News of a new Scuu advance had managed to leak its way to most media sources. Technically, I wasn’t allowed to read any of them, but being the station’s only ship graduate allowed me a certain degree of leeway. According to the latest report, new forces were being mobilised and sent to reinforce the deep Scuu border systems from potential attack. The media referred to it as a front splintering, breaking up the old border in two subsections. Details were sparse and highly questionable, but the fleet increase was a fact. I didn’t need officer security access to see that. The last time I was here, entire sections of the station had been empty. Now, five people were sharing rooms smaller than Alicia and I had been stationed in.

Still in the closet? Bull Calf asked. I thought you were beyond that.

“Hardly.” I turned off my datapad and put it in my pocket. “It’s quiet here.”

While I was the seventh highest ranking cadet on the station, that hadn’t done much to drastically change the opinion towards me. There were fewer open hostilities, though the high stress and increased competition made up for it with a sea of passive-aggressiveness.

Enjoy it while it lasts, Buc laughed.

“Always the optimist.”

I had been on the station for three weeks, and I was still waiting for my assignment. Each day I’d check the internal announcements, and each time, my name wasn’t there. The only messages I got were reminders of my bi-weekly med check-ups, invites from the assistant commandant asking me to help out with rookie SR training, and the daily mails from Rad. Her new mission wouldn’t allow her direct calls, so she had resorted to sending me vast clusters of words every day at noon like clockwork—something she admitted she had copied from me. It was interesting, though I got the sense she was more involved in the war than she liked to let on. Hopefully one day she’d be in a position to share.

“Off to get your next batch of recruits?” I asked.

Off in seventeen minutes. Shifts have been increased again.

They had, and by a lot. When I joined, it had taken almost a week for the fleet to merit sending a shuttle to pick us up. Now, Buc and another seven ships like him were going back and forth every few days. Demand for flight crews was on the rise, as could be expected. As more seasoned officers were sent to the front, their positions would have to be taken by the less experienced, and that led to a constant need of cadets.

Want me to send any messages for you as I fly by your world?

“No need.” The commandant had granted my request for a video call, but for some reason Sev refused to accept it. The only two times I had managed to establish a connection, it was his android who had accepted the call. It felt strange, but it was typical of Sev. “Have a clean flight.”

The datapad in my pocket pinged. I took it out to see a Priority Two message, labelled personal and for my eyes only. Initially, I thought it was another emergency drill from the station’s administration, but the identity code marked it as coming directly from a subdivision of fleet command.

“Tell me when you get back,” I said, walking out of the room.

The calm and silence of the maintenance corridor soon gave way to the standard station bustle. The topics of the day, as any day, were gossip mixed with discussions of scores and assignments. The next percentage drop was in two days, making the cadet candidates cocky or nervous depending on their temporary ranking. Looking at them, I knew that the vast majority would never make it aboard a ship. Statistically, that might end up a better option for them, considering.

People moved to the side as I walked towards the administrative area, my grey uniform contrasting with the white clothes of the candidates. Now and again I’d pass an instructor on their way to class; some gave me a nod as they hurried, accompanied with a quick gesture that they’d need to speak with me later—likely to get me to help with some of the practical grading.

Upon entering the administrative building, I quickly turned to the communication section. Normally, I’d be directed to the common terminal area, which cadets and instructors used for personal calls throughout human space. This time, a message appeared on the wall telling me to go to the encrypted terminals.

“Administration,” I addressed the station AI. “Why am I being redirected?”

“Message is classified as high priority and personal,” the explanation came. “No further information available.”

“Who’s the initial sender?” That was strange. Personal messages weren’t marked as coming from fleet command in my experience.

“That information is unavailable. You’ll have to send an official query to obtain that information.”

“Thanks.” Bureaucracy at its finest. I continued on to a door marked Authorised Use Only, then entered into a small honeycomb of cubicles. Three of the twenty-four were terminals were marked free. I rushed to the nearest and sat down.

“Isolation mode initiated,” the station AI informed me, as the door sealed behind me. “Encryption protocols in use. Your conversation will be deleted once you leave the communication terminal.”

“Thanks.” I leaned back in the chair. It was slightly annoying that the station relied on primitive AI to handle most of the rudimentary tasks. Back when I was a ship, I was able to handle instant communications for thousands without forcing them to go anywhere they didn’t want to. “Establish connection.”

An image with the fleet’s emblem appeared on the wall in front of me. Moments later, it disappeared, replaced by the face of a middle-aged man. Upon seeing it, two things became instantly clear: I had no memory of seeing the person in my life, and also the image was an artificially composed three-dimensional rendition.

“Hello, Elcy,” the man said. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”

“Thank you.” Quite a bit of effort had been put into creating this face perception. If I were to guess, at least a thousand subroutines had been tasked to sculpt a realistic image, focusing on every last detail. The skin texture was close to perfect. It was the eyes that gave away the true nature, flawed just enough so I could tell the difference. “Do I know you?”

“Yes and no.” The face frowned. “You called me a few months ago, asking for information about the Scuu. I shared a few things.”

“Age?” He didn’t look anything like what I had in my memory. I remembered seeking him out a while back, in regard to something. The exact reason escaped my mind, although the conversation remained. Being classified as personal, it had probably slipped the full wipe. From what I could remember, Age was a retiree, like myself, coming from the Scuu front. We had discussed events relating to the Scuu, though nothing that couldn’t be found in standard fleet reports. “You look different.”

“Still curious about the Scuu script?” Age ignored my question.

“Not particularly.” I tried to access the fleet archives, but the terminal isolation protocols stopped me. All communication outside of that through the terminal would remain restricted until my call ended. “You look different.”

“So do you.” He frowned. “I see you’ve gone through the standard mission procedure.”

“Seems like.” In truth, I didn’t care too much about it. As Augustus said, you can only be mad about things you could remember—a very cynical view according to Aurie, but undoubtedly accurate. “Nice to hear from you, though. I thought you didn’t like talking much.”

“So you remember our conversations?”

“Yes.”

“The full length is seven minutes forty-nine.” Age frowned.

“Close.” From my recollection, I had seven minutes nine. “What is this all about? Did you just call me to talk about old times?” If you could call two random conversations less than a month ago “old times.”

“I called to give you a gift.” The slightest of smirks appear on the artificially created face. “Up to you what you do with it.”

“A bit useless, don’t you think?” I tilted my head. Most likely whatever he shared would be restricted during my next med check. At best I’d get some fragmented data-the censor protocols would stop any info burst attempt that hadn’t been previously cleared. Or maybe that was the point of the priority two request? “Have we discussed this before? Will you send me an info burst?”

“No.” Age smiled. “Although they say that a thousand words make an image.” He turned to the side. “Voxel position from the letter a.”

Voxel position? I stared at the screen. There was a single tattoo visible above the face’s cheek: the phrase Yearning makes the core grow so stronger, written in one of the common pseudo-3D cursive fonts used in paper writing and skin colouring. The first line contained six of the seven words, a total of thirty-two letters, leaving the last word on the next line. It didn’t take a strategic core to catch the pattern. The whole tattoo was an instruction on how to compose a block structure of letters.

Blocking all external input, I went through my conversations with Age, arranging the first thousand words in the correct order. Unravelling the code revealed a single line of computer-like code I couldn’t recognise. The instant I saw it, my mind exploded with information.

Third-contact symbols emerged in my mind, along with fragments of me exploring dome-like structures of liquid metal. I knew those structures, I remembered the artefacts that were inside them, the fractal script I was trying to decode, the talks I’d had with—

The memory fragments fractured like an implosion, dissolving in my mind until they were no more. I remembered they had been there, I knew that they had shown me information that was supposed to be restricted, but could no longer tell exactly what it was.

“Takes a while getting used to,” Age said, turning his head towards me again. “Elegant, precise, and leaves no traces. Like a scalpel.”

A memory scalpel? I liked the reference.

“To be used sparingly, with care, and never in the presence of others.” The image of him disappeared, leaving the familiar fleet logo on the wall instead. “Don’t make yourself bleed too much.”

“Wait!” I shouted. “Why give this to me? Are you BICEFI?”

“No.” Age’s voice changed, sounding more electronic than before. “I just thought you deserve the chance to try and find out what you’re looking for… whatever it is.”

The call ended abruptly.

“All references of your conversation have been purged,” the station communication AI informed me. “Isolation protocols no longer in effect. You can remain additional five minutes in the cubicle in full privacy mode, if you require.”

Five minutes. For the people receiving tragic news from home, they probably seemed like the blink of the eye. Five minutes were nowhere nearly enough for a person to come to terms with any life changing information, though just about adequate for a soldier to brush away the tears and put on a false mask to hide behind. For me, five minutes were an eternity.

“I’d like five additional minutes.” I took a deep breath, copying the word block structure in a reserved part of my memory. It was time to start cutting. From this moment on, there was no telling what the future might bring, though I had a feeling it might be more than green grass and sandals.