To Sleep in a Sea of Stars

by Christopher Paolini

  “You have a name?” she asked.

  “Yeah. It’s Shut-the-Hell-Up-and-Keep-Moving.”

  When they arrived at the deck that held sickbay, the woman poked her in the back and said, “Here.”

  Kira got off the ladder and pushed her way through the pressure door into the corridor beyond. She stopped, then, as she saw the overlay on the wall, the same one Trig had told her to ignore the previous day.

  The image covered a good two meters of paneling. In it, a battalion of jackrabbits garbed in power armor charged toward a similarly equipped force (also jackrabbits) upon a battle-ravaged field. Leading the near force was … the pig Runcible, now graced with a pair of boar tusks. And fronting the opposition was none other than the ship cat, Mr. Fuzzypants, wielding a flamethrower in each furry paw.

  “What in Thule’s name is that?” said Kira.

  The sharp-faced woman had the grace to look embarrassed. “We lost a bar bet with the crew of the Ichorous Sun.”

  “It … could have been worse,” said Kira. For a bar bet, they’d gotten off light.

  The woman nodded. “If we had won, the captain was going to make them paint—Actually, you don’t want to know.”

  Kira was inclined to agree.

  A nudge from the barrel of the slug thrower was enough to start Kira down the corridor again. She wondered if she ought to have her hands above her head.

  Their walk ended at another pressure door on the other side of the ship. The woman banged on the wheel in the center, and a moment later, Falconi’s voice sounded: “It’s unlocked.”

  The wheel produced a satisfying clunk as she turned it.

  The door swung open, and Kira was surprised to see they weren’t meeting in a control center, but rather a cabin. Falconi’s cabin, to be precise.

  The room was just large enough to walk a few steps without banging into the furniture. Bunk, sink, lockers, and walls were all as plain as could be, even with overlays. The only decoration sat on the built-in desk: a gnarled bonsai tree with silvery-grey leaves and a trunk twisted in the shape of an S.

  Despite herself, Kira was impressed. Bonsai were hard to keep alive on a ship, yet the tree seemed healthy and well cared for.

  The captain was sitting at the desk, a half-dozen windows arrayed in his holo-display.

  The top few buttons of his shirt were undone to reveal a wedge of tanned muscle, but it was his rolled-up sleeves and bare forearms that caught her attention. The exposed skin was a twisted mass of mottled scar tissue. It looked like partially melted plastic, hard and shiny.

  Kira’s first reaction was revulsion. Why? Burns, and scars in general, were easy to treat. Even if Falconi had been injured somewhere without medical facilities, why wouldn’t he have had the scars removed later? Why would he allow himself to be … deformed?

  Lying on Falconi’s lap was Runcible. The pig’s eyes were half-closed, and his tail wiggled with satisfaction as the captain scratched behind his ears.

  Nielsen stood next to the captain, arms crossed and an expression of impatience on her face.

  “You wanted to see me?” Falconi said. He smirked, seeming to enjoy Kira’s discomfort.

  She reassessed her initial impression of him. If he was willing to use his scars to put her off balance, then he was smarter, more dangerous than she had thought. And if the bonsai was anything to go by, more cultured too, even if he was an exploitive asshole.

  “I need to speak with you in private,” she said.

  Falconi gestured at Nielsen and the blond-haired woman. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of them.”

  Irritated, Kira said, “This is serious … Captain. I wasn’t joking when I told Gregorovich it was a matter of life and death.”

  The mocking smile never left Falconi’s lips but his eyes hardened into spikes of blue ice. “I believe you, Ms. Kaminski. However, if you think I’m going to meet with you all on my own, with no witnesses, you must think I was a born idiot. They stay. That’s final.”

  Behind her, Kira heard the muscled woman readjust her grip on the slug thrower.

  Kira pressed her lips together, trying to decide whether she could force the issue. There didn’t seem to be any way, so finally, she caved. “Fine,” she said. “Can you close the door at least?”

  Falconi nodded. “I think we can manage that. Sparrow?”

  The woman who had accompanied Kira pulled the pressure door shut, although she left it unlatched and unlocked—easy to open in an emergency.

  “Well? What is it, then?” Falconi said.

  Kira took a breath. “My name isn’t Kaminski. It’s Kira Navárez. And this isn’t a skinsuit. It’s an alien organism.”

  2.

  Falconi burst out laughing so loudly that he disturbed Runcible; the pig snorted and looked up at his master with what seemed to be a worried expression.

  “Riiight,” Falconi said. “Good one. That’s real funny, Ms.…” His smile vanished as he studied her face. “You’re serious.”

  She nodded.

  A click sounded next to her, and out of the corner of her eye, Kira saw Sparrow aiming the slug thrower at her head.

  “Can you not do that,” said Kira, her voice tight. “Seriously, it’s a really bad idea.” Already she could feel the Soft Blade preparing itself for action across her body.

  Falconi waved a hand, and Sparrow reluctantly lowered the gun. “Prove it.”

  “Prove what?” said Kira, confused.

  “Prove that it’s an alien artifact,” he said, pointing at her arm.

  Kira hesitated. “Just promise you won’t shoot, okay?”

  “That depends,” Sparrow growled.

  Then Kira coaxed the suit’s mask into sliding across her face. She did it slower than normal, to avoid frightening anyone, but even so, Falconi stiffened, and Nielsen half pulled her blaster out of its holster.

  Runcible looked at Kira with large, wet eyes. His snout wiggled as he sniffed in her direction.

  “Goddamn,” said Sparrow.

  After a few seconds, when her point was made, Kira allowed the Soft Blade to relax, and the mask retreated, exposing her face again. The air in the cabin was cool against her newly exposed skin.

  Falconi remained very still. Too still. Kira was worried; what if he decided to just space her and be done with it?

  Then he said, “Explain. And you better make it good, Navárez.”

  So Kira started talking. For the most part she told the truth, but instead of admitting it was the Soft Blade that had killed Alan and her other teammates on Adra, she put the blame on the Jellies’ attack—partly to avoid frightening Falconi, and partly because she didn’t want to discuss her own role in the event.

  When she finished, there was a long silence in the cabin.

  Runcible grunted and wiggled, trying to get down. Falconi put the pig on the floor and pushed him toward the door. “Let him out. He needs to use the box.”

  The pig trotted past Kira as Sparrow opened the door.

  As Sparrow closed the door again, Falconi said, “Gregorovich?”

  After a few seconds, the ship mind’s voice sounded from the ceiling: “Her story checks out. News reports mention one Kira Navárez as the senior xenobiologist on the Adrasteia survey mission. The same Navárez was listed on the crew manifest of the SLV Fidanza. Biometrics are a match to public records.”

  Falconi tapped his fingers against his thigh. “You sure this xeno isn’t infectious?” The question was directed toward Kira.

  She nodded. “If it were, the rest of my team would have ended up infected, and also the crew of the Extenuating Circumstances. The UMC worked me over real good, Captain. They didn’t find any risk of it spreading.” Another lie, but a necessary one.

  He frowned. “Still…”

  “This is my area of expertise,” said Kira. “Trust me, I know the risks better than most people.”

  “Alright, Navárez, let’s say that’s true. Let’s say all of this is true. You found alien
ruins and you found this organism. Then a few weeks later the Jellies show up and start shooting. Have I got that right?”

  An uncomfortable pause followed. “Yes,” Kira said.

  Falconi tilted his head back, gaze unsettlingly intense. “Seems like you might have more to do with this war than you’re letting on.”

  His words struck uncomfortably close to Kira’s own fears. Damn. She wished he weren’t so smart. “I don’t know about that. All I know is what I’ve told you.”

  “Uh-huh. And why are you telling us?” Falconi leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What exactly do you want?”

  Kira licked her lips. This was the most delicate part. “I want you to divert the Wallfish and drop me off at Malpert Station.”

  This time, Falconi didn’t laugh. He exchanged glances with Nielsen and then said, “Every single person in the hold is paying us to take them to Ruslan. Why in three hells would we change course now?”

  Kira bit back a comment about his use of the word paying. Now wasn’t the time to be antagonistic. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Because, I can understand the Jellies’ language.”

  Nielsen’s eyebrows rose. “You can what?”

  Then Kira told them about her experience with the Jelly on the Extenuating Circumstances. She skipped the dreams and memories from the Soft Blade; no point in making them think she was crazy.

  “So why not go to Ruslan?” asked Sparrow, her voice harsh.

  “I need to get onto one of the Jelly ships,” said Kira, “and my best chance of doing that is out here. If I go to Ruslan, the League is just going to stick me in a box again.”

  Falconi scratched his chin. “That still doesn’t explain why we should change course. Sure, if what you’re saying is true, this is important, alright. But seven days isn’t going to make much of a difference in who wins the war.”

  “It could,” said Kira, but she saw he wasn’t convinced. She changed tack: “Look, the Lapsang Corporation has a rep on Malpert. If you can get me to him, I guarantee the company will pay a significant fee for your assistance.”

  “Really?” Falconi’s eyebrows rose. “How significant?”

  “For privileged access to a unique piece of alien tech? Enough to buy all the antimatter you need.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Nielsen uncrossed her arms and in a low tone said, “Malpert isn’t that far away. A few days, and we could still take everyone to Ruslan.”

  Falconi grunted. “And what am I supposed to say when the UMC brass on Vyyborg start jumping on my ass for changing course? They were pretty damn eager to get their hands on everyone from the Valkyrie.” He spoke with a brash flatness, as if daring Kira to challenge him over the admission that the ship’s transmitter worked.

  She eyed him. “Tell them something broke on the ship and you need assistance. I’m sure they’d believe you. You’re so good at coming up with stories.”

  Sparrow snorted, and a faint smile touched the corners of Falconi’s mouth. “Okay, Navárez. It’s a deal, on one condition.”

  “What?” Kira said, wary.

  “You have to let Vishal give you a proper examination.” Falconi’s expression grew flat, deadly. “I’m not having this xeno of yours on my ship unless the doc gives it the all-clear. You good with that?”

  “I’m good,” said Kira. She didn’t have much choice, in any case.

  The captain nodded. “Alright then. You just better not be bullshitting about that fee, Navárez.”

  3.

  From Falconi’s cabin, Sparrow escorted Kira directly to sickbay. Vishal was waiting for them, dressed in full hazard gear.

  “That really necessary, Doc?” Sparrow asked.

  “We shall see,” said Vishal.

  Kira could tell that the doctor was angry; through the visor of his helmet, his expression was pinched and tight.

  Without being asked, she hopped onto the exam table. Feeling a need to smooth the waters, she said, “Sorry for breaking containment, but I didn’t think there was any risk of the xeno spreading.”

  Vishal busied himself gathering the tools of his trade, starting with an old and clunky chip-lab that had been stored under the sink. “You can’t know that for sure. You are supposed to be a xenobiologist, Ms. Yes? You should have had the sense to follow proper protocol.”

  His rebuke stung. Yes, but … He wasn’t wrong, but at the same time, she hadn’t had much of a choice, now had she? Kira kept the thought to herself; she wasn’t there to start an argument.

  She bounced her heels against the drawers built into the base of the exam table while she waited. Sparrow remained lounging in the doorway, watching.

  “What exactly is it you do on the ship?” Kira asked her.

  Sparrow’s expression stayed flat, emotionless. “I pick up heavy things and put them down.” She lifted her left arm and tensed her biceps and triceps, showing off the muscles.

  “I see that.”

  Then Vishal began by asking Kira a long series of questions. She answered to the best of her ability. In that, she didn’t hold back. Science was sacred, and she knew the doctor was just trying to do his job.

  At Vishal’s request, Kira showed him how she could harden the surface of the Soft Blade in patterns of her choosing.

  Then the doctor tapped the control screen of the medibot mounted overhead. As the machine moved toward her, the mechanical arm unfolding like metal origami, Kira flashed back to her cell on the Extenuating Circumstances and the S-PACs built into the walls, and she flinched without meaning to.

  “Hold still,” snapped Vishal.

  Kira looked down and concentrated on her breathing. The last thing she needed was for the Soft Blade to react to an imagined threat and tear apart the medibot. Captain Falconi most definitely wouldn’t be pleased with that.

  For the next two hours, Vishal tested her in many of the ways that Carr had, and perhaps a few more. He seemed very creative. While the medibot hovered about her, poking and prodding and running every diagnostic in its extensive programming, Vishal carried out his own investigation, peering into her ears, eyes, and nose; taking swabs and scrapings for his chip-lab; and generally making Kira uncomfortable.

  He kept his helmet on the whole time, visor closed and locked.

  They spoke little; Vishal gave her orders, and Kira complied with a minimum of fuss. She just wanted the ordeal to be over.

  At one point, her stomach rumbled, and she realized she still hadn’t eaten breakfast. Vishal noticed and, without hesitation, provided her with a ration bar from a nearby cupboard. He watched with sharp-eyed interest while she chewed and swallowed.

  “Fascinating,” he muttered, holding the chip-lab to her mouth and staring at the readings.

  He continued to talk to himself from then on, cryptic utterances such as: “… three percent diffusion” and “Can’t be. That would—” and “The ATP? Doesn’t make any…” None of which helped Kira’s understanding.

  Finally, he said, “Ms. Navárez, a blood test is still necessary, yes? But the only place I can draw from is—”

  “My face.” She nodded. “I know. Go ahead and do what you have to.”

  He hesitated. “There is no good place to draw blood from head or face, and many nerves that can be injured. You showed how the suit can move at your command—”

  “Sort of.”

  “But you know it can move. So I ask: Can you move it to expose part of your skin elsewhere? Perhaps here?” And he tapped the inside of her elbow.

  The idea caught Kira by surprise. She hadn’t even thought to try. “I … don’t know,” she said, honest. “Maybe.”

  In the doorway, Sparrow unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it in her mouth. “Well, give it a shot, Navárez.” And she blew a large, pink bubble until it exploded with a sharp pop.

  “Give me a minute,” said Kira.

  The doctor sat back on his stool, waiting.

  Kira concentrated on the
inside of her elbow—concentrated as hard as she ever had—and with her mind, pushed.

  The surface of the suit shimmered in response. Kira bore down harder, and the shimmer became a ripple as the fibers of her second skin melted one into another to form a glassy black surface.

  And yet the Soft Blade remained fixed to her arm, shifting and flowing with liquid brilliance. But when she touched the softened area, her fingers sank through the surface, and skin contacted skin with unexpected intimacy.

  Kira’s breath caught. Her heart was pounding from strain and excitement. The mental effort was too great to sustain for long, and the instant her attention wavered, the suit hardened and returned to its normal, striated shape.

  Frustrated and yet encouraged, Kira tried again, driving her mind against the Soft Blade again and again.

  “Come on, damn you,” she muttered.

  The suit seemed confused by her intentions. It churned against her arm, agitated by her assault. Kira pushed even harder. The churning increased, and then a cold tingle spread across the inside of her elbow. Centimeter by centimeter, the Soft Blade retreated to the sides of the joint, exposing pale skin to the chill of the air.

  “Quick,” said Kira from between clenched teeth.

  Vishal scooted forward and pressed his hypo against Kira’s elbow. She felt a slight pinch, and then he withdrew. “Done,” he said.

  Still fighting with all her might to keep the Soft Blade pulled back, Kira touched her fingers to her arm, to bare skin. She savored the feeling; a simple pleasure that had seemed forever lost. The sensation was no different than touching the suit, but it meant so much more. Without the layer of separating fibers, she felt far more herself.

  Then the effort proved too much and the Soft Blade rebounded and again covered the inside of her elbow.

  “Hot damn,” said Sparrow.

  Kira let out her breath, feeling as if she’d run a flight of stairs. Her whole body tingled with an electric thrill. If she practiced, maybe, just maybe it would be possible to free her whole body of the xeno. The thought gave her the first real sense of hope she’d had since waking up in quarantine on the Extenuating Circumstances.