Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [26]
Finding the doorway through the sparkling waves of mist, Paris bolted for it. The duranium panels slid open for him just as he shot through them, hoping to escape.
And escape he did. The mist hung back inside the limits of Jiterica’s quarters, separating itself from him, relinquishing its unspoken claim on him.
Paris felt a wave of relief. But he also felt something else—an eerie sense of loss.
And as he made his way down the corridor, he felt a third thing. After all, he had invaded Jiterica’s self, perhaps even violated her in some uniquely Nizhrak sense.
The ensign hadn’t intended to do that. All he had meant to do was help her. But despite his good intentions, he might have hurt her to the core of her being.
And if he had, he could never take it back. It would haunt him the rest of his days.
What have I done? he thought.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that he might be compounding his invasion by running away. If he had injured Jiterica as he feared, she might be in need of someone to console her—someone to be with her.
Or would his coming back only make things worse?
Paris didn’t know. He couldn’t possibly know. Jiterica wasn’t anything like him.
Nonetheless, he had stopped and was about to return to her quarters when he realized he wasn’t alone in the corridor. Someone was coming after him.
It was Jiterica. But this time, she was wearing her containment suit. And she was moving as quickly and purposefully as he had ever seen her move.
What does she want? Paris wondered. He dreaded the prospect of finding out.
Chapter Seven
PARIS STEELED HIMSELF as he watched Jiterica lumber toward him in her containment suit, her ghostly features visible through her transparent faceplate.
Normally, she made those features reflect what she was feeling, so she could better communicate with the humanoids around her. But at the moment, her expression was blank—chillingly so.
It was if Jiterica had lost the desire to make herself appear human. Or maybe what she was feeling was just so intense that she couldn’t translate it.
Either way, it wasn’t a good sign.
Still, Paris stood there and waited for her. After what he had done, he had to.
Finally, Jiterica caught up with him. They stood face-to-faceplate, his flesh-and-blood eyes locked on her spectral ones. He opened his mouth to apologize, to beg her forgiveness.
But before he could do that, she spoke first. And what she said, in the tinny, artificial voice that her suit afforded her, was “I’m sorry.”
Paris looked at her. She was sorry? “For what?”
“For…” She hesitated. “For what happened in my quarters. I didn’t think it would be a problem if I came out of my suit for a few minutes.”
He didn’t know what to say.
Jiterica seemed to search for words. “It’s just that it’s so difficult to live inside something.”
“I’m sure it is,” he responded numbly.
“If I had known you were going to come in—”
“I shouldn’t have—”
“I thought the door—”
“I was afraid you were in trouble, or I—”
Their words tumbled over each other’s, making the entire mess unintelligible. Suddenly, they stopped and looked at each other, each reluctant to speak lest he or she interrupt the other.
Finally, it was Jiterica who broke the silence—even though she was the newcomer in terms of spoken communication. “I just wanted you to know that our…contact…was unintentional.”
Paris nodded. “On my part as well.”
Now the Nizhrak’s features did take on a humanlike expression. It was one of relief.
“Next time,” he promised her, “I’ll think twice before barging in.”
“And I will never leave my suit again. It was wonderful getting out of it, even for a short time. But getting back in was…torture.”
Paris couldn’t even imagine.
Existing in a drastically condensed form couldn’t have been comfortable for her. But achieving it in the first place had to be…well, Jiterica had said it, hadn’t she?
Torture.
“So we have achieved an understanding?” she asked.
Paris smiled at the awkwardness of her question. “Yes. I guess we have.”
“Good,” said Jiterica. “I would hate to think I had damaged our friendship.