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The floor hums. An image returns: my parents, my brothers and sisters, frolicking on our Cusk-branded pink sand, Minerva splashing through waves of steaming seawater in her white racing suit, my mother yelling “Faster, Minerva, you can go faster,” my molten bronze fingers searching the scorching artificial grains for a seashell. My family’s spaceport is distant in the blue, radio arrays wheeling. Pleasure satellites haunt it. “Are you delaying because you have no information, or because Minerva is dead?” I say. I want to add more, but speaking hurts too much. “I will fill you in once you are ready.” I manage to shake my head, vertebrae grinding. “That’s not how this works. You’ll fill me in now.” “The launch had complications, but was ultimately successful,” OS says. “You are on board the Coordinated Endeavor, weeks past Earth and its moon. We are well on our way to the Titan distress beacon. There has been no change in her signal.” Of course my sister is alive. Dying would be a failure, and Minerva Cusk doesn’t fail. I try to swallow, but I have no saliva. “Water,” I croak. “At your bedside,” OS says. My eyes zoom out of focus and then narrow in on a hand. It’s my hand, but I watch it like it’s someone else’s as it knocks into the polycarb tray beside me. I like my hand, my blipping brain decides. It’s a beautiful hand. A cup of water is there, far and then suddenly too close. I miss my mouth, water pouring down my cheek. My arm muscles knot tight as the cup drops and rolls away. I manage to say a word in the midst of the pain. That word is “ow.” A whine from the next room, then a robot skirts along the wall. It looks like half of a white basketball. The robot gives a delicate whine before composite pliers emerge from an opening, pinch the cup, and right it. A nozzle emerges from another opening and sprays in more water. “Hydration for when you are able to manage it,” my mother says. No—my mother is back on Earth. I won’t let myself make that mistake again. “You might want to limber up before you try to drink more.” I stretch my other arm, which turns out to be attached to an IV. Its muscles cramp, and the arm falls to the bed. The gurney. My muscles pinch harder, and I gasp. I can’t bring myself to try to drink again. There is a lightness to the world, like I am back with my fellow spacefarer cadets that one afternoon when we took a bottle of PepsiRum into the woods, goading, daring, slurping, drunk before we knew we were getting drunk. I kissed four of them that day, before I sneaked away to run laps. But I can’t be drunk after a coma. You only feel drunk. “My blood pressure . . . ,” I croak, wincing. “Yes, your blood pressure is still low. Do not stand until I give you permission, Ambrose Cusk.” “A coma is impossible,” I say, blinking at my own stupidity. Not at the words I said, but at having tried to speak, having willingly rubbed the inside of my throat against the sand. “I cannot let you rest long,” Mom-not-Mom says. “By taking off under such rushed conditions, the safeguards meant to protect you were ineffective. You passed out before your shuttle even left Earth’s atmosphere. Please just accept that fact. We are behind schedule.” Rushed conditions? I try to ask the operating system what that means, but only croak. I try to say that Ambrose Cusk does not pass out, but only croak. I’m not exactly living up to my big sister’s standards. “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 the Coordinated Endeavor could 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 down my 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 the shuttle. 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 plans for my trip on the Endeavor. 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 will be 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. _-* Tasks Remaining: 342 *-_ Water from my spilled cup beads on the waxy fabric of my jumpsuit. I have the worst hangover in the unabridged history of hangovers. Way worse even than after I writhed around with half-naked cadets in that PepsiRum field adventure. When I pull my head up, it crackles as it unsuckers from the puke-covered floor. That’s almost as awesome a feeling as my screaming headache. “You’re on board the Coordinated Endeavor,” OS says. “I remember,” I say, wincing. “I passed out, that’s all. Have Rover bring me a wet rag.” I struggle to my feet and manage to stay upright by casting my arms out like a surfer. “Your wet rag is on its way,” OS says. I lean over and elegantly vomit. “Given what you are continuing to produce, it is fortunate we are not in the zero-gravity portion of the ship,” OS says. “Agreed,” I say, wiping my mouth. “Cleaning zero-g vomit would keep Rover busy for a long time. Open the door, OS.” “Are you sure you’re ready to move about?” OS asks. “Yes. Don’t second-guess me, OS. And give me an update on the Titan signal ASAP.” The door leaving the medical bay rolls smoothly away, giving me a view of a short white hallway. My feet are bare, and though each step makes the soles feel like prodded blisters, the pain is tolerable. Nice work, Ambrose. You’re walking! “Be prepared to sit down the moment you feel you need it. Human heads are heavy, and far from the ground, and easily damaged by falls.” “It’s definitely a design flaw,” I say, swallowing the latest wave of vomit. “Much better to be headless and bodiless like you.” “I’m inclined to agree.” “Yes, that subtext was already coming through loud and clear.” I’ve arrived at the next door. “Open this too, OS,” I say.
