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The feeling of weightlessness had been freeing, when I first experienced it. Now, it sickens me.
“I’m so sorry, Brian.” My brother’s voice cracks, distorted further through the radio. I can’t see him: my rotation rarely faces his direction, just spinning lackadaisically in place.
No, I want to say, but I know I can’t afford to. It’s not your fault.
It is—it kind of always has been. That’s just how it is with Martin. But I don’t regret any of it.
“We’re— we’re out here, drifting further apart, and all I can do is apologise, and you’re— no. Okay. We can— let’s focus on the good parts, okay? Don’t reply. Let’s just… let’s focus on the good parts.”
Alright, I think at him, keeping my breaths shallow. It feels better, answering him in my head. It feels less like I’m leaving him to suffer alone.
“Remember on Earth?” He begins. “That time we went to that retro outdoor theatre and watched from the bushes? It kinda sucked, but it was the first one you’d ever seen, so you loved it.”
(I don’t remember. Most of my time on Earth is hazy, now. But I do remember the way Martin sobbed as he was kicked out, chest heaving, apologising—to me. And I remember deciding then, that I’d follow him wherever he went. He was my older brother; I didn’t know what I’d do without him. I still don’t.)
(I guess I won’t have to, now.)
“Or that time we were caught stealing and we managed to escape by climbing up the side of a building?”
(I remember that. I remember the time after that, too, when I hadn’t been fast enough. I remember being thrown onto my back, the pain as the man kicked my chest again and again. Martin had appeared behind him, smashed his face into the wall, and killed him. He hadn’t meant to. We ran.)
“Or…” Martin falters, and I can hear the weak smile slip off his lips. “Brian? Are you— are you still…”
(I hadn’t understood why he’d cried that night, and hadn’t complied when he’d pleaded with me to “run. Please.” He’d said he was sorry. I’d said I was thankful.)
I breathe in, shallow and careful, then let out a soft “yeah” on the exhale.
“Good,” he laughs, but it’s a terrified thing. He inhales sharply, then swallows. When he speaks again, it’s a borderline whisper. “Hang in there. Don’t leave me just yet, okay?”
Okay.
“Uh, what about… oh! In Venus,” he continues, with the same voice he always uses when faking confidence. (I remember the same tone, when he’d proudly stated “C’mon. We’re getting out of here. Forever.” My ribs had felt better by then, and he’d stolen enough, so we did.)
“When we first arrived, you were in awe of the place. I know I said I wasn’t affected, but I was lying. Floating cities were still just as cool to me as they were to you.”
(I’d expected to leave Earth from some kind of huge airport. Instead, the ship had been hidden under a masssive motorway, and Martin and I were herded into a storage compartment packed with other people.)
“There were so few police there—for a while, we thrived,” he laughed. “We were almost having a good life.”
Yeah, I mentally reply. It hadn’t been perfect, but it’d been better—certainly better than what’d followed, at least. (“Quick,” he’d panted, bursting in. “You said you wanted to be honest, remember? Well, I’ve found us a job, but we gotta hurry. In the bazaar, someone in a hovertruck’s promising jobs to any who get in. I know it isn’t—” “Okay,” I’d interrupted. I was 15, but I could pass for older if necessary. “Lead the way.”)
“…Life’s not fair,” Martin whispers. “Every time I try to do the right thing, I make things worse.”
That isn’t true, I want to say. Everyone makes mistakes.
“First I get us a ‘job’ that ends in our slavery, building debt faster than we can pay it off, guns pointed our way when we try to escape—” (“You can’t do this!” He’d shouted, staring with growing horror and rage down the wrong end of a rifle.)
“Then when we finally escape, I’m stupid enough to try and get us back to earth on a ship that was clearly a scam…” His breath hitches. (The scam: leave Venus’ orbit, then secretly jettison the cargo nobody cared about anyway to cut costs and raise profits. We were the cargo nobody cared about.)
Sometimes, my rotation lets me see the ship as it flies away from us. A few minutes ago, it was as big as my thumb. Now, it’s smaller than my nail.
Martin chokes, a sob breaking through his rant. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Brian. I’ve—I’ve gotten us killed.”
“No,” I whisper, as harshly as I dare. “Don’t say that.”
“Don’t speak!” He pleads, voice tight. “Conserve your oxygen. Most of it’s already being used as propellant thanks to the goddamn hole in your tank.” His voice breaks. “Brian, please. Breathe slowly. You don’t deserve to die first.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I croak. “I need to tell you—I don’t regret it.”
“…Regret what?” His voice is childlike, afraid.
“Following you. I’ve, never regretted following you.” It’s getting hard to speak, let alone breathe.
“Why? You should. I’ve messed this all up. I’ve gotten you killed! If it weren’t for me, you’d be safe. You’d be happy.”
“I… am happy.”
“Why? How?” He’s crying.
“I…” Love you, Martin. Please don’t die thinking I ever hated you.
“Brian?”
I try breathing in again. Two words. Even one will do. One more breath.
“...Brian?” His voice is tiny.
My rotation spins one last time before my eyes slip shut. I can see him, arm reaching towards me, despite our distance.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Please. Say something.”
I love you.
“Brian?”
Goodbye, Martin.
“Don’t leave me here, Brian… Please…”