part0008

He opened his eyes and found himself flat on his back, bright lights burning his retinas, tubes in his mouth and nose. He heard the sound of rushing air, felt his lungs expand with a stab of agony, and then felt the air slowly seep back out. Dimly, he realized he was on a stretcher being pushed down a long, white hallway. Heat rushed down his cheeks.

“James,” a familiar voice said.

His gaze followed the sound, and he found himself staring into his father’s hazel eyes. They were red-rimmed with tears. His father never cried. “James! Stay with me,” his father said. He pulled James’s hand to his cheek. James blinked. His hand was pale next to his father’s darker Eurasian skin. His mother was dark, too. His father and mother had struggled so hard to make sure that their blonde-haired, blue-eyed child wouldn’t face any disadvantages. And he hadn’t. James had had a wonderful life. A perfect life of mental stimulation, meaningful work, good friends, and adventure. He wanted to say so, but the mask over his face prevented him from speaking.

He heard shouting, and the sound of many footsteps, rubber on linoleum, a beeping long and slow, and someone saying, “Sir, you must step away.”

“No,” his father said. “No!”

His father’s words echoed the feeling in James’s heart. He couldn’t swallow, but his body tried to. A gurgle rose up from the tubing, and the furious whir and beeping of machines became more furious still.

Blue-gloved hands wrapped around his father’s shoulders, pulling him away, and James was moving through the long white hallway alone, the shouts becoming muted. He closed his eyes. He hadn’t had a chance to say what he wanted to say—but the time capsule, his father would find it. Everything was in the time capsule … the world went dark behind his eyelids.

His eyes opened again. He was flat on his stomach instead of his back. Instead of pain he felt cold; it sizzled from his hands and the front of his legs and torso to his spine like an electric charge. He scrambled up, and for a moment he was suspended in a white blur. Trying to get his bearings, he spun in place. Was he in the hospital? But then why was it was cold? And there was no sound of beeping, footsteps, or the whine of antigrav stretchers—just a soft whisper.

His head ticked to the side, and the white blur came into focus. He found himself alone, outdoors—the ethernet strangely silent. He blinked. Beyond the snowflakes, there were trees. The whisper he heard was the sound of millions of snowflakes colliding with the pines, the ground, and his body.

He didn’t think he’d ever noticed that before.

He blinked snowflakes from his lashes. The trees were Ponderosa Pines, which meant he was on Earth near the accident he’d just been dreaming of … no, remembering. He took a deep breath, and instead of the scent of pine, a different fragrance like mint and lavender flooded his senses—Luddeccean pine. He shook his head, blinked again, and saw that the trees he’d mistaken for Earth’s Ponderosas had needles in gradients of red and purple, and silvery-gray bark. The morphology was almost identical to Ponderosas, hence his confusion. Similar gravity and climate on Earth and this planet had produced some of the most dramatic examples of convergent evolution in the galaxy.

How had he gotten here? He brushed snow from his chest and his hand encountered a strap. His eyes slipped down to a belt slung over his shoulder to his side … a holster … for the rifle on his back. Why did he have a rifle on his back?

He looked down at the outline his body had made in the snow. He must have fallen. Again. He shuddered, feeling a crawling sensation under his skin. Over the whisper of snow came the loud whine of antigrav engines above the treetops, ten kilometers away, south by southwest, and approaching at a rate that would put them here in 3.5 minutes.

He shook his head and clutched his temples as the recent past jolted to the forefront of his consciousness. He’d come to Luddeccea from Earth to visit with his parents at their vacation cottage—just as they had done every year since he was ten years old. The rifle was for hunting, as was the camouflage he was wearing. This year he’d come early. The recently elected Luddeccean government was very conservative. He’d heard things over the ethernet that made him suspect that the planet might have become inhospitable for outsiders. He had come to Luddeccea a week before his family, just to make sure things were safe.

He winced—the expression didn’t go further than his eyes; his lips felt odd, stiff. The last thing he remembered was being in the shuttle he’d rented from the time gate … He’d had the proper authorizations; but, before he transmitted them, the Luddeccean Guard had begun firing. He blinked snow out of his eyes. His parents had said he was paranoid—things didn’t get dangerous that quickly. James was a historian; his specialty was twentieth century Earth. Cuba had become dangerous in the 1950s very quickly … and apparently Luddeccea was undergoing such a dangerous revolution just as quickly. He couldn’t remember ever being so unhappy to be right.

After the Guard had begun firing, he remembered a jolt as the shuttle’s engines had been clipped. His body had been flung against his safety harness, and over the ethernet he’d heard, “Archangel down, Archangel down.” Everything after that was a blank. But somehow he’d made his way here from the crash site …

He looked back at his footprints, rapidly filling with snow.

Archangel down. What could it mean? The ethernet was still silent—something must have become dislodged in his head in the crash. He shook his head in frustration and tried to access his own data banks. For a frightening moment he couldn’t … but with another furious shake his neural interface kicked into gear. Although his specialty was twentieth century media, he had other historical data on hand. His neural interface picked up his last question and began to project images of archangels into his mind: illustrations from medieval manuscripts, paintings, and photo manipulations from the late 1900s and early 2000s, all of men with wings, often with weapons. At the same time the images flashed, nanos piped words. “Archangels: ‘high angels,’ mythical creatures, first imagined in 300 BC in the Judaic tradition: Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Raguel, Remiel, and Saraqael. Lucifer was also sometimes considered to have been an archangel before he fell from grace. Archangels were present in the religions of all the Abrahamic traditions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.”

He exhaled a long breath. The Abrahamic traditions were popular on Luddeccea; had they been comparing him ... Professor James Hiro Sinclair ... a historian, to the devil? His head ticked violently to the side. He was certain he could feel his synapses blinking in confusion at the lack of logic.

A shout on the ground drew him from his thoughts. James looked over his shoulder. The whine of antigrav was louder—as was the sound of wind above the trees. He still could not see anyone or even a ship; the snow was falling too densely. He stood, transfixed. The right thing to do would be to put his hands over his head, wait for an actual human, and explain the situation. If only they saw his authorization chip, they’d realize it was a mistake—he was a citizen of Earth, and purposely firing on him could be grounds for sanctions. Surely they’d merely deport him? On the other hand, if he ran, he would be a fugitive.

The approaching voices grew louder. He found himself backing away from his pursuers without conscious thought. He wanted to stop and think—but his body seemed to have a mind of its own.

… And then it occurred to him, in a bright moment of lucidity, that maybe his body had caught on to what his brain seemed determined to ignore. When he had told his parents the world might be unsafe for off-worlders, he thought maybe they’d have rocks thrown at their cottage windows—he didn’t think he’d be shot out of the sky.

Could he reason with a government that broke the laws of the Republic under mythological pretexts?

Before his mind had even formulated an answer to that hypothetical, he found himself spinning in place. He started to run, calling on his data banks of the local terrain. A three-dimensional holo appeared to superimpose itself over the scene before him, an illusion his nanos were piping into his visual cortex. The perceived holo showed a map with a blinking light for him, the cottage a tiny block of light 234 kilometers away, and a refueling station twenty kilometers away demarked by a tiny glowing triangle. Could he catch a ride there? Or at least hide and find food and shelter before he died of exposure?

There was one other light. In his auditory apparatus the name “Commander Noa Sato” rang. He leaped over a large boulder, and, with the impact of landing, more memories hit him in a rush. Just before he’d been shot, he’d heard the Luddeccean authorities declare her “dangerous.” An image of a woman in a crisp Fleet uniform came to his mind. Her eyes … Noa Sato’s eyes, he was almost sure … were sliding to the side at someone out of the camera’s line of vision. A wide smile was on her face. Her skin was so dark it made the drab gray of her uniform appear silver. Her cheeks were round and plump despite the sleek athleticism of her form. He knew, like he knew her name and face, that she was forty-two years old in the picture, though the Fleet’s anti-aging regimen meant she looked closer to twenty-five. She looked vibrant, healthy, and very alive. In the cold, running for his life, the image impossibly made him want .

James felt the urge to frown, but his numb lips did not respond. He didn’t know her … he couldn’t remember anything about her other than that picture. She was in the opposite direction to his current course. He couldn’t go to her. It was too risky. He stumbled, clutched his head, and stumbled again. His footsteps slowed, until he was standing, panting, staring at his feet, his breath curling in front of him.

He tried to move along his intended trajectory.

… And found he couldn’t. The shouts rose behind the curtain of snow. Someone said, “It fell down here!”

James looked in the direction he wanted to go, and then in the direction of Commander Sato. His feet moved toward the Commander … and at least he was moving away from the people calling him “it.” At first he went slowly, but when he didn’t stumble, he started to run faster. Every stride became longer, and faster, until the world was a blur. A fallen tree loomed before him, the crest of the felled trunk a meter and twenty-four centimeters high. He leapt over it before he’d had time to think—he had to have misjudged the height because he cleared it easily and landed lightly on his feet.

“Ashley,” she muttered. “I am so angry with you … making me do this alone, making me leave you, making me so cold … for being right that you wouldn’t have made it this far.”

“Did you hear that?” someone shouted.

Noa didn’t turn her head. Her Fleet-implanted locator app plotted the speaker as a glowing light a few meters behind her. She tried to run, but all that came to her limbs was a slightly faster shuffle.

She heard her own breath, raspy and loud. And she heard antigrav engines, the big kind, just clicks away. It was all strangely muted. By the snow? Or was she finally losing her mind? “I can’t lose it now, I can’t, I can’t, I won’t, I won’t.”

“I hear her,” someone said.

Noa wanted to run, but sending that message to her limbs didn’t work. It was like her body was a puppet that belonged to someone else. Without warning, the puppet master ripped her feet out from under her. Noa went sprawling forward and bellyflopped with the cold ground. She heard men, too close behind, looked back, and only saw a large root jutting out of the snow. “Damn you for tripping me,” she muttered, trying to drag herself to her feet. “Stupid root. I hope you die of rot. Or weevils. Or … ” She groaned. It took too much energy to talk, and breathing sent daggers of ice into her lungs. She managed to pull herself up on all fours, but couldn't rise further. So she crawled, hands burning with cold in the snow. She found the ability to speak again. “And damn you body. I hate you. Giving out on me at a time like this.”

“Well, she still has energy enough to talk,” someone said with a laugh. It wasn’t a nice laugh.

The boot that connected with her side a few moments later shouldn’t have taken her by surprise. Pain seared through her. I’m sorry, body , she wanted to say, but couldn’t. Sorry, I don’t want to leave you yet. Don’t give up on me .

Someone kicked her again. Lungs aching, she found herself staring up at white. Snow? Or had she fainted? She wasn’t sure. But then her vision half-returned and she was looking at the dark arms of trees reaching for the sky. Someone said, “End of the line for you, throwback.” She heard the click of a safety and found herself facing the barrel of a pistol. Beyond the pistol was a tan face, with Eurasian eyes, above a thick down coat in Luddeccean Green.

“Don’t shoot her, Art,” someone else said. “Command wants to interrogate her and to yank her port out. Fleet pulled a number on us.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Joe?” said the guy holding the pistol.

Noa could actually hear the guy who must be Joe shrug, even though she couldn’t see him. “Orders are orders.”

The pistol pointed at Noa slowly lowered.

Out of her line of sight, Noa heard a soft thud.

“What was that?” someone who wasn’t Joe or Art said.

She willed her body to swivel in the snow, to knock the feet out from under her closest pursuer, and steal his pistol. Instead she just managed to scoot backward like an upside down snake. Did snakes move upside down? They were a recent addition to the Luddeccean fauna from Earth. A tiny, obviously useless, part of her brain tried to access the ethernet.

Skidding to a halt, his vision pulsed as though he were in a room where the lights were flickering.

“Don’t shoot her, Art,” said another voice. James blinked, and his vision normalized. He crept forward and peered around a tree. He saw what looked like a pile of rags on the ground, and four men in Luddeccean Green orbiting around it.

“Command wants to interrogate her again—and to yank her port out.”

The words “interrogate” and “yank her port out,” stood at the forefront of James’s mind. The snow and storm disappeared as his neural interface crowded his mind with images of prisoners of war in WWII, and of victims of amateur port removals—their brains and nanos spilled out in back alleys.

He should run away from these savages. There were four of them, and only one of him.

He wanted to run. And couldn’t.

He remembered a mountain climbing expedition to a sunken city along the San Andreas rift on Earth—he used to tell his students that he was a historian of the Indiana Jones variety—after he explained who Indiana Jones was. On that particular trip, his companion’s safety cord had slipped from the rock face. James had caught him and helped him to safety without a second thought … and managed to pull his own shoulder out of its socket in the process.

Was he the type of person that simply couldn’t turn away? But he wanted to turn away, and that person in the memory seemed like someone else.

James looked down at his feet half-buried in snow, immobile despite his wishes. He looked to the pile of rags that might be Noa Sato, and then to her pursuers. He couldn’t run away—and he couldn’t just haphazardly try to intervene—he’d be captured, too. How could he rescue her and keep his own skin? He needed a distraction …

Gazing at the snow, he recalled another winter he’d spent here as a child. He’d thrown a snowball at his father’s back, missed spectacularly, and hit a tree. His father had turned to the remains of the snowball before turning to James and lobbing a snowball back.

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was what he had. Kneeling down, James quickly made a snowball. He threw it at a tree thirty meters from his location, and hit it dead center.

“What was that?” said one of the men. Raising his rifle, the man looked toward the sound.

James made another snowball, and threw it at a tree a few meters from the first. His aim was unerring. He tilted his head; he’d been a terrible pitcher at cricket. Was fear improving his arm?

“What joker is throwing snowballs?” one of the other men said.

“Knock it off!” said another.

“Probably Juarez. I’m going to check this out,” said another, clicking the safety of his pistol and walking into the trees.

Swinging his rifle around without conscious thought, James found himself watching the man through the sights.

He’d never shot a human before. James had a memory of watching some Fleet personnel boarding a shuttle back on Earth. It was right after a hostage standoff that had ended with the Fleet killing innocent civilians. James had shaken his head, turned to a colleague, and said, “Violence is never the solution, not in this day and age.”

Now his rifle was aimed at a man. Was he ready to shoot?

Reaching the exploded remains of a snowball, the man spun around, raising his firearm in James’s direction. James pulled the trigger. The man’s head jerked backward as the bullet hit and James felt … relief.

One of the men by the pile of rags screamed, “Pari!”

The same force that compelled him to find Commander Sato seemed to take hold of James. He moved from the tree he was hiding behind to another. A second man stepped into the trees. James’s rifle was still raised, his eye still in the sights, and he pulled the trigger.

There was another soft thud, and then another rifle shot. Noa’s body belatedly responded to her brain’s order to move. Sitting up, she saw a man in Luddeccean Green crouched behind a tree. He had a heat-seeking scanner up, and he was aiming it into a swirling blur beyond him. Noa managed to climb to her feet, wavering like grass in the wind. The man in green paid no attention to her. His face was on the scanner screen as he swung it in a wide arc, trying to find the source of the rifle shots. The snow was so thick that at first the screen was a blur, but then he stopped. Over his shoulder, before Noa’s eyes, a face emerged on the screen, very close, and very familiar.

Noa’s body responded before her brain could give it orders. She charged forward and delivered a blow to the side of the Luddeccean’s head. It should have been enough to knock him over—but somehow wound up more like a tap.

“What the—” The man let out a string of curse words. Before Noa knew what was happening, she was flat on her back in the snow again, the side of her jaw stinging, blood on her tongue, air whipping out of her lungs. There was the sound of a rifle shot, the crunch of snow, and the face she’d seen on the heat screen appeared above her. Bright blue eyes above high cheekbones, pale skin with a few freckles, all framed by dark blonde hair.

“Timothy,” she whispered.

James stared down at the woman that might be Commander Noa Sato, the woman he had killed to defend—which seemed like it should be a milestone in his life—a marker, an event. But it wasn’t. It felt as ordinary as breathing.

It was hard to reconcile the woman in the snow with the healthy, beautiful, laughing woman in his memory. This woman’s cheeks were sunken, her hair was sparse, and her full lips were dry, split and bloody.

“Timothy,” she whispered.

“No, my name is … James Sinclair.” As the names spilled from his lips, they felt wrong. But they weren’t. It was his name, a name with history. James was an ancient name, from Hebrew. It meant “he who grasps the heel” or “supplanter.” Sinclair was Scottish, and it meant “bright and clear.”

Why did it sound off? Because it was just a jumble of syllables that didn’t sound like one who overthrew, and it didn’t offer any clarity?

In the snow, the dark eyes of the woman rolled back as her head listed to the side. James took a step back. If this was Commander Sato, she didn’t recognize him. Why was he drawn to her?

He heard the whisper of the snow falling on their bodies, and above the trees the sound of antigrav engines approaching. He remembered the expedition on the cliff face and catching the fallen man. Was it the instinct of a herd animal that compelled him to save her, or just a personality trait?

This woman was not part of his “herd,” and logically, James knew she would be dead weight. Kneeling, he scooped her into his arms anyway. As he pulled her close, he smelled a raw stench of vomit, sweat, and unwashed clothing. He pulled her tighter, for some reason he could not fathom, and felt something—a rush of familiarity. Clutching her tighter still, he looked around and spotted four hover bikes in the trees. If he could start one, they could be at his family’s cottage in an hour.

He carried the woman over to one of the machines. It was oblong in shape with a turbo engine at the back. Two antigrav engines, each about the diameter of a large serving platter and the height of his palm, jutted out from beneath it. The antigrav engines looked larger than he was used to—older tech, he suspected. Old or not, he could see the dull silver of the timefield bands that counteracted gravity gleaming in the low light. The bands created a bubble in time—much like the ones created by the time gates that facilitated nearly instantaneous travel through space—but the fields generated by hover craft were less precise and robust. The computations for the timefield were complex—the engine’s location relative to the planet, solar system, galaxy, and universe had to be taken into account. But with a warp in time to disrupt gravity’s pull, all that was needed for lift was a simple propeller mechanism.

Sliding onto the seat, he slung the Commander awkwardly over his legs. The bike’s controls looked as antiquated as the engine. There was a manual steering wheel, a flat screen, knobs, and dials. There didn’t even appear to be a cable to connect to his data port. Dipping his chin, he focused on the dark screen trying to pick up the bike’s wireless signal—and got nothing.

The Commander stirred. “Crazy, primitive, Luddeccean tech,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

James blinked down at her.

Her eyes were closed, but she continued to mumble. “Ignition controlled by retinal scan in the screen, take off the screen and you can hot-wire it. Just touch the yellow wire to the green port … Removing the scanner will also remove the tracking device.”

James heard shouting, and actual footsteps. He had only minutes before they would be in visual range. He ripped the main screen off at the front of the bike with one hand.

“Nebulas!” the Commander hissed. “You’re strong for a figment of my imagination.”

He lifted the screen, about to hurl it to the ground, and hopefully break the tracking device when she coughed. “No! Do the same to the other bikes, wire them up, activate them, and voice command them to go far away.”

James held the broken bike component above her head. It seemed like a waste of time.

The Commander rasped. “Throw the one you’ve got into the boot of one of the others when you do it.”

The implications of that sank in. It was bound to be discovered that they’d stolen this bike. If they threw the tracking device into one of the other bikes, and the other bikes went to the wrong location, their pursuers could be diverted for hours. It was a better idea than throwing a snowball at a tree.

“Do it!” the woman hissed.

His neural interface was blinking like the lights of a Christmas tree. He had less than two minutes. James swung Noa off his lap without paying attention to her landing. He left her cursing in the snow at the foot of the bike, and as she cursed, his vision flickered. After ripping off the other speedometers, he quickly found the green port and yellow wire she was speaking of. He activated all three bikes, gave them commands, and watched them zip off through the trees.

He heard the last bike engine rev. Spinning, he saw that the Commander had managed to get up, slide onto the seat, and activate the vehicle.

He looked back at the trail the other bikes had left in the snow. The search party on the ground was fifty-one seconds to visual range. She had his bike now, he’d slow her down and …

“Get on!” she ordered him.

James felt his mind stutter. She didn’t seem to have the same ambivalence about rescuing him that he did rescuing her.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked.

Running forward, James jumped on, just barely fitting on the seat behind her.

“Hold on!” she commanded over the roar of the bike’s engine and the search party. The bike rose before he had a chance to put on his safety belt, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. The bike was capable of soaring above the treetops—but the Commander kept it close to the ground, following the crater-like path the other bikes’ antigrav engines had left in the snow … which was strange. She was the one who had told him to use the other bikes as a decoy. Before he had a chance to question, they were gliding over a large stream, not yet frozen over. The Commander immediately doubled back, but kept to the course of the stream. It wasn’t in the precise direction he wanted to go, and he almost protested … and then realized the antigrav engines left no trace of their movement in the water. It was clever.

The Commander hit the accelerator and within minutes the sound of the antigrav engines in the sky was several dozen kilometers in the distance, and he could no longer hear the shouts of the ground party.

It should have been comforting. But without the threat of imminent death, James’s brain started to replay how he came to be sitting behind a strange woman who was as thin as a scarecrow and reeking of disease. He tried to think back to when he had first rented the shuttle on Time Gate 8—wondering if somehow he’d managed to get the wrong authorization. But he couldn’t remember being at the counter of the rental kiosk, or collecting the shuttle at the terminal. And then there was the time after the shuttle was shot that he couldn’t remember, either.

James released a long breath. His arms tightened on the Commander’s waist. She was a stranger, and just a shadow of the vision of her he had in his mind, but she felt real and familiar. Between his knees the Commander shivered. He could feel the edge of her ribs beneath the thin coat. He had an inexplicable desire to slip his hands up beneath her coat to check her heartbeat.

The Commander shivered again, this time so violently he was sure if his arms weren’t around her she would fall off.

“Hope you can drive, figment of my imagination,” the Commander said.

“My name is James,” he said. And then, like a delayed reaction, he realized that she might be telling a joke. Why would she make light of the situation? He blinked, remembering when he caught his friend as he fell down the cliff. James had said, “Next time you decide to plummet to your death, could you lose a few kilos?” He used to joke about death, too.

“My second wind just blew away,” Noa said. “I think I’m going to … ” She drew the bike to a stop. Water sloshed below them, spreading out in small waves.

“What?” said James.

She promptly slumped in his arms.

James stumbled through the snow, clutching Sato tightly to his chest. The snow was falling too thickly to see, and he focused on the glowing square in his mind’s eye that was his parents’ cottage, only ten meters away.

He’d abandoned the bike about five kilometers ago when it had been almost out of fuel. He’d commanded the machine to continue along the river. Hopefully, when it was found, it would be sufficiently far away to throw off anyone who might discover it.

He shivered. He’d wrapped his coat around the Commander. At first, exertion had kept him warm, but then the very exertion that had kept him warm had caused the snow to melt into his clothes, and he was cold. He nearly tripped again. He was hungry, too, and there was a perplexing haze at the edges of his consciousness, as though all non-vital systems had been shut down. It was a relief in a way. He hadn’t obsessed about his missing blocks of time or how he knew the Commander in exactly forty-five minutes and thirty-three seconds … Apparently, his brain thought a chronometer was a vital function. The observation almost brought a bitter smile to his lips—but they felt numb, and it didn’t come.

The dot that was him and the square that was the cottage collided. James lifted his eyes. He couldn’t see the circle of pines that surrounded the remote retreat. The only thing he could see was the front stoop. A knee-high landscaping ‘bot with a plow at the front was pushing snow away from the door. It flashed a red light at him, attempting a retinal scan. James dutifully met the red glow head on. The ‘bot beeped in recognition, and before James even set his hand on the fingerprint recognition plate, the heavy wood door swung open. He stepped inside. It was warm—the ‘bots had been expecting him. In the foyer, he paused. Everything was exactly as he remembered it. The floor was local limestone, the ceilings had exposed beams of Luddeccean pine. The walls were the same pine, but more finely sanded and stained a lighter color. He heard the whir of other housekeeping ‘bots, and the distant hum of the furnace that heated water. James kicked off his boots and felt the familiar rush of warmth from the floors through his now-drenched socks. Familiar … and off. Something was missing.

His coat slid from the Commander’s torso to the floor, bringing his attention to his mysterious burden. She had been absolutely silent since she’d passed out on the bike—he noticed with dismay that she was soaking wet, just as he was. Eyes still closed, she began to shiver. He didn’t have time for his apprehension—as wrong as this place felt, it was still shelter.

He carried her to the bedroom. Dropping her on the bed, he put his hand on her forehead. Thirty-four degrees Celsius—she was mildly hypothermic. He flexed the fingers of his hand … he didn’t remember having a temperature app. He didn’t have time to ponder it. James quickly stripped her out of her wet clothes down to only her undergarments. For the first time he noticed that there were fresh scars on her left hand where her last finger and ring finger were missing. There were also two very small scars on her face—one beneath her eyebrow and one above. They didn’t look like the aesthetic scarification that was popular a few years ago on Earth. There was another larger scar on her abdomen. Strange that she had not repaired the glaring imperfections. Besides those, she had visible bruising around her ribs and on her cheek. She was also visibly emaciated. She may have passed out from hunger as much as cold. For now, he couldn’t help the hunger, but he could help with the cold.

Tucking her beneath the duvet, he stripped down himself and joined her. Removing her clothing had taken away some of the odors of filth that clung to her—but not all. For all the smell of death … there was something comforting about her presence. Maybe she’d only mistaken him for someone else earlier because she was exhausted from cold and hunger? Perhaps she’d wake up, they’d eat, and she’d remind him of how he knew her?

She shivered, and he put his hand over her heart. He could feel her rib cage too acutely, but the beat was steady.

Ten minutes later, the Commander’s shivering ceased, and a quick check of her temple showed that her temperature had risen above hypothermic levels. His hand drifted down to her waist. He found that if he concentrated, he could hear her heartbeat over the sound of the wind outside, the furnace rumbling in the distance, and the house ‘bots.

Settling into a semi-conscious haze with only the sound of her heart and his internal chronometer for company, he had an odd memory of being ten years old, in this very house, and curling up in this bed with a toy giraffe that played bedtime lullabies.

After four hours, six minutes, and thirty-seven seconds, the Commander shifted against him in a way that wasn’t toy-like. Before James had a chance to come to full consciousness, she murmured drowsily. The tone of her voice was like a lover’s, and his hand tightened on her hip, as though by reflex. Before he had time to fully process her murmur, or his reaction, she whispered, “Timothy ...”