He looked ancient in the dim light of the corridor, she realised, like an artefact from another age, the lines of his weathered face shadowed into sharp relief. She shook her head, unsure herself of what she had meant. ‘I don’t–’
‘You mean you don’t think I’m bothered enough by Sal?’ he asked, his eyes widening in disbelief.
She could see his body tensing, and wished that she could unsay it. But she could only shake her head. ‘Eli, I’m. . .’ she began, but she trailed off, unable to finish the thought, let alone voice it. Other people were passing them in an intermittent stream now, coming from the stairwell behind them. Some of them looked enquiringly at Lina and Eli as they went by, their expressions politely concerned.
‘You’re what?’ he demanded, and she could see the anger rising inside him in a way she had never witnessed before. ‘You’re what? Saying you don’t think I care?’ He cocked his head, looking right into her face. ‘Really? Huh?’ When she wouldn’t look at him, though, he threw up his hands in exasperation. Marco was coming slowly back down the corridor towards them, his expression wary. ‘Just because I’ve learned to smile on the outside, Lina, doesn’t mean I’m not fucking human!’ he spat, teeth clenched.
She knew that she’d been wrong, then, and she wished that she could take it back. She didn’t even know for sure if that was what she’d meant. But all she could do was mouth empty words at him. Eli shook his head, the fight going out of him, then turned and stomped off back the way they’d come.
Marco appeared at her side and put his arms round her waist. People continued to pass them, trying not to stare. Her hand fell to his head and rested there amid that shock of curly hair, but her gaze was drawn again to the window. Out there, the belt processed ever-onwards, oblivious — a machine that could grind a person into single bytes of matter and never miss a beat.
Chapter Nineteen
Lina spent the afternoon with Marco in their quarters. They played video games and cards, but her heart wasn’t really in it. When her gaze wandered to the window for the hundredth time and lingered there, hypnotised, Marco stood up and turned it off.
Lina came back to reality slowly, seeing that she was still holding a hand of cards. She couldn’t remember which game they were playing. Marco sat again in his flimsy metal chair, opposite her, and picked his own cards up.
‘It’s you,’ he said, nodding at her.
‘Hmm?’
‘Your turn.’
Lina laid her cards face-down on the table. The picture cards were all holo-movie stars from Platini. Lina had no idea who most of them actually were. ‘Sorry, Son,’ she said. ‘I was miles away. I guess I didn’t sleep that well.’ The off-smell had intensified now, and an accompanying bad taste had taken up permanent residence in Lina’s throat. She was becoming increasingly certain that it was the air itself. She wondered when Marco would notice. Perhaps he already had.
‘And you had too much to drink last night, didn’t you?’
‘No, honey, I. . .’ She floundered for a moment, then amended this to, ‘Well, yes.’
‘That’s okay, Mum, you’re allowed sometimes.’ And then he added, sounding older than his years, ‘I don’t see the appeal, myself. But it’s okay.’
‘How about you put the holo on and I make dinner, eh?’
‘Mum. . .’ said Marco slowly. ‘We don’t have any food, remember? We gave it all in.’
‘Oh yeah,’ she agreed. Of course they had. ‘Well, they’re going to distribute rations in a bit, aren’t they?’
Marco checked the wall-clock, a simple silver affair that ran persistently fast. ‘Five, they said. I’ve got an idea: I’ll go to the canteen and pick it up, then I’ll make dinner, and you watch the holo for a bit.’
Lina’s heart melted a few degrees at that. ‘You’re going to make a fine husband for some lucky girl one day, Marco,’ she said, only half-joking. She felt herself smiling — a warm and genuine smile that she couldn’t have stopped if she’d wanted to — and it felt good. ‘Thanks, kiddo.’
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll go now, I reckon, get to the front of the queue.’
‘Okay,’ she agreed. He rose from his seat, pushing the cards into a vague heap, and made to leave. ‘Marco. . .’ said Lina, and he looked openly at her.
‘What, Mum?’
‘I love you,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, embarrassed. ‘I know.’ And then he turned to go. He stood framed in the doorway for a second, small and thin and fragile-looking, and then the door closed behind him.
Lina thought his suggestion about watching some holo was a pretty good one. She thought maybe some mental chewing-gum might blot out the conflicting, disturbing thoughts that filled her head.
For a while, this was quite effective. She pulled a blanket over herself and zoned out to a programme about social trends — memes, which was a new word to her — and how they spread throughout the vastness of human space, raging through society like diseases. It wasn’t exactly interesting, but at least it gave her brain something to do other than continuously replay Sal’s last moments in the asteroid belt.
Marco returned with the meagre rations doled out by Ella’s sec-team: a small bag of dehydrated potato mash, two suspect-looking sausages and about two handfuls worth of frozen peas. ‘I guess we know what we’re having for dinner, at least,’ he said, holding these items up and grinning.
Lina didn’t think this boded well for the future, but she managed to grace him with a smile in return. The holo had changed to news, which was all from Platini and out of date by over five years: strikes on Aitama, presumably now resolved; murders on Platini Alpha, presumably now solved or forgotten; ships launched from Platini Dockyard, presumably now long gone on their lengthy sub-light voyages Sol-wards. She’d seen it before, anyway, so it didn’t really qualify for the term news in the first place.
Marco asked her if she needed anything — she said no — then he went into the kitchen and began to crash around in a purposeful-sounding manner. Lina returned to the holo, trying not to think about the way the air smelled.
Presently, Marco appeared in front of her, mercifully blocking the performance of some warbling pop-idiot on the holo who seemingly could neither sing nor dance and yet was oddly in demand. He was holding out a plate of food, which though not inherently appetising, was at least steaming hot. She received it with genuine thanks, her stomach growling aloud. Maybe this will finally cure my hangover, she thought hopefully.
She scooched up on the sofa, swinging her legs down to make room for Marco. They usually ate at table, but neither of them suggested it on this occasion. If the death of a friend doesn’t allow you a lapse in manners, then what possible upside is there? Lina wondered. She scolded herself for the thought: it was an idiotic one, and disrespectful, too. There was, of course, no upside at all. Feeling humbled, despite the fact that this exchange had taken place entirely in her own mind, she concentrated instead on her dinner.
Once they had eaten, they sat in contented silence under the blanket. Programme gave way to programme in a shifting, monotonous convoy of colour, bathing the room in watercolour.
After a while, an idea began to form in Lina’s mind. The idea germinated, then bloomed. She sat up straight, gripped by sudden determination. Marco, who had been on the verge of sleep, uttered a little cry of surprise.
‘What?’ he asked, looking around.