However, Kira had a suspicion that Itari would want to rejoin its compatriots, which would necessitate a meeting of some kind.
“That’s what we are,” she muttered as she pulled herself over to the bed, “a glorified shuttle service.” It reminded her of something her grandfather—on her father’s side—had been prone to saying, which was that “… the meaning of life, Kira, is moving things from point a to point b. That’s it. That’s all we really do.”
“But what about when we talk?” she had said, not entirely understanding.
“That’s just moving an idea from in here,” and he tapped her on the forehead, “out into the real world.”
Kira had never forgotten. She’d also never forgotten that he’d described everything outside her head as the real world. Ever since, she continued to wonder if that was true or not. How much reality did the contents of one’s mind actually possess?… When she dreamed, were the dreams mere shadows or was there a truth to them?
She thought Gregorovich might have something to say on the matter.
As Kira made a web of struts from the Soft Blade to hold herself upon the mattress, she kept thinking about the bonsai tree. The memory made her smile. Life. She’d spent so long on spaceships and space stations and cold, rocky asteroids, she’d almost forgotten the joy that came from growing things.
She recalled each and every one of the sensations she’d felt from the Soft Blade during the healing process. And she compared them to the similar sensations from Orsted. There was something in them worth investigating, she thought. As they traveled through FTL, she would continue to work on her control of the xeno—always that—and on improving the ease of communication between her and the organism so that it could better carry out her wishes without her having to worry about micromanaging it so much. But more than any of that, Kira wanted to explore the urge she’d felt from the Soft Blade—only in fleeting snatches before, now more strongly—the urge to build and create.
It stirred her interest, and for the first time, it was something Kira wanted to do with the xeno.
So she set her weekly alarm, as she had done during each trip since 61 Cygni, and then she once again began to work with the Soft Blade.
It was a curious experience. Kira was determined to keep the xeno from damaging the Wallfish, as it had Orsted, but at the same time, she wanted to experiment. In certain controlled ways, she wanted to remove all restrictions and let the Soft Blade do what it so obviously wanted.
She started with the handhold by the side of her bed. It was a nonessential part of the ship; if the xeno destroyed it, Hwa-jung could easily print a replacement, although Falconi might not be too pleased about it.…
Go, she whispered in her mind.
From her palm, soft fibrils extended, black and seeking. They fused with the composite grip, and again, Kira felt the delicious, addictive sensation of making something. What, she didn’t know, but there was a satisfaction to the feeling that reminded her of the joy she so often found in solving a difficult problem.
She let out a sigh, her breath a pale wraith twining in the chilled air.
When the fibers from the Soft Blade had completely covered the grip, and when she felt from it a sense of completion and—more—a desire to move past the hold and extend deeper into the hull, she stopped it and withdrew the xeno, curious to see what it had wrought.
She saw, but she didn’t understand.
There, where the curved, cylindrical handhold had been, she saw … something. A length of patterned material that reminded Kira of a cellular structure or an intricate sculpture, one covered with a repeating pattern of subdivided triangles. The surface was slightly metallic and had a greenish iridescence to it, and there were small round nodules of palest chartreuse nestled within the triangles.
She touched the transformed grip. It was warm.
Kira traced the pattern on the surface, overcome by a sense of wonder. Whatever the Soft Blade had made, she thought it was beautiful, and she had a sense from it that the material was somehow alive. Or had the potential for life.
Kira wanted to do more. But she knew, this—this—she had be careful with, even more than the deadly stabbing spikes that the xeno was so fond of. Life was the most dangerous thing there was.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if she could guide or control the Soft Blade’s creative output. The Maw could, so why not her? Careful now. There was a reason biowarfare was banned by every member of the League (and Shin-Zar also). But she wasn’t trying to create a weapon. Nor servants to fight for her as the Maw had done.
Like this, she thought, grasping the rail alongside her bed and picturing the coiled shapes of an oros fern: her favorite plant from Eidolon.
At first the xeno failed to respond. Then, just as she’d started to give up, it flowed from her hand and across the railing. As if by magic, the delicate stems of oros ferns sprouted from the railing. They were imperfect replicas, both in shape and substance, but recognizable, and as Kira withdrew the Soft Blade, she caught a whiff of fragrance from the fronds.
The plants weren’t just sculptures. They were actual living things: organic and precious because of it.
Kira let out a small gasp, shocked despite herself. She touched each of the ferns, and tears blurred her vision. She blinked them back and half laughed, half cried. If only her parents could have seen this.… If only Alan could have.…
Kira knew it would be reckless to try anything more ambitious at the moment. She was content with what she’d achieved. What they’d achieved.
And for all the uncertainty the future held, she felt a spark of hope that had long been absent. The Soft Blade wasn’t just a force for destruction. She didn’t know how, but a certainty grew within her that the xeno might be able to stop the Maw, if only she could figure out how to harness its abilities.
A sense of lightness filled Kira’s body (and it wasn’t the zero-g). She smiled, and the smile stayed as she prepared for the long sleep ahead. Perchance to dream, she thought, and she laughed longer and louder than she would around other people. At least while sober.
Still pondering, she closed her eyes and willed the Soft Blade to relax, to rest, to protect her against the cold and the dark. And soon it was—far sooner than ever before—awareness faded and the soft wings of slumber wrapped around her.
4.
Once each week, Kira woke and trained with the Soft Blade. This time, she stayed in her cabin for the duration of the trip; she didn’t need to lift weights or otherwise stress her body in order to work with the xeno. Not anymore.
Once each week, and on each occasion she allowed the Soft Blade to spread farther across the interior of her cabin and to build and grow more. Sometimes she contributed, but for the most part, Kira gave the xeno the space to do what it wanted, and she watched with increasing wonder. Some limits she set—the display on her desk was not to be touched—but everything else in the cabin was there for the xeno to use.
Once each week and no more. And when not training, she floated still and quiet, hibernating in the sleep that was akin to death, where all was cold and grey, and sounds filtered in as if from a great distance.
In that dusty neverwhere, a dream came to her: