Cripple Mode: Hot Electric

By J.L. Dobias

In the Science Fiction Thriller Cripple-Mode:Hot Electric

Give me liberty or give me death wasn't Travis Lucia Hamilton-McQueen's foremost declaration. She'd returned from near death and wasn't keen on revisiting; she just wanted her life back.

Granddaughter of a mass murderer; daughter of a convict; suspected terrorist with confused memories.

No not that life, nor the alternate.

A soulless clone with limited freedom and an amnesiac ward of Greater Terran Galactic Properties, with a possible Dissociative fugue identity; consigned to convalesce aboard Medical Space Station Perl.

Mix in a rogue General with a handful of assassins and her life slips from surreal to something straight out of science fiction and fantasy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469169828

J.L. Dobias

J.L. Dobias is a Science Fiction and Fantasy Author and the author of the Cripple-Mode series. He lives in Michigan in the USA and has spent most of his time in the Great Lake State.When he first learned to read, his father introduced him and his siblings to Science Fiction. In a short time he became an avid reader of Science Fiction and has spent over 50 years enjoying some of the best.Having worked in the Hotel, Restaurant, and Retail management while paying for college to obtain a degree in English, he was promptly hijacked for some time into Hotel Restaurant Management. He eventually landed for a short time at MSU as Engineering support and the head of the electronic drafting and documentation department of the National Superconducting Cyclotron Laboratory. He now works as Lead CAD Engineer and Technical and Engineering Support for Instrumented Sensor Technology; an impact data recorder instrument maker; supplying needs of a variety of industries including the shipping industry, race cars, accident reconstruction, aerospace, amusement parks and many more.He spends his free time honing his writing skills and continuing to read at least one novel a week in his favorite genre.CRIPPLE-MODE: HOT ELECTRIC is the first of a planned series.

Book preview

CRIPPLE MODE:

HOT ELECTRIC

J. L. Dobias

Copyright © 2012 by .

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012902939

ISBN: Hardcover     978-1-4691-6981-1

ISBN: Softcover       978-1-4691-6980-4

ISBN: Ebook           978-1-4691-6982-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

This first work is dedicated to my wife, best friend, and confidante, Virginia. Whose support, encouragement, and patience were the drive necessary for completion.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank all of my support and research people for helping me get this book finished. And special thanks to the efforts of those at Xlibris. I take full credit and responsibility for how I used the information I was given. Any flaws and inaccuracies are entirely mine, no one else may have them.

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

1

I WAKE UP WITH a start. That’s not unusual. But what is unusual is I don’t feel the pain. Pain has been a constant companion for what might be several weeks. I’ve lost track of time because of pain. I haven’t yet grown inured to it. I just withdraw when possible. In a twisted way, I accept my condition. I believe it’s known as survivor guilt. Maybe that’s why I’ve resigned myself to my fate.

It’s a rightful punishment for someone who should have died.

A sudden rush of panic seizes me. If I can’t feel pain, then maybe I’m dead. Panic is as absurd as the absence of pain. I’ve spent the greater portion of my last conscious moments wishing I was dead, before passing out. Passing out has gotten more difficult. I have to wonder if it’s possible, the more someone wants—no needs—to do something, if it really becomes that much more difficult for them to do.

Funny thing about panic, the heart races and roars in the ears like waves against a shore. Beach sounds, as I recall, usually are soothing. This isn’t. It’s a heart-wrenching pain. Pain makes me feel more alive, but not soothed.

I tense up again. My waking time isn’t pleasant—I’m alert with expectations of the commencement of a waking nightmare.

Something’s missing. I’m not sure yet what it is.

I’ve been having trouble wrapping my mind around simple things. Confusion is normal. I still don’t feel right, though. I refrain from opening my eyes. I’ve learned to suppress that natural inclination. It’s really no use trying to see things. When I do open them, everything is a haze. It seems that the bright flash of the explosion is the only thing I ever see, over and over. The one time my vision did clear, I couldn’t trust it.

That time I saw two lovely ladies, who apparently are my tormentors. They really aren’t unattractive. Keep in mind, I’m mostly blind. I know they immediately knew I could see them. My responsiveness brought on more torture. And they gave me another reason to keep my eyes shut.

A good jab to the eyes, that’s for looking. Then they proceed to give examples of how trivial that is, comparatively.

What’s worse than all the torture is that I can’t recall what it is they want from me. They’d asked a lot of questions at first. I can’t seem to recall the questions or my own answers. They’ve since stopped asking, long ago. It’s as though their game of torment has superseded everything else.

From my first waking moments to the last, till that brief pleasant time when I gratefully feel darkness overcoming me, they are gleefully at work. Even when the blackness wraps me in its cocoon, there’s no rest—only fitful moments punctuated by total oblivion, but it’s much better than being awake. The torment stops when they think I’m unconscious. If they knew I have a slight awareness of being, they’d likely continue to abuse me.

That’s what’s missing!

When I come out of the darkness, they are always there. I can smell their sweet breath hot against my face. They start jabbing and poking the moment I move or make a sound. Sometimes it’s just my breathing that betrays me. A small, subtle change in the tone and they know. I don’t recall waking up without someone being here to start prodding, stabbing, or burning.

I’ve come to suspect they must be sleeping with me so as not to miss a moment of my wakefulness or a moment of their strange joy in inflicting pain. I physically shudder now at the thought. If they are there, they will start anew. I wait in anticipation. They have always been there, hovering like vigilant friends at the bedside of an injured comrade.

Still without pain, I slowly, almost involuntarily, start trying to get in touch with the outside. I haven’t tried this in a long time. There’s never time. It always starts too fast. I barely have time to retreat from reality. It’s better if I try to hide as far inside as I can.

I’ve become much smaller since my captivity commenced.

I feel my fingers, all of them. And that’s really strange. I’m not sure I have them all. But nerves are tricky, and the tingling may be something ghostly.

I was badly hurt by the force of the explosion. Everything happened so quickly. Jen was right in the middle of it, he wasn’t so lucky. Then again, maybe he was the lucky one.

That flash of light, I keep seeing, that’s what I remember.

And Jen, bending over, handing the kid a nutri-ration bar. I remember a big grin on Jen’s face.

Who does that? Who straps bombs to children, to blow up soldiers?

Maybe one of my demented companions is the boy’s mother.

Jen, Jensen Trevynoski, had said he was there to watch my back. I’d guess someone should’ve watched his back.

And we aren’t really soldiers. We’re ex-cons. Not even that, wannabe ex-cons, maybe.

This mission was an experimental run for some new piece of military hardware. It was supposed to be a walk in the park.

Ironically, it was Jen who had told me not to listen to these people. I should’ve listened to him. But the boss lady who came to speak to us seemed dead set on taking me along. She promised that my sentence would be commuted. My record would be purged. And when the experiment was finished, we, the boys that went along, would be free. She quite earnestly suggested I might get a rank and commission out of it all.

And after that warning Jen had given, I’m still unclear why he was with us. Maybe he wanted a new start with a new commission with Corporate Services. It is tempting.

It hadn’t really tempted me, since it was this kind of thing, signing up for a commission and rank, which had gotten me into this mess. But that was only a small portion of all the things that were wrong with my life up until now. My lowered ambitions center on getting out of prison. Once outside, I’d shed off the influence of the CS. I’d be content to crawl far away from my terrible life. My noble goal was to get out from under one rock so I could hide under another.

I suspect the only reason Jen was along was because of me. His was collateral involvement, not so much watching my back.

And right now, none of the rest of my life seems so bad. I didn’t know how good I had things. I suppose a kid never does.

I need to stop this chain of thought.

Not only is it depressing, it’s improbable that I should have this much time to think. I wonder where the girls are. It’s not that I miss them. But they don’t allow me time for thought. I’m always too busy trying to get away from myself.

I need to do that now, before they start.

It’s possible I look forward to the daily doses of pain, to keep my mind from doing this. All this clear thinking must be a result of not having someone screaming in my ear all of the time.

That screaming person is me. It starts with whimpering and moves gradually into outright horrendous screaming. But if I don’t build it up fast enough, the ladies find ways of bringing it out. Amongst their many talents, they are facilitators. They don’t seem happy until I’ve screamed myself hoarse, and even then, they don’t ease up, until I pass out or at least they think I have.

Everything, right now, is strange and wrong. Still, something’s familiar. Every time I come to the verge of identifying it, I become distracted by an overlay of sounds filling the darkness. They’re new sounds. They’re constant low beeps and chirps, like some sort of electronic equipment. They distract me from my musing and from my attempt to identify the familiar.

Something moves my hand, the one with the missing fingers. I’m certain of their loss. The first few days, that was one source of my many pains. The girls conveniently distracted me from that worry. And though I remember something of missing toes at the very least, right now I’m unsure of whether I still have both of my feet.

I feel panic like an electric jolt through my body. My heart feels sick at the memories. I feel involuntary twitching in legs and feet, which I’m still uncertain of. I find myself hoping that my captors have returned to distract me from the path I’m heading down.

I feel them working at my arms and legs, except there’s no pain. In a most unfamiliar way, it’s almost soothing.

Lack of pain is an enigmatic puzzle.

I want to open my eyes, wide with fear. Fear’s another new companion, fear of what I might see and what I might not, afraid to find out why I can’t feel pain and afraid to see what else is so wrong. I should thank God, but instead, I’m worried. Recently, it is pain that has assured me I’m still alive.

Irrationally, I begin to think that I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Sadly, I’m not sure I believe in heaven.

But I’ve come close to an intimate belief in hell.

I’m in neither place now. I can smell things. I smell new smells with old familiar aromas. It’s funny how things smell distinctly different.

The place they’d dragged me to on that oxygenated moon had a sort of damp musty smell, the smell you get from the rock and the air circulators. It was much similar to that prison asteroid I’d been on for five years. Even then the prison had its own unique sweaty locker-room smell. What I smell now is different. It’s more like a station or a ship—out in space. It is sort of hot metal and burning wire smell mixed with ozone that’s common to the recirculated, scrubbed, oxygenated atmosphere.

And there are other telltale smells.

I was raised aboard a station. My dad’s a repair tech, and my brother and I help him when we aren’t busy being homeschooled. Or at least we did before Dad ran off, and Alex, my brother, joined the Corporate Services. That left Mom and me.

Alex and Dad had never adjusted to station life. I liked it. It’s all I remember. It beat farming on a dirt ball. Farmers! That’s what they say we were, before we moved to the station, but I was too young to remember.

I remember the smells of a station, and I remember the feel of a station.

I’m certain, if I can get back in control of my extremities, I can tell in which place it is that I am—on a ship or a station. They’re different if you know what to look for. Most people can’t tell. Many don’t know that they are constantly in motion. Well, they know, but they don’t really think about it. They can’t feel it, not like I can. I’ve been cursed. I usually can tell if a ship stops or changes speed. Sometimes I know how fast it’s going.

That was before my unfortunate accident debilitated me.

Yeah! Some accident! A dozen of us dropped from a ship, supposedly safe inside new anti-gravity pods. We’re expected to glide smoothly down to the surface.

We’ve been told it’s an uninhabited low oxy moon. But that’s not quite true, and we’re trespassing. So perhaps we should’ve looked for the no trespassers and beware of owner signs. I try to rationalize how I might feel if a group of unknowns landed unannounced in my backyard.

I’m distracted from these recollections and recriminations. I’m feeling the ends of things I shouldn’t have anymore.

I remember what’s familiar about what I’m experiencing. My body’s being worked. It’s being moved through the agency of an electromechanical suit. It’s called an ROM suit, which stands for Range of Motion. Being at the mercy of one of these suits could seem odd, if I’d not known how much I need one.

I’m quite familiar with these devices.

After Dad and Alex flew off in their own directions, Mom decided I needed to get my legs back, which was her way of saying I had to go dirtside. We’d been on the station for more than eight years. Each year, Alex and I had gone to camp for three weeks. Camp is dirtside, on the planet, NewTerra, not to be confused with New Terra, which is a full-fledged member of the Greater Terran Galactic Properties. NewTerra is just a protectorate of the GTGP.

That’s why the station’s there, above NewTerra.

CeCiTyeS, the station, (that’s CCTS0701) is home. The planet is, well, dirt. Getting acclimated on the planet for three weeks seems to be more difficult each year and Mom’s proposing I stay down on the surface for a much longer time. In my condition, one more day is a long time. She’s talking of an eternity. Stations have gravity, just not a standard g, and the planet is, just on the sly side, heavier than mankind’s original home. In my first three days, dirtside, it’s determined that I can’t survive without help.

It’s not easy, getting used to an oppressive environment.

No one can imagine or appreciate the gravity of the situation, until they experience it.

That’s how I became acquainted with ROM suits. The primary function, of the one I had then, was to assist those who can’t help themselves. That’s why I’m not surprised to find myself once again reliant on this medical wonder. I’m suspicious though. Is this a new twist on the old game of abuse and torture? Or have I somehow been saved from the female marquis de’sade and her henchman? Or perhaps this is a dream, and I’ll soon awaken to sordid reality.

There’s no doubt now, I’m forced to open my eyes.

A pinch might be in order, but after my experiences, I’m disinclined toward self-flagellation. Not to mention, with this ROM suit running, pinching would be a difficult task.

The whole experience is like a dream where a person feels as though they are paralyzed, struggling to move. Except I’m moving and I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on. I have yet to open my eyes to confirm. I’m not expecting great success there. Last time I checked, I’d little if any control over the left eye.

I do this one eye at a time, starting with the good one.

The first inclination is to rub the sand out. That isn’t going to happen too soon. My hands are tied. Not literally, they’re busy. I have to walk my eyes slowly away from my nose and try to focus. I’m thankful that these suits don’t have some perverse optical stimulator. Moving my eyes would be a nightmare then. I’m trying with little success to see my body. It’s not that my nose is that huge. I’m mostly getting a good view of overhead and bulkhead. These at least are familiar sights.

I’m in sick bay or a hospital cabin, perhaps on a ship. It seems rather large to me. It’s much too small for sick bay and too large for a cabin. I’ve seen large ships, mostly from afar. This room actually is cozily small, though it’s too large for a station like CeCiTyeS. This is either a vast ship or some huge station. It definitely doesn’t smell like a planet.

Now, there is a place with a panorama of smells.

A planet is a veritable smorgasbord of odors and nasal flavorings.

But this place, besides smelling antiseptic like a hospital, has that underlying smell of oil and hot electric. Just like home.

I move my neck, try to lift my head. It’s no longer restrained as it’s been in the past. But it’s not easy to move because my head is heavy. At least the neck doesn’t appear to be broken. It’s uncooperative, but I think it’s OK.

After what seems like a very long time, I can see clearly with both eyes, but I can’t get my head up far enough to see past my chest. Occasionally, I see a movement from a hand and even an elbow. Finally, I see what might be toes pushing up the end of a sheet. Gradually, I get the impression of a body beneath a white cloth that is draped over the bed.

Eventually, I’m able, with great effort, to discern enough that I realize how emaciated I’ve become. It’s not difficult to believe. I’ve a broken jaw. Meals, when they come, are just another torture. I’m thankful for the covers. At best I can only imagine the mutilated skeleton beneath.

I’m seriously considering pinching myself.

I’ve an odd feeling of elation, where before there’d been morbidity. I can feel myself from fingertip-to-fingertip and from head-to-toe. It feels as though everything is intact. I know that can’t be right, but I’m not going to try to explain the deception to my mind. I’m content to go with it, make the best of the feeling. It won’t last long anyway.

This leads to another moment of panic.

I’ve a sudden flood of memories. All my memories are trying to crowd in at once. I wonder if this is what is meant by that expression about seeing your entire life flash before you, as you die. My life seems to be rushing to meet that appointment with those explosives. And now, all I see is the look of near terror in the young eyes that are wearing it. I’m reliving moments before, when the radio chatter begins to die, and we slowly begin to get the sense that we’re the only two left alive. And I remember having a distinct understanding. That condition won’t last much longer.

By contrast, right now, there’s an inexplicable euphoria. I feel an energetic burst, which reminds me of the surge a terminal patient often gets just before they die, giving false hope to those gathered at the bedside. Meanwhile, my panorama of memory drives squarely ahead. No matter how hard I try to shove them aside, they forge on.

Lastly, I live a slow motion gallery of terror while I seem suspended. Waiting to die. I have this feeling of great loss, not for myself or for Jen, but for that child who died in the same moment. What was that child’s last thought?

I find myself pushing these memories aside. I’m saving them for a time, later, when I might be able to handle it.

Now, I realize the expected final moment, after life has played itself out to my mind’s eye, isn’t coming. Perhaps it’s relief I feel. I wouldn’t have thought I’d be relieved to not die. When last I’d reached into that darkness, I was certain I would never feel this good again.

I need to focus on the here and now—something I’ve not done in a long time, something I’ve avoided doing, something I’ve forgotten how to do.

I’m on my back, on a mattress, bracketed on either side by bars or, more likely, guard rails. I try to remember the etiquette of these things. Bars stay down for ambulatory patients, up for those at the greatest risk and in the least control of themselves. It doesn’t matter though. Bars are bars, barriers that restrain. It feels like a prison to me, and they’ll have to come down, somehow, and very soon. I don’t need that sort of reminder of my recent life.

I’ve lived on a station, visited a planet, and spent six months on a ship. The ship time was supposed to be longer, but I was involved in a murder case and was convicted. So that’s how I became intimate with prison life.

I didn’t do it, the murder. But every ex-con will tell that to anyone who will listen. If there were any justice in the justice system, I wouldn’t have to explain anything. I was naive back then. It’s something I’ve been actively working on for quite some time.

For that deficiency, I spent over five years in a prison.

I’m obviously still a project under development.

I find myself working my jaw, which is starting to cramp as I grit my teeth. It’s amazing how the mind works. Once I realize that my jaw isn’t so much broken anymore, I realize also just how hungry I am. I’ve all my teeth, at least that’s what my tongue keeps telling me, and I’m wondering how that can be.

What have they done to me?

I fight off the inevitable despair that usually accompanies my hunger and thirst. I’ve grown accustomed to despair. I have to hope that the women are no longer around. Somehow I might be safe now. The very presence of the ROM suggests that somehow I’m somewhere where someone cares.

Still, I could be fooling myself. And it has to have been a long time since last I was conscious, because I seem to have healed quite miraculously. The longer I dwell on the time, the hungrier I become. It’s amazing just how easily hunger can drive off everything else.

This leads to a mostly futile attempt to find the galley.

Every place has one, a kitchen. We all have to eat. Even the bad places with the bad people have a galley.

Long before I can test this hypothesis, I have to get that rail down, a prerequisite to getting out of bed. This takes an eternity, or seems like one. But I’m patient. Patience is something I developed in prison. There are a lot of things to be learned while in prison. Patience is one of the very few virtues. Five years is a long time to practice, and I think that I’ve learned it well. But this suit, this ROM is different from what I’m accustomed to. It’s a bit trickier.

This suit is made to move and exercise someone who’s tending toward the side of being a vegetable. A conscious person has to get the rhythm of it before trying to do anything. It wouldn’t be so much a problem in assistance mode, but this mode is in full control and any assistance has to come from inside the suit. So I wait for things to happen and then just push them along. This is a trick, because the suit doesn’t expect the presence of an assistant.

This suit has a fail safe, for the chance that any action might go beyond its range. It will actively try to reset when it kicks in. And for the several moments as it tries to reset, it gives me, the assistant, full control. But I seem to be as weak as a kitten, and even for those moments, I have too many false starts before I’m on my side and trying to figure out the locking mechanism on the rail.

I’d been as weak as this once before, on the planet, NewTerra, when I’d landed for my stay.

That had been a comedy of errors. Instead of being delivered to the care of my expected custodian, I was mixed in with some indentures. They are colonists who can’t afford the trip out to NewTerra, so they arrive as chattels, to have their contract sold to the highest bidder. That is the way in which the ship gets reimbursed. I’ve been informed that it’s the most effective way to colonize planets. But it’s still slavery.

I was sold to what had to be NewTerra’s most notorious slaver. And the man who sold me knew he was doing wrong, but he seemed to overlook that in view of the fact that he’d lost track of one of his charges. The other man, the slaver who bought me, nearly killed me from his lack of compassion for my condition and his frustration over wasting money on me.

If the professor, Edward Alcott, hadn’t found me, I’d have died. He was forced to trade one of his servants for me. He fixed me up with an ROM suit, a simple one, to augment my feeble muscles. I could use that kind of help right now, instead of this little dictator.

All of this time, while my overactive mind is spoon-feeding me tidbits of memory, the beeping of the equipment seems to change tone in response to my exertions. I begin to wonder how long this can go on before I attract possibly unwanted attention. I’m afraid, that when someone does arrive, it’ll be the two mad hatters who’ve grown so fond of inflicting pain.

I’m on my side. My arms get conveniently close to each other. It’s time for tough decisions. I can either continue with my struggle, as I am, or I can shut the suit down and gain some freedom. I struggle because I’m at the cusp of discovery of just how weak I might be. Then there’s the possibility that the key code is different. The standard may have changed since I last used one of these, but with the entry of four digits on the pad and one push on the shutdown, I should be on my own.

At least until someone comes to see what’s going on in my room.

With the greatest of struggles and trembling hands, I commence. Not real tremors, they’re carefully orchestrated digital exercises. Finally, in a moment of strain and decision, I drop flat on my face, and I’m happy that the rail is still up. I could be on the floor. The suit has ceased functioning.

The rail comes down next.

I struggle to place my feet on the deck. I’m on a station. My bare feet tell me. It’s as though a signal vibrates through the deck and up my feet. We’re spinning. If I concentrate too much on this, I’ll become ill. It’s not quite seasickness, but the concept is similar. Everyone I’ve explained this to suggests the spin is in my head. Honestly, I try to keep it out of there.

I’m sweating from the exertion of the roll from the bed. That roll could’ve looked comical to anyone watching, but I wouldn’t know. I’m not laughing. My spastic movements have no excuse because the suit is dead. I’m wobbling weakly at my knees. I feel strange; I’m covered in sensor pads and rubber tubes and attachments, which have me almost at the end of their leash.

I try to turn my head. And I feel like someone in a neck brace. I have to turn my body ninety degrees in each direction to get a look around. The room’s far too big to be on a station such as CeCiTyeS, so this station has to be huge. And it has to be a station because it feels like one.

On CeCiTyeS, I could feel almost everything as vibrations. I’d often feel the ships docking. Alex was always skeptical. But when we were helping Dad maintain the seal on the outer skin of the station and I’d stop and tell Alex a ship had just docked, he knew that if we headed in that direction, there’d always be something new docked there for us to look at. And we’d always sneak down for a peek.

Except the one time that we really should’ve, but couldn’t. That was the day the Clone Colony freighter docked for repairs and was the last day I saw my father.

A freighter is a large ship, not at all the largest. This freighter was a clone ship. The ship was built by the CS, but owned by the Clone Colony Collective. Clones had only recently been included into the GTGP protectorates after a sort of war. I’m unclear about the politics involved. My tutors were weak in that area. I do know that before the war, Clones were not allowed to run spaceships or own them, and they were not to be allowed in the ranks of the League Jump Guild.

When the war ended, things changed.

The very laws, which had fueled the war, were overturned. Clones can own ships so they can become a productive viable force in the colonies. Those ships are manned by LJG who are on retainer to the clone colonies. It’s rather common for CeCiTyeS to host visits from crew of such ships.

Usually stations see only shuttles come in for docking. Most ships stand station near the beacon where they come in. That conserves fuel. But this ship needed repairs and my father was one of those called to affect those repairs.

That was the night in which Mom explained Dad had left us. He’d gone to prepare a new place for us to stay. This had always been the plan, but this was awfully sudden. Mom was content to patiently wait for him to call for us.

A lot changed after that. Alex couldn’t wait, and at the first opportunity, he signed up for the academy and left on a CS shuttle.

When Alex left us, I refused to watch him leave, but I’d felt that shuttles departure, with a definite force of strength. It’s a curse.

I’m on a station that appears to have a rather large sick bay. That’s if this cabin, which shares two beds, is any indication. It’s dimly lit, though I can see quite clearly.

Moving my head back and forth, I notice an affectation. My hair is long. At first, I think I’m wearing a hood or cowling, but it’s hair, which falls across my face. Now, I’d think, with all the effort invested in taking care of me, with this suit and all these instruments, they’d keep me better groomed.

Leaning back shakily and being easily distracted, I notice the bed feels higher than I’d expect. If I try to sit, my feet won’t quite reach the floor. And the bulkhead above seems further away than normal. This whole room is a waste of space, an extravagance on board a station.

The room itself is sparsely decorated. It contains; myself, in the ROM, the tubes and lines and the machinery attached, and the bed. Oh, and the requisite visitors chair stuffed against the corner! I can also see three doors. The narrow one is probably a locker or closet, which is most likely empty. I don’t recall having any possessions that could have made it here with me. I’ve moved from hungry to curious. The next door is possibly the head. A mirror could be on the other side.

If memory serves me, which it seems so eager to do today, I should have dozens of scars on my face alone, from the trauma inflicted after the explosion. I never had time to fully grasp or examine the damage done. So I’m somewhat on the fence about wanting a mirror to be in that room.

I walk funny because I’m trying too hard to not disconnect anything. I’m afraid of being interrupted, and I’m certain if I disconnect something, the probability will arise. I’m at the end of my tether with fingertips on the handle. I’m pausing because I’m afraid. I speak to myself in a weak, soft, unfamiliar, and scratchy voice. Travis, you’re one lucky fellow just to be here. Whatever is beyond this door can’t be any worse than everything that has happened.

I throw open the door and at the risk of being superfluous, I have to say, this is when things get really strange.

I’m expecting a mirror, and I’m not expecting a very pretty sight. My teeth had been broken along with my jaw, and my face has been worked over, while the ladies were trying to get information from me. I expect to be startled.

And I am.

A figure is standing across the room next to a toilet. It’s a youngish looking girl. She looks somehow familiar. But I can only place her in my mind as some part of a fevered dream I’d had in my most recent experience abroad. My suddenly feeble mind tries to place her here when I arrived, though it offers no information at all about anything surrounding that event. This girl has light blonde hair, and her eyes look like mine, having the same hazel color. She’s small, like a child. She’s frail looking, with lines and tubes going everywhere.

I struggle with the surreal. I’ve a notion this bathroom is shared with another room, another patient. I start to raise my hand to wave to her. She raises her hand. I stop and so does she. I stand unmoving. She’s frozen. She has a bewildered look, and I sympathize.

I see a second toilet, very close to the first. She stands next to a door that opens opposite to my door. I’ve a strange feeling. I reach up to touch the lines I feel coming off my arm. She grabs at her arm. I let my hand fall. She does the same.

Her face is long. And I know that’s how my face must look. I also know that’s my face. Unfortunately, aside from the fevered dreams, I’ve no recollection of who belongs to that face. I’ve a long moment trying to validate all the memories that have been marching through my little mind all this time. Time seems to extend eternally, and that doesn’t seem long enough to grasp what’s happening. I stand here, gaping, mouth now wide open.

Everything I know about myself seems to fold inside out.

I really don’t know me at all.

I suddenly realize what else is missing. Too late to stop it, my hand makes a move. My mind turns a brief touch into an almost inappropriate grope. I could laugh if I wasn’t choking on an incongruent panic. Everything else is intact, and I should be happy about that. Instead there’s a sick sinking feeling of loss, in my gut. My hands freeze, thankfully, as the next logical progression in my exploration crosses my mind.

I hear a door open. It barely registers, in my warping reality. I’m stuck where I stand. I’m focused on the impossible. I hear someone gasp, an intake of breath, and I turn toward the sound. There’s a dark woman in white, with one of those hair nets over her brown hair. Her warm but worried brown eyes are rushing in my direction.

I try to turn and run. My knees give and her slender warm hands hook me under my arms. She has to bend to my level. She seems to be surprised to see me up and about. At least as surprised as I am to see me as I am. I collapse into her arms almost relaxed and relieved to see she’s not any of those faces I’d anticipated might be coming through that door eventually.

She says, Goodness! As she deftly steers me back to bed.

As we move, she says rather loudly, Can you hear and understand me? If so, please nod or blink your eyes.

Mumbling rather surly, I say, I can talk. I’m hungry. What is this place? Where am I?

In a somewhat neutral tone, she explains, "You only think you’re hungry. Let me assure you. You’ve been well taken care of here. You’ve been feed with an adequate intravenous cocktail. Besides, the kitchen is closed. You need to get back into this bed."

I’m trying to turn against our momentum so as to see if she is serious. Her tone implies the kitchen is closed because she says so. I say, It took so long for me to get out of there. We should at least check the galley.

She halts our movement toward the bed and says, Listen. There’s a pause before she asks, What’s your name?

Without thinking, I respond with Travis, Travis McQueen.

She says, Travis. Rather odd name for a little girl.

I say, Well, when I passed out, I wasn’t a little girl.

She grimaces and says, Well, then, rather odd name for a young lady.

With some irritation and little thought, I say, I wasn’t a young lady either.

Her expression is of a struggle to digest, and she says, Well, Travis, I’m Samantha Jones, you can call me Sam.

Sam indicates the label, which confirms that. She says, So just what were you when you went to sleep.

With no forethought, I say, I was a young man, twenty-one years of age.

By her response, I immediately regret saying this. She looks askance before lifting me bodily into the bed. With me resisting all the way, she forces me to lie. I prove too weak to fight her off. She says, Well, Travis, you wouldn’t have gotten this far if I’d responded in a timely fashion to all the alarms you were setting off. But frankly, I didn’t expect my coma patient to just pop out of bed, and these instruments seem to be a bit quirky this week. So I was waiting for a CENA to come and reset them. When I realized she was busy, I decided I could do it since I needed to check on you anyway.

Sam begins doing just that. She begins by nearly blinding me while holding the lids open to assist in that. She says, Hmm. Then she starts working her way down. She asks, How do you feel?

I say, Hungry.

Sam looks back at me and says, Any pain? You’ve been in some apparent distress with pain since you’ve been here.

I close my eyes. Starting to drift off to sleep, I move my small fingers around and sort of mumble, No pain. Feel pretty good. Oh, but my stomach hurts.

Sam sighs, Good, I was worried about the pain.

Looking at me, Sam shakes my shoulder and says, No, not yet. We’ve had quite enough sleep already. Travis, can you hear me? Where do you come from? Where have you been stationed?

This nearly wakes me, and I have time to think before speaking. I say, Lots of places. I’m pretty sure my last address wouldn’t be a good place to start. I say, I was raised on a station.

Sam smiles and says, Well, I was raised on a planet.

I offer, My family, we were farmers, before that.

Sam says, We have that in common then. If I had been a sensible young lady, I would be a farmer’s wife right now.

Sam asks, Where can we find your parents?

My eyes tear up just a bit. I say, I don’t know, really. The Clones took them—they could be anywhere.

Sam frowns a bit and says, Where have you been living then? Since they were taken? Have you been staying with other family, grandparents maybe?

After some struggle, I stumble over words and say, I was living in an institution.

Sam lifts me up a bit, supporting me with one arm, while she adjusts the bedding. She says, Travis, do you remember coming here to the Med Station? Do you know how you got here?

I’m crying now. I think it’s hunger. I say, No, do you?

In a comforting tone, she says, As a matter of fact, I was there. It can wait. Maybe you’ll remember some of it later. Right now, we should try to stay awake. No food, until we determine you can handle solid food. We can talk.

Still crying, I look at my small foreign hand held in Sam’s long thin ones. I’m confused. I’m wondering if this is what amnesia is like. I know amnesia is not quite right, because I remember who I am, who I think I am. I can’t help that the mirror is confused. I shudder again. Sam sits me up and moves onto the edge of the bed. She puts an arm around my shoulders as if to comfort. She gently strokes my hair to quiet my fear.

I’m resisting sleep. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to wake up where I was before, in the remnants of an abused body. I really don’t want to go there.

Time seems suspended as Sam lets me sob against her chest.

I want to stay right here for a while. But, I fear, that’s not how things work in my life.

I cling tightly to Sam.

2

I’M NOT QUITE myself this morning. It’s funny how a common saying can seem so odd when dealing with a real identity crisis. I’m definitely not myself. I’m having an out-of-body experience while being fully ensconce in a body that’s much more complete than the one I remember. It’s just strangely not right. It doesn’t feel right, and it’s hard to explain, other than to say that there are parts that don’t match my self-image.

It’s been the same every morning for the last three mornings. Nothing has changed since I woke up, except the ROM suit. It’s been traded up, or down, for one that’s less restrictive, less invasive, and less pushy. Until they brought me the new one, I was deeply afraid they were leaving me to my own devices. I’m far from ready to give up the assistance.

I believe that’s only one of the things that worry Sam.

Sam lifts my arm and begins her series of invasive checks. It’s nothing inappropriate. I guess. She’s a nurse and I’m a patient. It just gets old the third time around. How many times does someone have to examine your eyes and ears and other parts and vital signs to be sure you are OK. Frankly, she’s beginning to worry me. There’s never an explanation given. I’m going to have to put a stop to that real soon.

As she does this, I can see Sam’s working up to that bank of questions she’s been grilling me with each morning. I steel myself. She says, "So how are we today?

What Sam means is, Have any of your real memories surfaced yet? She’s sitting, almost on the edge of the visitor’s chair. Her soft warm and eager brown eyes look concerned. I’m sure that I will give her ulcers. She thinks I’m nuts. I really shouldn’t have said anything the first time I spoke to her. When I play it back now, it doesn’t make any sense that a little girl would have any good reason for claiming she was a young man. She’s been so patient listening to my ramblings without judging me aloud.

In a twisted way, I see the absurdity of it as a way of validating myself. After all, why would I make up such a thing? Maybe I’m just a bit worried too, but I don’t feel as worried as Sam looks. I want to lie to her. If I do and she asks questions, I’m going to give myself away. I never before realized how much normal conversation relies on memory. My voice holds little hope when I say, Just the usual. I can tell you everything about Travis McQueen.

Now that is a lie, because I’ve been withholding parts. I tell myself it’s for her own good. With all her concern, I’m unsure where the tale of my five years in prison will drive her.

So as she works, I try to deflect the conversation. I ask, When will I be seeing a doctor?

Sam gives me a look and asks, You want to see a doctor?

Even while sitting, Sam has to bend a bit to be eye to eye with me. I feel childish, not in action but in stature. I’m glad I’m sitting on the bed because that brings me closer to her level. I’m, almost, twenty-five centimeters shorter than before. I wish I knew more about this tiny girl. Maybe she’s a better liar than I am. That would help.

Sam says, Hmm, maybe the doctors here won’t be so bad. But on a ship, let me tell you, doctors are arrogant tyrants. They don’t feel right until they drive one nurse to tears per day. Truthfully, nurses and CENA do more healing than any doctors.

Slipping excitement into my voice, I ask, You were on a ship?

Nodding her head Sam says, "When you graduate from the Academy, even as a nurse, you’re required to serve time aboard a ship. I served on a ship called Chastity’s Circle."

I say, That’s an unusual name. How did it get a name like that? I’m thinking it sounds familiar, and I’m trying to tap these borrowed memories of mine.

Sam smiles and says, Funny that you ask. I was aboard her for five years and never asked. In fact, I looked it up after I’d arrived here. And honestly, it was only because all my studies had driven me to boredom. It’s an interesting story. Or it seemed to be at the time.

I say, I thought you said you graduated from the academy.

Sam chuckles. I did, and when I got aboard that ship, I thought I was finished too. But five years aboard a starship, with added time dilation, can stack up to quite a bit of time depending on how many times the ship goes into JumpSpace and the age of the equipment that drives that ship. In total, I added up about eight years of time away from a field, which advances rapidly. I had a lot of catching up to do. It’s hardly worth it, even if I’m three years younger than my contemporaries.

Sam winks then says, That’s enough about me for now.

Looking first at her notes, Sam looks up with the usual disappointment, but she says, Well, it’s expected, with a coma patient, for there to be some time adjusting, time to relearn things. The ROM can only do so much.

Sam once again reassures me, It will come back in time. In most cases, it does. This time she doesn’t sound quite as much as though she believes it. She says, Most often, there’s a long period of adjustment with the physical end, and you seem to be doing quite well in that department.

I’m not sure why she appears distressed about the latter, when her words make it sound like something good. Sam adds, That suit you had on when you arrived was a premier model. I’m not as well acquainted with those, so I don’t really know what level of accomplishment a patient is expected to have after wearing one for a long period. The suit we’ve fitted you with now is more appropriate for your advanced state. You shouldn’t require it much longer.

Now I’m worried. I know I’m not as weak as a newborn kitten, but I really don’t relish the notion of giving this suit up. I think I’ll need it for quite some time.

Sam seems to be trying to decide something before she finally gets up and retrieves a package she’d placed next to the door on her way in. She smiles a rueful smile. She says, I brought you something.

I open the package, revealing a cloth with deep blue color and a stripe of scarlet and blue. I realize I have only myself to blame. Sam had been quizzing me about some things. She was reading questions about the League Jump Guild. I hadn’t given it much thought, and since Dad had an interest in the subject, he had taught us quite a bit. I thought I’d been able to answer most of her questions with a reasonable amount of authority. I’m thinking now, Sam read too much into my answers. This is the uniform worn by LJG Techs.

The LJG are a quasi military organization responsible for operating most, if not all, of the tech used to jump through space. They’re the ones who make it possible for space travel beyond the confines of one solar system. And though it’s not the same as faster than light travel, it’s the best thing we have. And much like Sam’s experience with doctors, my experience with the LJG is that they tend to be a bit overbearingly arrogant.

Sam lays out the uniform respectfully. This manner of dress is much more than foreign to Travis McQueen. I sense that Sam believes the sight of it will cause bells to ring in my head. She expects me to suddenly remember something of who I am, who I was, and how I got here. I’ve been blatantly honest with her on this point. I’m truly clueless. Sam’s eyes are pleading with me right now.

Shaking my head, I say, This is no help. I don’t remember having anything to do with the League. Some things, which my father taught us, might be a bit unorthodox for common education. I’m sorry if my answers to your questions misled you. Sam’s expression tells me something else now. I look at the clothes with a measure of distaste and say, You don’t really expect me to wear these.

Assuming the way she and some others on the station believe I arrived here, it would not be hard to believe they think I’m associated with the League. In my defense, I say, Maybe I didn’t get here the way you think I did.

Sam shakes her head. She says, It’s not just me, there were other witnesses. And we were only describing what we saw and heard. We wouldn’t have believed it ourselves. But there’s one really insistent and obnoxious young first lieutenant of the LJG who insists that you arrived here through JumpSpace. Mr. Learner wanted to interrogate you as soon as he heard about you. In your state, that would have been unlikely, but he made every attempt until Director Solomon gave him a lesson in forbearance.

Sam’s eyes soften for a moment as she says, You’d like the director. He’s a doctor, but he’s spent a lot of time behind a desk here on the station. He’s very reasonable, for a doctor.

Sam offers, Mr. Learner can’t explain why the safety alarms didn’t sound when the station was breached by the jump. But he was adamant about it being his duty to get to the bottom of the issue. The director offered to take into consideration any evidence Mr. Learner could bring forward to substantiate his claim. The director also made it clear that even with that evidence he would not tolerate roughshod tactics.

No alarms, that’s new information to me. This does not bode well. LJG rules prevent jump incursions into, onto, or even near the property of GTGP. Anyone doing so is subject to penalties, often severe penalties, for possible acts of terror. To enforce the rules, there are alarms that should have been screaming that day. Any jump tech equipment that could sneak past the alarms could be considered illicit tech. Subverting the alarms is supposed to be improbable with authorized tech. If the first lieutenant suspected this had happened, I can see why he’s concerned. And I can’t express how nervous this makes me.

In a weak voice, I suggest, If there were no alarms, it means I came here by some other means.

Sam says, And this is why we need you to remember. Until you do, I want you to rest assured I won’t let anyone bother you. I’m sure that once you remember, there will be extenuating circumstances. What with the condition you were in and all.

Nodding, I say, Based on my condition, I don’t see how I could have anything to do with any of this. Plus, you did say the tests you did, didn’t indicate exposure to JumpSpace. If someone came through with only an ROM suit, you’d expect major terminal exposure. I wouldn’t know how to explain this, outside of instantaneous transfer. As far as I know, that’s not possible. Still, when it comes to me and broken laws, I’m afraid there’s evidence to indicate that extenuating circumstances won’t apply. Finding out that I might be connected to LJG would not be of any help.

I’m anxious now. I need to remember. I need to show how wrong the assumption is. I need this before I get charged with being some terrorist criminal. And, with that in mind, it’s a good thing I’m not who I think I am. They would definitely lock me up and throw away the key. It would be conveniently helpful to resolve this confusion of identity. At the same time, I’m afraid. I don’t feel all that confused. I know who I am, who I think I am. I have no idea who I’ll be if I start remembering some other life.

I can’t be what I’m not. I’m not Guild. I don’t want to be. Clutching the folded cloth in my arms, I try convincing myself, not all guild members I’ve met were bad. The ones on CeCiTyeS were helpful and kind, when dealing with us.

Perhaps in an attempt to be helpful, Sam points out that the uniform doesn’t have any of the rank emblems on it. She sounds disappointed as she says, It’s just that I think they’ll fit you and you wanted something more than the hospital gowns. And there was a little bit of hope it would jog a memory.

In my own recollections, there could be some advantages to being LJG. But, in this instance, I’m certain that gets canceled out by illegal use of jump tech. It’s a serious crime, and past experience tells me, being under contract to military and committing a crime can be a critical error. I shake my head and say, "If I wear this, it’s almost admitting I’m part of the Guild. I don’t want to consider that I’m under contract to them while being accused of a crime. I’ve been there with the CS. It’s not a good thing. If I hadn’t been under contract while on the Hindenburg, they would have had to try me as a citizen with all the rights. I know how the system works, this uniform and criminal charges equal hard time with no appeal."

I’ve already told Sam an abbreviated version of my life up until the time Mom sent me to the planet. I’ve avoided getting into the part of my life, when things went from bad to worse. Shaking my head more, I say, "I should never have been aboard Hindenburg at all. It was a big misunderstanding. And somehow I was deluded into thinking it could work out to my advantage."

The Hindenburg is one of several super cruisers that police reaches of JumpSpace for the GTGP. It is part of a fleet commissioned by someone with an odd sense of humor. The whole fleet draws their names from other ships that were involved in some form of disaster.

These ships have a duty, to protect the colonies from pirates. Though, officially, pirates are called thieves since piracy has been deemed improbable in space. That’s the GTGP and CS party line on the subject of space piracy. Either way, this fleet should have no time for the business of ferrying citizens like me around, which is why I shouldn’t have been aboard.

I struggle with starting. I’m trying to avoid a long story, even though Sam is constantly saying we have time. I eventually say, I was on NewTerra. Mom had sent word that I should board the next supply shuttle up. We were to be leaving ASAP. No other explanations or comments. Because of certain events, I received her message late. I missed the intended shuttle.

It probably won’t be helpful to tell her that those events were my being run out of town because I’d begun down the path of becoming an abolitionist. In my opinion, no matter what words you use for indentured labor, it’s still slavery. It’s not right. A lot of citizens on NewTerra have a different opinion.

I’m also not so sure I should mention the main reason my mother was leaving the station. I found out, on my arrival, what the rumors were. She’d gotten into trouble with the station captain, Brian Rockland, on domestic issues. It took no stretch of imagination to know what that might be about. I was aware that he was a bad father. I knew his daughter, Kathleen, and I knew he’d been abusing her. She begged me not to tell anyone about it. I admit it was naive of me to respect her wish. But I had a crush on her. Despite the fact she spent more time with my older brother, Alex, than she did with me.

Skipping along, I say, "My late arrival ended up making a tense situation much worse. A shuttle was coming in from the Hindenburg, and someone was attempting to issue an embargo on the ships in port. The Clone Colony shuttle crew overreacted and undocked abruptly without proper authority. They did some major damage to the station. I was left watching Mom’s transport drift away and disappear.

My friend Kate snagged me up from that corridor and herded me over to a cargo hold. There was a shuttle from a merchant class ship waiting. It seems my mother was able to message them with some sort of request. I’m assuming it was to take me aboard as a passenger.

Before departure, the Privateer’s captain handed me a message chit and told me to deliver it to the Hindenburg shuttle. Since I knew the station layout better than any of his crew, the Privateer’s captain trusted that I could get there and back more efficiently.

There was disarray at that port. The Hindenburg crew was not happy. They were obligated, above everything else, to assist in repairing the damage to the station. They had other things they thought were of higher priority. But the station damage was too critical to let it go. After a crew member checked the message in the chit, he ushered me aside to one of the equipment alcoves and assigned someone to make sure I didn’t go anywhere. He could see I was in a hurry to get somewhere. He had said the captain would want to talk to me.

Captain Yamortov took his time disembarking. By the time he