Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [25]
Strange, he thought.
Maybe the sensor mechanism had stopped working. It didn’t happen very often, but it was a possibility. To circumvent the problem, Paris touched the pressure-sensitive plate located on the bulkhead, next to the doors.
Still no answer.
The ensign frowned. Maybe he had miscommunicated with the computer somehow. He decided to try it again.
“Computer,” he said, looking up at the intercom grid hidden in the ceiling, “where is Ensign Jiterica?”
The reply came in a pleasant, feminine voice. “Ensign Jiterica is in her quarters.”
Paris’s frown deepened. Something was wrong.
With all Jiterica’s physical differences and the suit she was forced to wear, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that she had gotten herself into trouble somehow—or that it was something she couldn’t deal with on her own.
If that were the case, and she was rescued by a bunch of security officers, it would be a source of great embarrassment to her. And the last thing Jiterica needed, now that she was finally beginning to fit in with the crew, was another embarrassment to live down.
Paris knew an override code from the rotation he had spent in security, shortly after he came on board. If Mister Joseph hadn’t changed the code, he might be able to get into Jiterica’s quarters without anyone knowing.
Of course, if he were wrong, it would be a violation of Jiterica’s privacy—and a serious one, at that. But he felt compelled to take the chance.
Quickly but carefully, Paris tapped the code into a strip below the pressure-sensitive plate. For a moment, he thought Joseph had changed the code after all, or maybe he had tapped it in incorrectly.
Then the door slid open, revealing the contents of Jiterica’s quarters. Without hesitation, Paris took a step inside and looked around. But he didn’t see Jiterica. What he saw was a strange, iridescent mist, filling the room from wall to wall.
At first, Paris recoiled, thinking there was a plasma leak somewhere. But that didn’t make sense. There weren’t any conduits in this part of the ship.
Besides, the mist wasn’t hot. In fact, it felt like tiny pieces of ice as it brushed against his skin. Tiny pieces of ice that were speaking to him…
Not in words, but in a language he understood nonetheless. A language that went directly to his brain and spoke of unimaginable freedom, of easy trust and camaraderie, of a place so beautiful his senses couldn’t begin to embrace it…
Of home.
How was this possible? he asked himself. How could he be feeling such things?
Then, through the twinkling, shifting mist, Paris caught a glimpse of Jiterica. She was lying limply on the bed in the next room—unconscious, or maybe something worse. His heart pounding, he moved toward her, wondering what had happened and how he could help her.
But when he reached Jiterica, he saw that her suit was lying flat and open, and that the ghostly visage he was used to seeing through the faceplate of her helmet wasn’t there. That’s when it occurred to him that the suit was empty.
And that Jiterica was somewhere else.
Paris had already begun to ask himself where when he realized he already held the answer. As if in confirmation, the mist stabbed at his cheek with its icy, pinprick touch.
My god, he thought. It’s her.
The mist was Jiterica…and it was all around him, enveloping him, taking him into itself as if he were part of it. He had never felt anything even remotely like it.
Then he realized that it wasn’t just touching his skin. He was breathing it. He was taking it inside himself, blurring the boundaries where the mist ended and he began.
It felt wrong to Paris. Or rather, it felt right. Too right.
The thoughts he was sharing with her, the feelings, the intimacy…it was too much, too sudden. He wasn’t prepared for it. And though it was her privacy he was invading, it was Paris who felt naked and exposed.
Get out, he told himself. Now.