Василиса Чмелева – Parasomnia (страница 1)

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.