Page 13

Chapter Thirteen

A ries

“The Memory Reconciliation process occurs in three distinct phases,” the Committee member explains, their crystalline form throwing bands of color across our meditation corner.

“Today, Phase One: joint observation. In two days, Phase Two: experiencing the memory through Callie’s perspective.

Finally, in four days, Phase Three: experiencing it through Aries’ perspective. ”

Callie sits across from me on the meditation cushions, close enough that I can sense her tension. Spark hovers between us, its usual bright colors muted to an anxious green.

“Given the emotional intensity of these sessions,” they continue, “physical contact in the form of hand-holding and non-sexual touch will be permitted during the memory field’s activation and up to fifteen standard minutes after, if both parties consent.

This exception applies only during Memory Reconciliation. ”

My gaze meets Callie’s. She nods slightly, and I feel an odd mix of relief and terror.

“Today’s memory: your first meeting. ”

The shimmerling darts to my shoulder, radiating soothing beams of lavender light. Then it leaps to Callie, providing her with its calming presence.

“The field activates in thirty standard seconds. Remember, you cannot change events, only observe and understand.”

Callie’s hand finds mine as reality blurs. Her fingers are cold, but her grip is sure. Everything dissolves into memory.

The ship’s jail corridor materializes around us—harsh metal floors, flickering red emergency lights, the oppressive line of cells. Past-Callie and the other Earth women are being marched down the hallway at gunpoint by Urlut guards, their tusked mouths twisted in cruel amusement.

Each cell holds a different species of male.

A lion-like male, complete with mane, tail, and claws—Zar.

A silver male whose skin shines even in the dim light—Steele.

Others whose features blur in the red lighting.

Past-me stands motionless in my cell, watching the procession with carefully contained rage.

Callie’s grip tightens as we observe Past-her stumbling past each cell, trying not to stare at the alien creatures within. I can feel the terror rolling off her in waves. The metal collar around her neck gleams dully, a constant reminder of their power over her.

My free hand darts to my neck. I wore a matching pain/kill collar. We all did. I can feel the cool metal against my skin even now.

“This one,” a guard grunts, grabbing Past-Callie’s arm. “In with dracker from Dauphus Prime.”

They shove her roughly into my cell. She uses the bars to catch herself from falling, then turns to face Past-me.

The terror on her face is heartbreaking, and for a moment, her knees almost buckle.

Then her determination wins out. She stands straight and lifts her chin, although she’s visibly trembling .

The other women are distributed similarly, their terrified protests ignored. When all ten cells are occupied with one male and one female, the corridor falls silent except for ragged breathing, quiet sobbing, and the metallic clicking of the Urluts striding toward the exit.

A few standard minutes later, the loudspeaker crackles: “You have one hoara to breed with your cellmate. If you do not complete the act, we will execute both occupants of the cell.”

Past-Callie’s face drains of color. Present-Callie’s hand spasms in mine, and Spark immediately wraps us both in soothing light.

“My name is Callie,” Past-Callie says, voice shaking as she dredges up the courage to look me in the eye. “I… I don’t want to die.”

Past-me’s expression flickers—the first crack in my careful mask. “Aries,” Past-me responds quietly. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

Past-Callie stands against the bars, arms wrapped around herself. Past-me keeps careful distance, trying to look less threatening despite my size. I would sit on the bed to appear smaller, but I worry that would make things worse.

“Maybe they’ll change their minds,” Past-Callie sighs, though her voice holds no real hope.

The sickening sound of a pain collar’s activation echoes from another cell, followed by a plaintiff scream.

“One hoara means one hoara ,” a guard shouts. “Next one dies.”

Past-me takes a hesitant step forward. “We can’t …” The words seem to stick in my throat. “We can’t wait much longer. ”

Present-Callie’s hand tightens in mine as we watch Past-Callie nod, tears sliding silently down her face. “Just… please be gentle?”

“Of course,” Past-me promises softly. “Close your eyes. Try to… try to pretend you’re somewhere else. With someone else.”

Present-Callie turns her face toward me, almost pressing her cheek onto my chest, then remembers the boundaries. Spark wraps us both in soothing light as the memory mercifully fades to darkness.

When it resumes, Past-Callie lies curled on the narrow cot. Past-me sits on the floor across the cell, as far away as possible, self-loathing evident in every rigid line of my body.

“I’m sorry,” Past-me whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

Past-Callie doesn’t respond. The silence stretches, heavy with things neither can say. And in that silence, we watch the walls begin to build—my withdrawal starting even then, born of guilt and shame and a desperate need to protect her from further harm.

The memory ends, returning us to our cottage. Neither of us speaks for long moments. Spark darts anxiously between us, its color a deep, sorrowful blue. The Committee member has disappeared.

“You tried,” Callie finally says, her voice rough. “To make it… bearable. I’d forgotten that part.”

“I failed, though.” The words scrape out. “Afterward, I couldn’t… I didn’t know how to…”

“So you withdrew. Built those walls.” She turns to face me, eyes bright with understanding and something else. “Thinking you were protecting me.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, echoing Past-me’s words. “For everything. ”

“Don’t.” Her hand squeezes mine. “Don’t for a minute forget that you were as much a victim as I was. We survived. That’s what matters.”

Spark suddenly nuzzles between our joined hands, its light shifting to a gentle gold. The shimmerling seems to understand that sometimes comfort doesn’t need words.

“Two days,” Callie murmurs. “Until we experience it from my perspective.”

The thought makes pressure build behind my ribs. “We don’t have to—”

“Yes,” she cuts in firmly. “We do. To heal this. To understand.”

As if agreeing, Spark performs a determined loop around our still-clasped hands, trailing sparks of encouragement.

Maybe Callie’s right. Maybe understanding each other’s experience of that terrible day is the only way forward. The Manual says I won’t just watch her face the memory, I’ll feel it as though it’s happening to me…

That might just break me completely.