I hate artificial gravity. Blood tastes best in zero-g. I love watching the wet globs twirl in the air; I love slurping the hot crimson beads as they float by. The thought of it makes my stomachs growl.
I can smell them now. They reek of sweat, and I wonder if they have showers on this freighter. They come into view, three pink fleshy dinners, and without warning my son leaps past me.
I curse his foolishness. He’s undisciplined. Still, my heart swells with parental pride as he slashes them open. Wasted blood paints the decks; I hate artificial gravity.