Remember my Heart - 1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

15/22/238 AC MT (After Colonization, Mars Time)

The night should have begun like any other for Gus. He rose, showered and shaved, pulled on his sheer body-suit and work clothes, and grabbed his gloves on his way out the door. He didn’t feel rested despite the ten hours his chronometer said he’d slept, so he opted to take the building’s lift rather than the stairs. On the way down, he fastened his gloves and scrolled through his messages. As he deleted one after another, he reflected that someone must have leaked his private com number to the media again.

It was election year for Mars’ Planetary Governor. The incumbent had several challenges for the position and the latest hot topic was funding for more research and development of bacta treatments. All of Gus’s messages were from reporters wanting a quote from the first patient to undergo full-body bacta immersion treatment. Unfortunately for Gus, he was that patient.

Gus’s scowl deepened as he stepped outside his shoddy apartment building and realized he’d forgotten his glasses. The city lights weren’t bad in this neighborhood, but he was headed for one of the busiest parts of the city and his sensitive eyes would be screaming for relief by the time he reached his workplace and the extra pair of tinted glasses stored there. His eyes were growing more light sensitive every year. The doctors could only say it was just another side-effect of the bacta treatments and there was nothing they could do. Eventually, he'd go blind.

Gus was comfortable in his new life and supposed only the loss of his sight would eventually force him out of the rut he'd fallen into. Not the life he'd ever expected, but he was steadily chipping away at his debts accrued from the medical care and continuing treatments that had saved his life. That small comfort was the only thing that got him out of bed most days.

“Damn it!” Gus started to jog as his wrist com unit beeped, telling Gus he was in danger of missing his train. He managed to reach the magrail station and slip on board just as the doors were closing and flopped onto a seat, waving to his fellow passengers. He received a few sympathetic smiles in return.

One of the side effects to the bacta treatment he’d received was sensitivity to environmental changes. As he cooled down, Gus started to shiver in the train’s cool, recycled air. Impatiently waiting for his heart to slow and his special protective suit to adapt, he stared at the train’s com screen for the news.

The elections had the largest following in the discussion forums and commentary, but the gossip tabloids were just as popular as ever. Apparently, Daiki no Mori was in the midst of another spat with his father and those “in the know” were whispering disinheritance, Yui no Itou was getting divorced again, playgirl so-and-so was doing something mildly scandalous ….

Gus let his head fall back against his seat, closing his eyes. Once, being found worthy of a note in the tabloids was the highlight of his day. Now his health was his top priority.

For survival, Gus lived his days inside an expensive, high-tech, deep-blue polymer suit that stretched from wrist to ankle like a second skin. Specialized socks and gloves could be attached and the high neck kept all but his head and ears covered. Sometimes, he felt that the suit was the only thing keeping his body from shattering into a thousand pieces.

Gus wasn't embarrassed to admit that he hid behind his suit, even though he knew it was unhealthy. Even after living on Mars for half his life, Gus stuck out. Mars had been colonized with a large East-Asian population and although Gus had naturally straight, black hair, he was definitely not Asian. His nose was too big, his chin too firm, his hair too thick, his eyes too dark and definitely too round.

Raised on Earth, Gus had dark skin, almost coffee-colored before the accident, and lightened to a dark, opalescent tan now, hidden under his suit. There was something about or in the atmosphere or chemicals of the air breathed in the domes that prejudiced native Martians to light skin that had a slight greenish tinge. The color set in at an early age. Young children new to Mars usually adopted some coloring; adults never.

In addition, the lower gravity meant that the people tended to be tall and slim. On Earth, 175 centimeters was average; on Mars, Gus often felt like he was living in the land of the giants, especially when he’d first arrived as a gawky, uncoordinated teenager.

The train’s whir increased in pitch, the incline out of the downside slums to the opulence that characterized the Entertainment District. Gus never tired of this sight.

It reminded him of his first glance at Mars. After his parents died, he’d lived with his paternal grandparents for a short time before being offloaded into the custody of his uncle. The trip from Earth to Mars had felt like a grand adventure and he’d been excited to see the place that had starred in so many of his mother’s stories.

He smiled a little hearing a young child chattering excitedly as her parents pointed out various landmarks.

The Dream City dome was a carefully-planned and elegant grid when viewed from space, larger even than the capitol dome. Terraforming, however, had progressed slower than expected, restricting the human population to the ever more crowded domes. The dome’s heart was the glamorous entertainment district surrounding the Riverwalk where Gus worked at Power, just one of many nightclubs dotting the area.

He walked the last few blocks from the rail station through the Riverwalk, which hummed and bustled no matter the hour. Consequently, Power was open 25 hours a day, seven days a week, throughout the long, Martian year. Gus worked the lucrative main shift, from 8pm to 4am. He took his meal break in the 39 minutes and some seconds that comprised the 25th Martian hour.

He gave Trin, the ex-cop bouncer manning the doors, a smile and wave as he went in through the main entrance and went to check in with Mandi, the night manager. Triplets Jes, Jen, and their brother Jer manned the host stand for the main shift. Gus could never keep them straight, any of them, but they gave him cheery grins and waves as he approached. Like a good concierge service, Power's hosts and hostesses could acquire anything and everything to meet their customers' needs.

Gus scanned the busy restaurant on the second floor. Balcony seating was sound-proofed such that each table could separately decide whether or not to listen to the often erratic music downstairs. Power's owners were quaint in their tastes; service was personal, with a horde of uniformed wait staff instead of computers and the tables had real cloth coverings and napkins. There were even Oiran, men and women trained in the art of social entertainment. They could fill a conversation, sing, and dance. They knew everyone, kept up to-date on gossip, and were also skilled mediators. Power’s restaurant catered to those who could afford the luxury.

One of the triplets pointed out Mandi, whaling away on the drum set onstage. The music was never the same, moment-to-moment, because any customer could challenge any current band-member for a place. All staff members, except Gus, could fill in when gaps appeared. It was all a part of Power's charm.

Just as he did every day, Gus pushed aside a stab of grief for all he'd lost and threaded his way through the crowd to the bar on the main floor. He found and slipped on his sunglasses with relief.

Gus was the senior of seven bartends on Power's main bar which took up one whole wall of the downstairs. Diahann, the day shift senior, welcomed him with a tired smile and offered him the receipts tally to check over while she rounded up her shift’s stragglers. The day and late shifts made do with four bartends at the main bar, grabbing one from the secondary, upstairs bar if they were busy.

A cascading series of notes marked a shift in musicians just as Gus signed off on the receipts. A particularly jarring harmony made Gus rub his ear and frown at the stage. "It's been rowdy today," Mandi told Gus as she came behind the bar for a drink.

He nodded. "Things'll settle down after the elections."

"Still, watch yourself. And keep your baton handy. We're short on security tonight."

Gus frowned slightly and nodded. For therapy he trained in Martian Martial Arts, a fusion of different styles brought to Mars centuries ago. His skills meant he could have worked security, but he was too fragile and far too popular behind the counter. Besides, his bosses liked the extra pair of eyes on the floor. He regarded it as the one redeeming aspect of his inability to ever again step onstage.

"Anyone I should keep my eyes on?" he asked.

"The usual," she replied. "I'll be in the back. Call me if there's any problems."

He nodded, not envying Mandi her job tonight. The back referred to the private, reservations-only entertainment rooms. They must have had some high-profile clients coming in to require Mandi's personal attention.

The night began with the usual grind of serving drinks, introducing patrons to Oiran; rotating server and bartend breaks and musical interludes; monitoring inappropriate or suspicious activity with security; doling out anti-intoxicants; even sending one of the triplets for anything from a taxi to an ambulance to law enforcement, and, rarely, all three. Gus spent his break lying on the office couch, sipping a protein shake that was all his stomach could handle these days, with a cool rag over his eyes.

He returned to the bar to find a familiar face hunched over a stool. Gus shook his head and plopped down a straight shot of whiskey, unobtrusively swiping a scanner over the man's wrist to render a receipt from the eID embedded under almost everybody’s skin.

"Do I even need to ask what happened?" Gus asked.

Staring blankly at the tiny shot glass was a man who dealt day and night with highly-strung musicians. Perry Dougan was one of the best talent agents for Ares Records, Ltd. Consequently, he was often assigned the difficult cases. It was mainly due to Perry that Gus was where he was now, both pre- and post-accident, and he paid Gus handsome bonuses for scouting new talent in the club.

Perversely, Perry had shitty personal taste in people for an exceptional manager of high-maintenance, would-be stars, and only ever came in for drinks to drown a broken heart. And there he sat again, wondering what had gone wrong.

He shook his head slowly. "I just don't understand it, Gus."

It was a small thing, but Perry always used Gus’s name. Perhaps it was because he was of mixed descent himself, but Perry had never treated Gus any differently from anyone else, accepting him just like any other of the young talent he shepherded. Gus had always been grateful for the older man's kindness and did what he could, when he could, to help him in turn.

"Shall I call for Shiori?" asked Gus. Shiori was one of Power's Oiran and she'd helped Perry a time or two before.

"No, thank you, Gus, I just want to get drunk." Perry dropped his head into his hands and sighed.

Gus winced. The break-up must have been bad. "I'll start a tab," he said, and Perry nodded but didn't reply.

"Say, Gus," said Perry during a lull. His original shot still sat untouched in front of him and he thumbed a gesture at the band. "Who's that? On synth?"

Gus smiled in genuine amusement. "He's under contract."

"Ah, thought he was too good not to have gained your attention before. But who is he?"

The stage was a painful reminder of all that he’d lost, but Gus had practice ignoring that to focus on the slim man behind the synthesizer and wailing into the microphone. As he sang, his fingers flashed over the set-up with confidence, switching keys and settings sometimes mid-phrase. Although Gus didn't understand the archaic language of the song, he could certainly recognize the rare contra-tenor, as high and light as a woman's.

Short for a Martian, and slim, with a waist many women would kill for, Daiki no Mori, aka Little D, was Martian culture at its most refined. His hair was dyed green tonight, swirling around his head like a feathery cloud. His skin glittered under the lights, from either make-up or dye, it was hard to tell, but probably make-up, eyes outlined in thick, black kohl, and lips painted black as well. He'd chosen to wear black that night, tight, clinging pants and a deep-green midriff-baring shirt under a black, sleeveless overcoat with an upturned collar that had to be suffocating under the lights. Heavy black boots worked the pedals -- Gus knew them without having to look, and fingerless, black gloves completed the ensemble.

On vid, Daiki no Mori wore his clan's pride and haughtiness like a cloak, lending him an air of cool, aloof sophistication that most found irresistible. That was gone now and, combined with the disguising make-up and hair dye, made him appear like a completely different person, an untouchable, wild thing. It was damn sexy.

Gus studied his friend. "Are you drunk? High?"

“No. Why?”

“Then you’re an idiot if you can’t recognize that guy.”

"Come on, Gus, pity an old man, at least give me a hint!"

He snorted. "You're hardly old, Perry! Besides, it's far too much fun to see you stew." And, he added to himself, if it gets your mind off your girlfriend, so much the better.

"You are a cruel, cruel man."

Gus watched his friend and old manager watch the singer while he filled trays for the servers and mixed drinks. The whiskey was warm now, but Perry only held the glass; he didn't drink. Gus was part-way down the bar when somebody else took over on synth.

"The usual, Mori-san?" he asked, as the green-haired Martian came up to the bar. He allowed himself a smirk when he heard Perry’s gasp.

Ever polite, Mori-san gave Perry a pleasant, amused smile, and nodded to Gus.

"What's that?" Perry asked when Gus slid a brown-colored drink in a tall glass to the musician.

"Roy Rogers." Gus ignored his friend’s confused stare in favor of giving Mori-san a friendly smile. Standing behind his counter, Gus trembled when his eyes met those of his customer. His heart stopped for a moment, leaving him light-headed. He hoped no one noticed. To regain his composure, Gus focused on the next drink.

"Better not be," Mori-san joshed. He inclined his chin in a bow, ever the charming aristocrat. "Arigato," he added, and tossed a heavy coin into the tip jar.

"Do itashi mashite," Gus replied, bowing as well.

"Little D comes in here?" Perry demanded, leaning over the counter to hiss at Gus when the singer was safely out of earshot.

He nodded, following Mori-san with his eyes. "Every Friday. Tests out his new songs."

"And that one?"

"Oh, he plays that one every time he’s here.” He paused, cocking his head as he thought. His eyes naturally wandered across to where Little D maneuvered around the crowded dance floor. “Actually, he didn't come in last week.”

"I should think not," huffed Perry. "He was in New Tokyo on a gig."

"Oh." Gus shrugged as he lost sight of Mori-san in the crowd.

"Gus, Gus, my man, why didn't you tell me?"

Gus raised an eyebrow at Perry. "Why would I? He's already contracted to Ares; what benefit is it to inform you that your musicians sometimes come down here to unwind?"

"There's more of them?"

Gus held back his laughter, but he smiled broadly. "Evidently. Come on, you fixed me up with this job, you don't think that wouldn't have drawn attention?"

"Not that kind," replied Perry with a disparaging sniff. "I was hoping it'd entice you back." Perry sighed. “I know your hands are ruined, but you can still sing.”

Gus wrung his own hands with careful regret at the mention of the damage done to the co-primary tools of his former trade. Of all his injuries, his hands were the worst, fractured like so many shards of glass, sending just as many sparks of pain shooting up his body.

"Perry, did you even listen to the doctors? The gases ate the inside of my esophagus, destroyed the lining on the lungs. It took me a full year to get my voice back. And my hands?” He shook his head. “I'm all too aware of my limitations."

“Gus.” Perry leaned back slightly, palms out in surrender. “Fine. All I’m saying is that you’re wasting your talent. You know Little D’s first hit --“

Gus smacked the countertop with the glass in his hand and glared. “I didn’t write that. Quit bringing it up!”

"Gus …!”

"No! Not again!” snapped Gus. “I don’t need you to tell me what I -- Aw, hell, 'scuse me."

Setting fingers on the counter briefly, Gus vaulted over the mock-wood, wrist flipping out in a familiar motion that got his collapsible baton in his hand and extended the carbonite rod to its full length. A tight knot of people on the dance floor had all the characteristics of a fight; and no security in sight. Laying about with the baton, a staff almost as long as he was, Gus knocked spectators to the side and charged in to the center. They weren't regulars, so he knew he needed to gain their respectful attention with a single, quick, stunning move.

Knowing that the bacta in his next treatment would repair any surface injuries made Gus bolder than usual. With the benefit of grace and agility instilled by martial arts training, he dodged between the two much larger, sweating, swearing bodies and launched up, kicking out with his feet and striking downward in two, swift blows with the baton. The men fell apart, hands to now-aching skulls, all eyes on Gus. He patted his hair back and calmly waited for the uniform to register with the men.

"Dude, hot shit," said one.

"Amazin'," said the other.

Gus sighed. They were too high to know what they were doing, but at least the fight was over. The crowd scattered as security arrived, signaling an end to the entertainment. Collapsing the baton and slipping it back in his pocket, Gus caught a flash of green in the crowd, but by the time he'd turned, there was nothing. He turned his back on the babbling men and returned to the bar.

"I don’t remember this place being so volatile,” Perry commented.

Gus frowned. "It’s usually not, but tempers are running high, what with the elections, politicians on their soapboxes, and all." Slipping a couple of bags over his hands, he thrust them deep in the ice-bin. He grit his teeth, sighing as the ice soothed the heat in his hands. He told himself not to vault over the bar again. That had been stupid.

"Gus?"

"It's nothing," he told Perry, shaking his head slightly.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

"It's been a bad couple days." Gus kept his eyes on his hands, bracing himself as he started to shiver.

"The docs?"

"Can't give me any stronger meds. My next treatment is next week."

"Sorry, man, I just, it kills me to know what --"

"Please, Perry. Not right now, okay? I don't need this today."

Finally picking up his whiskey, Perry downed it in a gulp, grimacing at the familiar burn. "Well, you ever need anything, you know who to call, alright?"

Gus nodded. "Sure, Perry. Good night."

Perry left, but not without a few backward looks. Gus ignored him. He cleaned up and went back to work, but the past lingered in his thoughts.

Back at the turn of the century, machines were being made at the nanoscale level for medical purposes. Now, scientists manufactured bacteria to do that job. They were less invasive and didn't have to be replaced or forcibly removed. The little bacteria did their jobs and died, being absorbed back into the body. Everything from ulcers to cancer to broken bones and the common cold were repaired that way. Gus had been so hurt that the doctors had elected to not only inject bacta into his bloodstream, but to immerse him as well. The treatment was still in the experimental stages and there'd been a lot of unknowns, as well as risks, but there'd been a better-than-nothing chance of saving his life. Perhaps one day his uncle would stop looking so guilty and stressed over that decision.

Gus looked up from a scan to hand a drink to yet another person he knew.

"What the hell?" he blurted, staring. "Jun? Jun! It is you!" He pressed a couple buttons on his scanner in quick succession. "Drink's on the house, sit down, where've you been? What're you up to these days?"

The tall man, tall even for a Martian, folded himself onto one of the stools. "Got a gig, thought I'd drop in. You mind?"

"Shit, no! It's been a year or more since I saw you last. How's the band?"

"Not bad, but not so good, either. Don't think we'll be together that much longer, been thinking about quitting."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Jun waved a hand. "Nah, my girl, she and I want to settle down, gettin' too old for this crap. Perry says there's a couple recording positions open, I'm going to audition tomorrow."

"Ah," said Gus in understanding. "Hence the drinking. You know you'll do great. Don't let the nerves get in the way. If Perry's offered a job to you, they must really be hard-up for percussionists."

Jun laughed and visibly relaxed. "I knew it was a good idea to come see you, you always knew how to cheer a body up. You're looking good, by the way."

"Thank you. Some days are better than others."

"Join me for a set?" He nodded at the stage.

Gus went still, giving his old friend and band mate a serious look over the tops of his glasses. "You know I don't play anymore, Jun."

"Still?” He cocked his head, regarding Gus steadily. “I thought by now you would’ve surely picked it up again. Nothing used to hold you back. I seem to recall you playing even when you were too sick to stand."

Gus grunted as he slid a drink to another customer and scanned in the purchase.

"Aw, hell, Gus, it's only a few minutes, you know you want to, I mean, look at that guy, he's murdering such a classic piece of Martian history!"

"What is it with today?" Gus demanded. "I said no, and I meant it!" He coughed against the dry, stabbing pain in his throat from just raising his voice. Turning, he sipped some water before the coughing got worse.

There was a pause as Jun stared at him, clearly knowing that something was amiss, but unwilling to pry. "Well, we should hang out, for old time’s sake. What time do you get off?"

"Not 'til four and you should get home if you've got auditions in the morning."

"Spoil-sport, but you're probably right."

"I know I'm right."

"Prick."

"Butthead."

Jun laughed. "It's good to know some things don't change. Call some time, okay?"

"Okay.” Gus gave the expected response. The past was just too painful. "I'm taking a break," he told the nearest of his bartends.

The bartend nodded and Gus fled to the back room to sit down and put his feet up for a minute. He opened a seam of his suit and slapped on another pain patch. Even with the bacta at low levels, for him, the medication still wore off far too fast. He horded the patches, normally, but it'd been a bad few days. The docs told him that the majority of the pain was metaphysical; a polite way to tell him it was all in his head, and had refused anything stronger than the quick-acting patches. He knew a lot was stress, knew it just from the way he’d mouthed off to his shrink the day before. Gus was usually too careful to appear normal to indulge in fits of temper, but hell if the woman hadn't been asking all the same questions as all the reporters. He wasn't a guinea pig, dammit! Even if he felt like it sometimes. He’d been unconscious when the choice in treatment was made, which didn’t automatically make him a spokesman for bacta technology.

"Gus?"

He jumped. "Yeah?"

Mandi paused halfway to the desk, an electronic notebook in her hand. "You okay? You don’t look so good."

"Yeah, just tired."

"Maybe you should call it a night."

"No, I'm okay. How's things?"

She blew out a breath that ruffled her bangs. "Shit for brains, of course." She smiled to take the sting out of her words. "How's yours?"

"Busy, but not too bad. Only one fight, but it was over quick."

"That's good. God, I can't wait until the elections are over. How you holding up?"

Gus frowned. "Fine." He stood up and swayed, catching his balance against the wall, which sent a pang through his hand and on up along his arm. "You know what, Mandi? I think I will go home."

Mandi almost dropped her notebook as her head jerked around so she could stare at him. Gus smiled faintly. He had never missed a day of work and always scheduled his doctor's visits well in advance. He could count on one hand the days he'd been late and he’d never begged off in the middle of a shift. Surely, she’d have no reason to doubt him. Hadn’t she just offered to send him home?

Mandi waved dismissively. "Naoki can do the books when he's finished upstairs."

Gus nodded and gave his boss a relieved smile. "Okay. Thanks, Mandi."

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I'll be here."

She nodded, and Gus felt her eyes follow him out. He took the back entrance out to the street, stepping out of the wide alley to the main strip. He walked as quickly as he could, wanting to be home before the painkillers wore off, but the crowd on the Riverwalk jostled him, causing him to stumble. The physical contact added to his body’s painful throbbing.

"Whoa, there." A friendly voice steadied him with a hand on his arm.

Gus looked up, catching a flash of green and a wide smile, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.