The Pieces of My Self

1 - Voices

HENRI J. KNIGHTLY'S JOURNAL

Aboard the Lily May, in the Pacific waters off Baja, 11 March 2140

Entry #1:

As a new father, I wonder if it's wrong to envy my child—an infant whose mind is devoid of memories that could hobble who she is and who she'll be. She doesn't know her mother tried to kill her, or that she lives in a world that's turned ugly, or that her grandfather might be homicidal. She's unaware I'm risking everything, even her love, for her survival. She is innocent and free—for a moment.

Why should I, Henri Julian Knightly, be afraid for my daughter's future? Sure, there will be risks, but there are always solutions. People have called me a visionary entrepreneur, a technical badass. I'm known for controlling events, not letting them control me. Yet, here I am, on a boat heading for a new country, aiming to start an innovative enterprise, now unsure of myself and my role as a father.

Four days ago, I was ignorant of my daughter's existence and had never considered a baby a business risk.

The only reason I called my ex-girlfriend on the morning of our departure from Marina Del Rey was to let her know I'd be out of her life permanently. Wasn't that what she wanted? The call was a random act of politeness, nothing more.

Well, maybe there were other reasons. Curiosity? Reluctance to sever my last tie with New California? Compassion? A lingering love for Perri?

I made the connection from my cleaned-out flat in Pasadena. After a burst of static, she surprised me by answering.

"Hello?"

I wanted to soften her anger with me and emphasize our shared roots, so I returned Perri's greeting with the Cajun-toned "Bonjour" of a Gulf Coast native.

My face should have appeared on her screen, but she remained silent for nearly five seconds and didn't open her video feed. Thoughts ricocheted through my head. Maybe the network was acting flaky again—a continuing problem, along with the intermittent brownouts that had plagued New California for the last ten months. Maybe she couldn't see or hear me or couldn't read my network ID. I was about to hang up when she spoke.

"Are you one of the voices?"

The words came like a gut punch. We had a conversation like this many months ago that ended our relationship. It was like her brain was operating in some other dimension, and she was trying to communicate in an exotic click language. She had refused to get psychiatric help, said we were finished, and threw me out of her apartment.

I had intended for the session to be vidmail only—just one more item on my departure checklist, one last attempt to connect, let her know where I was going, wish her well, give her my love, and urge her to get help.

Voices?

I tried to pull our conversation back to Planet Earth. "It's me, Henri. Of course, you hear voices—one is mine, and one is yours. Listen, I just called to tell you Zeke and I are about to—"

"No! There are four voices. Papa is furious. My lover's voice is calm, since he doesn't know Papa will kill him if he finds my secret. And there are two other voices. Can you hear them?"

I wasn't going to let her little riff on reality delay my departure. There was too much at stake. She could be very manipulative.

"Nobody is trying to kill you. Didn't you say your Papa is dead? You know ghosts aren't real, right?"

"I lied. Papa isn't dead and never was. He's in charge of the Army."

Yeah, right.

My business partner and I had two cars packed with basic supplies and tech gear for a trip to the dock. Zeke had told me not to be late. Now, Perri was lobbying for a detour through Crazy City.