Everybody else would be doing some First-Gen Starfarers; Markel cringed at the thought of hearing all those histories of the Theft of Esperantza from various points of view. He would have to do something different … there was that woman Sengrat had mentioned, Nueva Fallona of Palomella. She must be quite old, at least thirty, but Markel wouldn’t mind interviewing her one bit. He thought about glimpses of a curtain of straight, iridescent, reddish bronze hair, a firm chin, eyes that always seemed to be looking into some distance only she could see. And she was intriguing, with that slight limp and the elegant cane she used, made of a reddish bronze to match her hair, turning her disability into an affectation. Probably she’d been tortured by the Palomellese government and was too proud to talk about her past sufferings. Yes, she’d definitely be an interesting subject. Besides, Markel would bet nobody else in his age class would think of doing a Palomellese; it wouldn’t have occurred to them that they could access Palomella’s databases via the Lattice. True, there’d be just a little hacking involved … but it was research for an assigned paper, Markel told himself virtuously.
And the Haven’s computer-tutor seemed to agree, or else Illart hadn’t thought of restricting Markel’s access to anything other than games, for it let him access a gateway to the Lattice with no trouble at all. He didn’t really have to start working until he reached Palomella’s first level of security. When Illart returned upset from a two-shift-long Council meeting, Markel’s mood was somber enough to match his.
“How did it go?” Market asked from the tube, where he’d been lounging and watching old music vids. “You missed our mess time. Want me to go to the kitchens and get a bowl of hotchpotch for you?”
“No, thanks,” Illart said. “They sent in food between shifts, so we wouldn’t have to break for mess.”
“How come?” Market thought he knew the answer, but he wanted the satisfaction of hearing it from his father. “You always said it was a good idea to break up long meetings, give everybody a chance to simmer down.”
Illart rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, and Markel knew from the gesture that his father was suffering one of the agonizing tension headaches that had plagued him ever since he took over from Andrezhuria as First Speaker. Perhaps it was time he handed over to Gerezan. Markel slipped out of his tube and squatted behind Illart to rub the tense cords of muscle in his neck.
Illart sighed with relief. “That’s better. You’ve your mother’s touch. When I came in hot and sweaty and aching from the fields, Aiora used to rub the ache out of my muscles as lightly as a butterfly’s wing.”
Markel could almost remember the scene -or was it just that Illart had reminisced about it so many times? All that Markel could truly remember of their life on Esperantza was the communal creche where Illart had left him for the long hours of daylight after his mother died. He couldn’t even remember what his father had been like in those days; he was usually asleep by the time Illart came in from the fields to collect him. He’d been looking forward to turning five, when he would be old enough to follow Illart into the fields and collect stones, or help with some other farming task, instead of staying in the creche with the babies. Life on the Haven had been a joyous adventure of freedom and exploration compared to that, an unexpected boon from the heavens… .
Markel abruptly switched his thoughts back to the present, as he always did when his reminiscences reached that point. It seemed disloyal to Illart and the others who had given more than ten years of their lives seeking justice, to admit that he for one didn’t really want to go back to Esperantza or any other dirtside life. Crowded and dilapidated the Haven might be, but it was far more home to Markel than any vague memories of dirtside life.
And he mustn’t let Illart guess that, ever. It would hurt him too much.