Dead Space Kali Wallace (best non fiction books to read txt) 📖

I found David’s berth about halfway down the long corridor. My security access code let me in.

The room was barren and impersonal. David had little clothing aside from standard-issue jumpsuits and work boots. He didn’t even have an extra pillow or blanket from the station stores. It was such a contrast to what I recalled of David’s previous homes that it made my heart ache. He had once surrounded himself with pieces of every aspect of his life. Jewelry made by his nieces, images and videos from his travels, little bots he tooled and trained in his spare time. His laboratory had been a whirlwind of organized chaos. He had always known exactly where to find everything he needed.

I thought, inexplicably, of my brother’s home in the Cotswolds, his ancient cottage with its low doorways and big wooden beams, teacups in the sink and children’s toys everywhere. I always told Devon that so much clutter would drive me mad, and he always told me I was welcome to clean for him, if I wanted, while he took the kids to the playground. In truth I loved Devon’s house, loved how rooted he and his children were in that place, loved how the door creaked but never loud enough to hide the sound of Michael and Renee shrieking that Auntie Hester was here. Little Phoebe would be able to shout it along with them soon—but she didn’t know her aunt. She would probably never know me. I would never know what her voice sounded like calling my name just as the sun was setting and the scent of something rich and hearty drifted from the kitchen.

In that moment I wanted very much to answer Devon’s latest letter. I wanted to tell him about David. I wanted to tell him about the doctors’ appointments I was postponing because I was afraid to hear how little progress I was making. I wanted to tell him how much debt I had to pay off and how much every message, every video, every contact with Earth set me back. I wanted him to tell me that it was okay, my being so far from home and missing so much. It was okay that I was so different, so broken, so alone.

The only sign that monastic room belonged to David was a map on the wall. It was old-fashioned, printed on some kind of archival-quality polymer, stuck to the metal surface with black electrical tape. The image was a geomorphic map of Titan, with the moon’s landforms rendered in vivid colors and patterns and light. David had had one just like it aboard Symposium, right above his bunk, so that he might fall asleep every night gazing at it.

When Symposium had sailed past Mars’s orbit, we celebrated that milestone of our voyage with a tremendous party for all the crew and passengers. I had not thought about that day since before the disaster, but it came to me now, clear and vibrant. The festivities had been briefly interrupted when Kristin Herd got herself locked out of the laboratory again—third time since the voyage began, seventh since she’d joined the project—and her hurt, mulish reaction had only made the rest of us laugh. It made us laugh every time, which was callous, but we only laughed because she never did. We were never cruel enough to deserve what she did to us later.

I had ended the night in David’s quarters, drunk and giddy, lying beside him on his narrow bunk and pointing to all the places we were going to explore. All we did was talk and laugh and plan—our friendship was never sexual—but that night we spent lying side by side, fully clothed with our shoulders and hips touching, planning for a future we craved so much the wanting was a constant hunger. It was warm and intimate and comfortable, and I remembered thinking, perhaps saying aloud, that it was worth everything, all the years of work, all the sacrifice, all the tearful goodbyes, for a chance to know a world nobody had known before.

It hurt, like a blade right between my ribs, to remember how happy we had been.

Gecko boots squeaked on the floor behind me. I turned to find Adisa in the doorway.

“I’ve searched it already,” he said. “Nothing here. No contraband. Not even moonshine.”

“I know.” My voice was hoarse. I blinked quickly and made a show of looking around the barren little room. I did not want him to see the tears stinging my eyes. “I only want to see . . .”

How he had lived. Who he had become. I didn’t know how to explain. There was nothing here.

Adisa made a sound in his throat, like he was on the verge of speaking, and for one horrifying second I thought he might say something comforting. I didn’t think I could bear that.

Perhaps my discomfort showed on my face, because he only said, “Ryu has found something in the medical exam, yeah? They want to fill us in.”

“Right. Okay.” I followed him for a few steps, then stopped. “Wait.”

Adisa looked back. “Yeah?”

“What happened on Aeolia?” When he didn’t say anything, I went on, nerves making me ramble. “I know I can look it up and read the reports and everything. But it’s just that . . . David was reading about it before he died. And he was also reading about Symposium. And trying to find information about this Project Sunshine or whatever it’s called. Those three things, right before he died. And Mary Ping was obviously trying to needle both of us.” And succeeding—but I kept that thought to myself. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence, because Symposium was in the news that day, but . . .”

“You think Prussenko saw some connection?”

“He might have.” I shifted my position, trying to ease the growing ache in my left hip. I needed to sit down. “Aeolia was also a terrorist attack, wasn’t it? A virus infected the Overseer?”

Adisa rubbed his hand over his face. “Aye, it was. Aeolia