Page 41 of Mutant Mine

“Would you like to…”

“What?” I ask.

“You may also want to change,” Roth says. His tone is strange.

I look down at myself, and see that there are dark, damp stains on my jumpsuit, too.

“Oh,” I say dazedly. “That’s…”Blood.Blood from the personI killed.“…Did I get any on the bed?”

“No, Rory,” Roth says. “But go to the bathroom. Wash. Take fresh clothes with you.”

He hands me a bundle of clothes, in my size.

When your mind is full of howling white noise, it’s a relief to be told what to do. I head into the bathroom. I push the door shut behind me, but don’t lock it. Just for tonight, I feel safer knowing that Rothcanget in.

For the first time in over a week, I strip off completely. There’s tacky, cold blood on the fabric. My naked body feels soft and exposed, like a snail pried out of its shell — but I don’t give myself long to think about that. I just turn on the shower and step under the hot spray.

I should luxuriate in this: my first proper shower since I left Earth. Instead, I wash myself in a frenzy. I scrub my hair, my feet, every inch of me, until my skin is red and sore. Finally, breathing hard, I lean against the glass with my eyes closed, just letting the water fall on me like rain.

We’re so far away from home.

Will I ever feel real rain on my skin again? Grass under my bare feet? Or the sun — the Earth’s very own sun — on my face?

Enough of that. Enough. Swallowing the panic down, I towel myself off and get dressed.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Roth has also dressed again.

“We should eat,” he says calmly.

Great idea. Food sounds good. Practical. Necessary.

In the kitchen, I reach for a pot of nutrient porridge.

“No,” Roth says. “You need more than that.”

It’s not a question. He opens the freezer.

“Please,” he says. “Choose.”

I want to refuse, but what would be the point? I don’t evenknow why I’ve been insisting on eating porridge every day.

That’s not true. I do know why. It’s because I don’t want to stuff my face while my crewmates are imprisoned and likely starving. Tonight, though, I don’t have the energy to deny myself.

There are too many dishes to choose from. Almost at random, I select a chicken, black bean, and chorizo stew, flecked with green cilantro leaves. Roth picks roasted duck in a bitter orange sauce.

While our meals are heating up, we both get to work. I lay out two sets of cutlery while Roth fetches us glasses of iced water.

We sit at the table and eat dinner together. We haven’t done that before. It’s still quiet between us — but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the companionable kind of quiet, where we’re both thinking our own thoughts.

The food is great. Paprika, lime juice, pork fat, chicken… It all tastes like the real deal, even if I know that the protein and some of the flavor compounds are synthetic.

But I’ve not even cleared half the plate before I start feeling full. Perhaps shock has dulled my appetite, or perhaps my stomach has shrunk from months of eating nothing but fucking porridge. Either way, I can’t finish it.

Having gone without so often as a kid, I hate wasting food. But I know I’ll hurl if I force myself to eat any more, so I give up and watch Roth instead.

“Good?” I ask as he takes another mouthful.

“It is years since I last sat at a table and shared a real meal with someone,” Roth says, without looking at me. “This is perfect.”

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