Kimia woke coughing.
The sound pulled her upright before the rest of her had agreed to participate.
She coughed again into one fist and whispered something obscene beneath her breath.
For several seconds, she did not know where she was.
Dark room. Televox light. Chair. The peculiar stiffness of having slept somewhere designed for sitting rather than sleeping.
Then the archive returned around her.
Kimia rubbed one eye.
Her head felt full.
Not pain exactly. Pressure. A dull weight behind the brow and around the temples. Her mouth tasted stale and dry. One leg had gone partly numb beneath the other and protested when she moved it.
“Shit.”
The word emerged hoarse.
She reached into the kaftan and pulled out her pocket watch. The chain caught briefly against the lining. She pulled it free and opened the lid.
Two fifty-two.
Kimia stared.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Two fifty-two.
Nearly three in the morning.
She had slept for four hours at least, probably closer to five.
For a yinglet, that bordered on excess. Her body had apparently decided the matter without consulting her.
Kimia put the watch away.
Only then did she look toward the televox.
The documentary had ended.
A credits sequence remained frozen on the screen. The video had stopped at some point after the playback unit completed the magnetic core and entered its idle state.
Kimia had slept through most of the Ten Seasons War.
Again.
In another sense.
She found this funny enough to produce a tired exhale through the nose.
Then she tried to stand. The first attempt became only preparation.
Kimia placed both hands on the chair arms. Pushed. Her body rose reluctantly.
The room tilted by a fraction.
She stopped.
Waited.
The sensation passed, then she stretched. Arms upward. Back arched. Tail extending behind her. A chain of joints and muscles complained in sequence from shoulders to hips. Her jaw opened involuntarily in a long yawn she could not stop.
When it ended, she blinked tears from her eyes.
Better.
Marginally.
The indrel remained at the back of the viewing room.
Kimia looked toward it.
The soldier stood exactly where she remembered leaving it.
Perhaps it had not moved. Perhaps it had slept.
She knew almost nothing about how indrel soldiers rested. The idea of that enormous creature simply switching off while vertical seemed plausible.
Its pheromone mask clicked once. It was awake now.
“You're still here.”
No response.
“Good.”
Click.
Kimia turned off the televox.
The screen contracted into darkness.
For one moment she saw herself in it.
Red face. Dark kaftan. Black room.
She looked away before the image could become interesting.
The magnetic core remained in the playback unit.
Kimia ejected it.
A small mechanical thunk.
She took the core in both hands and carried it back into the archive.
The night attendant was asleep behind the desk.
Not deeply.
His head rested on one forearm beside an open ledger.
Kimia did not wake him.
She found the correct shelf.
HISTORICAL
SERIES IV
The empty space waited.
She returned the core.
There.
Completed action.
Beginning. Middle. End.
She stood there for another second because knowing where an object belonged felt unusually satisfying.
Then the headache reminded her of itself.
The instinct came quickly.
Correct it.
Something. Coffee. More whiteblood. Kilcane. A drink. Anything capable of altering the present state.
Kimia closed her eyes.
No.
The demons had begun negotiations before she was fully awake.
She knew their style for a long time.
They rarely said destroy yourself.
They said: You have a headache. You are tired. You already feel strange. You deserve to feel better.