Chapter 14: Commander Eden is Dead

329 sees a starry sky.

For a moment, not remembering what had happened, he thinks he’s outdoors. Very quickly, he realizes his mistake. The stars abovehead twinkle in a deep blue night sky, like the sky view from the past eras seen in documentaries. The man-made night sky of the Protected Area is dull and unchanging, far less captivating than this dazzling stretch of…ceiling.

Without thinking, 329 feels the bedsheets. Like the covers, they’re as soft as clouds. He remembers what had happened before he lost consciousness, the flash of light, Yasha, the madman. He cringes. He props up his upper body, surveying the unfamiliar room.

“Good day, sir. Would you like a drink of water?”

The young man’s voice seems to come from every direction; 329 doesn’t see a speaker. His voice is very even, strangely familiar and unfamiliar at once. Instinctively, 329 shivers, looking around wildly. The room gradually brightens with gentle lamplight, illuminating a comfortable and spacious room. There’s a lot of stuff here that 329 doesn’t recognize, but certainly not enough to hide a person.

“Who are you?” 329 asks the empty room. “Where are you?”

“I’m Lady Yasha’s virtual butler,” the voice replies inflectionlessly. “If you wish, I can appear in my simulated physical form.”

The sense of wrongness grows more intense, sticking in 329’s craw, even as he has no idea of what’s bothering him in the first place. He takes the glass of water that appears on the bedside table and takes a few sips. “I didn’t know virtual butlers actually existed,” he mutters to himself.

“Ever since the AI rebellion that caused the Disaster, all assistive systems are created without hyperintelligence and reformatted periodically. Please rest easy.” The virtual butler says, “E-029 is at your service.”

E-029, 329, they sound like they’re from the same assembly line. This bit of light self-mockery doesn’t land quite as easily as it usually does. It prods at 329’s spine. Unease spreads through him.

“Come out!” 329 yells. “Let me see you!”

The virtual butler accedes to his request.

A projection solidifies inside the room, life-sized, feet on the ground. It has blue eyes, golden hair, a handsome face, an aviation jacket with a fur collar. Its clothes, practical but insufficiently aesthetic, don’t meet the regulations of the Protected Area Air Force, but its face wears a perfect service industry smile, like a best-selling model in a crystal display case.

329 jumps up.

He doesn’t realize he’s leapt from the bed until after the fact. And when he stands, he finds that he’s slightly shorter than E-029. 329 pauses, then slowly straightens his habitually stooped spine. Now they’re the same height.

If you’ve listened to your voice on a recording, you’ll find that your voice doesn’t sound like it usually does.

It sounds familiar and unfamiliar at once.

The virtual butler stands before 329, equipped with his voice and his face—if it were a perfect imitation, 329 could consider this some prankish guest-receiving custom. But he’s well aware that his own voice is raspier, his hair greyer, his face no longer youthful. A time-distorting mirror seems to lie between them. The two faces are so similar, aside from the years that separates them.

“Who are you?” 329 asks shakily.

“I’m Lady Yasha’s virtual butler, E-029, at your service,” answers the virtual butler.

“Your…your original,” 329 swallows with difficulty. “What are you modeled on?”

“Recording No. 207, from seven years and six months ago,” the butler answers flawlessly.

He doesn’t remember anything from seven years ago. The surgery cut out over a decade from his head. That thing looks at him, as if waiting for further questions. 329’s not sure if he actually wants to ask and hear the answer. He drops to sit on the bed once more, then abruptly stands back up, sets down the glass he’d accidentally spilled, and strides toward the door.

The door silently opens for him.

Outside the bedroom is a corridor, leading toward an even larger living room, and past that is another long hallway with doors on either side. It looks like an old fairytale: a huge house, countless doors, a fearful bride of Bluebeard. Which door will stain his key with blood? 329 turns. The virtual butler follows behind him, taking lifelike strides with nonexistent feet.

“You can open any of the doors,” it says. “Lady Yasha hopes you can feel at home here.”

Truly, in the next couple hours, 329 opens every single door—every room is open to him—but there isn’t a way out.

Some rooms look ordinary, too ordinary, as if a commoner’s simple room had been stuffed into this luxurious mansion. Some rooms look like a museum gallery, high-tech display cases filled with perplexing exhibits. Who knew that scraps of cloth, buttons, cigarette butts, and bullet casings had any display value. Most of the rooms make 329 feel a terrifying intimacy. Others are plastered with notices, photos, and newspaper clippings, all featuring the same man.

Pilot. Wanted Criminal. Savior. Subversive Element. Commander. Head Honcho of the Rebel Army. Light of Hope. ‘Saint Omega’ of the Lower Classes. Guiding Star. Demon Whore. Deceiving Figurehead…Eden Mitchell.

That’s 329’s name.

No one is born with a number for a name. His name is Eden. It means ‘light and happiness’, his father had told him, ‘the Garden of Eden from the Old Testament.’

He suddenly laughs, laughs until he can’t breathe. He doesn’t know if he’s laughing at his own name or the man in the newspaper clippings, a man who no longer exists. Who is that? Who is that? A complete and utter stranger, the subject of obsession and infatuation of the owner of this mansion, the man who’d rented 329’s body in the years he’s lost—no, he’s the owner of this house, he’s the soul that owns this name, this identity, this body.

Eden is laughing, shaking, crying. His head hurts. Spots of light and darkness dance on his retinas. Warm blood drips from his nose onto the floorboards. It’s always like this when he tries to recall things. The surgery doesn’t “hide” memories. It incinerates what shouldn’t exist and scatters the ashes, leaving only a black hole with pain inside and nothing else. 329 looks at these faraway stories and remembers not a single scrap.

He spends a long time in the room with the computer.

The computer is filled with countless clips, projecting them onto the big screen. In the dusty gray true sky outside of the Protectorate, the pilot Eden laughs out loud and flips a middle finger at the camera in the surveillance moon, before the shot is swallowed in a glorious explosion. Commander Eden, decorated with medals, makes a rousing speech in front of the camera, his blue eyes shining, and it’s as if light and everyone’s gazes are all sucked toward him.

Light and shadow flicker across the faces of his audience. There are three similar countenances in this room, but on closer look, none of them are at all the same. The virtual butler maintains an impeccable smile, deferent, mannerly, perfectly designed down to the angle of the corners of his mouth. 329 has grey hairs and wrinkles; exhaustion weighs down his slightly bent spine. He hears his voice cry out in the name of human rights and love. The words burst forth from a heart full of vitality, laden with passion and fire. They fall into his ears without raising a single splash.

329 feels nothing.

He doesn’t feel happy, roused, hopeful, or angry. The surgery used to reform criminals is a complete success. His cooled blood can no longer resonate with light and heat. 329 feels a wave of grief, not really like self-pity, more like “sympathy.”

He sympathizes with that man. See, even a figure of legend like him wasn’t spared in the end.

Commander Eden is well and truly dead.