The Hearts We Leave Behind.

That summer the bounty hunters came to Babel, fifteen hard men with mean faces and minds to ensnare the wary. They came from all over: scalpers, trackers, fortune seekers, all of them professional killers, there for the money and the names to be made.
When I saw them on the terrace of the Aquarium hotel that morning, dressed in their sand capes, their heads wrapped in dust hoods, faces hidden behind storm masks, I could have mistaken them for astronauts, martian explorers perhaps, something entirely at odds with the relative normality of the town.
There were the regulars of course, identifiable by their insignia, their faux battle-colours: the Papatrusis brothers, the Haitian, members of the infamous Hunter's Club. Then there were the Chancers, the ‘Luckies’, those who had actually paid money to be part of this disgusting charade.
I had to marvel at them, huddled as they were like feral animals, keeping themselves to themselves. It was a grotesque display, a vulgar exhibition of arrogance and I shuddered at the thought of how many kills they had notched up between them, how many rare and precious lives they had taken for the simple crime of not being human, or human enough.
As usual it was the rumour of something rare that had attracted them. Nothing less would have sufficed.

I found Hatton waiting for me at the far end of the terrace, flanked by two of his minders and a group of nervous looking officials from various Government departments. The day was a clear one. Beyond the low perimeter wall, the winds came racing up the beach to set amongst the wires and chimes that lined the patio.
The gathering was for all intents and purposes a show of force, a reminder that the hunters were here on special license, that although there was nothing Hatton could do to stop them from congregating, their presence in the town was anything but welcome.
“So many in one place,” I said, “We’re honoured.”
“It’s a dubious honour at best.” Hatton muttered.
“What are their chances?”
“You’d have to ask the bookies on the harbour. It all depends on whether any have tribal support.”
“I noticed the Haitian. His relationship with the tribes has never been good.”
“The Unions will put up with anyone for a limited time if they think the outcome is worth it. The Haitian isn’t the problem. At least he follows hunter convention. It’s the unknowns that worry me, the Luckies. They’re beholden to nobody.”
“An Amnethene!” I said, “How certain are we?”
“As certain as we can be. I’ve declared satellite imaging off-limits as a precaution, but if the hunters have tech at their disposal, heat print identification, hormone tracking, we could have a serious problem.”
“So do we have motive?” I said, “Behavioural patterning?”
“We have presence.” The woman to Hatton’s left leaned over and whispered. I hadn’t noticed her. She appeared too casually dressed for Hatton’s immediate inner circle.
“We’ve not met.” I said.
“Fran is from the Nathaniel Institute in Morrienta.” Hatton said, introducing us, “She wants to share our findings. I’ve told her that she can work with you. I’ve briefed her on what to expect, but you might want to bring her up to speed.”
“I read the report.” She said, indicating the bundle of papers that were tucked under her arm. “I can understand the sense of mistrust that people have towards the Amnethene type.”
I had to smile, “You have to forget the old legends. Talk of shape-shifters and Changelings will do nothing to improve the situation here. The Amnethene is not like that. It is incapable of changing form. It simply inserts memories, appears as a friend, an old acquaintance.”
“Some have been saying that it’s a true telepath.”
I shook my head, “It’s more likely that it works by disrupting the brains ability to process recognition, somehow interfering with the auditory and ocular areas of the brain, either through hormonal patterning, or through manipulation of the victim’s bio-electrical field. We aren’t quite certain how, but what is clear is that any deception is played out in the victim’s mind. The inserted memories last for no more than a few weeks, after which they fade. It’s an incredibly intricate organism.”
Hatton’s group moved to a table from where they could keep a more dedicated watch on the assembled congregation. We stayed where we were. The hunters appeared restless and edgy, impatient for the kill. I caught fragments of coded conversation, watchwords, hunting vernacular, attempts at reducing the chances of their group being infiltrated.
“You talk as though you possess a love for these things.” Fran said.
I smiled, “It would almost certainly have been designed as a weapon. I try to remember that. I find its purpose impossible to admire, but the design… Only a few ever came out of the Biology Houses. This is the first new one is five years.”
“We’re interested in learning what it can.”
“Is the Institute still trying to understand the Construct the phenomenon from a religious perspective?”
“Of course. We view it as a culmination. The Construct represents the first entity that was truly designed.”
“Despite the fact that it was human hands that did the designing?”
“What are we if not divine tools?” she smiled. “I’d be interested to hear what you think the Amnethene is based on?”
I regarded her for a moment, had to respect her confidence, the worldly perception that the clerics at the institute had helped her to shape.
“It’s almost certainly a basic Ivorian type,” I said, “with some Tetramorph divergence perhaps. The archive believes that it was originally intended as a life form that could pass on its cultural memories to the next generation, just as we pass on our genes. The memory implantation is undoubtedly a repurposed defence mechanism, something redefined as offensive rather than defensive.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“Possibly.”
“But you think not?”
“It’s too simple to think of these things in purely negative terms. What people fail to see is the intelligence. We’re programmed as a species to see that which is different from us as somehow less intelligent, somehow less capable of complex thought, of decisions based on a multifaceted set of personal values. Constructs are treated no differently. People are blind to the complexity, to the humanity underlying the bizarre.”
“You talk as if you prefer them to humanity.”
“I’ve yet to see aggression or hostile intentions here. The only hostility I’ve encountered so far has been on the part of the hunters, despite the stories that the Papatrusis brothers have been putting out to the media. The Amnethene deserves a chance, just like every other intelligent being, and I’ll do all that I can to ensure that it gets one.”

As the day wore on the hunters departed from the Aquarium in their one’s and two’s. Some retired to their rooms whilst a few, clearly intent on breaching the mandates laid down that morning, started operations and departed for the less populated neighbourhoods of Babel.
Given the nature of the morning it was inevitable that there would be a development. My only surprise was that it took as long as it did.
At 13:00 I got the call from Hatton. The Amethene’s room had been discovered in the Bedouin quarter. He explained the situation when I arrived.
“We missed it,” he said, “but we were close, very close.”
He led me through the courtyards and alleyways until we entered a high-walled bazaar, flanked on all sides by white washed buildings and archways that concealed tarpaulin covered stalls. There were no signs of life. The buildings were shuttered. The presence of police would have been enough to drive the locals inside, that and the rumours of what had been hiding in their midst. The inhabitants of this area were nomads in the main, driven to the coast by the dust storms. Despite turning their backs on an itinerant way of life, they still placed significance in old myths and superstition, still hesitated to accept artificial life as anything other than a wrong turn. It was lucky that they had chosen to call us rather than their tribal contacts.
“Do the hunters know?” I said.
“They’d be all over this place if they did. It won’t be long though. They have their informants. They pay good money for information.”
“The Haitian has been putting out stories all morning, that the Amnethene is capable of murder, that we’re somehow protecting it.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” Hatton snorted.
I passed through the doorway and entered the sparsely furnished rooms beyond. The windows were shuttered but the dusty gloom did little to hide the fact that the apartment was vacant in the way that only rental properties could be. There were no personal objects, no pictures, none of the things that gave a person a history. The place had been empty when the police arrived, but the outline left in the bed sheets told me that we had missed it by mere minutes, that it had literally been caught napping.
I noticed the desert jacket, hanging on the back of a chair. The sleeves were covered in kill-badges, hunt insignia, pursuit emblems that could tell a tragic story by themselves. Their presence here, though, told me something else: that at some point in the not too distant past, our peculiar visitor had been impersonating one of the hunters. It was probably how it had slipped into town in the first place, probably how it had managed to secure the room.
I inspected the bedside cabinet, found the accoutrements that were so often the signifiers of Amnethene presence, the sketches, the handwritten notes, the information used to formulate a background, an identity. A bunch of photographs stood out. I went through them, found only the usual images, taken covertly: pictures of the Aquarium terrace, of the town and its people. There was something else in the pile, slipped between the last two prints, a scrap of card. An address was written there, ‘251 Crepestre Road’.
“Hatton says we missed it by minutes?”
I slipped the scrap into my pocket and looked up, saw Fran standing in the doorway.
“It was down at the Aquarium with the hunters.” I said.
A look of confusion crossed her face. I passed her the jacket.
“The one place they wouldn’t think of looking.” she whispered.
“Finding sanctuary in the company of your enemy is a drastic solution.”
“But one that seems to have worked. This is going to be more difficult than we envisaged.”

Later that afternoon I returned to the Aquarium terrace, and took a table close to the perimeter wall so that I could both enjoy the view of the beach and ponder what I had discovered.
The veranda was quiet. Most of the tourists had departed. Only a number of Luckies remained, seeking sanctuary from tribal Penalty. Obviously their operations had taken them too far into Union territory. I had to laugh at the fickleness of their punishment. To the Unions, the whole thing would have been viewed as a game, a way for them to interfere without risking Government censure. It was good news in a way. The Luckies would be here until sunrise, confined to their elected place of safety until the reprimand expired. Only a pay-off from a more established name would secure their freedom before then, and that was unlikely to be forthcoming. Given the nature of the quarry, competition was the last thing the professional hunters wanted.
I opened my comm. and entered the number for the archive. One of the custodians appeared on the screen.
“What can we do for you?” she said.
“I need information about an address. Crepestre road. Can you send me what you have?”
The custodian’s face vanished then returned moments later.
“It’s Old District,” she said, “a residential quarter. I’ll send it over.”
The transfer took little under a minute. Opening the file package I discovered why. Only one previous resident was listed, a geneticist, although no name was mentioned. As the source was part of a pre-Taint census it was marked as highly inaccurate. The archive’s map however, showed Crepestre road as being close enough to the coast to be within easy walking distance.
On its own, the information was precious little to go on, but as an advantage over the hunters it was more than a start.

It was always strange to enter the Old Districts, to wander avenues that grew progressively more deserted, past decaying villas and over-grown orchards, weed filled and serene in the sunlight. They were a miscellany really, the sad and tattered remnants of settlements that had been here long before Babel, left scattered and abandoned along the shoreline like paper-mache replicas that had come apart upon the sea breeze.
Summer burned the streets and moved like a flame upon the roofs. Dead wires sagged between the buildings like spun treacle, drooping in thick, viscous lines, ensnared by creepers and overgrowth.
Fran accompanied me and it wasn’t long before conversation turned to our mutual interest.
“What do you see this latest Construct as?” she said, “A failed experiment? A rogue?”
“I’m still open as to its purpose. What we need to know is why it has appeared in Babel.”
“Perhaps it was driven here.”
“Wouldn’t the Institute rather see its presence as more than a simple survival instinct? I’d rather see a reasoned decision. It is a sentient creature after-all. Besides, it was the Amnethene that drew the hunters here.”
“So do you have a reason in mind?”
“Possibly, although I’d like a clearer picture of its motivation before I draw conclusions. Amnethene are like all Constructs: timid, wary of human interaction, especially so given the current climate.”
“What do we know of its ability? I’m still no clearer on how it actually implants the memories.”
“Research seems to suggest that the creature is somehow able to manipulate a victim’s bio-electrical field. The memories appear to be imparted without physical contact. What we’re not certain about range, although common sense would suggest that it would be something like immediate vicinity only.”
“I can see how that would give rise to rumours of telepathy, of mind-reading.”
“Quite. Some believe that memories are simply electrical pathways in the brain, laid down by experiences. When we remember, we stimulate a particular pathway. The brain interprets that as a memory.”
“So the Amnethene is capable of creating those electrical pathways in the people it encounters?”
I nodded, “You’ve got to realise that there are no definite answers. This is very much an expanding field of research. There may also be a chemical aspect. Injections of Cortisol or Epinephrine have both been shown to aid in the retention of recent memory. Perhaps the Amnethene exudes a hormone that is chemically similar.”
“Interesting, but how can you be certain of all this?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Presumably, in the course of this research, several Amnethene were studied.”
“We only had access to one, a specimen that had suffered an injury, out by Au Revoir. The observations were made during its recovery.”
“Then how do you know that all of this is simply not some extended memory set, some implantation in the original scientists that snowballed like a Chinese Whisper?”
I saw where she was going. “You’re talking about the reliability of memory. How do we know that we even got close enough to study such a creature? How do we know that our experiences of it aren’t in themselves something artificial, something planted?”
She nodded.
“It’s a good question, especially in light of the fact that what we determine as historical truth is simply a collected form of memory in itself.”
“The lies that we all agree on.”
“You can’t answer a question like that easily. Since the implanted memories dissipate after two or three weeks, we can assume that any fabricated data would fade with it.”
“Unless of course the recovery period is in itself false data.”
“You have to draw a line somewhere.” I said, “Logically, we could question if such creatures even exist at all. How do we know that they are not simply some form of collective delusion, a self-sustaining response to the Construct phenomenon itself?”
“Surely that is where the Amnethene’s nature becomes its own undoing. False memories and implanted ideas prove its existence.”
I had to smile at such semantics. It was easy to become trapped in an inescapable loop when talking of false memories, implanted knowledge, and so on. I was distinctly aware that such thought experiments were simply meant to fill a void, perhaps even bestow the Amnethene an impression of importance that went beyond the facts of its inception. The Nathaniel Institute would not be the first religious order to attempt a correlation between their messiah and artificial forms of life.

The gate to 251 Crepestre Road was locked of course, sealed with heavy chains that certainly weren’t original. The wall, however, proved easy to scale.
I found myself in a wide, overgrown courtyard, occupied in the centre by a small fountain, encrusted with sand and choked with dead leaves. The wind stirred the trees, rousing the dust into ghost clouds that came out of the surrounding orchards like ranks of apparitions, and through it all the villa suffered in silence. The white washed walls peeled and flaked, shedding their skins in a reptilian impersonation of life. At some point a tower must have formed part of the Northern wall. Now it laid in pieces, scattered about the undergrowth like the ruins of some ancient Roman temple, a testament to the tremors that still affected this area.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Amnethene was nowhere to be found. I had been expecting as much. The creature would have been far too alert for intruders, and I had to admit that we had taken no precautions on our approach. With stubbornness prevailing, I inspected the rooms one by one, methodically going over the nooks and crannies, the possible hiding places. In what remained of one of the bedrooms I found an old sleeping bag, half hidden amongst scraps of wallpaper and piles of leaves. There were empty food containers inside, water bottles, a small chemical stove, all things that revealed that somebody had been here in the not too distant past. There was nothing that could be definitively linked to the Amnethene, however, as opposed to, say, a group of itinerant Traders, or a nomad, finding himself in the wrong part of town.
I went back downstairs, re-climbed the wall and joined Fran in the road.
“It was here.” I said, “It was definitely here.”

The Haitian was at the Aquarium again that evening, holding court with all the appearance of a seventeenth century ruler, inflicting upon anyone who cared to listen the sordid details of his numerous run-ins with the Unions. The way he related his life story one would have never of guessed that he had suffered Reprimand on no less than three occasions, that he had been Favoured at Cast Stone for plundering the burial grounds there, had even had to pay off the Retributionists they sent after him. The Haitian was a marked man, bad for business in an industry that frequently relied upon Unionist apathy in the face of often-flagrant contraventions of territorial demarcations. Still, if the Hunter’s Club had chosen to conveniently forget that in order to safeguard the sponsorship that he attracted, who was I to remind them? I wanted none of their customary arrogance. The Amnethene was a priority that took precedence over my contempt for the hunters.
I had to remind myself that even though they hadn’t succeeded yet, they only had to be lucky once. The thought was a sobering one. To a certain extent the hunter’s egotistical displays seemed to be playing to our advantage. Despite the fact that they were well-equipped professionals, they lacked a moral high ground and the public blessing that went with it. While the hunters had to rely upon public support for their information there was still a chance. The Bedouins had approached us first. They could have gone elsewhere. That had to count for something.
I noticed a commotion a little way up the terrace, saw Saul Hooper, the flamboyant owner of the Aquarium hotel, making his way through the seated customers. He was clutching something in his hand. He drew closer and sat down opposite me.
“A letter,” he said, handing it over, “Left with one of my employees.”
I inspected the envelope. It was unmarked, white, sealed only with a tiny dab of red wax. No impression had been made there, no logo or letterhead. I opened it quickly, retrieved the note that had been scribbled upon thin, almost translucent paper, and folded once.
“Dear Friend,” it began, “I realise that this method of communication is not ideal, especially as a first point of contact. However, unusual circumstances require an unusual response and I fear that unless I contact you now I may not get a second chance.
It is with great reluctance that I impart to you only the sparsest of information. As you will no doubt be aware, I am not without my own methods in evading those who would wish me harm. If something were to happen, say, tomorrow morning, I wish it be known that I expect no action to be taken on your part. The hunters are ruthless men, with ruthless intentions. There would be no point in placing yourself in harm’s way.
I consider myself lucky that I have such people who are willing to put so much at risk for so little reward.”
I finished reading and realised that the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. The letter wasn’t signed but there could be no doubt as to the identity of its author.
“Who left this?” I said.
Saul looked bemused, “A woman, one of the hunters. She was here this morning. She said it was imperative that you got the message.”
I thanked him and watched as he made his way back inside.
Finally, after a day of setbacks and near-misses, the Amnethene had decided to come out of the shadows. The fact that it was still impersonating one of the hunters was encouraging, proof that it obviously felt under no immediate threat. I tempered my enthusiasm. The letter revealed nothing, made only tantalising hints. I read it again, tried to draw meaning from what it had written.
I glanced over to where the Haitian stood, surrounded by his admirers. He reminded me of a pirate, Edward Teach perhaps, one of those terrors of the Caribbean. Only burning matches, tied into his beard, would have completed the image.
He had stopped talking now, had noticed Saul approach me, must have seen me reading the note, must have wondered who it was from. His stare had taken on an intense quality, an attempt at intimidation perhaps, at putting the fear into me.
Calmly, I took the note between thumb and forefinger and, making certain that he could see what I was doing, let it drift slowly into the candle’s flame until it flickered and caught. I watched the Haitian’s expression as it burned. He gave nothing away.

I did not have to wait long for the events that had been alluded to in the letter to take place. At 08:00 the next morning I got an urgent call from Hatton. Word had gone out that the hunters had found a second lair in the Old District. I cursed myself for not having had the foresight to realise that the entity might have had more than one bolt-hole, and set out immediately.
It was an old pumping station, further out than the villa had been, and far more dilapidated. The construction was on its last legs, seemingly held together by the rusting remains of old hydration systems that had fallen in upon themselves like insects or the ruins of ancient aircraft. A series of dry weirs led off to the West, feeding into a concrete cistern that the hunters had made their temporary operating headquarters.
I found Fran waiting for me when I got there. Hatton couldn’t have been far behind.
“They think the creature is hiding in there.” She said, pointing to what looked like a concrete bastion, ferrous and wind scarred in the sunlight. “They’ve had heat readings, although so far they’re holding off from using hi-tech.”
“They don’t want to be declared forfeit, not when they’re this close.”
I glanced around the assembled hunters, tried to distinguish between the Luckies and the professionals.
“Why aren’t they attacking?” I whispered.
“The Papatrusis Brothers have claimed the kill.”
“What?”
“They’re not letting anyone else get close.”
“What about the Haitian?”
Fran pointed him out, “He’s furious.”
I looked out across the scrubland, saw the large man, surrounded by his retinue, saw the other’s waiting nervously, each one no doubt calculating the odds of success in going up against the Papatrusis Brothers.
“This could get interesting.” I whispered, “The Haitian needs this kill. Hatton looked into his finances. He’s got twenty five thousand to one odds resting on this. Someone somewhere has given him backing. If the kill is stolen from under his nose, there’s no telling what he might do.”
“There’s no honour among killers.”
“This sort of situation will only lead to mistakes, mistakes that can only play to our favour.”
As if on cue the calm was shattered. One of the Luckies, Concussion Baton clearly in hand, made a break for the building. The Brothers turned in unison, brought their ballistics to bear. Two shots rang out, catching the Lucky mid-stride. He fell, swallowed up by the tall grass. A gasp travelled around the cistern like a wind, caught in the throat of everyone present.
For a moment I was shocked, almost certain that such an act of violence would be what would break the deadlock. The Papatrusis brothers were outnumbers three to one. If the Luckies acted in unison, they couldn’t hope to fend them all off.
I watched the Haitian, increasingly aware that this would have been what he was planning all along.
Nothing happened. The Luckies held their nerve, exchanged nervous glances but did nothing more. I looked at their faces, saw only the expressions of desperate men, some only now beginning to realise just how out of their depth they were. Despite this, none turned to leave. All remained resolutely facing the brothers, preferring possible death to the humiliation of retreat and the forfeit of hunting rights.
The brothers noticed the hesitation, could hardly have failed to. They stepped forward, walking slowly towards the pumping station. I willed something to happen, yearned for the tension that hung upon the air like overhead wires to snap. Nothing did. The brothers reached the relative safety of the station unscathed, and disappeared inside.
The situation was now way out of hand. I felt the impotence of inaction, the stinging sensation of helplessness, acutely aware that Government had no jurisdiction over the hunt once it reached the Old Districts, a fact that the hunters undoubtedly knew. Whatever the Amnethene had been planning, it was clearly now too late. I took a step forward, unsure of what I was about to do, and felt Fran’s hand grip my arm.
“Wait.” She said. Her gaze had taken on an expression of utter seriousness. She seemed to be watching the hunters, starring at the Haitian in particular, perhaps willing him, as I had been doing, to act.
“What for?” I hissed. It was all I was able to do.
I didn’t need to wait for an answer, for it came soon enough.
I saw the Haitian raise an arm, saw him speak a command into the concealed wrist comm., barely had time to recognise the breach of mandate for what it was before a noise shook the sky, reverberated around the cistern, and peeled off into the Old District like a clap of thunder. In an instant, the pumping station shook violently, slammed by the Sky Strike that the Haitian had ordered from his sponsor’s orbiting weapons platform. They had stopped short of employing a Concussion Lance but the effect was identical. The building tottered for what seemed like impossible seconds, held in place by an argument between gravity and the way things had always been, an argument that only gravity could win.
Then it collapsed in clouds of dust and shattered masonry, taking with it not only the Papatrusis brothers, but also any hope I had entertained of recovering the Amnethene alive.
His parting shot administered, the Haitian, closely followed by his retinue, turned and walked calmly away, leaving only the shocked and stunned Luckies in his wake.

The hunters were expelled from Babel later that evening, escorted from the town by police Floater, treated with all the dignity of the common criminals that many of us regarded them as. Despite Hatton’s lack of jurisdiction over an Old District hunt, satellite technology had been used, mandates had been broken, and a sizeable area of Old District territory had been demolished.
For his crimes, the Haitian was rewarded with a lengthy interrogation. Hatton had me sit in on it, but I became tired of the lies, the blame shifting, the claims and counter claims that the Haitian fell back on in defence. The man’s arrogance seemed to know no bounds. In murdering the Papatrusis brothers, he believed that he had simply been fulfilling a further contract. If true, his actions would represent a new low for the Hunter’s Club. I wondered if it wasn’t in fact simply another lie. Then I remembered the letter of the previous evening, and Fran’s insistence that I wait, and something far more intriguing, hope, perhaps, that all was not lost, began to fall into place.

I placed the call to the Nathaniel Institute at 13:00, ostensibly hoping to thank Fran for her efforts, but also in order to put to rest an indistinct impression that I just couldn’t shake.
The Mother Superior answered my call.
“I have a message for one of your members,” I said, “A sister called Fran?”
The Mother Superior looked confused, consulted her records for minutes.
“Is it an important message?” she said finally.
“Reasonably so, yes.”
“Then I shall wake her. Please wait.”
I should have known, should have picked up on something in the Mother Superior’s tone of voice perhaps, her general reluctance to rouse Fran, the fact that as a religious institute, siesta during the day was heavily frowned upon. Whatever it was I was still oblivious to it when she reappeared on the screen, told me that Fran was now ready to speak to me, passed me over to the elderly woman, waiting patiently in her wheelchair.

I took the indirect route out to the Old District that afternoon, choosing the coastal path that wound its way around the curve of the bay towards Jamenta, before it eventually climbed into the hills to become a maze of ancient steps, overgrown pathways and abandoned sun terraces. The paths were soon clogged with brambles, split through by tree roots, clearing only occasionally to reveal the lonely platforms where phototrophic Ornamentals had once situated themselves to greet each sunrise with keening song.
251 Crepestre Road was still and quiet when I arrived. Only our footprints of before were visible in the thin layer of salt dust that coated the roads. The gates were still chained so I scaled the wall.
I wasn’t surprised to find her in the living room, only that she had chosen to remain as Fran. She glanced at me with a look that could almost have been one of apology, or sadness perhaps.
“Thank you doesn’t quite come close, does it?” she said finally.
“It was you all along.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps in those moments that I wasn’t playing at being one of the hunters, I really was a woman from the Nathaniel Institute.”
“I saw her. She’s old, so very old.”
“Her mind is still sharp. I was able to live amongst them for some months, but she saw me for who I was from the beginning. Did you speak to her?”
I shook my head, “Would she have remembered you?”
“To live in hearts we leave behind
 is not to die.”
I smiled, “So why here, why Babel?”
She shrugged, “An impulse perhaps, something beyond my control, a memory that my kind carry with them like a talisman.”
“This house, the geneticist who lived here, your creator?”
“The father of the Amnethene type, yes, before our strain was appropriated, turned towards more sinister ends.”
“A pilgrimage?”
“Of sorts.”
“What do you plan to do now?”
She shrugged, “I’ll travel. The hunters are no longer a threat. By the time the Haitian realises that his memories of a second contract are false, I will be long gone.”
I realised then that I had underestimated her, had fallen into the trap of thinking that those forms of life that were rare and precious were also vulnerable, somehow in need of protection. I had forgotten the original intention behind the design, that the Amnethene had been re-conceived as a weapon, an infiltrator, quite happy to operate alone, quite happy to improvise.
I watched as she wandered slowly out into the courtyard, leaving the villa by the main gate, unlocking the chains with a key that she produced from her jacket.
The overgrown streets were cool and breezy in the afternoon, their junctions of silence disrupted only by an off shore wind that came out of the bone-yards to flow around the walled gardens.
She paused in the sunlight, momentarily changing the colour of her skin back to its natural shade, throwing off past identities. Then, with little more than a goodbye, she moved off, heading perhaps, towards Jamenta, closing in on the next identity, on the person she would become.