Down Memory Stain

By A. M. Reynwood

Vermont sunshine lights up the blooming forsythia like neon as I pull into the driveway. Back when I was a kid, I thought those bushes were magical—fairy torches or some such nonsense. Now they remind me of something else.

“…Last known location.” Agent Vex’s voice fizzles over the intercom, but I haven’t been listening. I know all about the investigation. Anyone who doesn’t probably spent the last three weeks in deep space.

Dargath TAL was no small fish. When global politics turned galactic, he made waves as the first ambassador of the Zythian Complex when they entered our galaxy. He organized peace talks rather than war rallies. Things were looking up.

Until he was found dead in an Alabama junkyard.

The lack of on-scene evidence suggests a translocator, but only the Complex has tech that advanced, and they don’t share. Nor do they murder their own.

“Agent Kade, are you listening to me?”

I press the switch on my speaker. “Yeah, Vex. Don’t get your tail in a twist. I’m not investigating a suspect. I’m just visiting my grandpa.”

I park in the turn-around. The half-timber cottage and English garden are the same as I remember, old-fashioned in this new age of subparticle translators and quantum drives.

Nostalgia sweeps over me like an Irish coffee after a long day at the office. It’s been too long. I get out, leaving my radio in the car.

Big band music drifts through the open window. The front door is unlocked. Grandpa never was good about home security.

I step inside. “Hello? Grandpa, it’s me.”

Grandpa shuffles into the kitchen, broom in hand. “Kasper? Back so soon?”

I cock an eyebrow. “What d’you mean? I haven’t been here in ages.”

“Oh, yeah?” His smile looks sad. “Guess I just lost track of time.”

I shrug. When it comes to weak memories, I’m no one to judge. By the time I turned eight I couldn’t remember the alphabet, so my folks had a chip installed in my brain. It works, but still glitches sometimes. At least Grandpa’s excuse is eighty years of hearty living.

I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Well, I was in the area and thought I’d stop by. What’re you up to?”

Grandpa hefts the broom and heads into the dining room. “Just a bit of cleaning.”

Following him, I immediately notice the old walnut hutch. It still displays photos from Grandpa’s cop days way back when, but— “Wasn’t that on the other side of the wall?”

He glances at it. “Yeah, but I thought I’d try a bit of rearranging.”

Odd. Grandpa never moved anything after Grandma died. The place where it once sat looks new compared to the stain-covered wooden floor everywhere else. I shake my head. “You know they make stuff that’ll lift these right out, right? Without all the hassle of sanding and refinishing.”

“I know, but they remind me of things.” He points to a series of purple spots by the table. “Those’re from when your grandma and me spent an evening sorting elderberries. She liked to make syrup with ’em.” Now he shows me a grayish blotch under the window. “This one’s from when you kids brought over a toad from school. It escaped from its cage and you chased it all over the house.”

“Did we? I don’t remember that.”

“Oh, I don’t expect you would.” He scratches the back of his head, looking at the stain. “You’ve always had a tendency to forget things that didn’t end well.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure, Grand—” I catch a spot of bright yellow, mostly covered under the hutch. “—pa.”

I walk over and crouch to get a better look. For a stain, it’s unnaturally bright, like the forsythia lining the driveway. Like…

Suspicion creeps up my neck.

“What’s the story behind this one?”

He hesitates. “One that didn’t end well.”

I turn around. His knuckles are white on the broomstick, and I can read the remorse in his eyes.

Easing to my feet, I reach for my radio—Blast! I left it in the car. “Grandpa, why is there Zythian blood on your floor?”

“Oh, Kasper…”

Before I can question him, the front door bangs open, and a masked figure storms in. I don’t need the insignia on its matte-black uniform to tell me it’s from the Complex, but the VG blaster in its hand speaks volumes about its purpose.

The Zythian aims. “I finally found you!”

I jump in front of my grandpa and hold out my hands. They’re shaking like leaves. “Now wait a minute. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“You humans took too long to find Dargath TAL’s killer, so the Sovereign sent me to follow the trail. Your domicile is at the end of it, William Kade. Now face the wrath of the Complex.”

My chest cinches tight, stomach churning. This extraterrestrial is going to vaporize my grandpa—

The gun is pulled from my waistband. Fires from over my shoulder.

The bang resounds in my ears. I’m too shocked to move, heartbeat pulsing in my temples.

The Zythian staggers back, then collapses. I can’t help but stare at the bright yellow blood oozing from its torn throat. “Why is this so familiar?” My voice wavers, sounding far away.

Behind me, Grandpa sighs and sets my pistol on the table. “Three weeks ago you came to me going on about a conspiracy centered around that Dargath TAL and planetary domination. He found you snooping and chased you here, spouting downright terrible threats. That time you were the one who pulled the trigger, Kasper.”

The memory chip inside my brain clicks and whines as it tries to recall deleted information—a sure sign I’ve truly forgotten something. Which means Grandpa’s right. “But… how did the body end up in Alabama?”

Grandpa steps around me and calmly pulls the translocator from the Zythian’s belt. “Simple. I press a button, and zoop! the body disappears. All that’s left is a stain.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A. M. Reynwood lives on a wee farm in Arcadia, NY where she can usually be found reading or hoarding the kitchen for her small bakery business. Since 2013 she has published a seven-novel speculative fantasy fiction series as well as a whimsical short story, and is always working on another tale to tell.

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