Archive of Our Own

"Grant?"

It was Ralli, looking as exhausted as Del Grant felt.

"I brought you the latest casualty reports. And some coffee."

She put the cup and the stack of papers on the desk and frowned down at him.

"You should get some sleep. This will all wait until the morning now."

He smiled tiredly. "And the coffee's supposed to help me sleep, is it?"

"I said you ought to get some sleep, I didn't say I thought you would. I was making some for Cauder anyway."

"Thanks for bringing it over."

She shook her head, serious but smiling at the same time. "No, thank you. After all you've done for Albian, I don't begrudge you a few minutes' walk."

"I'm getting paid. That's plenty of thanks."

"And that's why you helped us?"

"Why else?"

Ralli shook her head again and left, still smiling.

Del sat back, leafing through the papers without reading them. She was right, of course, it wasn't the money. It wasn't for the cause either, or even for the satisfaction of seeing some like Ralli smile again because they were free. There was only one reason and this mission more than any other had made him remember it.

It was for Anna.

He'd liked Avon as soon as Anna had introduced them, in a way that he'd never liked her husband. There was a sort of kinship, a fellow-feeling, as if he'd known Avon for a long time. Grant had hoped that his sister might finally have found someone with whom she could be happy.

It hadn't taken long for Avon to confide his plan for the bank fraud. Anna had encouraged him to, Del knew, because she was excited and in love and because she and Del had always shared everything. And Del had been excited too, at first, by the chimera of the impossible riches and of hitting the Federation where it would really hurt. Anna had known he would like the idea.

However, he'd quickly come to see the dangers. For all Avon's contingency plans and fast exits, he was driven, obsessed by the prize. He would go down in flames and he would take the others down with him. He would take Anna with him.

Del thought about the last time he had seen Anna. Avon wouldn't—perhaps couldn't—see sense and Del had hoped that somehow he would be able to reach Anna, persuade her to get out whilst she could.

He had tried his best and she had refuted him with a single argument, simple and unanswerable.

'Del, I love him'.

Del had wanted to say, but I love you, I've always loved you and looked out for you. But he couldn't, because he was her brother, not her father or her lover and he didn't have the right to use that kind of argument against her. So he'd hugged her and told her, hopelessly, to be careful. The last thing he had ever said to her.

He was sorry, desperately sorry, that she hadn't listened. And he was terribly relieved that they hadn't fought. That he would never have been able to forgive himself.

It had been a shock, seeing Avon again on Albian. Grant had heard that Avon was dead and in a way he'd wanted to believe it. It was wrong, so very wrong, that Avon could be alive and free when he had run and left Anna to die, alone and afraid.

At the same time he'd wanted to see Avon again, to look him in the eye and ask him why he'd left her. To hear Avon say it: because I was afraid, because I didn't care enough, because I never loved her.

He hadn't said any of those things, of course. Revenge of any kind is never as good as you think it will be, he'd learned that over the years. They run or don't run, they cry or don't cry, they beg for their lives or they die silent. However it is, it's never quite the way you imagined.

Avon had answered his questions, straightforward and calm. That he could talk about Anna's death that way should have outraged Del. Instead, despite himself, Grant found himself believing Avon. Worse, found himself, somehow, still liking the man, pitying him. Their mutual loss created a bond between them.

Awful as the thought was, as the timer on the Solium bomb counted down to zero, he had wanted Avon to run, again. Even though it would have killed him, and maybe a lot of other people, he had wanted to know that he had been right. That it had been Avon's fault and Avon's alone that Anna was dead.

The certainties out of which he'd built his life since Anna's death felt suddenly shaky. He felt out of place, insubstantial, as though if he looked in the mirror he would see a stranger staring back. The more he thought about events, the worse the feeling of disconnection became.

Suddenly, Grant felt very tired. Ralli was right, he thought, he needed to sleep. But at the same time he didn't want to. There seemed to be a danger in the idea, as if it were directed at him from outside or somewhere deep within. He tried to fight it, thought about the coffee cooling on the table in front of him.

Ralli had told him to sleep, told him he ought to sleep. He could hear her voice, like a distant echo of another voice from the past. Still fighting the feeling, Grant got up and started to pace the room. Then, without meaning to, he found himself laying down on the camp bed in the corner of his room. Just five minutes, that was all. A short nap, then he would feel better and he would get to the bottom of this unsettling insecurity.

In the dream there was only the darkness and the Voice.

The darkness was total, or else it was a light so bright it burned out any hint of what might lay beyond. In either case it smothered him, held him tight.

Once, it had terrified him. When they'd first brought him to the room he'd struggled, fought and cursed them and, finally, screamed and pleaded. But that was all before, when he'd known who he was and why he was there and what they were going to do with him.

He had promised himself, when he'd been taken to the reeducation centre that he wouldn't beg, that he wouldn't give them the satisfaction, even though he'd known he might not be able to stop them taking whatever information they wanted from him. How ignorant and arrogant he'd been.

There had been a motto over the frightening normal reception desk at the reeducation centre. Handcuffed and frightened, he'd read the words over and over, trying to occupy his mind while his arrest and admittance were processed by the cheerful receptionist.

'We are no more than the sum of the things we remember'.

He'd been able to endure the humiliation of the examinations, of being treated like a thing. Even the pain had been something he could contain, control. It wasn't real pain, just something their machines were feeding into his nervous system. What he hadn't been able to bear was the knowledge of what they were doing to him.

He'd been awake and aware for every single second.

They stripped everything from him, every memory, every face. He lay in the darkness and saw the pieces of his life being locked away from him. It was like watching a jigsaw puzzle taken apart, the picture disappearing into fragments until the meaning was lost.

In the end, even after his own name had gone, there was still a core he held on to with all his strength until that too was wrenched away: his parents, his children, his wife. He went down into oblivion at last, calling out her name.

And then, final cruelty, they had taken even the memory of what they had done. The terror had been washed away with it, so the dream of the darkness held only a vague unease, a queasiness easily banished by the Voice.

"Who are you?"

Silly question. The Voice knew perfectly well who he was. But the darkness now had the cotton wool haziness of tranquillisers, so instead of saying so he just smiled.

"Who are you?"

"Del Grant."

"Yes, of course you are. That's good."

And he was pleased that he had pleased her. The Voice was all that mattered. There were other voices, sometimes, but they were distant and their words made no sense. Sometimes the Voice spoke to them, but then he didn't listen. It was only important when she spoke to him.

"Tell me about your family, Del."

"My parents are dead. I have two aunts, my mother's sisters. And my sister, of course—"

"We'll talk about her later. Tell me about your friends. No, tell me about Kerr Avon."

He groped for the knowledge, came up blank.

"I don't know him."

"Yes you do, Del. It's just a little difficult because you haven't met him yet. Think carefully."

He felt a twinge of annoyance. How could he remember someone he hadn't met?

Did you see that?

Yes. Increase the IV flow five percent.

"Try, Del, my dear. Kerr Avon."

Obediently, he concentrated on the name. If the Voice said he should remember, then he would. Something took hazy shape in his mind. A face and a feeling, nothing more than that yet, but enough for him to give the Voice the answer she wanted.

"He's a friend," Del said.

"Yes. Anything else?"

"He knows my sister. No, he's..." The not-memories were growing stronger now. "She's having an affair with him. She loves him very much."

"Good, good. And how do you feel about Avon?"

"He...I'm going to help him. I'm going to like him."

"That's right. That's what's going to happen. You won't remember it, Del, not like this. But you'll know what you're supposed to do, won't you?"

"Yes."

"Very good, my dear. Very good. Something easier. I want you to tell me about the Federation."

He hesitated. It wasn't something he should talk about, it was dangerous. But he knew that here, if the Voice asked him to, it must be safe.

"It's corrupt, rotten. Most people won't see it because it's good enough for them, they aren't the ones who suffer. It's the people on the outer planets who are oppressed, enslaved. But even here on Earth the rich and influential can flaunt the law, abuse their power. They need..."

"Need what, Del?"

"They need to be taught a lesson."

"Of course, you're quite right. Now, tell me Del, who am I?"

This was easy. He hadn't known a second before, but the question unlocked the answer, filling him with peace and happiness. "Anna. You're Anna."

"Tell me about myself. Tell me about Anna."

"You're my sister. I--"

Sudden confusion——love split down the middle, half stolen by a stranger. He tried again, wanting desperately to please the Voice.

"You...she's my sis...my wife...my..."

"Try, Del."

"My..." The memories fractured and splintered, and he cringed away in blind anticipation. "I don't know. I love you, please don't--"

Shock him.

Sudden bright pain bleached the darkness. Long, long seconds passed with his body arching against restraints he couldn't feel. Then the blackness returned, and the pain was gone and the doubt gone with it.

"Tell me, Del. Who am I?"

"Anna. Anna Grant." The certainly was an unutterable relief. "You're my sister. You're four years younger than I am. You're married."

"Are you?"

"No. No, I've never been married."

"That's right, Del, that's very, very good. Wait for me a moment, Del."

The Voice moved away. She was talking to the others now, so Del ignored it. His body ached and he couldn't remember why.

Show me the trace from that.

Yes, ma'am.

Hmm. Seiden, what do you think?

The blocks are holding, but there's a strong residual association of the name Anna with his wife. It's bleeding through from the subconscious. Do you want me to run a pattern search for a different emotional anchor, ma'am?

No...no I don't think so. I only chose him because of her name. I want to use the strength of his commitment to her. Besides, everything else is bedding in nicely. I think he's going to be very sound. Keep working at it, I've got some other things to attend to.

"Del."

There was a contact in the darkness, a smooth hand cupping his cheek, sisterly, not sensual.

"Del, I have to go now, but I'll be back later."

The idea of the empty darkness terrified him. An aching sense of loss he couldn't name or find a reason for spiralled up.

"Don't leave me alone!"

"Shh, my dear. I'll never leave you, I promise. I'll be here with you, forever. Sleep, now."

Del nodded, wondering if his sister could see him in the darkness. She would come back, if she said so. He loved Anna and he knew she loved him. Everything would be all right.

And then he was rising out of sleep, the dream fading away beyond memory, back to the depths of his mind where it always waited. Before he could open his eyes it was gone, leaving only a warm touch and a renewed certainty.

Everything was clearer now. Del was glad that he'd seen Avon again. He had wasted too much time and emotion in blame and resentment against a man who had been as badly hurt as he had himself. Del had never really hated Avon, only blamed him for Del's own failure to protect his sister. It was the Federation who killed her. Avon's fault had been loving Anna, and Del couldn't condemn him for that.

He knew what was important. He would keep going, keep fighting in her name. Anything else would be a terrible betrayal of her memory.

It was what Anna would have wanted.