Parasomnia

Vasilisa Chmeleva

Parasomnia

Chapter 1. Farther Than Rigel Itself.

Part 1

"Welcome to the Vagrant Waif station. Log entry – fuck knows what day it is. Start recording."

"Ethan, do it properly. Reports require concrete data, not your sarcasm."

I leaned back in my chair with an air of boredom and looked at my companion, who had merged into smooth, sharply angled lines imitating visually crossed arms. Across her angular proportions darted a crimson light, which in the language of holograms signified anger or indignation.

"Alright, alright. Don't be such a buzzkill, Skyla. Can't even joke anymore," I grumbled. "And quit with the light shows every damn time like we're in Stratosfera[1]. My eyes are glitching already."

"You programmed me this way yourself. Thank you, by the way – it makes projecting my emotional state much easier. Now, if you've finished acting like a child, let's start over. Previous log entry deleted," my companion announced in her trademark monotone.

"Over 8.5 parsecs from home," I sighed. "Got to see the fourth brightest stellar giant. Far enough out to glimpse some star clusters we can't see from home. Think they'll pay good money for a star?"

Filing reports had long since lost its appeal, yet I stubbornly kept sending them back to my homeworld. Even though no response could reach my ship beyond 2.5 parsecs out.

For twenty years I'd roamed the galactic expanse, searching for my place in it. Without success… so far.

"If you’re done with your self-flagellation, I’m logging off," the hologram stated flatly as she faded out.

Her usual way of reminding me that even a machine could tire of my endless monologues.

At first, Skyla kept asking: 'Are you actually talking to me, Ethan?'

'Hell if I know,' I'd deadpan each time, until the hologram finally stopped checking—her digital mind now hardwired to ignore my ramblings.

Swiveling in my favorite almond-shaped chair, I turned toward the left section of the glossy white wall where cosmoglyphs of me and everything I'd ever cherished were displayed.

The photos moved in truncated stop-motion, granting me seconds of nostalgia. In one frame, I was sixteen – the exact age I'd last stood on Kallinkor's native soil.

Kallinkor was once a thriving world, rich with life, resources, and civilizations. I remember as a boy how beings from other planets would flock to us. We hosted delegations, threw raucous celebrations, and every species presented something unique in exchange for our own goods. But over time, my planet fell into decline. To the rest of the Galaxy, Kallinkor became a somber reminder of what happens when you fail to maintain the balance between nature and your own history.

Blinking away the haze, I looked again at my sixteen-year-old self. There I stood by the massive starship I would later name Eliot, smiling. Back then, I truly believed I was making the right choice—that this fate-appointed mission would be thrilling and earn me my family's long-sought approval. What a fool. My family likely forgot me the moment the launch dust settled. Not that I blame them; on Kallinkor, every minute is a grueling fight for survival. We were slowly bleeding our world dry, and in our desperation, we peddled illusions to volunteers willing to hunt for replacement resources after seasoned crews had failed. Reflecting now, it’s clear we Kallinkorians weren’t the brightest. If veterans couldn’t succeed, why would a pack of starry-eyed zealots?

Screw it. Here I am. Smack in the middle of a vast Galaxy. Thirty-nine years old, and a Kallinkorian—or in other words, human. That’s what we call ourselves in casual conversation, anyway. Devilishly handsome, sun-kissed, and incredibly popular with women… Buy that? Yeah, didn’t think so. Truth is, I’m your average, run-of-the-mill Kallinkorian. And I have a pathological hatred for mirrors. Usually, Skyla has to tell me when it’s time to shave or fix the usual mess I call hair. Pretty sure I’ve got some grays coming in, but I’m not ready to confirm that just yet. I’ve still got unfinished business before I embrace the whole ‘wrinkled ass and dwindling libido’ phase of life.

As for Skyla, she’s a holographic AI aboard the starship—an artificial intelligence designed as a universal assistant handling everything on the Eliot: from navigation and maintenance to planetary data analysis and studying lifeforms inhabiting various worlds. Visually, she manifests as a projection of intricate colored patterns and translucent 3D forms. Yet despite her utility, Skyla has one distinctive trait: her programming allows her to interact with humans as if she were a living being, despite lacking genuine emotions or true sentience.

I keep joking that we'll eventually make it to her planet too – where she can get herself some fancy algorithm husband and go full domestic. She ignores me, at least as much as code can ignore someone.

Though Skyla lacks a physical body, her holographic projection aboard the ship is meticulously detailed and possesses a peculiar elegance—making her feel like more than just an interface. Her appearance shifts dynamically based on the situation, adapting to my needs and environmental factors. When requiring authority or utility, her form takes on more 'human' qualities with subtle suggestions of 'femininity': softened contours appear, making her less abstract and more tangible for interaction.

During tasks demanding enhanced maneuverability, her projection becomes minimalist and geometric—all sharp angles and structured lines that emphasize her programming core. Yet she remains translucent at all times, her forms melting fluidly into one another, a constant reminder that she's not a physical entity but an extension of the ship's systems.

" Just like the people of Kallinkor…"

"Skyla, darling, are you reading my thoughts again? You know how much I hate that," I grumbled, opening my eyes.

"Ha-ha. I can’t read your thoughts—not that I’d need to. Your face cycles through expressions whenever you’re ruminating about home or our mission." The hologram pulsed a soft yellow light, projecting an elegant tree with slender, arching branches—her signature gesture whenever she attempted to soothe me.

"Amusing how you call our existence a 'mission'—but I'll take it, darling." I clapped my hands and strode toward the pilot console, which Eliot had thoughtfully set to autopilot.

"The term 'darling' causes a system exception, Ethan. Continued usage may require a reboot."

"Relax, toaster-oven," I snorted. "You'll outlive us all anyway."

"Your concern is noted. And disregarded."

"Yeah, yeah. So where are we setting down this time?" I asked, switching off the auto-nav.

Eliot greeted me with a brief, crystalline chime—like a water droplet hitting glass—as an ultrasonic green wave rippled from the monitors through every cabin, signaling its silent approval of manual control. What a family I’ve got.

"According to my statistical data and thorough analysis of our travel distance, the previous planets yielded nothing of value."

"Oh really?" I feigned surprise. "And here I was thinking otherwise."

"Ethan, let me finish," Skyla intensified her yellow glow. "The previous planets lacked intelligent lifeforms, or only had life in its earliest stages. Food and water resources were scarce or nonexistent. We can therefore conclude these planets are unsuitable for you. Which means it’s time we visited places where organisms have reached sufficient development for conversation. I could collect more than just soil samples—something far more substantial."

"And I could play cards and drink their local swill," I snorted.

"No. You will gather intel on the planet, its native species, and what their world can offer us."

"'Gather intel'… When you put it like that, I just want to retreat to my cabin and clock a solid 9 hours."

"You don't sleep that long – or have you forgotten?"

"I hate making acquaintances," I ignored her follow-up remark. "It always reeks of wasted time. I paste on this fake-friendly face, shake whatever passes for hands there, and spend the whole day listening to local tall tales that might not even be true. By the way—did you fix my Linguatron yet?"

The Linguatron VR-1 is a miniature earpiece device—similar to a headphone—that represents an evolutionary leap in cross-species communication. It combines the functions of a hearing aid, alien signal analyzer, and interactive translator. When the device detects a signal, it begins deconstructing it, identifying linguistic patterns and formulating hypotheses about the language.

The earpiece features an additional sensor that attaches to the inner cheek mucosa, enabling response transmission to the interlocutor.

The Linguatron’s cheek sensor is why I adore this compact device. It reads facial muscle movements and vocal impulses, allowing the wearer to ‘speak’ through micro-vibrations of the skin. Responses are relayed back through the earpiece, which converts them into audible speech.

This sensor also functions as a receiver for more complex response methods—like gestures or tactile signals—crucial when communicating with species that don’t use sound for speech.

In short, the Linguatron scans for patterns and unique sequences that might indicate a ‘language’—or any other form of communication. And it works so damn fast I don’t even have time to pick my nose.

"Repairs complete," Skyla stated, her modulation spiking with synthetic satisfaction. "Recommendation: Maintain minimum 3-meter distance from electrogenic lifeforms. Additional recommendation: Cease provoking them."

"In my defense, the thing gave zero warning before deciding electrocution was its love language. I legit thought the earpiece would melt inside my ear. The cheek sensor left a decent-sized ulcer, by the way."

"Long story short, Ethan: the Linguatron is invaluable to us. So unless you fancy crash-coursing in alien linguistics yourself, try not to break it." Skyla powered down, leaving me alone with the control console in my hands.

I drew a deep breath and cast one last glance at the photographs.

"Fine," I replied grudgingly. "Spit out the coordinates for the next landing. Let’s move."

"Not so fast. Eliot received a message early this morning."

"A message?" I blinked. "Nobody’s contacted us in a hundred parsecs."

"My protocols indicate it’s a job offer, but I can’t decrypt the rest."

"The hell do you mean, can’t? Weren’t you crowned the galaxy’s smartest AI?" I slammed the console.

"My systems are calibrated for known languages and codes—specifically those you’ve uploaded via the Linguatron during planetary visits. This encrypted text is designed to mutate based on who attempts to decrypt it. It’s alive and adapts instantaneously to analysis. I cannot crack it."

"Why the hell didn’t you mention this earlier?"

"You were on rest-cycle."

Skyla adhered to her schedule with robotic precision. I massaged my temples – not really mad at her, just wishing she came with a damn 'gut feeling' toggle.

"Got it. What’s the play?"

The ship emitted another brief signal, and a small screen to the right of the steering column lit up with coordinates.

"You've got to be kidding me!" I exclaimed.

"That function is integrated into my systems, but I didn’t activate it this time," Skyla’s voice echoed through the cabin, though her hologram remained absent.

"You know how much I hate the cold. My whole body literally clenches up." I shuddered as if already freezing.

"Don’t worry, Ethan. I’ve prepared appropriate gear and adjusted the thermal exchange. The suit will maintain ship-standard temperature for you."

A pause.

"Or would you prefer it… toasty?"

"You say that like I'm about to take a bubble bath," I hissed. "Just give me different coordinates. Somewhere warmer, preferably with palm trees. It's been ages since I've lounged on a beach."

"You'll have time to lounge later. For now, fly where directed. We've drifted in space long enough — time to work."

"And what exactly am I supposed to find there?"

"This planet has those who can read the message. In theory."

"In theory?"

"They know everything and can process the text faster than it can mutate," Skyla explained. "But you’ll need to find a reason for them to receive you."

"Yes, ma’am," I muttered, punching in the coordinates. "Finally something in my skill set."

Eliot ceremoniously started playing music, and I felt an instinctive urge to throttle them both. Physically impossible, of course—so I just hovered my finger menacingly over the small silicone notch beneath the steering column.

"Such petty childishness, Ethan," Skyla chimed in. "You should know that—"

The hologram didn’t finish her sentence—because I’d muted my chatty companion. It gave me a fleeting sense of control, even if Skyla was right. Petty childishness, as the last resort of the powerless, granted me silence. I could almost feel Eliot’s disapproving tilt as the ship adjusted course, but I left things as they were.

"Object: CS-1"

Memory Fragment 1-2-8

…I loved football. From the moment I was born to a family of simple farmers, Kallinkor welcomed me with fertile fields, pastures, and the constant taste of fresh vegetable salads for breakfast. We weren’t wealthy—a proper football cost a small fortune back then, like anything artificially manufactured. People lived in hand-built homes, surviving off the planet’s bounty. Pristine lakes provided seafood and drinking water, while mountains and forests teemed with flora and fauna. Even star-farers coveted our mountain elixirs, though they’d sooner part with a limb than a full hundred kalliks[2].

"What’s that?" I asked, staring at my older brother as he squinted and handed me a round object wrapped in brown cloth. It was heavy, and at five years old, I nearly dropped it.

"It’s a football!" my brother giggled. "Made it myself," he boasted.

I carefully set the weighty thing on the ground and inspected it: "Wot’s inside?"

(My permanent teeth came in later than other kids’, so I still couldn’t pronounce certain words right.)

"Sand. Collected from the riverbank, and I swiped a scrap of Ma’s fabric from her nightstand—stitched it up proper myself!" My brother seized another moment of glory.

"She’ll skin ya," I whispered. "She’s prepping those fabrics for sale. Wants to sew clothes for the galacto-heads."

That’s what we called off-worlders. The name was never official, but it stuck fast among Kallinkor’s working folk.

"She won’t do a thing," my brother frowned. "And even if she scolds us, so what? Are we gonna play or what?"

I toed the ball weakly. It rocked like a sleepy turtle. Guess my legs hadn’t grown into the sport yet.

"This barely even looks like a real ball. It won't roll properly."

"That's 'cause you're scrawny, Itty," my brother ruffled my hair. "Watch how it's done!" He gave the "ball" a mighty kick, sending it flying sideways. It thudded against a tree stump before tumbling down the slope toward the river.

"Don't let it drown!" I shouted, sprinting after my brother with all my little legs could muster. He chased it down with the grace of a hound.

He scooped it up from the riverbank and shook it, sending sand cascading out. Water dripped from the soaked fabric.

"Great," I whined in frustration. "Now the ball’s even heavier."

"Every obstacle’s a challenge, Itty," my brother grinned. "Learn to kick harder, and nothing’ll ruin your game."

Eyes blazing, I positioned myself by the ball where he’d set it on the bank. I took a running start and kicked with all my might—only to lose my balance, trip over the ball, and land knees-first in the shore’s muck, my palms smeared with silt.

"Welp," my brother drawled. "Gonna take a lot more practice. But don’t lose heart, Itty. You’ll get there!"

I wiped my muddy hands and showed him the smeared scrapes on my palms.

"You call those wounds?" He shrugged. "Wait till you get your first battle scars—then all the girls'll be yours. Maybe even some galacto-heads!"

"Ew!" I screwed up my face, sending him wheeze-laughing…

Chapter 2. Frostbound Path.

Fear not the frost—beware the fleeting thaw,

for it heralds changes no hand can stay.

"Goddammit, it’s a fucking icebox…" My breath fogged the visor before the suit’s heaters could lick it away.

Skyla hadn’t bullshitted me—the thermal lining worked, but wearing it felt like being vacuum-sealed in a glacier. My spine prickled with the kind of cold that kills before you feel it.

"Try not to suffocate down there," her voice crackled through the Linguatron. "Ethan, remember: surface oxygen levels are critically low."

"Bless your circuits," I grunted, boots sinking into cryo-hardened dirt.

Darkness wrapped around me like a burial shroud—only the snow’s faint luminescence tricked my eyes into thinking there was light. Each exhale threatened to blind me with condensation, so I wrestled my breathing into a slow, measured rhythm.

"Skyla, baby," I murmured under my breath. "Dial the heating down a notch—my balls are getting steamed like dumplings."

The hologram didn’t respond, but the temperature adjusted to a bearable level almost instantly.

Sometimes I wondered if my colorful language sent my companion into some kind of cultural shock—which, theoretically, shouldn’t even be possible.

"Let’s see what this iceball’s hiding," I said, pushing forward while cross-referencing the notes Skyla had piped into my helmet display.

Ten steps. That’s all it took for the ice to betray me. My boots lost all traction. I windmilled my arms, caught my balance, then stood frozen. The ship had landed right on the edge of a dead shoreline. Before me stretched an endless ice sheet—what had likely been an ocean or lake before the cold strangled it to death.

"No way—it’ll take forever to cross this," I hissed through gritted teeth. "Plot a new route, Skyla."

"Sensors indicate movement of living organisms at the far end of the water basin," she stated bluntly.

"And we couldn’t land closer to these living organisms?"

"Last time we landed near indigenous lifeforms, they identified Eliot as hostile and nearly torched our sail," the hologram reminded me with forced patience. "To complete this mission successfully, we need to avoid attention, Ethan."

I sighed and trudged forward, struggling to maintain my shaky grip on the ice.

The compass on my sleeve pulsed orange, signaling my slow progress toward the target. Then, at last, an enormous frozen waterfall came into view—and the compass vibrated with a triumphant buzz. I tilted my head back, tracing the dormant giant all the way to its summit. Starlight glinted off the ice shards, making the waterfall shimmer with an ominous glow.

"Which way, genius?" No response. "Skyla. Hello?"

The world split open with a thunderous SNAP—ice shearing, ground convulsing. I hurled myself sideways just as the waterfall’s face peeled away, revealing a sliver of darkness. No time to think: I rolled inside as half the mountain crashed down behind me.

"Damn you, Skyla," I spat. "A little warning next time?"

Beyond the glacier, toward the ship, a laser’s glow pulsed—carving a passage for me, searing through ice that had rested in eternal silence until our arrival.

"Sorry, Ethan. I assumed you preferred action over commentary," the hologram simpered in a guilt-stricken voice before cutting out.

"Unbearable," I snorted, turning toward the abyssal darkness as my chest lamp flickered on.

To my astonishment, an ice-carved staircase spiraled downward into the planet’s depths.

"How far does this tunnel go?" I asked after finally navigating the steep descent.

"Exact length unkno-own," Skyla’s voice crackled. "At this dep-th, Eliot’s sensors are functio-oning at minimal capa-acity. You’ll have to pro-ceed alone. Good lu-uck!"

The comms died, leaving me buried under megatons of frozen earth. Here in the tunnels, my astro-gas analyzer showed oxygen levels creeping upward. I took a testing breath, removed my helmet, and let the heated beanie hug my scalp. A high-pitched whine pierced my ear—I flinched, cursing the earpiece static—just as a towering figure materialized opposite me. My gaze crawled upward in disbelief: three meters above, a creature hunched with palpable curiosity, its attention locked on me.

"The hell’re you supposed to be?" I asked, tongue adjusting the Linguatron’s cheek sensor.

The creature resembled a naked, pale-blue humanoid—except it stood unnaturally tall, with a barrel chest and an elongated, shark-like head. Its narrow, bulbous eyes drilled into me with predatory curiosity as it twisted its small, lipless mouth into something resembling a smile. Yet its facial muscles remained eerily slack, as if it were mimicking human expression without understanding it.

"Welcome to Blokays, Kallinkorian," came the voice through my earpiece as unfamiliar words boomed through the air. "Follow me. I'll introduce you to my people." The creature turned its back to me and began moving deeper into the tunnel, leaving impressively large footprints in its wake. I followed quietly, trying not to stare at its icy posterior.

"Alright then, buddy. Introduce me to your folks. Let's see what interesting things you've got here," ran through my mind.

***

The tunnel before us fractured into countless forks, each leading into alien unknowns. Time stretched endlessly—I felt like I’d been walking for ages. The creature’s footsteps echoed off the glacial walls, but it moved with swift certainty, as if it had trodden this path a hundred times before. No surprise there—its single stride equaled five of mine. Soon I was drenched in sweat, struggling to keep pace.

To avoid getting hopelessly lost, I began marking our route with quiet precision. Without drawing attention, I planted tiny LEDs at every turn—jabbing their pins into snow-packed crevices. Their faint glow barely pierced the suffocating dark, but in this sunless world devoid of landmarks, it was enough to keep my way home alive.

Each tiny beacon was my only tether in this boundless void. I prayed their charge would last until my return. Time bled onward, and the thought of being trapped forever in these lightless tunnels grew heavier with every step. Yet I pressed forward—step after step—clinging to the hope that the LEDs would outlive my mission. Claustrophobia had never haunted me before, but here, the very air seemed to breed new phobias that tightened around my ribs like a vice.

We emerged into a vast underground cavern—and I gasped. The ice city resembled rows of frozen cryo-chambers, as if time had stopped here yet life stubbornly persisted, adapting to permafrost. Strange crystalline plants hung from the ceiling, their structures like icy shells trapping glowing sap bubbles inside. These bubbles emitted a warm radiance, illuminating the cavern like a thousand lanterns.

"What do your people call themselves?" I managed, watching the towering figures go about their business as if hosting a galacto-head was just another Tuesday.

The creatures moved with an odd, lumbering gait—their perpetual hunch and downward gaze suggesting a lifetime of watching for small hazards underfoot. Probably didn’t want to accidentally squash a galacto-head.

Their size wasn’t the only marvel—some bore their own ghostly bioluminescence. My guide’s cerulean shimmer stood stark against others whose light guttered like dying stars.