Neptune - Part 12

Part 12- Report

Neptune's Journal 05/06/2028

It is still getting hard to get used to the lower roll call. With only five names left to list off, including my own, I'm feeling more and more discouraged. I hope that she will be alright, but I suspect that it is not my fate to see her again. For all the effort we put into an escape, she's back with them.
Uranus, of all of us, has been the most calm about this. To me, it's kind of disturbing. He says that it was an act of God, just like the church woman's passing. As odd as her attention was, it was kind of comforting to have an adult concerned about our well-being. I never learned her real name as she insisted we call her Baba. I am concerned for Uranus, but he seems happier now. More able to connect. But he seems less attached to reality. Perhaps that is one of the steep costs of comfort. Currently, Uranus is lying asleep, next to me. There is no point in awakening him; I will mark him as present.
Saturn is present, having taken Jupiter's place as my advisor. She is more mature than she used to be, able to understand situations presented to her much more easily. Now, once she has a goal and adequate information, she knows the rules of reality well enough to form strategy from that alone. At the moment, she is looking over a map of the area. We have to leave this town very soon, Jupiter having been lost. Bio-Tech will be able to pinpoint our location quickly if we remain.
Mercury and Venus have bonded on their scavenging missions, and there is no longer the animosity they had previously for each other (or that Mercury held for Venus, at least). They've just returned as I started reading this. It is no surprise that one of us has succumbed to illness given the things we have to eat. Higher quality food is usually offered to Mercury, if only because the rest of the trash we eat activated her programmed phobia. But my stomach is empty, and even trash tastes good when you're starving.
All five of us have reported present today.

***

I wake up, pleasant dreams fading away and almost instantly becoming impossible to describe. As fleeting as any pleasant thing, I muse as I return to my reality. I turn over in my bed to look at the digital clock, but I see that someone else's dreams were not as pleasant as mine.
Paris is on my bed, still in a deep sleep, having taken comfort in her father's presence. I brush some of the hair from her lightly closed eyes and look at her. She seems angelic in her slumbering state, rhythmically and softly sighing as she draws relaxed breath. I feel a pang of guilt. Had I been with Nova overnight as I usually am, I would have left my child with troubled thoughts and nobody to comfort her by simply being present.
I gently jostle her awake, "Paris? Are you okay?"
Her eyes slowly open and she takes a few moments to adjust to reality, eyes flicking around to gain bearing on her location. "Daddy?"
She must still be confused. "Paris, were you scared?"
Her eyes widen in realization as her real memories return to her, displacing the fog and deception of dreams and sleep. "Oh, Daddy, I had a scary nightmare... someone tried to kill me and... I hoped you'd be able to protect me."
I feel my expression softening reflexively and I sit up, glancing towards the clock. She has certainly had lots on her mind lately, thoughts of death and that dread associated with it. "I'll protect you, Paris. Always."
She smiles sadly, yet comforted by my words, and puts her arms around me. "Thanks, Daddy."
I pet her hair again and say, "You should start getting ready for training. You don't want to be late, do you? And your first tournament will be just next week. Amity will be taking you, but I'll be there to watch."
To that, Paris smiles brightly, gets up and scurries out the room. I have never missed one of Tash's tournaments in the past, so I'm not about to start neglecting Paris's, even with all that is on my plate. I have promised myself that I will never be so busy that I would not be a good father to my children.
I get out of bed and start getting changed. Exhausted and defeated by the previous day, I must have just gone straight to bed without changing out of my dress shirt and slacks, rumpled from the tossing and turning of sleep. For a moment, I think of just not bothering to get changed. It does not feel worthwhile at the moment, but I push myself to do it anyways. I stand in front of the full length mirror in my room and begin unbuttoning my shirt.
I have to attend the council meeting in an hour, but after that I plan on looking more into the police affairs. Both Darryl's case and the problem presented to me by Cleveland are Martian affairs, or at least that is where the evidence points, so I will be keeping that in mind as I look over the evidence. It's no surprise. It seems as though Martian and Lunarian interests are always opposed, and yet, by virtue of proximity, we also often find ourselves in an uneasy alliance.
I exit my room and walk down the stairs. The living room is clean, spotless, and all of the sheets and blankets have been folded and placed in, I assume, the most appeasing positions for Samara. I try not to even guess the set of arbitrary rules that she so vigilantly abides by. She's still working, though, and that sparks some concern. "Samara, you should sleep."
She looks up for a moment. She seems to be gently pushing my couch along the floor, aligning it with some invisible line that likely only even exists in her imagination. "Your house is so big, Errol. There's so much to do."
I know better than to tear her from her tasks, though I ask, "Have you taken your pills?"
She rolls her eyes and keeps gently pushing at the edge of the couch. Which I take as a 'no'. Her anxiolytics usually keep her functional, which she really does not seem to be at the moment. I can only imagine the frustrations of the homeless Sol children as Mercury wandered off to arrange furniture or whatever she did back then, since I doubt they had any access to psychiatric care.
"You probably should."
She intentionally ignores my words and continues working, "I'll be coming with you this evening. To check over the police information."
"Samara, I mean no offense, but I do not want you there with me." I keep my posture straight and commanding. Even though she does not see me, I must seem confident about this assertion. As much as I know she wants to know as much about what destroyed her family as she can, it's best that she stay out of my investigation. I don't want her to get onto a trail and then vanish into thin air.
"I don't really care what you want." I look at my watch. I don't have time to deal with her before I risk making myself late.
"Samara, please… you'll only be a liability." Her hand gently combs over the cushions on the couch, since apparently she has it aligned. Every wrinkle she reaches, she traces its length with her fingertip. I watch, interested in the action. I have not seen this ritual before.
Once she finishes with a couple creases, she responds, "Errol, I've told you what I'm going to do. Accept that it's good as done."
I glance at my watch and open the door, "Fine. Do what you want. Just take your pills." I exit and close the door behind myself.

***

She didn't take her pills. I can tell, those darting eyes and quick motions as she makes adjustments when she's passing things by as we're led by the Luna Police Force officer down the halls. She even goes so far to pick up misplaced pens and simply drop them in her messenger bag. This particular LPF officer, a middle-aged German shepherd recom, is one of the contacts in the force. He gives me a sceptical look as my companion stops in order to turn the coffee mug to an angle appropriate to her internal rules.
I grasp her wrist, sure to make my fingers contact nothing but fabric. If I touched her fur or flesh, that would be enough reason for her to attack me, a hassle I'd rather not deal with in these hallways. She resists only a little before letting herself be led by me, looking back to find things in the office that will need to be returned to their 'proper' orientation. As we arrive at the archive room, I suggest to the officer, "Could you bring us the images?" Depending on the state of the room, I do not want to spend too much time there. I keep my hand on Samara's wrist, even though she tries to walk back down the hall.
The officer nods compliantly and enters the room. Samara looks over to me and complains, "It's so disordered here. Everything is wrong."
"I told you to take your medication. We can't spend our time cleaning the police station. Why didn't you listen? You're so stubborn. Don't you feel better on your meds, anyways?" I chide. I hate dealing with her when she is like this. I have to follow all kinds of unspoken rules
"No, I feel fine right now." She crosses her free arm over to clutch her forearm, looking askance.
I sigh and pull out my telephone, quickly thumbing out the words onto the screen: 'Why didn't you take them?' and sending them to Samara's phone. I feel self-conscious texting someone right next to me, but sometimes it is necessary.
Even though she watched my type it out, Samara appears surprised to hear her PDA make its notification sound. She fishes the thin device out of one of her inside vest pockets and looks at the screen. She raises her eyebrow slightly and starts tapping at the device.
Meanwhile, the officer opens the door and hands me the file. "This is all we know about it." He leans in and more quietly adds, "Let me know if you get any leads. I'm lined up for a promotion, and if I get this one, I've got a feeling I'll get it."
I nod. I don't think this is a case I'll have any desire to give leads on, but if I do, I'm always willing to stay in a police contact's good graces. My phone vibrates, so I examine the screen. I can feel the officer's strange look between Samara and myself before he adds, "I'm going to let you get to work."
As his footsteps head down the hall and vanish from my conscious hearing, I read my message and look back over to Samara, who has already put her device away. "Really?" I say, more quietly. I understand her reasons better now, but having her drawing attention towards herself with her weird behaviour is not the best result.
She nods at my question and gestures for me to hand her the files. It seems that her anxiolytics interfere with memory encoding. While they dull some of the Sol disadvantages programmed into her genetic code, they also dull some of the gifts. While I contemplate this, she looks over the files quickly, reading everything to be read and studying the pictures. For a moment, she closes her eyes, not wanting to be there again, not at this moment.
"Samara?" My voice falls on deaf ears. As her eyes reopen, her focus is similar to what it is when she is performing her compulsive behaviours. Even though the expression on her face is agonizing to even watch, she flips through the papers and images systematically, tracing her free hand over the words and things she picks out as important details.
Eventually, thankfully, she manages to make it to the end of the file. Unfortunately, she continues clutching it in her hands, mumbling and repeating some of the words she had read. I continue to wait patiently. As much as I dislike having her help me in any way with this, if she can produce insights with this information, it could help me out. I am just hoping that she does not act on those insights.
Finally, the file is handed back to me. Unlike her, I do not search through it thoroughly, only taking images of each page with my cell phone for later review. I do not have Samara's memory, after all. Even when she's on her pills, her mental storage seems to be superior to my own.
The phone is slipped away, and I gesture towards Sam to follow me out. "Come on."