And what surprise could he have in store for her?

Apprehension filled her as she turned toward the long dark gullet that lay between her and the office she shared with Keller. In her experience, there was always some kind of underlying motive for gifts, or favors, or surprises. Some sort of price that was expected to be paid. For some reason she found herself thinking of poor Reimi, now stuck in her cryogenic pod. As horrible as it sounded, there was always the chance that being frozen would be a blissful experience for her—like waking up from the longest, most refreshing nap of her life. Maybe she would emerge from her pod feeling younger and stronger than she ever had before. Her skin all taut and dewy. Her eyes cleared by months of sleep. Maybe being frozen was like a rejuvenation—or a much-needed escape into oblivion.

Or maybe it was like waking up in a coffin, Park thought, bleakly. Not quite dead, but wishing that you were. Maybe Reimi was still awake when the freezing began, cognizant enough to feel the agony of her arteries shriveling, her body deflating inch by painful inch. Organs locking up, tissue gluing itself to tissue, the blood turning syrupy and slow with cryoprotectants. Maybe being frozen was its own kind of trauma.

The latter seemed more likely, didn’t it?

Space supported her line of thinking. Space was all about entropy. If a star wanted to grow, it had to feed off the energy of another star. If a ship wanted to propel itself into the next galaxy, it had to sacrifice mass, straight lines. Being frozen or being surprised by a crewmate should be no different. There were no free rides. No spontaneous gifts. Things out here came with a price—whether you asked for them in the first place or not.

—

“What a cynical way of thinking,” Keller exclaimed when Park brought it up with her later. “I’m sure he’s saved you a cake ration, or something.”

“But why?” Park asked. “What’s the motive?”

“He likes you,” Keller said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a courtship thing.”

“No,” Park said flatly. “That can’t be it. He doesn’t even know me.”

“He’s the only person on the ship who talks to you, other than me and the janitor bot. No offense. You don’t think he’s gotten to know you over these last ten months?”

No, Park thought. ISF had them separated on regimented shifts, some teams taking turns sleeping while others maintained the ship or prepared for planetfall or gathered data; the idea was that they had to be used to operating as independently as possible, in the event that something happened to the other crewmembers. As impossible as it seemed, after nearly a year, she still hadn’t interacted with her own crewmates much—except in patient sessions. And even then, she wasn’t the one who spoke. “I don’t know much about him, other than what’s in his file.”

“That’s not his fault.”