The Persistence of Memories - A Novel of the Mendaihu Universe (50 page)

“Something wrong?” she asked.

Denni sighed and dropped her expression
quickly. “Hard to say,” she frowned. Then with another, more
theatrical sigh, she shook her head at her in exasperation. “I'm
just confused, really. I went looking for answers and got something
completely different.”

“Oh? Like what?”

Denni shrugged and looked away, down the hall
towards her room. Caren knew enough not to pry. She put her arms
around her, dirt and soot be damned, and gave her a tight hug.
“Hey...don't sweat it. You don't have to tell me now. I trust you.
I’m just glad you’re back.”

She felt Denni’s shiver of relief. “Thanks. I
needed to hear that.” She let go, lingering momentarily to give her
a genuine smile this time. Caren felt that small wave of love, that
intricate blanket of emotion that was distinctively Denni, and
quickly reciprocated with her own.

Moments later, the two teenagers came out of
the bedroom wearing sweats and cotton tops, sleepy but awake enough
to talk for at least a little while. She made tea and filled her
own mug with the last of the coffee. They retreated to the living
room, Caren taking the single chair and Denni and Amna taking the
couch. The two were sitting close, hands entwined. Caren sensed a
new bonding that had only come to light just tonight, and it was
probably the thing in particular that Denni didn't want to talk
about just yet.

What they did talk about was Amna's awakening
as a kiralla. A kiralla! Caren was amused by the girl’s typical and
blatant disregard for expectations. She was so petite, smaller than
any girl in her class, and feisty attitude aside, she did not act
anything like a revered spirit. Crittiqila Nayélha certainly fit
the bill, with her intelligence, grace and benevolence — and the
aforementioned feistiness — but emha Nayélha certainly didn't
flaunt the fact.

Amna couldn't stop talking about it. “...and
it feels weird
,
” she gushed. “Not at all what I'd expected.
It's like...it's like I feel the same, only everything's in a
different place.”

Denni giggled at her. “Don’t be gross!”

“You should talk, Den! You can change into
whatever form you want! I saw your wings!”

Wings?
Caren hid the surprise the best
she could and went along with the conversation.

“That's different,” she said. “The wings are
a part of my spirit. Just like your tail.”

Amna burst out laughing. “That is
so
not the same! The tail is a part of my body!”

“Yeah,” Denni said slyly. “I know how much
you like shaking your butt at the boys.”

“Shut up!” she said, slapping her on the
arm.

Caren waved at them but laughed just the
same. “Settle down, you two. It's close to two and I really need
the rest. I'm going in to work early tomorrow, so I want the two of
you up and ready and off to school before I leave.”

Denni gave with her theatrical sigh. “Yes,
Caren...
” she said with a whine. She smiled brightly, stood
up and kissed her on the cheek. “I'm about tapped anyway. Thanks
for waiting.”

“Sure thing. We’re good?”

Denni nodded. “We're good. G'night.” She
started off towards her bedroom.

“Good night, Caren,” Amna said, stopping next
to Caren. She laid a hand on her arm, a gentle touch of love and
serenity. “Thanks. Sleep well, 'kay?”

Caren smiled uncertainly, placing a hand over
Amna's. “Sure,” she said. “I will. You too.”

She watched the petite Amna disappear into
the hallway and sat there until she heard the closing of the door
and the switching off of the light. There were a few muffled
giggles, soon subsiding into quiet whispering and eventually into
slumber. Caren sat there for perhaps another hour, calm in her mind
but unsettled in her spirit. Something had happened between the two
of them tonight, something that had caused them to become closer
friends than ever. Had they discovered some distant familial
relationship that she did not know about? As far as she knew, she
and Denni did not possess any kind of link to the Ehramanis clan.
No, this was something different.

By the time she climbed into bed herself, it
was a little past three. She'd have to be up by eight if she was
going to make it into work on time, so she set her alarm for seven
and turned off the light. She stared at the dark shadows on the
ceiling and thought about Poe...she wondered what he might be doing
right now, whether he was in bed or if he was awake and poking away
at his vidmat, trying to think of new ways to approach their
situation. She debated giving him a call, but decided against it.
She was tired, and she didn't want to risk waking him up.

“Good night, Dearest One,” she whispered into
the quiet room. She let out a long breath, rolled over, and went to
sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Movement

Midnight came and went and Poe was still wide
awake. He sat at his usual late night perch at one of the windows
overlooking Ormand Street, ignoring the headache pounding at his
temples. He didn't want to relive that fateful night that started
all of this, even if something beautiful did eventually come out of
it. One major Awakening in his life was just fine for him. Getting
all the players gathered onto the playing field was stressful
enough; he didn't want to wait and see what the metaphorical game
would actually
be
. He'd been hoping for some time that this
expected spiritual war would be avoided, or at least not incur much
damage. Right now he just wanted this season over and done
with.

He pulled out a cigarette from the pack in
his shirt pocket and lit it. He looked out over the city as he
smoked, just like he always did this time of night. He'd seen
Bridgetown from many angles in his life: the Crest, Tigua Station
space shots, the ARU Headquarters roof, BMPD helicopters, the upper
observatory at the Mirades Tower...but this was the view he was
most familiar with. The one angle he'd known all his life. This
well-worn apartment was his life, had been since he was born. This
view was his first memory.

And with it came the Mirades Tower and all
the memories associated with it, both good and bad. There was a
constant feeling of distrust, whenever he or one of his family
members caught a glimpse of it, either on the NewsComms or outside
these windows. His mother felt annoyance but no real anger towards
those within the Tower, whereas his father couldn't stand half of
its tenants. For a time during his rebellious teen years, his
brother David despised everyone who set foot within its walls, even
visitors. Now he just avoided Bridgetown entirely, methodically
forgetting all he could about it by hiding behind academia and
drunken weekends.

But there was something about this city that
made him want to stay. He couldn't possibly imagine living
elsewhere in any other province, or even on any of the other
CNF-sanctioned worlds. Right here, in a spacious if somewhat messy
three-bedroom apartment on Ormand Street in the southern tip of
McCleever District, was where he knew he had to be. It was
home.

He checked his watch, and snorted a laugh —
it was five minutes to one in the morning. He glanced again at the
Tower, half expecting the same thing that happened seven weeks ago
to happen again tonight. He was even tempted to call Caren, just to
check in and see how she was doing, but had decided against it. She
was probably just getting back to her apartment from her date with
Anando.

Christine? She was most definitely still
awake, working on something or other, well past her planned time to
go to bed. He needed to talk to someone that he wasn't romantically
or professionally involved with. He dug through his jacket pocket
and found Christine’s new number and dialed it into his comm. While
it was ringing, he glanced at his watch — two minutes to one. If
anything were to happen, now would be the time.

“Gorecki Investigations,” Christine
answered.

“Hey,” Poe said. “It's Alec. You busy?”

Christine perked right up. “Oh, hey! Hi! No,
I'm not busy at all...one of the rare occasions where I don't have
something going, actually.”

“I'm shocked!”

“So am I. What's up?”

“Nothing and everything,” he said, and
perched himself back on the window sill. “Can't sleep, and I've got
one nasty case of impending doom that I just can't seem to
shake.”

“Same here,” she said. “You want to meet
somewhere over coffee? We can pull an all-nighter, like we used to,
if that'll help.”

“Ehh....” he shrugged. “Thanks anyway, but
I've been out all evening, and I'm not really up for going back out
again. This has more to do with me not really knowing what the hell
I'm going to actually do when the time comes.
If
the time
comes. You know what I mean?”

Christine hummed in agreement. “Hard being
the reality seer when you can't see your own.”

“Truer words never spoken.”

“You talk to Kai about this?”

He took another hit from the cigarette, his
eyes doing a quick sweep of the city. Surely it was past one now,
and nothing bad had happened. A shallow relief. “Yeah, we talked a
bit tonight,” he said, shifting his seat. He was looking directly
down at the street below, watching the occasional transport speed
by and a jaywalker or two skipping across the four-lane street. It
was quiet this evening, even for McCleever standards. A few short
blocks up the street he saw the bright '24hr' holo sign for Masi's
Convenience flickering in the slight breeze. Suddenly, a midnight
snack and a replenishment of smokes didn't sound all that bad.

“We met up at the Crest tonight,” he added.
“Talked about the inevitability of things.”

“Pfaah,” she grunted. “There's no such thing
as inevitability, Poe. Just a severe case of giving up.”

“You’re too cynical, Gorecki,” he laughed.
“I'm about to dash out to Masi's and do some late night shopping.
Want to continue this, or would you rather I call back?”

“Hey, keep me connected,” she said. “I'm up
for it.”

They continued to chat about mundane things
while Poe donned his coat and left the apartment. He felt the
tension in his muscles slowly unraveling, comforted by this simple
conversation. It was good not to talk about spirits for once. They
simply chose not to bring it up. They laughed at dumb jokes as he
walked the back stairs. They spoke excitedly of a band whose latest
music disc he'd bought a few days ago. They chatted about the
latest holofic book topping the bestseller's lists.

Quiet, normal mundane things. Things that
reminded him of who he was, behind the spiritual façade.

He pushed open the front door and was
unexpectedly hit by a colder breeze than he'd expected. It had been
warmer just a few minutes ago at the window. He shivered,
remembering the same sensation just minutes before finding
Saisshalé in that alleyway a few weeks ago. He put Christine on
hold and threw out a small thread of sensing, but found no one in
the immediate area. Perhaps his nerves were shot by fatigue, or
perhaps it was simply colder than he’d expected.

“Okay,” he said. “Sorry about that. Had to
check something.”

“Still here,” she chimed in.

“Cool. So...I've got to know, Chris. This
research you're doing at the DRL...”

“Poe, we agreed,” she reprimanded. “You don't
need to think about it right now.”

He smirked. “True...but I'm curious. Now,
what exactly were you looking for?”

“You never give up, do you? Patterns, mostly.
I wanted to find any patterns within Seasons of Embodiment.
Everyone asks why they happen. I want to know
how
.”

“Just like a true-blooded ARU officer,” Poe
said.

“Don't remind me. So anyway, here I am,
searching through countless files, when it occurs to me: there’s
really not any easily accessible treatises focusing the psychology
of these Seasons. If there is, it's been put on high secrecy.”

Poe nodded as he stopped at the first corner,
waiting for a driverless transport to make its calculated
stop-and-turn. “I'm sure there would be a reason,” he said. “You’re
talking unstable ideas, as much as I hate to say it.”

“Unstable?” Christine said. “If that were
true, we’re all screwed. If the Seasons are based on a
twenty-five-year cycle of random acts of violence and psychological
damage caused by misunderstandings, I'm quitting this planet and
moving to Hallera.”

The truck made its slow turn and Poe crossed
the street. “You do that and I'm coming with you,” he said. “But I
didn't mean unstable as in dangerous. I’m talking free-thinking,
no-boundaries think tank stuff like they tried in Nashua Outpost
about eighty years ago. Nine brilliant scholars with Mendaihu and
Shenaihu backgrounds got together and tried to figure out what it
actually
was
that got the two on each other's nerves.”

“I remember reading that,” she said. “Didn’t
get very far, did they?”

“They lasted for ten days. Eleventh day,
after a long night of discourse, the ninth scholar, a cho-nyhndah,
completely loses it and kills the other eight before turning on
himself.”

“Never found a motive, did they?”

“No,” he said. “And all their transcripts are
lost or at least well hidden. The cho-nyhndah professor threw
everything into incinerators. Left one note. Any guesses?”

Christine let out an uneven breath. “Here
lies fate.”

“Right,” he said. “Note how the phrase
predates Councillor James' poem by at least fifty or so years.
Anyway, years later, the Spiral gang uses it as a motto down in
South City. And now someone’s plastering it on the sidewalks with
smartpaint everywhere I look. I'm just about to walk over one I
found yesterday.”

“They’re all over the place out front,” she
said, and stifled a yawn. “Sorry about that...long day.”