Marchey let his hand fall from Sal’s shoulder, watching him mull over his own maybe-somedays. “I’ll accept things the way they are. The way it seems they have to be. It’s that or give up completely. Maybe this bit with ships will work, though I have my doubts. I’ll try it because I have nothing to lose. But there’s one thing I want you to do for me, old friend. For all us poor bastards who will be bouncing around out there all by ourselves.”
Bophanza met Marchey’s gaze squarely. “Name it.”
“Remember the dream for us, Sal. I doubt we’ll be able to much longer. Keep looking for a way to make it come true after all.”
Bophanza nodded solemnly, then came off his desk and wrapped his arms around Marchey, pulling him close and holding him tightly. That was his answer.
Marchey stiffened and almost pulled away. But after a moment he relaxed and returned his old friend’s embrace, feeling his strength and conviction, and allowing himself to remember how it felt to have someone care.
Marchey’s hand fell.
That had been the beginning of his endless shuttle from task to task. No home other than this ship, and no end to his journey in sight.
He had been a prisoner in this ship long before Scylla took it and him over. She was just someone else who wanted to use the tool he had become.
She was still praying, but it looked like she had at least quit hurting herself. Absorbed as she appeared to be, he didn’t doubt that she would abandon her devotions were he to approach her or the ship’s controls.
Not that he planned to bother. There was no point to it.
He was being moved to another square. But every part of the board was the same; all the long years gone by had shown him that. The game never changed. It couldn’t be won. All he was doing now was playing it out to its foregone end. So why should he care about the who and where and why?
What was the difference between indifference and defeat?
Indifference was an empty cup. Defeat was no cup at all.
He looked down. His cup was empty, the spirits all gone.
So he refilled it.
And smiled to himself.
See how easy it is to take control of your life?
“What is that?”
Marchey looked up, startled. “What?”
Scylla slid onto the galley seat across from him, eyeing his plate distastefully. “That stuff you are eating.”
He laid aside the real bound book—M. A. Zeke’s excellent novelization of Homer’s works—he’d been reading while eating supper. The whole day had been pretty much spent reading and drinking. His captor had skulked around so quietly that after a while he forgot she was even there.
Chiding himself for being a bad host, he decided he should pay at least minimal attention to his guest.
“That’s steak,” he answered, pointing with his fork. “Not real steak, but a tolerable substitute. That’s a baked potato. The yellow stuff atop it is cheese sauce, the green flakes are chives. I think the chives and the potato are real, but I doubt the cheese has ever seen any more of the inside of a cow than the steak. The green beans are real, as are the mushrooms.”
Scylla absorbed all this with a furrowed brow. “None of that can be real food,” she announced. “I do not see how you can eat such things.”
“Substitutes aren’t that bad if they’re real good.” He chuckled at his turn of phrase. “Want to try some?”
Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “No. I am an angel. I would not eat human food, even if that were what was on your plate.”
Marchey took a sip of wine. “How would you describe human food, then?” This ought to be interesting.
“It is a thick green liquid that comes in big blue drums. Each person is allowed two bowlsful each day.”
What was that line Sal had always used when he came up against someone utterly convinced of something that made no sense? Oh yeah: Where you from, son? Nairobi, ma’am. Isn’t everyone?
“Two bowls of green glop a day. Everybody eats like this, you say?” What she’d described sounded like survival-grade Basicalgae; spoilage stabilized, nutritionally and dietary-fiber complete, and tasting just about like what you’d expect from enriched pasteurized pond scum.
“Of course.”
“I mean everybody everywhere?”
“What else would they eat?”
“Well, stuff like I’m eating, for instance.”
Scylla’s tattooed lips pinched tight. “That is not food.”
He chuckled again. “QED. Ten points for the lady in the silver skivvies.” He speared a forkful of steak, began to chew. “What do you eat, then?” he asked around his mouthful. “Angel food cake?”
That green eye narrowed dangerously. “Do you make sport of me?”
Marchey realized that poking fun at her was about as safe as prodding a pile of gunpowder with a lit match. “Never,” he said with what he hoped was a straight face.
“Very well,” she said stiffly. “I eat manna.”
What else? “Well, I guess you’re in the right place.”
She stared at him. “Explain.”
“Manna falls from heaven, right? Which from Earth is space. Should be regular hailstorms of the stuff out here.”
A terse shake of her head. “The things you say make no sense.”
“So it seems. My tongue must need a tune-up.” He drank some more wine, just in case the problem was excessive dryness.
“Manna comes in a crate.” She reached into her pouch and pulled out a foil-wrapped wafer. “This is a loaf.”
“Ah, ratbars.”
Scylla cocked her head, light gleaming off the polished silver covering everything but her face. “Rat… bars?”
“Short for ration bars, no rodents involved. Your exo is able to handle all your wastes as long as they are kept to a minimum. Fluids—sweat, urine, and the rest aren’t really a problem. They’re recycled, any excess vented off as water vapor. Solids are harder to manage. The ratbars are nutritionally complete, but extremely low residue. If they’re all you eat, then you probably don’t need to excrete more than what, once a month?”
Scylla scowled at him. “I am an angel,” she said at last. “I do not make filth as humans do,” she added prissily.
“Of course not. You’ve got a nanotic colony in your bowels to scavenge what your digestive system misses. But every thirty days or so this cloche”—he pointed at a bulge on her right hip with his fork—“opens. Inside is a lozenge-shaped chunk of grayish matter that you throw away.”
Scylla only stared at him intently, her webbed lips pressed tightly together, her green eye almost as cold as the lens that replaced the other.
“Well, am I right?” he prompted.
She shoved herself to her feet, snatching up the ratbar. “I cannot talk to you,” she said tightly, then stalked off in a huff.
“Apparently not,” he said mildly, watching her go to the farthest side of the compartment and sit with her back to him.
He topped off his wine, picked up his book, and went back to reading and eating. He ignored her, and she him, for the rest of the evening and most of the next day.
The closer they came to Ananke the more keyed-up and fretful Scylla became, the more impatient that this awful task be over and behind her. At long last the end was nearly in sight. Only twenty more hours to be endured.
Scylla sat alone in the galley, feeling like she had been condemned to Purgatory. Her charge was in an unresponsive stupor. He had been so for the past two days, silent and stinking of alcohol.