Aside from that, I remembered… almost nothing. I wasn’t me. Who was I?
The captain smiled at me/not me. “Call me Josef, my dear. I apologize that we cannot meet under more pleasant circumstances. I don’t care much for the ambiance of these Marxis stations.” He made a face. “Too uncivilized, filthy. I may be a man on the edge,” he chuckled, “of the galaxy, that is, but it does not mean I can’t try to enjoy the finer things in life.”
“Of course,” came the reply in what I realized was a feminine voice, “but I do not wish to keep you overlong, Captain—”
“Josef,” he reminded.
“Of course,” I… she repeated.
I had no control. I was an observer watching through someone else’s eyes. My greater sense of self was lost, missing in this dream of another life. I knew the captain was important. I knew this person whose eyes I saw through was not me, but what else?
The captain folded his arms. “Please tell me what I can do for you, Miss…?” He paused, waiting with expectation.
It appeared to be a private room, or at least repurposed to be empty for the meeting. The cold lack of adornment along with the captain’s statement and light discomfort suggested she was not permitted to travel to his ship. It made sense, as they had no reason to invite non-crew aboard.
Instinctive knowledge of a military vessel struck me as confusing, as I didn’t remember how I knew that.
“Dana,” she replied, answering his question. “I’m looking for information on the incident reported at Atropos Garden.” The Garden? Very familiar. Wasn’t I going to ask someone like him the very same thing?
Raising an eyebrow, Onnels asked. “Is that all? The incident was what, fourteen years ago now? A puzzling case, to be sure, but the investigation concluded long ago. Who did you say you worked for?”
I felt my, her, lips twist in a smile. “My client wishes to remain confidential, but as always there is a curiosity towards what method caused the devastation, including the ever-present rumor of new technology.” I could sense anticipation in her mind, and this was only part of her inquiry. “My sources say the entire planet, not only the research center and colony, was completely destroyed.”
I continued to witness the exchange, no more than an intruder in her mind. Somehow this thought of complete destruction of the Garden was a surprise.
“Ah, I see,” the captain chuckled again, “
She frowned. “Surely it doesn’t also include the simple impressions of a patrolling ship captain.”
“It does, as a matter of fact. In order to not be chained to a desk for the remainder of my career or exiled to the farthest reaches of deep space exploration, I had to sign a very threatening nondisclosure agreement.” Onnels shrugged. “It’s just as well: I take my duty and obligation very seriously, Miss Dana.”
“Just Dana,” she replied, irritation flaring in her tone. I felt the muscles in her body tensing, and I wondered if she planned on striking him. “Can you at least tell me the nature of the distress call?”
The captain sighed. “I suppose I’m only bound to secrecy on the issue of the planet’s fate…” he rubbed his chin. “We were on our routine patrol when a warning signal from the planet was issued. The message was almost completely distorted. The Cassander arrived only a few hours later, and by then the colony was gone.”
Her fist clenched. “That’s quite vague, Captain. Was there anything comprehensible about the message you received? Perhaps related to the prime suspect—”
Rolling his eyes, he replied, “Oh, that. Yes, I suppose that’s public knowledge enough. Yes, the message pointed to the possibility of the mythic fellow Ivan being involved. When the Cassander arrived, there was a vessel fleeing. It was a small fighter which we’ve always assumed as belonging to the perpetrator.”
“How could a ship that small cause such devastation?” She swept a gesture towards the deck, where outside hovered a vessel much larger. “All of the ordnance aboard your own ship, a destroyer, couldn’t manage to break apart a world in a month of planetary bombardment. Six months, a year even!”
A flicker of defensiveness passed over Onnels’ expression. “Do not assume too much about me or my ship. She’s one of the finest of her kind.” Her muscles tensed again, frustrated by the captain’s shift from friendly to not, and I felt an inward smirk. She was too goading, insulting matters of personal pride. I suspected he had not much left to say, but still she pushed the wrong button. It didn’t matter how correct she was about the Cassander’s bombardment capacity; she caused offense to the good captain, and he was likely to cease cooperating.
She seemed to realize it as well. “Thank you for your time, Captain Onnels,” she said, rising and resuming the formality. He didn’t correct her this time.
“Farewell, Archivist,” he said, motioning for her to leave.
The title shot panic into my mind. It was important; I knew it from the very core of my soul. It was what I-
Images scrambled around, and the tension surrounding my mind faded, as though nothing but a bad dream. I saw images of her client, Seryia Hakar. Familiar, rival to Daedra-Tech, a name which prompted feelings of loyalty.
I viewed small probes containing sensor masking and disruption fields, fired through the thick web of preventative measures surrounding the area by the quarantined Atropos Garden. Risky: if they had been caught and traced back to the company, penalties would have been harsh.
A few images confirmed the glittering disconnected mass which used to be a planet. It was surrounded by data-collection satellites and dozens of science vessels. The spy-probes were not equipped for survey and analysis, but the images they sent back displayed a lumpy, unidentified mass surrounded by the sea of shining particles. Curious.
I saw someone handing the information, the images, to me/her. He said, “Here are the pictures from the spy-drones, Archivist.”
The terrible urgency rose forth again. My head broke the surface of the stifling dream for a bare moment, and all that I was, all that I knew was laid bare before my flailing mind before-
More flashes, and my hands worked quickly at a console. No, her hands again. She tapped into one of the lines connecting to Onnels’ ship. Her mind slid through security barriers in the data network on the Cassander, also a risky endeavor. Her inquiries side-tracked a hundred different ways, but she seemed capable of bouncing back quickly, only seconds lost to tangential searches. Impressive, somehow.
Layers of encryption peeled away as she accessed the archived data from the incident. My first thought was that Onnels should not have kept this, considering the agreement which threatened his career, but it might not have been his decision. We watched, she and I, in fascination as the recording played in our mind.
The Cassander arrived in the system in time to see the flight of a single vessel, speeding away. The rest of the recording was that of the planet, it’s final moments a matter of absolute awe.
An expanding sphere of something, energy perhaps, vaporized all in its path. As the camera recorded, the grass, trees, mountains, seas, animal life, everything appeared to disintegrate into a sparkling, disjointed mass. With no sound present, the event was quiet and eerie.
She whose mind I resided in connected the two events; the probe and the destruction. One was of the world falling to pieces, and the other was the beginning of the coalescence, the return of the particles to a gravitational mass.
Disconnecting from the terminal, her information in hand, I saw, reflected upon some surface, her face. The face of a person I knew. The face of an Archivist.
My thoughts erupted out of the nightmare once again, feeling an intrusive burrowing into the core of my overtaxed processors, assuming control of my mind and functions. Sid, Sid was my name, and I was an Archivist. Images of my friend, the librarian Marqyni Avieli, protecting me from being lost in data, but this was-
Consciousness was shoved into the swarm of memory again, and I lost myself in months of her life experience. Data collection. Interpretation. Interstellar travel. The collapsed world of Atropos Garden, its reformation. Very important. Marxis stations featured in the most recent memories. Stopover points for cargo, most often from mining operations. Mining operations, miraculous survivals… who survived? Phineas Gage, Piper Welkin. Archivists… Archivists!
I was her again, in a drab corridor. Fighting, movement sluggish from sedatives, losing ground against… who? I saw a face: Sid.
