The next day, Tatehan and Torvan sat in Torvan's workshop, surrounded by the usual clutter of tools, half-assembled devices, and holographicstuffs.
The atmosphere was relaxed and casual, the kind of environment that came from two people who had spent enough time together to be comfortable in silence as much as in conversation.
Tatehan was drinking from a bottle of soda, some Martian brand he had picked up from the base's commissary, carbonated and vaguely citrus-flavored, though it did not taste quite like anything he remembered from Earth. Torvan, on the other hand, was nursing a glass of alcoholic wine, a deep red liquid that caught the light from the overhead panels and felt like it glowed faintly in his hands.
