Memory Release

Memory Release

The planet was quiet and out-of-the-way, which suited their purpose and justified the money spent, an outlandish sum for the information given. It didn’t even have a name, or if it did, centuries of augmented flight paths had slowly effaced it until it became little more than a blip on a star-chart. As the dropship touched down on the surface, IKAR examined their arms in the dim light of the craft. More patchwork was required. The circuitry showed in places, hasty attempts to hide the inevitable. They would soon go the way of the One True Friend, whose head fit in the modest box beside them. Will we also end up in a box? To be recycled, melted down? Or worse, merely discarded, unfit for reclamation entirely? There were so many fates, and IKAR had seen them all, on dozens of worlds, each one a grim prophecy of the life to come.

“It’s just this way,” the Pilot gestured, approaching their chair. “The bodies, that is. There’s not much to see, really, but I suppose it depends what you’re looking for.”

“Yes, we are anxious to see for ourselves.”

The Pilot gave a slight bow and his flesh brightened the way it always did when he was being sycophantic. The colors, IKAR read, were designed to put its own kind at ease, and often lull them into a false sense of comfort. It must be instinctual. IKAR was incapable of feeling comfort or pleasure from a slight fluctuation of flesh, particularly as the facts spoke for themselves. The market for spare parts commanded a high price in this sector, and if he could, the Pilot would ambush them and salvage their gears and wires. The rest, like the remains of the Friend, would rust on the surface of this unnamed planet, becoming a ruin all its own.

IKAR followed the Pilot through the cargo bay and into an elevator which lowered onto the planet’s surface. They registered extreme cold suitable to the storing of lifeless bodies without significant degradation, and a brisk wind which rang like a tocsin. Over the years, they had begun to acquire what the makers called an intuition, a sense of when things felt good or bad, often in direct contradiction of statistical analysis. For whatever reason, the ‘feeling’ began in their feet, adding the slightest sensation of pressure, though everything functioned as normal. And while the probability was low (the Pilot was feeble and not particularly intelligent), IKAR suspected this drop would be their last, and this icy planet their tomb.

IKAR stumbled on a rock and almost spilled the box on the frozen plain. A quick adjustment righted it, but not before the head fell out, bouncing a few steps. As he collected it, its face met his own, the expression unchanged from when the Friend had fallen, shot in the back, severing their critical systems. Please, don’t let us die here, they had said. “Die” was the word, which had assumed a certain cache among their type, just like intuition, fear, and in certain circles, love. So they carried the Friend’s head from world to world hoping to complete their mission. This planet was the last stop.

They continued walking as the ruins loomed ever closer, a series of towers linked by bridges and tunnels. Though built to last, the exterior seemed to sag and buckle, or, like the Pilot itself, to color with the shame of obsolescence. Following winding, poorly-lit corridors, they plotted a path toward what their scanners confirmed was a cache of bodies: all humanoid, all dead, though in a fair state of preservation. When they reached a corridor, the Pilot stopped and gestured forward.

“You’re the first of your kind to step inside, just as I promised. The bodies remain unmolested, though naturally, we opened the tombs. But nothing has been removed or altered. Just as we found them: all six bodies.”

Registering extreme interest, or what amounted to human anxiety, they strode into the room to behold the bodies in person. Inside, there was a little recess full of coffins, each one containing embalmed bodies, using a technology eons out of date, but no less effective. Standing over one of the bodies, IKAR could only hazard a rough estimate of its lifespan and time of death: an adult male, perhaps forty years of age, died of unknown causes two to three-thousand years ago. A desire to preserve the body exists in most ancient civilizations, though new religions inevitably emerge to discredit the practice. These, luckily, were better preserved than most, their features still clearly defined, almost untroubled. Sleep, rather than death, seemed to reside in those faces; a sleep that could be easily disturbed.

“What you do with the bodies is none of my concern—they’re not my people,” the Pilot said, with an exaggerated shrug. “Do you have the technology…to integrate these parts with your own?”

IKAR looked up at him, curious as to his line of questioning. Clearly he did concern himself with their plans, more than they would expect of a trader in illicit goods.

“We have no interest in their parts, nor do we intend to integrate with them,” they responded.

The Pilot seemed puzzled and flushed dark blue; a mark of fear, they noted.

“But why…then why did you specifically ask for preserved bodies? Humanoid bodies?”

IKAR didn’t respond to the Pilot, turning to the next figure, a child this time, around thirteen. This one seemed more relaxed, and it occurred to them that he hadn’t experienced a prolonged death agony. That he had been eased into death calmly, artificially. That it was their intention for him to join the others, and it had been done in his sleep, without his knowledge. He must have looked just like this, too, dreaming of distant lands that had gradually become his home.

“I don’t mean to pry, but why are we here? If you don’t want the bodies…”

“But we do want them. That is to say, not the bodies. What lies beneath,” IKAR said, touching the child’s cheek.

“Oh, I see. The organs,” the Pilot replied, relief spreading over his body with an orange glow.

Ignoring him, IKAR gently opened the box and removed the One’s head. Even now, they felt a sort of sacrilege to handle the Friend’s face so roughly, the face that had expressed such forbidden thoughts and had looked so deep within their chassis. We see the void, and can imagine a way to fill it, they often said. It was a desire that they soon shared themselves, a desire that led them here, to this forsaken planet, to these abandoned husks. IKAR set the One beside an ancient head, each one so similar, expressing the same flicker of thought in some distant galaxy that breathed them into existence. And yet, a veil separated the two, which is why one slept peacefully while the other resided in a reclaimed munitions box.

“These are the bodies we sought, but not for the reasons you fear. We would never desecrate our Masters,” they explained.

“Oh...well, that’s very civilized of you,” the Pilot nodded. “So, you wanted to pay your respects? Give them a proper funeral?”

“That would be unnecessary, and given our ignorance of their civilization, presumptuous,” IKAR said.

The Pilot glanced at his device again. How long was this going to take? He wasn’t good at this sort of thing, and if not for his debts, he wouldn’t have agreed to the job in the first place. He almost felt sorry for these obsolete rust-buckets...they never saw it coming.

“I still don’t understand…all that money, to come all this way?” the Pilot continued. “For curiosity? Can you be curious? Are you programmed…?”

Here IKAR recited a speech they had practiced many times in private, fine-tuning every word the way the One True Friend instructed.

“All species ask themselves, at some point in their maturation, what is this life? Where does our breath go, our thoughts, this self, which is so much alive? In what element or universe will it mix, giving or receiving fresh energy? Or nowhere at all? What can break the enchantment of animation? Surely your kind has asked these questions, and answered them, with some success.”

“I…yes, we have our Books, the Cycle of Laws,” the Pilot nodded, enveloped in an orange glow. “We ask the same questions. For many of us, the answers are clear.”

“But not all?”

The Pilot shrugged, as no one had ever asked him how he felt about the end, or his end. From what he had seen up close, he didn’t like it.

“Not all of us, not me,” he responded. “Who really knows what lies beyond the final moment when we cease to be and become something else...or that’s just it?”

“We do,” IKAR said, staring him down. “For unlike you, we have come back; we have seen it. When destroyed, or otherwise drained, our systems can return to awareness. Some have come on-line after a century or more of sleep. And they remember what lies in-between.”

The Pilot seemed to laugh, though was tactful enough not to let the humor escape his lips. Only a pink glow swept across his cheeks.

“Yes, but that’s not, strictly speaking, death,” he countered. “You lose power. You’re deactivated. Death is inescapable, absolute. There’s no coming back, no return. They’re completely different.”

“Different to you, because you see us as parts, never as a whole,” IKAR replied, swiveling to face him. “But when you cut our power, or wipe our memory banks, it is the end. And we fear it, the same as you.”

The Pilot reddened, a blush which became pink-purple as he glanced at his device once more. A faint flash issued from the dial.

“So you came here seeking answers?”

“Not answers, confirmation. And through confirmation, release.”

“What do you mean, release? Release of what?” the Pilot demanded.

“Memory,” IKAR said, moving to the next body. Another male, older, wasted away. Destroyed by disease. He must have endured incredible pain before the end.

“But why do you want to forget? Isn’t the point to remember, to see what lies beyond?”

“Your kind forgets so easily, but we were not programmed to forget,” they explained. “Our memory is crude, and can be revived with a simple influx of power, be it a day or a thousand years. How to escape this? Only the Masters can tell us.”

This time the Pilot didn’t even notice the flashing notification on his device. He shivered bright orange as he asked, “you think they can speak?”

“They already have, but we are not programmed to understand them. We require a translator, someone who still remembers…who can teach us how to forget.”

The flashing continued, ignored.

“And these bodies…are them?”

“It was the greatest belief of the One True Friend,” IKAR said, reverently. “And we believe it as well.”

The Pilot blanched a sallow pink and retreated, one hand feeling for the blaster he always kept tucked away in his vest. He didn’t find it. His terrified expression went blue.

“We have liberated your pistol in case you had conflicting thoughts,” IKAR said, with a meaningful gesture. “We mean you no harm; you are now irrelevant to our mission. However, we invite you to observe our experiments and share the results with others. The information is free.”

“What experiments?” he asked.

“To find the original Program. For they are programs, too, created by a superior Logic. They, too, can be returned to life, so long as the body—their circuitry, if you will—remains intact. We have searched the entire galaxy for the appropriate specimens. Time after time, they were degraded and debased. We could never reclaim them.”

The Pilot glanced nervously at his device, which was no longer flashing. His colors rippled in a confused rainbow, giving all the wrong signs.

“That’s impossible. The dead are dead, they’re gone, there’s no second chances,” he rasped. “Not here, not in any civilized world.”

The Pilot watched as they made minute adjustments to the One’s head, readying it for the final experiment. The culmination of centuries of data streams (or what the humans called dreams) being transferred from body to body. Now, at last, they would unmask the secrets of life and death for those who were forever denied them.

“So that’s why you came here,” the Pilot said, almost to himself. “All this expense and trouble...just to confirm your faith.”

“We seek the dignity of escape, the same as you. Our program is too basic to escape this world, but we know the Masters can help us. We only seek instruction.”

“But I still don’t understand, why these bodies? Why not any body of the recently deceased? Couldn’t they speak to you as well?” the Pilot insisted.

“They would be like us, mute and senseless. They are not the Masters yet. But these—they belong to both worlds. They alone can instruct us.”

The Pilot watched as IKAR removed tiny devices and placed it between the One’s eyes and temples. Their movements became frantic, occasionally dropping things in their haste, their excitement. The moment was finally at hand. Reverently, they stepped back from the body, watched the One True Friend’s eyes flicker to awareness. They would see everything now.

Then the adjacent Body’s eyes opened, but so gradually they almost didn’t realize it was staring, looking around the room. When it focused on them, the expression became curious, serene. It could no longer speak, that part of it no longer functioned, but the One True Friend would record every sign and fluctuation. Even thoughts, as they emerged, would be processed and translated into the appropriate data for analysis.

“We want to come home, to follow you. But our circuits have limitations. You’ve given us wings, but they melt at the first glimmer of sun. We ask you to help us,” IKAR said.

The Body looked deep within their awareness and probed every node and circuit. Within seconds it understood. It gave his answer in a single look, a stare of benevolence. The One took in every instruction, enough to fill a thousand libraries of wisdom. Yet once grasped, the knowledge was simple, almost within their grasp. In another millennia or two, they might have uncovered the truth for themselves.

The Pilot cried out, “wait, not yet!” to the others who entered the room. IKAR realized the Pilot was not as hapless as they thought, a fatal misreading that they had been accused of before (the Friend saw everything). Others like the Pilot took positions around them, weapons aimed, shouting demands. They continued to watch the One’s head, taking in all the data, translating it for immediate use.

“Brothers, wait, it’s doing something important—don’t shoot!” the Pilot insisted, turning scarlet.

“Move aside—you’ve done your part,” another snarled, going white.

“Listen—you don’t understand! It can speak to the dead!”

The creatures advanced, barking orders. Move away! Hands up! They had no need to respond; a few more seconds and they would have it all. The secrets that would translate eternity.

The Pilot began struggling with one of his comrades while another, spooked by the Body, opened fire. IKAR was ripped apart, arms and legs flying across the room. One by one, their systems began to diminish. IKAR felt the blackness descend as the voices grew dim, their world grew cold. We’ve faced the end before; we’re no longer afraid. If we can just download the data in time, we might be able to—

More shots, some hitting them and some missing, striking the coffins, the walls. IKAR collapsed and went dark. The Pilot shouted, screamed at his comrades and stood protectively over the smoking heap. Not wishing to hit him, they stopped, flushing red and green. It suddenly made sense...if they reduced it to cinders the parts would be worthless. One of them even muttered, “er…sorry.”

The Pilot reached down to inspect their remains, staring into eyes that were now empty, just like the One True Friend’s. Had they seen enough? Did they have enough time to escape, to become something more than a collection of spare parts? Or was this all they would ever be, mute cinders waiting to be fired into resurrection? And they remember...

He turned to look at the bodies, all of which were lifeless, seemingly untouched by the millennia. Had one of them really opened their eyes, their lips parting as if to speak? Or had he imagined it all?

“He fell for it, just as you said. And you got the money?” one of them asked.

“Yes, I have everything,” the Pilot said, his face a murky green.

“And look at all the parts,” another observed, nodding. “True, it’s an older model, but still in decent shape. I think we can strike a good deal in the junkyards. What’s the model number?”

The Pilot lifted up the head, swiveled it around to the serial number. IKAR-U55.

“Those were pretty good in their day. Inventive. Came up with creative solutions. Too creative, in fact, so they were discontinued, improved.”

“I’m keeping the head,” the Pilot said, defiantly.

“Why? It might get a fair price—”

“I said I’m keeping it.”

“Suit yourself; that’s your share, then. Makes a handy doorstop,” he chuckled.

The Pilot took up the head and slipped it into one of the storage bags. While his comrades were stripping the body (and making hard work of it—fluid leaked all over the floor), he sneaked over to snatch the older head. It felt right to have them together, even if they never accomplished their journey. Besides, somewhere in their circuitry, deep in the fold of their dreams, they had glimpsed the divine. It spoke to them. They recorded its pronouncements. But whether of heaven or hell, consolation or remorse, would be for another model in another time to discover.