Parasomnia
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"Coldborn," the creature replied. "And what brings a Kallinkorian to Blokays, hmm?" It leaned over me, those small gray eyes drilling into me again. Surrounded by a dozen three-meter-tall beings, I felt like an insect under a microscope.
"Oh, just… traveling," I snorted, then immediately caught myself. I should’ve studied local customs first—what if grinning meant "I’ll kill you" here? But the Coldborn seemed pleased. It nodded.
"Why do some of you glow?" I asked.
The creature opened its small mouth to reply, but was interrupted.
"Glacius!" Another Coldborn called my guide, who turned with a flourish of its icicle-thin fingers. I instinctively ducked, afraid those razor-sharp digits might puncture my suit.
"Glughet," my guide greeted. "Look who I found."
Both creatures stared at me, their faces again twisting into those uncanny mockeries of smiles.
"Storm’s teeth! Another Kallinkorian," spat the second one—Glughet.
"Another?" I blinked. "How many of us are down here?"
"Hot damn, so many," Glacius replied. "With luck, you might meet your own."
"Cozy place you’ve got here," I said, sarcasm dripping as I recalled the surface blizzards. "How do you cope?"
"The wind rose favors us today," Glacius erupted in laughter.
"But it’s windy right now."
"The winds always blow here," Glacius added.
"Why no calm days?"
"Perhaps if your own planet had winds of change more often, you’d already know," Glughet cut in.
Both Coldborn burst into their signature barking laughter.
I had no desire to discuss my homeworld, and the creatures’ blunt comparison made me eager to slip away before tensions escalated. So I clapped my hands and gave a two-fingered salute.
"Thanks for the assist, boys," I said cheerfully. "I’ll manage from here. Gonna wander, get my bearings."
"Not so fast, Kallinkorian!" Glughet halted me. "We’ve a tradition on Blokays. All newcomers visit the ‘Ice Cradle.’"
"True," Glacius agreed. "You’ll love it."
"What is it?" I frowned.
"Hotter than a furnace in there," Glacius said cryptically. "Come, come. The show’s about to start—wouldn’t want to miss it."
"Did you just stumble upon me?" I asked, trailing after the persistent creatures who clearly had no intention of letting me out of their sight.
"Probably that icefall earlier—must’ve alerted the whole damn colony," flickered through my mind.
"Obviously," Glacius drawled, tilting his head slowly. "I was heading to the ‘Ice Cradle’. Evenings there are… spectacular."
"So it’s evening now?" I said, dragging out the words.
Skyla’s data insisted it should be daytime.
"We decide what’s day or night," Glughet boomed. "And tonight, we want evening."
"Bold policy," I snorted. "Alright, show me this ‘Cradle’ of yours."
"We’re already here, Kallinkorian!" Glughet spread his icicle fingers. "Blokays begins beyond this point."
I stared at the cryptic script carved into the snow—presumably declaring "Ice Cradle" in the local tongue.
Steam billowed from the darkened ice archway. Warm steam. I edged forward, arm outstretched to test the heat, before reluctantly following the Coldborn inside.
They hadn’t lied. The place was hot in every sense of the word.
At the center of this frozen chamber, a geothermal vent churned, its thick vapors forcing the walls and floor into a perpetual half-melt.
In the reddish glow of heat-resistant crystalline plants, silhouettes of Coldborn swirled alongside aliens from neighboring planets. The air buzzed with a cacophony of voices and the clink of icy goblets filled with some yellowish concoction.
"Unbelievable," I thought. "These snow bastards dragged me to an interstellar brothel."
***
At the heart of the chamber, atop a sunken dais, the dance floor pulsed with Coldborn figures draped in cerulean silks. Their bodies moved with glacial precision – less like patrons and more like elements of some carefully choreographed ritual. The dancers would occasionally freeze mid-motion, forming intricate living sculptures that seemed hewn from the planet's frozen soul – a perfect synthesis of ice and fire made flesh.
Then one dancer locked eyes with me. Her fingers curled in unmistakable invitation – and my suit's thermoregulator immediately spiked into the red. I grabbed the nearest frosted glass from a passing tray and beat a hasty retreat to the bar. As for my escorts? Already consumed by the undulating crowd.
"Wouldn’t recommend that one, Kallinkorian," said the creature behind the bar, its frost-glazed skin shimmering as it deftly mixed drinks for the increasingly rowdy crowd.
The bartender stood shorter than its kin, and I caught a few mocking glances from passing Coldborn—though clearly, this one had long since leaned into its role as the court jester. Case in point: it suddenly hopped onto the counter and thrust a new glass of violet liquid at me.
"What’s the difference?" I asked, accepting the drink and giving it a wary sniff.
"When a Coldborn dies, they become a snowdrift," the bartender said.
"And?" I didn’t follow.
"Blokays has enough dunes as is—last thing we need is tunnels clogged with them. So we found… uses for meltwater."
He grabbed my yellowish cocktail and downed it in one gulp, coughing like he’d swallowed Kallinkorian jet fuel. A wave of faint vapor rolled up his throat, and I watched the non-freezing liquid slither down his esophagus, pooling in his translucent belly.
"You drink them?" I asked, revolted.
"Oh relax," the bartender waved me off. "Cryozor was bitter in life, but now that he's gone? Like fine wine—only gets better with 'resting.' Now he's got a flavor so rich even sugar bows in respect.Want a taste? I'll remake it. But fair warning—this cocktail might gift you an adventure you'll never forget… or one you will, and you'll thank me for it."
"Christ alive," I muttered, eyeing the violet drink. "Okay, what is this one?"
"Juice of Frostberry cave fruits. They only grow where temperatures stay below -30 degrees. Their flesh is packed with compounds that ferment into a unique alcoholic agent—Frostbrew. But in excess, Frostbrew can ‘freeze’ your emotions, inducing a state of icy euphoria where mind and body detach from reality, plunging you into visions."
The bartender eyed me. "So keep yourself in check, Kallinkorian." Then, casually: "What’s your name?"
"Ethan," I said, swirling the viscous liquid in my glass.
"I’m Gelsion." The creature polished an empty tumbler with a rag before setting it down. "Nephew of Uncle Cryozor."
I wordlessly pushed back from the bar and stalked toward the tables. That little frost gremlin had officially turned my stomach.
"Skyla, what fresh hell have you dragged me into…" I mentally cycled through every profanity in the known galaxy.
No sooner had I claimed an ice-carved booth than Glacius and Glughet flanked me.
"Why the long face, Kallinkorian?" Glughet boomed. "Don’t tell me Gelsion offered you his ‘signature brew’?"
"You’re clearly experts at revelry," I snipped. "So why wrap your dancers in fabrics when you strut around naked outside this ‘Ice Cradle’?"
"Oh, come on!" Glacius exclaimed. "A lady's got to have some mystery, eh? Without it, you're nowhere, understand?"
"Listen, boys," I decided to cast the bait, watching as the Coldborn swayed in unison over their glasses. "Rumor has it some of you can read any text in existence."
"Any half-decently educated Coldborn can read," Glughet muttered, offended, and Glacius nodded.
"What if the text is… alive?" I asked skeptically.
"Then you freeze it first—then read it," Glacius drawled.
I held their gaze for a long moment before sighing:
"I don't really get the local humor."
"Hot as 'don't get it'," Glacius snorted.
"I was told that among you there are…" I paused, recalling the name Skyla had written in her notes, "Astral Sisters. Could you introduce me to them?"
"Astral Sisters?" Glacius and Glughet exclaimed simultaneously, jumping in their seats. "Don't even dream about it, Kallinkorian!"
"Why not? Can't I just politely ask them to read one letter?"
"Astral Sisters aren't conversation partners for the likes of you, Kallinkorian," Glacius waved me off. "Those who are forced to meet them – let alone speak with them – are in deep trouble already."
"Hot as 'deep trouble'," Glughet flailed his arms. "Under normal circumstances, meeting them is impossible. Forget it."
"What kind of trouble are you talking about, boys?" I frowned.
"The Astral Sisters are our galactic arbiters," Glughet lowered his voice – though by my hearing standards, it was still plenty loud. "They're summoned for a Blokays trial when someone commits an unforgivable crime on our planet and we need to decide their punishment."
"Yeah, when our leader has doubts – which is rare," Glacius added.
"And what kind of crimes made him doubt?" I feigned shock.
"Something… unspeakable," Glughet cut in ominously.
"You're not one of those, are you, Kallinkorian?" Glacius asked, finishing his cocktail and exhaling a small silver puff of smoke.
"Come on, boys," I laughed. "Just got curious, that's all. Seems I was misinformed."
"Hot as 'misinformed'," the Coldborn chorused.
I waited until my guides were thoroughly intoxicated and began losing coordination of their hulking bodies, then quietly slipped past the guests and exited the ‘Ice Cradle’
To my surprise, the cavern square stood completely empty. Apparently, everyone had either retreated to their cooling chambers or joined the festivities elsewhere.
Which meant I could finally put my plan into action.
Memory Fragment 2-3-6
…On Kallinkor, birthdays were always celebrated lavishly. Parents would gather relatives, setting festive tables with lace tablecloths Mother had sewn for the occasion. The finest ceremonial dishes were brought up from the cellars. All day long, the house welcomed anyone wishing to offer congratulations—as if each passing year still carried the weight of a miracle. Though, considering the planet’s slow decay, any birthday could well have been the last. But such thoughts were never spoken aloud.
Kell had turned twenty. By Kallinkor’s standards, he was now considered a grown man—old enough to build his own house or start a family. Pa delivered his usual solemn speech of advice, while relatives raised their glasses in endless toasts, showering him with well-wishes.
But only I knew how much Kell despised this day.
We stole away from the crowd of tipsy aunts and hid in the treehouse we’d built when I was ten. Soon, it would be my turn—my twelfth birthday, following Kell’s. And unlike him, I was counting the days.
"Once I move into my own house, I'm ushering in an era of no celebrations," my brother said, stretching out on the floor. "No more repeating the same hollow wishes year after year, as if people run out of ideas after three phrases."
"But you'll still invite me, right?" I muttered, settling down beside him.
"Obviously, Itty. Where would I be without you?" Kell gave me his trademark shoulder punch and closed his eyes.
At twenty-two, my brother moved out—just as he’d always wanted. Pa helped him build a small hut on the next street over. I saw him less and less after that, though his place was still within walking distance.
So that’s exactly what I decided to do when Kell’s next birthday rolled around. I retrieved that "ball" from the storage room—the one that had given me the strength and stamina I’d craved—and set off down the path toward his hut.
Light glowed in the windows, and with a grin, I bounded up the porch steps, already anticipating Kell’s grumbling about how gifts were unnecessary. But I wanted to make him happy.
The door didn’t open right away. When it finally did, a pretty Kallinkorian girl stood there, her long, lush hair cascading around her. That kind of mane was becoming rare among our people—which told me she came from wealth.
"Who are you looking for?" the girl asked politely.
"I, uh… Is Kell home?" My words tangled in my throat.
"What’s taking so long? Who is it?" My brother’s irritated voice carried from inside before he appeared on the porch. "Oh. Itty. Hey."
"Hey, Kell," I replied. "Thought you’d be alone."
"Got guests coming soon. Make it quick—what d’you want?" He hurried me, eyes darting down the quiet street.
"I wanted to congratulate you," I said. "You know, like we used to—just sit together like old times. You haven’t come by in ages. The treehouse feels empty without you."
"Don’t sweat it," Kell brushed me off, then fixed me with a stare so cold it felt like he was talking to a stranger. "Look, Itty, I’ve got friends coming over. We’ll catch up another time, alright?"
Before I could reply, he slammed the door in my face, leaving me alone on the deserted street—still clutching that damned ball in my hands.
I took the river path back—the same river where Kell first taught me how to kick a ball. Who could’ve known then how precious every minute was, each one irreplaceable? I set the ball down on the bank, took a running start, and kicked it as hard as I could. It dropped like dead weight into the water, vanishing into the river’s depths.
On Kallinkor, birthdays were always celebrated lavishly. That’s why, from that day on, I grew to hate the holiday…
Chapter 3. The Conscience That Froze
Honor is for those who respect the system.
I… prefer to reinterpret it.
I’d been washing in the ship’s dry-cleaning pod ever since leaving Kallinkor—where specialized air scrubbed you clean in minutes. Fast, efficient, and effortless. Exactly what any time-starved person might’ve once dreamed of (back when we were still shackled by that archaic 24-hour cycle). The system embedded in the walls maintained perfect sterility, with every trace of space dust purged instantly, leaving skin fresh and pristine.
In those moments, I often caught myself wondering just how far we’d drifted from Earth’s old comforts. These pods were standard issue on ships now, yet I could never shake the feeling that something vital had been lost in the process.
Sometimes I ached for Kallinkor’s bathhouses. That cozy, heat-soaked space where you could steam your entire body for hours in scalding water, letting all worries and haste dissolve. Time stretched languidly there—you could lose yourself in thought while leisurely drying off with a towel, savoring every motion. Humid air embraced you as you washed your face, as water cascaded over your skin like it was rinsing away exhaustion itself.
The ship’s cleaning process was undeniably efficient. But there was something inexplicable about rituals that demanded slowness. The Kallinkorian baths, though far more time-consuming, held a quiet magic. Every movement, every moment became purification of the mind—a shedding of tension, a return to your most vulnerable self.
Kallinkorian hygiene rituals took far longer than my Eliot routines—yet, strangely, there was a romance to it. The absence of hurry, the luxury of simply being in the moment—it felt like a rare gift in a world spinning so fast it might as well have lost its gravity.
When I first saw the geyser spring in the brothel, my first impulse was to tear off my rags and plunge into that churning water—even though I knew damn well the temperature would liquefy my organs. But hell, how I wanted to.
Musing on unfulfilled desires, I moved through the adjacent labyrinth, drifting further from the square and the passage where I'd entered with the Coldborn. The creatures had made it clear: to meet the Astral Sisters—who inspired such awe in the Coldborn—I'd need to do something drastic enough to summon them before the tribunal.
Had galactic search enforcers still existed, they’d have been on my tail the entire time I drifted through open space. But luckily for me, they’d been disbanded generations ago—which meant committing crimes consequence-free was getting easier by the day. That said, every planet still bred and worshipped its own local laws, and violating them as a galacto-head came with… creative penalties.
I didn’t know Blokays’ specific flavor of justice, but I needed to strike with the precision of a falling icicle—and get the hell off-planet before I shattered on impact.
After a few turns, I found myself standing before a refrigeration unit, its dimly lit sign bearing a terse name. I switched my chest lamp to scanning mode and let it decipher the text. “Polar Hospital,” the scanner spat out.
I slipped inside unnoticed, making sure the corridor labyrinth was empty. Polar Hospital wasn’t just a place of healing—it was a fortress of life in a world where survival alone was a feat. The space consisted of vast, cavernous halls carved into a monolithic glacier. Limping and ailing creatures shuffled everywhere. My mind raced for a convincing backstory—just as a Coldborn appeared beside me. The creature had a vaguely feminine silhouette, but the tattered wrappings made it impossible to tell for sure.
"What brings you here, Kallinkorian?" the Coldborn's gravelly voice rumbled. "Frostbite? Or something worse?"
"Oh, uh, friend—"
I never got to answer the creature—who I now guessed was the local medic—because another Kallinkorian suddenly appeared beside me.
A guy around twenty-five in a thermal suit, his nose red from cold, beamed at me and clapped me on the shoulder—making me instinctively flinch back.
"Thanks for dropping by to visit," he drawled with a wink.
"You're with him?" The creature loomed over us, awaiting confirmation.
"Uh, yeah," I nodded curtly.
"Then quit blocking the entrance," the Coldborn jabbed a pointed finger near my face. "Storms are hitting harder than usual today—we could get casualties any minute. Move along to your room."
"And who the hell are you?" I asked the guy the moment we stepped into the refrigerated ward.
"A Kallinkorian, same as you," he said, crossing his arms. "Can't you tell?"
"That much is obvious. Why are you clinging to me?"
"Ooooh, someone's prickly," the guy rolled his eyes dramatically. "Didn't realize you were the type to snub your own kind."
"I know my people well enough not to celebrate them," I hissed, keeping my voice low.
"We're all just trying to survive," the guy snorted. "Why'd you come to Blokays anyway?"
"None of your damn business," I snapped.
Luck wasn’t smiling on me with this Kallinkorian encounter. I needed to figure out how to reach the Sisters, and this guy’s nosiness was just getting in the way. Though…
I drew a deep breath, plastered on a grin, and leaned into the thickest Kallinkorian accent I could muster:
"What’s your excuse for being here, huh? Don’t tell me you couldn’t find a better brothel."
"Oh, so you’ve been there?" The guy barked a laugh. "Quirky little spot, eh? But if you’re after tits or something spicier, just wander the halls. Local creatures have… unique dress codes. Naked ‘outside,’ but throw on rags when ‘working.’"
"Not my priority right now," I shrugged. "So which gang’s dumb enough to claim you?"
"I’m not with a gang!" He jerked his snotty nose up. "I’m my own man. A lone wolf!"
"Sure," I sneered. "More like a half-dead pup. Did your crew dump you here for storage?"
"Well…" He deflated. "They worried I’d catch some local virus and infect the whole ship."
"So your crew just took off without you?"
"Nah," the guy whispered. "They're still here—scouring the tunnels for anything valuable. Me? I'm the distraction. If shit hits the fan, I signal them and we blast off."
"So you're thieves," I stated flatly.
"And what are you, some interplanetary volunteer?" He burst into laughter.
"Shut it," I hissed.
"Oh yeah, I can totally see your ship’s motto now—
'We come in peace, please don’t resist'," the guy wheezed between laughs, gesturing grandly at the ward.
"Laugh one more time, comedian, and I’ll put you to sleep," I snapped.
His laughter died instantly.
"Alright, alright. No need to get frosty," he muttered, wiping his nose on a scrap of cloth—probably torn from a Coldborn's garb. "If you're worried my crew will rat you out, don't. Even thieves have a code."
"I'm sure," I said, voice dripping with skepticism. "Any idea when they're coming back for you?"
"Nah. Just said they're looking for some brothers or sisters—can't remember exactly."
"Astral Sisters?" I tensed.
"Bingo," he sniffed.
"And why the hell would you need them?"
"Our ship received a letter last week—but none of us could read it." The guy wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Just scribbles that either keep changing or make your vision blur. Crew’s mixed species, but even the non-humans couldn’t crack it. Ship’s systems insist it’s vital intel, though."
"Interesting," I frowned, my grip tightening on the med-bay railing.
"Me? I’d say screw that letter." He coughed, spitting something dark onto the floor. "But the crew’s convinced it’s a treasure cipher. Gold, maybe—or some rare metal. You know how pre-war alloys are basically unicorn shit now."
"And your boys already located these Sisters?"
"Nah, we’ve turned this place inside out," he snorted. "Three days planetside, and zero leads. Ship’s radars can’t scan that deep, and the local Coldborn scatter like roaches the moment someone mentions the Sisters." He leaned in conspiratorially. "But our boss? Yeah, he’s got a plan brewing."
"What plan?"
"Crew swore me to secrecy—" The guy grinned, revealing crooked teeth, "—but they never figured I’d run into one of our own. So here’s the scoop: Astral Sisters only show up for trials. When they need a third opinion."
"Second opinion," I corrected wearily.
"Bingo! So here’s the play—" The guy flexed imaginary biceps, punching the air. "We pull some shit that’s outrageous by local standards, but still kinda debatable. That’ll trigger a trial, the Sisters show up, and boom—we shove our letter at ’em to translate." He grinned. "Who’s a fucking genius now?"
"Brilliant. Would’ve never crossed my mind," I deadpanned, playing dumb. "Maybe you’ll recruit me?"
"You?" He squinted. "Thought you were a lone wolf. Crew says solo thieves are the most backstabbing bastards in the Galaxy."
"Who said I work alone?" I grunted. "Only difference is, my crew ditches me at better locations. While they strip neighboring planets clean."
"Damn, that’s cold," the guy breathed, half-admiring, before sneezing violently.
"Take me to your team," I demanded. "Together, we’ve got better odds."
Together, the odds only favor me.
***
"Who the hell is this, Tevin? Who’d you drag back here? I’m talking to you!"
A grizzled Kallinkorian with a thick, long beard circled me, shooting irritated glares at the kid through his half-open helmet.
He was short—even by human standards—and looked downright puny next to the towering Coldborn moving in the distance. His curly dark hair was thinning in patches, but his beard remained enviably full.
Though facial hair had long fallen out of fashion in space, this Kallinkorian clearly clung to old habits—where a thick mane signaled wealth and status.
Tevin—now identified by name—dropped his gaze guiltily. "Rovan, don’t freak out! He’s one of us."
"There’s no ‘us’ among Kallinkorians, idiot," Rovan snarled.
"Told him the same thing," I smirked. "But the kid’s as naive as a sea sponge. Might wanna train him better—next time, someone meaner might take my place."
"And why the hell are you here?" The bald Kallinkorian with an earring turned on me.
His elongated head was wrapped in a latex warming cap, thin as a chair slipcover.
"Looks like this one’s reached enlightenment even without hair. Sleeping follicles—nature’s indicator of a dormant brain," flickered a sarcastic thought, and I bit back a laugh.
"I want to help you decode the letter."