Carpathian Forty-Three

Carpathian Forty-Three - Part 20

"You're sure about this?" Ward asks.

A few weeks ago, it would have been perfunctory, just Ward reciting what his medical instruction told him to. It feels genuine now. There's caring behind their dull brown eyes that wasn't there before. It's inspiring, in a small way.

"I'm sure."

Three different responses flit through my mind, with varying levels of sarcasm and earnestness. Simple seems best, Ward's already skittish at this unusual procedure.

Miki looks nervous, anxious, maybe a bit excited. It was Voclain that stayed with them when they woke from Ward's sedation-induced slumber. I don't know what was said between them. We're ready. Our minds won't be joined, not like a real chorus. We'll be roommates, not a communal intelligence.

"Okay, tell me if anything hurts," Ward says.

They wave a technical probe at my cybernetic implants. The implants have been dormant for years, checked regularly to make sure nothing is degrading, or otherwise out of sorts, a health risk. There have been firmware updates when they were necessary. If I was still in The Chorus that would have been a continual process. The Chorus came up with a way to keep our implants dormant and functioning properly when we left. Leaving wasn't something The Chorus had anticipated. Odd on reflection. There is Choral emigration; Luna to Mars, Luna to Titan, like Miki, but to cut oneself off from The Chorus after being a member? It was unthinkable. Until it wasn't.

Suddenly, light. A vast expanse of white light, enough that my pupils contract, though the light is all in my mind.

"Oh. Wow." I mumble.

It's not just light. It's warmth, not oppressive, toasty. Sunshine. Earth sunshine. I've never felt it. My implants tell me this is what sunshine is like. So odd that initializing cybernetics feel like this.

"Wow bad?" Ward asks.

I can't see them. The sunlight is all encompassing, engulfing.

"No, I'm fine," I say.

I feel Miki before I see them. They are a light, almost gossamer presence. They smell like blueberry hand lotion. Aunt Christine wore that lotion. Funny how memory reflects in this mini chorus. Slowly the sunshine fades, giving way to a space, more felt than scene, a sense of boundary without walls.

I feel Miki's apology more than hear it. Odd. I remember this way of communicating, remember feeling conversations rather than speaking them with an inner dialogue. It's been so long.

"We should talk to start," Miki says.

They manifest before me, as they appear on Carpathian Forty-Three. They wear much more stylish clothing than the jumpsuit that Ward found for them. They wear a simple, yet impeccably tailored white sport coat with a high, stiff, mock neck collar.

"Yes, that's probably better," I say.

"Better than what?" Ward asks.

Miki smiles at me. I need to work on not vocalizing our conversations.

"Nothing. Are all my implants restored?" I ask.

"Not quite. Looks like there are some updates. Give it a few minutes."

I search for that feeling of diagnostic. It used to be as natural as scratching my nose or feeling my foot. Now I need to search for the feeling. It's like trying to decide if your liver hurts.

"I think you're far enough along that we could..." Miki starts.

"No," I think, very deliberately not to say it out loud.

I feel my lips pressed together willing them not to speak. Miki wants to open their mind, share as much of themselves as makes sense to share in our current situation. They want to share what Fort left them with. They want to connect, to relieve the crushing loneliness they've felt since Ward woke them up. There's some shame in that last desire.

"Just. Give me a moment."

I'm worried. What we'll share, what will slip through that our unconscious minds need to share. I don't want Miki to experience Acosta. Part of me needs to share it with someone. I have shared it, I tell myself. I've shared my memories of Acosta with therapists, fellow disconnected, always in words, in spoken recollection. I've never shared the full memory and my own emotions around it. I don't know that I'm ready to feel Miki's sense of loss, being cut off from The Chorus. I have my own memories of that. It doesn't seem right to share notes on loss.

There's a sharp 'thunk' in my mind, a wet, organic sound like meat falling to the floor. I feel the implants light up, feel the buffer and storage in my mind open vast expanses of memory that are normally taken by processes that The Chorus runs. There is space to share data sets, emotions, shared experiences. That space is empty now, whatever cache of Chorus data long since purged. There is an empty warehouse in my mind now, baren and dusty.

I feel emotional regulation kick in, the crafting of neurotransmitters and hormones to put me in a continual meditative state, alert and focused. It feels like a weight dropping from my shoulders and back. That's useful.

I'm angry at the thought, the feeling, clinically angry. I can't be upset by it. My emotions have been overridden. I concentrate on being angry. Yes. That feeling of tightness between my temples returns, the burning ember of righteousness smolders. I let the regulation assert its control again and my anger subsides. I just need to prove to myself that I can feel, that I'm in control of what I feel.

"Thanks, Ward," I say out loud.

I feel them say something approving more than hear it. I'm not able to process this mini chorus and the outside world at once yet. That'll come in time, I think to myself. Or do the implants think that? Is there any sense in distinguishing between the implants and me at this point?

"Better?" Miki thinks at me. They're returned to their ethereal hand lotion form, the stiff collar jacket a hint of memory.

"Yes," I think.

Miki opens their mind to me. They cling at me, with embarrassed desperation. I let them, assure them that I'm not offended. I know what it is to be cut off from The Chorus.

I feel the memories Fort left, the massive dataset of ship's systems and procedures, but also a deep love of the crew that I'd never felt from the Quantum Sentience of The Chorus. It's overwhelming, bittersweet, and not at the same time, oppressively endearing. Fort prioritized that when they gave Miki their dataset. More than a memory of Fort, their own mind, they bundled up the emotion they felt for the crew. I don't know if Miki even felt it. It doesn't seem so. Is it something Fort left for one of us?

"Oh." Miki thinks as the emotion from Fort spills over us, overwhelming us. "You unlocked it."

I look away from it. I'm not ready to feel what Fort wanted me to feel. We have a mission to complete first. Maybe Fort thought we'd unlock this time capsule after we were safe.

"Wait," Miki thinks. "I think I can filter that."

The onslaught of emotion subsides, replaced with the data stream of ships systems and procedures, many of which I'm already familiar with, stored in my gray matter.

"Thank you," I think. We have a lot of work ahead of us. We start sifting through the data, Miki's experience with the ship, communicating faster than either of us could speak. Miki relaxes, assured to have someone, even me, to connect with after their forced solitude. I relax as well. We have a problem to work on, something to focus on rather than this mini chorus situation. There's comfort in that focus that we share.