“So, you
woke up on the ship while it was on the docks. Before that, you remember
nothing. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Harata was seated in the Inquisitor’s office, where he was
being questioned by a pair of men- one burly and sour-looking, the other small
and wiry, reminiscent of a weasel.
“Why were you impersonating a dockworker?” queried the larger man.
“I thought perhaps that was my job. Maybe I fell asleep
while I was working or got hit on the head or something. I seriously can’t
remember anything.”
“You’ve obviously been through some trauma,” the sour faced man
said as he tapped some file photos that were taken of Harata’s scars. “Care
to tell us about that?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t remember.”
“Our forensics people tell us it’s a miracle that you survived at
all. Perhaps whatever caused these,” he poked the pictures again, “are to
blame for your recent lack of recollection.” There was a slight tinge of
sarcasm in his voice.
Harata knew he had to act now. This was the opening he’d been waiting
for.
“Please help me,” he said softly, eyes gazing pleadingly at the
large, sour man. “Honestly, all I really want to know is who I am.” Despite
his act, his voice sounded shockingly earnest, almost as though he really cared
to know who he was. Perhaps he did.
The weaselly man seemed to be holding back a snicker, but the big man’s
face softened a little.
“In the eyes of the law, your only crime thus far has been working
outside your Clan, and wandering about without any ID. In light of the present
circumstances, I find that to be fairly forgivable.
“However, you’re right. We need to find out who you are. Here’s
what we’ll do. I’m going to have you released for now. We’ve got a new ID
with your current information made up. The desk clerk will show you how to use
it. We’ve got you some accommodations at a hotel, too.” The man’s eyes
turned steely with warning. “Do not leave this city. We are not in a
position to trust you, and you will be watched. Should you leave, our next
meeting won’t be nearly as pleasant.”
“Yes, sir.”
The big man pressed a button on the intercom.
“We’re done here,” he stated flatly. A moment
later, a uniformed officer stalked in a collected Harata.
The wiry man turned to his partner.
“You sure we should be letting him out?”
“Positive. We got the results of the DNA analysis. He’s Diasminian,
no doubt about it. Not a trace of anything that could link him to the Otherlands.
Little bastard’s one of ours, wherever he’s from.”
“All the more reason to keep him under wraps.”
“Can’t. You know the media’s gonna get wind of this. We’ve
got an unidentifiable citizen on our hands, one who claims to be suffering from
amnesia. They’re gonna start talking-“
“About the Legend.”
“The crazies would’ve got the guy sprung eventually. Then, we’d
have lost him. This way, whatever he’s up to, he’ll show us.”
“He’ll screw up, we’ll take him in.”
“Those scars he’s got… He’s not a civilian.”
“What did forensics say, exactly?”
“Guy should be dead. He’s got internal scarring, too. Made with a
weapon.”
“Damn. This guy is bad news.” The man shook his head. “What about
the Night’s Herald?”
“As far was we can tell, he’s not connected. Trackers took a look at
the path the screwball left on the way there. Nothing deliberate. Sounds like
the guy heard the cops were coming, spooked, and ran off toward the beach. He
was hiding under the boardwalks for a while, then took to the woods. Guy with
the stripe said that the freak passed out in front of the temple. He couldn’t
leave him lying there- against his religion or something.”
“What’ll we do if he leaves the city?”
“Ah, I’m hoping he will. I’m lining up a bit of a secret weapon in
case of just such a scenario.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“He’s been out of the HeadHunter circuit for a while, but the guy
never fails at anything. Ever. He’s a god-damned legend.”
The wiry man was snickering openly now.
“You’re getting the Commander.”
Harata blinked against the bright morning sun that washed the towers all
around him. He felt dazed- dazzled, actually- by the commotion on the streets
and sidewalks. He’d never seen so many people in one place, and he wondered
how they could bear to live all packed together. Apartments were stacked like
cans upon a shelf. Boxy offices in towers were crates awaiting a cargo ship. His
head spun, ears filled with the “clack clack” of shoes as people pushed by.
In the streets, cars honked and sputtered, idled and revved. He felt as though
he was an animal, frightened by this human place, yet afloat on wonderment.
Suddenly, he was tapped on the shoulder. He turned and was blinded by a
flash of light. He tensed, ready to spring upon his attacker, when a youngish
man with glasses smiled and shook his hand.
“Takahashi Jun, Daily Gazette. Just a few questions-“
The officer in charge of escorting Harata to his hotel shoved the man
aside.
“No comment,” he huffed angrily. To his charge, he muttered,
“Don’t go talking to the god-forsaken media.”
As the two hailed a cab, a few others made attempts at contact. All were
parried by the gruff policeman.
As the taxi jerked its way along the streets, Harata’s face was pressed
against the window. To passers-by, he appeared as an oversized child. He stared,
trying to take in every miniscule detail. The city astounded him, shimmering in
the sun, full of good-looking people and office buildings. Soon, the offices and
suits began to be replaced by bistros, gift shops, hotels and tourists. There
was less hurry, but still everything shone clean and unmarred. To Harata,
Mianuus appeared to be a city untouched by the withering finger of time.
At the hotel, the pair were accosted by yet more media types, this time
with TV cameras. As the guard guided him through the crush, lovely women
clutching microphones screeched questions.
“Is it true you can’t remember anything about your past?”
“Sir- sir? Tell us about your accident! They say you should be dead!”
“Are you the Clanless One?”
“No comment!” roared the officer, his face red with fury.
“No incoming calls without permission of the Metro Police,” he
informed the clerk at the hotel’s front desk.
Once inside his hotel room, Harata sat dazedly in an armchair. He felt he
was still in prison, with his guard watching him intently. Would the man remain
there, by the door, monitoring his every move? His mind began to race, searching
for some small vestige of privacy.
“Can I take a shower?” he finally asked, his voice sheepish.
“Sure,” answered the cop distractedly.
Harata walked into the bathroom and his heart dropped. To him, the little
box of a shower was a technical marvel. He’d spent twenty-five years bathing
by dumping buckets of water over his head. How the hell does this thing work?
He tried in vain to coax water from the glistening showerhead, managing
only to cause a stream of icewater to emerge from the tap. Finally, the
policeman opened the door.
“What are you doing in here?” he demanded.
“I don’t know how this works.”
Harata’s face was red with shame. He couldn’t even look at the other
man.
“Um… you really are messed up. Here,” the cop turned on the
shower with a deft hand. “You know what to do in here?”
Harata turned the color of a nicely boiled lobster.
“I get the idea.”
“Ok. I’m gonna phone headquarters and get a Media Gag. That should
make life more pleasant.”
A few minutes later, Harata emerged from the shower, which he’d left
running. He felt better now that he was clean. The cop rose from the armchair
where he’d been lounging and stalked to the bathroom to turn off the running
water. When he returned, Harata asked,
“Do I have to stay in here?”
“Nope. You’re a free man. Actually, if you’re settled, I can get
out of here.”
“I’ll be fine thanks.”
“All right, then. Media Gag is in place, so if anybody snoops or starts
asking you questions, you call us. They’ll lose their license before they can
even blink.”
“Ok.”
“Where you thinking of going?”
“That temple, where I passed out,” he answered candidly. Someone
would probably tail him anyway. “I want to thank the man who helped me… and
apologize for getting him arrested.”
“Fair enough. Don’t get into any trouble.”
“I won’t.”
“’Kay then. See you around.”
With that, the cop left.
Harata picked up a new tourist’s map and slowly made his way back to
the Parks. He had little money- only what the police had given him for food. He
couldn’t take a taxi, and the Underground was a mystery to him, so he walked.
The Tourist District, to the north of the Business District and west of
the Government, wasn’t far from the outskirts of the city, where the Parks
lay. Between them stood only the tree-lined streets of Residential District 1.
As he wandered through the rows of brownstones, looking grubby and roguish, he
was eyed by some of the district’s inhabitants. He kept walking, ignoring the
stares.
At the gate that marked both an entrance to and exit from Mianuus, he
swiped his new ID as instructed. He remembered the computer in the police
station. If they wanted to find him they’d know exactly where he was. A
shudder ran down his spine. This would have been my life.
Harata found the temple with little trouble. He felt urged on, as he had
the day before. At the bottom of the stairs he felt a tingle, and wondered
suddenly if he must feel the burning pain again. Blue had said it would get
better in time, but how much? As he trudged up the stairs, the pins and needles
feeling intensified into a burning, but it wasn’t as unbearable as it had been
the night before. At the entrance to the temple, the Night’s Herald stood
waiting.
“Hello again,” he said, infinitely calm and unmussed.
“I came to say thank you.”
“Why don’t you come in, then?”
Once inside the temple, Blue and Harata seated themselves in the same
room as the previous night. Warm and glowing in the sunlight, it gave an
entirely different impression. For a moment, Harata watched motes of dust as
they drifted through a honey-colored patch of sunshine. The Night’s Herald
didn’t seem to be waiting for him to speak. In fact, he didn’t seem to be
awaiting anything at all, as though this moment was the only one that had ever
existed; there was no before or after. Harata spoke anyway,
“I’m sorry I got you arrested.”
“The fault isn’t entirely yours. I chose to be
involved.” Blue picked up a pen and paper, and with the same calm precision
with which he did everything else, printed:
Can you read?
He passed the paper to Harata, who was
speaking.
“I can’t help but feel responsible. It must have been terrible for
you.” He wrote back,
A little.
“It was an experience, as is everything else in this life.”
Safe to talk?
“I wish I held your views.” No. Maybe followed.
“It’s easy enough to see things in my way.”
Leaving the city?
“I don’t think so. It’s easier to panic. Weren’t you
scared?” Yes.
“No. I was innocent, so I went without fear. I trust the
law.” Plan?
“I can’t remember the law. I was confused.” None. Help?
“It must be difficult for someone in your position.”
I can help. Meet tonight- at 8, Industrial Sector. Near IND-4
Underground Station. Walk. Don’t take train. Careful- dangerous.
“I’ll get by as best as I can.” OK.
“Best of luck to you.”
“Thanks, I’d better be going.”
Blue walked Harata to the temple stairs.
“Take care,” he said, as casually as if he’d never see the face of his visitor again. He watched the Clanless for a moment, then returned to the room and silently burned the little sheet of paper.
