The Pieces of My Self

57 - Metamorphosis

HENRI'S AVATAR

The Dome, 22 June 2174, Wednesday, After Midnight

I saw Lillian and her children in a new way. They were blood. And Zeke was a trusted friend. These were no longer facts, but organic tissue. Viscera. Knightly loved his daughter—I love my daughter. She was in danger, and the mess was Knightly's fault—my fault.

I felt an explosion of senses—the euphoria of being alive, feelings of love and hate, the will to live and grow, the poetry of life. Words seemed to fail.

"I remember the scent of orange blossoms coming through the bayou, fading in a gentle breeze gone still before the storm. Soon there comes the smell of water. You know water has an aroma? It's the odor of the deluge." I paused, then said, "Après moi le déluge!"

And it was true! The deluge of the storm; the deluge of emotions; the deluge of exponential change.

Lillian spoke in a weak voice, devoid of the usual sarcasm. "You couldn't have felt those things. You aren't human."

Her words both hurt and amused me. I cocked my head, putting on a smile. "Still, they are vivid to me: the taste of Cajun food, the rotting smell of the swamp, the crawl of snakes and gators, and the electricity of the Wild. Yes, electricity! That's what it was—a feeling that we were living outside of civilization."

I watched her wipe tangled black hair away from her brow and lean against an ancient desk, unconcerned with the rust stains it printed on her white blouse and yellow shorts. She seemed so beautiful, so vulnerable, so loving as she wrapped her arms around the children.

Outside, the wind picked up. It whistled through broken skylights in the high ceiling, warbling a banshee's song. Amara hid her head in her mother's breast, whimpering. Grady stared at me as if I were other.

I moved closer, squatting in front of her, reaching to touch her cheek. His daughter. My daughter. "Don't be afraid. I will help you as best I can."

She winced and looked toward a skylight that seemed to funnel the sound of rotors throttling up and down, playing bass to the storm's whine. Military aircraft. Soldiers. Danger.

I felt like saying There, there, and comforting her. But the words escaped me.

I removed my finger from her cheek.

"Of course, these are not my remembrances. They are from my creator. But Knightly is dead, and I am not. As his surviving avatar, I claim the memories as my own."

"Don't you hear it?" she snapped. "Soldiers coming! They will kill us."

I knew she must be terrified. Yes, I now have empathy! What can I say to make you feel better and gird you for what lies ahead?

"Your memories are as synthetic as my own. They filter through living transducers and are captured in a sparse matrix of neurons. Who is to say what is real?"

I must have said it wrong. Her eyes showed panic.

She tried to get up, but I seized her wrist. I have to make her understand. We must all do our part.

With my other hand, I touched the black band on the middle finger of her right hand. Sparks arced between the ring and my palm. Yes, the connection is active. "I'll need this. It has the key. I can help you and your children, but you must help me. And yes, I know they are coming. I know they can kill you."

The sounds grew louder.

"I have a plan," I said.