do the same with your right hand.

  Trey performs the task.

  “Looks like everything is fine. Hand eye coordination readings are top notch. You seem to have a bit of a connection issue going on with your left eye. Are you experiencing blurred vision?”

  “Just a little bit,” Trey replies. “The lower corner near the outside.”

  “Okay, give me a second.”

  The tech reaches up and presses with two fingers right below Trey’s eye. He hears a slight whirling sound and a slot painlessly slides out, carrying his entire eye with it. The tech reaches up and inserts a tiny needle-like instrument into the slot. There is a hiss and a small tendril of smoke wafts up.

  “There, that should do it,” he says, pushing the slot back in until there is a click that locks it back in place. “How’s that?”

  Trey rolls his eyes around.

  “It’s good.”

  “Okay, Major, that’s all we have for you today.”

  “Thank you,” he says, hopping off the cot.

  The tech stops him with a hand on his forearm. He leans in close, his voice low and near breathless, as if he’s afraid of being overheard by the other marines that are watching the door.

  “It’s a shame what happened, a terrible tragedy.”

  “Yeah,” Trey responds.

  He’s thinking about the tiny covered body that was lying on the ground at the marine’s feet.

  “It’s a hard thing to understand,” the tech continues. “The brain just isn’t mature enough at that age to handle revival. Children don’t comprehend the passing of time like we do. The memories get all jumbled up with the present until they don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. It’s a terrible thing to see…it’s why we just don’t do it.”

  “I’m sure that’s a lot of comfort to Fieldman,” Trey says numbly.

  “Who, Sir?” the tech asks.

  “The marine…his name was Fieldman,” Trey replies.

  “What marine, Sir?”

  “How are you feeling, Major?” Talbot asks him.

  The room is a simple cell with concrete walls, probably converted from a storage unit. There are no bars, just a palladium glass shield in place. The outline of a door can be seen but it is never opened. Food is passed through a small slot at the bottom of the glass.

  “I’m fine,” Trey replies.

  He is sitting on the cot, holding the photo of Shai and Hannah. It is worn and the edges are starting to curl and wilt. He should press it between a book or something to keep it from deteriorating further but he can’t seem to let it go for even a moment.

  “You don’t look fine.”

  Trey glances up at Talbot. The newly appointed Councilman is wearing the robes and not the uniform. He looks slightly uncomfortable in the ensemble.

  “You don’t look that great either,” is his response.

  Talbot smirks as he pats the smock.

  “Yeah, well, it goes with the station.”

  “You’re the best man for the job,” Trey says, and he means it.

  “That remains to be seen.”

  A long silence stretches out. Talbot sighs heavily.

  “You know why I’m here.”

  It’s a statement, not a question.

  “The council has made a decision,” Trey replies.

  Talbot nods, looking down at his hands. He is twisting the wedding band on his finger. He does this when he is anxious.

  “I spoke for you, as did others,” Talbot says. “Your years of service, your commitment to the city; they were all factors in the council’s verdict.”

  “And what is the verdict?” Trey asks, still not looking away from the photo.

  “A partial wipe,” Talbot replies.

  “How far back?”

  The councilman stops fidgeting with his wedding band. He rests his forehead against the glass.

  “Back to before all of this happened.”

  Trey nods.

  “So they let me keep the old memories as a consolation prize. And what about Hannah?”

  “I’m sorry,” Talbot says, his voice heavy and guttural. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “The Ether?” Trey asks.

  Talbot cannot reply. Trey knows it cannot be easy for him either.

  “It was never going to work, was it?”

  “The doctor is practically working around the clock,” Talbot starts then pauses as he seems to struggle inwardly.

  Maybe he meant to offer some sort of hope or a beacon of light across the dark sea, but he isn’t that good at lying yet, at being a politician. He is too young.

  “After all these years,” Trey whispers. “And finally, there’s just the tiniest bit of hope…finally…”

  He struggles with the words.

  “I get her back…just to lose her all over again.”

  “What we have of her profile is still stored. I promise it isn’t over,” Talbot says with conviction. “We will fix this.”

  “No more,” Trey replies, coming to a decision. “I don’t want to be revived again. You tell the council that. They owe me that much…you owe me that much.”

  “Trey,” Talbot pleads. “I know right now-“

  “Let me go,” Trey says. “Let me be with my family any way that I can.”

  He thinks about the Ether, the great data dump of the Quantum Cloud, where stored profiles go when people opt out of revival. No one knows what it is like, or if it is anything other than random bits of information floating around without purpose, but there are some who believe it is something more. Even if it wasn’t, and all he had to look forward to was nothingness, it was preferable to this fate.

  “I’m afraid I…I can’t do that, Trey.”

  He looks up at the councilman, confused.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just…we’re at a critical juncture here. After the fall of the last sanctuary and the attack outside of the Wall, people are terrified. Fertility numbers continue to drop. There have been protests, even violence. The ASF is a bunch of kids. They don’t know how to handle these situations. You do, which is why Akropolis needs you; why I need you.”

  Trey stands up and faces the councilman.

  “I have nothing without them.”

  “You have your duty,” Talbot replies.

  “I HAVE NOTHING!” Trey screams at him.

  The councilman steps back from the glass.

  “You’ll feel differently after the wipe,” he says, resolute and impassive now, wearing the face of the politician. “We’ll have to alter some memories and implant some new ones but the pain of this instance will be gone. It will be as if it never happened. You’ll remember Hannah as she should be remembered…when she was human. And maybe someday, when we fix this defect, we’ll bring her back for another try.”

  “How can you do this?”

  “Because I’m your friend, Trey, and because this is what needs to be done. I’m a councilman now…I have to do what’s best for Akropolis. You of all people should understand that.”

  Trey walks up to the glass so that he is a mere foot from the man he calls friend.

  “If you do this, Blake…I will kill you.”

  “No, Trey,” Talbot replies sadly. “You won’t even remember this conversation.”

  “He’s online and awake, Sir.”

  Trey’s eyes blinked against the harsh white light. He was supine on a mattress, covered in a thin sheet. The moment his vision started to adjust the bright white glare disappeared, replaced by a more soothing blue sky. Three cauliflower cumulus clouds drifted slowly over him and somewhere in the distance he could hear the sounds of the sea and pelicans calling out to each other in their short guttural quacks.

  It took him a few seconds to realize where he was. This was the recovery area where synthetics awoke, an orb shaped room with OLED screens built into the walls that projected the most calming and relaxing scenario specifically tailored to each individual.

  Trey’s scenario never changed. It was the beach at Playa Lagun in Curacao, an island that was part of the Old World, a favorite vacation spot for his family before the war. They had visited every year for near a decade, a quaint little lagoon with white sand and cliff faces thirty feet high with the beach nestled in between.

  It had truly been their paradise.

  Trey tried to sit up and managed a few inches before falling back.

  “Take it easy,” the tech said.

  The woman was out of his vision but he could hear her moving around.

  “Why can’t I move?” Trey replied.

  “You can, and you will. It’s just that-“

  “There has been an issue with your Cloud profile,” Talbot said, walking into Trey’s field of vision.

  The councilman looked much older, if that were at all possible. It appeared as if the veil of death were finally resting over his face.

  “How long have I been gone?” Trey immediately asked. “Was the mission successful?”

  Talbot rested a reassuring hand on Trey’s shoulder even as he tried to rise again.

  “Listen to the lady. Lay back and let her finish the diagnostics check, then we’ll talk.”

  Trey relaxed as best he could. The time stretched out interminably for the next couple of minutes as Talbot left his side to talk quietly with the tech.

  Trey couldn’t hear a word of their conversation, but didn’t have to. Something was wrong, and it only began with his body. When he tried to access his memory and recall the most recent events, he was surprised to find that a jumble of disjointed impressions and echoes were there to greet him. The recollections were disturbingly confusing and random, as if someone had put his memories into a blender and hit the puree button.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the tech finally appeared at Trey’s side, a waspish human woman with hair like a bird’s nest, piled up high but sticking out in several places. She reached down to the EEG electrodes placed on his forehead and pressed the stimulant buttons on them. He immediately felt a surge not unlike a rush of adrenaline that lasted a few seconds and then went away. When it did, he was able to bring his hands up to his face and wiggle the fingers.

 

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