Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [59]
It wasn’t bad enough that he kept torturing himself with thoughts of Gerda Idun. Now he had a nemesis in the form of Lieutenant Hanta to worry about.
The Bolian was strong, too. Stronger than most any human. If Nikolas was going to avoid getting his butt kicked, he was going to have to put Hanta back on his heels. That meant being quicker, more aggressive—establishing who was boss right from the get-go.
And the ensign would do those things. In fact, it would be his pleasure.
Just then, the doors to his quarters slid apart, and something moved through the darkness. It didn’t stop until it reached the room’s other bed.
It was Paris, of course. But Nikolas wasn’t used to seeing him get in so late. He wondered what could have kept a straight arrow like Paris from going to bed at his regular time.
A late-night warp-propulsion seminar? A monograph on thruster response times?
Paris wasn’t exactly a live wire, which was why their relationship had only been a cordial one. Not that Nikolas had anything against the guy. It was just that he liked things with a little more edge to them.
Or had. Now nothing got him going—nothing except the memory of Gerda Idun disappearing in front of his eyes.
Though unaware of Nikolas’s pain, Paris pulled his covers aside slowly and carefully. Obviously, he was trying to get into bed without making any noise.
But he had probably grown up in a family where people were considerate about letting each other sleep. When Nikolas was growing up, there had been no chance of that. If a person got some peace and quiet in the morning, it could only mean the rest of the family was gone for the weekend.
Suddenly, Nikolas heard a thump, followed by a half-stifled cry of pain. Under different circumstances, he would have found some humor in the fact.
But not now. Nothing seemed funny to him these days.
“It’s all right,” he said, letting his roommate off the hook. “I’m awake.”
Paris let out a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good. Maybe I can get into bed with one shin still intact.”
Sarcasm, thought Nikolas. Paris hadn’t been capable of it when he first moved in. Obviously, Nikolas had an influence on him after all, even if it often seemed that the guy was barely listening to him.
He waited for Paris to get into bed and get comfortable. Then he turned to the wall, dragged his covers around him, and tried again to get some sleep.
But for what seemed like a long time, it continued to elude him. And Nikolas cringed at the prospect of reciting the periodic table again.
Just as he was about to give up the struggle and get dressed to stalk the corridors, he heard something—a whisper. And it seemed to be coming from Paris.
No, Nikolas thought. It can’t be. Paris never said anything after he got into bed. Never. Hell, as far as Nikolas could tell, the guy never made small talk at all.
Then Nikolas heard it again.
Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Paris’s silhouette in the darkness. The guy was propped up on one elbow, looking a lot like somebody who wanted to talk.
Nikolas turned around the rest of the way and said, “Did you just ask me something?”
There was silence for a moment—almost long enough for Nikolas to believe he was mistaken after all. Then Paris said, “I was just asking what you thought of Jiterica.”
Nikolas hadn’t given her much thought. He said so.
“I mean,” said Paris, “have you ever thought about her as something more than…” He seemed to struggle for a moment. “More than a friend,” he said finally.
Nikolas wondered if the guy was joking. If so, it would be a first for him.
“More than a friend,” Nikolas echoed.
“Yes. More like…” Another generous dollop of silence. “Like a romantic attachment.”
Nikolas had to wonder if they were talking about the same Jiterica. The one he knew was a low-density being, who couldn’t even remain in anything approaching humanoid form without the help of a special containment suit.
“Do you know what you’re talking about?” he had to ask.
“I know,” said