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Aspiration waits just inside the settlement gates, trying very hard to kick and bump a small beanbag to stop it from hitting the ground. Fae’s made it to a high score of thirteen today, which is pretty good for faer, but Antithesis can regularly get 60 hits because of his stupid augment, so fae’s determined to keep practicing until fae can beat him.
Fae immediately fumbles on hit four when the surveyors start coming through the gates, and bounces up onto faer toes so fae can peer into the crowd. Head surveyor Lepidoptera gives faer a wave, which fae returns, but fae quickly resumes scanning the crowd until…
Ugh! He’s always late. Always!
The last of the initial crowd trickles their way inside, and Aspiration flops to the ground. It’s not like fae has anywhere else to be soon, but there’s homework to do and only a few hours before sunset! Fae wonders if he’ll be back soon, or if he took the opportunity to go off on another overnight trip. Maybe fae should’ve asked Terry about it.
Grass tickles faer nose, but lying flopped on the ground is more dramatic. Besides, the suns do feel kind of nice on faer arms and legs…
“Well, hello there Pira,” a melodic voice says, and Aspiration jolts up. “Enjoying your nap?”
“Uncle Sym!” He stands above faer, hair tied back into a ponytail, his usual curious smile on his face. “I was waiting for you!”
“Were you now?” Pira gets to faer feet, brushing the dirt off faer dress. “Apologies for keeping you. I was kept up checking in on a colony of sugarbugs.”
“Cooool,” fae muses, then recenters faerself. This isn’t the time to get distracted! “I was gonna ask if you could help me with a homework assignment?”
Sym looks up at the sky, then back at Pira. “I suppose it is that time of year, isn’t it? The essay on the first generation of settlers? Usually quite a few of you kids ask me to be a primary source.”
“Oh, um,” fae kicks the ground, suddenly feeling quite a bit less clever. “If you’re gonna have a lot of work to do I can ask someone else, or just do my own research.”
“Certainly not,” Sym says, sounding almost affronted. “I’d be more than happy to help. Shall we go to the library?”
“Okay!”
He lets faer lead the way, even though he certainly knows the path. The pollen isn’t quite so bad this time of year, but everyone seems to have some stuck to their hair or clothes, and any strong enough gust of wind kicks up a faint cloud of pink behind it. Sym, as always, seems to be the only one wholly unbothered by it.
They head past the depot at the edge of the settlement, and Pira bounces up onto faer tiptoes to look at the the construction crews loading supplies onto the hovertrains. Uncle Pen is leading the group, too focused to see faer wave, but one of the kids two years older than faer is helping out and returns the wave before turning back to her work. “Excited?” Sym asks.
“Well, yeah. No one thought we were going to be getting a third settlement anytime soon.”
“It was a hard-fought argument,” Sym chuckles. “But the human-born gardeners provided their insight, and it seems that was enough to turn the tides.”
“Galactic.”
They step into the library, a large building with a high ceiling and sunlight pouring through the windows from all angles. There’s a new art display near the entrance from two older painters in Pira’s generation. It’s an odd collection: Siren’s wormhole-inspired pieces full of pinks and purples that turn familiar landmarks almost nightmarish, interspersed with Laurel’s lifelike portraits of day-to-day living, but the two of them wanted it that way and in a few months they’ll join the rest of the paintings made by the past generations of Vertumnans.
One of the workers is setting something up on the stage- Pira thinks there’s some kind of poetry reading tonight, faer mom will want to go but fae’ll probably stay home unless faer cousin is doing anything- and another is chatting with one of faer older neighbors as they walk down a row of holodisplays. Sym, as always, gets caught up looking at the mural on the wall (Year 36, where all the surviving original settlers & all the children of the second generation had their handprints painted onto it) and Pira has to wait for him to move on.
Eventually, they make it to one of the private study rooms with a display projector, and Pira flops down on one of the chairs.
“So,” Sym starts, leaning against the wall. “Did you have an idea who you wanted to do your presentation on?”
“Chrysolite!”
Sym nods, and turns to the display. “A very popular choice. I usually end up teaching four or five of you a year about her,” he chuckles. “Not that I mind in the least, of course.”
“And she’s my grandma,” fae reminds him, as if there was any chance he forgot.
“Your great-great-grandmother, yes,” he nods. They’re not biologically related, though fae thinks there’s a small family of her genetic descendants in the coastal settlement. From what fae knows, faer great-grandfather was the son of one of her partners, and ended up being raised by that part of the polycule.
After a few seconds of scrolling, he selects a photo to put up on the display. Fae recognizes Chrysolite’s face immediately, but it’s not one of the pictures of her that the adults show over and over in history class, nor any of the portraits of her in the gallery. This one a far more domestic and casual photograph than fae’s ever seen of her.
She looks like she’s in her mid-40s, sitting at a circular table, flanked by a man with dark skin and floppy dog ears and a person with pink hair and colorful highlights, all of them smiling at the camera. Four teenagers sit around the table with them, two of them turned to the camera as well (though only one of them smiles), two of them seeming far too engaged in something on the boy’s holopalm to notice that someone’s taking their picture.
“Your great-great-grandparents: Basorexia, Chrysolite, and Nomination,” Sym says, with some expression in his eyes that Pira’s seen but never really knew how to parse. “And of course, your great-grandfather Harmonic.” He points to the boy showing his sibling something on his holopalm.
“I never really like,” fae starts, trying to put into words what fae had never really like. The pictures of Sol in the history books always show her younger, only six years older than Pira is now when she ended the war, and while some of her portraits (someone really liked painting her, fae thinks) show her older, they’re portraits, not pictures. The few videos of her performing are just the same, made to help her look as perfect as possible. Fae’s never seen her with her blue and yellow hair tumbling messily down her back, washed out by the lighting, wearing a shirt that’s a little too big on her. “Like, obviously she had a family, but I’ve never pictured it.”
Fae looks at their other ancestors. Both of their names are familiar, she knows from her medical records that she’s genetically descended from Rex and carries a few of his traits, and that Nomi was a performer like Sol, though they ended up switching to visual art and writing while Sol focused more on music. A few of the books in the curriculum were written by them.
It’s weird that fae’s seen Nomi’s name so many times but no one mentioned fae was descended from them like they did for Sol.
“Who took the picture?” fae asks.
“Sol’s father, Geranium. Lovely man, once he got used to me being around.”
The image shifts, now showing the image every kid is so familiar with- twenty year old Sol standing between Sym and governor Marzipan, the evening after the first treaty was signed. “From what I’ve gathered, you already know the story of Chrysolite the diplomat. But she was a part-time surveyor in her teens, too, which is how we met.”
“Really?”
“Indeed,” he nods. “She was around your age, and I had to save her from sticking her hand into a liar flower. I never got the chance to ask, but I got the sense she knew I was there and trying to force me to reveal myself.” His placid smile never wavers, but Pira gets the sense that he’s getting nostalgic.
“Then what?”
“She’d sneak off to find me sometimes, usually to ask me to show her something interesting or give her advice, for as much help as I could be. Eventually, I introduced her to the Overseer, they struck a deal, she helped her friend Marzipan oust the former governor, and you know the rest.”
“Can you tell me a story about her when she was my age?”
“Hmm.” He taps his chin. “As her mother told it, she made up an elaborate lie to help her friend Cal hide a wild dillypillar in the barn. Of course, her mother was the chief cultivator at the time, and she knew exactly what was happening, and she wanted to see how far Sol would push it. Apparently at one point someone was trying to get in and see what was in there, so she snuck in through the window and led it outside before they could.”
“That’s awesome,” Pira snickers. “No one ever talks about that stuff. It’s all ‘Chrysolite the hero’ in class and sometimes ‘Sol the musician’. Apparently back on old Earth people would like, get all up in the business of celebrities.”
“I would imagine there’s less business to get up into when you live with only 200 other people,” Sym notes. “Are you going to write about her as a hero or a musician?”
“Probably musician. It just seems more interesting.”
“I’d agree,” Sym says. “Your professors have read plenty of essays about Chrysolite the hero by now.”
He pulls up a video, once again of Sol and Nomi, looking to be in their late teens. Sol is strumming a guitar while Nomi plays a small woodwind instrument, both of them building a slow and sentimental melody. She begins singing, her voice clear and strong as she harmonizes with Nomi. Pira vaguely knows the song, it’s in the archives from Earth, but the melody is different here and she’s singing about Vertumna.
Between verses, Sol glances at the camera, and her lips curl upwards. Her voice doesn’t waver as she begins the next line, but Pira’s eyes go wide as she weaves an incredibly lewd joke into the meter and rhyme, making Nomi fumble their instrument and the camera shake as the owner starts laughing. “Sol!” Nomi erupts, finally pushing Sol over the edge into a fit of giggles.
“Where are you finding these?” Pira asks, as on the recording Sol tries to get through the next irreverent line between protests and laughter.
“The holonet infrastructure has changed over the decades, but everything posted is still there. Tens of thousands of photos and videos of the first settlers, waiting for someone with the time to sort through them.”
“Can you show me more of them?” fae asks, pointing at Nomi.
“Of course.” He types away as Pira studies the last frame the video ended on, with Sol bent over laughing and Nomi’s face in their hands, cut off in the middle of telling Rex to stop egging her on. Fae heard Nomi’s music, read their books, saw their paintings, but if it wasn’t for their signature dyed hair and loud outfits, Pira doesn’t know if fae could pick them out of a lineup.
Much of that first generation, fae realizes, have become Historical Figures rather than people. Hero Chrysolite, Governor Marzipan, Gardener Dysthimia. Pira probably couldn’t name a single thing about them outside their careers.
A new video appears, another one of Sol and Nomi onstage, both of them in colorful dresses. Two other people accompany them, both of them with instruments of their own. Sol sings into the microphone, a smile on her face, and Nomi looks radiant as they play along.
“Is this a wedding?” fae asks, looking at the group of people slow-dancing in front of the stage and the decorations hung about the room.
“It is,” Sym nods, fondly. He appears for a moment in the video, appearing from the side of the frame before disappearing back into the periphery. “The chief surveyor at the time, Utopia, and her wife Vitality, who worked in administration.”
The frame shifts as the holopalm’s owner looks to the side, and a flash of blue beard and similarly colored suit appears before it recenters. Whoever’s in the suit asks to dance, and the frame moves as the cameraperson stands to join them before cutting out.
“Also Fluorescent and Geranium,” Sym says, as Pira turns to ask. “This was the night that Sol and Nomi began dating.”
Another image comes up, this one a picture of Sol, Rex, and Nomi all in their fancy wedding clothes together, then one of Sol laughing as Rex tries to carry her. He pauses on one of Sol and Nomi dancing, Sol in the middle of twirling them around. Sym’s in the background of this one, too.
“Why didn’t Sol become a gardener?” Pira asks.
“If you asked her that, she would tell you there were a lot of complicated reasons,” he says, his voice sounding heavier. “And it’s true. She valued her ability to make music, and thought it was intrinsically tied to her humanity. In theory, she’d have been able to play forever, but it’s very possible she wouldn’t have found it important anymore, or it wouldn’t, in her words, ‘hit the same’. But I think the core of it…”
He pulls up another image. Sol, Nomi, and Rex pose with a six year old girl, some of her teeth already lost, the same dark skin and red tint to her hair that—
“That’s great auntie Parsec,” Pira says.
“Their first grandchild,” he nods. “First of many, as you know.” Fae’s seen a few pictures of Sol around that age, still making music with wrinkles set in her face and the golden streaks in her hair fading to gray, and fae notes that she’s leaning on a cane. Nomi looks somewhat youthful, with laugh lines in their face and quite a few tattoos along their arms, and Rex is certainly wearing his age with a receding hairline and thick glasses. Pira stares at the picture, the ancestors fae’s never seen so old and the great aunt fae’s never seen so young, drinking in the details.
“She didn’t want to outlive her children,” Sym says. “I didn’t fully understand at the time. Gardeners think differently, experience time differently. Grief isn’t usually something we reckon with.” He lets out a deep breath, gaze fixed on the screen. “Sol was one of my dearest friends. All three of them were, eventually. As hectic as life could be, their house was always full of love. Even moreso when their kids and grandkids were there. It took me a long time to step back into that house after they were gone from it.”
Pira hesitates. “Is it hard to talk about them?”
“Sometimes. Especially at first,” Sym admits. “But it’s a privilege to remember them, and one I’m grateful to carry.”
“You should be like, a biographer,” Pira says. “Like, write about everyone in the settlements. That way no one gets forgotten.”
“I’m afraid there’s some I never had the chance to know,” Sym says, sounding genuinely mournful. “But perhaps I could. Though I would want a human touch, as what we Gardeners focus on isn’t always what humans think is important.” He winks at faer.
“I could help!” Pira agrees immediately.
“After your essay,” he reminds faer.
“Right. Um. I think I want to write about Nomination, actually? Can you tell me more about them?’
Sym beams, his eyes warm. “Sol would’ve loved that. And it would be my pleasure.”