“Our stop’s next,” he warned Gram. “Via Appia. Zone Three.”
Far and his mother lived in a flat two buildings away. Burg’s name might as well have been on the address, too, for how often the Historian was there. He’d taken pains to make sure the living space had character, filling shelves with books, stocking the kitchen with appliances that would never be used. Far was pretty sure over half of the flat’s contents were contraband, though some of the old things were genuinely old—such as the stained glass window his mother had discovered in a Zone 2 antique shop. She’d used it to replace the vista in their dining room, where its colors glowed no matter the hour, thanks to a blazing advert on the opposite building.
It was their own little McCarthy time capsule.
Far opened the door—also antique, carved from cypress wood—to smells that must have cost a fortune. Meat, tomatoes, something bready. A banner had been strung over the window; rainbow light dappled its letters: HAPPY 17TH BIRTHDAY, FARWAY! The table beneath was set for eight. Mom, his mother’s double (affectionately known as Aunt E), Burg, Imogen, Aunt Isolde, Uncle Bert, Gram, himself. Every guest had a plate, but Far couldn’t shake the feeling that the number was off.
“Nice place.” Gram surveyed the front room the way any Recorder-in-training might. “The vintage touch reminds me of a Sim.”
“It’s what happens when you’re beset on all sides by Historians,” Far told him.
“Surprise!” Imogen appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her hair was yellow today, scraped into a bun. Burg’s kitchen appliances were being put to use after all, as evidenced by the flour that avalanched down her apron. It created a faint cloud around Far when she hugged him.
“This isn’t supposed to be a surprise party,” he protested.
“The surprise is that you’ve made it to seventeen without any significant mishaps!” Imogen turned to Gram and held out her hand. “Also, you. You’re a surprise.”
“The name’s—”
A shattering sound cut their introduction short. One of Burg’s carefully curated platters was on the floor, in pieces. Even more tragic were the cheeses that had fallen with it—manchego, gouda, cheddar—all over the place. Far’s mother stood above the mess. There was no flour on her face, but she looked as pale.
“You… you’re Gram?” Her voice crackled. Intense. “Do you remember what happened that day?”
His friend frowned. “I beg your pardon? What day?”
Oooookay. Far had never seen his mother fritz out like this. He tried his best to make the encounter less awkward. “What’d I say, Gram? Your genius reputation precedes you. Gram, this is my mother.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. McCarthy.” Gram’s response was straight out of an Old World etiquette lesson. “You have a lovely home.”
“Please, call me Empra. ‘Ms. McCarthy’ makes me feel so old—” His mother frowned. “Are you certain we haven’t met before?”
Gram shook his head. “Maybe you’ve seen me around the Academy?”
“Maybe.”
“Or Central News Tonight,” Far suggested, though he knew his mother rarely tuned into the show. “They did a profile on Gram a few months ago. He’s about to finish his second Academy track.”
Imogen looked up from the floor, where she was saving as many cheese slices as she could in her makeshift apron pouch. “Your second? What’s the first?”
“Engineer. I’ll be a Recorder next month, too, if all goes well in the final exam Sim. Historian is the only track that’s eluded me.” Gram bent down to help collect manchego slices.
“You don’t want to be a Historian,” Imogen warned. “There are no jobs. Graduating with honors leaves you at the beck and call of Senate spouses who are in denial about their tag size. Okay pay, eternal boredom. The best thing I get out of it is this floor cheese.”
Gram examined one of the pieces. “This stuff smells genuine.”
“It is. A Senate wife who shall remain unnamed bribed me with her mysterious black market connection to get a peek at the CTM Churchill’s next expedition wardrobe. Er… pretend you didn’t hear any of that, Aunt Empra.”
His mother’s eyes were dazed, misted. “Any of what?”
“Exactly.” Imogen winked.
Far didn’t think his mother was in on the joke. She should’ve called for the housekeeping droid by now. When he sidestepped the broken pieces and touched her on the arm, she jumped, mind a whole other world away. “Mom, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” For as long as Far could remember, his mother was a force to be reckoned with: independent, certain, never back down, laugh while you live. This answer was the opposite of that. It brought out her years—skip-forward silver hairs, solemn lines around her mouth.
“Mom,” he prodded.
She shook her head, stepped over the cheese, went into her bedroom, and shut the door. Imogen shot Far a what the hash just happened? look. He passed back a Hades if I know! shrug. Brusque exits and smashed plates were not a part of Empra McCarthy’s MO. Something had glitched, and Far wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. Maybe Burg could help, when he got here. Burg always helped.
Ding! Imogen leaped to her feet at the timer, not accounting for her apron full of cheese. Every piece she’d rescued went flying again, double-floored. “Rat barf!”
“Rats don’t barf,” Gram volunteered. “Their esophageal muscle isn’t strong enough to induce vomiting.”
Far could have gone his entire life without knowing this. Imogen laughed at Gram’s fact, raised him one. “Did you know it wasn’t rats that spread the bubonic plague through Europe in the fourteenth century but gerbils?”
Gram was fascinated. “Gerbils? Really?”
“Fuzzy creatures,” Far muttered. “Can’t trust ’em.”
“Guess I’ll have to cut rat barf from my rotation,” Imogen sighed. “A shame. I liked that one.”
“Rat farts would work if you wanted your expletive to be more biologically accurate,” Gram told her.
It struck Far that this conversation had happened before, but that was impossible. Imogen and Gram had never met. So why were they hitting it off so well talking about rodent flatulence?
Ah, the universe’s mysteries…
51
THE ROOTS WE DID NOT CHOOSE…
EMPRA McCARTHY SAT ON THE EDGE of her bed, attempting to fit her heart back inside her chest. One breath in, two beats out. Her pulse kept escaping, fluttering toward the kitchen. She’d heard plenty about Gram Wright over the past semester—stories Farway told during dinner about his new Sim study partner. The kid was not unlike her son: capable and restless, the kind of cadet who’d make his mark.
Except, Gram already had.