Rivers of Orion

flowed slowly overhead.
Orin pulled a wrinkled notebook from his pack. He leafed through it, comparing his notes to the Galactic History textbook on his phone, though he found it difficult to focus. With a sigh, he stowed his notebook and instead spent his time replaying the interview in his mind. Absently, he listened to the storm as it played, and he tapped the armrest as the taxi raced quietly along.
In time, the vehicle interrupted his playlist with a gentle chime, and a woman’s garbled voice announced something unintelligible. Orin tapped the dash, and the voice restarted. “You have arrived at your destination. Thank you for choosing OmniVoy’s Collegiate Commuter Fleet. Have a great day!”
He murmured, “You too.” After packing his bag, he exited, and the tiny vehicle sped away. In front of him stood a block of dormitory towers, connected by a network of pedestrian bridges. Chipped concrete and hairline fissures dressed the façade, along with two stories of colorful graffiti. Nearby, people huddled around trash fires. Their shadows danced erratically upon the surrounding walls and sidewalks.
His gaze found the parking pods under a nearby tower, and he approached the barred entry gate. It clicked after reading his gene key, and he stepped inside. Unhurried, he descended the commuter ramp before him. “Hey Albert,” he muttered.
An aged man sat within a security booth and returned the greeting. “Hey Orin!” He offered a friendly smile. “Sorry about the smell.”
“Smell?” Orin regarded Albert curiously. “I don’t smell anything.”
“You will. It’s subtle at first, but it builds, and it sticks in your nose.” He glanced along a row of parking pods, toward the lifts. “There’s a group of transient protos camping out on the basement level. Marshelle said she’d help me ask them to leave, but she’s got the whole campus to worry about, so who knows when that’s going to happen, and I’m not about to confront them alone.”
“Protos?”
Albert nodded. “You know…” He whispered, “Protolinis.”
Orin shook his head. “Sounds like a pasta dish.”
Hanging his head low, Albert quietly added, “No, I mean… the cave-dwellers. Rhyon’s natives?”
“Oh, the felinins!” said Orin. “It sucks how the ocelinis treat us, but it’s bullshit how they treat their own.”
“You got that right,” said Albert.
“Oh.” Orin winced. “There’s the smell. If you don’t feel like waiting, I can keep you company if you like.”
“Thanks anyway, but it could put you in danger.”
Crossing his arms, Orin asserted, “I’m a pretty big guy. You might be surprised at how many fights I’ve intimidated my way out of.”
Albert chuckled. “What about the fights where you weren’t able to do that? How many of those did you lose?”
“None.” Orin stood proudly.
With good humor, Albert asked, “How many fights have you been in?”
Orin laughed. “None.”
“I’ll wait for Marshelle.” Albert leaned back in his chair. “See you around, kid.”
“See you around.”
Orin headed deeper into the lot. He soon reached his parking pod and the covered vehicle within. Dim lighting disguised empty and rusted tool drawers that vanished almost seamlessly into the walls. A malfunctioning view screen presently hiccupped through jittered scenes of picturesque landscapes. With a wistful smile, he leaned across the hood and lingered there awhile, running his hand along the polyester shroud. “I’ll miss you.”.
Eventually, he made his way up the elevator to the twelfth floor. He crossed a covered bridge to the hall that led to his dorm room. With weighted footfalls, he approached its entrance. An overhead strip light turned from orange to green as he approached, and the door slid open. Stepping inside, he dropped his backpack on the couch and glanced at the stairs leading up to his bedroom. He took a moment to set the windows to “Starry Lakefront” and went to the kitchen to prepare a bowl of asada-flavored ramen.
After eating and giving a few hours to his homework, games, and shows, he turned out the downstairs lights and sat before his illuminated fish tank. He slid back its glass lid and tapped a canister of food upon the tank’s black plastic frame. Tiny flakes drifted here and there, catching the attention of a small school of neon tetras. He gazed awhile as they darted here and there, streaks of florescent red and blue.
After his fish were done eating, he checked on the water filter and switched off the tank’s overhead light. Orin made his way upstairs and tossed his hoodie over the back of a desk chair. By rote, he checked his alarms, set his phone upon its charger, and activated its floating clock. He stripped to his boxers and slid under the sheets.
◆◆◆
Orin’s phone buzzed. Sleepily, he lifted it from its charge plate, just in time to miss the call. It displayed “Torsha Madagan” under a picture of two eggs cooking in a skillet. He smiled and called her back.
Over the thumping electronic music at her location, “Are you awake?” came garbled through the phone.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” he replied. “Where are you?”
“Nostromo’s,” said Torsha. “Can you come get me?”
“Sure.” He smiled as he yawned. “Be right there.”
“You’re the best,” she cheered, and she hung up.
Curling up from his bed, Orin slipped into a fresh pair of socks and climbed into a heavy shirt. He hopped clumsily into the same pair of blue jeans. As he pulled on his boots, he placed another call.
“What is it?” mumbled a voice on the other end.
“Hey, Mike. You awake?”
The phone displayed “Miguel Santos” and his still portrait. He sounded sleepy. “It’s 4:43 in the morning.”
“I’m taking a sunrise drive, and I was hoping you could join me,” said Orin.
Mike sounded annoyed. “Where?”
“Van Alder.”
“Where in Van Alder?” asked Mike, and he yawned.
“Nostromo’s,” said Orin.
Mike grunted slightly as he shifted. “I hate that place.”
“I know,” said Orin. “I remember.”
“Isn’t it closed by now?”
“Not Nostromo’s. It’s open round the clock,” said Orin.
“Wonderful.” Mike drew a deep breath. “Orin, if you know I hate that place, then why did you think I’d say yes?”
“Because it’s a nice drive, and we’ll only be there long enough to pick up Torsha.”
“You should’ve opened