Brightly Burning(61)
Over the next week, I helped Charlotte care for Aunt Reed, who often slept. When she was awake and lucid, she insisted I sit and talk with her, apparently her version of doing penance. Aunt Reed talked about everything and nothing, sharing idle Empire gossip and, when I could cajole her into it, telling me more about my mother. They’d grown up together, not exactly friends, but close, by way of family friendship. The derision in my aunt’s voice was clear as she relayed the particulars of my parents’ marriage.
“Love conquers all,” she sneered before a hacking cough overtook her. She recovered to finish off with “And look how well it turned out for her.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard her thesis on how stupid my mother was to leave the comforts of the upper decks of the Empire for the lower, all for love, only to die eight years later. I didn’t take the bait, refusing to reward her with my protestations.
When I wasn’t bound to the family quarters, I availed myself of one of the Empire’s shiniest features: the library. Unlike the one aboard the Rochester, this was a living, breathing archive, housing works by all the fleet’s literary stars, plus a museum of classics—?real-life books—?under glass. I used to find them eminently impressive, now less so since I’d held so many in my hands. But the archive was what I sought. It contained not just books, but news. I searched for key terms pertaining to the Rochester and Hugo, and I drank up every article I could find.
His mother had been sick. His father the toiling scientist. Rumors of experimental drugs. Psychosis. Murder.
Further back, there were fluff pieces about the Rochester hosting elaborate parties, even producing a Klaviermeister—?Hugo’s grandfather. Some permutation of Fairfax—?a hundred years back, at least—?had pioneered a flu vaccine that saved half the fleet.
The Fairfaxes were high society, integrated into the fleet, key citizens. Then it all changed. The parties stopped; the gossip items turned to speculation about the Fairfaxes becoming hermits. Then murder and self-imposed exile. It painted a puzzling picture. It told me Hugo’s history but gave me no real clue as to what was going on now. I had only half the equation.
I knew Aunt Reed was about to die when she started apologizing to me. She wheezed, struggling for breath, but her grip was surprisingly strong. Her fingers dug into my forearm as she locked eyes with me, insistent.
“I did wrong by you, Stella Ainsley. You should hate me, yet you came at my request. You sit by my bedside.” Her lip curled. “Your goodness is annoying.”
Aunt Reed was still the master of the one-two punch. And she wasn’t done.
“I promised my husband I would love you as my own child, but I could not. You were too much like his sister, and he preferred you to his own children. I hated you for it. I’m sure this cancer is my punishment.”
I could have protested, reassured her no one got cancer as a punishment, that there was no way my uncle loved me more than his own children, but it seemed unimportant now. My aunt was exercising her right to confession, and the best I could do was listen. She went on, listing both her grievances against me—?I ate so much food! Required so much attention!—?and her sins. The coldness. Withholding affection. Sending me away.
“Aunt Reed,” I urged her as she went on endlessly, working herself up into a frenzy, “please do not worry yourself any further. You were cruel to me, you sent me away, but I am fine. I forgive you.”
She sank into the pillows, spent. It was apparently what she needed to hear. Forgiveness. I meant every word I said. I would find my place in the world. Somewhere. There was no need to hold a grudge.
She died two days later. I did not cry, though I absorbed a sea of tears from Charlotte. I attended my fourth funeral, the pomp and circumstance unchanged over the years, in which Charlotte managed a tidy little speech between sobs, shared with the five people who bothered to show up but who had never visited while my aunt was sick. Then I held Charlotte’s hand as we gazed through a hexagonal-shaped window, watching Aunt Reed’s body—?tastefully enclosed in a shroud—?vented out into space.
The next day, chaos, and Charlotte wailing for a whole new reason.
“Those bastards!” She slammed her tablet down on the dining table. “They know we don’t have any money left, and yet they are requiring I travel to the Olympus to file some stupid forms!”
I picked up the tab and read the message myself. To legally complete the transfer of her mother’s quarters to Charlotte, she would have to travel to the Olympus in person within seven days, or else she would forfeit it. It was crude yet effective: what better way to strip the poor and destitute of their inheritances than to require a trip they could not possibly finance? The valuable real estate would revert to the Empire, and they could do with it as they saw fit. Luckily I was in a unique position to help. “I’ll pay for the shuttle. I have an advance on my salary, and I know a guy who will take you there for a reasonable rate.” I didn’t know what Sergei’s rates were, since the Rochester had always paid, but I figured I’d twist his arm a bit.
“You’d do that?” Charlotte sniffed.
“Of course I would,” I replied. “And I’ll go with you.”
It was uncanny how quickly Sergei could be hailed when you weren’t located by the moon. By breakfast the next day, we were on our way to the Olympus. It orbited within our cluster, so the journey was short, but the security detail on board was not. The Olympus checked our identification papers twice; then officers interrogated Charlotte and me for a half-hour about the purpose of our visit, unsatisfied the first three times we showed them the message Charlotte had received. Finally, we were released to visit the Population and Control Department, two identical keytabs in hand. The security office had already keyed in our destination, pulling up a map of the Olympus with a big red dot signifying where we were. Soon we arrived, using the keytab to open a bulkhead door, which lead to a cramped waiting room.