by H. A. Titus -
Ten-year-old Pieter Kinsrol flinched as the sharp, tinkling crash indicated that yet another bottle had been thrown against the wall.
"I said to get me some of the old stuff. I'm not drinking this garbage."
Pieter crept to the door of his closet-sized room—a luxury even for the rich on Avenir—and closed it softly. He could still hear his father railing against the servant, the politicians, the Peacekeepers, and anyone else who had offended him lately, but at least it was muffled.
Pieter sat on his bed and pushed the metal window blind to the side. Having a window was, again, a product of his father's wealth. He smiled and pushed his fist against the glass, then splayed his fingers so his entire hand pressed against the cool, smooth surface.
To him, this was how space would feel. Smooth, cool.
Pieter stared down at Eclectia. How would it feel to traverse that rough, red surface?
A transport ship came into view. The metal hulk swung around, surprisingly graceful despite its bulky lines and behemoth size, and bright blue blazed from the thrusters on the back.
Pieter grinned. Forget traveling on the surface. Someday, he'd fly.