Page 43 of Farborn

I have traveled countless miles in my life. I’ve seen a lot, ventured far from where I was born to find myself here, in this spot today.

Like hell am I going to waste this opportunity.

Admitting I’m lonely is tough to do, because that means admitting I’m vulnerable.

That’s something Ihateto do.

I’ve never liked showing any kind of weakness.

Olarte is definitely my weakness.

I suppose the only way to find out if this is infatuation or this is for infinity is to dive in.

* * * *

Now that I’m an adult, and before I met Olarte, I rarely spent much time in station personnel quarters when on space stations. My encounters before have mostly occurred in hotels. But as I wind my way through levels and sectors until I reach the section where Olarte’s apartment is located, towing my sled behind me, I only now realize this space station seems more adequately apportioned than usual in this normally non-public section.

It wasn’t something that really crossed my mind before.

Personnel quarters are a necessity, not a luxury. The station builders generally save weight and space where they can and apportion it toward the public or commercial areas. It’s rare indeed for a space station to trick out personnel quarters.

While these halls aren’t a fraction as fancy as I’ve seen in some space station hotels, it’s definitely no slum. It doesn’t feel like a sad afterthought, or that the personnel are treated like second-class citizens.

Not like where I grew up.

No cramped, dimly lit, dirty halls where the maintenance sweeper bots maybe made passes once a year, if you were lucky.

And you were charged extra for the luxury.

This station is a far cry from that kind of situation.

I can only imagine how bad some families and personnel had it where I came from if my parents were toward the upper tiers of the income and status bracket. The untrained “expendable” maintenance and service workers probably had it a lot worse than we did.

I even remember my parents commenting about how “lucky” we were in comparison to others.

Maybe back then it felt lucky, I don’t know.

I remember sneaking around through the retail and leisure sections when I was little, longing for luxury items far beyond my parents’ budget and wantingthatfor me and my family.

Feeling vaguely triumphant when I was approached about becoming an ether-jump nav.

Knowing that, if I didn’t screw things up, my future was likely set, and I’d be able to take care of my parents.

Then my parents died when I was thirteen, almost fourteen. One dream of mine died with them.

I remember swearing when I stepped off that space station and onto the shuttle that ferried me to secondary that I would never live on another space station.

Ever.

With time and experience, I’ve tempered that opinion somewhat. There are good places to live, when you can afford it.

Except I’d prefer to put down roots.

Realroots.

I could support the two of us for the rest of our lives on my savings and pension. We could live a sweet, easy life.

Olarte could have the house they want, a little bit of land for a garden.