It was her own mother.
And that brings thoughts that are confusing at best, but she has decided that they must wait. Now is the time for action, not reflection. Now, she feels her scars like lines of fire across her skin. Her mother said they would be her most precious possessions—and perhaps they are. But either way, she’s about to gain one more. Because she is Sarya the Daughter, and she faces pain without fear.
She takes a deep breath and leans forward to pick up the Memory Vault. Its holos change to white as it examines its new situation. “Hello, new user,” it says. “Please identify yourself.”
She brings the device to her temple. The holographic sphere engulfs her head, flashes as it measures her, then changes to blue. “Identity established,” it says for the hundredth time. “Hello, Sarya the Daughter. What would you like to do?”
She opens her mouth as she has a hundred times before…but this time will be different. This time she knows what must be done. “Device,” she says quietly. “I would like to unlock you.”
“Very good,” says the Memory Vault. “Where will you be transferring the memories contained herein? Before answering this question, please refer to my user’s manual.”
But Sarya has practically memorized the user’s manual. It is a spectacularly dry read, but obsession can make anything fly by. In particular, she has spent a lot of time on the segment titled [Section 105—Advanced Capabilities]. The first ninety percent is a lengthy piece of legalese that boils down to a simple message: the user agrees that the manufacturer is absolved of all liability if said user is stupid enough to try what follows. The last ten percent is what she’s about to do.
“To me,” she says. “I want…I want the memories.”
“To clarify,” says the Memory Vault. “You would like to attempt a cross-species memory transfer?”
Sarya takes a deep breath. “Yes,” she says.
“Mandatory warning number six hundred: this device is legally obligated to inform you that even same-species memory transfer carries a substantial probability of error, the likelihood of which is dramatically exacerbated by cross-species transfer. Among the possible outcomes are permanent personality alteration, confusion, temporary difficulty forming new associations—”
“I understand,” says Sarya, ignoring the small voice in the back of her mind that says wait, actually maybe she doesn’t. It says that maybe this isn’t such a hot idea, that maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal to let Roche help her. Or Eleven, at least. Maybe it was a dream. Or maybe, says that part of her mind, grasping desperately, maybe it’s just useless recollections and she’s risking her own sanity for memories of a vacation—
Yeah. Because that’s the kind of stuff that Widow mothers hide in encrypted Memory Vaults, locked with the blood of their daughters.
“Furthermore,” continues the device, “the memories in question have been stored with the highest security available on this device. They will be erased after this procedure, whether it is successful or not.”
So. She has one all-or-nothing shot and a decent chance of coming out brain damaged. This is stupid.
“Your response to the following questions will be recorded and notarized,” says the device. “Do you absolve AivvTech of all responsibility in the following operation? Please state your consent as a complete sentence.”
“I—” says Sarya, and stops. The swirl of symbols fades through several configurations as the machine awaits the rest of her sentence. “I absolve AivvTech of all responsibility,” she says.
“Consent duly recorded and notarized as per Network requirements,” says the Memory Vault, the glyphs in its holographic sphere shifting into a new configuration. “Do I have your permission to access your mind? Please state your consent as—”
“Yes,” says Sarya.
“Please state your consent as—”
“You have permission to access my mind.”
“Please assume the original mindset used for the lock procedure.”
And it’s go time. Sarya runs her fingers over the two objects lying in her lap. One is a medical device, the kind with a sub-legal intelligence that is capable of basic cross-species first aid. The other, though—it’s cold and heavy when she picks it up. Roche let her borrow it when she pounded on his hatch and requested something that would, quote, hurt a lot. She should not have been at all surprised when he detached one of his own fingers and handed it to her.
It’s an industrial grinder, he told her cheerfully. I’m told it’s excruciating.
She thanked him, refused his too-eager offer to act as operator, and returned to her room where she began doing dry runs. This is all well rehearsed now—except for the important part, because she only gets one shot at that. It goes like this. Legs folded, check. Medical device here, in easy reach, check. Vault held to her temple, elbow on folded knee, check and check. She feels the manufacturer’s logo digging into her skin and resists the impulse to move it; she won’t care about minor discomforts in a few seconds. Her room is invisible; she could be outside the universe itself, for all she can see on the other side of those swirling glyphs. She finds herself trying to focus on the holos as they orbit through her line of sight, anything to take her mind off the free hand that is bringing up Roche’s finger. It makes real light, unsimulated light, a flickering danger-color that merges with her Network unit’s own automated imagination. HOPE THIS HURTS, say the orange letters that follow it like a cloud of insects. Very funny, Roche.
And then there are no more steps.
She hears the sound of her own pain before she feels it, that strangled heave of a convulsing diaphragm. And then it comes, waves of it rolling down every nerve in her arm. A section of her skin has sunk under Roche’s disembodied caress, a wet rectangle ground half a millimeter below the level of the surrounding area. Her breathing quickens as she watches the blood begin to well up and drip down her arm, and she can feel the sweat begin to prickle her body.
“Please assume the mindset used for the lock procedure,” says the tinny voice against her temple.
Can you face pain without fear?
And suddenly her resolution wavers. She is in pain, and she is not afraid…is she? Anger begins to burn at the foundation of her mind. Pain without fear, says the anger, that is what you told me, Mother, you said it a thousand times and you said you never lied but here when it counts—
But then some other part of her mind speaks up, and Sarya is shocked to hear it speak in her mother’s voice. You say you are not afraid of this little tickle, says Shenya the Widow. How brave of you! How proud I am. A little dribble of blood and you are not cowering in fear!