Cold Between Stars

  Contents

  Title page

  Join the mailing list

  Dedication

  Glossary

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  The story continues

  Do you want more?

  Did you enjoy Cold Between Stars?

  About the author

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Belinda Crawford

  Copyright, etc

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  DEDICATION

  For my Kickstarter heroes; you’re amazing,

  this book wouldn’t be the same without you.

  GLOSSARY

  Species

  Jøran (a.k.a. the kin)

  The group name for the three species native to Jørn, which are:

  Qwan (air-kin): Avians with four eyes and two sets of wings.

  Rucnart (tree-kin): Gigantic felines with four eyes and six legs.

  Swatai (water-kin): Small, lizard-like amphibians.

  Jørgen

  A Human—Jøran hybrid.

  Psionics

  Psion

  Someone with the ability to read and/or influence the emotions and/or thoughts of others (a.k.a. an empath or telepath).

  Aer

  A telepathic dream world constructed by the kin.

  Eter

  The mental space within an individual’s mind, from which they can construct their own reality and engage with other psions.

  Anima

  The core of a person, also known as their spirit or soul.

  CHAPTER ONE

  You don’t dream in stasis/sleep, not really. I mean, Mum does. And Dad and Jim Engineer and Mae Lu Medic, and, really, all the older humans. And, well, I guess some of my friends dream too, but only the mostly human ones.

  And Mac, but Mac’s weird.

  So, yeah, some of us don’t dream in stasis/sleep. I mean, we catch a few REM cycles every now and then because otherwise it’s like a one-way shuttle to the Crazy System. But, yeah, we don’t dream.

  We don’t really sleep either. Not a regular kind of sleep, where your head touches your pillow and then, BAM, it’s morning already and your dad’s got your ankles and he’s dragging you out of bed because you slept through the alarm and it’s your turn to muck out the cyclers.

  Not that kind of sleep. For one, there’s goo up my nose and in my ears and down my throat. It’d be kinda gross except if tastes like tao-quice – sweet and smooth and warm, like sunshine, or how I imagine it must feel; and smells like Mae Lu’s pancakes – butter curling up my nose and fresh cut mawberries tingling on my tongue. And it’s warm and soft and, honestly, most of the time I don’t feel it or taste it or smell it because, most of the time, I’m in my head. Or, more accurately, other people’s heads.

  Like now.

  I hadn’t meant to slip into Mum’s, or any other dreamer’s head. Dreamers are boring and freaky and Off Limits – Onah says it like that, with the capitals, as if those two letters make the words magical or something; but Mum’s pod is right next to mine and she’s having one of her bad cycles. Normally I can shut her out, but this one’s really bad. Like super-mega-force bad. If she’d been in normal sleep, she’d have jerked herself out of it by now, but stasis/sleep’s got her stuck and her fear is lashing at me – thick, black ropes of it tangling in my head and curling in my chest.

  Before I know it, those ropes have pierced my heart and grown sharp, sticky thorns and, Old Terra, it hurts, hurts like you wouldn’t believe. Hurts like a shard of acid slowly melting my heart, and then YANK, I’m in Mum’s dream.

  I’m not supposed to be able to see what she dreams. I’m an empath and I should only be able to sense her emotions, but Mum’s got a hint of telepathy somewhere in her DNA, and well, she’s my mum. Some rules don’t apply.

  I really wish this one did though because there’s some shit you don’t need to see. And right now, I don’t need to see Mum naked with vines wrapped around her body, her eyes bugging out of her head and her mouth wide open as she screams. The sound goes all the way through my eardrums, a shard of steelglas slicing up my brain, my throat, my chest. I want to cover my ears, except I can’t. My arms are held at my sides, like Mum’s, bound in the same oily green vines – thick and fleshy.

  They squeeze tighter and tighter, winding up my chest so tight the skin bulges in the gaps between in little, fleshy mountains. Somehow, I’m naked now too and the vines are sliding around me, rippling like long, boneless fingers, squidgy and clammy as they climb higher. My ribs grind together. My heart thumps. It’s hard to breathe.

  Red. Red so bright it rivals a star, bursts in my face. Wet and hot, it drips down my nose, trickles over my lips, down my chin. Then. Pain. Burning, searing. I look down. There are thorns growing out of my chest, huge bony things, glowing red-hot, the flesh – my flesh – around them ripped, bloody and already sizzling.

  It – no, me – I smell like cooking wombacow. The meaty, fatty stench razes my nose, spikes in my brain, grows a few friends and rips open my skull—

  Kuma.

  —before it dives for my stomach, bringing up breakfast and lunch and an endless torrent of sweet, warm goo—

  Kuma.

  The voice doesn’t belong to this dream. It’s not even really a voice, just a presence; a clear, sparkling white surrounding a boiling core of black. Kuma, it says again. Out.

  And WHACK, I’m back in my own head, my own sane, non-dreaming head. I can still sense Mum, can sense those sticky black tendrils of fear reaching for me, trying to suck me back in, but the white/black presence is a plasteel wall between us. The tendrils smack and writhe against it, but the presence, Onah’s presence, doesn’t so much as twitch.

  Safe.

  Relief swamps me from head to toe even as guilt knots in my chest. I’m safe from Mum’s nightmare but she’s still caught. Perhaps, with Onah still protecting me, I could reach in and—

  WHOMP.

  Ow.

  No. It’s less a word than a collection of images and emotions. A shaken head, a firm grip on the back of my neck, the hard blue/red stare of a four-eyed bird – Onah’s stare – and a reprimand all in one. Onah doesn’t say a lot, but he sure packs it in when he does. The Dreamers are—

  Off Limits. I know, but—

  Kuma. My name is a packet of memories and emotions coloured by the white/black of Onah’s mind. A boy with golden skin and dark hair intent on the progress of ants. The same boy hiding from rucnarts, using his empathy to get his sister in trouble, to stop a fight then to start one. Frustration, patience, determination. Fear.

  Fear. Of me? Onah?

  Not you. Listen. See, Onah says.

  Onah isn’t human, I’m putting that out there because these things can get confusing and because, when he says ‘listen and see’, he’s not talking about ears and eyes.

  I spread my mind. There’s no other word for how I open my brain and push myself outwards. It’s a flood at first, like my
shields are a dam that can barely hold me in, and the moment I let them go – WHOOSH. The whoosh is easy, a heady rush with my heart pounding, my fingers tingling and a ‘whoop’ ripping from my throat. It’s the rest that’s hard.

  Soon enough the wave slows, thins, and the rush becomes a trickle wrapping around spots of colour, like pebbles in a stream that I can touch. Some are coals – burning spots in the palm of my mind; some are chips of ice and others fizz against my brain, little itchy spots that jump and jiggle. Mum is one of those spots, a puke-yellow ball writhing behind my ear, wrapped in Onah’s white/black sparkle. And there’s Dad next to her, a cool glittery blue, and Jim Engineer beyond him, and Mae Lu and Mac and scores of others – human, mostly human and not human at all – that make the Citlali home. One-hundred and eighty-nine shifting, coloured pebbles brushing against my mind. It all seems as it should, except…

  Why was everything so still?

  Something’s wrong. I imbue ‘wrong’ with the stillness and the silence that’s crawling up my neck, that makes my stomach tight and my skin jittery.

  The Dreamers are sick, Onah says. Sick. The word is grey-green, a vibration that tangles in my throat and grates down my spine. It feels like the vines in Mum’s nightmare, wrapping around my ankles, the thorns ripping through my chest, the searing smell of meat.

  I see it then. The thin, almost translucent veins of sickness snaking between the Dreamers. They pulse and shiver, alive and yet not. I touch one, a light brush with my mind. It bites, a sharp sting that numbs my brain before I jerk away, but in that short contact I see the Dreamers, connected one to the other.

  Just the Dreamers. Only the Dreamers.

  It takes a second for that to sink in.

  I dive back in, forcing my mind into all of the Citlali’s nooks and crannies, seeking, searching. There are one-hundred and eighty-nine coloured pebbles in my mind, but of the restless coils of energy, of those of us who are only part human, the ones who don’t dream, there is nothing.

  Where’s Grea? An image of a girl who looks like me, same dark hair and gold skin, same dark eyes, arms crossed and sneering at me from the other side of the room.

  You have to wake.

  I am awake.

  No, you have to wake.

  An image of the stasis pod’s dome, of my hand reaching out and touching the warm plasglas. My fingers contorting to fit the emergency release.

  But— My heart squeezes, panic riding it hard. We’re only halfway through the cycle. If I open my pod now… It’s not time.

  Wake. Onah pinning a chick with all four eyes, the weight of them bearing down, down, down until the chick crumples into a little, fluff-covered ball.

  I push back and somewhere behind the weight of Onah’s command, I sense a tight, white/black ball of panic and in it, around it, veins of sticky grey-green.

  Onah bats me out.

  You’re sick.

  WAKE. Onah – not his voice or his presence, but him, white around a boiling darkness – blasts through my mind. He burns through my bones, filling my skin and pushing me aside as he flows down my arm and takes hold of my hand. He presses it against the stasis pod’s dome and holds it there until the ‘glas flashes red.

  Once, twice, three times.

  And then Onah’s gone, the goo’s being ripped out of my throat and the pod’s flashing and hissing and then... and then...

  CHAPTER TWO

  My knees hit the deck, then my hands. The sound rings in my ears and the cold cuts right through my skin and into my bones. The lights are so bright they’re burning my eyes, but I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care.

  I can’t breathe. Old Terra, I can’t breathe. My mouth is open and I’m trying to suck in air, but my lungs feel like they’re glued together and all I can do is make this thin, wheezy ‘whuuuuuuuu’.

  The light gets brighter, but I’m struggling so hard to breathe I can’t close my eyes, and then I’m staring at a pair of human-shaped feet. Pale blue and bare. I can see right through them.

  ‘Kuma Darzi, are you well?’

  I gasp another lungful of air. ‘Whuuuuuu.’

  ‘Kuma Darzi?’ The feet disappear and a second later I’m staring at a disembodied head floating above the floor. It’s blue and round and soft, with great big eyes and short spiky hair, and like the feet I can see right through it. ‘Breathe, Kuma.’ The Citlali’s avatar inhales, her nose scrunching, before she exhales, the air leaving her open mouth in a rush.

  I copy it. The first breath is another thin, wheezy gasp but the second is better and my lungs are expanding. But it hurts, Old Terra, it hurts. The air is acid in my lungs – burning, melting – and I don’t want to take a third but my chest is already expanding and in it pours, ripping away my insides even as I gulp another breath.

  ‘Good.’ The AI nods. ‘There is still stasis gel in your lungs. Once it dissolves you will find it easier to breathe.’

  ‘Hurts.’ It’s more a splutter than a word, spit and stasis gel flying from my lips. Coming out of stasis never hurt this much before, never felt like I was freezing and burning all at once. Never felt like I was dying.

  ‘Your biology is readjusting to the ship’s atmosphere. The pain will subside once the process is complete. For now, concentrate on breathing.’

  I concentrate, but with each breath the mechanics of pushing my ribs out and squeezing them back in take less and less of my thoughts, leaving room for other things to intrude. Like the steelcrete under my hands, warmer than it was a few breaths ago, and the brush of air against my skin. My naked skin.

  Shit.

  My eyes catch on Citlali.

  The avatar stares back.

  I scramble to my feet and lunge for the wall panel opposite my pod. The panel has retracted before my fingers reach it, and instead of shiny off-white plasteel, I clutch at nano-cloth. Blessed nano-cloth, warm and smooth, already humming against my skin. My heart slows a beat then resumes its gallop as I shove arms and legs into the shipsuit. It’s on in three seconds flat, and I run my hands down the front as it conforms to my body, lengthening here, shortening there, the colour changing from white to the pink camo I’d adopted before stasis.

  ‘You appear to be recovered, Kuma Darzi.’

  ‘Yeah—’ My stomach clenches, and the cough that hacks its way out of my lungs leaves a thick, toa-quice flavoured ball of goo in its wake.

  It’s soft and squidgy on my tongue and I want to be sick, instead I spit it out where it splots on the deck – a golden ball of mucus that slowly glides toward my toes.

  I scuttle back before a trio of blue, fuzzy critters skitter over my feet and converge on what I can only guess was the last of the stasis gel taking up residence in my lungs. I turn away before they start cleaning up. Normally I like watching them work, but right now, watching mammals the size of my thumb fight over the stuff I hacked out of my lungs is pushing it.

  There aren’t many places to look in the stasis unit, just the shiny bulkhead hiding our clothes, Mum, Dad, my sister and my empty pod.

  The rest of my family is sleeping, floating in stasis gel. Why aren’t they awake?

  And then I remember the vines wrapping through Mum’s nightmare and the sickness winding through the Dreamers. My forehead tingles at the memory of its bite.

  ‘Kuma Darzi, are you well?’

  ‘I— Ah, um, yeah I guess.’

  The avatar cocked her head. ‘You pressed the emergency release.’ She tilted her head the other way. ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t. That was Onah. He said there was something wrong with the Dreamers.’

  There is a moment, as I tell her about Onah pushing the release button, where the avatar flickers. Citiali is a new AI, but the whole psion thing is pretty new too, or at least it was when she left space dock. Every now and again she has trouble when you tell her things that defy the logic of physics (like Onah pushing a button in my pod when he was on the other side of the ship). It takes her an extra nanosecond to process the informati
on. You’d have thought she’d have integrated it a little better some time during the hundred and twenty-three years we’ve been cruising around our corner of the galaxy, but no. Still takes an extra nanosecond.

  But this time… this time the nanosecond is more like two, like her core is focussed elsewhere, which it probably is, since she controls an entire ship and all, but…

  Yeah. But.

  There’s this creepy-crawly sensation in my belly that’s got nothing to do with the memory of hacking up stasis gel and everything to do with the oily, grey-green vines wrapping around Mum’s dreaming self.

  Mum’s stasis pod is right next to mine, the rounded plasglas clouded with condensation. I leave streaky handprints in the water as I wipe the droplets away. Inside, floating in the blue-green goo, Mum appears peaceful, no sign of the nightmare in her expression. There’s maybe a little more grey in her otherwise black hair, but apart from that, she looks like she did when she snatched my biocomp away and closed the door on my stasis pod.

  Still, that sickness is writhing around in my belly and now it’s joined by this nagging sensation in the back of my head. ‘Wake her up.’ The words are out of my mouth before they form in my brain.

  Citiali appears on the surface. Just her face, blotting out what I can see of Mum. ‘I cannot,’ she says.

  ‘Sure you can.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The avatar flickers and there’s that pause again, those few nanoseconds that give the creepy-crawly feeling legs so that it can swallow my chest whole. ‘I cannot, Kuma Darzi.’

  ‘Okay.’ I’m not quite sure if my lungs are working right or not, because it’s getting a little hard to breathe. The creepy-crawlies aren’t helping, taking up space behind my ribs that should be there for my lungs to go in and out. ‘Okay,’ I say again. ‘I’ll wake her up manually. I can do that.’