Ken Brady It was the first thing Serena saw when she opened her eyes. The dazzle of distant light, cutting through the fog of sleep. It was soothing.
She shifted in her bunk, heard the noise of Jenna's raspy breathing on the other side of the room. She put her feet on the icy floor.
As she stood, jumping lightly from one foot to the other, the light from the porthole window shifted, throwing a pattern across the floor.
She tiptoed past Jenna, not waking her yet. It was this time she loved most, when the ship was quiet, the dull throb of the drives distant.
She slid the door of her quarters open quietly, then slipped out into the dimly lit corridor that ran through the girls' barracks.
There was the familiar cool, still air, and quiet. But something was different. She paused. The hair prickled on her scalp. What was that?
It was a rough scratching, like a fork grating against a dinner plate, or the metal-on-metal complaint of a long-closed sliding locker door.
Serena held still, waiting for the sound to pass. She'd often heard the light tink of meteorites as they deflected off the hull. But this...
This was different. The scratching continued, but grew distant. Serena released her breath, only then realizing how tense she had been.
