The boy looked up. He had Conrad’s green eyes, but softer. Innocent. “Why not? You always said you wanted to come home.”
“That’s not life. That’s a dream.”
The airlock hissed open, and the smell hit him first: dried blood, mildew, and the sweet-rotten stench of cloned flesh that had been left to decay. He drew his sidearm—a modified Gauss pistol with a neural dampener—and stepped inside.