Sea of Stars Read Online Free PDF

In the center of the table is an enormous vase, dripping with a vibrant arrangement of znous, the deadly killer-insect-carrying, turbine-boring-worm flowers. Their scent and stunning color make the blood drain away from my face as I stare at them.
    A stern, masculine voice calls from somewhere within the room. “Fay Kricket, you may come in.”
    I push back images of a brutal foster father I once had, thinking, Don’t show fear. They live for it. I take a tentative step off the overup. No one else accompanies me.
    The dark, hardwood floor beneath my feet squeaks from a loose floorboard, the noise echoes in the tomblike atmosphere of the room. The overup doors slide closed behind me, shutting off the sliver of light. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I realize I’ve been let off in the center of the room where just this table resides to greet its visitors.
    “Take a flower, if you’d like,” the man in the room offers, his tone far from warm. I squint toward the right side of the chamber. In the direction from which the voice came I see a wide, beautifully carved mahogany desk. The dark wing-backed chair behind it is turned toward the wall-window, the glass of which has been darkened so that it doesn’t let in much light, but does not impede the breathtaking view of the skyline. Nothing of the man is visible above the black upholstery of the chair.
    I clear my throat before I say, “I would take a flower, but I have this thing against cranium-boring worms: I don’t like them.”
    He doesn’t turn to face me. “I was told that znous are your favorite. I had the worms removed especially for you.”
    “It’d be a shame to spoil the carefully planned arrangement,” I decline, speaking less about the flowers and more about whatever he has in mind for me.
    From the left-hand side of the room, a watery-blue light flickers on, drawing my attention to it. My breath catches in my throat. I reach out to the table in front of me to hold it for support, disturbing the flower arrangement and causing several white and fuchsia znou petals to fall to the dark surface.
    “Manus!” My whisper is involuntary.
    Ahead of me, the entire wall on the left-hand side of the room is a tank, like the kind I’d seen at Shedd Aquarium for the shark exhibit. This one is a bit different, however, in that it doesn’t have exotic fish in it, or a sunken lighthouse, or a treasure chest. It only has one occupant: Manus. With a partial mask over his nose and mouth, he’s encased in a maze of tubing amid bubbling, gurgling fluid. Readouts light up one side of the glass, pulsing and flashing in waves and colors. My hand sweeps the table; I grasp some of the fallen znou petals in my fist.
    I steady myself before I walk to the tank on trembling legs, gently touching the coolness of the glass that separates us with the tips of my fingers. I pull them back as a display lights up.
    The male voice is just behind me now. I don’t look over my shoulder at him when he says, “They just finished installing him here a few fleats ago,” he explains, using his word that means “minutes.” “I said it was for his protection, but between you and me, he’s more of a souvenir.”
    “A souvenir?” He’s totally evil , I think. I’m afraid to turn around and see him.
    “We never did get along.” He walks to stand next to me, leaning near the glass. He taps on it with his fingernails. I give him a quick glance, just catching his profile. He’s old-looking, with streaks of white in his once-black hair. It means he must be ancient, maybe thousands of years old.
    A thin, red scar runs from his left eye to his mouth; it puckers his lip on one side, giving him a snarl. I wonder at the reason he never had it removed—or wrapped, as they call it, like most citizens do when they receive wounds that scar. I doubt it’s for the same reason Wayra doesn’t: I don’t think the blushers would be attracted to him, scar or not. However old he is, though, he’s