altair prime, 1990
WAR PREDICTED
the headline boasted, proudly.
"If it's just predicted," protested the voice of seven-year-old Random, who had been four the last time this happened (which was approximately a week ago), "why do we have to go? We're always going places." She took another spoonful of her cereal, and then went back to the Very Large Book she was reading.
"Well," said Trillian sympathetically, "you don't have to go, hon, but I don't like leaving you."
"Then don't go."
"Random, it's my job."
"Can't we ever stay in just one place? We won't ever just belong --"
Trillian sighed. Hearing Random's voice saddened her, even - she spoke in that same Islington accent, but she wasn't from Islington, not really. She wasn't from anywhere. Trillian wasn't either, anymore.And there were so many people like that, these days.
It almost got her wondering where people from her past had gone.
And reminded her, somehow, of somewhere she hadn't thought of in nearly eight years. Well, technically. Fractally demented as it was.
Before she could answer Random, however, the phone rang.
"Trillian Astra," she muttered.
"Yes," said a voice, "this is Callahan's --"
"Callahan?" Blink. "Nita?"
"Mike, actually. You left your bag at the bar."
Never go back for your bag.
"Keep it, nothing important there," Trillian sighed, hanging up. "Random, honey, what are you reading?"
"Poetry," answered her daughter, poking at breakfast.
"All packed?"
Random sighed. "Yes, all packed."
"Then read to me a little? You're getting good at it."
Random had been getting good at it. At reading, that is - and poetry. Trillian was proud of that much, though she hoped her daughter never became too moody. She smiled as she watched Random turn through the pages, likely picking a favourite.
"I have loved hours at sea," read the girl, "gray cities, the fragile secret of a flower, music, the making of a poem, that gave me heaven for an hour--"
Trillian nearly dropped her glass, and her hand clutched instantly at a chain around her neck, which held a golden band -- not the golden band, of course, it was merely an illusion, but a golden band -- gasping. Random looked up. Trillian waved her to continue.
"First stars above a snowy hill, voices of people kindly and wise ..."
Quietly, Trillian joined in for the last lines, and they said in unison, "And the great look of love, long hidden, found at last in meeting eyes."
"It means a lot to you," Random guessed. "Old boyfriend?"
"Not really, sweetheart," Trillian found the voice to laugh. "The book means a lot to me in general, though. Anyway, are we ready?"
"We're always going," sighed Random.
They went.