“Your speech is not evocative enough for me to make any inferences about your intentions,” OS continues. “I will therefore continue my previous course of conversation.”
While OS speaks, I flex my hands. The tendons begin to limber up, first the tips of my fingers and then the rest of each digit. I clench my feet, my ass. I’m out of breath with the exertion, but if I keep this up, eventually I’ll get to my feet.
“We have been leaking air and are coming up on an asteroid with a frozen water core in one-point-seven days. That water can be electrolyzed to replenish our oxygen, so I am matching our speed and bearing so we can net it. If we miss this opportunity, supporting life on theCoordinated Endeavorcould become impossible.”
I rock from side to side, and though my belly doesn’t cramp up, it does feel like I’ve downed yet another bottle of PepsiRum. I’ll be puking soon, there’s no doubt about that. I grit my teeth and raise my right arm. The muscles seize, my fingers become talons. But by concentrating and breathing through the pain—okay, howling’s the better word for it—I manage to pick up the polycarb cup at my bedside. I lift it to my mouth. Most of the liquid runs downmy chin, soaking my chest, but some dribbles in.
The robot whirs in and refills the cup. I use my left arm to drink this time, since the right has cramped back into a claw. Even more of the water goes in. I’m getting the hang of having a body.
I want to ask how long I was out. But OS is right—life support is our first priority. “So we harvest this asteroid or I die,” I say.
The sandy depths of my memory offer me the grand hall of the Cusk Academy, lined with plaques and medals, a string of spacefarer cadets in starched cotton suits that crackle like paper. Announcements project into the air: who’s made it to the next round of screening, who is one step closer to the coveted mission slot. Minerva’s name and avatar flashing up there three years ago, all white teeth and confidence, her grand departure to investigate Titan. The only person who really loved me showered in laurels, cheered by millions, mine no longer. My likeness projected up there three years later, all white teeth and almost as much confidence, when I was chosen to go save her.
“I remember my training,” I croak. “I remember being selected. I remember my last day on the beach, before I went upstairs for my full-body medical scan. But I don’t remember the launch. Not at all.”
“Unsurprising,” OS says. “You were rattled in theshuttle. Organic processors are so fragile.”
“It wouldn’t be the first knock on this head,” I say, tapping my skull experimentally. Our trainers would harness us to long carnival arms and spin us, measuring how much g-force we could withstand. I’d always aced those tests. “How long was I out?”
“Two weeks,” OS says.
Shit. That’s embarrassing. Passing out was not in the mission plan.
I sit up, swing my legs around. Bad idea. I shout and fall back against the gurney.
“Hold still until I tell you you’re ready, Ambrose,” OS says in my mother’s voice. A whir and a whine as Rover ticks along the wall. Once it’s right next to me its tongs emerge, a pellet pinched delicately between them, soft contents bulging. Whatever’s inside its sausage-like casing is a rich and liquidy brown, gas bubbles rising within it. It smells... savory.
“OS, did Rover just poop?”
“In a way, it has,” OS says. “The microfauna of your intestines need to be replenished immediately to prevent any inflammatory autoimmune response. These organisms are selected to populate your tract with healthy proportions of bacteria.”
“Eating shit wasn’t in the mission plan,” I say. I do remember my briefings about the Minerva rescue, the plansfor my trip on theEndeavor. I just don’t remember starting the mission.
“Neither was your coma.”
Wow. Mean.
Rover refills the cup of water. “Down the hatch,” my mother’s voice says.
“Good use of the colloquial,” I say. “I assume that line was preprogrammed.” I take a good look at the pellet. At least I can thank mission control for encasing this shit before making me eat it. “Mom would never say ‘down the hatch,’ by the way. My surrogates would, but Mom’s too polished for that. Pretty sure she’s never been near a diaper. I didn’t even see her for the first ten years of my life. Minerva basically raised me.”
I pop the pellet into my mouth and chase it with water. The agony of swallowing makes me roar. Eyes streaming tears, I fake a smile. “Please, ma’am, can I have some more?”
“That was enough microfauna for now,” OS says.
“Yes,” I say, as I burp the most unpleasant burp any human has ever burped. “Agreed.”
The boundaries of the room warble. I close my eyes, concentrate on my breathing so I don’t gag.Might as well make nausea your lover, Minerva told me on a long walk through the family grounds after she discovered I had been picked for the Cusk Academy.It’s the only thing that willbe by your side all through your training.With her on my mind, I ride the waves of sickness until they subside. “How long until we reach my sister?”
“Approximately one hundred and ninety-one days.”
As my veins swell with fluid, my mind makes obvious connections that it couldn’t manage even a minute ago. A grin cracks my face, cramping those muscles, too. I probably don’t look it, but I’m filled with joy. “OS. We’re in space!”
In the milliseconds that pass before it responds, I imagine OS reassessing mission control’s decision to send me. “Yes, Spacefarer Cusk. We are in space.”
I yank out my IV, swing my legs around, and stand. Rover makes alarmed boops while it watches me get to my feet. Blood spots the glossy white floor. My blood.
My feet are giant blisters swollen with fluid, fat and purple and red where blood strains skin. Lightning turns my vision white.
