Ten years and they will be growing as tall as the room is wide, and learning goodbig astrometry and politics. The politics they have here is just enough to sharedividefate their foodmeat

and finish a fightbroilstruggle without anyone being murdered. There’s one planet to measure. The only subject Olaf enjoyed at school was history. He knows that the world is now expanding faster again,

and that new speeds bring newer worlds, channels to draindry Orcadia until all that waitstaylives is history: station gone to ruindestruction, emptyabandoned hulks. So maybe this child will want to break

the next speed barrier, or the next? In this little bedbunk, dreaming of cities, dreaming of meaning more? Or dreaming a love for a pinefadewithering placedistancepartwhile? And which of these futures is the most brokenrubbishruined?

Gunnie Margitsbairn nyargs at thir mither

“Ach mither!” thay say. “Thoo kens A’m waantan

tae sail wi thee! Whit wey will thoo

no tell the Ting tae pit me on

thee yole?” The week’s Ting is meant

tae gyde the staetion’s folk atween

wirk thir waantan an wirk at’s needed,

but Gunnie’s petitioned tae tak tae the Lights

fer a puckle o year an nivver been.

Thir mither stirs the protein soup

an says feenty-thing. “Mither!”

Gunnie’s voyce is clangan aff

the thin waas o the quaaters thay share.

An Margit turns. “I waant gets notheen,”

sheu says like spittan feeskid maet.

“An the Lights gets notheen an aa. Hid’s me

at’s keepid thoo fae the bleudy yoles.”

Gunnie’s skrek isno oot

thir thrapple whan Margit lifts the speun.

“Stoop! Dinno thoo come tae me

wi thee waant.” Margit ladles soup,

ignoran Gunnie’s hawie glower.

Sheu scraeps the pot an disno waste

a thowt. As Gunnie brattles oot,

thir mither taks thir bowl an aets.

Gunnie, Margit’s child, naggrumblefaulttaunts their mother

“Ach, mother!” they say. “You know I wantneed to sail with you! Whathowwherewhy won’t you tell the Council to assign me to your boat?” The weekly Council is meant

to manageguidecontrol the station’s people between work they want and work that’s needed, but Gunnie’s petitioned to work gathering Lights for several years and never been.

Their mother stirs the protein soup and says nothing. “Mother!” Gunnie’s voice is clanging off the thin walls of the quarters they share.

And Margit turns. “I wantneed gets nothing,” she says like spitting putridmouldy foodmeat. “And the Lights gets nothing either. It’s me that’s kept you off the bloody boats.”

Gunnie’s yellscreech hasn’t left their throat when Margit lifts the spoon. “Quiet! Don’t come to me with your wantneed.” Margit ladles soup,

ignoring Gunnie’s palewan scowlstare. She scrapes the pot and doesn’t waste a thoughtmorsel. As Gunnie crashrushstorms out, their mother takes their bowl and eats.

Øyvind Grower an Eynar o the Hoose tak a eveneen class

Thay wir bairns at the skeul taegither,