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"She's not people," the man said, giving me a long look. "She's cargo." He was maybe thirty years old, and he was wearing a uniform for one of the fabrication decks. Out here working a long shift to make some money to take back to his family on Earth, no doubt. "She should be in her hospital bed, letting the rest of us do our jobs." He gave me a curt nod.
"Your mother must be very proud," I said. "In a retirement home somewhere, I'm guessing?"
"My mother is dead," he replied, saying it with relish, like he was playing an ace card.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," I told him. "Shame, was it?"