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“Let me research treatments. For the cancer and the fertility. I’ll find something to prolong your time to Upload.”
Maybe she’d be touched, even just a little, with the prospect of him going out of his way to help her stay alive.
A hoarse laugh made him flinch. It was never a good sign when Mother laughed. Hearing it in that unfamiliar voice disturbed him all the more.
“The prodigal son finally finds some motivation. Who do you think you are, Orion? You think we haven’t already gone through all this? You think you can find a magicalcureto get you out of your responsibilities that we haven’t already considered?”
There were several moments of ear-ringing silence before she spoke again.
“You are my only son, Orion. ‘The buck stops with you,’ as they used to say. Your genes are the only ones that will control and power the ship. You always knew this was your fate.”
Fate.
How he wished that word would fade away in the depths of space.
“And if I refuse?” Orion lifted his face to the cavern’s ceiling. Hot condensation dripped down to his skin in fat drops.
“I’ll cut you off. No allowance. Not even enough for a drop of water. How do you suppose you’ll do, working in the sand tunnels in Mars, cleaning up the natives’ waste? What do you suppose they’ll think of you, the thousands of colonists you’ve doomed on an empty husk of a once-glorious ship? How many will get off in time? No one will bat an eye at the death of another colony. No one will help them.”
Orion sank back into the mud. She was always good at that—the guilt trips.
“Colossalis passing by Sector Seven in a week for a rendezvous with the transport I’ve arranged for you. Bretton is picking you up tomorrow. If you aren’t here, you’re done. No excuses.”
“Transmission closed,” the soothing voice informed him, and Orion slumped back in the bath.
Well, shit.
He exited the mud pool hours later, skin raw from the heat and moisture. He sat naked on the warm metal bench in the exit alcove, where one of the scantily-clad attendants wiped the drying muck from his limbs with a soaked rag. The water wasn’t pure, but it was purer than most people on Mars were drinking.
Orion barely registered the attendant as she struggled to hold up the weight of his arm by the wrist. She made a little huff with a fixed smile as she rubbed the rag from shoulder to hand.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Halen?” His attendant’s velvet voice was soft in his ear. “Is there anything I can help with?”
Orion focused on her then, studying the woman’s full, fleshy features. Lips he could sink his teeth into. “Help?”
A bead of sweat spilled over the ledge of her top lip. Down here, everyone had a constant sheen of perspiration in the heat. Authorities were constantly drumming on about the scarcity of water, and yet they had people down here dehydrating themselves for the benefit of those like him.
What a waste.
Orion brushed off the thought. He was paying for this. He brought himself back to the smooth face gazing up at him. Big golden eyes, fleshy cheeks, and white hair tied in a braid that was twisted into a bun atop her head. Slender wrists descended to wipe the remnants of mud from his torso.
He leaned his head against the hot wall, looking away from the offering. “Enough fat, but no muscle. Too suicidal for my tastes.”
The towel dragging along his skin paused just for a second before she resumed her work.
If it were another day, Orion might try her anyway. She was asking for it. But today, he had enough to deal with.
CommandingColossalwas the sole reason for his existence. The biomechanic design of the colony ships was paired to a specific set of genes—in this case, his. Once his mother died,Colossalwould respond to his blood only. No matter how shitty a commander he’d be, or how careless, or how fuckingbored, simply turning down the job was not an option.
Well… itwas. But was he prepared to make his way on his own, starting from scratch, a pariah for dooming thousands of colonists to their death with his refusal to pick up the mantle?
Orion realized the girl was done. She was sitting back on the floor before him, ass on her heels, hands on bare thighs. The bracelet on her left wrist was already glowing its orange beacon, indicating it was open for incoming transactions. Her eyes were downcast, trying to hide the frown contorting her otherwise smooth features. Was she crying?
“You must be new.” He held his wrist up to the bracelet, where his ID implant was embedded beneath his skin. He made his tip a minimal token of faux appreciation. As soon as she showed her displeasure at his rejection, she went beyond the scope of her job. The device flashed under his wrist. Her bracelet did the same, then turned green to confirm a completed transaction.
“Thank you, Mr. Halen.” The girl had regained her composure. She rose, holding the dripping rag with which she had cleaned him between a delicate thumb and forefinger. She sashayed to the corner of the alcove where she dropped it into a waste container. “Was there anything else?”
Fucking really? She’s still gunning for it?
