It’s as if I’ve been splintered into a billion trillion particles and reformed on the quantum level.
Which I have been.
My head feels heavy like an anvil, and at the same time it’s on fire.
I am on fire.
For a moment I am disoriented and I don’t know or understand anything—I don’t know what or where I am.
And then consciousness returns, and with it, the idea of drawing breath.
Breathe, Gwen, breathe.
I find that I cannot breathe.
I struggle for air, and then I suck in a deep breath sharply, and my eyes fly open as I lurch upward, heaving deeply, gasping.
In that moment I remember everything. I recall my surroundings and where I am.
I turn my head, my body squirming, gasping for air, and I see him.
He is lying next to me and partly under me, still unconscious, head slightly turned, breathing deeply, thick long eyelashes resting against his cheek. His skin is flushed slightly, and I see the bronzed lines of his neck where his shirt has been unbuttoned.
I shudder again, trying to catch my breath while panic hits me with a wild surge, a tidal wave of emotion, and once again I am drowning in it.
In that moment his chest expands, rises, takes a deep breath and he shifts under me. His eyelids flutter and he comes awake—he opens his eyes and his lips part on an exhalation.
In that moment I push against his chest with both my arms and elbows, while my pulse goes into overdrive, and I moan and gasp for air.
“It’s okay . . .” he says in a thick voice, letting me struggle. “Lie still. Try to lie still. Breathe slowly now—”
In response I struggle again, my hands pushing wildly against him, and I try to get up, bumping my head painfully against the bulkhead overheard. The pain only serves to agitate me further.
My hands grasp at his shoulders, pull his golden hair—oh how soft it is, how long I’ve wanted to touch his hair like this, feel the delicate texture of this natural gold—and at my touch his eyelids flutter suddenly and he stiffens.
I sit up and pant, and my fingers grasp at his hair, digging deeply into his scalp, and he lets me.
It’s strange, but as I regain my breath, and part of my mind, it occurs to me—I am pulling his hair and somehow it’s okay?
“It’s okay, Gwen,” he says again, as though he’s reading my mind. He is breathing evenly, but his lips have now come together in a tight line—a sign of his exerted control.
And then panic hits me again, and I am flailing and fighting for breath, and now I try to climb out of the bunk. My hands rip at him, at his hair, at the harness restraints all around us. And he only holds me lightly, letting me strike at him, and repeats in a soft suddenly breathless voice, “It’s okay, just breathe.”
I moan in frustration, while my face, my neck, every inch of the surface of my skin is now burning up.
Heat rises throughout my flesh and I don’t know what to do with it, I need to rip it out of me. I tear at it, at my own skin, my own hair, pull at the harness, the blanket underneath us, my fingers digging into his shirt.
“Hold on just a few minutes longer,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”
I rip at his shirt, grasp at my own tank top, pulling at it, as I begin to climb over him, and I hit my head against the bulkhead again, moan in pain, but don’t even care—I have to get out, get away from my own burning skin. . . .
My tank top snags against something, and then I feel the clasp of my bra snap in the back and loosen suddenly.
I pause momentarily, while reality washes over me in strange slow motion.
And then the impossible happens. I pop out from underneath my bra.
Immediately I sag a little. Okay—I’m not huge in the chest but I am on the large side, and the last time my Mom took me to get fitted for a bra they told me I was growing out of a C cup and will have to go to a D soon. So yeah, it’s normal to sag a bit when you’re pushing past C, without wearing some kind of support. However what’s really bad is to be wearing a short tank top that pulls up really easily.
And it happens. . . . The tank top rolls up from the bottom, and oh my God, I fall out completely.
I am topless naked in front of my commanding officer, Command Pilot Aeson Kassiopei.
I freeze.
And he freezes also.
The moment elongates—it’s another Jump, another universe is being created around us—and I watch his face as he looks at me . . . at my naked chest hanging in his face.
His expression—I don’t think I have words for it. His eyes, they go dark and they are all pupils, no blue. . . .
I am burning up with embarrassment. Waves of shame travel through me, while warm heat is rising.
And then, just as suddenly, I no longer care. Embarrassment fades back and in its place fierce energy floods me. Something wordless, powerful, rises up, giving me a surge of strength. . . . I know I really should pull down that top. Instead I feel wanton and shameless, almost gleeful that he sees me like this, is looking at me, at my body.
Seeing me. . . .
I make a small sound, a whimper.
And he continues watching me, petrified. There is no sound, only his breathing . . . it is elevated and loud, but he never parts his lips, keeping a straight line.
Perfect control.
And then slowly he moves his hands up, strong fingers splayed wide open, sliding against the curve of my waist, my sides, and he holds me, suspended over him. Where he touches my bare skin, I am scalded with fire. . . .
Just as I think the moment cannot end, he moves again. His one hand reaches up and unexpectedly he cups my breast, lingering. And then he squeezes, hard.
My lips part at his touch, and an electric shock surges through me. . . . I moan and move against him involuntarily, because this is insane, this is not happening.
In response, his other hand takes my other breast, and he presses them together, and his thumbs brush against the tips.
My God, I move again at the strange stab of pleasure . . . I am above him, and my one hand again digs into his hair, while my other hand slides down, trembling, along his warm throat, his shoulder, then sweeps against the hard lines of his muscular torso. All the while as I touch him, he remains silent, breathing forcefully, and he continues to scoop my breasts up with his warm long fingers, then flattens them back down hard against my ribs. . . .
“That’s enough now,” he says suddenly, in a rough voice, letting go of me, just like that.
I pant, breathlessly, feeling shock at the sudden loss of his touch. And as I glance down at his uniform pants, I notice the condition of his crotch. All this time I’ve been moving against him unconsciously, and now—now I am mesmerized. . . .
Something wild, primal prompts me to move my hand down. And then I do the unthinkable. I cup my hand against him. It’s only fair, since he held me first.
“No . . .” he says immediately, sucking his breath in sharply. “Don’t do that. . . .”
I linger only for a moment and let go.
“No, don’t . . .” he says again, so that now I’m unsure of his meaning. Only his eyes are in agony.
But it’s too late. His breath hitches sharply. . . . His lips part. . . . And the next instant I see the beginnings of a dark stain on his uniform fabric.
His face flames wildly, and he pulls away from me, putting his hands over his crotch, cussing in Atlantean. “No, damn it, this cannot be happening!” he exclaims roughly, and then starts to laugh. Which makes it terrifying.
And as I pause, completely stunned, he exclaims suddenly, “Out! Get out!”
I am shaking now. My God, what is happening?
“Go! Just—just get out of here, Lark!” he continues saying ruthlessly, chuckling bitterly at himself as he turns his face from me. Next he fumbles with one hand to find the harness button and releases the restraint, while I start climbing over him to get out of his bed.
“Please, cover yourself . . .
” he says, averting his eyes, with dark sarcasm, as soon as I’m off him and on the outside of the bed. “And put your damn bra back on. . . .”
But then he shakes his head as though clearing his head of a fog.
“No, wait!” he says suddenly, raises one hand to point at the nearby chair and table. “Don’t go! You cannot leave yet. No. . . . Over there—go sit—sit down and put your head down on the table. . . . Just ten more minutes, and it will be safe.”
I finally find my voice. “I’m sorry . . .” I say with emotion, while a tidal wave rises, choking me. “I am so sorry!”
“Not your fault,” he says. “It’s all mine.” But he continues looking away and is now turned to the wall entirely.
I stagger upright, dizzy with a head rush, and then barely take a step before I land in the seat. Hastily I pull down my dratted tank top over my chest and try to fit myself back inside the bra cups—the bra is useless, I think there’s something wrong with the clasp. And then, resting my elbows on the tabletop next to his needle-guns and gadgets, I put my head down, and tremble, and just breathe. . . .
Breathe, Gwen, breathe. . . .
A few minutes later, I look up, while my mind is now very clear, at the same time as I am absolutely embarrassed, humiliated, and mortified with pure unadulterated horror.
Or maybe he is.
I don’t know. I can no longer tell.
“You may go now,” he says suddenly, still lying down and facing the wall.
“Are you—are you okay?” I mutter.
“It’s only Jump sickness, Lark,” he says in a hard voice without looking at me.
“That was Jump sickness?” I open my mouth.
“Yes . . .” he says after only the slightest pause. “Now, go! I am going to get cleaned up now, and you—you are going to go.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
And I flee his quarters.
I don’t really know how I manage to make it back to my own cabin, as I rush through the corridors of the ship, holding my hands crossed over my chest to keep the awful little tank top in place—after all, it’s just underwear—and in addition I am also stupidly barefoot.
Since it’s been twenty minutes after the Jump, there are people in the hallways now, some of them looking dazed, others recovered completely as if nothing happened.
Once in my own room, I close the door and collapse on my own bed, folding myself up in a fetal position. I lie on my side, trembling, rocking, and shuddering in delayed reaction shock.
And then the tears come. . . .
They are tears of humiliation, pain, confusion—just an absolute emotional overload.
Maybe it’s still Jump sickness?
To hell with Jump sickness! No, I think, this is something far more complicated.
What had just happened between me and Kassiopei? What was it?
How am I ever going to face him again, after today?
And then it occurs to me, how is he ever going to face me?
Because, yeah, he definitely underwent an experience that affected him just as much if not more, and I think it meant something. I think there is something there—something between us.
But what is it?
I lie in bed for over an hour, examining everything with as much clinical detachment as possible, coming to grips with my own emotions. And then I change clothing, put my full uniform back on, and venture outside my cabin.
I don’t bother to go looking for Gennio and Anu, or returning to assist at the cold storage chamber on Deck 5. In fact, I don’t even pretend I’m capable of doing anything useful right now. If anyone asks, I can blame it all on Jump sickness. Let them handle the revival of the people in stasis. I am taking the rest of this damn day off.
Time to get a solid meal—possibly in a very remote meal hall where I am not likely to meet anyone I know. And once I get back, I will call Gracie and Gordie to make sure they’re okay after the Jump.
As I head to dinner, something else occurs to me suddenly: right now, the Fleet, all of us, we’re in a very different part of the universe.
Wow. . . . We’ve made it halfway across the uncharted cosmic divide. We are now in the galactic neighborhood of Atlantis.
And my home, Earth? The solar system? The Milky Way Galaxy?
They are all now so infinitely far away.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Now that we’ve Jumped, we’ve officially entered the first month of Red season, the Atlantean equivalent of summer.
The next morning after the Jump, the first official day of summer on the Atlantean calendar, I go in to the CCO, having steeled myself emotionally. I decide that the best course of action is to simply face Command Pilot Aeson Kassiopei directly and not flinch, and be polite and businesslike.
Act as if nothing happened, Gwen, I tell myself.
But when I get there, he’s not in.
Gennio and Anu tell me the CP is off at some kind of series of meetings, and he is going to be gone for most of the day.
“So, how did you enjoy your first Jump?” Anu asks with a raised brow. “Barf much?”
“No problem,” I tell him, thinking, lord, if they only knew.
“Did you get sick?” Gennio looks up at me mildly. “I did not see you back here afterwards, so not sure if you were okay, or too sick.”
“No, not too badly.” I shrug, putting on a calm face. “Got a little dizzy, stayed in bed longer. Everything’s fine. Sorry I didn’t think to let you know I’d be out. How did everything go with the cold storage revival?”
“Fine as usual,” Anu says. “You didn’t miss much. The two old guys survived, so did five of the eight Earth kids. Three of them—not so lucky. Frozen dead like your Earth ice cream pops.”
“What?” I part my mouth in horror.
“Oh, stop it, Anu!” Gennio shakes his head. “Never mind him, Gwen, no one died, he is just joking as usual.”
“Okay, then,” I say. “Anu, one of these days. . . .”
But he just snorts and turns back to his console.
The rest of the day is uneventful, except that while I’m at the office, I keep expecting the Command Pilot to walk in at any moment, and he does not.
“More systems inspections,” Gennio says. “All the post-Jump protocol stuff that the CP has to supervise. He’ll be out all day.”
And then I check my email and I see a message from Kassiopei.
Immediately my heart jolts painfully, and I open the email with trepidation. It’s short and to the point: “Voice training will be cancelled for tonight. —A. K.”
Yeah, why am I not surprised?
As far as classes, I attend Pilot Training, where Instructor Mithrat Okoi seems to be fine and perfectly healthy after his cold storage capsule experience yesterday. He lectures us in the usual hard voice, pacing before the classroom.
“Flight simulator training will continue indoors for one more month,” he says. “The first month after the Jump is considered equally unstable as the previous one, and none of you are allowed to fly outside. Yes, we are now decelerating, but the process is gradual, and it will take us another six months to reach velocities that will allow us to slow down and stop, just as we arrive on Atlantis.”
And then Instructor Okoi reminds us: “Your Final Pilot Test will be the second Quantum Stream Race, and your skills and abilities will reveal the kind of Pilots you are to become, including your roles in the Fleet. There will be one major notable change for the Second QS Race—you will no longer be constrained to your current flight partners and will be able to choose anyone as your Pilot Pair.”
That gets everyone in the room excited, myself included. I no longer have to fly with Hugo! I think gleefully.
Meanwhile I see Hugo give me an evaluating stare, then come to some kind of conclusion and start looking around the room. Oh yeah, the boy is going to switch partners! So long, Hugo!
“Enough! Make your Pilot Pair arrangements after class!” the Instructor raises his voice, and the Cadets immedi
ately settle down. However, everyone continues glancing around the room discreetly, for the rest of the class period.
I look around also, and see Logan, as usual not too far away. He does not look at me and appears absorbed with his flight console—but I know he’s been watching me.
Then I notice Blayne a few seats away also. He looks occupied with his partner too.
There’s plenty of time to find a new flight partner, I decide. Anyone’s got to be better than Hugo.
The following day at the CCO, the Command Pilot is still noticeably absent.
I am almost frustrated by the fact, because, to be honest, I’d like to get it over with. Just see him, face him, deal with that hard initial moment. . . .
And then for a brief time I wonder, is he actively avoiding me?
No, that cannot be.
And indeed, my theory is discredited, because Aeson Kassiopei comes in around 2:00 PM in the afternoon, just as all three of us Aides are working.
We all get up and salute as usual. My heart starts pounding with stress. I take short shallow breaths and try not to let my rising flush overwhelm my face completely.
Breathe, Gwen, breathe. . . .
Aeson’s expression is cold and determined, and he looks particularly sharp today, well put together. He nods at all of us curtly, and does not even make eye contact with me. . . . He gets behind his desk and calls up multiple workstation consoles. I count mech arm monitors, and there are at least five today, obscuring his desk.
Wow. . . . Is he literally hiding behind them from me? I cast the idiotic thought aside, and try to concentrate on my work file.
The next few hours crawl at an excruciating pace, and finally it’s almost dinnertime. I have no idea what kind of work I’ve been doing, but all I know is, I survived being in the same office space with him without combusting. Of course, the worst is still to come—tonight’s voice training session, one-on-one.
At some point the CP turns off his tech equipment, gets up swiftly and walks out past us without looking, on his way to the gym before dinner. I glance up just barely in time to see his proud, stiffly-held back and the fall of his long gold hair as the door shuts on him.
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