Chapter 16 — The Ship That Never Looks Back

Memory Keeper

The Founding Archives were more expansive than Bach Van remembered from the mandatory first-year tour, a soaring domed space with dozens of rows of shelves containing physical records interspersed with digital data stations, soft yellow light dyeing the space creating the feeling of entering a library much older than the ship's actual age.

He'd been here twice earlier in the week, each time for a different, valid academic reason, careful not to let any of the visits look suspiciously repetitive. The first time, he just observed the layout of the area, the way the archivists moved between rows of shelves, trying to identify which of them was in charge of the area of historical records he needed to access. The second time, he borrowed a few unrelated public documents, skimming through them at the reading table while silently observing the working process of the staff here — who had the authority to approve requests, who was simply the person who organized the files.

His access request remains unanswered after three days — an unusual silence compared to standard processing times that typically take just a few hours for regular academic requests. Instead of continuing to wait, Bach Van decided to come directly, using the excuse of needing to look up other public documents for the report, hoping to talk directly with the person in charge of the historical records area.

"What do you need, student?" A voice rang out from behind the nearest row of racks, husky and slow, belonging to an older man wearing a light gray archivist's robe, a thin figure, eyes behind glasses looking at him with an uncomfortably careful assessment.

"I'm looking for documents for a maritime history module report." Bach Van replied, trying to keep her voice natural. "I sent a request to access a specific record a few days ago, but haven't received a response yet. Can you help me check the status of the request?"

"Profile code?" The archivist asked, not moving, just standing there watching him.

"041-H." Bach Van replied, trying to read the reaction on his face, but the old archivist did not show any unusual expressions - perhaps too accustomed to keeping an expressionless face in front of all kinds of requests, no matter how sensitive.

"I'm Vuong Khac Hien, in charge of the historical records area." He introduced himself, finally walked closer, sat down in front of a nearby data station, and typed a few search commands. "Let me check."

Bach Van stood waiting, watching the old man type his thin fingers on the keyboard with deliberate slowness, his eyes glanced at the screen and then back at him, a fleeting glance but enough to make Bach Van feel like he was being weighed, not only about his request but also about his whole being.

"Your request is under special review." Vuong Khac Hien spoke last, his voice without clear emotions. "Records that are reclassified after the automatic security expiration often require an additional layer of approval from a higher level before reopening access. It may take some additional time."

"How long is a period of time?" Bach Van asked.

"I don't have the authority to say exactly." He replied, and in that answer, Bach Van heard a deliberate caution, as if this man was choosing each word so as not to say more than necessary, even though he was perfectly capable of knowing more.

Bach Van was silent for a moment, considering the risk level of the next question he was about to ask. He had learned to observe people from his father—as much as he hated to admit it—and there was something in the way Vuong Khac Hien avoided looking him in the eye, in the way he kept his voice unnecessarily monotonous, that made Bach Van believe that this man was more than just an archivist following protocol.

"How long have you worked here?" He asked, changing the conversation to something more innocuous.

"Forty-two years." Vuong Khac Hien replied, and for the first time, something akin to nostalgia passed through his voice. "He entered the profession when he was much younger than you are now."

"Then you must know a lot about the ship's history — more than what's taught in the official curriculum."

"You know what you're allowed to know, student." Vuong Khac Hien replied, his voice now carrying a clearer tone of caution. "And he survived forty-two years in this profession because he always remembered that boundary."

That answer, although in the form of refusal, contained an implicit message that Bach Van could not miss — that boundary really existed, that there were things Vuong Khac Hien knew but chose not to say, not because of ignorance but because of a caution that had been honed over decades of living close to the ship's biggest secrets.

"If I want to learn about the fortieth and forty-first cruise years, without going through the restricted records, are there other public documents I can refer to?" Bach Van asked, trying a different approach.

Vuong Khac Hien looked at him for a long time, and for a moment, Bach Van thought he would refuse outright like before. But instead, he stood up, motioned him to follow, leading him to a row of racks in the far corner of the filing area, where the dust was thicker than other places, and the light was weaker.

"This is a public chronicle, updated manually by archivists from generation to generation." He said, pulling out a thick, worn leather-bound notebook and placing it on a nearby reading table. "Not everything is digitized. Some small records, not important enough to be included in the main system, still only exist in paper form like this."

Bach Van flipped through the notebook carefully, the yellowed pages recorded in many different handwritings over many generations of archivists, mainly small events — anniversaries, birthdays of important Council members, major repairs. But on a page near the forty-first journey year area, a short note, written in a different handwriting than the rest, seemed to have been added later and more hastily: "March — unusual senior personnel adjustment, three Council members resigned at the same time, reasons not announced."

"Three members resigned at the same time." Bach Van read aloud, looked up at Vuong Khac Hien. "Do you know why?"

"You are just an archivist, student, not a witness to history." Vuong Khac Hien replied, closing the notebook, but his eyes, as he looked at Bach Van one last time before returning to his desk, carried something almost like a silent message: find out more for yourself, but don't expect me to be the one to say it. "If you really want to understand that period, perhaps you should find out who those three people were, and what happened to them after they resigned. Sometimes the answer lies not in the locked records, but in what people have deliberately revealed in private."

"Why did you show me this notebook?" Bach Van asked, unable to hold back the question that had been brewing since the beginning of the conversation. "You just said you always remember your boundaries."

Vuong Khac Hien stopped walking and did not turn back immediately. The silence lasted long enough for Bach Van to think he would not answer that question, the same way he had avoided other direct questions before.

"Because this notebook is a public document, it is not within any boundaries." He spoke finally, his voice still remaining neutral. "You're just doing your job as an archivist — telling searchers what they have a right to see. What you want to deduce from that is your business, not mine." He turned away and walked slowly back to his desk, his back hunched under his light gray robe as if carrying an invisible burden accumulated through forty-two years of selective silence.

Bach Van stood alone at the reading table, carefully copying down the notes about the three Council members' resignations into his own notebook, trying to remember the exact location of the page in the chronicle, in case he needed to look it up again later without being able to go back and ask to see it again without attracting attention.

On his way out of the Founding Archives, he passed by the public display area near the main entrance — where portraits of Council members through the ages hung, with names and terms of office engraved under each portrait in familiar formal style. He stopped in front of a row of portraits from the thirty-fifth to forty-fifth stages of the voyage, searching for a face that might match the three names he was looking for, but found only an unusual empty space on the wall — three places where the portraits were hung next to each other, the frames intact, but inside there was just a blank canvas, no image, no name, as if those three people had never existed in the ship's official memory, even though the physical traces of their absence were still there, visible. clearer than any explanation can erase.