Memory

It is a faded memory of an old woman with deft hands busily embroidering - up, down, in, out. The woman sits in near darkness, lit by the flickering flames. Her hands are skinny, wrinkled and brown. Her face smiles in repose, thin old-woman lips curving upwards. The eyes are a deep black, shining bright even against the darkness of her skin. What does she wear? I cannot recall. There is just an impression of yards and yards of colorful, swathing cloth. Yet I recall clearly the face with its dominating nose and wrinkled skin, the hair in its eternal bun, midnight dark in this light.

Her voice is soft, gentle, abstracted: a voice from another time, long gone, soothing me to sleep with barely comprehended tales from another era. I place my head on her bony knee and let her words flow over me, embodying all that is good in my world.

It is a strange time to find this childhood memory swimming up, an unbidden guest determinedly forcing its way from the deep recesses. Here I lie, on a cliff overlooking the habitation: flat roofed mud houses in the midst of a lush valley, slow tendrils of smoke rising lazily from their chimneys. The houses are haphazardly place, no pattern to suggest an organized town or city life. Cultivated plots of various sizes form the divides.

The silence is infinite. The breeze rustles through the trees, cicadas chirp, a shepherd boy raises his voice in a sharp call, a goat bleats. The sky is beautifully coloured: pale rose, magenta, violet, a hint of yellow - the reluctant sun saying its lingering farewells. It is time.

I unclip my communicator from the belt and type in the requisite word: Sea. I wait. The light flashes blindingly flourescent against the sky, an aggressive, clear blue mocking the gentle colours behind. Magnificently arrogant, it connects the sky to the earth for a bare second before it disappears, leaving behind its after image on my retina and the absolute stillness of a world too startled to breathe. I wait.

Sound returns. Tentative, at first, then with increasing confidence, the cicadas begin to chirp. The breeze rustles through the trees, whispering reassurance, the leaves and grass rustle back, we are well, we are fine.

Sight returns. The surroundings are still lush, the mountains still dark against the horizon, the sky is still bidding farewell to the sun, not yet ready to greet the moon. The smoke still rises from the valley. I switch on my Flypack - its hum joins in soothingly with the returning sounds - and I let it float me down to the village. It does this gently, convincingly motionless despite the velocity it has had to achieve. I stay in the air, safely above the village, slowly manoevering to the approximate area. The smoke rises to meet me, the earth, scorched black below, raging in its fever to rid itself of the unwanted heat. Despite the goggles, despite the mask, despite the protective clothing - the most advanced that the very latest technology can conceive - my eyes water, my throat itches, my skin burns. I move slowly, no panicking - it is all psychosomatic, anyway - letting the Locator guide me, waiting for the quick beep-beep to alert me - and there it is! I release the Digger. It speeds straight down, bright and metallic, sharp pointed front blasting its way into the scorched earth, shining metal disappearing into the black.