The only thing he could remember when he woke this morning was a powerful voice saying over and over: The immortal can never die… the immortal can never die… And waking this morning, he could not remember who had said these echoing words; now fading from his memory. He could not remember anything at all as he looked out of the window where the world bloomed in strange colours, streaking down the sky, beautiful as the dawn and cold as the night. When he saw the looming silver-white mountains on the horizon, the lapping blue waters of the sea below, he could not remember who he was, or where he was, or how he had arrived here in this astonishing room that overlooked a new and alien paradise. This place, coming at him from nowhere, was a place that filled him with a sense of profound wonder. And ever since first waking this morning, he had been unable to pull away from the visions he discovered before him: of the streaking sky and clouds of red. He stared out through the blue-green frosted glass with a feeling of euphoria touching his mind and body until all else ceased to exist. The voice faded and was gone. All he saw was a world of crystal and light, while the blue sky tinted red covered him with a sense of deep comfort, where above again, he saw clouds floating on a streaming wild wind blowing down from the north. All day he stood before the wall of glass, twelve feet overhead to reach a domed ceiling also of crystal glass. Sunlight speared into his eyes as he turned to study the room around him; he had been deep asleep in that bed, under those crumpled sheets. Even though the room was beautiful, he turned back to look out of the window and down over a vast landscape, brilliantly lit by the sun. The sight was breathtaking. Even the abstract words that described the beauty of this place and the land beyond formed easily in his mind; all things save his own name. And strangely here, in this place, he was not afraid of his loss of identity. He could not care less and so he stood before the glass, mooning in and out of a gentle euphoria. He even knew that this was no dream. This was reality. This was bliss. He was naked before the world; and all of it felt right, perfect and totally without fear. Sometimes he stroked the glass; its texture felt like silk, warm to touch; he could see a reflection of himself in the glass and he stroked a hand through his hair, long to his shoulders and autumn-brown in colour, ringlets in the glass, and for one tiny streak of memory, he thought that something had changed – his hair was slightly longer than before. Before what? But this thought did not destroy his euphoria or seed doubt in his mind. He tried to comb his ringlets with his fingers; he liked his reflection in the glass. He stood over six-feet tall, was lean, with arms and legs that were correct for his height and weight, nothing lanky or loping or disproportional. An athlete’s body, a patterned body with gold, blue and black tattoos over his shoulders, down his back, down his arms, stomach and legs. Some of the tattoos were streaked with red lines. When he turned to look at himself closer, he found scars within the tattoos: two long slit-like wounds on his left side, just above his hip. He found more slit-like scars on his upper right arm, cutting through the tattoos with fine white lines. Maybe the tattoos concealed a clue to his identity? But studying them, he found the patterns were all abstract, familiar, where again he had a flash of memory so quick and sharp it felt more like a pain than purely thought. He wished for a true mirror, looked around the room and saw a large silver-framed mirror on a wall by doors that opened onto a balcony. The mirror was partly concealed by tall ferns in pots either side. Table and chairs were set by the wall under the mirror. He moved to the mirror, then stopped, trying to remember what else the mirror could show; mirrors could do so many things, he was sure, but he could not make any firm connections. He failed to remember; and pushed aside the ferns to see a darkly frosted surface that showed only his head and shoulders. He touched his face with strong fingers, searching for more scars. Smooth skin, hair on his upper lip, around his chin. His reflection was beautiful in a strong masculine way, but there was no memory – the reflection gave nothing away. Losing interest, he turned to pay greater attention to the room he was in. Around the smooth walls of pale orange stood more potted plants, palms and bromeliads. The domed crystal ceiling was ribbed with beautifully moulded beams in some light silver metal, the same as the mirror frame. He sat down at the long dark table and looked out over a high balcony, out again to the sea. He knew he was looking at something extraordinary, yet did not know why; the sense of it was there inside him, but not the reason. Before him the black-glassed doors would access the balcony, but were now closed. Beyond the foot of the bed there was a long wall, where on the far left side was a black door with a silver handle. He got up from the table and walked to this door, tried the handle and found that it led into a luxurious bathroom with a deep silver spa bath embedded in the floor. A beautiful triangular crystal ceiling flooded the tiny room with warm light; the toilet and washbasin were spotless and white like ivory. Another black-frosted glass mirror was above the basin. He came out of the bathroom and picked up an object that was sitting on a tall bronze stand by the door. He thought it was a small black box of some sort, but turning it over and over in his hands, he found the entire surface of the object sooth and totally without indent or imprint: there was no lid that he could find, no joins or clasps or locks. Not a box, but a strange art ornament. Just one small black box that looked to him more like a tiny black pig without a head, standing on tiny stumpy legs. He studied it, felt only a smooth surface that seemed solid and impervious to anything that might strike against it. The corners were rounded, and its tiny legs joined the body without mark. He knocked against it and heard a slightly muffled sound from within – could it be hollow, not solid? He shrugged his tattooed shoulders; the object gave him no answers. He put the thing back on its stand without further interest and turned back to gazing out of the window, sighing in wonder when he watched the patterns of sunlight sparking against the crystal of the dome above. Tiny daytime stars flared and broke into infinite rays, white-light and full of colour. The dome, he realized was made of diamond – diamond formed to suit the needs of those who had built this fantastic room. Who had built this room? He felt suddenly warm and when he did, he heard a gust of wind and felt a breeze touch his face. The breeze was fresh, cold from outside; breathing in the air, he was again flooded with euphoria. He turned away from the windows and dropped down onto the soft covers of the bed and momentarily closed his eyes. He woke, unable to contain his euphoria within sleep; the feeling snapped him awake, where again the light streamed down through the crystal glass, although the light had moved; it was the soft light of late afternoon, of coming night. The sun was sinking into the sea outside, and the sight of it blasted his mind with beauty – he had never seen such a vision before, never seen such colours. The glory … pure glory flooded inside him, choked him and he swallowed. Tears streaked his face and he fell back onto the pillows and watched the sunset. No dream of mind could match this, and whatever it had been that he dreamt while asleep it had no power now. A frosted tint of turquoise touched the surface of the sea, turning red as the sun reached the waves, as it launched a billion rays of golden light across the flat and calm surface. An evening sea surface, too calm to thrash in rolling waves, undulating, not breaking, surface-oil with the colours of sunset. Shadows fell over the crystal windows and he turned to see red clouds, orange streaked, floating above the domed ceiling. Stars appeared. As he stared above, a previously invisible door opened by the strange black box and someone came into the room. The someone was a doll-like woman – a doll with its hair stripped away. Her head was bald yet spiked and she walked like an automaton. She was, he knew at once, an android. Where her hair should have been was a battery of open connectors where her makers could access her inner computer. The android came and stood by his bed and looked at him with large liquid eyes that were display screens, behind which he could see pinpricks of electric light. ‘Welcome,’ she said in an equally electric voice. In reply, he nodded; he had never before needed to interact so closely with an android … another flash of memory. How did he know this? ‘Where am I and who am I?’ he said. ‘Why am I here?’ The android took steps backwards as he climbed out of bed to stand before her, programmed to stand always outside his personal space. She answered his questions: ‘Aurora. Christian Jharr. Because the Master wants you to open the black box.’ All of the words she spoke were displayed in her eyes as text; he could read as well as hear her answers. Her eyes were liquid monitors. The sun grew cold in the waters of the sea and it darkened, and darkening, tiny lights around the base of the dome switched on, glowing whitish blue, frosted, icy, yet paradoxically warming. He looked at the android and said nothing, as nothing she had just told him had meaning. He had listened to her voice more than the content of her words: whoever programmed her had given her a voice with an accent, a beautiful electric voice with an accent that sounded – French? Her emotion sensors detected confusion in him and she explained, ‘Your memory will return fully over the next few days. I will give you all you need.’ ‘Then give me some clothes; standing naked is interesting, but disturbing, even before an android.’ ‘As you wish.’ She bowed her head and clicked as she turned to leave the room through the invisible door. The world outside was almost black with night, leaving only a tint of red over the sea; the sky was massively packed with stars, far more stars than he could ever remember seeing before. It looked cold outside in the space of the sky. Inside, it was warm and perfect. He realized now how hungry he was. And in hunger, he thought over the words of the android: The Master wants you to open the black box... Meaning the black object by the invisible door? He could not even remember the names she had given him in answer to his ‘who am I’ question. No, he remembered ‘Jharr’. He was sure this name was his, his surname… But the black box? Again he went to pick it up, examined it with greater concentration. Nothing. There was nothing to be found. It was as smooth as glass and impossible to open if it had no lid. It had no drawers, no secret compartments, nothing that his examining fingers could find anywhere on its surface. He was feeling around the legs of the box when the door opened again and the android came back inside, carrying a large container. He watched her as she carried it to the bed and opened it. Far easier than opening this damn black thing… From inside the container the android took out a bundle of clothes and a pair of boots. ‘You can wear these,’ she explained as she unpacked, neatly and carefully arranging the things on the bed. He put down the box and came to her side, pointed back at it and said, ‘I can’t open that thing! What makes your master think I can open it? There’s not even a lid.’ He looked into her monitor eyes and saw neat black text appear; it scrolled: Master wants you to open the Black Box ... your name is Christian Jharr from Earth city, Paris. You are now in Aurora. Your name is Christian Jharr... He turned away from her scrolling eyes and began dressing in the clothes she had brought. Everything was black: black trousers made of a clinging shining material, a number of black shirts and black long-sleeve tops, also of the same soft shining material. There were two pairs of black boots, lined inside with the same material.  He took a pair, pulled them on. As the boots fitted the shape of his feet, he knew they were surely his own. He put on a long black coat with slit sides; the coat was edged with a deep silver strip of a harder material that could close without buttons – he felt comfortable and at home in these all-black clothes. And none of it had meaning. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, fully able now to see his reflection in the crystal windows. Dark outside, light inside, he was fully reflected and mirrored. He was as handsome as he thought he was and his name meant nothing. ‘I’m starving, you know.’ ‘Then I will take you to food. Follow me.’ The android moved towards the invisible door, and Christian Jharr, whoever he was, followed her. The android walked slowly, a small staggered step with her hands poised before her, as if she were conscious that she might fall. Beside her, Christian walked at her pace, watching her strange synthetic face, wondering if she had any form of self-consciousness working within her artificial intelligence, wondering what she was thinking, if anything. He wanted to see her electronic thoughts reflected on her face, but she seemed to see and express nothing. She led him out into another crystal-walled space, a corridor where on either side he could see out to the beautiful night world around him. To his right, he could make out the shape of a huge jutting side of a mountain, around which must cluster houses: he could see their lights shining up the hillside. The sea was deep purple, surging up and back on his left. A road was lit like an avenue in a long sweep around the beach before the sea – there was nothing on the road. And although there were lights, city lights, he could see no movement of people in the darkness. This thought was mildly disturbing even though he felt very little curiosity about anything that was now happening to him. But he was intrigued by the android – he found her fascinating, more than anything she had so far told him. By the time she led him through another invisible door and into a domed chamber of gigantic proportions, Christian had forgotten entirely about the black box that he was supposed to open. Suddenly the android said, ‘This is the Aurora Dome and control centre.’ The words scrolled across her eyes as she led him down a long flight of steps. The cavernous room was circular and massive… Large enough to construct an interstellar spacecraft… The sheer size of the chamber astonished him and he stared up into the terrible heights of the ceiling. He guessed the height was at least three hundred feet above. “I don’t see any food in here. Must we walk across this huge space?” he answered, “I’m starving, remember.” “I do not forget. I am not programmed to forget.” She took hold of his arm with small tight fingers that dug a little too heavily into his muscles… Perhaps she doesn’t know how much pressure to apply? She led him one step forward, where a flashed nanosecond later they were standing on the opposite side of the chamber. Christian was still thinking of her tight little fingers when he realized he had jumped in space – jumped from one place to another without the aid of any visible device he could see. He gasped, bewildered, looked at the android for answers. Matter transference… He thought that her smooth artificial lips were attempting a smile, but this was impossible; she was without emotion. He even thought that her visual-screen eyes were staring into his astonished face, into his own eyes. She moved again now through yet another invisible door, into a room that was the perfect opposite of the one they had just traversed – a tiny compact room furnished like an intimate study with fireplace, bookshelves, ornaments and a table laden with food. And the food delighted him more than his recent instantaneous jump through space. ‘For me? This is for me?’ ‘For you, Christian Jharr. Please sit and eat, enjoy your stay in Aurora.’ Again the android escorted him, now to the table, where he sat before a small feast, where the firelight shone through a crystal goblet and carafe filled with sparking red wine. He studied the food on the plate before him: roast potatoes with a rare steak and green vegetables in a sauce of some kind. For a moment, for only a moment, he wondered how, or why ... but gave in to hunger and began to eat, showing rapture at the taste of the food as it melted in his mouth. All the while the android stood aside by the fireside, watching him. She was frozen in android shutdown – the position she takes when there are no orders to follow. Christian ate like a half-starved wolf, never so hungry, never so full of desire; the wine was liquid silk in his mouth, on his tongue, swallowed whole, and pouring out more as the steak dripped blood and juices and he was near overwhelmed with delight. Still the android stood, statue-like and occasionally making tiny beeps. At first the tiny beeps did not distract him, the food was more powerful, yet as he filled his stomach, Christian became more aware of her presence. He heard her little beeps like bird-song. He mopped at the juices from the devoured food with a crusty bread roll, sipped more wine and slumped back into his chair, satisfied. Even so, he still eyed a bowl of fruit, but knew himself too full to eat another bite. He sighed, rocked his head on the back of the high-backed chair in a kind of sleepy rapture and gazed at the android through half-closed eyelids. Frozen – a poor frozen thing without feelings … she could never experience the sheer delights of food, or love, or sex, or anything else. Languishing in the low red light, he gazed at the android. He said, ‘Do your makers give you a name, android?’ ‘I am called Carolina.’ ‘Carolina!’ He seemed surprised by this very feminine and human name. ‘Why Carolina, then?’ ‘Where I was made.’ The name was sweet but meant very little as an indicator of place. He moved his chair around to face her, stretched out his legs towards the fire and clutched the wine glass in his hand; he studied her. Nothing moved her and he said, ‘You are an obsolete model, aren’t you? I can see that… even me. Yet this… Aurora,’ he waved a hand at the walls around him, ‘is beyond technical, I mean. But you are an obsolete model. Look at your head-connectors. Does your master not have access to your data without having to plug you in?’ ‘My Master plugs me in. I am obsolete. My Master keeps me because I am charming.’ ‘Oh really!’ He was delighted with her response and he smiled and laughed. ‘Yes, you are charming. Your master would keep you as an example maybe, of days gone by? When androids were more simple?’ ‘That is what my Master says exactly.’ Beside her, the fire spat and sparked and everything was pure within the tiny room. He studied her until he said, ‘And who is your Master? The one who wants me to open that ridiculous black thing? Why does this master think I can do that?’ ‘I do not have this information. I am forbidden to disclose the name of my Master.’ ‘Of course … and my name, you know my name. When will I remember?’ ‘Within the next few days.’ ‘Why can’t I remember?’ ‘I am forbidden to disclose this information.’ ‘Then you are not charming anymore.’ Carolina beeped in reply; information began scrolling across her eyes: Aurora welcomes you, Christian Jharr… He did not answer her scroll; he thought about her master. He said, ‘I want to go back to that room now, where I slept on the warm bed. I want more sleep.’       Later in the evening, long after the Android Carolina had brought him back to his room and left him alone, Christian sat on the edge of the bed and stared out of the crystal and into the beautiful night. There was something strange beyond the window; the stars seemed different, everything felt different, even alien. As he looked into the night, he searched his mind and found images without names or meaning, found images that were memories unremembered. Beside him on the bed sat the container Carolina had brought earlier – the one that held his black clothes. He turned to it now and looked inside. He pulled the container closer and took out a pair of black leather gloves. He put them on; they fitted his hands perfectly, were his own. But there was something else in the container, something much more demanding of his attention. Lying on the bottom, beneath where the gloves had lain, were two curve-bladed short swords with black handles; beside the swords was a heavy leather belt with beautifully embossed scabbards for the blades. The fascination and euphoria that Aurora engendered within him increased when he picked up the swords, one in each hand. The soft icing-like light in the room glinted on the blades as he held them before his eyes, where he saw the razor-sharp edging, sharp as scalpels; blades engraved down their lengths with strange and cryptic symbols, like an unknown writing style. Though the symbols had no meaning, he recognized them; they were also on his body, tattooed down the insides of his thighs. His gripped the handles; the hand-guards were curved plates engraved with dark squares separated by black rings with shining black suns inside them. He moved the swords in a small circle and something clicked on in his mind: killing blades. Beautiful, so beautiful, deadly beautiful; a thrill ran through him when he felt the weight of them in his hands, felt their perfect balance and make, the way they made a firm swinging sound through the air as he circled them once, twice, three times. He came to his feet, staring at the glittering light on the honed and cutting edges. Again something familiar pricked into his mind, sharp like the tips of the swords. As he studied them, he moved them from side to side, until he suddenly found his hands moving in defined patterns, defending himself from an imaginary attacker. The swords began to lead him; they jumped forwards in his hands and he found himself unconsciously becoming the attacker, not the defender. The blades then took full control, and Christian, watching himself reflected in the crystal windows, began an armed martial arts routine of such power and control he felt excitement building inside him. Attack and defence, the routine came out of his body without his conscious mind having to think; he moved the swords with astonishing swiftness and expertise. Attack and defence, counter strike, block and strike, blades pointed as if they were the fangs of snakes, armed combat movements in a long controlled routine that would lead to death if played out to its true conclusion. Rearing up, he poised the swords above his head to strike; he thrust down swiftly, stabbing. As the routine became longer and more complex, memories flashed into his mind. This was the most dangerous form of attack, Christian knew, because he would be the one to strike the killing blow, he would be the one to impale an opponent, he would be the one to put a man on the ground before the ultimate strike of death left his hands. He felt fear when a killing lust rose and burned in his mind. But still he moved, strike and counter-strike, attack and defence. He was mesmerized by his own reflection in the window, when he saw the intensity in his own eyes, when the swords flashed in dexterous arcs and circles before him. Whoever he was, he was an expert – maybe the best alive – and the Master wants him to open the black box… He turned to the box now and hurled a sword at it, but it merely bounced aside and clattered to the polished floor. Christian ran to pick up the blade, saw that it was undamaged – and so was the box. The steel hardness of the sword had not even left a nick on its intense black surface. He ran a hand over where he thought the nick should be and found only total smoothness; and the smoothness was blissful to touch, as if its surface unity transmigrated to his soul and he was calmed by the object’s solid perfection. He looked at its beautiful blackness and felt tired; he quietly went and slid the swords back into their scabbards in the container. Slowly he undressed and got into the luxurious bed…