Horizon Storms - Kevin J. Anderson [109]
But Anton was separate from all that. The self-centered Designate had blithely announced the death of Anton’s father and the disappearance of his mother, as if delivering nothing more serious than a weather prediction. Though he had feared the worst after so many years without news, Anton still felt as if the floor had dropped away beneath his feet. Now it was time for grieving, and for regrets.
He had never been particularly close to his parents after he’d grown up and gone off to pursue his own interests. They were proud of him, he knew. Margaret and Louis had read all of his scholarly papers, offered encouragement, attended his graduation and tenure ceremonies—an amazing thing, now that he thought of it, since they were so often at one archaeological dig or another—but Anton had always taken them for granted. The Colicoses had raised their son to be self-sufficient, just as they themselves were.
Now, against the dark stain of Maratha’s night, Anton saw his ghostly reflection in the curved glass: narrow chin, flat brown hair, squinting eyes. When he’d come here, excited to be studying with Rememberer Vao’sh, he hadn’t even thought to bring along photographs of his mother and father. Back in his university office, however, Anton kept quite a collection of their images, journals, and documents for the purpose of writing a definitive biography of his illustrious parents.
Now, sadly, he had an end to the story. The piece he had always been missing…
“I have discovered another difference between humans and Ildirans, Rememberer Anton.” The rich voice of Vao’sh spoke from behind him. “When Ildirans are troubled, we seek the companionship of others. But you clearly choose to be alone.”
Anton turned to see the other historian standing in the doorway, enfolded by the light. He forced a wan smile. “Oh, I’m just trying to deal with how things have changed. I’m swimming in memories and drowning in realizations I should have had years ago.”
He’d been eight years old the first time he accompanied his parents on one of their archaeological expeditions. The planet was Pym, a world with termite-mound ruins built by the lost insectoid race. Pym’s air was dry and the sky was clear every night, revealing a myriad of stars. The support workers and university associates spent the evenings discussing esoteric historical questions, comparing notes, and occasionally telling bawdy stories.
Besides himself, there were no children in the camp. The other archaeologists were much older, their sons and daughters already grown up and gone off to school or careers, so Anton was left to himself, a fifth wheel, glad to be with his parents but not quite belonging.
He had wandered through the dig site, squirming into crannies and little holes in the ruins that the adults could never explore. One time, he’d discovered a room with a few dusty artifacts, but the investigators had scolded him, then chided Margaret and Louis for allowing their kid to scuff up the dusty and fragile remnants with his small footprints.
“Sometimes my father would sit with me at night,” he told Vao’sh. “We’d build a little campfire of our own, using the dry tinder grasses around the Klikiss towers. He was good-hearted, but he didn’t really know how to talk to anyone who wasn’t a colleague. I remember watching the sparks drift like fairy lights into the sky, while my father rambled about Klikiss theory and university politics.”
When Vao’sh sat beside him and spoke, his expressive voice was rich with undertones of sympathy. “Do you recall that Maratha Prime was known as the City on the Brink, poised between daylight and darkness? We are here, safe and sheltered under our domes, with all the light our blazers can shed. I can tell my stories to a captive audience—no rememberer could ask for more.” His expression changed, the lobes on his face flushing through a palette of colors. “But every day, no matter how much brightness we keep