I opened my mouth to say something about not really wanting to do things that a heavy lifter can’t, but before I could get anything out we were in a barrel roll and I was screaming like a … well, like one of what I was, I guess, which was someone who was suddenly, shamelessly, gut-churningly terrified of dying.
I think that’s when I first realized that despite all the training, despite the indoctrination, despite the incontrovertible fact that I’d died five times by then and I was clearly still alive—deep down, in my heart of hearts, I did not believe in immortality.
* * *
“SO,” NASHA SAYS, “what’s with the pauper’s breakfast?”
I’m halfway through choking down a six-hundred-kcal bowl of unsweetened cycler paste. I should note here that in the economy of a beachhead colony, a kcal is not actually a kcal. Different items can come at anything from a steep discount to a premium, depending on how closely they resemble something that you’d actually want to put into your mouth. Like Eight said, paste and slurry are trading at a twenty-five percent discount at the moment, which means that if I stick to nothing but, I can probably hold most of my body weight for at least a week or two. Nasha’s working on a mashed yam and Cajun-blackened cricket scramble. That’s going at par this morning. They actually have a few rabbit haunches and some sickly-looking tomatoes on offer, but those are at a forty percent premium. I’m guessing I can forget about that kind of luxury as long as Eight is still around.
“Well,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about doing some bodybuilding. Thought maybe if I max out my calories and bulk up a little, it’ll take the creepers longer to eat me next time.”
She giggles. Nasha’s giggle is one of her best features. It’s soft and delicate, and when she giggles she has a tendency to look to the side and cover her mouth with her hand. The effect is so at odds with her whole badass-combat-pilot thing that it’s almost like she becomes a different person.
“I’m glad you’ve still got a sense of humor about this,” she says. “You’ve been going down pretty often since we made landfall. Some folks might be getting bitter by now.”
I refill my water glass. Cycler paste really isn’t meant to be eaten by itself. It doesn’t taste like anything in particular, but it’s thick and gritty enough that it needs a lot of washing down.
“Well,” I say, “I try to look at it this way. If Seven hadn’t gotten himself whacked, I never would have come out of the tank, right?”
Her face clouds over. “I guess,” she says.
I look up from my shitty breakfast. “What?”
She shakes her head. “This is hard for me, Mickey, and every time you go down it gets harder. I felt awful last night—worse than I did when Six died, maybe even worse than I did after what happened to Five. Even after you told me you were shutting down, I hung around just in comm range, hoping you’d change your mind. When I finally gave up and came back to the dome, I spent an hour in the bay sitting in my cockpit and crying like a baby. Now, though, here you are, and like you said, if I had saved you last night, this you wouldn’t be here … and now I don’t know what to feel.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Immortality is confusing, huh?”
“Right you are,” says Berto. I look around to see him standing behind me, a tray of yams and crickets in his hands.
“Morning, Berto,” Nasha says. “Have a seat. I guess.”
He sets his tray down next to mine and folds himself onto the bench. “What’s up with the gruel, Mickey? And what happened to your hand?”
I look down. I’ve got my wrist wrapped up tight, but you can still see bits of purple bruising sticking out around the edges.
“I fell getting out of bed,” I say. “Tank funk, right?”
Berto gives me a long look, and I can see the wheels turning. “Right,” he says. “When, exactly, did this happen?”
“After you stopped by my rack,” I say. “Why do you care?”
Nasha looks up from her breakfast. “Am I missing something?”
“Maybe,” Berto says. “How long after I stopped by?”
“I don’t know. Right before I came down here. Maybe half an hour ago?”
“Your wrist was fine when I saw you in the shower room,” Nasha says.
“Right,” I say. “It was after that.”
Berto’s eyes narrow, and he shakes his head.
“Seriously,” Nasha says. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure,” Berto says. “Mickey? What’s going on?”
I spoon up the last of my cycler paste. I’m wondering if Berto might have run into Eight on his way down here. If so, I need to come clean now and hope he’s willing to keep his mouth shut. If not, though …
“Nothing’s going on,” I say. “I’m just trying to finish my breakfast.”
I take a quick look around. We’re late for breakfast now, but early for lunch. There’s nobody sitting close enough to us to overhear what we’re saying. Berto’s still staring at me.
“So?” I say. “What are you getting at, Berto?”
He takes a forkful of crickets and yam, chews slowly, and swallows. “I dunno, Mickey. I’ve seen you come out of the tank a lot lately. Something’s just a little off about you this time.”
I feel my face twist into a scowl. “Maybe if you focused less on how I act when I come out of the tank and more on not getting me killed and back in the tank in the first place, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”
“Oh yeah,” Nasha says. “There’s the bitter.”
“Anyway,” Berto says, “I didn’t sit down here so that I could get into it with Mickey over how he hurt his jerking hand. I was actually wondering if either of you had heard anything about what happened on the perimeter this morning.”
Nasha grimaces into the remains of her breakfast and pokes halfheartedly at a scorched potato skin.
“I heard I’m on sweep again in an hour, even though I just came off shift four hours ago. I assumed there was a reason, but nobody’s said shit to me about what it is.”
Berto leans across the table toward her and drops his voice. “We lost someone.”
“Lost?” Nasha says. “Lost how?”
Berto shrugs. “Nobody seems to know. It was the Security goon manning the east checkpoint. Dani said it was Gabe Torricelli. He pinged in at eight, but not at eight thirty. When they sent someone out to look for him, all they found was a bunch of churned-up snow.”
I’ve already opened my mouth to say I saw Gabe this morning before I remember that neither of these two are supposed to know I was outside the dome today. Gabe was the one who waved me in when I got back from the labyrinth. That must have been around …
Eight fifteen?
Holy shit.
Did the creepers follow me back to the dome?
I flash back to that spider I set free in the garden all those years ago. What if that’s not what happened at all last night? What if I was actually an ant they didn’t stomp so that they could figure out where the nest is?
“What?” Nasha says.
I look from her to Berto, then back again. They’re both staring at me.