Weeping at the Grave of Mnemosyne (Vorkosigan, T, gen)

[extrapenguin]

Wordcount: 448
Synopsis: Simon Illyan wakes up without his chip.

They said it was over.

What? What was over?

He could live his life without constant flashbacks to the past.

What past?

Voices. Lights. The smell of ozone.

Slowly, reluctantly, his memory dredged up the syllables ImpMil, fighting every step of the way, like a machine left unused for ages.

like an unused machine

He tried to recall what had happened, and drew a blank. Panic. Again, the abandoned machine slowly rising to the task. Flawed, patchy, unreliable. Like a ground-car left in a parking lot, oil unchanged for years, motor not cleaned for decades. Years, decades of disuse, and the machine ground to a halt. Atrophied.

A remembered sense of confusion. Vague recollections of people, time collapsing into nothing, leaving ages fuzzy. A short, wide man, built like a mountain troll, simultaneously forty, fifty, sixty, seventy. A beautiful lady seen in time-lapse, starting in her twenties, ending in her fifties. The time-lapse flowed backwards. A small man of indeterminate age. The man as a child.

Memories.

He couldn't remember what had happened to any of them over the course of their lifetimes. Were they alive?

could not remember

Who were they?

important

All people had names. What were these people's names?

Blanks.

The room became a collection of solid blocks of color, free of shade and shine. The colors swirled in abstract patterns, changing themselves: yellow to white to blue to purple...

Eadem mutata resurgo.

The colors had danced to white, black, and red. They coalesced into a face. Cetaganda. Knowledge shyly dripped into his mind. The Occupation. Interstellar games of cat and mouse.

He had an inkling of the man's name, was joyed that he'd remembered a name, was frustrated that he had no idea why he'd remember this name.

A story came unbidden, ran away when he tried to catch it. The wisps he could grasp brought forth memories. I must have a word with Miles on not charging out without consulting me when the outcome might affect Barrayar.

Miles? Miles. A unit of measurement. His thoughts had been running in circles for miles.

Miles. Miles, Miles, Miles. Uncle Simon. Miles Vorkosigan.

Oh.

Names came, snaps of memory, incomplete, incomplete, not to be trusted, chip, what's wrong with you?

Chip?

I know I was angry at you yesterday, I've hated you ever since you were installed, I'm sorry, please don't go. Chip? Where are you?

Memories. Memories that did not deserve the name. Memories that were as fuzzy as dreams, fading at the edges as soon as they formed, fraying with every remembrance.

Mnemosyne, please help me. Take me from the domain of your daughter Melpomene and into your arms. Oh, Mnemosyne!

Eadem mutata resurgo.