They’re not all pleasant, but they’re all very humdrum. Typical. Then, below that, there is a second category. These are pale impressions of…somewhere else. They are insubstantial memories, so delicate that she can’t even look at them directly for fear of destroying them. But they do not come from Watertower, she is sure of that. They are warmer than that, and louder. There is…well, if not joy, then at least something positive. But the third category of memories?
That’s the nightmare fuel.
Unfortunately, category three is nestled mandible-to-mandible with category two. This is the reason she has to watch her daydreaming, because you don’t dive too deeply into your childhood recollections if at any moment you know you could come across a horror. For example: start with a warm and flickering glow in something that looks like Watertower’s arboretum. Add a circle of intelligences around this glow, each one laughing and talking. Throw in an amazing, mouthwatering smell—and a very specific image of glowing bugs wobbling through air. It’s a wonderful image, and one she would love to dwell on…but then it goes and ends in blood. There are lifeless eyes, there is a deafening shriek that never ends, there is something cold and hard and chittering that drags her into darkness—
It only gets worse from there.
But it’s not as bad as it could be. She hasn’t awakened screaming for years now—well, almost a year. She’s not even afraid of the dark anymore—anyway, no more than anyone else. Surely that’s universal, though. Hasn’t everyone awoken, sweat-covered, from a broken sleep? And then lay awake in a cold blackness so complete that it’s impossible to tell whether your eyes are open or closed, trying not to whimper because of what happened last time? And then come to the horrific realization that a set of faceted eyes has been hovering centimeters in front of your face, watching you the whole time?
Isn’t that just childhood?
“You know, I didn’t have a childhood,” says Helper’s voice in her ears. “But if I did, I think I’d prefer it not to be like that.”
Sarya rubs her eyes. Apparently she’s been talking out loud again. “I don’t remember saying your name,” she says.
“Well, you never technically said goodbye last time, so—”
“And don’t you have some research to do?” she says. She can’t help it. Eleven hours of focus can erase anyone’s natural civility—more so if you don’t have a lot to begin with.
“Well, I finished The Fall of Watertower, which I think turned out pretty good. But I mean, I don’t really know what to do with it. Because, you know, your friend…”
“My friend?”
“Well, she’s…dead. I mean, she was on Watertower, and Watertower got blown up, so I figured, you know…”
Oh, right. The friend. Well, if the destruction of Watertower has a bright spot, it’s that Sarya’s web of lies has become far simpler.
“Sorry for your loss, by the way,” says Helper. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
The headache has been throbbing with every word, and this reminder of her former home has not helped. Probably it’s a bad sign that her primary reaction is not sorrow but annoyance. Now she’s going to have to come up with a brand new way to keep Helper motivated. Although now that she thinks about it…does she need to? It seems silly now, having a sub-legal caretaker intelligence doing research on legends when she has the real thing now, scarcely a blade’s width away. The truth is locked in that goddess-damned Vault sitting over there. Yes, you, the light show. A smug-looking device if ever she’s seen one, probably pleased that she’s devoted every waking moment to it. Low-tiers love attention—don’t they, Vault? Low-tiers adore this kind of thing. This one is obviously enjoying locking her out of her birthright, preventing her from making the greatest discovery since—
“What if I turn off the lights?” asks Helper.
Sarya’s mouth, which had opened to tell Helper exactly what it could do with itself, closes again. Turn off the lights and plunge this room into complete darkness while she racks her mind for nightmares? Her first reaction is: that is a terrible idea. Her second, barely a second later, is that this might be the best idea Helper has ever had. “Do it,” she says.
The total blackness into which she is dropped is, perhaps, more than she was prepared for. Her Network unit throws its usual pale lines over the walls and floor, but they don’t do much to