They were ghosts of worlds, memories of what was. Thousands upon thousands glowed bright against the velvet darkness. Worlds of the Legion Consortia Galacium, their essence, their memory, captured, held. Althea Ram gazed up at the vast array spread out above her. There were so many. There had been so many. At least one of them must still have what she was looking for, what she needed.

Tearing her gaze away, she looked back down to the imaging controls glowing before her. One dark finger pressed down on a blue-shaded bar to begin the program. Looking back up, eyes wide, Althea watched the ghosts fade like candles blown out by the wind. Thousands became hundreds, hundreds faded to a disappointing few.

She stretched her fingers to press the next bar. Nine spheres flew down to circle over the controls – the best, the nearest, beautiful worlds of land, sea, clouds, with glittering constellations of light on their night sides. Worlds as they were, two anna hundred past.

One more touch on the blue bar and the dance began. The smooth, feminine voice of Shirae Valerian also started.

Why her voice? Why for this?

“Ar Denia, a bit rural don’t you think?”

A green and brown world spun into prominence, demographics and statistics floating in datafields around it. Propero Colchis Quadra, as it was also known to the Portal Authority, was very close, as the Mirror Maze twisted – a potential source of knowledge or resources.

In a few beats, another took its place in the dance, purple and blue.

“Iuachu, pretty but pointless” didn’t compel her attention. Neither did the three that followed, matching the bare minimums of her requests: basic stores of trilium, and – at worst – second grade in nantech or trinary development. Beyeni Four did look comforting, though, a dark gorgeous green from pole to pole.

The fifth image, its attendant graphics, caused her to catch her breath – stop the spin.

“Elysium,” was the world, first in its culture, richest in its century. Continents of green, seas of blue. The more credits she read, the more she wanted it – but her glance to its location forced a frown. The world was far, too far.

“But you still want to go there, don’t you,” Shirae continued. “You’ll never make it. Let it go.”

Receedus Elisiamus Prime was a memorial world. The thought of reaching it made her heart beat fast; rekindling a hope she had almost given up on – forgiveness. A part of her remembered what that memorial world once offered – comfort to the living; solace from the dead.

An electric sensation ran through her, a shiver down her spine, and she straightened, smiled – knowing that she was being scrutinized. Dorian was always watching her, of course. The strength of his attention, the consciousness he focused on her, had increased dramatically. She could feel it. She could always feel it.

Althea opened her eyes, understanding what was happening. Her NANs were at work restoring her memories, mixing recollections with dreams, fantasies, under no conscious control at all. But…

Something had changed.

She eased herself up in the bed, looked over the room – the intricate maze of cracks on the ceiling above her, the chipped cracked and otherwise old furniture, tech – same shape, same positions. She looked left and right. The pile of her equipment appeared untouched. Dusty beams of light radiated from the single window, it cracks projected into blurry shadows all around.

She relaxed back down again, stretched her arms, legs, body under the sheets. Then she knew. Althea smiled. The NANs had finished their work!

She slipped out of the bed, stood on her feet, up on her tiptoes, grinning broadly. More wounds, more agonies to consign to history, to memory. Not even an ache remained.

All the pain is gone! I’m healed! Then she tried, Dorian, Dorian?