Now everyone laughed. Sawyer had no idea what the joke was, but he was starting to wonder if the tourist cafe would’ve been the better option.

The woman leaned against the counter. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Mushtullo.’

‘What now?’

‘Mushtullo.’ No response. ‘Central space.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Huh. You got family here?’

‘No,’ Sawyer said. ‘But my family came from here.’

‘Oh,’ the woman said, as if she understood everything now. ‘I see. Okay. You got a place to stay?’

‘I figured I’d sort that out once I got here.’

‘Oh boy,’ the woman said under her breath. The wiry man handed her a plate, which she pushed across the counter. ‘Here. On the house. The food of your ancestors.’

‘Wow, you sure?’ Sawyer said.

‘Well, now I’m not.’

‘Sorry, um . . . thank you.’ He took both plate and mug. ‘That’s really kind.’

The woman resumed her shell cracking without another word. Sawyer looked around, hoping one of the groups might wave him over. None did. The algaeists were stacking up their thoroughly cleaned dishes, and the old folks had resumed their board game. Sawyer dropped his bag in an empty chair and sat in another alongside it. He studied his food – a large mound of wet, shredded vegetables, piled on top of two halves of a nondescript bun, dressed with whatever Jojo’s daughter’s assistant had dashed on top of it. He lifted one of the halves. It leaked, sending purple liquid running down his forearm. He paused before opening his mouth. There was a smell, fetid and sharp, maybe a bit fishy. He thought of the other customers, chowing down with satisfaction. He took a bite. His throat tightened, his sinuses shot open, and his bravery died. The stuff tasted exactly as it smelled, only now it was inescapable, mingling with a bitter, tangy undercurrent he wasn’t sure he wanted to identify. He couldn’t taste the bread, but despite the sour liquid now dripping all over his hands, the texture was distractingly dry. The pickle didn’t crunch, as he’d expected. It just softly surrendered.

It was, without a doubt, the worst thing he’d ever eaten.

Okay, he thought. This is okay. It’s an adventure. Not the start he’d been hoping for, but it was a start, and that was something. He forced another bite of pickle, washing it down with a huge swig of tea (the tea, at least, was good). There was no way he wasn’t going to finish his meal. This was a test. The locals were watching, his ancestors were watching, everybody back home who thought this plan of his was bonkers was watching. He would clean his plate, and find a place to stay, and everything would be great.

Sawyer heard the woman laugh again. He thought for a moment it was directed at him, but no. Another Martian terraformer had died.

Kip

Lunch breaks were the best part of Kip’s day. No teachers, no job trials, no parents. Nothing that needed doing or that he might screw up. Kip savoured every second. This was his time, and he always did the same thing with it: get a choko and a hopper at Grub Grub, park himself on the bench facing the oxygen garden, and try to stretch out his brief bit of freedom as long as possible. Chane in biology class said Sianat Pairs could slow time with their brains, and Kip didn’t think that was true, but if it was, he’d seriously trade an arm or something if it meant he could do that. Both arms, maybe. Maybe even his eyes. Okay, not his eyes. But limbs, definitely.

Somebody jumped him from behind, pulling his shirt up over the back of his head. ‘Tek tem, fucko!’

Kip had his shirt back down and a hand swinging before he could get a look at where it would land. Not a mean fist or anything – he’d never punched anybody for reals. Just a soft slap that wouldn’t even hurt, much less bruise.

His hand landed in Ras’ ribs. Ras shoved the slap away with one hand and grabbed for Kip’s choko with the other. ‘Gimme.’

‘Dosh,’ said Kip, stretching his drink out of reach. ‘Fuck off.’ In one fast move, he reached out and mussed Ras’ hair.

Ras withdrew at that, as he always did. ‘Aw, come on,’ he said, combing away the minimal damage with his fingers. ‘Uncalled for.’

Kip chuckled into his drink, scrunching his eyes tight. He wiped his hand on his pants, trying to get rid of the hair glue remnants he’d picked up. Ras always put too much shit in his hair.

The scuffle ended as fast as it had started. He and his friend sat in an easy slump, watching the crowd for the unlikely chance of something interesting happening. Kip passed the choko bottle to Ras. Ras took a long pull of the sweet fizz and passed it back. It was a rhythm they fell into without any thought. There’d been a lot of shared snacks over the years. That was what had eventually led to them getting assigned work day and school day schedules that didn’t overlap – too many passed-between packs of cake bites in class. A persistent disruption to other students, M Rebane had called him and Ras. Whatever. At least they still had lunch at the same time.

‘You know Amira, at the tech shop?’ Ras said.

‘Yeah.’

‘I think she likes me.’

Kip almost got choko up his nose. ‘Okay.’

‘Seriously,’ Ras said. ‘I saw her looking at me.’

Kip kept laughing. ‘Okay.’