Date: June 9, 2440 Time: 10:15 AM
Homestead — Sitting Room to Tom’s Tackle
Polly Wood flopped into the chair beside Mall Kerr, her legs dangling, chin propped on her hand. “Hi,” she said, already sounding ready to leave. “Sorry. I’m just bored.”
“You don’t have to go,” Mall said, setting aside the binder Angelina had assigned her. “I was memorizing the safety features again. But I think I’ve got them.”
Polly brightened. “Then maybe we could do something?”
Mall stretched, letting the sunlight from the tall windows wash across her face. “What was your planet like?” Polly asked suddenly, the words rushing out.
“Tw’shen,” Mall said. “I lived in the lowest levels, below street level. The city touched the ocean, but I never saw it. At night, you could hear the waves echo through the canyons of buildings. That was as close as I got.”
“Why not?” Polly asked, then winced at herself. “Sorry. That was rude.”
Mall shook her head. “No. It’s the truth. My caste wasn’t permitted to go that far. Oceans were for other people.”
Polly frowned, then leaned closer. “It doesn’t matter to me. I think you’re cool. Kevin thinks… well, I’ll tell you that later. My sister Alexandra just acts stuck up. Really, I think she doesn’t know where she belongs either. We were different in Boston.”
“Do you think we could be friends?” Mall asked, her voice quiet.
“I’d like that,” Polly said, grinning. “I’d like that a lot.”
Mall stood, tucking the binder under her arm. “Want to take a walk?”
“Do we have to ask?” Polly’s tone carried all the dread of twelve years and too many permissions.
Mall only smiled. “Alfred,” she called to the ceiling. “Polly and I are walking down to Tom’s Tackle. Tell Angelina she may be coming home with me later.”
“Very good, Miss Kyle,” the house AI replied in its smooth baritone.
Polly blinked. “I thought your name was Kerr.”
“It is.” Mall shrugged. “Alfred has… nicknames.”
The gravel of the Homestead driveway crunched beneath their feet as they followed it out to Highway 41. The road shimmered in the morning heat, lined with sycamores and the slow roll of pastureland.
Polly kicked a stone ahead of them, each step carrying her farther from the heaviness of the sitting room. “It feels like forever to get anywhere here,” she said.
Mall adjusted her stride, the binder swinging at her side. “On Tw’shen, you could cross a hundred blocks and never see the sky. Here? You walk a little, and the horizon keeps opening up.”
The highway bent toward the river. The smell of water drifted to them, sharp with mud and summer weeds. At the bottom of the lane sat Tom’s Tackle, the boat ramp and café kept alive by Tom and Marjorie—both in their seventies now, both retired from Marmaduke Inc., their lives still wound tight with Freehold rhythms.
The sign creaked gently in the breeze, paint faded but welcoming. Polly grinned, her earlier boredom gone. “Race you,” she said, and bolted ahead toward the river.
Mall shook her head, laughter catching in her throat, and chased after her. For once, the world felt wide enough to breathe.
