I’ve always found books to be the best measure of humanity. What people won’t say, they’ll gladly write.

Here, all their darkest truths are laid bare, hidden in plain sight, their wildest fantasies woven like webs, just out of reach.

I wonder what I would write.

It’s easy to lose track of time when you’re on your own. I spend much of the trip to Olympia Station attempting to recover lost memories, with little success. They dance on the edge of my consciousness, more like dreams than recollections, the impressions stronger than the ideas themselves. But no matter how hard I try to remember, to dream, I can’t seem to figure out where I was going or why or how long I’d been out there or even how I got there. Epsilon isn’t exactly somewhere you end up by accident, that much I’m sure of.

I’m still hopeful that even if I can’t remember, I’ll somehow be able to piece things together. If I can identify a few key hints as to what I’ve been up to, perhaps logic can do the rest.

After a few unsuccessful attempts to recover the ship logs, I decide to scour the ship itself for clues. There aren’t many places to look—Remus is a small ship—and I don’t have much in the way of personal effects. But my thoroughness is rewarded when at last I turn up a book wedged between wall and storage container.

I pull it out, leafing through the worn pages, and feel something immediately triggered within me.

The text is familiar—the stories, the names—but more than that, there’s something important here. I can feel it. I pore above the book, devouring it with a sudden urgency, an intensity. I know there’s something in here that will give me answers.

It’s not until I get to the last page that I find it, the set of handwritten notes scribbled in some kind of shorthand. It’s not for me, but it is for me. That is, the notes are intended to be read by someone else, but I’m the one who stands to benefit from them.

A wave of realization begins to wash over me. Memories, overlapping and intermingled, begin to push their way into my consciousness. People that I’ve met—no—that I will meet, places that I know I must go, even though I don’t know their names.

I find myself gripped by a sudden desperation to get to Olympia Station as quickly as possible. I have to get there before it’s too late. Too late for what, I don’t know yet, but my engines are certain to pay dearly for it.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

I speed toward Olympia, cycling my output through the accelerator in an attempt to shorten the time it will take me to arrive, all the while clutching the book, the keeper of my own dark truths, my own secrets and fantasies and fears.

Olympia Station is one of the larger in the galaxy, a hub for travelers and traders alike, people from all corners and all walks, but no place for someone with a broken, mangled face and bunch of holes in their head. The moment I disembark, I make for Level 3, careful to avoid the busier routes. People don’t like being reminded about ones like me, those who can have their limbs crushed and their skin torn off and carry on almost as if nothing happened.

I don’t stop to orient myself or ask for directions—I don’t need to. My feet know exactly where to take me, as if I’ve been here a thousand times before. When I finally get to where I’m going, I stop and read the plaque next to the door.

“N&B Cybernetic Specialist. Accredited by the Institute for the Development of Human Intervention-Guided Intelligent Life.”

Almost before I’ve finished reading it, the door slides open.

The woman, who must’ve been on her way out, almost walks straight into me, catching herself at the last second.

A look of surprise crosses her face momentarily.

“Sorry!” she says with a nervous laugh. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t—”

She stops, looking me over and taking me in, registering my appearance, broken face and all. Her expression softens, and a gentle smile crosses her face.

“Why don’t you come in,” she says, stepping to the side.

“What about now?”

“Better.”

Shae smiles at me.

“Much better, I’d say,” she murmurs, first looking at me from the side, then from the front, and then from the other side, admiring her work. I recognized her before she could even tell me her name, but she seems to have no memory of me.

“Feeling more like yourself now?” she asks, taking a seat across from me.

I nod. I don’t look like I used to. Or at least I don’t think I do. But regardless of whether or not I look like myself, I do feel more like myself, especially now that my ability to speak has been restored.

Shae studies me intently, her eyes traveling across me with curiosity, fascination. We sit in silence for a moment.

“What else?” she asks at last, placing her hands on her lap.

A faulty speech processor and a broken face are one thing, but the rest is more difficult to describe. Missing memories, premonitions, the persistent almost oppressive sensation of déjà vu. How do I begin to explain it?

Then I remember something. I grab the small bag I’ve brought with me and from within it produce the book, which I hand it to Shae.

She takes it from me cautiously, almost hesitantly, and turns it over in her hands, examining it closely. She looks at me curiously, a question etched into her expression.

“The last page,” I say by way of explanation.

She flips to the back of the book, and I watch as the expression on her face transforms from interest to astonishment to bewilderment.

“I don’t understand,” she says, looking between me and the book. “I’ve never seen this before, but—” she shakes her head in confusion. “This is my writing.”