SECOND DRAFT: Hard Bank Left

20

"Don't lose me." Those were the words he left her with, the gynoid he was only vaguely aware that he created. "Don't lose me." Because it didn't matter how much he had lost, how different he was now, that person with those memories contained in Celeste's memory was the definitive Graham. Whatever he was now was something else, something lacking, still definitely a person, but certainly something else. He wasn't Graham. Referring to himself as such didn't seem right. Still, what else was he to call himself? There was nothing else for it; "Graham" would have to do.

Leaving the WindSong felt empty, void. He should have felt something akin to longing. He should have felt as though he didn't want to leave. He felt nothing. This ship meant nothing to him. That wouldn't last for long. At least, he hoped it didn't. He'd find a way to get himself back into his head, use Celeste as a back up, should he ever require the use of his abilities. Celeste would need to be wiped every so often, her memory cleared to make room for the new data. He didn't know how he felt about his memories eventually entirely inhabiting the body of a female he had created. Maybe he would need to make an additional housing unit for his memories, give Celeste her brain back.

He would deal with that later. There were other more pressing matters at hand. He couldn't wait around for Celeste to charge, nor could he wait for the remaining people who lived here to wake up and find him. He'd done something bad, something twinged with regret and malice. There was only one thing for him to do really, one person he knew shared his values: Raide. He'd only met her once. With whatever he'd come to learn of her and her reputation gone, Graham was left with that initial impression. Raide wanted freedom, freedom from the Caste, freedom from the Eastern City States, freedom from Constantine, freedom to live the last ten years of her exceptionally short life in peace.

This resonated with Graham, felt right. Finding her became his next point of focus. He knew she was captured, contained somewhere. The name Gleilien came up. He remembered the flyer he'd come in on, remembered he'd come from a prison. Gleilien, a name with no face, came attached to the flyer. If it was still there he would be able to access the locational data in that flyer he'd stolen. His best guess as to where the Caste had stored the flyer was in the hold of one of the larger airships further up the canyon. He was not looking forward to the walk. The nearest one was a mile up and they were each at least that far apart.

Things felt as though they should have been familiar. This location, with its caverns and canyon and arid forest should held an echo of a memory. Some things clung to him, details he'd never really thought about: the locations of the other docks.

Dry gravel coated the ground in a layer of crumbled brown pebbles. Short, prickly brush spotted the cliffside in varying shades of dark green. Occasionally a large alpine tree sprung forth, standing as a reminder that a thick, lush forest lay only a few miles to the north.

In the distance the docks jutted from the cliff face, reaching for the airships with sharp, angular fingers. The first never reached its destination; whatever mammoth creature had docked at the pilon now lay crumpled at the base of the canyon. The envelope lay open, flayed by weapon fire like the crumpled wings of a dragon, fluttered in the swollen river below.

Graham stopped for a moment, looked over the side of the cliff. His stomach dropped out from under him and he dropped to his knees. The water far below him lapped against the corpse of the airship. Little waves rippled and pooled on the rocky shore. The quiet rushing or the water spoke to him in a voice low and light and feminine "I love you." The words echoed an image of someone hitting the water, someone with copper hair. A splash roared in his head. Who was she? Why was this scene playing in his head?

Standing and stepping back, Graham shoved his hands in his pockets. The water vanished behind the edge of the cliff. Whatever memory surfaced, lingered. He couldn't make out her face or body type, but her hair stood out. Her voice chattered to him. He couldn't make out half of what she said, but some things stood out to him, familiar things, painful things, clinging to him, ringing in his ears.