ARC10

Chapter 4

Back in our room, Simon snores on the cot across the room exactly where I'd left him. Sleep will be impossible tonight.

Images of the swirly indigo-and-black planet, Kai, and Lieutenant General Hayomo burn into my retinas. The harder I close my eyes, the brighter the images appear like the blazing white lines of an interrupted frequency. They flash on my eyelids as I try to quiet my roaring thoughts to sleep. The tiny purple planet. The lowered, distrusting eyes. The hazel gaze of an unhappy partner.

The hiss of steam releasing and a mouth gaping open with the human-like neck twisted upside down interrupt my thoughts. A violent shudder runs from my shoulders to my fingertips and throws me off the cot. Simon snores from across the room, breaking the thoughts that are flowing through the thick piping in my head.

I'm suffocating.

Without a sound, I push myself off the cot and tiptoe to the common area with my papers tight under my arm. There is no way I am sleeping tonight anyway. The familiarity of the old desk with a rickety, red gooseneck lamp welcomes me in this, our customary late-night meeting. Taking the little metal chair and pulling the excitement of the day to laser-sharp focus, I rifle through the pages.

The information is hefty. While my mind raced earlier, the heavy material lulls the noise away. The lightspeed momentum I had experienced before slows into a grudging trudge. Suddenly the words blur, and I find myself reading the same sentence over and over again.

I was never a good school girl. I would always rather fling rocks at other kids.

Thirty minutes in, I rest face-down on the pile, my eyes closed with pictures of the night's events flashing through my subconscious. The machine at the end of the table haunts me as it whizzes and screams and scrambles for me in that horrific crab walk. Every spew and buzz of the gears work in tandem with the clinks. It moves closer until the thing dancing with repetitive ticks careens against metal beside my ear.

Jerking awake and adjusting my perception to the darkened room and minuscule spotlight, I recognize the thud as a knock on the common room door. I realize I'd barely reached page four before face-planting and drooling on the paper.

After wiping the glob with my thumb, I peer through the blurry peephole. Dean's fish-eyed face glances nervously from left to right before staring into the bulb. He whispers something to himself and averts his eyes again. I glance at the clock and note the fuzzy bar blaring 0304.

Why didn't he PIM me earlier instead of just showing up?

I check my PAHLM and frown. He did PIM me.

Seven times.

[Unread Messages: DFREYER]

CANT BELIEVE THIS

NIKA WE NEED TO TALK

AT YOUR POD?

NIKA ????

COMING OVER

OUT FRONT LET ME IN

NIKA COME ON

I consider leaving him out there, but, out of genuine curiosity, I concede.

"What do you want, Freyer?" I lift my finger off the communicator to hear his answer.

"I want to talk, Nika. Just talk."

He sounds desperate. He sounds nervous. He sounds distracted. These actions are not typical of levelheaded Dean. There are only spattered memories in our timeline when he has been so riled.

I sigh and throw my weight against the door to activate the latch. Things like properly working doors and locks are a luxury we can't afford here on Level 8.

"By all means, come in, unexpected visitor." I lift my arm to greet him graciously into my home of squalor and scraps while trying to hide that his messages are totally opened on my PAHLM. He sits on one of the mismatched chairs behind the desk with my study materials.

"Have you read through them yet?" He leans against the wall and folds his large arms over his expansive chest.

"Yeah, just finishing them now," I lie. "What do you think?"

His eyes roll around the room, checking for late-night listeners. His voice deepens to a whisper. "I don't know . . . It's a lot. Multiple planetary detours? Fueling trips? Provisions acquisition missions? Hostile host planetary evacuation drills? This is asking a lot. To be in charge of two thousand human lives for five years? It's just—"

"A lot?" I chime in with flat enthusiasm.

He glares at me through hooded eyes. Seconds tick by before he relaxes to scan the room, averting his eyes to the ceiling and walls of my common room. I try to hide the surprise on my face as he lists the requirements. Having barely read to the fourth page means this is news to me. But I would never let Dean know I'm out of his loop.

It does seem, for lack of better words, like a lot. It's immense responsibility we soldiers are unequipped for.

Dean heaves one of his sighs. His rambling thoughts are usually preceded by one of these cavernous breaths. "It means we might not even be on the same ship as our families. It's a random draw for us. It's a more massive random draw for our families based on equal distribution of trades and skills. We might be separated for five years or more. And those five years are a deliberately vague estimation. If we run into trouble, or battles, or famine, or lack of supplies, or ship malfunctions, it could double our time. It could be ten, fifteen, twenty years before we reach NOHA. We might not ever see it."

"Mmhm," I murmur. My eyelids become too heavy. My face feels like it is slowly melting from my forehead. Exhaustion has won.

"Nika, this could be really bad for us and our families. One way or another, I'm going to make sure I get paired with you or put on your ship. I'm not sure if I can make a personal request to Hayomo, or if this is something that just wouldn't be possible, but there has to be something I can do to get us assigned togeth—"

Sleep enshrouds my better senses, and the world darkens. His worry is the last piece of information my mind registers before it becomes clouded enough to dissolve the sharp images from earlier.

Too exhausted, I let him lift me with massive arms under my knees and around my back. I barely resist before resting my head against starch-stiff fabric and the familiar scent of soil. Gravity slips away as he hoists me into the air and carries me to my room.

With little fight left in me, I drag one heavy arm and slap him on the shoulder. Innately, I protest. But the exhaustion allows me no strength to object. Dean has me helpless in his arms, and I know I'll hate myself for this when I wake up.

For now, I don't care. It's not as if his arms are an unfamiliar place.

I curl into him. He lowers me to my creaking cot. I sink into the cushion and accept the hand brushing the hair away from my cheek before he kisses it with chapped lips. He treats the other cheek with the same sandpaper brush.

Then to my heavy lidded surprise, the rough surface traces the outline of my lips.

He pauses there before I'm lost in darkness.