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Ours was, my mind screams. This I keep to myself, but I wonder as I study her eyes if she is thinking this as well.

I am about to gesture toward the food service windows when Metis’ voice softly chimes above us. “Marek, your presence is requested on the bridge.”

Blyat.

I frown. “I would escort you but…”

She shrugs. “Duty calls. Another time.”

Another time. Is that a serious commitment or a courteous parting phrase? I can tell the deconstruction of her words will vex me for hours to come.

Before she can turn to leave, I stop her with a feather-light touch. “Eat at window eight, the final kitchen on the right. Tell Ivan I sent you. You will not regret it.”

I step back into the lift, the door closes between us, and I let out a long, melancholy sigh.

The timing could be better, but maybe this is best.

Maybe whatever awaits me on the bridge will be enough of a distraction from the charming botanist and her incredible smile.

7

ZAE

“Mars tugs at the human imagination like no other planet. With a force mightier than gravity, it attracts the eye to the shimmering red presence in the clear night sky.”

—John Noble Wilford, Author and Science Journalist

* * *

Marek was about to offer to eat with me. Maybe. My mind could just be projecting what I desperately wish were true. Either way, he got called away and now I am limping across what looks like a classic shopping mall toward the food vendor he recommended.

There aren't any stores, per se, but the services of a shopping center are on display. A salon and spa, a gym, movie theater. The eateries are just small ordering windows next to a menu—the ship isn’t wasting space displaying the food, because what are we going to do, choose another option? It’s a little sterile, but I appreciate the minimalism.

What I find most striking is the variety and diversity of the setup. There isn’t much in the way of decor, but the signage is in all different languages and the people milling about come from all walks of life. Yes, a lot of them wear clothes only the ultra-rich can afford, but they look, speak, and act with wildly different mannerisms.

I don’t love that our new society will have such a big billionaire imprint. I take some comfort in the fact that we’ll be a mesh of different cultures, ideas, and traditions. Hopefully the latter will have a bigger impact than the former.

After some struggles navigating with my crutch, I finally arrive at the eatery with a sign that says piroshkis and smile at the man behind the counter. He looks to be in his early 50s with a heartwarming grin, kind gray eyes and silver streaks through his dark hair.

“Hi,” I say as I approach. “Um. Marek told me I should eat here.”

“Welcome!” he says in a Russian accent much thicker than Marek’s. “If you are friend of Marek, you are friend of Ivan!” he says, pointing to himself. “I get you piroshki, yes? Meat, veggie?”

“What is it?” I ask flatly. “And no meat, thank you.”

“What’s piroshki? You try. You like. No meat.”

He disappears into his little kitchen area, leaving me delightfully charmed. He has a very different feel than the other passengers I’ve met, many of whom seem like they’re in a competition to be the most important member of our new society. I feel like this man got his ticket punched for his culinary skills and that’s all he really cares about. Maybe he’s a billionaire’s uncle or something, but I’m not getting that vibe.

He returns with a steaming roll on a small plate, then holds it out for me with that big, friendly smile. “You try. You like.”

I’d planned to take this back to my room, or at least to a quiet table where I could people-watch, but the cook has different plans. I smile back and lift the small pastry to my mouth. The smell of warm fresh bread and spices snakes through my nostrils and triggers another growl from my belly, loud enough to get an eyebrow raise from Ivan.

I sink my teeth through the dough and get an immediate eruption of savory flavor on my tastebuds.

Holy shit.

“Why is this so good?” I say through a full mouth, then cram another bite in.