Zero World by Jason M. Hough Page A

paper. “Your astonishing intellect implies a rather exceptional education. And yet you never learned where your own home was?”
    “So?”
    “A bit odd.”
    “Not really.”
    Melni frowned. “Can you elaborate?”
    “Look,” Alia said. “If you’re trying to find out where my parents are, forget it. They passed away. I stayed until the supplies ran out and wandered. North, as luck would have it. I’ve explained this many times and don’t care to continue doing so.”
    “My regret, this is not what I sought. I wish to understand the education you received, given the mind it led to.”
    For a long pregnant second Alia stared right into her. Then she nodded, once. She was used to questions. Bored of them.
    Melni went on. “You were schooled at home by parents of, it’s fair to say, humble background.” When Alia made no response Melni continued. “I am curious why they focused so absolutely on certain topics—physics, mathematics, chemistry—and shunned things like history and geography, as you have previously remarked. It is…well, at a minimum I am sure you can agree this is an unusual approach. The results dispel any argument, of course, but…well, I suppose what I want to know is what you think of it now. Should we raise our children with similar regimens? Are we wasting our time teaching our youth about history? About great works of art and literature?”
    “Of course not,” the woman said. She ran a finger along the lock of hair pressed diagonally across her forehead. “My parents were…” She paused, puffed out her cheeks again. “They weren’t well educated themselves. And in my case, they simply made do with what they had, which wasn’t much. Beyond the basics, once they’d taught me to read I was simply given full access to any book they had or could find. Some topics were simply underrepresented. And, as a result, I suppose, I was never really interested in those things. It’s actually quite embarrassing, if you want to know the truth. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve suggested an idea to my staff only to be told it was tried fifty years ago, or a hundred, sometimes a thousand! This is why I’m so grateful for the people I work with, and why I spend so many nights in the Think Tank simply reading old books. After all, those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it.”
    Melni’s journalistic instinct took pen to paper at the remark. “Can I quote you on that? That is a lovely phrase.”
    Alia grinned at the request. “I surprise myself sometimes. By all means, quote away.”
    “Gratitude.” She scribbled down the words.
    There came a soft knock at the door. Unbidden, two armed private guards strode in, weapons drawn and aimed at the floor. Melni glanced back to Alia. The amused pride had gone, replaced by a sudden coolness.
    Alia, eyes never leaving Melni, leaned to one side and opened a drawer. From within she pulled a single brown envelope. With calm deliberation she unwound the twine clasp and folded back the flap, revealing a stack of photoprints inside. Like a dealer of cards she fanned them out on the surface of the desk facing Melni. “Now,” she said. “Perhaps I could ask some questions?” The woman steepled her fingers and pressed them to her lips. “How well did you know Onvel Harginns?”
    The words crossed the space between them like an arrow in flight. Melni stared in horror at the images before her. They were all of the same thing. Onvel and Melni, together. On a park bench. Seatedacross from each other on a tram. At dinner, the night he’d expressed feelings for her that Melni did not exactly rebuff, though she felt nothing for him romantically. She’d needed him, nothing more. “I…” she started, lamely.
    “I’ll rephrase my original question,” Alia said, all patience drained from her voice. “What was the nature of your relationship with Onvel Harginns?”
    “Friends,” Melni whispered.
    Alia leaned over and tapped one picture in