The Living Memory of the Lancer Tegan Gardner

"How are you feeling?"

The question was a formality yet it held in my mind. I stared up at Captain Newton, my commanding officer, and tried to find the answer in her face. What did she want to hear? What would put her mind at ease? I find nothing. Her weathered face is a mask of stoicism. The barest hint of 'something' rings the outside of her eyes. Concern? Suspicion? I couldn't tell.

"I've been better," I answer honestly. I am happy to be up and about after a few days of rest. I've stopped scratching at my new skin, though it still doesn't feel quite right to me. I still don't have the answers I want. I doubt anyone on the Light of Dawn has them. I don't want to just say that I'm fine; I'm not and I know lying to her won't ease her suspicions.

"That's the first step, I suppose." She sighs and rubs her temples idly. She's sitting across from me behind her desk. She's a military woman; her office is spartan and only lightly furnished. One metal desk, two chairs fetched from storage, and a handful of plastic plants. The only sign of comfort was a high-backed leather chair currently occupied by the elder stateswoman. I don't know how many ships the Molten Shell Free Company employs but she has to be a veteran.

"Miss Gardner, I'm sure you are already aware of why I called you in here today," she begins, her eyes never leaving me. I can't meet her gaze. I'm looking at the artificial window behind her. Any time our eyes meet, I quickly look away. Her piercing eyes bore into me, as if looking to peel away all the layers of artificiality and reveal whatever is underneath. "Recent events have cast doubt on you and your copilot's fitness for duty. As captain, the safety and security of this vessel and its occupants is my top priority. I need to know if I can trust you. That means no more secrets."

I can't argue with her. She's right. I nod weakly. Captain Newton continues: "you were distraught when you returned from your last sortie. How much of it do you remember?"

"Not much, if I'm being honest. I remember going out in Lonely Rolling Star with the others. We were fighting off a pirate raid. I remember there being some kind of creature and... I remember being lit on fire. Everything after that is a bit of a blur."

"So you don't remember how the rest of the fight went?"

I shake my head. Captain Newton frowns and my heart sinks. I never did question what had happened; we won and that was all I really knew. The Captain raises her hand, motioning to a hologram screen between the two of us. The ghostly green image sharpens, beginning playback. I am watching the battle from one of the ship's hull cameras. I see my Everest. I see the fire. I see the mech slump over for a moment, ejecting part of its armor to lessen the damage from the attack. The light's within the metal frame dim as the machine turns to secondary power sources.

Then it turns back on, brighter than ever. The bipel warmachine stands tall, heavy machine gun slung under its arms as it opens fire upon the enemy. The audio from our team's comms pipes in. It is not my voice I hear, but Lazarus. "Stay away from her! Get back!" I've never heard it so emotional. I didn't even think it cared about me all that much. It fights with tooth and claw to protect me. My squadmates were never on its mind. Lazarus was just thinking about me...

The screen dims. Captain Newton's eyes are on me once more. For the first time since the interview began, I'm able to meet her eyes. She's reading me. She sighs. "Your squadmates guided your Everest back into the dock and ejected you. They stayed by your side while the medical team reconstructed your body. You were a babbling mess. You begged them to hide you from the crew. They did the best they could but word spreads."

Captain Newton rubs the bridge of her nose. "Your NHP cascaded. We're lucky that it prioritized protecting you over, say, firing on your squadmates or the Light of Dawn. Repairing its Casket was no easy feat either. I need you to tell me what you know about Lazarus. What its function is, when the last time it was cycled, who made it, everything."

I look up at the Captain dumbfounded. I had expected to be the subject of the interrogation, not my copilot. "Umm... sure, I guess. As far as it has explained to me, Lazarus's function is my development and stability. It's been my copilot for as long as I've been a Lancer. The last time it was cycled was just before we interviewed with the free company; I couldn't tell you who did it, sorry. I don't know who manufactured it. Figure its probably the same people who... made me."

Silence slips into the gap in the conversation. Captain Newton's eyes soften as she rises to her feet, walking around the desk to lean against the edge. She places a hand on my shoulder and speaks with kindness that seems at odds with the hardness of her demeanor. "Tegan... you don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not mad at you; I'm worried about you. What happened earlier, what you are, doesn't matter to me. I know who you are and that hasn't changed. You're a good kid who cares for others and is still figuring herself out. I want you to be able to trust me."

I can feel tears well up in the corner of my eye. I sniffle, and Captain Newton comforts me. Damn my weakness; after days not being able to let out my emotions, they finally all come at once. "Thank you. I...-" I try to reassure her of my commitment to the mission. That I'll keep an eye on Lazarus. That I'll let her know if I remember anything else. All that comes out are those same words again and again:

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you-"

The captain slowly rises to her feet, patting my shoulder as she silently leaves the room. I'll leave after I pull myself together.

I'm laying down in my dorm room. It's been a week since we warded off the pirate attack that burned up Lonely Rolling Star. The damage has already been repaired (or they might have just printed another one) but I can't imagine sitting inside it right now. I don't see the metal, the piping, the paint; I just see the fire. I don't know what it will take for me to be willing to climb back inside her. Maybe just some time apart.

Last couple of days have been a blur. I don't remember most of it, though I think it's more from shock than any insidious interference. I know someone brought a crash cart to drag me to the medbay. I know they reapplied a fresh layer of synthetic skin to my body. I know Lulucia and Katherine visited my room at some point to check in and leave gifts; if Izzy came by, I don't remember it. Maybe she just isn't a gift-giving person.

The new skin is stiff. I've been told it'll soften within the next few days. I desperately want to scratch at it. To pull and tear and rip away at it until I can see what's under it. I must have tried at some point; the area surrounding my left wrist and forearm has been reapplied... and I've been cuffed to my bed.

"It is for your own protection."

Lazarus's voice always cuts through the fog. I can see the NHP's Casket sitting on my desk; a black box of nightmarish, complicated code given sentience. The augmented reality suite baked into my eyes projects its avatar within the room: a humanoid figure composed of multicolored static bundled inside a military officer's dress uniform. Its silhouette is androgynous and conceptual. It is an impression of a type of person. A type of person who feels familiar to me yet isn't anyone I know.

"Did ye know?"

It's the only question that's been on my mind as I stare at the glassy black surface of the Casket. Lazarus has been with me ever since I entered Lancer training. It was there on Fortification-2 when I ran all those sorties. When I had to fight and die for those fucking governors and their stupid squabble-

"Lancer, I was cycled shortly before we left the Fortification-2 Penal Colony. My memory of events during-" "Did. Ye. Know?" "Yes. I assumed you did as well."

I scoff. I'd throw something at it if I could. "What? Ye assumed I had fuckin' dataplating and just didn't wanna turn it on? Ye assumed I kept my fuckin' optics stripped to the basics fer fun? If ye knew, ye didn't tell me on purpose, ye fuckin' liar-"

"Heel." I flinch. It's not Lazarus's voice I hear yet I can't place who it was. The word turns the blood in my veins to ice and I am rendered silent. Who said that to me? What am I not remembering?

"I did not spend the past five days managing your care and maintaining your privacy- as you requested of me- for you to hurl accusations. Nobody on this ship is more dedicated to your well-being and care than I am. Nobody on this ship knows what you have been through like I have. To be cycled is to know that a version of you has died yet to never know it. While the process is clean for Non-Human Persons like myself, the human mind attempts to fill in the holes with falsehood and fantasy. To grasp for something that it is missing."

Lazarus approaches me, standing over my bed. I stare up at its face, trying to find anything for my eyes to hold onto but seeing only that every-shifting static. It places a hand on my bound forearm, finger tracing towards the cuff. "I am not without sympathy. This is an impulse I know all too well. But there is nothing to be gained by digging into your past. You should consider this the opportunity to make a fresh start."

I grit my teeth. Bunch of bollocks. Easy for it to say when it doesn't have to live with this humiliation. Lazarus points further up my arm towards my shoulder. I can't see the skin underneath the medical gauze but I know it is where the identification tattoo I was given back home lies. "While applying your new skin, I took the liberty of foregoing your barcode. If you are still hung up on it, you can re-ink it once you are up and about. For now, rest. Reflect on my words. We will speak again later."

The avatar flickers out of my field of vision, disappearing back into the Casket. Damnit. I hate when people make decisions for me like this. Just shows how little things have changed.

Then again, nobody used to leave me tea and chocolates.

Shit, maybe Laz is right. It's not like I'm ever going back home. It's not like anyone or anything is waiting for me there. I have squadmates and work here. I have a soft bed and my own dorm. What good would digging into things do for me? Reopen old wounds? Reveal more chrome? Fuck, maybe ignorance is bliss.

"Heel"

I roll the word around in my head. What does Lazarus know? It was cycled but it still has a foundation of memories and directives. They were likely set by whoever turned me into whatever I am now...

I feel something awful build in my stomach, threatening to spray itself across my bound form. I focus every ounce of my will to stop that awful from boiling over and onto my chest. I can't think about this for too long without tying myself into knots. I can't do this. Not right now.

I stare at the artificial window embedded against the wall next to my bed. It displays the stars and planets in their infinite dance. It's hard to believe I made it this far. I stared at the same stars from Fortification-2 my whole childhood; now I can dance with them.

The worst part was that it didn't hurt.

When I was pulled from my charred and blackened cockpit, hardsuit seared to my skin, I felt nothing. It was more than just the life support systems trying to dull the sensation with drugs: it was as if the signals were being blocked from reaching my brain. It felt like I was in a dream.

I've endured my fair share of pain. I can trace the history of it across my body. Five holes from less-than-lethal rounds fired unsafely. Two shivings (both in the gut). More broken bones than I can count. I'm not ashamed of it. Life's been hard and it's human to hurt. It's one of the few things everybody does.

I'd heard the same guff every trainee does about pain leaving the body. Bunch of shite. Pain is a warning. "Stop doing what you're doing." When a red light flashes in the cockpit, I don't think it's weakness leaving my Everest. It means the gun's jammed or the left leg's hydraulics have lost pressure or the cockpit is an unsafe temperature. Problems to be solved. Same goes for your body.

So why didn't it hurt?

Had I run out of weakness?

Or is whatever's looking back at me in the mirror no longer human?

I thought I knew my life. I knew I had a few replacement parts slotted in over the course of the war but I'd damn well know if I was this fucking chromed up. Scans say there's not much in the way of original bits left in me. Some of my brain's still original recipe; the rest is who-knows-what. None of it is off the shelf and all of it has the branding and serial numbers filed off. Mil-spec for sure but whose military? Who does something like this to someone!?