Prologue
Everything goes according to plan. A hidden connection is established at 8:45:17:01. The system is anonymously entered at 8:45:18:09 A.M. By 8:47:36:02 A.M., the mainframe has been accessed. The connection to the basement electrical system is made by 8:48:15:30 A.M.
There is hesitation, surprisingly, for a moment. Earlier, there had been worry. Not that there would be a negative outcome. That probability was low: .892%. Just that this would not end as hoped, that the outcome would be undesirable in some way and it would be unbearable given all the risk and deceit. Then, on the screen watching the others, everything comes into place so perfectly. Every person in their intended location, everything prepared and ready. It could only be fate and it drives away all weariness.
There is hesitation but only for a moment, then emboldened, it continue. The two pods, which are approximately 715 feet away, are disconnected. Not one. One would be suspicious. Two. 8:50:07:03 A.M. It is finished. It is above the law.
The camera shows them running. There is a mistake. The surgeon is not the one expected. Later, the schedule is reviewed again and the switch is noticed. It was not planned, unbeknownst to all involved.
But that is not what is important. What is important is about to occur.
They are apprehensive. This has never happened before. Yet, they know what to do. They had been trained and drilled over and over for this very moment. They do not notice everything is set up, waiting for them.
Wait.
The sound of the alarm. The sound of freedom.
.
.
"Can you describe how many fingers I'm holding up?"
The technician's voice is gentle, like a father talking to his baby. The female patient stares at the hand for a moment. She squints her eyes, mouthing words. The technician waits, patiently for a few silent moments and then lowers his hand. He reaches to turn off the recorder.
"That's alright. We haven't worked on that yet -"
"Was that a trick question?" the patient asks.
The technician almost knocks the recorder off the table, "I'm sorry?"
"Was that a trick question?" The patient asks again.
"No," the technician replies, smiling. He has never had a patient like this. Most of his new cases can barely feed themselves, let alone speak. They babble for months, before they can ever utter an understandable words. Yet, somehow, this woman is already capable of full speech. The files are correct; she must have been a master of words in her first life and she is responding to treatment accordingly.
"You were holding up four fingers and one thumb," the patient responds, before she grins and looks down, studying her hands. Her fingernails feel strangely bare, "I just like to be thorough."
"That's fine!" The technician makes a note of her response. In only three session, she demonstrated an ability to count to a thousand by any increment, recognized and gave detailed descriptions of colors, and the results of her reflex test from their last session are hanging, as an inspiration for the other technicians, on the director's door.
The patient folds her hands on her lap and watches the technician. When he finishes writing, she looks at him expectantly. The technician is happy to oblige her, "What kind of hint would you like today?"
The patient goes over the facts she knows already. She does not know where she has been or where she is now but she was born in Nairobi, Kenya. Her birthday is March 20th but she does not know what year that occurred or what year it currently is. Last week, she learned she had a younger sister and a younger brother. Her father was a professor of Applied Mathematics at Nairobi University and her mother was the Chair of that same department.
She does not know where her family is now but she remembers that when she heard of her parents' professions, she instantly recalled a vivid memory. Her family was hosting a large faculty dinner. She was eight, hiding behind her father's chair, listening to the dozens of languages the guests speak, happily recognizing bits and pieces and mentally remembering words she wants to look up later.
Her father had made a joke about his wife, "She's my boss at home and at work." The guests had laughed. The patient remembers her younger self had made note of the fact that the sound of an Andorian laughing was different from that of an Orion.
The voices in that room, particularly their jovial tones, were so familiar. Instantly, it had felt like a part of an image finally becoming recognizable in a puzzle. They had been her mentors. Those voices had guided her through early obstacles. They meant something to her beyond that childhood memory. She can barely contain the excitement in her voice. "Tell me where I went for my undergraduate degree."
The technician glances at her file, "You attended Nairobi University. Graduated at 19."
The patient contemplates the fact. Yes. This is a truth. Sometimes, to test her, the technician will lie. The patient nods and the technician grins back. However, there is something bothering the patient. Since inquisitiveness is always encouraged at the institute, she says, "Is that all?"
The technician's smile widens, "Is what all?"
Some recollections are come to her in fragmented pieces with time bringing more and more clarity until she is able to slowly form whole memories. This is not one of those times. It affronts her quickly like remembering someone's name after a brief lapse during a social interaction. Nairobi University had not been the end. She had diverged on her path. Her parents had been disappointed but she had felt a pull towards something greater which could not, would not be denied.
"I earned two undergraduate degrees. Where was the second one earned?"
"Hang on. The director will want to know about this recollection," the technician says, typing quickly into his electronic notepad. The patient watches the words forming on the screen. She cannot understand them but they are achingly familiar. The technician sends the communication and then faces the patient, "You attended Nairobi University and then Starfleet Academy."
"Starfleet," the patient says, nodding. She lets the words settle and they are warm and soothing. Images in her mind, stirred up from murky depths, become sharper, more resolved, "I remember pieces. Tall buildings, an ocean breeze, and red. Does that meant anything?"
"It does but I'll let you handle that," the technician says flipping through her files on his PADD. He comes to a section and whistles, "Got into the Academy on your first try. Pretty impressive."
This is where her memory goes dark again. The technician is waiting, expecting something. The patient searches her mind but there is nothing. She can't remember what her major was, where the school was located, or anything of substance about the academy itself. Just patches. A woman with green skin and a striking white smile. Machines with features she doesn't remember how to use. Strange ships with flawless white tiles.
"Is that good?" the patient asks, "Is it hard to get in on the first try?"
The technician nods and when he speaks again his voice is kind and paternal once more, "Yes, dear. It is." The technician begins putting his things away, "You did good today. I'm very proud. You're an inspiration."
They have a session every day but when she realizes this one is coming to an end, she begins to panic, "Can I have another fact?"
The technician pauses. At the best of times, he is overly relenting. It causes her guilt to manipulate him but not overwhelming guilt. "No. Sorry but it's procedure."
"Please," the patient says, her voice fragile. She is lost. The technician's hints are the light to put her back on the path.
Then there are the questions. Some she wants answered. Other she is too afraid to have answered. Why is she here? Where is here? How did this happen? Who is she? Who was she?
"I need to know who they are," she finally says. There are faces with blurred features that float around in her mind and stir up strong emotions. They meant something to her and the need to know more occupies her every patient leans forward, her fingers anxiously gripping the table. "Just one more. Just this once. I wouldn't tell a soul. I swear."
The technician drums his fingers. "I'll compromise," He pulls a digital card from inside his briefcase, scribbles two words on it, and gives it to her. "Read it."
Patients at the institute often develop like babies. They progress through each stage of verbal development: crying, cooing, babbling, before they ultimately form recognizable words. The institute has plans to introduce other skills like reading and writing after verbal development is complete but the patient is advanced. She already has a firm grasp on her letters although sounding out individual words is still a struggle for her. When he can, the technician likes to passively encourage her skills.
The patient grabs the digital card the moment the technician is finished writing, her actions leaving an errant stroke from where his pen marked as she pulls the card towards her. Her eyes trace the curves and lines of the letters but recognition escapes her. Her vision grows blurry, her traitorous eyes showing her disappointment very much against her will, "This isn't fair. Why are you keep doing this to me? You know I only speak Swahili. I can only read in Swahili. What is this?"
"Can you not read it?" the technician asks.
She looks back at the digital card again. She prays for what at that point is next to impossible. She is lacking. In the back of her mind, she knows she has pushed herself that day and she should be proud of that. She isn't though. She doesn't even know what it is but she has lost something and every fiber of her being needs to find it again.
She brings the card close to her face as if this is all she need do and some magic will tell her what she is looking at. Her jaw become tight with frustration. "No. I can't read this."
She hands it back to him but he holds up a hand to stop her, "You keep it. You can read it. Trust me."
His tone of voice is familiar. He wants her to think, to elaborate.
Later, she does, often and with great frustration at the task, especially that night when there is no other distraction.
She is so consumed, she skips breakfast the next day. She does not join the other patients for a walk around the compound as she had taken the habit of doing, nor does she go to the cafeteria for lunch. She stares. As if it is the only thing in the world, she stares.
She knows the letters, recognizes them but strung together, they mean nothing to her. The technician gave her gibberish.
At one point, frustrated, she buries the thing under her mattress. Then she digs it out and holds it up to the light. Perhaps it is a trick. No. It's not a trick. In the garbage it goes. She paces for a few moments and then upends the trashcan to find the card. She traces the words before her with her finger, hoping that the act of writing them will bring something back. Nothing. She puts the disk in a drawer in her desk and slammed it away. Second later, she is carrying the disk in her pocket as she stomps down the hall.
The patient passes the portrait of the African woman, the one she find both intimidating and nostalgic, on her way. This was intentional. There are three portraits in the hall but she only has eyes for the one in the middle. The patient glances at the portrait, not long enough for her gaze to seem meaningful to others, but long enough to takes in the woman's high cheek bones, elegantly arched eyebrows, and lush mouth which bring a myriad of emotions to the patient, before then the patient averts her eyes and continues on her way.
The patient goes to the library first. It's a massive room with row after row of real, paged books. The very idea of it brings chills to the patient's spine. Her old self liked the idea of holding and feeling literature too. She is not very good at reading, even in Swahili, yet but it is coming back to her quickly with practice and it's much preferable to her thoughts.
On the eastern wall of the library, there is a set of french doors which lead out to the yard. The patient stops for a moment to admire her surroundings. An acre of thick green grass lies before her and beyond that a lake so wide she cannot see the opposite bank. The sky is bright blue and crystal clear. The circumference around the institute is trimmed with colorful, blooming roses. Whoever built this place meant for it to be beautiful for its inhabitants. The patient sits down on a marble bench under a tree and begins reading.
The patient likes reading. It is fascinating to think that no letter alone, save for a few, can mean anything on their own. Each word is the sum of its parts. She mentally reviews the phonetic sound of each letters in the alphabet. She thinks it would be more appropriate for her to be annoyed that some letters have multiple phonetic sounds but she isn't. Far from it. She appreciates that fact as well. Letters have many faces, just like people.
There had been a few dozen children's books in the library which the patient had ignored but the book she choose is well illustrated and it has very few complex words. She covers the picture while she reads and then uncovers the image to affirm what she thinks she has read.
The first words are rusty and she reads them out loud to see if they make more sense when spoken. They do indeed. There is a small village being harassed by an ogre. She continues reading aloud. The ogre is raiding and eating all the village's cattle and food and destroying their homes. The patient lifts her hand. The image confirms this. There is a maiden who gathers food for the village whom the ogre falls in love with. The maiden learns where the ogre's home is. The patient flips through the books slowly. When she once struggled, she now enjoys the book. The ogre's raids begin to overtake the village's resources. The maiden brings the warriors of her village to the ogre's hiding spot. The ogre is defeated and becomes a mountain.
As she closes the book, she realizes she has heard this story before.
This brings a patch of another recollection. A little girl's laugh. The patient thinks perhaps it was her younger sister's but assigning that identity to that laugh does not seem right. The patient revels in the memory of the laugh. At one point, in her past life, this fact had been true: if she had been allowed to do nothing else but illicit that that laugh for rest of her life, she would have been content.
It brings her no calm to recall though. Instead she feels empty. That is a commonplace in her current situation. She wonders if this fact will ever change.
"Look who it is!"
The patient looks up. A perky nurse is pushing a dark haired man with a familiar glare towards her. The man is making obvious gestures at the nurse but his caregiver's eyes look peacefully past her charge's attempts at communications.
"Here we go," Nurse Aziza says. She pushes Bo's wheelchair through the last bit of gravel, past a patch of grass and over to the bench where the patient is sitting. Nurse Aziza places a hat onto Bo's head, rubs white patch of sunscreen on his cheek so the lotion absorbs into his skin, "Here's your friend."
"No," Bo says. He enunciates the word to emphasize his point. He point back to the building where his room is, "No!"
"Alright," Nurse Aziza replies. She turns to the patient, asking in rapid fire Swahili, "Can he stay with you for a bit again? I need to bathe two patients."
The patient nods.
Nurse Aziza pats Bo on the head and tells him, her words much slower, "I'll be back in an hour."
When Nurse Aziza is gone, Bo looks at the patient. She smiles at him. His cheekbones rise slightly as he makes a slightly pleasant face back at her and then immediately he begins pulling on the brakes of his wheelchair. The patient looks at the belt on Bo's waist holding him up in his chair. He is too weak to turn off the brakes and with a sigh he looks at her. The patient shrugs at him.
Bo reaches out and turns up the cover of the book in her arms.
"It's the story of Ngong Hills outside Nairobi," the patient tells him, "Enkong'u emuny."
Bo stares at her mouth. He does not speak fluent Swahili, unlike most of the staff and some of the other patients. He mutters under his breath, "Nejong."
The patient holds up a picture in the book for him to see. She points to the lush green hills, "Ngong."
"Nejong," Bo replies. He looks at her expectantly.
"No, that's good," the patient says, nodding so he knows she is giving her approval. She concentrate for a moment before saying, in the language Bo understands, "How are you?"
"Good," Bo says nodding. Then, after several seconds of silence, he adds, "Mimi ni vizuri."
The patient smiles genuinely at him and she notices the side of Bo's mouth twitch in response.
"How are your sessions going?" the patient asks in his language. She wishes there were something else they could talk about but there is little else the patients do at the institute.
Bo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a digital card. The patient sees a detailed anatomical illustration on its surface. She shakes her head. Bo must have been a genius in his previous life. She has recalled much more than he has in sessions but what he has, she envies. He knows his name and he knows he was a scientist. She can only remembers bits of her childhood and has the vaguest of feelings about her adolescence.
"Lungs," Bo says, pointing to his illustration, "Pafu."
"Beautiful," the patient says. She pulls out her own card. Bo takes it from her. The patient waves a hand over the words, "Confusing. Nonsense. Nothing."
"Star. Freedom," Bo reads. He turns and nods to her, "Nonsense."
"What?" the patient says, "You can read that?"
Bo is staring at her so she points to the first word, "Star?" Her hand moves to the second word, "Freedom? This is your language?"
Bo nods again, "Star. Freedom."
"Star. Freedom," the patient repeats. This recollection hits her quickly, "Nyota Uhura. That's my name." She grabbed her friend's forearm, both as a gesture of affection and to steady herself at the revelation, "He gave me my name."