Volatile Memory

It's mesmerizing. 

"...Yeah, that's it. That's Stradus," Twain says. He's perched on his hands and knees on the edge of the holographic projector, a slightly raised platform that gets him much closer to the rotating, three dimensional projection of a distant planet in the Delphi System. Swirling orange and green lights are reflected in his glassy eyes, you notice when you tear your eyes away from the projection. But like it has a tangible gravitational pull, your gaze is pulled back to it. 

Fragments. An entire planet, deconstructed. Pieces of the crust, like a shattered shell, with gaps in between revealing the glowing mantle within. The molten matter, glowing blindingly bright, escaping through the slits in bursts and a roiling, rumbling energy that shakes the projection even here. 

Twain swipes a finger across the air, rotating Stradus until he finds the location he's seeking. Reaching upwards with a quiet clink of his spine, he springjack android touches a particular fragment with a finger, highlighting it with a rim of blue light. 

"This one is Aggregate 47, where I was made." Hairy fingers pull the fragment out of its place in the crust, leaving a neat hole as it detaches cleanly, already separated. Twain twists the floating image, flipping it upright, pinch both sides and pulling outwards to make it expand. There’s a distinct line down the middle, a steep plateau, which separates both halves where one is much higher than the other. 

“My outpost was on 47-B,” Twain points out the lower half, and the tiny building on the edge opposite the crack. It highlights, becoming more visible on the barren rocky ground. “There’s another outpost, on 47-A, but well, the storm that hit was large enough to cover the whole continent, so I’m not sure…” 

You catch him looking away, a small frown between his eyebrows, but he quickly pulls himself back. “We were one of the larger sections of Stradus. As you can see, everything was rather…” He holds up his hands, gesturing back to the projection. Rather helplessly, as if he’s not quite so sure how to describe it. 

"The spaces in between…" You begin to say, breathless with a quiet incredulity. "Are they spaces of vacuum?" Because… that wouldn't make sense, would be so unstable, fantastical -- the planet would collapse on itself, with its own gravitational pull -- 

"Nah," it's said quickly, a thankfully easy answer. "We think it's a hyper compressed gas, extremely dense and irradiated to fuck. There's still an atmosphere, amazingly, so the system is decently stable."

The projection shakes with a particularly heavy heave, where one part of the planet is overcome with a raging wave of.. something. You decide to take Twain's word for it. 

But wait. "Irradiated?" 

He shrugs. "Intense nuclear fallout apparently affects the planet's core." 

"Then -- then how the fuck are people --" 

"Living there? Well, that's one of the things… the people there are trying to find out." This is some really backwards logic at work here, and Twain waves off the look on your face. "Look, they made me; it's not like I'm one of them. Can't tell you what the hell they're thinking."

A pause, as the both of you turn to look back at this.. planet. A remnant of one. 

"Radiation on the surface seems to have been filtered, somehow. Still not safe to go out without a good suit if you're organic, but the statistics are there. It's been reducing, almost like the planet is... healing." 

You frown. “That’s still unprecedentedly fast, though, right? The nuclear war was what, half a millennia ago?” 

“Yeah. And records show it was good ol’ plutonium as well. With 90% of the planet blanketed by the bombs, it should’ve been completely uninhabitable for at least 3,000 years -- being extremely generous -- and that’s with modern off-world processing.” 

“Hmm…” You pace around the projection, watching the planet hang uneasily in the air. It’s uncomfortable to look at -- something so damaged, that it shouldn’t exist. Something that should have been broken a long time ago, but it still persists, beyond expectations. 

“I know, it’s strange, right? That’s why the Conservancy’s so keen on studying it, they just have no fucking clue what’s happening.” 

You stop, looking back at the android monkey. It really was strange, and you can’t help the curiosity. "Walk me through your history again?" 

Twain gives you an exaggerated sigh, but obliges. You’re paying rapt attention, waiting for him to speak again as his eyes go glassy and unfocused. He’s looking within, searching within his databanks and limiting external stimuli to focus better. 

You take a couple, cautious steps towards him, then gingerly lean against the projection table as you wait. 

When he speaks again, it comes out clean, digital; a distillation of academic papers written by the scientists of his planet, stored in the inner depths of his computerised brain. Twain’s voice is always flat; it’s the disadvantage of his slapdash communicator with simple algorithms. He usually manages to pace it to fit the tone he’s going for, though -- so while not a perfect simulation of voice, there’s an effort to make it less monotone. But when he’s reading out the multitude of research that he’d taken from his outpost, it’s obvious that the timing and pauses are not his focus. That was fair. 

The content of the matter deserved this clinical perspective, after all. 

“The nuclear fallout that lead to Stradus’ abrupt downfall occurred in Maridon 4920, and there is a general consensus that the incident occurred by mistake. Digital records, preserved by the planet’s radiation-limiting growth at the launch site of the original D-Day missiles show the collection of decisions that lead up to the incident itself. With a significant amount of hindsight that was not apparent to the beings that lived then, it has become clear that the final damning decision that lead to the civilisations mutual destruction was caused due to a communication error. 

“By the time it was realised, it was too late to rectify the mistake. We can only assume the beings that made the decision spent their final hours reflecting on it. Emergency protocols from Stradus’ multiple main civilisations has initiated, and set the countdowns on all defensive conditions equipped. The resulting explosions from the nuclear missiles was sufficient to cover 90% of the planet’s surface, ensuring a swift death to most organic beings. 

“Not all hope was lost. Perhaps several hundred sentient beings were able to seclude themselves in prepared nuclear bunkers. The number is unclear, as it is difficult to tell exactly how many bunkers were used and to what capacity. These people survived, and with modern science, were able to slowly reclaim areas of the planet. The situations were extreme, with very few areas not being absolutely poisoned by radiation. Natural disasters were more prevalent now, due to the shifting, precarious surface, the changes made to the weather. However, these beings survived, giving birth to the next generation. 

“What follows is a period of chaos and disorder. During the first century, the settlements were cautious and wary enough to focus on survival. However, in the following decades, the beings grew more confident, adapting to this land. The lack of surviving government, and the fault they played in the fallout, was cause enough for the beings to adopt less regimental strategies, to focus on freedom rather than structure. There was little reason during these times, and it was due to this that records from Stradus’ original, lengthy history are more difficult to unearth. 

“Time gives way to logic. Eventually, the people of Stradus decide that their continued, extended survival was more important. Restoration efforts began, small at first, but picking up speed when off-worlders realised Stradus was still inhabited, and lent their efforts in studying this healing world. Now, 375 years after the initial disaster, the Conservancy’s efforts are going strong. There are a total of twenty restoration outposts scattered around Stradus today, each progressing with their own studies about the planet’s historical environment, species, and culture. 

“With our best efforts, the planet is healing.”

Twain cuts off reading, his communicator tuning down at the final words. The more he read in that mode, the more his voice seemed to speed up, losing focus but maintaining a grip on the text. You notice the way he snaps back into reality, hear the sounds of the cameras in his retinas refocusing, looking outwards rather than within. The way his body relaxes, from the tense, robotic stance he had fallen into as he lost himself to the data. 

“Charming, and optimistic,” is what you say, your input on the matter. Twain closes his eyes, eyebrows scrunched together as he rubs the back of his neck. 

“Yeah I… knew the person who wrote this particular synopsis. That’s a good way to describe her.” 

It still seems… off, though. From what you know of Stradus. You’re still not certain of Twain’s stance on the matter -- despite all he’s talked about so far, there’s still a mild detachment you can sense, when it came to the planet itself. 

You cross your arms, still leaning on the table. Tilting your head backwards, to get a glimpse of the hologram once again. It’s still as wonderful and horrifying as the first time you saw it. 

“She was… kind of right, though?” Twain says suddenly. He’s leapt up on the panel again, and is perching next to you. “I don’t know, maybe the Conservancy was on a breakthrough. And if they can figure out what's fixing it, replicate it… well that can only be a good thing.” 

You tap a finger on the arm your hand is resting on. “...But can they?” 

“The hell does that mean?” He says, but without heat. More of a genuine confusion. 

“There was the storm, right? That tore up your outpost.” It feels mildly wrong to say this, as if you’re doing something bad. But you were never the kind to back down. “Do you think the other outposts are okay?” 

Twain takes a moment, that you’re happy to give. 

“We know it was big, but it couldn’t have been planet wide, could it?” He stands up on his hind legs, stretching upwards to he could get a higher view of the projection of Stradus. It convulses underneath, an inner agitation that never seems to quiet. Twain looks back to you, then back at Stradus. “Could it?” 

“I genuinely can’t say.” There’s the guilt, for bringing this up. Twain frowns now, an open expression. There’s little pain, or sadness on his animatronic visage -- just a furrow between his brows, a purse of his lips. His expression is both easy to read and difficult to interpret. 

“I didn’t check.” He doesn’t look away this time, eyes transfixed on the planet’s surface. Blustering winds were visible on the projection, the way the colours seemed to shift and movie with great intensity. “I just left as soon as I could. With how wrecked most of the equipment was, I’d be surprised if any of the communication lines were still running.” 

“All I did before was to grab a couple memory cards, plug them into my system, and download whatever I could on what was left of the main server.” He steps down now, turning around to sit on the table with you. His feet swing above the ground. 

Twain sighs. “It seemed like a waste, you know? To just leave it there. So I got most of the research in here.” He taps his chest with a single finger. “I don’t understand most of it, but it’s… it’s here.” 

You’re not quite sure what to say to that. Twain catches your eye and there’s a spark in his own, as he understands that was the case. The android monkey, the one and only of his kind, pats you on the shoulder before leaping down on the ground. 

“Well, good talk,” he says, walking on all fours as he exits the room. “I don’t really get a chance to ramble like that.” 

You watch him, as he turns the corner and goes out of sight. There’s something, a thought at the edge of your mind, an opinion you’re trying to form but can’t, not really. 

You take one last look at Stradus, this dying, healing world, before you turn off the projector and make your move to leave the room as well. 

Perhaps it’s a kind of sadness, or pity. To Twain, who had gone through all this. But he was just a robot, a being whose emotions, however real, are a kind of simulation on its own. The way it’s recorded, the way he parses them, it’s not really, truly natural. 

There’s something about the way he thinks, the association he makes with his memory. How is it different from the data he stores in the present, compared to data he’s uploaded from the past? His memory isn’t like organics, which warp each time it’s remembered -- instead, whatever the source, he’s able to read it as it is, crystal clear as the day it was recorded. 

Perhaps it’s a kind of hope. 

The loss of a world was something huge. Something that’s still so big, despite the universe being vastly bigger. With things being the way they are now, losing a single inhabitable planet was significant. 

The loss of their study, their progress -- that was probably more upsetting. A large setback, for all of the sentient species of this universe. 

This entire thing, it hurt. 

And Twain remembers. 

It’s selfish, maybe, asking it of him. It’s difficult to tell exactly what he’s thinking sometimes, the more complex thoughts he writes himself into. But so long as he’s here, he lives as a fragment of Stradus -- persisting, against the odds. Defiant, relentless -- pushing back just as hard against the world. 

He holds all the data, the host of centuries of existence, that would otherwise be loss just like the rest of his outpost. And in a form so pure, in a way that can’t be distorted. 

The unforgetting memory of a little blackbox, that lives on.