I remember throwing away a child.
That's the only memory I know for certain is mine. The rest is a gory blackness. All I have, then, are the things I've been told are true:
My name is Zan.
I once commanded a great army.
My mission was to destroy a world that does not exist.
I'm told my army was scattered, or eaten, or blown apart into a thousand twinkling bits of debris, and I went missing.
I don't know why I'd ever want to lead an army — especially a losing one — but I'm told I spent my life pushing hard to get to the rank and skill I attained. And when I came back, spit out by the world or wrenched free of my own will, I came back wrong.
What wrong means I don't know yet, only that it's also resulted in my lack of memory.
The first face I see when I wake each period in my sickbed is full-lipped and luminous, like looking into the face of some life-giving sun. The woman says her name is Jayd, and it is she who has told me all I know to be true. When I ask, now, why there is a dead body on the floor behind her, she only smiles and says, "There are many bodies on the world," and I realize the words for world and ship are nearly identical. I don't know which she used.
I drift.
When I wake next, the body is gone, and Jayd is bustling around me. She helps me sit up for the first time. I marvel at the dark bruises on the insides of my arms and legs. A broad scar cuts my belly in two, low near my groin, and there is something strange about my left hand; it's clearly smaller than the right. When I try to make a fist, it closes only halfway, like a tortured claw. When I slide to the floor, I discover that the bottoms of my feet are mostly numb. Jayd does not give me time to examine them as she pulls a porous, draping robe over my shoulders. It's the same cut and heft as hers, only dark green to her blue.
"It's time for your first debriefing," Jayd says as I try to make sense of my injuries. She takes my hand and leads me from the room, down a dark, pulsing corridor. I squint. I see that our entwined hands are the same tawny color, but her skin is much softer than mine.
"You were gone for a half-dozen turns," she says, and she sits me down beside her in a room off the corridor. I stare at my palms, trying to open and close my hands. If I work at it, I can get the left to close a bit more. The room, like the corridors, is a warm, glistening space with walls that throb like a beating heart. Jayd smooths the dark hair from my brow with comforting fingers, the movement as reverent and well practiced as a prayer.
"We thought you dead," says, "recycled."
"Recycled into what?" I say, but the wall blooms open, the door unfurling like a flower, and an older woman beckons us inside, and Jayd ignores my question.
