The Wanted Memory

It had been a woman, a small and homely little specimen. Oliviero often wondered what had happened to the original.

Now he sighed, his fingers drumming the arm of Captain Crick's command chair in the small hours of an arbitrary local morning, the bridge crew keeping the ship ticking around him. It had been awhile since he'd bothered standing duty, but nobody except Ellie ever took him to task: the other officers were too junior, the captain too indifferent. Quiet little Clipper, on the helm, had turned back in gap-mouthed shock as his officer had entered the bridge, but all the other folks on watch had at least been polite enough to pretend they weren't amazed to see him.

For awhile, early on, Schillinger had tried to have a conversation with him, but his headache had demanded far more of his attention than the commo officer had, and when her own shift ended he'd barely even noticed when Sceviour replaced her. On impulse, he'd checked the duty roster to make sure the mischievously freckled Jackson wasn't scheduled to relieve Clipper; if he never saw her again, it would be just fine with Oliviero.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm heading for chow," he announced. A few eyes glanced back at him. "Anyone want me to bring anything back?"

The only answer was Clipper, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. "Same course and speed, sir?"

"Sure." He tried to ignore his headache and sorted out the big plotter at the front of the bridge. "You'll need to maneuver to deal with that gravitational anomaly up ahead there, but I should be back by then. If not?" He shrugged. "Has Chief Jacobs taught you how to get through those?"

Clipper nodded. "Sir."

"Good. So, yeah." He yawned. "If I'm not back, just, you know, try to prevent the ship from spiraling into deadly infinity. Other than that? Carry on."

"Aye aye, sir." The helmsman looked back, and Oliviero scanned around for the most senior sailor available.

"You're in charge, Chief Koster." Novak's guy, over on the commo console. Good man, but often high. Oliviero could relate. "Have me summoned if you need me; I'll be in the main mess." Nobody bothered replying.

Local 0300, and still the mess guys had a full menu out. Tonight it was smoked black pudding garnished with creamy pink kamaboko, and Oliviero asked for a half portion out of deference to his whiskey headache. Van Angus, behind the counter, shook his head. "You sure, Mr Oliviero? You look like you haven't eaten in weeks."

"The shit you cook? I haven't," but he smiled in what he thought of as a charming fashion. "No, I just haven't been hungry."

He sniffed. "It's that fucking shithead Meserve, your wardroom chef. She's a moron, sir. I don't blame you for going hungry. Here, pick a dessert."

Oliviero kept his mouth shut. All the officers knew that Chef Meserve's function was to fuck the captain. The dessert choices were baklava or anmitsu. "Can't I just get a bowl of ice cream?"

Van Angus blinked. "Uh, sure. You sit down and dig in, sir, I'll bring it over. You want elderberry, vegetable, or Neapolitan?"

"Neapolitan, please. Thanks." He sighed. "And some tea."

"Coming right up." Van Angus shuffled to the dispenser. "I'll tell you, Mr Oliviero, you being First and all, if something were to happen to Meserve, I think any of my buddies would do a great job in the wardroom." Oliviero recognized the glow in the man's eyes: it was, of course, greed. The wardroom chef got tips. "Or me, of course."

"Of course." Oliviero squinted as the headache spasmed behind his eyes. "I'll keep you in mind, van Angus, but the captain hires the chef. And," he went on, unable to stop himself, "I think you're missing something Meserve has, if you know what I'm saying." He nodded toward van Angus' chest. "Two somethings, rather. Or three."

"Ah." The chef nodded sagely as he added the salt and butter. "She's his... receptacle?"

Oliviero went on guard at once. He raged at himself, too late: he didn't need to be gossiping with the mess guys. "No clue. Thanks."

"Sir." He took the table furthest from the milk dispenser, finding the smell nauseating, and sat with his back to the ship's transparent wall. He'd noticed Novak often, gazing out at the stars; she had that vaguely romantic sense of the cosmos. She'd told him she'd gone forty-one months once without stepping on dirt, and it had been the time of her life. Oliviero didn't like the stars. He preferred to look at his black pudding.

"Is this seat taken?" At any other time, his response would be a glare, a snappish reply, the obvious point that the mess deck seated eighty butts and only three people were here at the moment, but not now. For the voice had been too sweetly familiar. "I don't wish to intrude, sir."

Slowly he pushed his eyes up from his plate, his brain invaded by a strange sense of loathing and eagerness. They'd given her clean clothes and, from the looks of things, an appropriate set of underwear, those slim breasts of hers displayed in the same way she'd always liked them: obtrusively. She'd never minded bludgeoning the world with her smooth, even femininity. The copper hair was braided, a look he'd seen a million times, which made sense: the clone would probably prefer the same hairstyles as the original. He made a face. "It's not usual that a clone socializes, so soon before..." It occurred to him faintly that it might not be polite to mention the clone's impending... what? Not death, really; more like rebirth? He realized too late that he hadn't answered her. "Uh, no. Please." He gestured toward the vacant seat across from him.

She sat with the same old feline grace, so jarring here. "I cannot keep myself from looking out into space." She even had that same precision of speech; Oliviero knew they tried to duplicate the characteristic as much as possible, but there were millions of clones to manage. He was impressed. "This is my first voyage."

"No it isn't," he blurted, and then he snapped his mouth shut like a clam; she was nodding, for he'd fallen straight into her trap. It was thought to be bad for clones to learn too much of their originals' past. "Forget I said that," he muttered, and the rich tea had lost all its savor.

The clone of Lina Brightstar had opted for a bowl of fruit and some bubbly water. "I cannot forget," she chided. "It's why I sat here, sir. I saw how you reacted to me in the Number Three Bay, when I arrived." Of course. She'd always been perceptive, those olive-green eyes missing nothing at all. She'd always been direct, too, so he wasn't surprised at her next statement. "You know me, don't you?"

She was beautiful. She always had been, but then his memory of her had always, always been clouded by what he'd seen on the vid, at the end. Always, that hideous image, that betrayal, the one that had cast him free of her. But now he no longer had to rely on that horrible last memory. Because there she was, in life rather than vid, smiling that same grave smile and gnawing at an apple slice, and she was so beautiful, and he felt a stirring in his brain and his trousers that was as strong as it had ever been. He swallowed the kamaboko without tasting it.

"I know you."

Her eyes widened, those lovely sharp-cornered eyes, the stirring in his pants more insistent suddenly. She put her chopsticks down and lowered her head, thinking, making sure the words were clear before she began. "I find myself very curious about the kind of person I am," she admitted.

Oliviero's tea was cooling quickly. "You'll get your hippocampus soon, your frontal lobe," he shrugged. "Then you'll know."

"I'll know some," she agreed, "but not all. And besides, that doesn't help me now." She tossed back half her water in a convulsive swallow. "My curiosity is here, now. I wish to know now." She put the glass back on the table. "You cannot know what this is like, sir."

"Call me Kai." It was automatic, and he clamped his mouth shut as soon as he'd said it. The headache was far away now.

"Kai." She felt the word, testing to see whether saying it seemed familiar. "Is that what I called you? When you knew me?"

Oliviero sighed raggedly. "It was." He slumped back in the chair, completely unable to believe he was here, now, sitting across from his Lina one more time. But it wasn't really Lina; it was a different woman. Wasn't it? He rubbed at his chin. "And you were Lina."

"I know. The clonemasters gave me a dossier to look at." She shrugged, the gesture painfully familiar. "Very brief information: education, nicknames." She looked straight at him now, her eyes drilling into his. "Family."

"I have to go." He threw his napkin onto the table. "I'm on duty."

She watched him rise, nodding slightly, her face carefully composed. Her posture was erect and cautious, as it had always been, and when she spoke the words rolled out in clipped precision. "Am I a good person, Kai?"

He paused, and a woman so wise had to have seen the answer on his face; stupidity had never been her problem. "Often," he shrugged, and he thought of what he'd heard her say on that vid she'd sent, right in the middle, around the 5'35" mark; he'd memorized every nuance over the years. "Sometimes," he amended, and then he left her to her meal.

* * *

A delegation from Terranova's weapons shop appeared in Oliviero's office the next day, their eyes flashing their surprise that they'd found him in there doing actual work. "Uh, sir?" Their Chief, Surman, cleared his throat. "The guys have a complaint."

Oliviero cocked a weary eye at the four of them. He'd begun drinking after supper, but had choked down just half a bottle before sitting, thinking. Then he'd awakened from a brooding sleep to find himself confused and thick, his throat furry. So now he wasn't sure why he was in his office at all. "Uh." He let the silence build, but only because he couldn't trust his gravelly throat to produce meaningful sound. He cleared it. "Where's Mr Terranova?"

"We talked to him, sir, but he told us to go fuck ourselves," Chief Surman explained. "He didn't seem to think there was a problem, is what I mean. So we thought we'd come see you."

"Open-door policy," Purcell added helpfully. Jesus Buddha, but she was a knockout: slim and wiry, but with that power in her hips that suggested she'd be a formidable sexual partner. Beside her was Hoove, the new guy, who'd nearly died in that fusing accident last month, and the shop's warrant officer, Herriot. All four had the grim determination of the aggrieved, the expression that usually topped protest signs on the bigger planets.

"We're on shift too often, sir." Surman got right to the point, which was good; it meant the interview would end sooner, and that he could vomit. "The duty roster seems... slanted. Like, we're doing too much duty and the Supply shop ain't."

Oliviero sat back, his investigation complete already. Supply was Ellie Novak's department, and Novak hated Terranova the weapons officer. That mattered because Novak did all the rosters; Oliviero was usually too wasted to apply that much brainpower. "I'm afraid the exigencies of the Service require that different shops get hit disproportionately hard on longer passages. It's a concept called Differential Scheduling; they teach it at the Academy." Every word of that was a lie, meant to rid himself of these visitors without alienating Novak. She did all the rest of Oliviero's duties, too; it would be unwise to piss her off. Or sell her out. The survival of the ship required a happy Lieutenant Novak. "I'll look into it, Chief, but I spend hours on the rosters. I try to make them as equitable as possible."

Herriot squinted. "With respect, sir, that's horseshit. We all know Ms Novak does the rosters." The others looked at him in shock; he must be really pissed, Oliviero realized, to just come out and say it like that. He frowned.

"How was that respectful, Herriot?"

The big man blinked. "Uhh..."

"Supply is in charge of keeping the clones viable, Herriot. That's our mission right now, not achieving equity in watch assignments. So Supply is busy with clone shit, 26/8. You guys?" He let the pause build, always that silent reminder: they were weapons people aboard a non-Combat ship. They were nearly useless. "So quit bitching. If you want to move this up to the Captain, go ahead. But I'm not interested." He rose, annoyed. "As a matter of fact, I need to go inspect clone storage and maintenance right now. I'm late. So you're all dismissed."

Untrue; he just wanted them gone. And they couldn't very well haunt his office if he wasn't in it. So he brushed past them and marched toward the Main Bay, not even noticing the salutes of the various junior personnel. The senior sailors simply stared, amazed, at an apparition they seldom saw: the ship's First Officer, walking the halls during duty hours, apparently sober.

The lift brought him down to the Main Bay, its vestibule darkened to help get the clones acclimated; transplantation required relaxed eyes. He slid the hatch open to the sight of three full clones, playing mindless whist with one of Novak's people. The military encouraged the game. Lina, he saw at once, was the missing clone. "Hey, Mr Oliviero." Novak had McChang on duty. "Want to join in?"

"Nah." He cast a skeptical glance over at the parts bins, the severed legs propped up in rifle racks nearby. "Why are the legs out?"

"The protocol calls for them to be kept upright six hours a day." McChang shrugged. "I don't ask, sir." The three clones glanced up at him with interest. They looked different with their clothes on, less clinical. "What can I get you, sir?"

He meant drugs, obviously; Lieutenant Oliviero was known to need an occasional dose of Anchor, for the nausea. "Nothing. I'm just here to inspect the clones." He looked pointedly around. "You seem to have lost one."

The supply guy chuckled. "You insult me, sir; nobody's better than I am at keeping clones in the Main Bay, as long as it's secured." He tossed his head toward the compartment off to starboard. "She's in the latrine, sir."

"No shit." It hadn't occurred to him that clones needed toilets, but now that he thought of it it seemed obvious.

McChang grinned broadly. "Maybe shit; I wouldn't know." He sniffed. "Sweet ass on that one, sir." Sailors were not allowed to fuck the clones, though Oliviero knew a lot of that went on. He'd been a supply officer once, too. "Why do you need her?"

"None of your fucking business," Oliviero snapped, and McChang reacted as if kicked. "Go back to your game; I'll find her myself."

"Aye aye, sir." Oliviero stalked off, the uniform rubbing uncomfortably at his body. It had been awhile since he did any walking in anything but his underwear. He was aware the whist players would be watching him to see what he'd do, especially that troublemaker McChang; he'd been busted down from Warrant Officer three times? Four? Drug dealing. Alas, the little fucker was an awfully good watch-stander, an ace with the maintenance, so Captain Crick kept on promoting him right back up.

Or maybe the captain just forgot.

Oliviero stopped halfway across the deck as the latrine door opened, revealing Lina standing there, looking like the goddess he'd always thought her. She squinted at him, then smiled with that air of uncertain gravity he'd fallen in love with, once. She waited, gauging him, making sure nobody was listening. She'd always been very discreet. "Sir," she greeted him, standing with her hands clasped in front of her. "This is a surprise."

Oliviero stood, struck by how familiar she looked, unable to think of a thing to say. He cleared his throat and pretended he was a proper officer. "I'm checking to ensure everything is in order down here," he stammered.

"You have no need to explain yourself to me. Kai." He felt a dangerous thrill, hearing her use his name, and he knew he shuddered. She would notice, surely. "You honor us with your visit. I hear it's a rare day that the First Officer leaves the upper parts of the ship."

"You hear a lot," he growled after a pause. Why had he come? His brain was raging at him, which was odd in itself: he never, ever cared what anyone else on this forsaken vessel thought of him, but now he was obscurely worried about McChang. She stepped from the latrine, moving to within a meter or so, and Oliviero just stared. "I..." Again, nothing to say; he felt like an idiot, which wasn't normal. And then, softly, Lina saved the conversation.

"One does hear a lot, when one listens." She showed her crooked smile. "I'm glad you made an appearance, though. I wonder whether you've given more thought to our conversation, while we were eating together."

He wanted to smack himself in the face. He felt McChang's eyes on his back, boring deeper into him with every moment he stood before her. He cocked his head, temporizing. "I'm not sure I'd say we were eating together," he muttered, "so much as we were eating at... at the same time."

She just stared for a long, awkward few seconds before she nodded. "Did I always make you so nervous?"

"Yes," he snapped without hesitation. It was a relief just to answer the question, no thought required.

"Why?"

He considered, Lina standing in patient tranquility. She was staring into his fucking soul, he realized. No way he should have come down here. "You're an extraordinary woman, Lina," he managed at last, the words heavy.

She nodded with a bleak smile. "Often," she said quietly. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes, yes." He swallowed. "But me? Nervous? Always."

She shrugged as if she'd already guessed the answer. "I know," she replied. "I'm not sure how, but I know."

"Why ask, then?"

The clone's mouth quirked slightly, that same old wicked grin quickly suppressed. "Because I find I like to make you nervous, Kai."

He whirled, cursing himself, looking pointedly away from McChang's grinning salute as he left the Main Bay. And then Oliviero stalked the corridors in a foul mood, thinking of nothing but whiskey. But when he at last reached his quarters he just sat staring at the bottle, brooding.

* * *

"Okay. So, I guess that's done." Novak sat back in Oliviero's desk chair, exhausted. She tossed her tabslate on the bunk beside his lolling body and glanced critically at the whiskey on the table. "Wait. What the fuck. A full bottle, Kai?" She sat up straight. "Jesus Buddha. Are you actually sober?"

Oliviero stared at his curving wall, its viewport packed with stars. He frowned while he did a little diagnostic sweep of his body, and was startled when he discovered that yes, he probably was. "I think... yes?"

"Well, fuck," Novak hissed in disgust. "Unbelievable. You get me up here on my off period to square away your repair evaluation reports, and the entire time you're lying there sober?" She threw up her hands in disgust. "Why am I doing your work for you if you're not incapacitated?"

He blinked sourly at her. "Because you value and respect me?" Not that she should, lying there in his underwear.

"Fuck you." She shot to her feet, her pupils dilated by her own stim. "I've got shit to do, Kai. Real shit: clones to maintain." She darted a suspicious glance at him then. "Although, from what I hear, you might be maintaining one of the clones in your own way..." She sighed. "Do I need to remind you that clones in shipment aren't supposed to experience any strong emotions, Mr Oliviero?"

He rolled his eyes. "Calm down, Ellie, and think about your source. Fucking McChang? He's the second or third least reliable man aboard, including the clones. What did he seem to think I was up to?"

Novak crossed her arms beneath her slim breasts, frowning down at him. "Who is she, Kai?"

"Who?"

"You know fucking who. The clone."

Oliviero turned to face the wall. "Her name is Lina Brightstar."

"No shit," Novak sneered. "I read the form. That's not what I meant. Who is she, Kai?"