Free Nova by Margaret Fortune Page A

was a year ago, and we’ve been here ever since. Not that I mind. It’s a lot nicer here than it was on the last station where we lived. More like Aurora. Like home.”
    He says the words lightly, as though it’s no big deal, but I can’t help thinking he lost his parents to the war as surely as Lia did hers. Only he has the hope that one day his will come back, and Lia’s never will.
    I feel a strange lump in my throat at the thought, though I’m not sure why. I clear my throat. “You must really miss them. Your folks, I mean.”
    Michael slides his gaze toward me, studying me from the corner of his eyes, and shrugs. “No more than you miss yours, I’m sure.”
    I look away, uncertain how to answer the comment. Mistaking the gesture, Michael hastens to apologize. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it that way.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “Hey, you want to see something?”
    When I glance over, he pulls out something small and round from his pocket. Curious, I take it, fingering the tiny metal spikes on the bottom of the disc. “It’s a chit,” I say in surprise, recognizing it as the same communication device Rowan punched into my hand on my first day here.
    “It was my dad’s,” Michael explains. “It got caught on something and yanked out of his hand a few days before he left for the
Prize
and we came here. See the way the spikes are bent there? I was supposed to stick it in the recycler to be melted down when he got a new one, but I kept it. I don’t know, I guess I just thought it was a way to remember him. Pretty stupid, huh?”
    “I don’t think it’s stupid at all,” I answer softly. “So do your parents ever come to visit?”
    “They come whenever they get leave, but it’s been awhile.” He shakes his head. “Teal thinks it would be cool to be an officer like Mom, but I never want to join the military. To have people always telling you where to go and what to do? When you can see your family and when you can’t? I’d hate it.”
    All of a sudden Teal’s earlier needling makes sense. “Do you really think they might institute the draft?” I ask.
    “I don’t know. There was talk they might, before the Tellurians suddenly opened negotiations. Maybe if the ceasefire holds . . .”
    Maybe, but it won’t. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that. People who want peace don’t send human bombs to destroy space stations. I open my mouth to say so, then close it. What, exactly, would I say?
    With a silver rush, the SlipStream pulls in on the left, sparing me the need to respond. I spend the ride with teeth clenched, forehead wrinkled in concentration as the train churns down the track. The motion isn’t as bad, now that I know what to expect, but I keep my inner eye trained on my clock, certain it will start turning at any moment. It doesn’t; the number is fixed in place even after we arrive and disembark into the hub.
    *00:02:31*
    Michael drops me at the cargo bay with the box and says goodnight. It got late somehow, without me even noticing. The lights are still on, but people have already lain down to sleep and others are getting ready to. I’m not tired, so instead I sit on my cot and slowly sort through the box Taylor gave me.
    On top is a thick pillow stuffed with synthesized down, nothing like the thin headrest provided with my sleeping roll. A blanket comes out next, soft and white and fluffy. I rub the fabric lightly against my cheek, reveling in the texture, a far cry from the stiff gray blanket already covering my cot. The container of cake is on the bottom, along with several other small things Taylor apparently threw in when I wasn’t looking. A bag of candy. Half a dozen pairs of clean socks and a new package of underwear. A cheap reader loaded with books. A small basket of toiletries—scented lotion, soap, and shampoo. Frilly, feminine things smelling of lilac, at least according to the package. All I can smell is the usual sour-and-sweet odor pervading the