Memory One
[Taken from Wedge's Gamble, pages 108-110. Sound only.]
Rogue felt something hard under the linens on his bunk, and all at once the world seemed to dissolve, and his senses with it.
After a moment of not-quite-panic, he realized what this meant. Memory crystal. Maybe he'd find some answers.
All he had was his hearing, and even that seemed... off, somehow. Like his ears were covered - no, not that. Everything seemed clear, and if anything, his ears were sharper than before. But something was different about the sound.
With only the one sense, he had to concentrate fully on it, putting together a vague and uncertain mental image. He could hear engines thrumming and soft, idle conversation between people. The way those sounds bounced off of his surroundings and came back to him let him know that he was in an enclosed space, with a bulkhead or a wall on his left side.
Someone was working his way down - Rogue could hear his footsteps and his repeated requests for identification, followed by assurances that everything was in order. He was soon less than a meter away.
"I need to see your identification," the man said, his tone servile yet officious, accented precisely. A little like Fred's accent, but... not quite. His was louder and clearer than any of the other voices. Rogue had to be standing or sitting alone.
There was a whirr of servomotors forward and right of Rogue, extremely close. Part of him or on him. Something raising up? No, extending.
"Here you are, sir." His voice - what had happened to it? It was his, and it had that quality to it that he never heard in recordings, but it had a... metallic buzz, strong enough that he could barely understand it, and it came in a croak. It almost covered the whirring as whatever had extended came back down.
There was a shh-click and a faint, high beep from ahead of him, and the man said, "Colonel Antar Roat..."
Extending again, and this time not coming back down. Whatever this was, he was using it like an arm. Exactly like an arm - he could hear a joint that corresponded to an elbow, and that whine had to be a wrist and fingers. "Ro-at."
"What?"
"My name is pronounced Ro-at." There was emphasis on those two syllables, breaking the unfamiliar name in two.
"Pardon, sir. Colonel Ro-at. You are bound for Imperial Center for reconstr..." The man's voice faded out, uncertain, and came back, as officious as before. "Yes, of course. Everything seems in order here, Colonel."
"Are you certain? My baggage is in my sleeping berth."
"Yes, I am certain." There was a barely-audible tap from about where he'd put the end of his mechanical appendage.
"I understand the need for security, sir," Rogue said in a fainter voice. This made the buzz seem louder, even more mechanical.
"I'm certain, sir." There was - was he hearing disgust? Carefully hidden under more servility, yes, but Rogue heard it, he was sure. Disgust, or pity. Or both. Why?
"If you have trouble, I will help." The strain in Rogue's voice intensified so that he almost whispered, the buzz forcing him to focus hard to understand what he was saying. "I will help."
"I will remember that, Colonel."
"I live to serve." A faint whine and click as the end of the appendage closed, then whirring as it came down to his midsection. There was a different click, and the whine as he either tried to make some complicated gesture or fumbled something repeatedly.
He heard the man's soft, measured footsteps as he walked away, but Rogue could still hear him as he muttered, "You're dead and still serving. The Emdee-fours should have let you die." Slightly louder but farther away, the man asked the next person for their identification.
And then Rogue waited as nothing changed; the man worked his way down, people talked softly about relatives and business and the economy, engines thrummed. Dead and still serving. What did that mean? What was wrong with his voice? Why was he picking things up with something so noisy and clumsy?
It was obvious, wasn't it? He'd been injured. He'd been terribly wounded, and he'd lost his arm and his voice in service. Maybe more. They'd given him prosthetics. Lots of them. Enough that this petty official had to hide his disgust at the sight of them, and talked about him like he couldn't hear.
Maybe that was why he was alone.
Dead and still serving. With nothing to do but wait, with all conversations too faint to follow, all he could do was think. Serving what? And the prosthetic was his right hand, the one that ached in the cold. He'd have noticed by now if it was artificial, wouldn't he? You couldn't replace a mechanical arm with a living one.
Finally there were more footsteps, these also measured, but firmer and with a different gait. They stopped where the official had stopped.
A man with that same accent said, "Colonel Roat?"
"Prefect Dodt. It has been, well, years." It was hard to tell past the buzz, but Rogue sounded pleased.
"It was last at the ceremony ending the year of mourning, as I recall, just before you were transferred away," the man said. His voice was familiar, but not from the Sphere. He shouldn't have that accent, Rogue was sure of it. "I would not have known it was you, but the Customs man told me who you were. The galaxy gets smaller as time goes by." Dodt sounded deferential and cautious, but that pity and disgust weren't there.
Rogue heard his mechno-arm move stiffly and pat something that must have been soft off to the right. "Join me, if you do not mind. My body has been broken, but my brain was unaffected. You are coming to Imperial Cen...." The memory faded out in midword.
Rogue's eyes opened, and the room seemed startlingly bright.
His arm was intact - warm flesh, five fingers, dexterous and soft. He flexed it. "Reconstruction" - turning something like that into Biggs' style of mecho-arm, that looked and worked like a real one? Giving him back his voice? But no, he had a pulse, and although he spent a quarter of an hour searching, he found no seam.
Rogue felt something hard under the linens on his bunk, and all at once the world seemed to dissolve, and his senses with it.
After a moment of not-quite-panic, he realized what this meant. Memory crystal. Maybe he'd find some answers.
All he had was his hearing, and even that seemed... off, somehow. Like his ears were covered - no, not that. Everything seemed clear, and if anything, his ears were sharper than before. But something was different about the sound.
With only the one sense, he had to concentrate fully on it, putting together a vague and uncertain mental image. He could hear engines thrumming and soft, idle conversation between people. The way those sounds bounced off of his surroundings and came back to him let him know that he was in an enclosed space, with a bulkhead or a wall on his left side.
Someone was working his way down - Rogue could hear his footsteps and his repeated requests for identification, followed by assurances that everything was in order. He was soon less than a meter away.
"I need to see your identification," the man said, his tone servile yet officious, accented precisely. A little like Fred's accent, but... not quite. His was louder and clearer than any of the other voices. Rogue had to be standing or sitting alone.
There was a whirr of servomotors forward and right of Rogue, extremely close. Part of him or on him. Something raising up? No, extending.
"Here you are, sir." His voice - what had happened to it? It was his, and it had that quality to it that he never heard in recordings, but it had a... metallic buzz, strong enough that he could barely understand it, and it came in a croak. It almost covered the whirring as whatever had extended came back down.
There was a shh-click and a faint, high beep from ahead of him, and the man said, "Colonel Antar Roat..."
Extending again, and this time not coming back down. Whatever this was, he was using it like an arm. Exactly like an arm - he could hear a joint that corresponded to an elbow, and that whine had to be a wrist and fingers. "Ro-at."
"What?"
"My name is pronounced Ro-at." There was emphasis on those two syllables, breaking the unfamiliar name in two.
"Pardon, sir. Colonel Ro-at. You are bound for Imperial Center for reconstr..." The man's voice faded out, uncertain, and came back, as officious as before. "Yes, of course. Everything seems in order here, Colonel."
"Are you certain? My baggage is in my sleeping berth."
"Yes, I am certain." There was a barely-audible tap from about where he'd put the end of his mechanical appendage.
"I understand the need for security, sir," Rogue said in a fainter voice. This made the buzz seem louder, even more mechanical.
"I'm certain, sir." There was - was he hearing disgust? Carefully hidden under more servility, yes, but Rogue heard it, he was sure. Disgust, or pity. Or both. Why?
"If you have trouble, I will help." The strain in Rogue's voice intensified so that he almost whispered, the buzz forcing him to focus hard to understand what he was saying. "I will help."
"I will remember that, Colonel."
"I live to serve." A faint whine and click as the end of the appendage closed, then whirring as it came down to his midsection. There was a different click, and the whine as he either tried to make some complicated gesture or fumbled something repeatedly.
He heard the man's soft, measured footsteps as he walked away, but Rogue could still hear him as he muttered, "You're dead and still serving. The Emdee-fours should have let you die." Slightly louder but farther away, the man asked the next person for their identification.
And then Rogue waited as nothing changed; the man worked his way down, people talked softly about relatives and business and the economy, engines thrummed. Dead and still serving. What did that mean? What was wrong with his voice? Why was he picking things up with something so noisy and clumsy?
It was obvious, wasn't it? He'd been injured. He'd been terribly wounded, and he'd lost his arm and his voice in service. Maybe more. They'd given him prosthetics. Lots of them. Enough that this petty official had to hide his disgust at the sight of them, and talked about him like he couldn't hear.
Maybe that was why he was alone.
Dead and still serving. With nothing to do but wait, with all conversations too faint to follow, all he could do was think. Serving what? And the prosthetic was his right hand, the one that ached in the cold. He'd have noticed by now if it was artificial, wouldn't he? You couldn't replace a mechanical arm with a living one.
Finally there were more footsteps, these also measured, but firmer and with a different gait. They stopped where the official had stopped.
A man with that same accent said, "Colonel Roat?"
"Prefect Dodt. It has been, well, years." It was hard to tell past the buzz, but Rogue sounded pleased.
"It was last at the ceremony ending the year of mourning, as I recall, just before you were transferred away," the man said. His voice was familiar, but not from the Sphere. He shouldn't have that accent, Rogue was sure of it. "I would not have known it was you, but the Customs man told me who you were. The galaxy gets smaller as time goes by." Dodt sounded deferential and cautious, but that pity and disgust weren't there.
Rogue heard his mechno-arm move stiffly and pat something that must have been soft off to the right. "Join me, if you do not mind. My body has been broken, but my brain was unaffected. You are coming to Imperial Cen...." The memory faded out in midword.
Rogue's eyes opened, and the room seemed startlingly bright.
His arm was intact - warm flesh, five fingers, dexterous and soft. He flexed it. "Reconstruction" - turning something like that into Biggs' style of mecho-arm, that looked and worked like a real one? Giving him back his voice? But no, he had a pulse, and although he spent a quarter of an hour searching, he found no seam.