To Sleep in a Sea of Stars

by Christopher Paolini

  For a moment Kira wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “Newts?”

  “Yeah, a metric newt-ton of them,” said Trig. Sparrow laughed and then grimaced and clutched her side.

  “Don’t,” said Nielsen. “Just don’t.”

  Trig grinned and dug back into his food.

  “There was a children’s show on Ruslan,” said Falconi. “Yanni the Newt, or something like that. It was really popular.”

  “Was?”

  He made a face. “All the kids wanted newts as pets. So it seemed like a good idea to bring in a shipload of them.”

  Nielsen rolled her eyes and shook her head, which sent her ponytail flying. “If I’d been on the Wallfish, I wouldn’t have allowed such nonsense.”

  Falconi took issue with that. “It was a good job. You would have jumped at the opportunity faster than any of us.”

  “Why not just grow the newts in a lab?” asked Kira, puzzled. “Or gene-hack something like a frog to look like them?”

  “They did,” he said. “But the rich kids wanted real newts. From Earth. You know how it is.”

  Kira blinked. “That … could not have been cheap.”

  Falconi dipped his head with a sardonic smile. “Exactamento. We would have made a fortune. Only—”

  “The damn things didn’t have a kill switch!” said Sparrow.

  “They didn’t—” Kira started to say and then stopped herself. “Of course, because they were from Earth.” All macroorganisms (and more than a few micro) grown on colonized worlds had built-in genetic kill switches, to make it easy to manage their population and keep any one organism from disrupting the nascent food chain or, if present, the native ecology. But not on Earth. There, plants and animals just existed, mixing and competing in a chaotic mess that still defied attempts at control.

  Falconi extended a hand toward her. “Yup. We found a company that breeds newts—”

  “Fink-Nottle’s Pious Newt Emporium,” Trig helpfully supplied.

  “—but we didn’t exactly tell them where the newts were going. No reason for the ITC to know what we were up to, now was there?”

  “We didn’t even think to ask about a kill switch,” said Sparrow. “And by the time we sold them, it was too late to fix.”

  “How many did you sell?”

  “Seven hundred and seventy-seven … thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven.”

  “Seventy-six,” said Sparrow. “Don’t forget the one Mr. Fuzzypants ate.”

  “Right. Seventy-six,” said Trig.

  Kira had difficulty even imagining that many newts.

  Falconi continued the tale: “As you’d expect, a bunch of the newts escaped, and without any natural predators, they wiped out a good chunk of Ruslan’s insects, worms, snails, et cetera.”

  “Good god.” Without insects and the like, it was pretty much impossible for a colony to function. Worms alone were worth more than their weight in refined uranium during the early years of transforming sterile or hostile land to fertile soil.

  “Indeed.”

  “It was like a newt-tron bomb,” said Trig.

  Sparrow and Nielsen groaned, and Vishal said, “That was the sort of pun we had to endure for the whole trip, Ms. Kira. It was most unpleasant.”

  Kira fixed Trig with a look. “Hey. What do you call a really smart newt?”

  He grinned. “What?”

  “Newton, of course.”

  “Permission to jettison both of them as punishment, Captain?” said Nielsen.

  “Granted,” Falconi said. “But not until we reach our destination.”

  At that, the mood in the galley grew more somber.

  “So what happened after, with the newts?” Kira asked. The punishment for violating biocontainment protocols varied from place to place, but it usually involved heavy fines and/or jail time.

  Falconi grunted. “What do you think? The local government issued warrants for our arrest. Fortunately, they were only planetary warrants, not stellar or interstellar, and we were long gone before the newts started to cause a problem. But yeah … they’re not too happy with us. They even ended up canceling Yanni the Newt because so many people were pissed off.”

  Kira chuckled, and then she burst out into a full laugh. “Sorry. I know it’s not funny, but—”

  “Well, it is a little funny,” said Vishal.

  “Yeah, goddamn hilarious,” said Falconi. To Kira, “They retroactively nulled the bits we earned, which left us out food, fuel, and propellant for the whole trip.”

  “I can see how that might have left you feeling … newtered,” she said.

  Nielsen facepalmed. “Thule. Now we have two of them.”

  “Gimme that,” said Falconi and reached for his holstered pistol, which was slung over the back of Vishal’s seat.

  The doctor laughed and shook his head. “Not a chance, Captain.”

  “Gah. Mutineers, the lot of you.”

  “Don’t you mean, newtineers?” said Trig.

  “That’s it! Enough with the punning or I’ll have you thrown into cryo right now.”

  “Suuure.”

  To Kira, Nielsen said, “We had a few other, smaller difficulties, mainly ITC violations, but that was the main one.”

  Sparrow snorted. “That and Chelomey.” In response to Kira’s inquiring look, she said, “We got hired by a guy named Griffith back at Alpha Centauri to bring in a load of, uh, sensitive cargo for a guy on Chelomey Station. Only our contact wasn’t there when we dropped off the goods. The idiot got himself arrested by station security. So the station wanted our asses as well. Griffith claims we failed delivery and won’t pay, and since we used up the last of our antimatter getting here, there wasn’t anything we could do about it.”

  “And that,” said Falconi, emptying his glass, “is how we ended up stranded at 61 Cygni. Couldn’t land back at Chelomey and couldn’t land on Ruslan. Not, uh, legally, that is.”

  “Gotcha.” Overall, it wasn’t as bad as Kira had feared. A bit of smuggling, a small amount of what might be classified as ecoterrorism … Really, she’d expected far worse.

  Falconi waved his hand. “That’s all cleared up now, though.” He peered at her, his eyes slightly bleary from drink. “I suppose we have you to thank for that.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Later, once most of the food was cleared off the tables, Hwa-jung left her seat by Sparrow and vanished out the door.

  When the machine boss returned, she brought with her Runcible and Mr. Fuzzypants, but also—tucked under one arm—the other thing Kira had asked her for.

  “Here,” said Hwa-jung, and held out the concertina to Kira. “It just finished printing.”

  Kira laughed and took the instrument. “Thank you!” Now she would have something to do other than stare at her overlays while she waited alone in the empty ship.

  Falconi raised an eyebrow. “You play?”

  “A little,” said Kira, slipping her hands through the straps and testing the keys. Then she performed a simple little arrangement called “Chiara’s Folly” as a warm-up.

  The music brought a sense of cheer to the room, and the crew gathered in close. “Hey, you know ‘Toxopaxia’?” Sparrow asked.

  “I do.”

  Kira played until her fingers were numb, but she didn’t mind. And for a time, no thoughts of the future intruded, and life was good.

  Mr. Fuzzypants still kept his distance from her, but at some point deep in the evening—long after she’d put aside the concertina—Kira found herself with Runcible’s warm weight in her lap while she scratched behind the pig’s ears and he wiggled his tail in delight. A surge of affection passed through Kira, and for the first time since the deaths of Alan and her other teammates, she felt herself relaxing, truly relaxing.

  So maybe Falconi was a hard-edged bastard and their ship mind was eccentric and Sparrow was somewhat of a sadist and Trig was still just a kid and Hwa-jung was weird in her own ways and Vishal—Kira wasn’t sure what the deal was wi
th Vishal, but he seemed nice enough—so maybe all that. So what? Nothing was ever perfect. Kira knew one thing for certain, though: she’d fight for Falconi and his crew. She’d fight for them the same as she would have for her team on Adra.

  6.

  As a group, they ended up staying in the galley far later than they should have, but no one complained, least of all Kira. The evening ended with her showing—at the Entropists’ request—how the Soft Blade could form different shapes on its surface.

  She made a smiley face rise out of her palm, and Falconi said, “Talk to the hand.”

  Everyone laughed.

  At some point, Sparrow, Vishal, and Hwa-jung departed for sickbay. Without them, the galley was noticeably quieter.

  Sparrow’s surgery was going to take quite some time. Long before it finished, Kira returned to her cabin, fell onto her new mattress, and slept. And for once she didn’t dream.

  7.

  Morning arrived, and with it, a sense of dread. The jump to FTL was only a few hours away. Kira lay where she was for a while and tried to reconcile herself with what was to come.

  I brought this on myself. The thought made her feel better than believing she was a victim of circumstances, but it still didn’t make her feel great.

  She roused herself and checked her overlays. No news of significance (aside from reports of minor fighting on Ruslan), and no texts. Also no cramps. That was a relief.

  She messaged Sparrow:

 

  After a minute:

  Kira washed her face, dressed, and headed out.

  When the door to sickbay opened, she was shocked by how weak Sparrow looked. The woman’s face was drawn and pale, and she had an IV pinned in her arm.

  Somewhat taken aback, Kira said, “Are you going to be able to handle cryo?”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Sparrow said dryly. “Doc seems to think I’ll do just fine. Might even help me heal better, long term.”

  “Are you really up for more … whatever the hell this is?”

  Sparrow produced a crooked smile. “Oh yeah. I’ve thought of a whole bunch of different ways to test your patience.”

  She proved true to her word. Back to the makeshift gym they went, and again she put Kira through a rigorous series of exercises while Kira struggled to retain control over the Soft Blade. Sparrow didn’t make it easy. The woman had a talent for distraction, and she indulged in it, harassing Kira with words, sounds, and unexpected movements during the most difficult parts of the exercises. And Kira failed. Again and again she failed, and she grew increasingly frustrated with her inability to maintain her mental footing. With so much input, it was almost inevitable that her concentration would slip, and where it slipped, the Soft Blade took over, choosing of its own judgment how best to act.

  The organism’s decisions built a sense of character: one that was impulsive and eager to find flaws that could be exploited. Its was a questing consciousness full of unbridled curiosity, despite its oftentimes destructive nature.

  So it went. Sparrow continued to harass her, and Kira continued to try to retain her composure.

  After an hour, her face was drenched with sweat and she felt nearly as exhausted as Sparrow looked. “How’d I do?” she asked, getting up from the deck.

  “Don’t go watch a scary movie. That’s all I have to say,” said Sparrow.

  “Ah.”

  “What? You want cookies and compliments? You didn’t give up. Keep not-giving-up and you might impress me someday.” Sparrow lay back on the bench and closed her eyes. “It’s on you, now. You know what you need to do while we’re corpsicles.”

  “I have to keep practicing.”

  “And you can’t make it easy on yourself.”

  “I won’t.”

  Sparrow cracked open an eye. She smiled. “You know what, Navárez? I believe you.”

  The hours that followed were a frenzy of preparation. Kira helped Vishal sedate the ship pets, and then both Runcible and Mr. Fuzzypants were placed inside a cryo tube just big enough to hold the both of them.

  Shortly thereafter, the thrust alert sounded and the Wallfish cut its engines so it could cool down as much as possible before hitting the Markov Limit. Nearby, the Darmstadt did the same, the cruiser’s diamond radiators glittering in the dim light from the system’s star.

  One by one, the Wallfish’s systems were shut down, and the inside of the ship became progressively cooler and darker.

  The four Marines in the port hold were the first to enter cryo. They gave their notice, and then their systems vanished from the ship intranet as they lapsed into deathlike stasis.

  Next were the Entropists. Their cryo tubes were in their cabin. “We are off to lay ourselves—”

  “—in our hibernacula. Travel safely, Prisoners,” they said before sequestering themselves.

  Kira and the crew of the Wallfish gathered in the ship’s storm shelter, right near the center of the ship, just below Control and adjacent to the sealed room that contained the armored sarcophagus Gregorovich called home.

  Kira hung by the door of the shelter, feeling helpless as Sparrow, Hwa-jung, Trig, Vishal, and Nielsen stripped to their underwear and got into their tubes. The lids closed, and within seconds, the interiors fogged over.

  Falconi waited until the last. “You going to be okay on your own?” he asked, pulling his shirt over his head.

  Kira averted her gaze. “I think so.”

  “Once Gregorovich goes under, our pseudo-intelligence, Morven, will be in charge of navigation and life support, but if something goes wrong, don’t hesitate to wake any of us up.”

  “Okay.”

  He unlaced his boots, stuck them in a locker. “Seriously. Even if you just need to talk with another person. We’re going to have to drop out of FTL a few times anyway.”

  “If I need to, I promise I will.” She glanced over to see Falconi in just his skivvies. He was more heavily built than she’d realized: thick chest, thick arms, thick back. Sparrow and Hwa-jung obviously weren’t the only ones who used the weights in the hold.

  “Good.” Then he pulled himself along the wall and floated over to her. Up close, Kira could smell the sweat on him, a clean, healthy musk. A mat of thick, black hair covered his chest, and for a moment—just a moment—she imagined running her fingers through it.

  Falconi noticed her gaze and met it with an even more direct look. He said, “One other thing. Since you’re the only person who’s going to be up and around—”

  “Not much, if I can help it.”

  “You’ll still be more functional than any of us. Since that’s the case, I’m naming you acting captain of the Wallfish while we’re in cryo.”

  Kira was surprised. She started to say something, thought better of it, and then tried again: “Are you sure? Even after what happened?”

  “I’m sure,” said Falconi firmly.

  “Does that mean I’m part of the crew then?”

  “I suppose it does. For the duration of the trip, at least.”

  She considered the idea. “What sort of responsibilities does an acting captain have?”

  “Quite a few,” he said, going over to his cryo tube. “It gives you executive access to certain systems. Override ability too. Might be needed in an emergency.”

  “… Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  He nodded. “Just don’t wreck my ship, Navárez. She’s all I’ve got.”

  “Not all,” said Kira, and gestured at the frozen tubes.

  A faint smile appeared on Falconi’s face. “No, not all.” She watched as he lowered himself into the tube, hooked up the drip to his arm, and attached the electrodes to his head and chest. He looked at her once more and gave her a small salute. “See you by the light of a strange star, Captain.”

  “Captain.”

  Then the lid closed over Falconi’s face, and silence settled over the shelter.

  “Just you and me now,
headcase,” said Kira, looking in the direction of Gregorovich’s sarcophagus.

  “That too shall pass,” said the ship mind.

  8.

  Fourteen minutes later, the Wallfish went FTL.

  Kira watched the transition on the display in her cabin. One moment a field of stars surrounded them; the next a dark mirror, perfectly spherical.

  She studied the ship’s reflection for a long, wordless while and then closed the display and wrapped her arms around herself.

  They were finally on their way.

  EXEUNT II

  1.

  Outside the Wallfish, the Darmstadt was flying along a parallel course, swaddled in its own protective soap bubble of energy. Communication between ships in FTL was possible but difficult: the data rate was slow and lossy, and since they didn’t want to attract the attention of the Jellies or anyone else who might be listening, the only signals passing between them were an occasional ping to check the ships’ relative positions.

  Inside the Wallfish, it was as quiet as Kira had feared.

  She drifted along the dark corridors, feeling more like a ghost than a person.

  Gregorovich was still awake and talking: a whispering presence that filled the hull but was poor substitute for face-to-face interaction with another person. Nevertheless, a poor substitute was better than nothing, and Kira was grateful for the company, strange as it was.

  The ship mind needed to enter cryo himself. His oversized brain produced more heat than most people’s entire bodies. However, as he said, “I shall wait with you, O Tentacled Queen, until you sleep, and then I too shall sink into oblivion.”

  “We’re both bounded in a nutshell right now, aren’t we?”

  “Indeed.” And his lingering sigh dwindled through the ship.

  A sigil appeared on a display next to her; it was the first time she’d seen the ship mind represent himself with any sort of avatar. She studied the symbol for a moment (her overlays couldn’t identify it) and said, “Since you’re still up, shouldn’t you be the acting captain of the Wallfish?”