Chapter 80

Chapter Eighty

Guilt dug into Connor, pushing him to ask why he’d survived. When the air recycler hummed to life and a blast of cool air from the overhead vent shook off his funk, he was standing alone in his cabin, wearing nothing but damp underwear and staring at a black T-shirt.

His eyes drifted to the bunk, but Selen hadn’t been there recently. It was cool and uninviting, where there had once been heat and companionship if not love. There would be no answer from his one-time lover and boss.

What about the necklace? The amulet? Wet, too…but with water or sweat?

Had he just showered or was he getting ready to?

The damp towel hanging from the front of his locker and the soapy scent of his skin answered the question.

But it was a warning: He was wearing down, running on too little.

He needed a meal—something more substantial than spicy protein paste.

He needed sleep that amounted to more than passing out in the woods.

When he pulled on his T-shirt, his wounded shoulder ached. It was puffy and red like Aubriella’s had been. Although tender to the touch, there was no sign of infection.

Venom. Infection.

In the end, they were the same thing: toxins that killed.

That described this entire planet. Its rotting stench, the invasive elements that sank into flesh and clothing and even shoes… His boots had multicolored stains from all the gore he’d stepped in.

Brands seared into the survivors. Scars. Remnants.

They were putrid reminders of just how alien the world was.

Connor hated it.

He dressed and pulled his sneakers on, carrying his boots down to the laundry and fabricator room.

Elise spun around when he entered, holding a T-shirt up to cover herself. Her mouth hung open. “I—”

She was in the corner straight ahead from him, standing at the end of a table in front of a new jumpsuit and a pile of folded white panties and bras, like what she’d covered with the shirt. In the other corner, the fabricator made a grinding noise: She was making something.

Probably more underwear, Connor thought.

He tapped the control panel on the inside wall. “There’s a privacy button.”

“I—I didn’t see it.” Without all the grime, it was easy to catch the red in her pale cheeks.

“I can come back.”

“No.” She pulled the T-shirt on hurriedly. “It’s…I know what it’s like to live on a ship. I have a few more things printing out, then I’m done.”

He pointed to the cleaning device with his muck-covered boots. “That’s what I came for.”

The archaeologist grabbed her new jumpsuit and backed away. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” As Connor set the boots into the cleaner, he realized that sounded almost hostile. He turned the device on, then smiled over his shoulder at her. “Just remember to use the privacy lock.”

“I will.” She pulled the jumpsuit on. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“The people who died—was it all those winged creatures?”

“Yeah. Those big bugs that hung around your ship nearly killed some of our people, but we got away. The flying things are harder to escape.”

The fabricator spat out three white undergarments. Elise grabbed those, then checked the jumpsuit’s fit. “See you.”

She made an awkward half-wave, then rushed out.

Once the cleaner said the boots were done, Connor took them out.

Most of the stains and clinging flesh were gone. More importantly, the boots smelled clean.

As he passed the galley, he caught the pungent smell of one of the Moon’s meals. He poked his head inside, saw Tom sitting at the table the clones always used, plucking red-flecked pickled vegetables from a bowl.

Connor headed inside. His stomach growled as he added rice and vat-grown chicken to a protein-and-vegetable paste. “How’re you doing, Tom?”

The clone set his utensil down. “Okay. I’m trying to force myself to eat.”

“It smells strong.”

Tom pushed the bowl away. “I’m not in the mood for it.”

“Tim’s going to be okay.”

“Lem sent me an update.” The clone held up his pocket computer long enough to reveal a strange image Connor couldn’t recall seeing before.

“What’s that?”

“The image?” Tom shrugged. “Nothing, really.”

Connor strolled to the table. “Can I see?”

The clone handed the computer over. More images rotated through. Some were surreal—vistas that were more alien than what they would ever see, even on a planet like this. Others were realistic, like photographs. Both types had human figures in them, but in the more bizarre images, those humans looked more realistic.

It seemed stupid having to ask, but Connor couldn’t think of a different way to ask it, so when he handed the computer back, he tried to look casual. “Is that art?”

“To some people—Tim and me included.”

“You made it?”

“We—”

The oven beeped. Connor grabbed his bowl and settled across from Tom, already tucking into the savory food. “You said it was art?”

“That we created, yes. Paintings.”

“Paintings? It looked like photos.”

“I can show you how to tell the difference.”

It might be something good to know one day. “Is it a hobby?”

Tom slumped forward a little. “We wanted to make a career out of it, but you know how that goes. So when it didn’t happen, Tim became obsessed with Kil-Choo, and I became obsessed with investments.”

“I thought you both followed your brother.”

“I don’t obsess over it, thanks.”

Connor felt stupid for not knowing about the hobby. He chomped on the last of his meal, then sat back. “How long have you been doing it?”

“Since we were kids. When we were on the run, Tim was injured—a bounty hunter shot him.” Tom patted his right hip. “It was dangerous.”

“I thought you evaded the bounty hunters.”

“After that. We spent months staying in one city while he healed. We found an old woman who taught us, and we’ve been at it ever since.”

So, it’d been as long as Connor had known them. “They look nice. A little weird.”

The clone tugged at his fiery hair. “Just one reason we couldn’t break in to the profession.”

“That and you were fugitives?”

“Actually, we never reached the level of needing to worry about being found out. The art world is extremely broken. It’s all about networking—who are your connections, have you paid your dues, and so on.”

“And being a fugitive prevented you from doing that.”

“Not being born to the right family, actually. Only a small number of artists make a living at their work. With money, you can at least connect with galleries and buyers. Tim and I—” A rueful smile danced across the clone’s lips and was gone.

“I joined Wentz over things like that.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Stupid youthful idealism. It took me away from the woman I loved.”

“Tim and I talked about it before. We thought about joining back then.”

“You…did? I thought you two were…”

“Shallow? Obsessed with money and revenge?” The clone snickered. “We are now. Dreams die, eventually.”

Connor looked away. He’d always dreamed of being with Toshiko again, and now she was back. “If we don’t waste our lives, our dreams live on.”

“True enough.” Tom pulled his bowl closer and plucked a pickled leaf from it. “You know, Selen never checked in on me.”

“About Tim?”

The clone’s head bobbed up and down. “Thanks for asking.”

“We care about you.” Connor set his bowl in the recycler, grabbed a beer from the cooler, then stood next to the table. “She’s busy. She does care.”

“I’m sure she does.”

But the tone in Tom’s voice said he didn’t believe that at all.