'Now winter is my memory,
now autumn, now summer light,
Now every spring from now will be,
another season into night.'

-Michael Williams 'Mourning Song'

I feel my body fall limp. It is no longer under my mind's control. For that matter, my mind is no longer under control. I, to all appearances, am unconscious. However, my mind, no longer taxed with regulating the movements of my body, is awake, and reacting spontaneously to all stimuli.

I cannot control my thoughts; my CVI, affected by the neural amplifier, is attempting to restore balance and control, but it is slow and laborious. I feel myself slipping further away from sanity the longer I am left to my thoughts.

Memories are now flying in random patterns through my psyche, those moments of my life to which there is the greatest emotional attachment.

When I was child and my dog was hit by a truck. A cold sense of shock followed by a raging flood of loss and confusion as I realized that he was not coming back. My first brush with death; a passing and relationship on which I have greatly expanded since.

The time I received the letter saying I was accepted into the FBI. I now had an elated certainty of what I was going to do with my life. I would make the world a better place.

The day I met DeeDee. Oh, DeeDee.

The day I proposed. I was so nervous, I almost missed it when she said, "Yes," already I could hear her regretful, "No, Ron, I'm sorry."

When my CVI broke down. A cluttered, chaotic mess that I still cannot sort out. An overwhelming sense of loss; of rage; of confusion; of vengeance; of depression; of paranoia; of pain; of guilt and regret and remorse.

If I still had control over my body, I would scream.

The day that I learned I had a son. So certain was I that I would die, regrets flooded my mind and rage flooded my actions. Then, when I woke up for the last time, (every morning, now, when I awake, I remember,) and Dr. Curzon told me. It was a good thing I was in the bed; if I had been standing, I would have fallen. My entire body had gone numb with shock. I have a son . . .

Where are you, boy?

Do you know who I am?

How old are you?

Do you know what I have done?

Who looks after you?

Can you comprehend what I have done?

Who is your mother?

Can you realize that everything I do now, I do for you?

What is your name?

Can you forgive me for all that I have done?

Do you love me?

Can you love me?

When I was on that table and Richard Palmer told me to look at him, it was not myself I saw, it was you. I am so scared, boy, of what you could so easily become because of me.

I will find you, son, and I will protect you.

A wave of agony washes through me.

Somewhere in my mind, I scream.

Distantly, I think I can hear voices.

Mr. Palmer. Ms. Palmer. Major Kincaid, even. It is the effects of the neural amplifier.

Someone is holding me with gentle arms and talking softly. They are murmuring. I cannot make out the words, but I feel that I must try to. I strain to hear them. They are important, I know they are!

Pay attention!

"Pay attention, Ronald!" The ruler slaps down on the desk, and I am carried away in the memories of the first grade.

Still, I can feel the strong arms that carry me, and strap me gently to a seat. A hand is pressed against my cheek, and run down it, and for a moment I think I hear someone I know.

Major Kincaid?

No. That is impossible.

A sudden feeling of weightlessness, and I am gone again, carried off into the dreams of the life I would have with my son and DeeDee, were she alive and were he with me.

A soft bump shakes me from my dreams, and I open my eyes. My body is responding to my commands again. My CVI must have reached some measure of success in restoring control. I can't see; it's too blurry. I try to move, but I only twitch. Perhaps I am not as repaired as I thought.

I will be fine, I know, but I wish I could see who is carrying me. Carrying me, and stroking my hair, and murmuring softly.

Somehow, I feel safe, and loved, and I lean into the gentle touch.

My carrier freezes as he feels my movements, but then continues on, speaking louder. I can almost make out the words through the roaring in my ears and the pounding in my skull.

The arms shift for a moment, and so do I. A moan escapes my lips at the jostle, and I hear a whispered sound that is an apology. The words are still unclear, but the tone is certain.

"It is alright," I wish to say. "It is fine, thank you. Thank you. Who are you? Why do you carry me? Do you care for me? Why do you care for me? No one can care for me; I am a monster. Who are you?" but all I can do is groan.

We are moving again, this time in a downward direction. We must be going down a flight of stairs.

I turn my head, and press it against my savior's chest. Distantly, my mind categorizes the smells. Leather, Downy, Old Spice, sweat, something rich and airy and cool to which I can't put a name . . .

I groan as a sudden wave of agony washes over me. I realize that it is my nervous system awakening, but must it do so so painfully?

My carrier stops, and holds me closer, we drop slightly, and I guess he had dropped down to one knee. A shaking hand is brushed over my forehead, and pulled away hesitantly.
"It's okay, don't worry, everything's gonna be alright . . ." I can hear his words!

The voice is deep, smooth, and soft, oh so soft. It almost seems to have an accent. Sweet and lilting, like an Irish voice, and with an unearthly quality that reminds me of a . . . matter-based Taelon, almost. It is very faint, like it's normally suppressed, and only with his worry and the slight lowering of his guard is it emerging. Lowering of his guard as he allows himself to care. To care for me.

I strive to hear more.

"It's alright, it's all gonna be alright, don't worry. I'm here, I'll keep you safe, you'll be alright. It's going to be okay; you'll be fine. I'm right here, don't worry. You'll be alright." He slips into another language, unknowingly, I realize, as he keeps up his steady train of reassurance. "Bidh sibhse ceart gu leòr, Athair. Cha bhi sibhse nas bochda. Bhithinn faisg air làimh. Gum bi ceart gu leòr. 'S mise seo. 'S mise faisg air làimh, 's mise leibh. Seadh, sibhse tha leam. Gum bi taghta, gum bi ceart gu leòr."

He places me down, ever so gently. Still, when my head is leaned against the wall, my nerves scream in response. I gasp, and he is immediately by my side, running a hand through my hair and gripping my hand as it clenches sporadically. ". . . ciùin. . . gum bi ceart gu leòr . . . it'll be alright . . . "

He leaves, and there is the strangest sound, a whirling, metallic clicking, grinding sound. (Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I recognize it as a computerized lock-picking device, one that would disable almost any security device. However, that is not important, and I push it away.)

Through the wall, I can hear something rising from below. Another sound, softer, more melodious than the strange sound to my side. I can make out words, I think. I focus on it.

. . . 'Cause I'm an ordinary man/ They tell me nothing/ So I find out all I can/ There's a fire that's been burning/ Right outside my door/ I can't see but I feel it/ And it helps to keep me warm./ So I, I don't mind/ No I, I don't mind./ Seems so long I've been waiting/ Still don't know what for/ There's no point escaping/ I don't worry any more./ I can't call out to find you/ I don't like to go outside/ They can turn off my feelings/ Like they're turning off the lights./ But I, I don't mind/ No I, I don't mind/ Oh I, I don't mind/ No I, I don't mind/ So take, take me home/ Cause I don't remember/ Take, take me home, / Cause I don't remember/ Take, take me home./ 'Cause I've been a prisoner all my life/ And I can see you . . . /"

I recognize it. I strain to hear more.

". . . Mine's an ordinary life/ Living when it's daylight/ Sleeping when it's night./ I've got no far horizons/ I won't wish upon a star . . ./"

How I wish that were true.

" . . . They don't think that I listen/ Oh, but I know who they are./ And I, I don't mind/ No I, I don't mind/ Oh, I, I don't mind/ So take, take me home/ 'Cause I don't remember/ Take, take me home,/ 'Cause I don't remember/ Please take me home . . ."

My savoir picks me up again, and whispers softly, "Let's take you home, now . . ." his voice is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

I am suddenly very tired, and relax instantly when I feel myself placed in a bed. My bed, I realize. He had brought me to my home. I scarcely ever come here, but right now, my apartment feels like the safest most wonderful place I could come.

"You go to sleep, alright?" the man whispers. "You've been put through hell. That's what I'd choose to do . . ."

"Choose your poison . . ." Da'an's voice comes to haunt me. If he were here, I would laugh at him. There is no poison, I would tell him. Not right now. Right now, I am safe, and choices are simple, and none are evil. Don't you wish that you Taelons could realize that? That, at times, not everything is pressuring you, and sometimes, you can go home, and be safe, and sleep?

I have chosen my poison, and I drink it everyday. Raising the vial to my lips, I throw my head back and drown it. I do it for my salvation. I do it for humanity's salvation. I do it for Earth's salvation. I do for my son.

The song from the floor below has changed, and again the words float up to meet my scattered thoughts.

". . . You belong among the wildflowers/ You belong in a boat out at sea/ Sail away, kill off the hours/ You belong somewhere you feel free./ Run away . . . go away . . . Somewhere all bright and new/ I have seen no other, who compares with you./ You belong among the wildflowers/ You belong in a boat out at sea/ You belong with your love on your own,/ You belong somewhere you feel free./ Run away, go find a lover/ Run away, let your heart be your guide/ You deserve the deepest of cover/ You belong in that home by mine./ You belong among the wildflowers/ You belong somewhere close to me/ Far away from you troubles and worries/ You belong somewhere you feel free/ You belong somewhere you feel free."

There is a softness pulled over me, and I realize that the man has removed most of my clothes and is pulling a blanket across my still form.

"Don't go," I try to say. "Stay here, keep me safe, I trust you." But all I do is groan.

"Goodnight," my savoir whispers. For a moment, I think it is Major Kincaid, but then he kisses me softly on the cheek, and I know that the Major would never do that. "Be safe, Dad. I love you."

He gets up and leaves, even as I mentally scream for him to stay.

Dad?

"Son!" I cry, but all he hears is another moan.

The pillow on which my head is resting suddenly feels miles deep, and I drift away, the feathers plugging my mind and the blanket muffling my senses. There is a sound from outside that could be a shuttle, but all I can hear is the music from below.

I got rice cooking in the microwave/ Got a three-day beard I don't plan to shave/ And it's a goofy thing, but I just gotta say/ Hey, I'm a'doin' alright./ Yeah, I think I'll make me some homemade soup/ Feeling pretty good, and that's the truth/ It's neither drink nor drug induced/ No, I'm just doin' alright./ And it's a great day to be alive/ I know the sun's still shining when I close my eyes/ There's some hard times in the neighborhood/ But why can't everyday be just this good? (oh yeah)/ It's been fifteen years since I left home/ Said good luck to every seed I'd sown/ Gave it my best, and then I left it alone/ I hope they're doing alright./ Now, I look in the mirror, and what do I see?/ Lone wolf there, staring back at me/ Long in the tooth, but harmless as can be/ Lord, I guess he's doing alright./ And it's a great day to be alive/ I know the sun's still shining when I close my eyes/ There's some hard times in the neighborhood/ But why can't everyday be just this good? (oh yeah)/ Sometimes it's lonely/ Sometimes it's only me, and the shadows that fill this room/ Sometimes I'm fallin', desperately callin'/ Howlin' at the moon, (Ah-hhooo) (Ah-hhooo) (Oh yeah)/ Well, I might go get me a new tattoo/ Or take my old Harley for a three-day cruise/ Might even grow me a foomanchoo/ Oh yeah!/ And it's a great day to be alive/ I know the sun's still shining when I close my eyes/ There's some hard times in the neighborhood/ But why can't everyday be just this good? (oh yeah)/ And it's a great day to be alive/ I know the sun's still shining when I close my eyes/ There's some hard times in the neighborhood/ But why can't everyday be just this good? (ah-hhooo) (oh, yeah, yeah)/

Strange, that a sound so loud is lost to murmurs so silent.

"Goodnight, Son . . ." I say, triumphing over my numb and generally unresponsive body. I shut my eyes, and I am lost to blackness.

Liam stood on the apartment building's roof, staring across the broad expanse of Washington. The soft wind ruffled his hair, and he twisted his head slightly, closing his eyes and letting it caress his face.

Looking up, he smiled at the twinkling star that shone down at him. "Goodnight, Mother," he whispered to it. "Goodnight, Father."

He stopped and looked down at the hard concrete roof, imagining that he could see through the floors to where Sandoval lay sleeping. "Goodnight, Father."

Sighing, not quite sadly, he climbed into his shuttle, and powered up.

"Love you . . ."

Back to AKimera
Back to the SFA