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Ah, yes, the triggers. Code words had been planted in my psyche causing me to turn into a GJW automaton. My brain had become a bomb wired and ready for the right signal to activate its deviant programming. I acted normal until I didn’t—or so I’d been told during interrogation. I had only hazy memories of my aberrant behavior—like a dream that fades into nebulous wisps.
Nadir, my father’s most loyal advisor, claimed I’d threatened to execute him. I had no recollection, but his veracity was unquestionable. If I had done that, what other horrible acts or crimes might I have committed? That’s what the LOP endeavored to determine, but my amnesia hampered the investigation.
Seeher removed the headband from the case, and my gut tightened with anxiety. Having her probe my brain and access my private thoughts unnerved me since I had no idea what she would find. I’m not ready for this. “What alien species are you?” I asked to delay the process.
“Quadran,” she replied while adjusting the settings on the headband.
I should have guessed from her four upper appendages and four eyes, two set in her face, two perched at the tips of her twitching antennas springing from her bald head. However, her height had thrown me off. She was tall and thin. Generally, Quadrans were short, squat, and prone to plumpness.
I shifted in the chair, crossing an ankle over my knee. My leggings rode up, revealing the monitor preventing me from leaving the palace. If I strayed out of bounds, not only would the LOP be notified, but I’d receive a punishing shock. Heavy around my ankle, the monitor never let me forget the shame I’d brought to the kingdom of Araset. I planted my foot on the floor again. I wasn’t sure which would be worse—discovering I’d committed a heinous crime or for the deprogramming not to work.
Seeher’s antennas periscoped from the scanner to me. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Not at all,” she lied. “Most people are a tad uneasy. I would be suspicious if you weren’t nervous. Try to think of our session as a conversation. Today, we’ll establish a baseline, determine what you do remember about what happened to you. Permission to place the brain scanner on your head?”
I rubbed the base of my right horn in trepidation and nodded. “All right. Let’s proceed.” The sooner we started, the sooner we could finish. The sooner I’ll be myself again. Hopefully. What if it doesn’t work?
“Excellent. A positive attitude is always helpful.”
I tensed as she approached me. The brain scanner resembled a gunmetal crown, a front peak narrowing toward the back where it latched. Dials, toggle switches, and other controls were embedded on the outside. Inside, I spied dozens of nodules—electrodes.
Working with all four hands, she settled the band around my forehead, nestling it under my horns and then adjusting the dials and switches. She tightened the crown—then made it even snugger.
“How’s that?” She leaned back and peered at me.
“Tight.” It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t comfortable, either.
“Your head is quite furry, and the electrodes must make good contact with your skull.” She returned to her seat and tilted the attaché so she could watch the screen.
My gaze zeroed in on a vid lens on the outside of the case. “This session is being recorded?”
“You’re very observant.” She patted the top of the case. “In addition to charting your brain activity, vids of our sessions will be taken to document your progress and to monitor me and ensure I follow procedure and do my job properly.”
I felt marginally better that there was some oversight over the deprogramming. Not that I didn’t trust her, but this was my brain, my personality, my very being she’d be probing. And although I’d “consented” to the sessions, in reality, I’d had little choice. Deprogramming had been a condition of returning home while the LOP continued with its investigation. If I’d refused, I’d be sitting in a detention facility—and they would have forced it on me anyway.
Seeher had explained reversal entailed supplanting a false belief with a new one. But I didn’t know what ideations she’d be removing or what she’d be substituting. If she altered my brain, would I still be the same person? Would I still be me? My entire body felt as tight as the band around my head.
I’m already a different person. I joined an insurgency group! How can I not remember that?
She squinted at the screen. “You are getting tense. Try to relax. Think of something pleasant.”
Kat. Sweet Kat. I would be meeting her in the garden soon. I recalled her pretty face and her stalwart defense, misplaced because of the crimes I might have committed, but that made her support all the more precious. My own family kept me at arm’s length, fearing what I might do. But she didn’t. She wasn’t afraid of me. She still trusted me. She believed in me.
“Whatever you’re thinking did the trick.” Seeher nodded approvingly. “Let’s get started. I’ll document what we’re doing and then ask you some questions. Answer to the best of your recollection. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“This is case number zero-zero-four-nine-nine. Subject is His Royal Highness Prince Lomax of Araset, planet Nomoru. MCR Special Agent Sandria Seeher. Session one.” Two eyes remained focused on her screen, two trained on me. “Your Highness, we have it on record that two years ago, over a period of six months, you visited fourteen planets, seven space stations, and four inhabited moons. What was the purpose of that trip?”
The assumption was I’d been compromised on that trip, since it was the only occasion I’d been away from home long enough to have been indoctrinated. One generally couldn’t be brainwashed overnight. “It was a goodwill tour, a diplomatic mission. My father sent me. I represented our kingdom.”
“Describe your activities on those planets.”
With the exception of a few events, days and nights blended together. I’d shaken hands, bowed, bumped heads, stomped my feet, and clapped the shoulders of thousands of people. “I met with planetary rulers or their designees, went to conferences—delivered a few keynote addresses—attended many dinners and galas, toured landmarks and historic sites—all the usual pomp and circumstance.” I shrugged.
“How often were you alone?”
