Kip gave a brittle laugh. ‘Nothing.’
‘There must be something. What do you do with your day?’
‘Nothing important. Sims, vids, school.’
Isabel let the implication that school wasn’t important slide. ‘Job trials?’
The heaviest sigh in the world escaped the boy’s lips. ‘Yeah.’
‘And nothing’s stuck?’
‘Nothing’s stuck.’
‘And you think something will out there?’
He looked at her as if that were obvious. ‘Why else would so many people leave and not come back?’
‘Again, that’s fair. You’re waiting for something to grab you, then. Something that feels like it’s got a point.’
‘Yeah.’ Kip looked at her. ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘Oh, I can’t tell you that,’ Isabel said. ‘I can only tell you what I want you to do, and that’s based on my shallow impression of who you are and how I’d like your story to go. You can’t operate by that. You’re the only one who can think about what you should do.’
‘Okay,’ Kip said. ‘Then what do you want me to do?’
Isabel paused. ‘I’ll only tell you if you understand that when a person tells you what they want of you, they’re not deciding for you. It’s their opinion, not your truth. Got it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘All right.’ Isabel didn’t need to think about what she was going to say next. She’d wanted to say it since the moment they’d started digging a burial trench together. With a sure step, she began to walk back out of the data chamber the way they’d come. ‘I want you to apprentice with me.’
She could practically hear the kid blink. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Not a job trial. A proper apprenticeship. Stripes and all.’
‘Um.’ Kip hurried after and fell alongside. ‘Why?’
‘Because of what you did for Sawyer.’
‘What does—’
‘—that have to do with anything? You tell me. Why wasn’t it enough for you to simply report what you heard to patrol and have them deal with it?’
‘I – I don’t—’
‘Yes, you do,’ Isabel said firmly. ‘Why?’
‘It just . . . it bothered me.’
‘Him being alone.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Him being thrown out. Him not getting a real funeral.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But you didn’t just pay your respects. You weren’t a passive mourner. You carried his body. You read the Litany for the Dead. You care about our ways, Kip, even if you think you don’t. The idea of them not being performed shook you so hard, you had to do them yourself. And that – that’s the kind of love the Archives needs. We won’t survive without that.’ She sorted her thoughts. ‘I know that in this moment, you hate it here. I’m not belittling that. That’s why I don’t want you to apprentice for me right now.’
Kip was the picture of confusion. ‘M, I’m sorry, but I . . . I really don’t get it.’
Isabel smiled. ‘I want you to leave the Fleet, Kip. For a little while. If you decide to stay wherever you land forever, so be it. But you can’t apprentice with me until you see what’s out there.’
‘I don’t—’ Kip gave his head a short shake. ‘You don’t know me, M. You don’t know me at all. I’d suck working here. I’m not smart.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’m . . . I’m not. I suck at school, and—’
‘What’d you get on your entrance exams?’
‘803.’
Not amazing, true, but hardly a suggestion of not smart. ‘That’s an entirely decent score, Kip. That’ll get you into everything but the top-tiers.’
‘I barely made it, though. I busted my ass, and I got entirely decent. I’m not like . . .’ He frowned. ‘Like people who ace all their tests.’
Isabel gave a single nod. ‘Good! Stars, the last thing I want is some cocky gifted kid who’s never had to break a sweat. Give me someone who wants it and had to work for it any day.’
‘But I don’t know if I want to work here, M. I— I dunno, I’ve never thought about it.’
‘You don’t have anywhere you want to work, so having at least one option on the table can’t hurt, hmm?’
‘Wait, so . . . why would I have to leave first?’
‘It’s simple. If you never leave, you’ll always wonder. You’ll wonder what your life could’ve been, if you did the right thing. Well . . . scratch that. You’ll always wonder if you did the right thing, no matter what the decision is, big or small. There’s always another path you’ll wonder about. But that wondering is less maddening if you know what the other path looks like, at least. So. You should go. Go to Hashkath. Go to Coriol. Go to Earth, even. Go wherever calls to you. And maybe you’ll find out that life out there is good, that it suits you. Maybe you’ll find that thing you’re missing. Maybe not. What you will find, no question, is perspective. What that perspective is, I have no idea. But you’ll find one. Otherwise, you’ll only ever think about other people in the abstract. That’s a poisonous thing, thinking your way is all there is. The only way to really appreciate your way is to compare it to somebody else’s way. Figure out what you love, specifically. In detail. Figure out what you want to keep. Figure out what you want to change. Otherwise, it’s not love. It’s clinging to the familiar – to the comfortable – and that’s a dangerous thing for us short-term thinkers to do. If you stay, stay because you want to, because you’ve found something here worth embodying, because you believe in it. Otherwise . . . well, there’s no point in being here at all, is there? Better for everybody to leave, in that case.’ She pushed the button to call the lift. ‘Go out there and see what it’s like to be the alien. Eat something weird. Sleep somewhere uncomfortable. Then, if you come back, and if you want to apprentice here, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me exactly why.’
Kip frowned. ‘I don’t know, M. This is kind of a lot.’
‘Of course it is!’ The lift arrived, and she stepped in. ‘I wouldn’t want anything to do with you if it felt otherwise.’
Tessa
The scene at home was the last thing she expected to find. Instead of discarded clothes and messy toys, there was only Pop, sitting on the couch in a tidied-up living room, a bottle of kick and two empty glasses on the table. He had been waiting, elbows on his thighs, hands folded between his knees. He smiled when she entered the front door.
Pop picked up the bottle. ‘Don’t worry about waking the kids. They’re spending the night next door. Been a while since this home had only grown-ups in it, huh? Not since Aya was born.’ He examined the label. He squinted, holding it at length, then up close, then farther out, trying to find the spot that fit his eyes best. ‘You know, they don’t make this stuff anymore.’ He rotated the bottle for her to see: a bluefish, leaping its way into the stars. ‘Farmer’s Friend,’ he said. ‘They used to make it out of the fruit that wasn’t good enough for the stores. Stopped making it after M Nazari died – must’ve been . . . well, let’s see now . . . I guess forty-some years ago. She was the one who made the stuff. Sweet old lady, always nice to me and my brother. Whenever we’d go down to trade with her, she’d always hand us a bunch of fruit or something after the barter was done. And we’d always say, aw, c’mon, M, we didn’t give you enough for that, here, take a couple extra chips. But she’d always say, no, no, and tell us we were her favourite customers. I think she said that to everybody, but she made you feel like it was true. After she went, though – well, none of her kids were much into brewing, so, the kick went, too.’