In the stark light, Adler’s face hangs long, as if Ghara Station’s point eight gee is oppressive. “Real or relative?” he asks.
I fidget with my drink, a bitter distillate of Ghara’s ‘finest’ algal whiskey. Near-light travel has made aging—not to mention personal relationships—complicated.
A weariness that belies his biological age shrouds Adler’s eyes. “I’m forty-two,” he says, “but I was born two centuries ago, Earth Standard.”
I know this already. I know a lot about Adler. I should. He’s my father.
To read the rest, head over to Electric Spec. While there, be sure to check out the other stories in the issue.