Into the Black Hole

Chapter 45: Revelations

October 22, my birthday. I'm eighteen years old—an ordinary, unexceptional age. Within both the UE and the IF, the voting age depends on when one is considered an adult by either graduating from high school or passing a test that certifies high school-level academic skills—in my instance, I was considered an adult when I was thirteen. The age of consent is sixteen, and the legal drinking age is twenty.

So yeah, eighteen is a boring number.

I don't like getting older, which might be a strange thing to feel for someone so young, but I've never liked it for as long as I can remember. As far as I'm concerned, getting older means life gets harder. It's not as though I'm about to achieve newfound independence anytime soon as the MSF's avant-garde lab rat.

I develop a bad habit where I pull back my fingertip from its nail until I draw blood. The pain doesn't register in my brain, but whenever I see red, I stop. Huh, it shouldn't be that easy to pull the skin back—maybe I'll go see a doctor.

I can't help but think that Felix could be here right now, rehabilitating beside Timour in the hospital, then later journeying to the UE, where he would live a long, adventurous life. If I hadn't snuck out that last night on Titan, he'd be alive. But I didn't fire the gun, and the thought of Huxley still angers me. The DEWs were too kind. We should've brought him to Earth and fed him to vultures.

It's Timour's penultimate day in the hospital, and I'm about to turn the corner leading to the hospital's entrance when somebody literally steps in my way. My eyes trail up a pristine IF uniform with an Empirical emblem—a five-pointed star within another five-pointed star—broad shoulders, and Duarte's cocky face.

"Can I help you?" I ask.

"You've been ignoring me," he states.

"No, I haven't."

A darkness crosses his eyes. "Well, you've been spending a lot of hours at that Liansan's bedside. I don't recall you coming to mine over the years when I would end up in the medbay."

Exhaustion perforates my bones. "Let me know the next time you're tortured to the brink of death, and I'll think about it. Besides, I didn't know you cared. I don't even like you."

The look he gives me makes me wish I had my drones back. "Well," he starts with vitriol, "I at least would have expected a 'thank you' for saving your life. For saving his life."

Good point. "Thank you."

He gnashes his teeth. "I shouldn't have had to ask for it."

Alright, you entitled—I fulminate, "What do you want, Duarte?"

Slowly, the lines in his face smooth as he calms down. He swallows, then jerks his head behind him, soliciting, "Come. Take a walk with me."

His body language suggests he won't accept "no" as an answer. So despite my burning urge to visit Timour, I relent, suppressing the impulse to whine.

He brings me to the garden on Plato, where agriculturalists grow fresh fruit and vegetables, and botanists study plant life. The food grown here is not nearly enough to sustain Plato's Keeper population, but it's a nice place to go when one misses Earth. I notice some purple and orange lilies in the botanical section and head toward them, reminiscing when Thomson gave a bouquet of these to me.

The botanical section is void of people, and the walk has been silent thus far, so I break it, "How did you get assigned to this mission? I was worried they were going to put you on trial for what transpired back on Mars."

Duarte shrugs, replying, "They had bigger things to stress about, such as needing to find you. I volunteered. My father tried to argue I was too emotionally invested, but the Admiral overruled."