Filtered recycled air ought to smell the same no matter what, but the ship smelled different from the colony. It must have been the gardens—the colony could pull fresh oxygen from the gardens, using natural filtration. Here, all I could smell was the ship, steel and rubber and a tinge of sweat that never went away. I breathed slowly, getting used to it, thinking, This is what space smells like.
I had to figure out a way to sneak onto the bridge. Just to watch. Beau was right, I was finally on an interplanetary ship, I ought to be enjoying it. But between the passenger quarters and the bridge lay the galley, cafeteria, gym, infirmary, and crew quarters. How was I supposed to sneak through all that? So I had to figure out a plausible way to ask if I could go watch. I had to meet the captain and endear myself to him. The required safety video introduced him as Captain Arlan McCaven, a dashing name to go with a dashing figure, everything a captain ought to be—he was in his forties, perfectly keen in his pressed blue uniform, looking off into an unseen distance with sparkling gray eyes. Everybody on the ship was smitten with him. He wouldn’t even notice me. I had to think of something clever to say, I had to tell him everything I knew about the Lilia Litviak, the thrust capabilities of the Mand-propulsion engine that powered the ship, or the trajectory that was the most efficient route to Earth. Surely that would impress him.
No it wouldn’t.
The bell rang for dinner in the mess hall. Feeling like my limbs were too heavy, I rolled out of the bunk and dropped to the floor. The ship’s acceleration was meant to simulate half-Earth gravity; I shouldn’t have felt too much difference from the Martian gravity I was used to, which was one-third of Earth’s. But I did. I felt like I was wearing weights on my limbs. If I was having trouble now, what was Earth going to be like?
When I folded and secured the bunk against the wall, I found a note on the underside of it, stuck in one of the seams.
Polly’s eyes only.
Like who else was going to find it?
Anyone else would send e-mail, but Charles had to scrounge up a piece of actual vegetable-matter-based paper and a graphite stylus that would write on it. Nobody used paper but artists and scientists. I asked him about it once, and he said that the trouble with e-mail was that people could ignore it, delete it, file it, and you, the sender, were at their mercy. But you stuck an old-fashioned paper note in front of somebody’s nose, and it was important. They couldn’t possibly ignore it. It was intrusive. Just like Charles.
I unfolded the note and read. “This place has the most interesting people. Get off your ass and come talk.”
I had only two goals for the trip: to see the bridge, and to get through it without letting anyone bother me. The less I talked to people, the more likely that would happen. Charles was the amateur sociologist, not me. But a person had to eat, and food was available in the ship’s galley only during mealtimes, so I went.
The galley was plain, with beige padding on the walls, floor, and ceiling, all to prevent injury when the ship was in zero g. No one was supposed to be walking around when the ship was in orbit and near weightless, but the precautions were everywhere. My attitude was you ought to know better and not depend on padded walls to save you when you went spinning uncontrollably across corridors. The ladders and handholds scattered everywhere were for holding on.
The chairs and tables were bolted to the floor, and the buffet-style galley opened out of one wall to serve freeze-dried delicacies like protein casserole and mixed vegetables. The line of passengers had mostly filed through already. I was late. I also couldn’t see Charles anywhere. I thought surely he’d be here, waiting to pick on me.
The ship carried a greater variety of passengers than I had been expecting. Earth officials returning from visits to Mars were noticeable in their complicated close-fitting suits with colored sashes, scarves, and ties. Outer-colony folk—miners, pilots, surveyors—often stopped at Mars on their way to the inner system, and they tended to wear blue or black jumpsuits, plain and practical, with lots of pockets, handhelds strapped to belts, and ship or station patches sewn on the sleeves—a throwback to the really old days when each mission into space was important enough to have its own patch. They also tended to be taller and bonier, with ropy muscles attached to thin limbs—the build of people who lived their lives in low gravity. Those of us from Mars fell somewhere in between the outer-colony folk and the stouter, fleshier people from Earth. My own clothes also fell somewhere in the middle—a white T-shirt, brown jacket, tough trousers, and thick boots. No one would think I came from Earth.
I went through the line, put food on my tray, found a table off by myself, and there was Charles, sitting across from me, like he’d been hiding around a doorway waiting for me.
I glared at him. “You don’t have to sneak up on me.”
“See that guy? In the jumpsuit, real tall, dark skin, and curly hair—don’t stare at him.” Charles pointed over his shoulder, getting me to look, then chastised me when I craned my head around. So I ducked my gaze and tried to find him out of the corner of my eye.
He was young, an outer-colony guy, smooth skinned, nice smile, wearing a blue jumpsuit with the patch of a mining company logo on it. He was sitting with a handful of other outer-colony men and women—they stuck together.
“That’s Ethan Achebe, part of the Zeusian Mining Enterprise Achebes, and he’s also headed for Galileo Academy.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I got a copy of the passenger manifest—”
“That shouldn’t be public—”
“—and I’ve already met him. He’s real nice. You should talk to him. Get to know him. Maybe find out why he’s going to Earth for school.”
“Why would I do any of that?”
“Because I told him you have a crush on him.”
“Charles!”
The guy, Ethan, glanced over and offered a bright, cheerful smile. I looked hard at Charles, leaning on my hand to hide my face.
“I hate you.”
Charles smiled, but the expression was sinister. “No you don?
??t.”
* * *