The Paradox Initiative (19 page)

Kestrel sat on the end of her bed in her cabin, slowly brushing out her hair. She had wandered listlessly through the ship after leaving him, then had finally headed back to the cabin. She had showered, put on clean clothes, then collapsed on her bed, completely exhausted. She’d slept for several hours, and woke up when her stomach began to bother her.

Now, she put down her brush and braided her hair, then got up and crossed to the door.
She felt much better now—just very hungry—and she had to get out of this room. It was too empty. Silent. She’d go find something to eat, then decide whether or not she could bear going back to the hospital.

She stood still, leaning against the doorframe of his room. Watching his chest rise and fall as he slept. Listening to the silence.

Finally, Kestrel crept inside, striving not to make any noise, and sank down into her chair. She noticed that they’d taken the IVs out of his arm—now he just lay there in the dimmed light, shadows draping the corners of the room.

Footsteps near the door. Kestrel’s head came up.

“Mrs. Johnson,” Dr. Anthony leaned in, smiling at her. “I found this in his coat pocket.” He held out Wolfe’s book. “Thought you might like to read to him.”

Kestrel got up, clearing her throat as she took it from him. Her fingers closed around soft, beaten leather.

“Thank you. Em…Read to him?”

“He’s very,
very
tired,” Anthony said, earnestly concerned. “But also very restless, due to the trauma he’s been through. We’ve had to sedate his body, so he can relax—but it’s quite possible his mind is still troubling him.” Anthony nodded toward Wolfe. “Look at his face.”

Kestrel turned, and gazed at Wolfe. His brow furrowed and his eyes occasionally moved beneath soft lids.

“I have been,” she whispered. Anthony touched her shoulder.

“Let him hear your voice,” he advised. “I have no doubt it will comfort him.”

And he left. Kestrel held the book in both hands.

Hesitantly, she wandered back toward her chair, then s
at down again. She stared at Wolfe, her chest tightening. She swallowed, and glanced down at the volume. Her fingers toyed with the front cover. She bit her lip, then opened it.

She stopped, her vision focusing sharply on the writing.

Hand
writing.

She’d never seen
handwriting outside of a museum. But these battered, stained pages bore neat, firm lines of flowing, ink-written words. Strident, leaning slightly to the right, smooth and beautiful. Slowly, Kestrel smiled, tracing the lines with her fingers as well as her eyes. She took a slow breath, and read them aloud.

“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.’”

-William Shakespeare

Kestrel knew this poem—all literature students did. She read it to herself three more times before turning the page. She blinked. Another sonnet by that same author. Shifting in her chair, she read it aloud too.

“‘No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:

Thy pyramids built up with newer might

To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;

They are but dressings of a former sight.

Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire

What thou dost foist upon us that is old,

And rather make them born to our desire

Than think that we before have heard them told.

Thy registers and thee I both defy,

Not wondering at the present nor the past,

For thy records and what we see doth lie,

Made more or less by thy continual haste.

This I do vow and this shall ever be;

I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.’”

Kestrel paused, sensi
ng the undercurrent of a theme.

Something inside her stirred.

She looked up at Wolfe. His brow had not relaxed. His eyes moved again, without opening. Kestrel took a breath, and glanced at the next page. She began reading out loud before she had cast across the poem. But her voice faded as she went.

“‘Her golden hair in ringlets fair,

Her eyes like diamonds shining

Her slender waist, her heavenly face,

That leaves my heart still pining

Ye gods above oh hear my prayer

To my beauteous fair to find me

And send me safely back again,

To the girl I left behind me.’”

The lines drooped downward as they traveled—a melancholy hand had written them. And the flourishes meandered, half-hearted, if they existed at all. It was suddenly hard for Kestrel to go on.
 

“‘
The bee shall honey taste no more,

The dove become a ranger

The falling waters cease to roar,

Ere I shall seek to change her

The vows we made to heav'n above

Shall ever cheer and bind me

In constancy to her I love,

The girl I left behind me.’”

Kestrel halted. Her whole being suddenly felt hollow.

She swallowed hard, unable to look anywhere near him. She
silently re-read the poem, her lip trembling. Then, quickly, she turned the page. She took a bracing breath, abruptly relieved at what she saw, then spoke more confidently.

“Job, chapter three. ‘
Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived. Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Let darkness and the shadow of death be upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it.’”

Kestrel
stilled—and a horrible chill swept through her. Her breathing quickened. She kept on reading aloud, rapidly, barely above a whisper.

“
’Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look for light, but have none; neither let it see the dawning of the day: Because it shut not up the doors of my mother’s womb, nor hid sorrow from mine eyes.’”

Kestrel’s vision clouded. She put her fingertips to her mouth even as her lips kept breathing the words.

“’For now should I have laid still and been quiet, I should have slept:…’” She swallowed hard. Her throat spasmed. “’Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul; Which long for death, but it cometh not; and dig for it more than for hid treasures; Which rejoice exceedingly, and are glad, when they can find the grave? Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?’” She lifted her eyes to Wolfe’s face, lowered her hand and gasped out the last line as her tears tumbled. “’For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me.’”

Kestrel shut the book, her face unwillingly twisting as she wiped away hot tears and fought for breath. Her
whole frame hurt, centering somewhere behind her heart.

She bent and set the book on the floor, then scooted her chair so close to the bed that her knees
slid underneath it. Then, she reached out and picked up his left hand with both of hers. She ran her fingers across his knuckles, traced the old scars, and felt a lump in a bone that had broken and healed improperly. She squeezed, forcing warmth into his cold skin, unconscious of her trailing tears. His forehead still furrowed. She smiled at him.

“’
What have I to dread? What have I to fear,’” she whispered.

“’
Leaning on the Everlasting Arms?

I have blessed peace with my Lord so near,

Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.’” She canted her head, and sang softly, just loud enough for him to hear.

“’Leaning, leaning

Safe and secure from all alarms

Leaning, leaning…

Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.
’”

Wolfe drew in a deep breath. Kestrel stopped, watching him.

He sighed—a deep, full-bodied sigh, unburdened and even.

And he curled his fingers around hers.

Kestrel’s heart leaped, and she returned the pressure. She blinked and cleared her eyes, called up another verse and recited it as best she could.

And through the rest of the night, she whispered old hymns to him, until all of the aching tension in his face melted away, and he slept.

Kestrel drifted
up out of a deep sleep at the sound of low male voices murmuring back and forth. She took a sleepy breath—then felt a stiff pang in her neck. Her forehead tensed as she tried to wake up…

“…and I think she’s only left this room once since we allowed her in.”

“Yeah. She’s a good girl.”

Kestrel knew those voices. Dr. Anthony. And Wolfe. She opened her eyes and lifted her head.

“She must have heard us talking about her.” Dr. Anthony, standing on the other side of Wolfe’s bed, grinned. Kestrel closed one eye and rubbed her shoulder.

“I fell asleep in the chair…” she mumbled. Out of the corner of her vision, she saw Wolfe turn his head toward her.

“I wanted to wake you up so you wouldn’t get a crick in your neck,” he said, still hoarse. “But when I tried to move, all my gut muscles threatened to kill me. So I didn’t.”

“
Well…I might forgive you this one time,” Kestrel managed a smile at him. He returned it—gently.

He looked better. He had a little color in his face, his eyes had warmed, and his smile had gained strength.
Kestrel’s gaze lingered.

“Good morning,”
she said.

“Good morning,”
he answered. He took a breath and raised his eyebrows. “Even though
I’ve
been awake since five. Who gave you permission to stop singing?”

Kestrel chuckled, rubbing her neck again.

“She sings?” Dr. Anthony asked. Wolfe glanced at him, beaming.

“Yep—a little song bird,” he told him. “Prettiest voice
you’d ever want to hear.”

“Lucky man,” Anthony decided, striding around the bed. Kestrel sneaked a glance at Wolfe—just as something almost like sadness crossed his eyes.

“Call if you need anything. We’ll be sending food in shortly—see if you can keep it down,” Anthony said brightly, then left the room. Kestrel shifted in her seat, watching him go.

“You look tired.”

She looked at Wolfe, who had spoken. He regarded her with quiet earnestness, his eyebrows drawn together. She sighed.

“I am.”

“You don’t have to hang around guarding my broken-down bones,” he chastised. “You should go back —”

“I don’
t like it in the cabin,” Kestrel cut in. “It’s too quiet without you.”

He stopped, as if in mid-thought, studying her. He swallowed, then took a careful breath.

“Look, Brown Eyes…” he began, his voice low. Kestrel’s breath caught.

Sharp knocks on the doorframe. Wolfe started, blinking. Kestrel jumped and turned toward the door.

“Jim!” she cried.

“My friends!” the
brown-clad musician called, his expression a mix of pleasure and pain. He came in, his guitar case slung over his back. “Oh, Jack, we all heard,” he said, coming up to stand by Kestrel. “How are you feeling, mate?”

“Much better, thank you Jim,” Wolfe mustered a smile for him. “Where’s the others?”

“That Brit doctor wouldn’t let us all in,” Jim huffed. “Said we couldn’t crowd you. So I got sent as a spokesman.”

“I’m glad you came,” Wolfe told him.

“How’s the little wife holding up?” Jim asked, affectionately patting Kestrel’s shoulder.

“Oh!” she said in surprise. “I’m…I’m doing okay.”

She felt Wolfe looking at her again—softly. Sadly. The strange ache in her chest came back. She forced herself not to show it, instead returning Jim’s friendly gaze. Jim turned to Wolfe again, the pain in his features overcoming the pleasure.

“I hate to have to say this, mate, but we’re bound to leave you.”

Wolfe’s brow furrowed.

“Why?”

“We’re disembarking, almost this moment, to the Darrow Station,” Jim explained apologetically. “We’ve been commissioned to perform there every night this month. It’s why we boarded this ship in the first place.”

“Sorry to see you go,” Wolfe said, lifting his left hand. “But I’m glad we met.”

“Aye,” Jim beamed, gripping Wolfe’s hand. “And it’s a small galaxy—I’m sure we’ll all meet again.”

Wolfe’s eyebrows twitched together, but he nodded firmly.

“I’m sure we will.”

“Take care of this gem,” Jim advised, dropping Wolfe’s hand and planting a kiss on the top of Kestrel’s head. “She’s a keeper.”

Kestrel blushed, lowering her face.

“Goodbye, Jim,” Wolfe said.

“Goodbye,” Jim said, backing toward the door and waving fondly. “Smooth sailing.”

And he was gone.

Silence fell in his wake.

Then, Kestrel felt Wolfe bracing himself
again to tell her something…

“Good morning!”

A white-clad nurse strode in, followed by a multi-armed android bearing two food trays. Two rolling stands immediately discharged from the android’s belly—one rolled out in front of Kestrel, popped up and formed a little table. The other zipped to Wolfe’s other side, extended and leaned across him, then unfolded in the same manner, though without touching him. The nurse then set trays down in front of the two of them, then cheerfully advised them to “Eat up!” before she and the android left.

Kestrel glanced down at the food. It looked mostly like different colors
of slop. The gears in Wolfe’s bed groaned as it moved him into an easy sitting position, and he considered the food.

“What is this?” he asked. Kestrel shrugged, picking up a utensil.

“Vitamins, minerals, protein…” She poked at it. “Stuff that’s supposed to be good for you.”

“Why does it look like
this
?” Wolfe wondered.

“Mom always said,” Kestrel told him. “That if a patient starts complaining about the food, he’s healthy enough to leave the hospital.”

“So, the more crowded the hospital, the worse they make the food,” he concluded. Kestrel snorted, chuckling.

“Maybe.” She poked it again. “It’s good motivation, anyway.”

“Got that right,” he muttered—but he ate. And despite the way it looked, it tasted pretty good, and Kestrel was able to finish it all.