The Black Side of Memory

Lieutenant Det Kiv had difficulty accepting discharge with an edited version of the war. PTSD treatment for Level Cs was a package deal, which involved Sensitive Battlefield Information Erasure. The docs back at Waypoint Orbital Station had made certain of that.

Kiv hadn’t recalled much of his appointment—a side effect of the SBIE procedure—save for the eye pain, headaches and an iron taste in his mouth.

According to the brief, docs were only interested in isolating experiences considered either traumatic or classified. What fragments of memory Kiv wanted to hold onto were, unfortunately, a little of both. Perhaps some things were best forgotten. He understood that.

The problem was he felt he had lost memories that were important to him. He felt strongly about these residual fragments of recall, which had grown increasingly surreal and distant. Often they would appear in daydreams like a documentary in fast forward shot with a dirty lens. Falling through the night sky, the eyes of a little girl, bright flashes and hard shadows. He feared they would fade away over time. All that would remain would be this notion he had made a real difference at some point in his ten years with Force Recon—without knowing what that was.

He wondered how many other vets felt the same way.

On the Qe-Koran surface Kiv welcomed the cool breeze and stronger gravity when he hauled his sea bag out the main gate. A mixed crowd filled the nearby streets of Anchor Point where family receptions embraced vets alongside him. There’d be none for him, not that he expected any, what with his foster parents who had spoken little with him since he had joined the Corps.

Protesters yelled behind the barricades on either side of him, flashing cheap holo banners. DON’T BRAINWASH OUR TROOPS!

Kiv stiffened beneath his dress black uniform. He ignored the protesters and kept walking.

The crowd thinned after several blocks. He froze at the sight of rubble where dozers were clearing sections of a rough neighborhood. The docs had advised him that the occasional “pseudo recall” would pass, along with the insomnia.

The smell of black beans and rice distracted him. Real food, he thought. Not that vat-grown slop back at Waypoint. He traced the aroma to a makeshift stand where an old Joffan woman greeted him with a cup of spice tea. Her olive skin, salt-and-pepper hair and sunset eyes were obscured momentarily behind a cloud of steam.

Pseudo recognition hit him again. He ordered a plate and sat down uneasily.

“Welcome home, sir,” a familiar voice said.

Kiv turned around.

Lan Novak, from his old squad, looked tired, like the sleep aids had only taken him so far. Kiv wondered if he’d end up the same way himself.

“Thanks,” Kiv said. He motioned Novak to take a seat next to him.

Novak approached. A mechanical whine pulsated from beneath the right pant leg of his khakis.

“What happened to you?” Kiv said, embarrassed and frustrated that he couldn’t remember.

Hell, he wanted to remember a lot of things, like how he had gotten that disciplinary code on his discharge file. Office Hours. To fail himself and, more importantly, his men, was bad enough. Not knowing how that had occurred really burned his ass. Kiv did remember serving the last six months of his commission in HQ as an admin clerk, which he hated. He assumed that was a disciplinary action. It might as well have been. At least his discharge was honorable. Things could have been worse.

“Grenade,” Novak said finally. “At least that’s what the docs told me. They didn’t give me any details, of course.”

“I’m sorry, Novak.”

Novak nodded. He sat down, ordered tea and hand-signaled Kiv his username and how to reach him online.

Kiv logged in, aware Novak had likely built the encryption himself. Everyone had trained in electronic warfare.

The new implant buzzed at the base of Kiv’s skull. He wanted to close his eyes and imagine the Tactical Heads Up Display that wasn’t there. He didn’t like the civie interface, which he considered too flashy for his taste.

Novak handed him a pair of goggles. Check out your tattoo.

Kiv rolled up his right sleeve and did so. He studied the tattoo on his forearm: an orbital ring framed a parachute and wings over a beachhead. It had been a custom job done in a printer. The goggle lenses magnified the ink lines on his skin into letters and numbers, which spelled out names and dates, unit creed and designation.

Everybody got one.

The docs had scanned Kiv’s tattoo through a pattern recognition filter. If they had found anything suspicious, like a memory cue, they would have erased it by now.

What am I supposed to find? Kiv said.

It’s all in code, Novak replied.

The scanners would have picked up on that.

Not the old codes we used back in the day. Novak watched the street without being obvious.

Kiv had already mapped out the street as well: the layout of the construction site, stats of all the workers, down to the plate numbers of every vehicle. He and Novak were in Force Recon after all. And old habits died hard. At least the docs hadn’t erased their training.

So, what did you find? Kiv said, skeptical but curious.

GPS coordinates, Novak said. I looked it up.

A dump truck rumbled past. Kiv shielded his plate from the cloud of dust.

There’s more, Novak added. Maybe file names. Pass codes.

For what? Kiv asked. He returned the goggles and then took a bite of his food. He chewed slowly, savoring the flavor.

I’m thinking we copied our memories in an external drive and buried it.

Kiv nearly choked.

“Is everything all right?” the old woman said.

Kiv swallowed hard and nodded. He finished his tea. Though he wished for a stiff drink.

Just hear me out, Novak said.

That’s crazy, Novak. Do you have any idea how much trouble we’d all be in for pulling a stunt like that?

A group of workers leaned in from either side ordering takeout. Kiv noted two of them in particular, how smooth their hands were. Their work clothes looked new, not as dirty. Kiv wondered if he should order a box and eat somewhere else. This code you deciphered could be anything. The war is over, Novak. Let it go.

They erased an experience that was important to us. We want it back. And so do you.

Kiv hated to admit that. He stabbed at his food a while. Workers grabbed their boxes of food. Kiv studied them as they left. One of the two with smooth hands glanced at him, placing him on edge. He relaxed somewhat when they walked away.

I know. I saw them too, Novak said in reference to the two men. He finished his tea and then set the cup aside. We owe it to the team, dammit. “Once a Marine, always a Marine.” Or had the docs made you forget that too?

I’ve been through enough as it is. And so have you. I’m not about to risk losing my benefits digging for a box—an expensive piece of hardware, government property we might have tampered with—in the middle of nowhere. Not to mention the likelihood of serving hard time in a federal prison if we got caught. Hell, you don’t know for certain if we’d buried anything out there at all.

That “middle of nowhere” happens to be Ariah.

Hairs spiked at the base of Kiv’s neck.

His team had gathered intel near that village, now half a world away. Kiv couldn’t recall anything eventful there, of course.

Novak shared what news feeds he’d obtained of the Battle of Ariah, which was a turning point in the war, at least in this part of the universe. Enemy forces, namely the Sarska, had lost a considerable amount of ground in the Eastern Frontier. Uprisings against corporations, military regimes crazed on religion had been reduced to isolated bands of guerilla fighters. Colonial marines had conducted mopping operations, securing the flood of humanitarian aid ever since.

Kiv couldn’t find a trace of his unit’s involvement. No surprise there.

Windows of satellite footage opened across his wetware interface: remains of a village nestled in a valley, excavation work and a large cluster of tents to the south.

What are these? Kiv asked.

Ariah, Novak replied. What’s left of it.

Are you suggesting we go back there? Kiv said.

That’s right.

You’re out of your mind. The Eastern Frontier isn’t entirely stabilized yet.

The old woman handed Novak another cup of tea. He turned the cup slowly in his hands. After you meet Yadon, maybe you’ll change your mind.

Jace Yadon was the sniper in their unit, and a damn good one. Kiv might not have recalled the details of every mission, but he was sure Yadon had saved his ass more than once in the field. How is he?

I met him at the VA Hospital. Novak shook his head.

Kiv met his gaze. What happened to him?

When we get there, you’ll see what I mean.

If the anticipation of pain had a smell, it was the disinfectant. Overhead lamps intensified the hard whiteness of the psych ward, like the clinics back at Waypoint. Security was tight here. Kiv and Novak had been scanned before they had reached the elevator.

They logged in at the reception desk. Male nurses, imposing in their white uniforms, escorted them down the hall. Sunlight flooded the rec room through windows thick with reinforced composite. Kiv ignored the televised program on the wide holo screen as he threaded his way along the strict arrangement of tables and chairs. The patients around him, dressed in their pastel green pajamas, were lost in a world of their own, their minds elsewhere. Like they were gone.

Kiv broke his stride when he spotted Yadon sitting alone at a far corner table. The stubble on his face made him look thinner than he actually was, his black hair longer and frayed. Locked in a moment of intense concentration, he sketched on a worn pad of paper with a black marker.

Damn, Kiv thought. He felt heavy, standing across from Yadon. He glanced at the loose pile of drawings on the tabletop. The possibility he might end up here, lost in another world searching for a way out, occurred to him. He cringed at the thought.

“Jace,” one of the nurses said to Yadon, “you have visitors.”

Yadon glanced up, apparently irritated by the interruption from his work.

He blinked at Kiv. He seemed like he still had it together, more or less. With that look in his eyes like he had been administered a regimen of powerful drugs. He moved to stand, as if at attention.

“As you were,” Kiv said.

Yadon sat back down. Embarrassed, defeated and then suddenly anxious. He gathered the pile of drawings into a neat stack.

Kiv nodded as the nurses left and then sat across from Yadon. Yadon had always been the quiet artist type. He had planned after the war to enroll in art school, work in a studio and display his work in galleries.

Yadon was ready to implode at any moment. Kiv chose his words carefully. “I see you’ve been busy.”

“Yes, sir,” Yadon said. He inserted the cap on his marker. “I’m sorry I let you down.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“They say if I make enough progress,” Yadon said bitterly, “I can have paint.”

“Once things get squared away, you’ll be out of here in no time,” Kiv said.

Yadon smiled, more like a facial tic. “Know why you can’t sleep? It’s the blanks you can never fill.” He scanned the rec room and leaned forward. “What do you remember?” he whispered.

Kiv shrugged. “Just fragments.”

Yadon’s eyes widened. “I see them too.” He flipped through pages of drawings.

“See what?” Kiv said with heightened interest.

Don’t provoke him, Novak said online. He’ll relapse.

Not here, Kiv said. Stay offline.

Yadon nodded. “Fragments.” He laid out drawings on the table. Fireballs. Rubble. “They come to me when I’m awake.” Five-pointed stars, the emblem of the Sarska. “I sketch them out because some of the dreams don’t come back.” Numbers overlaid into inky blotches. “Random images. Sometimes I don’t know what I see, but I draw them.” Yadon handed him the rest.

Kiv examined Yadon’s maps and charts, desert landscapes at night, mountain ranges and farmland. He found pages completely inked out disturbing. He flipped through them, but not so quickly as to potentially offend Yadon. Then, he saw the face of a little girl.

Her, he thought. The portrait, as if captured directly from his own dreams, shocked him. Details of her flashed in his mind: black hair, olive skin and those twilight eyes. Kiv felt cold.

Yadon pointed at the drawing. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”

Kiv nodded. There were more sketches. The girl looked frightened, alone in the dark.

Yadon rolled back his right sleeve, revealing the tattoo. “You’ll find it, won’t you, sir?” The hard drive.

Kiv was torn. He was responsible for his men. He was not about to let them waste away. Not like Yadon. Not after they had all sworn to never forget this one moment in their lives.

Once a Marine, always a Marine.

“You bet,” Kiv said finally.

Yadon placed all his sketches and the drawing pad into the stack and handed them to Kiv. “Take these with you.”

“Are you sure?”

Yadon nodded. “You might need them.”

Kiv handled the stack carefully.

The nurses returned. “Excuse us. Jace, it’s time for your appointment.” Yadon pinched his eyes shut.

“You hang in there, Yadon,” Kiv said.

Yadon opened his eyes. “Good luck, sir.”

The nurses escorted Yadon into an open hatch. Kiv sighed and then shoved the drawings into his jacket.

He and Novak logged out of the ward and stepped into the elevator. The doors sealed them inside. They were quiet for a while. “You know,” Novak said, “that’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak.”

“When Yadon has something to say,” Kiv replied, “it’s usually important.”

Kiv really needed a drink. As much as he wanted to get tanked he couldn’t shake the notion someone was tracking him. He had to pace himself.

Novak had suggested a local dive, someplace quiet and remote. The black lights reminded Kiv of the colors of his old Tactical HUD display. White noise from the vents above placed him more at ease. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He ordered a beer. No sleep aids tonight.

The bartender, a slender young woman dressed in black, gave him a glass of dark ale. Her long bangs accentuated her brown eyes. The mood paint on her lips changed from blue to orange when she smiled. A welcome sight for a change.

So, where are the others? he asked Novak about their old squad.

Novak emptied his shot glass. They’re not out yet. Under the PTSD/SBIE Act we can’t contact them until they’ve passed Transition Week. I’ve tried.

All right. What’s the plan? If you have one.

Much of the Eastern Frontier is off limits to commercial flights. We’ll have to land at Indahl, the nearest port, and go from there.

And just how are we going to do that?

I read an article about a shortage of air marshals. So, the airlines are offering free flights to anyone who qualifies.

For real?

Novak nodded. I’ve already made arrangements with airport security. We sign up first thing tomorrow.

The entry hatch swished open. Movement in the mirror caught Kiv’s eye. A man walked past. Clean-shaven, buzz cut, casual dark suit, his clean white shirt bright under the black lights. He sat at a table behind Novak and ordered a soda. Kiv found that odd.

Then what, he asked Novak, after we land?

Novak ordered another drink. We stow away on a relief aid shuttle. I got some armbands. We’ll blend.

Kiv recalled all those drawings of desert landscapes Yadon had drawn. And if this doesn’t work, we’ll have to cross a few hundred klicks of Gola Desert.

Not like we’ve done anything like that before.

Ghosting satellite detection the hard way would be rough, among other things. Like gunships and desert tribes who didn’t much care for outsiders.

Kiv opened the satellite footage Novak had sent him earlier. He studied the excavation work in the village. Looks like engineers had been busy digging up the area. You’d think they would have found the drive by now.

That’s what I thought too, Novak said. Maybe we buried it, then had someone dig it up later. Like one of the villagers.

That girl, the one in Yadon’s drawings. We need to find her.

Novak nodded. There’s another problem we’ll have to consider, now that we’re being followed.

Such as?

The feds could brain hack us. If the docs back at Waypoint can erase our memories, who knows what else they might have done? They might have installed a trigger, like a particular word, a phrase or a song to keep us under control.

Kiv finished his beer. What did you have in mind?

I know this dealer who can get us some neutralizers.

Kiv didn’t like the idea of using street drugs. Then again, it was better than being hacked. Maybe he’d be stuck in a ward like Yadon. Or spend the rest of his life as a different person. Or worse. Kiv winced at the thought.

He glanced at the man in the mirror. I don’t like the company.

Neither do I.

At Indahl Airport Kiv felt eyes on him all morning, despite airport security. Though air marshal duty on the long flight had worn him down, the neutralizers made him feel anxious and unusually warm in his white long-sleeved shirt and brown cargo pants.

Hey, Novak asked. You all right?

Yeah. Kiv wiped the sweat from his face. He couldn’t wait for the neutralizers to wear off.

He and Novak had invested in battery wafers, which were in short supply out in the Eastern Frontier and worth a lot of money. They’d bought enough packs to get them through the journey, stuffed into two black duffle bags.

As a contingency, Novak had installed memory bombs in their wetware implants, set to wipe their files clean in the event federal agents had apprehended them.

They’d crossed the airport lounge for the exit when an older, stocky man dressed in a beige suit blocked their path. The man had Kiv on edge, as though he could break through his firewall with those ice-blue eyes. We go analog for the duration, Kiv said to Novak.

Novak glanced at him sidelong in agreement.

“Det Kiv?” the man asked. “Lan Novak?”

“Yeah,” Kiv and Novak replied.

The man produced a badge. “Agent Pierce. Federal Security. Come with me, please.”

Come with me.

Kiv blinked. Though he followed Pierce, Kiv managed to resist slipping into the trigger. Barely. He cringed, anticipating the memory bomb to execute.

Agent Pierce suggested a corner seat. They sat down.

“You don’t look well,” Pierce said to Kiv.

Kiv didn’t like the way Pierce was studying him. “The airline food didn’t agree with me.”

Pierce raised an eyebrow.

The space between them grew tense. “Indahl isn’t a popular tourist attraction,” Pierce said finally. “What’s your business here?”

“Hiking,” Novak said. He opened a holo brochure.

Pierce didn’t look amused. “Hiking.”

“That’s right,” Kiv said.

“And I suppose you plan to bargain with the locals with those battery wafers in your carry-on luggage,” Pierce said.

Kiv gripped the straps of his duffle bag tight. “That’s not illegal.”

“Neither is your little camping trip.” Pierce leaned forward. “Be advised, the area is under surveillance.”

“That’s good to know, in case we get lost.”

“Like wandering across the Rhodan border?” Pierce smiled.

The Rhodan border, according to the maps Yadon had drawn, was the most direct route to Ariah.

He’s on to us, Kiv thought. They all are. Federal Security had likely read Kiv’s file, including those of his old unit. Good thing Yadon had handed over the drawings. The feds were probably monitoring him as well. Kiv stiffened, expecting other agents to apprehend them.

“Stay out of the Frontier.” Pierce stood. “Is that clear?”

“Absolutely,” Kiv said. And good luck tracking us out there, he thought. This is Force Recon you’re dealing with.

Kiv and Novak exited with their duffle bags into the hot, blinding sun. They squinted at the crowded streets of Indahl where a mob of taxi drivers competed for their business.

“That was close,” Novak muttered about their encounter with Pierce. “The feds could have arrested us.”

“They would have already,” Kiv said, “had they found the drive.”

He imagined his lost memories written on a server, compressed, shipped and archived in an undisclosed location for someone like Pierce to open for investigation.

He then wondered, for his own personal satisfaction, if agents pending retirement would ever have their memories erased.

The relief shuttle stowaway plan, now with agents watching for them, was no longer an option. Plan B: the Gola Desert.

“Best deals,” one of the taxi drivers said with a broken accent, a bearded man in drab clothes. “I take you there.”

“Deals on what?” Novak asked.

“Whatever you need.”

Kiv and Novak followed the driver into the cab. Kiv looked out the window as the city blurred past, which rapidly gave way to signs of neglect and sluggish post-war recovery. The pseudo effect hit him hard.

“What are you looking for?” the driver said.

Kiv snapped awake.

“Hiking gear,” Novak said.

Deep in the marketplace they stopped alongside a shop entrance. More like a hole in the wall beneath a sign of faded red paint.

“This is it?” Novak said.

“Yes, and tell Ryad I sent you,” the driver said eagerly. Kiv paid the fare with a battery wafer, enough power to sustain a desert tribe for a week.

The barrage of noise, and grilled meat, spices and baked bread overwhelmed him when he opened the door. There was a rushed sense of need in the air amidst the aisles of vending booths. Kiv suddenly felt cold, scanning the crowd.

Novak limped slightly with his prosthetic leg. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Kiv asked Novak.

“It’s the dust,” Novak replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll have it sealed up before we head out.”

A bell rang when they entered the shop filled with various remnants from the war. Kiv navigated around stacks of obsolete computer hardware wrapped in plastic, shelves packed with uniforms and open boxes of faded sleeping bags. Two large men sat on folding chairs, within reach of metal pipes.

A heavy man in a cheap suit behind the counter tapped on a notebook. Light from the screen made him look pale.

“You Ryad?” Kiv said. “The driver sent us.”

The man nodded. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he said with a husky voice.

“Is this all you have?” Novak said.

“It depends,” Ryad said and lowered his notebook. “What do you need?”

“Desert travel gear.” Kiv set his duffle bag on the counter.

Ryad brushed aside a Colonial flag that draped over a nondescript doorway and motioned with an outstretched arm for them to enter a side room furnished with rugs and pillows. Kiv and Novak approached with their bags. The sound of scraped metal and locking mechanisms from behind told Kiv they were sealed in to conduct some shady business. He took a deep breath and exhaled, purging the tension that had been building within him.

The side room was dim and cramped, yet comfortable. Ryad sat on a pillow across from them. He passed around glasses of what smelled like paint thinner. Kiv took a sip, for the sake of cultural etiquette. It burned down his throat with an intensity he didn’t expect.

“So, what do you want?” Ryad said happily.

“Hiking equipment,” Kiv said.

“East Sector is closed. Mine clearing, they say.”

“Have any detectors?” Novak said.

Ryad chuckled, and then fell silent as if evaluating the situation. “Open the bags.”

Kiv and Novak revealed their cache.

Ryad rubbed the stubble on his chin and tapped on the notebook. His men arrived soon afterward with a black plastic crate the size of a large coffin. They opened the lid.

Kiv waved off the dust and then looked inside. He wiped a pair of multi-cam fatigues, infrared block with radar absorption, which were popular with guerillas back in the day. He inspected a tarp made of the same material. Goggles. Knives. He sifted through a set of web gear complete with hydration filters. Collapsible shovels, body armor, a compact satellite dish. The rucksacks looked older than he was, let alone the field rations sealed in brown pouches. At least there were handheld mine detectors at the bottom of the pile. He checked a pair of combat boots, worn yet serviceable.

Novak fished through the crate alongside him and drew out an antique pair of night vision binoculars. “Check these out,” he said as though he were some kid at a garage sale.

“Built to last, eh?” Ryad said.

Kiv nodded, despite himself. “Any optical camouflage?”

“No, sorry.”

Swell, Kiv thought. Scavengers likely supplied Ryad with whatever they found out in the desert. Kiv debated whether to shop elsewhere. The minefield, let alone a fair trade, he figured, would be the least of his problems.

Dressed in local garb they hitched a ride under the cover of darkness into the open desert. On the roof of the transport Kiv tightened the scarf across his face and sought shelter from the wind behind his pack. He didn’t share Novak’s enthusiasm.

The other passengers huddled alongside regarded them with curiosity.

Kiv watched the dust cloud sparkle in the taillights and wondered about the memories he had lost. His daydreams of that little girl were fading. He feared Pierce would find her.

Then he heard the distinct whine of a gunship in the distance. Novak passed him the binocs.

Kiv noted the familiar wasp-like shape half a klick away. It skimmed over the dunes, reduced to a green speck across the horizon.

The passengers cursed and shook their fists at the sky. Not everyone welcomed the Colonial military presence here. “What brings you out here?” someone said next to him.

“We’re on vacation,” Kiv replied.

The man laughed. “This is a bad season for that,” the stranger said. “Sandstorms.”

Novak tapped Kiv on the shoulder. The transport groaned to a halt at an isolated trading post, a flimsy metal shack and a few tents. “Thanks for the advice,” Kiv said to the stranger. He showed him a bottle of Ryad’s paint thinner. “Anything else we should know?”

The man licked his lips. “There were other men who had passed through here. Government men. We did not know what they wanted. And we never asked.”

Kiv handed him the bottle. “Thanks.” He and Novak ventured out into the vast sea of dunes.

After several hours on foot, Novak’s prosthetic leg made a scraping wheeze. He limped worse than usual; his leg dragged across the sand with every step. “Dammit,” Novak said. “I’m slowing you down.”

“Let’s dig in,” Kiv said. “It’ll be light soon anyway. Then we’ll check your leg.” He led Novak up a rocky slope where they hastily built a spider hole in a gravel patch.

Novak finished camouflaging the tarp roof and then slid inside. He rolled up his pant leg in disgust. Kiv unwrapped a long strip of fabric, revealing a tear five centimeters long in a thick layer of artificial skin below the knee. “Son of a bitch,” Novak muttered. He winced, carefully peeling the skin back where bits of sand had lodged in the pistons, cables and circuitry beneath.

“You need a painkiller?” Kiv asked.

“No, I’m good.”

Kiv produced a brush from his pack and started cleaning.

Novak flinched, his face drawn and pale. “So, what’s your take on what happened to us?” he said as though he were attempting to take his mind off the pain.

“Maybe we went ‘green side,’” Kiv said, using his unit term for a reconnaissance mission, “and got spotted.”

“Maybe.” Novak flinched. “But after seeing Yadon’s sketches that was one hell of a firefight we’d gone through. Stuff changes in the field, though. We could have been called in to go ‘black side’—a surgical strike—like on a command post, and things went haywire.”

Kiv shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Novak bent his knee a few times, the scraping noise not so apparent. He sighed. “Thanks, sir. I got it from here.”

“You sure?”

Novak nodded. He drew out a plasti-patch and stuck it over the cut in his leg.

“I’ll take first watch,” Kiv said. “We’ll move out tonight.” He drank from his canteen and watched the range thaw beneath the pre-dawn gray. “What do you remember?”

“Tracers,” Novak replied, apprehension creeping into his voice. “Falling into a hole.”

Kiv recalled those fragments of residual memory of falling at night and landing into black. Like in Yadon’s heavily inked drawings. “Like we did a drop,” he heard himself say.

They were quiet for a while, the sun quickly warming the desert.

“I wrote this utility program,” Novak said. “A contingency.”

“For what?”

“Once we get to that drive and gain access to those files, we send copies of that data to a secure site online. If Pierce ever got to us, that utility would have a dead-man switch. Those files would go viral across the Net. If Pierce knew that, he’d back off.” Novak thumbed at his pack. “That’s why I bought the satellite dish.”

Kiv nodded. He scanned the range through the binocs and spotted activity far to the east. “What’s up?” Novak said.

“Engineers clearing mines. Full-scale operations.” Kiv opened a map file from his nerve chip implant. Digital contour lines overlaid his viewpoint. “There has to be another way.”

“We’ve got some battery wafers left. Could make a deal with the natives.”

“I don’t know.” Kiv weighed his options between the risk of exposure in a minefield and tribal politics.

By the third night the patrols and Novak’s stiff leg had slowed their progress considerably. Kiv hit the dirt before the gunship passed overhead. He waited for it to circle around, gauged the all clear and then helped Novak to his feet. The patch on his leg must have worn off.

“Come on,” Kiv whispered as he slung Novak along, “we’re almost at the border.” He pushed himself against the exhaustion and biting wind up a large dune. They dropped their packs and crawled to the summit.

Tracked vehicles rumbled beyond white strips of chemlight tape and razor wire.

“Damn, it’s worse than I thought,” Novak said of all the activity in the minefield. “I say we cut a deal with the locals.”

Of all the tribes to encounter, the Adari descended from a mixed line of pioneer mercenaries long before the colonies.

“Screw that,” Kiv said. “We can make it.”

Novak alerted him with the hand sign for danger close.

Several figures in desert garb appeared, armed with kinetic energy rifles. Kiv watched them pass, only to hear the distinct click of a cocked hammer behind him. He slowly turned around.

A boy, maybe thirteen, aimed a semiautomatic pistol with the posture of a trained soldier. His distinctive black face paint intensified the whites of his eyes.

The smell of sweat and spices in the crowded tent was so strong Kiv could taste it. He sat uneasily in the center on a worn red hand-woven carpet facing the elders. The others on either side of him emptied the packs and produced the handheld munition detectors. They muttered eagerly amongst themselves.

“If only we had those sooner,” the old man said with a deep voice; the wrinkles on his leathery skin danced as he spoke. “At least, anything reliable.”

Kiv noticed several people around him had lost a limb. He felt as if a block of ice had landed in the pit of his stomach.

The old man produced a notebook and studied Kiv a while. “It appears your government has been looking for you.” He showed Kiv a data sheet of Novak and himself.

Pierce, Kiv thought. He wondered how much the feds were willing to pay them as a reward.

“What are you doing out here?” an elder asked.

“We were headed for Ariah,” Kiv said.

“You were there, at the Battle of Ariah?”

“So far as I know.”

The old man frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“The government erased most of our memories of it.”

The old man seemed bewildered. “The Republic does such things?”

Kiv nodded.

The others in the tent grew restless. “If they are doing that to their warriors,” someone said, “what will stop them from wiping the minds of everyone else?”

“We could be next!” said another. He pointed angrily at Kiv. “They have done enough to us. To hell with the Republic, and to hell with you!”

“Be quiet!” the old man said to them. Arguing subsided to idle chatter in the background.

“There’s a chance we might be able to remember what happened to us once we reach Ariah,” Kiv said, not wanting to disclose anything about the hard drive. He didn’t want to chance the Adari wanting to get their hands on it. “We’re looking for a little Joffan girl who might be at the refugee camp.”

“I know this girl,” the old man said with heightened interest. “I had seen her there. Hannah was her name. She was one of the survivors.”

“What did she say?” Kiv asked eagerly.

“Very little. She had that look in her eyes, the forever stare.” The old man nodded. “I knew it well. Like she had seen so much death. The villagers were very bitter they had not received any advance warning. Word around the camp of the battle, the Sarska had stormed in to slaughter everyone. The girl managed to escape. Then she saw ghosts falling from the sky.”

“Optical camouflage,” Kiv said absently, piecing everything together. He pictured all this, what the old man had told him, and then he lost himself in the recurring dream of falling in the night sky.

“That was you?” the old man said.

Kiv blinked. That had to have been his team. He had a gnarled feeling in his gut about it. “Possibly. What else happened?”

“One of the ghosts revealed his face, a face covered with gray paint. She showed them what was happening at her village, and these ghosts wiped out all the Sarska there. Like ghosts.”

“Let us not forget our struggle against the Sarska,” an elder said to his right. “These warriors may be with the Republic, but they had fought with honor. The enemy of our enemy is our friend.”

“To erase one’s memories,” said another, “is a fate worse than death. Imagine what their government will do to them.”

The old man grunted. He divided his attention between the drawings and the data sheet on the notebook. “This changes things.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, Kiv thought. If only Yadon knew how far his artwork had gone.

“I call for a vote!” someone said. The others argued again, louder this time. The old man glanced at Kiv and waved him away. Two men from behind hastily led him outside.

He joined Novak who sat under guard.

“How did it go?” Novak said. His breath frosted in the sharp air.

“That went well,” Kiv said. “I guess.” He sat down. “They’re debating whether to let us go or hand us over to Pierce.”

The Adari boy with the handgun stood by them and ate the last of Novak’s candy bar.

“Great,” Novak said.

Kiv told him about what he had discussed with the elders.

Novak seemed absent, absorbing all this information. “Sounds like we went black side, in a big way.”

“Yeah,” Kiv said. “How’s the leg?”

“Well, I know what arthritis feels like,” Novak said.

They waited a couple of hours, and then one of the elders motioned them to enter the tent. Kiv sighed and followed them. There, he noticed a map spread out on the rug.

The old man glanced at everyone as though he were reluctant, then looked straight at Kiv and tapped on a grid square. “There is a way, but a sandstorm is predicted to hit tomorrow.”

That’s good, Kiv thought. No patrols. Then again, the storms in this region were unforgiving. “Then we should hurry.”

The Adari guided them to a deep, jagged stretch of ravine fifty meters wide.

Kiv had planned to cross the border masquerading in Adari fashion beneath the multi-cam fatigues and body armor. He smeared black paint around his eyes, adding to the effect. This had proved expensive, naturally. So much for what battery wafers he and Novak had left. “All right,” Kiv said. “Let’s move.”

The detector beeped in the boy’s hand. “Wait.” He picked up a handful of sand and tossed it out in front of them. Tripwires glistened briefly in the early dawn.

Pierce and his minions had been busy.

“Good save,” Novak said. “We’ll go alone from here.”

The boy looked up at them and saluted. “You come back this way, we will remember you.” In desert terms, that was a compliment. Kiv returned the favor.

They went their separate ways.

Kiv and Novak proceeded carefully on either side of the path. Disarm. Step. Cover.

Temperatures climbed with the rising sun. By noon, the breeze had raged into a harsh wind that battered them with dust and loose pebbles. The storm was stronger and faster than Kiv had expected. He worried the loose debris could release the tripwires ahead. “We should head back.”

“We’re almost there,” Novak said loudly.

The end of the ravine hazed into a cloud of sand. Kiv motioned him to fall back.

A mine detonated a hundred meters away. Kiv and Novak hit the dirt. The ground shook as rocks toppled around them. Shrapnel flung over their heads. Kiv heard the faint sound of wires snapping.

“Incoming!” he yelled.

The chain reaction of shockwaves knocked Kiv airborne into something hard. He blacked out and then woke to a white-hot pain cutting into his right side. His ears rang. The storm whirled into a dark mass, blotting out the sun, intensifying the vertigo.

A small figure appeared and told him to get up, like a child’s voice inside his head. Maybe it was the concussion, or the injection of painkiller Novak was giving him.

Novak yelled in his ear, but he sounded far away. He placed a belt between Kiv’s teeth. He bit down hard as Novak removed shards of bloody shrapnel out of his flesh. He nearly passed out.

The figure vanished and reappeared, materializing as it approached into the form of a little girl. “Come on!” she said. “We promised.”

“Promised what?” Kiv said. “Hannah?”

“Who?” Novak said. He looked out into the storm, but didn’t seem to notice anyone there. He tightened a bandage around Kiv’s torso. “Damn, you’ve been hit bad.”

Kiv shook his head. He feared he was losing it.

“We have to go!” she cried.

Kiv reached out to her, but Novak held him down. “We need to wait for the storm to pass!” Hannah faded away, swallowed up into the darkness.

Kiv woke again. The storm was clearing, enough for him to trace a faint outline of the ravine. He pushed himself to his feet and braced along the rocky slope.

Novak blocked his path. “You’re in no condition to walk.”

“Pierce is out there,” Kiv said. “The storm will give us cover. We’re running out of time.” Hannah. He wasn’t about to lose her. He felt motivated like nothing he’d experienced before. It surprised and scared him all at once. He staggered against the wind. “Let’s move!”

They slung each other forward and staggered through the gaping mouth of the ravine. Barely able to see the horizon, Kiv worried they would roam in circles out into the plains. He gasped for air beneath his scarf. He lost all sense of time and place until he knocked into what felt like a post.

“What is that?” Novak said.

“I’m not sure,” Kiv said. He felt something hard under his boots, like pavement. The haze subsided, enough for him to gain his bearings. He squinted at a road sign that read: Ariah 10 K.

The storm died out. Open desert gave way to a valley dotted with scrub and wild grass. Avoiding the road, Kiv and Novak crossed the outskirts of an algae farm into the refugee camp, covered in dust. Joffans approached from the cluster of white tents and crates, and the zigzag maze of clotheslines.

Kiv felt ready to collapse. The insomnia weighed heavily upon him. He blinked to keep his head from spinning. The painkiller was wearing off. He stiffened with agony at the throbbing headache and the shrapnel wound in his side. “We made it, sir,” Novak said as he slung Kiv forward.

The people gathered around them, hesitant, mystified. Some pointed at them, others whispered amongst themselves in Kahren, their native language. Most hugged bulges in their jackets, tension building in the air.

“We need a doctor,” Novak said to them with a hushed tone of urgency.

“We’ll get you patched up,” Pierce said. Dressed in desert tactical suits, he and five of his men emerged from the crowd, armed with particle beam rifles.

“Son of a bitch,” Kiv muttered. He dropped to his knees, exhausted. He activated his wetware implant. Command: Initialize. The implant buzzed, intensifying the headache. Execute. A status bar filled across his viewpoint, every file wiped clean from the operating system.

Pierce grinned. “I’m surprised the two of you made it this far.” Kiv stared into the barrel of Pierce’s rifle. One burst of the particle beam would knock him out cold. “Come with us, Kiv.”

Come with us.

Kiv felt the trigger overtake him. No, he told himself. The pain. Focus on the pain!

“Where is it, Kiv?” Pierce said with a direct tone. “Who did you give it to?”

Kiv spotted Hannah in the crowd wearing a blue dress and a black jacket three sizes too big. She stared at Kiv, her eyes wide with recognition. She tugged on a green cargo pants pocket of a young woman nearby.

“Go to hell, Pierce.” Kiv spat.

Come with us.

He lost control of his body. His left hand pointed in Hannah’s direction. Pierce turned around.

Novak reached out to grab Kiv’s arm. One of the agents shot him. Novak fell, knocking Kiv to the ground. I’m sorry, Novak, Kiv thought. Mad as hell, he fought to break free from the trance. Run, Hannah.

She hid behind the young woman, who reached into her brown jacket. Then she whistled loudly. The crowd revealed compact assault carbines and automatic handguns, aiming at Pierce and his men. Bolts clicked.

Pierce went pale. He glanced at them sidelong. “Drop your weapons. This doesn’t concern you.”

“You’ve put us through enough, Agent Man,” the woman said, glaring at Pierce. She drew a submachine pistol and pointed it at his head.

“We’re not leaving until we get what we came here for,” Pierce said with a deliberate tone of voice.

“There’s nothing out here!” she said.

What? Kiv wanted to say, but couldn’t move his mouth.

“Nothing!” the woman continued. “It was bad enough the Republic never bothered to warn us the Sarska were coming, back in the war. We’re just a Joffan colony. What do you care?”

“Mistakes were made,” Pierce said. “We compensated you for your loss.”

Hannah moved to run toward Kiv, but the woman held her back. “And this is how you repay us? Drag us from our homes into this camp like we were a herd of animals? You bring your dozers and dig up everything in sight, our crops, even the dead! Then you conduct these ‘inspections’ as if we were prisoners. We’ve had it! Get out! All of you.”

“We’ll deploy a garrison,” Pierce said. “We could sanction your relief aid. Don’t make the situation worse than it already is. Now, drop your weapons.”

“We don’t want your ‘aid’ anymore. And if we are to go down fighting, at least we can do so with our dignity.”

“If you managed to smuggle weapons here, then you have what we are looking for. We’ll tear this valley apart!”

“That is the least of your concern. We had smuggled journalists here. They’d documented all that had happened. Now they are gone. If you were after anything, it should have been them!”

Pierce lowered his rifle; a spasm of irritation crossed his face. “We’re taking these men with us,” he said of Kiv and Novak.

“Not in their condition. The rest of you, get out of our sight!”

Nothing, Kiv thought, wiped out, overwhelmed with pain and grief. There’s nothing here? His head was spinning out of control.

Kiv woke to the rhythm of a steady beep, the smell of rubbing alcohol and a coppery taste in his mouth. He blinked in a medicated fog. Blurry forms sharpened into focus. Drops fell into a saline bag. Figures moved around him, obscuring the light tubes that hung from the tent ceiling. The cot sagged under his weight in a makeshift infirmary. He felt an IV in his left arm and electrode pads stuck to his chest, and recognized the hospital gown he was wearing beneath a scratchy green blanket.

“Sir?” a familiar voice said.

Kiv rubbed his eyes. Novak had a bruise the size of a fist on his forehead, likely from the particle beam. Other than that, he seemed good to go. Hannah and the young woman joined him. “How long was I gone?” Kiv said with a sore throat.

“Two days,” Novak said. He thumbed at the young woman. “This is Gavriel, Hannah’s aunt.”

Gavriel offered her hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lieutenant.”

“Call me Det,” Kiv said. They shook. Kiv scanned the infirmary.

“The agents had left the camp shortly after we admitted you. They’ll be back with soldiers. We’ve already packed.”

“News reports of what had happened here went viral,” Novak said. “That’ll buy us time. The Department of Defense is scheduled for a press conference today.”

“I’m sure they’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” Kiv said. He turned to Gavriel. “I’m sorry for the trouble we caused.”

Gavriel motioned him to relax. “We apologize for the delay when you had arrived. Hannah was the only one who had seen your face, back in the war. We waited for her signal. We had to be sure it was you.”

Kiv nodded.

“It was the least we could do,” Gavriel added. “We owe you our lives.”

“So, we never left anything behind?” Kiv asked.

Novak grinned. He produced a black card, the drive.

Kiv raised an eyebrow. The stiffness in his body surprised him when he sat up.

“We promised,” Hannah said, her face beaming.

Gavriel rubbed Hannah’s shoulders. “Yes,” Gavriel chuckled. “Hiding that for so long proved more difficult than smuggling weapons and journalists, oddly enough.”

“Thank you,” Kiv said.

“So, what now?” Novak asked Kiv. “It’s not safe to go back.”

“First we share the data with Yadon and the others.”

“I’ve already taken care of that. Uploaded backup copies with the satellite dish. We’ll contact them soon enough.”

“You could go with us,” Gavriel said.

“They’ll find you, eventually,” Kiv said.

“Not off world. We all pitched in for the flight. A freighter will arrive this afternoon.”

“Where to?”

“The Guild wouldn’t say.”

“As in, the Runner’s Guild? Smugglers?”

Gavriel shrugged. “It’s better than the alternative.” She kneaded her hands together. “There’s room for both of you.”

Hannah’s face beamed with excitement.

Kiv nodded. He had never felt this happy before.

“You ready?” Novak said, handing him the drive.

“You bet.” Kiv took the drive. Anxious, he pulled a cable from the end of the drive and inserted the lead into his wetware port. “Have you seen it?” he asked Novak.

“Yesterday,” Novak said. He paused, reflecting, then: “It was worth it, sir.”

Hannah held Kiv’s hand. “Will it hurt?” she asked him.

“I don’t know.” Kiv felt a new sense of belonging here, his future uncertain yet promising. He took a breath, exhaled and loaded his past with the press of a button.