The Death of Memory

By Amber Michelle K.
myaru@etherealvoid.net

Despite his claims of indifference and the death of emotion in his life, Krelian's lack of interest in her situation was surprising. There was history between them. This she felt, even if she didn't quite understand how she knew, nor sort out her feelings about it.

He'd left her alone after her awakening in the laboratory, esconced in what she supposed was a comfortable room, considering where she was. It was called 'Merkava' now. Before, it was the Ezekiel, which she visited once for an inquiry into her condition after the Drive incident, and they'd granted her the dubious pleasure of remaining overnight to prepare for her return to Etrenank in the morning. It wandered the earth, they said, so spending a few hours in the chamber with the Gazel was equivilent to traveling hundreds of miles. They'd drifted too far away from Solaris for her to return.

There was no hum to give away the engines, so Elly assumed the Merkava was landlocked, or at least stationary. She had no clues as to where. Even if she knew, Krelian's drug would prevent her from wandering out of the residential corridor.

It was unkind of him. And ridiculous of her to think such a thing of the man who wanted to destroy the world. He protested that accusation, but what he'd told her sounded about the same. The world wouldn't cease to exist if the people did, it was true. Perhaps what she feared - what everyone feared and what Krelian threatened - was the death of human memory. She told the refugees in Nisan that their loved ones would always be with them as long as they remembered, held them in their hearts; if there was no one to remember, her promise would be hollow.

If she did not escape and return to her friends, other promises would crumble. 'Just like that time,' Krelian had said, and she knew she'd thrown her promises away before. For something bigger, more important, and too abstract for them to understand.

She was grateful, at first, to be left alone in this room. Krelian's quiet gaze was accusing in its own way. But now she wished for his comfort again. To hear his voice, watch him work, follow his elegant hands as they danced over keyboards and wrote notes. A pen seemed too fragile, yet there was an odd gratification to see him wield an instrument of creation instead of a sword.