"Embers of Memory" copyright 1996 by Dave Van Domelen characters and situations TM Daedalus Entertainment --------------------------------------------------------------------------- I'm almost positive I had a name once. Oh, I have a designation now, CHAR-1003, and the computers grafted onto my brain tell me what that stands for, but it's not a NAME. Every so often, during the downtime when the arcanotechs repair any damage I've sustained, I get a flash of old memory. I used to tell the 'techs about this, but that only got me more "retraining" in which they blanked out as much of my organic memory as they could find and refilled my head with their orders, protocols and strategies. I'm a loyal soldier now. I can't be anything else. I can only barely and in the most rhetorical of terms even THINK of not being loyal. Most times I can't even think at all. The burning fire of battle quite overcrows my reason...where do I know that phrase from? "Overcrow" is not in my lexicon, so how do I know it? The BuroMil officer has sent out the signal. We are to fight again, against the forces of the Fire Pagoda. Data on their tactics and weaknesses floods my mind, and then "I" disappear completely under the blaze of my battleprogramming.... * * * * When I wake, it's as if from a deep sleep. The battlecomp uses my organic brain as a processor during battle, but the soulless scientists at the Buro decided we cyborgs would function better overall if left a small spark of consciousness to deal with situations outside the parameters of the battlecomp's programming. That's their excuse, anyway. I think they just wanted the sadistic pleasure of knowing a human being would have to remember the atrocities committed by the killing machine he rode. I switch to debriefing mode, I cannot do otherwise, it is part of my programming. The events of the battle pour into my mind all at once, forcing me to live it all while the battlecomp takes advantage of the creative and synthetic abilities of an organic brain to learn from the day's battle more effectively. I see myself walking down mist-shrouded hallways decorated in mosaic tiles in flame motifs. Part of my mind is still aware enough to see the terrible beauty of these flames...was I an artist before they put my brain in this body? Or just another consumer who made the mistake of learning too much? Dark-skinned warriors glowing with an inner fire that only the most fanatical devotion can generate rush at me...at the THING I have become. Their swords glance harmlessly off my advanced composite armor, a blend of 21st Century polymers and the husks of demons. I feel a faint burning where each blade touches, but it is nothing against the raging inferno that my mind rides, the flames of eternal death and damnation that guide my actions. With a gentle touch of my immense, clawed hand, the fire in the warrior is extinguished. Yet my own fire does not dim or even flicker. It cannot be sated by a single death...or by a million deaths. My orders are to act with extreme prejudice, for the Fire Monarch has betrayed his covenant with my masters. The reasons don't interest me, nor are they needed to make me fight. I would fight even if told I was to slaughter innocents or betray an ally. I would fight even if told it meant my death. The holocaust in my soul will accept no other possibility. After I have disposed of the seasoned warriors and the hopeless martyrs with a fire in their eyes that almost matches the one in my heart, I reach the target. It is a mosque of delicately fringed cold fire. It is the most beautiful thing I can remember seeing...even the faint echoes of my old life are mainly ugly and terrible. A thing of beauty, destroy it forever. There is no gentleness in my touch, only rough contempt as I was ordered. What took years to create takes seconds to destroy, as whirling blades and blasting cannon tear the frail structure to wisps, little tongues of flame which are snuffed out in the ever-present mist. Without the presence of this mosque to keep the eternal fog of the Netherworld at bay, the cavern rapidly becomes just another featureless tunnel. I cannot weep for such destruction, for I no longer have tears. Nor would I have mourned when I committed the act, for it was not I who was in control but the inferno. Now, however, I mourn the loss of one more thing that is good and noble...and the addition of yet another thing that is base and cruel. Then the debriefing mode is ended and I am mercifully allowed to enter shutdown mode. * * * * I dream. CHAR units are not supposed to dream. But I dream. It is a dream of grey skies and greyer people. Old women wandering the streets, not in search of food and shelter, but in search of evidence. Evidence of treason against the Buro. Evidence of abnormality, of anything that would prevent one from being just a cog in the machine. Is this a dream or a memory? In my dream, I am myself...not the fearsome CHAR, but just a man. Somehow I at least know I was a man, not a woman or child or ape. I look down at a pamphlet that I picked up from the dusty street. I read the words on it. It must be a memory, because you can't read in dreams, can you? Maybe a cyborg can read in dreams. If a cyborg can dream. The words on the page are a muddled stew of exhortations and dogmas, and I toss it aside as nonsense. Then I turn around and see a white-haired old woman behind me. She's seen me reading the thing. She scurries away before I can think of something to do or say. The PubOrd thugs come in the night, breaking down the door to my cubicle even though they could have simply overridden the lock. They believe in the value of brute force, and my battlecomp tells me it is an effective tactic when used properly. But...I don't have a battlecomp yet, do I? This is a dream or a memory of my life before, isn't it? Or are the two becoming one? The words on the pamphlet come back at me. "Freedom is the right of all sentient beings." "Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." "There comes a time in the course of human events...." It's still a nonsense jumble. But some of the pieces make sense. They make sense like nothing else in my nightmare existence does. And this only makes it worse...for now I know the truth, but I have not been set free. I am still slave to the raging inferno my masters can light within me with but a command. I have no name. I am damned. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- I finally managed t'get the shop light at the right angle so that I could see what the heck it was I was looking at. Looked like the third sparkplug on the left side of the engine had melted or something. I grimaced as I pulled myself outta the engine block. I was a mechanic, not an engineer...while I knew where all the parts were supposed t'go and about what they looked like and stuff, I didn't know exactly how t'make them. My "home made" sparkplugs never lasted very long. Maybe I could take a trip down ta the Junkyard and barter for some of the real thing from the Prof's people...then again, getting indebted to one faction down here always gets ya in trouble with the others. The Netherworld ain't a place where y' wanna take sides lightly. "Hey, Jack, you fix the number five yet?" came a voice from the other "room." It was my boss, Wei Gan. He'd been stranded here by a shift when he was just a kid, but he'd adapted. Oh yeah, you're probably a newbie, right? I'll explain stuff as we go along. Consider it the nickle tour. Anyway, like I was saying, the spark plugs on this old cab had started t'go again. I never made enough connections to get the chi flow going so's I could just make stuff that runs for no very good reason, y'know? Like those Fire sleds do. "Yeah, Gan, I almost got it. Just gotta make a new plug for it." Oh yeah, ignore the "Jacqueline" on my hack license, everyone calls me Jack. That, or "infidel dog," but those Fire guys never did like the idea of a gal driving a cab. So, how long you been down here? Three DAYS? Wow, no wonder you got lost. The Netherworld ain't a place ta be on yer own. So, okay, I concentrated on the image of a spark plug. One thing you'll learn fast here is that if you think about something hard enough, it'll get created outta the walls and floor of the caverns and tunnels down here. Whoa, sharp turn coming up here, hold on. Anyway, I've been doing this for a while, so it only took me a few minutes ta make the thing. First time I tried, it took hours, and didn't spark. Big stuff takes a lot of mojo t'build all at once, but little things are easy. So that's why Gan keeps me around, to put the parts together so he doesn't have ta hire a bigshot to keep him in cabs. You wouldn't believe how useful a service we provide...oh yeah, I guess you would at that. Still, we don't wanna get beholden ta any sorcerors or monks or anything, so we try ta stay self-sufficient. Anyway, I put the plug in, and the cab worked. Well enough ta pick you up, eh? Headlights? Nah, no real reason for the things. Y'can't see more than a few dozen yards most places anyway between the big caverns. Too much mist and magic stuff. Not that I ever got much use out of the things back in the real world. Say...if ya don't find yer pals, D'ya wanna work as a cabbie? It's not bad work, better'n hanging out with alla them warring factions, and Gan's a great cook...plus the garage is a minor Feng Shui site. Not big enough that anyone tries to take it over, but enough ta keep us in Chi. No? Oh well, if y'change yer mind, just tell 'em Jack sent ya, and that'll get ya an interview. Hm? The "shift" stuff? Oh, that. Yeah, you know at least a little about the war for chi in the real world, right? Okay, and y'know that not everyone's from the old 1990s too, huh? Good, that's usually the hard part t'explain. Anyway, if someone takes too much of the chi flow, they can control destiny and all that crap. And that means bad news for anyone down the line from them. Someone takes over a gravesite in 1850, suddenly Hitler didn't win WWII anymore or something. What, he didn't? Good for whoever fixed that bit...never did like Nazis. Thing is, anyone who's been down here...and that means you now, buddy, is still stuck on the old program. Y'can't go home again, home ain't there no more. So you might just get stuck here soon enough if y'don't exist in the next timeline. Happens allatime, 's a fact of life here. I hear rumors the next big push is comin' from the future boys, gonna mess with 1996. You're from 96? Well, then, you're okay for a while then. I got shifted out about ten years ago, I think. Well, I was still there, but everyone remembered me as someone else...gets on yer nerves after a while, y'know? So I just packed up and headed down here t'live eventually. The pay's good, y'can get okay TV reception most places even if it is just those crazy sisters, and people don't try t'kill ya unless y'pick sides. Just a sec, got a call comin' in from dispatch. DAMN! Some Jammers blew up one a' our stations, prolly just t'blow something up. Hold on tight, we got a little detour t'make and some serious butts t'kick before I can drop ya off.... Here's a free lesson fer ya if yer gonna stick around down here... NEVER piss off a cabbie. Looks like the Jammers forgot that one again. Time for a refresher course. Feel free t'help, there's some extra guns n' tire irons behind the seat. Wow, I see ya brought yer own. Impressive...you build that yerself, lady? Yeah, I think you'll do okay down here.... --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Another mission, a simple mopping up operation. Our...my masters' agents within the Jammers had convinced them to damage a minor but strategically useful feng shui site controlled by a neutral party. The theory was that the damage would soften it up so that I could take possession with a minimum of effort and keep control over it until such time as consolidation units moved in. However, there was nothing to mop up. The Jammers had used far more powerful explosives than the job required, and there was nothing left but an empty cavern and some flames when I arrived. If I still breathed in the normal way, I might have sighed in relief. There was no need to enter battle mode, so I remained mostly in control of my actions. I was still compelled to go to the site and return once I was done, but the flames in my mind did not rise. Audio sensors picked up an odd sound echoing through the caverns I traveled. It was an internal combustion engine of some sort...four stroke gasoline-powered automobile engine. Buro vehicles operated on diesel or fusion power, most other means of transportation down here ran on pure magic. So that left only a few options, and my computerized other brain quickly weighed them all, factoring in the ownership of the place I had been sent to take. Thus, I knew it was a taxi several seconds before it came roaring out of the mist towards me. And I knew the driver would not attempt to slow down, but would rather correctly assume I was involved in the attack on the dispatch station and try to kill me. My battle programming shifted into gear and I felt myself slipping to the background, to the small dark room my consciousness was trapped in while the inferno fought the battles I was sent into. The flames rose and vision started to fade...I fought it, but had nothing with which to fight. Yet...did my body hesitate? All about was flames and rage, but I could still barely sense what was going on. Pain! I could feel the pain of impact, as the taxi rammed into my body! Somehow I'd managed to keep myself from dodging...but how? And could I be free without being killed? --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Get ready, lady, we're comin' up on th' terminal now. Sammy says he spotted some metalheads in the area...could be Jammers, could be Buro lookin' t' feed off the Jammers. WHOA! Now that's one big ugly metalhead! Grab onta somethin', this crate's not airbag-equipped...he'll probably jump over us or shoot or... UNH! Gaaaah! Took out the front axle...steerin's shot...why didn't he even try ta move? AGH! Oooohhh...I HATE hittin' these walls. You okay back there? Lady? Damn.... --------------------------------------------------------------------------- My combat programming finally swings into full gear, but for some reason I can still see things as they happen, instead of having to wait until afterwards. Perhaps the damage from the impact had an effect on my programming...internal diagnostics themselves are mostly offline, so the damage to my body must be extensive. I scream to my body, "LOOK DOWN! LOOK AT THE DAMAGE!" but the battle program is convinced nothing's wrong...it relies too heavily on the internal diagnostics and is programmed to ignore anything I may do to attempt to degrade combat efficiency. The flames are in control and don't care that they may be consuming the fuel that keeps them alive. I see the scenery lurch as my body moves forward to look for survivors in the wrecked cab...it must be significantly damaged. The cab itself has lost almost its entire front...crumpled, twisted metal is slowly oozing back into the walls of the tunnel to rejoin the matter that forms the Netherworld. Between this and the unsteady motion, some backup program must have decided there was damage to the unit, and my eyes look down to see my left leg a shattered mass of armor and demonic ichor. But there's nothing to be done about it but neutralize any threats and call for a repair crew. But in that order...cyborgs are more expendable than trained arcanotechs. A threat is detected on sonar, trying to attack from the rear. My arm shoots out in a direction impossible for humans but simplicity itself for a cyborg and grabs the target by the neck, pulling it into visual arc. It's a woman with a tire iron in her hand. "Ya stinkin' metalhead! Ya trashed my hack!" she shouts as she brings the improvised weapon down on my arm to no effect. My battlecomps classify her a nuisance threat and retain the grip while scanning for any passengers. It will take only a single squeeze to kill her should it be necessary, and my orders were to avoid needless deaths...even my brutal masters eventually realized they need alliances in the Netherworld, alliances made more difficult by killing too many bystanders. Scanners indicated heat signatures in the back seat of the vehicle, as well as traces of blood, but no passenger. I prayed my battlecomps would continue to ignore me, because flashes of memory told me where the passenger might have gone. My body's damaged leg makes a loud scraping sound and my victim's incessant but futile pounding accents this with a dull ringing. The battlecomps enter Caution mode, since any hidden enemy could not help but know where I was. My hand starts to squeeze tighter, to cut off respiration and render my captive unconscious...but it then falls apart! A quick analysis of memory files shows that while one hand used a tire iron as a blunt instrument, the other was busy severing connections with a small knife. The flames rise up and my body whirls to ignite my onboard flamethrower in the direction of the no-longer-nuisance threat. Then, as I expected but my body didn't, the trunk of the cab pops open and another woman sits up with some kind of rifle in her hands. Radiation signature marks it as fusion technology and tags her as a priority threat. I see an opening in the flames! As the battlecomp shifts from one target to another, it has to shift programs. And the program-shifting router is damaged.... I push as hard as I can. <> The fusion bolts tear into my unresisting body, crashing the rest of my computer systems. My body falls and my vision goes dark. It feels like going to sleep...everything's sort of warm and fuzzy and dimming. I know I'm dying. But I'm dying free. I've been redeemed. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- You okay, lady? Nice shootin' there...I didn't think this wuz gonna work...these CHAR things're usually a lot faster'n that. Nah, I'm okay...I've gotten worse hickies. Damn. I spent all morning on that cab, now it's trashed. I don't s'pose I could trade my half a th' spare parts from laughin' boy here for some real engine parts if ya get ahold a yer pals? Now, lessee if'n I c'n get th' radio workin' and call fer a tow.... --------------------------------------------------------------------------- I have no name. I need no name. I have only three purposes in what I might call life. I am not a man born of flesh or a demon summoned from the lower dark, I am a creation of wires and cogs and bronze. My creator instilled me with a threefold purpose and all that I would need to fulfill it. And I need no name for this. My purpose is to watch. I watch all those who pass me by in these mist-shrouded tunnels. The heroes and the villains...sometimes I wonder if my definition of who is a hero and who is a villain is correct. It is the one my creator gave me, but my creator is not infallible. I have a soul. It is this which makes me more than a mere machine, which gives me the ability to tell right from wrong...and to wonder which is really which. I need no name to fulfill my purpose, but I need a soul. For only a soul can channel the energies of chi that flow from the place I watch. It is not much of a soul, I admit. Every day I see far more vibrant spirits passing me by. But still, I have a soul. And I watch as men and demons pass before me, and I can see the sparks of their spirits. I can see the dark taint of corruption, the burning red passion of the brave, the pure whiteness of the perfect masters. I watch with regret when the noble fight each other over minor differences in ideology. And I would shed a tear if I could when forced to destroy good men to defend my post. Sometimes people watch me. A woman often comes to my garden and tries to look like she's not staring at me. She has a hardbitten spirit, forged in hardship and tragedy, but she has found a measure of peace in the Netherworld. Once she came right up to my unmoving form and looked at my hand for many minutes. When she was gone I raised my hand to look at it, and saw a "1003" branded into the metal. I do not know what this means, perhaps it is my name. But I do not need a name. My purpose is to watch. My purpose is to remember. Deep within the clockwork and mystically charged circuitry at the heart of my being, I remember every spirit I have seen. I remember every life that has entered mine. And most especially, I remember the heroes who have fallen in battle. So long as I exist, a piece of each of their souls remains here among the living. Even if I never speak a word to tell others of these souls, they are remembered. I remember those who have become displaced, who have lost their own pasts in the upper world. Although my entire life has been static and unchanging as the Netherworld mists, I feel pity for those who have lost everything. I remember those who have tried to destroy my entire world, who have tried to destroy the beautiful garden of bronze I watch over. Many are surprised to find I am more than decoration. I remember them as well, but with an indifference that is as close to hatred as my soul will allow. I remember the faces of the kindly gardeners and the joking handymen who again and again did their best to put my garden back together again. And it is never quite the same afterwards. It is beautiful again when they are done, but different. Leaves have moved, trees bent, even sometimes new pathways carved into the ground to hide the damage of explosive charges. Once in a while, they do not have the time to restore the garden, and leave behind bronze mirrors in an attempt to patch the damage. It is then that I wish most deeply my creator had seen fit to give me the healing touch, that I might tend to my garden, restore its beauty and not just its chi flow. But mine are fists that hammer, not hands that nurture. But I remember the beauty of days gone by. My purpose is to remember. My purpose is to avenge. The day will come when I will be sacrificed for a higher purpose. I will pull into myself all the power of my garden, withering the unliving plants into dust. Yet I will not be allowed the luxury of time to grieve for them. I will then remember all the noble souls who have passed beyond the veil of death, and only then will I be allowed to feel a righteous rage the likes of which will make the heaven and earth tremble. All the memories of death and injustice will fuel my frame and make me an unstoppable juggernaut, burning bright with the flame of vengeance. All will fall before me in a blazing hot moment of glory, all the names forgotten by all others will have their revenge through me before I melt into a pool of liquid metal, even my mighty body incapable of surviving such power for long. But I will do it without hesitation, even knowing that all I have watched, all I remember, will be lost when I am no more. None shall remember my name, for I have none. But it matters not. My purpose is to avenge.