Chapter 4
The morning of the fourth day of the diplomatic cultural exchange/cohabitation began with the sound of steel slicing air. I woke to find Sarah in the common room, moving through a series of blade forms with lethal precision. Each strike was silent, each step measured, her body flowing like liquid metal.
I shuffled out of my room in wrinkled clothes, clutching a mug of synth coffee. “Morning. Or whatever time it is when your roommate decides to audition for Galaxy’s Deadliest Warrior.”
She didn’t pause. “Discipline begins at dawn. Weakness begins with excuses.”
I sipped my coffee. “Weakness also begins with caffeine withdrawal. Trust me, I’m saving lives here.”
Her blade stopped mid-arc, hovering inches from my face. My mug trembled. “You mock discipline,” she said.
I swallowed hard. “Not mocking. Just… appreciating from a safe distance. Preferably behind a locked door.”
She lowered the weapon, eyes narrowing. “You still need to learn respect.”
I carried on with business as usual, but quietly filed the information away in my mental archive about Sarah of the Walker Blade Clan—the way the warrior within her shapes her very existence, and how the small details she revealed were either extensions of that identity or hints of something new emerging.
Later that morning, I tried to make breakfast. The station’s replicator produced something vaguely resembling scrambled eggs. I plated them proudly.
Sarah entered, clean and clad in her armor, glanced at the food, and recoiled. “You consume… sludge?”
The door chimed, and Morgan barged in carrying a tray of synth chocolate croissants. “Chuck! Emergency breakfast delivery!” He froze when he saw Sarah, then whispered loudly: “Dude, how is living with her? You’re either the bravest man alive or the dumbest.”
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “Who is this… civilian?”
Morgan puffed his chest. “Morgan Guillermo Grimes, best friend. Heterosexual life partner. Occasional hero sidekick.”
I groaned. “Mostly annoying.”
Sarah tilted her head. “He will not survive long.”
Morgan paled, clutching the bag. “I’ll… just take my pride and go, while my pants are clean. He left the bag on a table near the door, turned, and was walking away, saying: “They’re glazed. Very non-combat ready.”
I answered, “Good morning, little buddy, thank you for the pastries.”
Sarah’s gaze lingered on him like a predator deciding if prey was worth the effort. Morgan, outside the open door, squeaked and bolted.
I sighed. “Sorry. He’s harmless.”
Sarah’s lips curved faintly. “Harmless things are often the first to perish.”
Ignoring the last comment. I showed her my plate. “It’s called eggs. Protein. Delicious if you ignore the texture.”
She shook her head. “Ardani bio augmentation can extract energy from anything, but we prefer nutrient infusions calibrated to combat readiness.”
I poked the eggs with a fork. “Combat readiness, huh? Well, these make me ready to fight the replicator for better options.”
Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes lingered on the plate. Curious. Almost tempted.
I slid the dish toward her. “Try one bite. For science.”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “Curiosity is a waste of time, and time wasted is inefficient.”
“Or strength,” I countered. “It’s how engineers make a living. How knowledge evolves. We poke things until they stop exploding.
Changing my mind, I said, “Just the croissants, then, try it, I promise on my life you won’t regret it.”
She responded, “You’ll bet your life on food?”
“For the right food? Absolutely. One bite can make you happier in an instant. Go on—please.”
A knife appeared in her hand as if conjured from thin air. With a movement as fast as a striking snake, she pressed it to my neck. With the other hand, she picked up a croissant and took a bite. Her nostrils flared, her eyes widened, and a low hum vibrated from her chest.
Then, like lightning, she withdrew the knife, grabbed the entire bag, and vanished toward her room.
For a moment, the silence was total—I couldn’t even hear her footsteps. Right before entering her room, she turned back and said, “Good bet, little engineer.” I caught the faintest flicker of something in her eyes, and then she disappeared inside, the doors sliding shut behind her.
Real Diplomacy
Later the same day, Administrator Graham summoned us. Sarah and I were working on a training room for the Ardani warriors’ use while at the station to keep their combat readiness.
The Ardani envoy in charge had raised concerns: human engineers lacked discipline, and one of the reasons for Sarah’s cohabitation assignment was meant to prove otherwise. The continued efforts of the Ardani to help patrol the nebula depended on the station providing appropriate support.
Graham’s glare could have stripped paint. “Bartowski, if you embarrass this station, I’ll personally eject you into the nearest black hole.”
I raised a hand. “Quick question: do we have a nearest black hole? Because that sounds like a safety hazard.”
Sarah’s hand clamped on my shoulder, firm and cold. “He will not fail,” she said, voice carrying the weight of command.
Graham blinked, startled. “You… vouch for him?”
Her grip tightened. “He is reckless. But effective.”
I stared at her, stunned. For the first time, she hadn’t dismissed me outright.
As we left Graham’s office, Casey intercepted us, arms crossed, jaw clenched. “Bartowski, you’re a moronic liability. If she doesn’t kill you, I might.”
“Nice to see you too, Casey.”
He leaned closer. “Word of advice: Ardani, don’t laugh. They kill. Don’t test her patience.”
Sarah’s eyes flicked to him. “You speak truth. But you exaggerate. Sometimes we laugh… after terminating an assignment with extreme efficiency, usually all the enemies are dead.”
Casey blinked, then muttered, “Remind me never to play poker with you.”
I grinned nervously. “See? She’s got a sense of humor. Sort of.”
Casey’s glare could have melted steel. “Bartowski, if you survive this, it’ll be because she finds you a useful moron so far. Don’t count on that lasting long, Numbnuts.”
Evening Reflection
Back in our temporary shared quarters, I found her polishing blades again. I sat across from her, fiddling with my hyperspanner.
“You didn’t have to defend me,” I said quietly.
She didn’t look up. “I did not defend. I stated a fact.”
“Still. Thanks.”
Her eyes lifted, glowing faintly. “You joke to hide fear. But today, you showed respect. That is strength.”
I smiled, softer this time. “And you showed curiosity. About eggs, croissants, and about me. That’s strength too.”
She studied me for a long moment, then returned to her blade. But the silence between us felt different now — less hostile, more… tentative.
Two weeks of this might not kill me after all. Or maybe it would. Either way, I was starting to think it might be worth the risk.
Pizza Diplomacy
Friday arrived with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for first dates or executions. Honestly, I wasn’t sure which category this fell into. To hedge my bets, I’d ordered several different flavors of pizza from Mario’s—pepperoni, bacon, margherita, and a vegetarian with no olives, because olives are a sore topic, some hate, some love, I decided on caution. I figured variety might improve the odds of survival for all pizzas I ordered triple extra cheese.
Mario, bless him, had promised his best work, swearing on his grandmother’s recipe book that these pies would be worthy of interstellar diplomacy.
Sarah watched the delivery drones approach like a hawk tracking prey. When the boxes landed on the table, she poked one suspiciously.
“This is it? Cardboard seems an inadequate protection for food.”
“It’s not supposed to defend it, just transport it.”
I opened the boxes one by one, revealing Mario’s masterpieces. She leaned in, nostrils flaring, and began the inspection.
The pepperoni earned a raised eyebrow and a cautious bite. “Spiced animal flesh. Acceptable.”
The margherita drew a faint nod. “Simple. Balanced. Efficient.”
Bacon was awarded with two raised eyebrows, “This is tolerable.”
But when she tried the vegetarian—no olives—her eyes widened slightly, the bioports along her neck pulsing with interest. She took another bite without hesitation.
“This one,” she said, almost grudgingly, “is… satisfying.”
From Sarah, that was practically a love letter.
“Called it,” I muttered, trying not to look too smug.
We ate in companionable silence, watching ships dock and depart through the viewing window. It was almost… normal. Like a first date. If you ignored the wall of death weapons and the fact that my dining companion had a body count higher than some plagues.
“Why engineering?” she asked suddenly.
“Sorry?”
“You could have been military. Your reflexes are adequate. Your problem-solving is… unconventional but effective. Why choose to fix rather than fight?”
I considered the question, absently spinning my pizza crust. “I like building things more than breaking them. Making something work that was dead. Bringing order to chaos. It’s like solving puzzles that matter.”
“Combat is also a puzzle.”
“Yeah, but the pieces scream, and the solution usually involves someone not going home.”
“That is the point.”
“And that’s why I’m an engineer.” I grinned. “Plus, the hours are better, and nobody shoots at me. Usually.”
“Your station was attacked six months ago by Chiss raiders. How did you… never mind.”
“Yeah, that was a fun day. Nothing like trying to repair hull breaches while under fire.”
“You survived?”
“Barely. Turns out I’m allergic to decompression.”
She studied me with those unnerving blue eyes. “You make jokes when nervous.”
“I make jokes constantly. It’s just more noticeable when I’m nervous.”
“Are you nervous now?”
I gestured at her wall of weapons. “I’m having dinner with someone who could kill me two hundred different ways with a pizza crust. Nervous doesn’t quite cover it.”
“Two hundred and twenty-three ways,” she corrected. “You underestimate the crust’s potential.”
It took me a second to realize she’d made a joke. An actual joke. I stared at her in shock.
“Did you just—”
“The Ardani have humor. We simply use it when appropriate etiquette is achieved.”
“Harsh but fair.”
We finished the pizza, and I introduced her to the human tradition of arguing over movie choices.
She wanted to watch something called Blood Harvest of Kepler 56, which appeared to be a documentary about her single-handed destruction of a pirate base. I countered with The Martian, figuring she might appreciate the survival aspects.
We compromised on Alien.
Halfway through the movie debate, Morgan pinged my comm. “Chuck, buddy. What are you doing?
“Little Buddy, I can’t talk right now, I’m going to watch Alien with Sarah.”
“Wait! What? Are you watching Alien with her? That’s like showing a shark a sushi menu!”
Sarah overheard, eyes narrowing. “This Morgan speaks too much.”
I shrugged. “He’s Morgan; being appropriate is not included in his source code.”
She considered. “Perhaps. But if he interrupts again, I will demonstrate silence.”
Morgan’s voice squeaked through the comm: “Noted. Off I go now.”
We started watching Alien, and she critiqued it for its unrealistic portrayal of xenomorph biology, while I tried not to think about how she was scarier than anything on screen and drop-dead beautiful at the same time.
“The creature moves inefficiently,” she commented during a particularly tense scene. “And why do the humans separate? Pack hunting is basic tactics.”
“Because then the movie would be fifteen minutes long.”
“An improvement.”
But she didn’t move from her spot on the couch.
When the protagonist finally defeated the alien, she nodded approvingly. “The female survives. Good. In Ardani stories, it is often the same.”
“Strong women saving the day is universal, apparently.”
“Strength is survival. Your culture understands this, even if you pretend otherwise.”
The movie ended, and she stood in one fluid motion.
“Tomorrow, you will join morning conditioning.”
“I will…?”
“Yes. Your physical inadequacy is professionally embarrassing. I will correct this.”
“How generous of you.”
“Generosity has nothing to do with it. If you die from exhaustion working for us, the documentation to explain will be excessive. Diplomacy is boring.”
She disappeared into her room, leaving me to contemplate what “basic exercises” meant to someone who considered armed combat a warm-up.