Day Fourteen

"I suppose I have to deal with a formal apology. Did he mention where?"
"He requested the sitting area outside of his cabin in Hallway 4406-DA. Would you like a guide there?"
"DA? No, no thank you."
Betaine stood, accepted the warm, wet cloth from the Steeress, wiped his hands and then buttoned his jacket.
"He also wishes to inform you that his crew will be elsewhere and reassures you of no ill intentions."
"Does he? That's certain to make me suspicious."
The orbs were dimmed after dinner and the absence of other passengers in the commons area made the warm, still air feel like golden cotton. Betaine blinked slowly, felt the weariness settle in his fingertips, his bones vibrating with the effort of staying awake. He unconsciously brushed his hand against the coat pocket where the clear green plasticene vial of anti-fatigue pills were kept, hesitated, kept walking. Obert wasn't stupid and any hostility towards Betaine during the remainder of the voyage would immediately heap suspicions on him... but a twinge in his gut [certainly not the mushrooms still] told him his impressionist capabilities were currently far more important than his focus. Some abilities worked faster than any possible reaction time. The body would shield itself, respond on a molecular level and then the only determining factor of the struggle was the strength of the internalist's talents.
Obert was seated in a high back chair, obviously scooted back against the wall from its original position. Betaine noted the grizzled man had chosen the tallest seat and was casually slouched over the velvetty over-stuffed arms, facing away from the young analyst. Not perceived as a threat then. Mercenaries utilized an evolving body language where the motion of a finger, the position of a foot, the tension in a bicep, could express detailed concepts incomprehensible to an outsider while they chattered on about nothing. Betaine felt irritated. Not only was his companion a part of society that he had only briefly touched on in his studies, but was an external as well. He would certainly be reticent to share information.
A glimmer of light on Obert's hand caught Betaine's attention. The orange spark danced between the blood sausage fingers, weaving in and out, not touching the skin, moving faster and faster.
"Master Obert."
The spark touched a nail, disappeared and the hand flinched. It waved at him to sit and the mercenary, still slouched, every sinew and capillary relaxed and unapologetic, stared with odd pale yellow eyes, the whites an even soft gray. Betaine looked back as he sat, noted the heavy wrinkles around the eyes, mouth, forehead, the youthful smooth cheeks and jaw. Here was a man who smiled and laughed often. It was impossible to tell his age.

The contact shot across his chest this time, the muscles twitching in response to different orders. It itched its way down his inner arm and burnt out by the elbow. Betaine smiled viciously and struck, spaced rendered meaningless by the focal points, his self balanced between his own head and the exciting, unfamiliar pathways of Obert's nerves. Here the thoughts came slower, shades of burnt orange, they pulsed and wriggled in a way that seemed almost spastic until he realized these were fresh, untrained, had never been made aware of themselves.
The mercenary, for all his sleek musculature and careful mannerisms, understood himself not at all, knew nothing of the way his personality was connected to the sack of flesh it inhabited. Betaine laughed, and his slim shoulders moved in an eerie pantomime of Obert's own. Panic poured through Obert's awareness, thick and cold, as he felt Betaine slow the drum of his heart. The analyst had pushed through, projected himself to the older man's [was he truly 86?] metaphor for memory.
It was a roofless stone hall opening onto a deep, dirty sky, the clouds pregnant with dust and burnt umber lightning. A fog clustered around his feet, seemed to touch him and pull away, revealing fist-sized stones scattered along the floor as far as he could see until the hall curved away, presumably to meet itself on other other side of the brain. He bent down to examine the rocks, crude sigils hacked sloppily into their surfaces, some worn smooth from frequent remembrances. There a wedding, three children, one dead, one illegitimate, his homes, the songs he loathed, a life as infinitely deep as any other life.
Betaine was tense as he wandered, waiting for the mental kick that would remove him from this sacred place. Used to the Archivists and his fellow impressionist students, he realized with a start the mercenary had no idea how to hurt him. Obert's self would be watching, unable to protest, move a muscle, shout as surely as he wanted to shout. There was no reason to be excessively vindictive, but he certainly should be given an example of an internalist's abilities.
A small, potato-lumpy stone bumped against his heel and he picked it up. The memory danced along his arm, a little girl with blonde hair holding a dried lily, staring up solemnly. It tugged at him, how familiar she seemed, but that was simply its function. Shifting his fingers carefully, he slammed the rock into the wall. At the first crack, it turned to fog, slid over his hand and joined the miasma on the floor. The walls vibrated with Obert's fear and a dull whine tinged the timpani rumble of thunder.
He flexed his projected fingers, felt for the silver hum that distinguished his real self. The motion was soft and swift and Betaine listened for the dopplered thumping as Obert's heart skipped once, then pounded ever more swiftly. The internalist's eyes were clouded with white. He blinked slowly and the mercenary came into focus, his earth tones and ruddy skin shockingly present, almost glowing with...fear?
There was a stillness between them, a tense expectation of violence.
Slowly the amber light smoking off Obert's hands evaporated and his muscles relaxed, resembling a marionette with its strings severed one by one.
"He wasn't a threat to you anyway," Obert said, his voice slow, tinged with surprise, "neither was I."
He stared at Betaine, who didn't raise his head from the chaise lounge.
"You didn't have to remove that part; she didn't deserve it. Why do I still remember the memory being there?"
The analyst cleared his throat, sounding like a meringue with a coughing fit. He'd never had to actively destroy a memory before and felt rattled by the experience. His teeth ached, felt almost as if they'd come loose.
"Memories aren't chains of sequential events but exist in a three-dimensional lattice structure that has an infinite number of possible connections. It's as if they're twined together into knots and the removal of one of them leaves a hole. It will shift and repair itself in a day or two. As for that particular one, it..." he rubbed his eyes, the lashes heavy as iron bars, tugging the lids shut, "I'm quite tired and your stupidity annoys me."
Obert looked thoughtful, plucked at the wiry mess of his eyebrows.
"Suppose that's fair. But it's only stupid until you think that this is the friendliest my run-ins with internals have gotten."
"Friendly? Nerve pulse triggers are considered nice where you come from?"
"No harm was intended so you can settle down."
"Your intentions of ignorance can cause serious harm. Also, from everything you've said, I gather you understand very little about internals aside from some half-baked stories. What did you call me out here for?"
Ober pushed his lower lip out, sucked on his stained front teeth.
"Ignorance cost me a good man today. After you...I believe you could mind-burn the bunch of us, but you still should've been fried by that igniter. Why'd I ask you here really? I'm curious. You don't get where I am by insisting you know everything."
Sleep was sliding up Betaine's legs, eased the itch in his bones, dropping a gray haze over the edges of his vision.