“Godspeed,” Oliver whispered to that big, dumb, insane, beautiful ship. “Sleep tight.”
All flexors in safety mode. You are cleared for Hephaestus Station re-entry, Specialist Barthes. Have a pleasant rest.
“You too, Helen. You too. Wherever well-behaved little truncated VI programs go to snooze, tuck yourself in nice and snug.”
Oliver slowly climbed back down to his access platform and disengaged the gravity flexors. His feet found metal once more. He took out his datapad and sent confirmation of delivery to the address he’d been given. Then, he pulled up his account manager and watched like a kid outside a cake shop. He waited. And waited. And finally, the familiar, modest numbers of his precious savings blinked out. New numbers blinked on. Astonishing new numbers. Gorgeous new numbers. Oliver Barthes was going to a new world, all right, just like the rest of them. A world of safety and love and family. A world where what happened on Eden Prime barely mattered at all.
* * *
Oliver walked along the main gangplank with something very like a spring in his step. He took off his helmet and ran one hand through his short brown hair. His stubble itched; time to shave. But it was done. It was done and you know what? It really was something that twenty thousand people were going to sail through the cold space between galaxies listening to Radio Free Barthes. He’d never thought he’d amount to anything special, but maybe he had, after all. Not enormously special, but a little. Just a little. He put his palm against the security panel. He imagined his mother’s face when he told her, the quiet little sparkle of delight he remembered in her brown eyes. The elevator arrived; the door didn’t open. Oliver rolled his eyes and banged on it a couple of times with his fist. Stupid things. It wouldn’t take more than a day of scrubbing that almost-certainly decrepit code to fix, but no one ever bothered. He’d put in a work request in the morning. His goodbye present to old Heph. From me to you, buddy.
Oliver punched the slider again. It wheezed open. The elevator car was empty; he stepped inside. He wouldn’t tell his mother right away, of course. He’d take them to the Citadel. Dazzle them with the green trees in the Presidium and the lights of the docking ships and the steak sandwiches at Apollo’s. Then he’d show them the apartment in Zakera Ward he’d bought for them. He could practically hear his mother’s voice in that dingy elevator. Oh, Ollie, it’s too much! They’d be so happy. They’d probably cry. He’d cry, too. And then, when they were all sitting around the dinner table, stuffed senseless and drunk on the future, he’d tell them about the time he played rock-a-bye baby to a ship of aliens for six hundred years. I wonder if you dream in cryostasis? Maybe someday we’ll find out. Together.
Tech Specialist Second Class Oliver Barthes stepped out of the elevator into the long hallway that connected the main column of Hephaestus Station to the industrial living quarters. He picked up his pace, eager to get to sleep, to get one day closer to Zakera Ward and green trees and grease shining on his father’s calloused fingers from a real steak sandwich.
Oliver was still picturing his mother’s laughing face when a figure in a deep gray hood stepped out from an alcove and shot him twice in the head.
The figure looked down at the techie’s body for a moment, prodded it with one boot to make sure, then walked on, humming a little lullaby under its breath:
Sing me to sleep on the starry sea
And I’ll dream through the night of my suit and me…
The filthy, featureless metal ceiling of Hephaestus Station reflected mutely in the dull surface of a powerless omni-tool.
I won’t fear the heat of a desert breeze
Or contaminants high in the jungle trees
Even in space I shall never freeze
Because I’ve got my suit and my suit’s got me…
PART 1
KEELAH SI’YAH
1. SURFACE RECEPTORS
Sleepwalker Team Leader Senna’Nir vas Keelah Si’yah, your attention is required.
Senna groaned. A bright cascade of revival drugs sizzled through his system. The quarian second-in-command tried to roll over on his side and turn down the optics on his suit as he always did when he overslept. Nothing was ever so important it couldn’t survive another five minutes’ sleep. His suit did not respond. Senna’s elbow hit hard iso-glass. He tried to sit up, smacked the brow ridge of his mask against the same stuff, and fell back onto a narrow bed. Pinpricks of harsh light stabbed his eyes. Readouts exploded onto his helmet display in bursts of glowing ultraviolet text.
Ship Status: Initiative ship Keelah Si’yah performing within normal parameters
Navigational Positioning: 1.26% behind projected itinerary
Cardiovascular Condition: good
Deviations from Endocrinal and Neurological Norms: within standard conformations
Pharmaceutical Activity: intravenous stimulants, muscular density restoratives, painkiller #4 (double dose)
Holistic Suit Feedback: all systems functional, no exterior breaches
Sleepwalker Team Sitrep: nothing significant to report
Engine Chatter: eezo conversion performing at 0.7% in excess of expected efficiency