“Whoa. Look at that skinsuit!” exclaimed the younger man.
“Looking is for later. Help me take her to sickbay.”
More hands touched her, and they turned her so her head pointed toward the airlock. She made a feeble attempt to right herself, and the doctor—she assumed it was the doctor—said, “No, no. Rest now. You mustn’t move.”
Kira slipped in and out of awareness as she floated through the airlock … down a white, accordion pressure tube … then a brown corridor illuminated by scuffed lightstrips … and finally a small room lined with drawers and equipment; was that a medibot along the wall?…
2.
A jolt of acceleration returned Kira to full consciousness. For the first time in weeks, a sensation of weight, blessed weight, settled over her.
She blinked and looked around, feeling alert, if weak.
She was lying on an angled bed with a strap secured across her hips to keep her from floating or falling off. A sheet was pulled up beneath her chin (she was still wearing her jumpsuit). Lightstrips glowed overhead, and there was a medibot mounted to the ceiling. The sight reminded her of waking up in the sickbay on Adra.…
But no, this was different. Unlike at the survey base, the room was tiny, barely more than a closet.
Sitting on the edge of a metal sink was a young man. The same one she’d heard earlier? He was thin and gangly, and the sleeves of his olive jumpsuit were rolled back to expose sinewy forearms. His pant legs were rolled up as well. Striped socks showed red between cuff and shoe. He looked to be in his late teens, but it was hard to tell exactly.
Between her and the kid stood a tall, dark-skinned man. The doctor, she guessed, based off the stethoscope draped around his neck. His hands were long and restless, fingers darting fish-like with quick intent. Instead of a jumpsuit, he wore a slate-blue turtleneck and matching slacks.
Neither outfit was a standard uniform. The two definitely weren’t military. And they weren’t Hydrotek personnel. Independent contractors, then, or freelancers, which confused her. If she wasn’t on the gas-mining station, where was she?
The doctor noticed her looking. “Ah, Ms., you’re awake.” He cocked his head, his large, round eyes serious. “How are you feeling?”
“Not—” Kira’s voice came out in a harsh croak. She stopped, coughed, and then tried again. “Not too bad.” To her astonishment, it was the truth. She was stiff and sore, but everything seemed to be in working order. Better, in some cases; her senses felt sharper than normal. She wondered if the suit had integrated itself even further into her nervous system during the trip.
The doctor frowned. He seemed the anxious type. “That’s most surprising, Ms. Your core temperature was exceedingly low.” He held up a hypo. “It is necessary to take blood so—”
“No!” said Kira, more forcefully than she intended. She couldn’t afford to let the doctor examine her or he’d realize what the Soft Blade was. “I don’t want any blood tests.”
She pulled back the sheet, unclipped the strap holding her down, and slid off the bed.
The moment her feet hit the deck, her knees buckled and she toppled forward. She would have face-planted if the doctor hadn’t sprung over and caught her. “Not to worry, Ms. I have you. I have you.” He lifted her back onto the bed.
Across the room, the kid pulled a ration bar from his pocket and started to gnaw on it.
Kira raised a hand, and the doctor backed off. “I’m fine. I can do it. Just give me a moment.”
He eyed her, his expression speculative. “How long were you in zero-g, Ms.?”
She didn’t answer but lowered herself to the floor again. This time her legs held, although she kept a hand on the bed to steady herself. She was surprised (and pleased) by how well her muscles worked. They had barely atrophied, if at all. Second by second, she could feel strength returning to her limbs.
“About eleven weeks,” she said.
The doctor’s thick eyebrows climbed upward. “And how long since you last ate?”
Kira did a quick internal check. She was hungry, but not unbearably so. She ought to have been starving. More to the point, she ought to have been starved. She’d expected to arrive at 61 Cygni too weak to stand.
The Soft Blade had to be responsible. Somehow it must have put her into hibernation.
“I don’t remember.… A couple of days.”
“Not fun,” the kid muttered through a mouthful of food. Definitely the same voice she’d heard on the Valkyrie.
The doctor glanced back at him. “You have more of those rations, yes? Give one to our guest here.”
The kid produced another bar from one of his pockets and tossed it to Kira. She caught it, tore open the foil, and took a bite. The rations tasted good: banana-chocolate-something-or-other. Her stomach rumbled audibly as she swallowed.
The doctor opened a drawer and handed her a silvery pouch full of liquid. “Here, when you are finished, drink this. It will replenish your electrolytes and provide you with much-needed nutrients.”
Kira made a grateful sound. She scarfed down the last of the bar and then drank the contents of the pouch. It had an earthy, slightly metallic taste, like iron-tinged syrup.
Then the doctor raised the hypo again. “Now, I really must insist on taking a blood sample, Ms. I need to check—”
“Look, where am I? Who are you?”
Taking another bite, the kid said, “You’re on the SLV Wallfish.”
The doctor looked irritated by the interruption. “Indeed. My name is Vishal, and this is—”
“I’m Trig,” said the kid, and slapped himself on the chest.
“Okay,” said Kira, still confused. SLV, that was a civilian ship designation. “But—”
“What’s your name?” asked Trig, jerking his chin toward her.
Without thinking, Kira said, “Ensign Kaminski.” They’d discover her real name easily enough if they started checking records, but her first instinct was to play things cautiously until she understood the situation better. She could always claim she’d gotten confused from lack of food. “Are we close to Tsiolkovsky?”
Vishal seemed taken aback. “Close to … No, not at all, Ms. Kaminski.”
“That’s all the way on the other side of Sixty-One Cygni,” said the kid. He gulped down the last of his bar.
“Huh?” said Kira, disbelieving.
The doctor bobbed his head. “Yes, yes, Ms. Kaminski. Your ship lost power after you returned to normal space, and you were coasting across the whole of the system. If we hadn’t rescued you, who knows how long you might have drifted?”
“What day is it?” Kira asked, suddenly concerned. The doctor and the kid looked at her strangely, and she knew what they were thinking; Why didn’t she just check the date on her overlays? “My implants aren’t working. What day is it?”
“It’s the sixteenth,” said Trig.
“Of November,” said Kira.
“Of November,” he confirmed.
Her trip had taken a week longer than planned. Eighty-eight days, not eighty-one. By all rights, she ought to be dead. But she had made it. She thought of Tschetter and Corporal Iska, and a strange disquiet afflicted her. Had they been rescued? Were they even still alive? They could have starved to death during her time on the Valkyrie, or the graspers could have killed them and she might never know.
Whatever the truth might be, she resolved to never forget their names or actions, no matter how long she lived. It was the only way she had of honoring their sacrifice.
Vishal clucked his tongue. “You can ask all your questions later, but first, I really must check to make sure you are okay, Ms. Kaminski.”