Pliny held up the sheet of paper, the word imbued upon it in his thin handwriting, and waited.

“Stu-” I said, “Stud… Student.”

“Correct!” He said, a smile playing across his face, “Student. Four week’s lessons, Horatius, and you’re already sounding out complex words. Not to mention that you already have most the history absorbed, which takes up the bulk of the lessons. I suppose you did have somewhat of an advantage though, what with all the gardening.”

We were in Pliny’s apartment, his wife Clea listening from the other room as she finished daily chores and prepared for bed, and Pliny sitting with me in their living room. It was bigger than I was accustomed to- my father’s appartment had been only three rooms, consisting of his, mine, and a closet. There were plenty of vacant rooms about the ship, but very few with space, and Pliny’s was one of them.

Since my incident with Nean I had come to a near full recovery, all that remained of the accident being a small circular scar in the center of my forehead, just above my nose and between my eyes. I’d spent a few days in the doctor’s care, though remembering them was difficult as I tried to focus.

“Look here, son.” The head doctor had said while Hannah pressed a combination of ice and freshly cut herbs to my swollen face. I’d likely helped grow the herbs, and the ice was from the edge of the ship, near where the Hand of God had struck and could be collected off of the walls.

“Look here,” He repeated, when my eyes failed to focus, “This is no falling injury. Bruises like that don’t show up on your ribs from a small tumble, neither does spit end up in your hair, nor a head injury to this degree. I’m going to need you to tell me what happened, so I can properly report it in.”

“Was walking, decided to jump around in the light hall just like when I was younger, and I tipped on the cart.” I answered.

“And I became a doctor by drinking piss,” He answered, “I need you to report the name, or else this could happen again, to someone else. He will know justice.”

For a moment, I believed him. For a moment, I almost let Nean slip out of my mouth, and put the matter in his hands. But then he spoke again.

“Trust me, son, an act like this deserves at least a year of being a porter.”

And the thought of spending every day with Nean for the next year was so unbearable, I was only able to say two more words: “I fell.”

But that was a month ago, and in the space of that month, I’d had my lessons with Pliny to take my mind off my injuries. He’d started with an interrogation, demanding to know how my father had taught me to spell, or where I had picked up the art. And he had laughed when I sheepishly told him the answer, his eyes smiling, and asking if I could return each day at eight. I nodded, and he spoke again.

“There’s work ahead of you, Horatius, and you’re still behind Segni in many areas. But I’d rather have an eager student that a more experienced one. For now though, let’s keep this between us. I will teach you only for the sake of you learning- what you do with the knowledge is your decision. I cannot guarantee that you will become a historian in name. However, I can make you one at heart, and better yet, mind.”

So I learned the letters that I had become so familiar with, understanding how to pick them off the paper and transform them into the auditory format that I was so accustomed with using. And soon, Pliny lent me a small book, one that I was to read every night before bed in my quarters.

Stolen novel; please report.

“It’s for learning,” He said, handing it to me, “It won’t always make sense, but it will help you adjust to sight reading. Go on, read me the title, get started.”

“One Fish, Two Fish. What exactly is a fish?” I asked.

“We have some idea, but believe that they must have existed in the past, before the hand of God. Most the books, especially this one,” He thumped a larger one, one I later would know as the bible, “Seem to mention them. Apparently they are for catching, so pay attention, Horatius. For many of the greatest learners were fishermen, and I will teach you to fish.”

So I rehearsed One Fish, Two Fish. And soon I moved on to other books, books slightly more complex, with more words that I couldn’t understand. Sometimes it took my entire concentration to follow the storyline, so when we moved on to other books, books that Pliny called manuals, I was far more interested.

“This,” He said, after two years of lessons, “This is the Guide to Gardening, which lists many of the techniques we employ today to ensure that we are able to feed the ship. Perhaps it could use a good read through from someone like yourself who knows more on the subject, and could see if there is anything else we have missed.”

So I read, and I learned. I found out that it was light that made plants bear fruit, not just water and soil, which explained why some students had better success than others in different areas of the gardening fields closer to the lights. And I learned other things, descriptions of how to rub plants together in ways to make bigger yields, that planting the seeds from bigger vegetables instead of eating them would lead to better yields.

And as I studied under Horatius, my body began to change. From my year as a porter, my muscles had grown tighter, able to lift more than before. And with more food, I’d grown, just as plants grew more with more light. When I returned to gardening, they’d treated me as an outcast, giving me grunt labor for the first three years, essentially working as a porter again in the fields. So by fourteen years of age, Nean no longer made comments when I walked past, my shoulders broader than his. And by fifteen, Skip decided to give me ownership over a small portion of the garden.

“Horatius, it’s been years since you’ve been in my class,” He said, calling me to the side of the fields where he monitored activity, “And I am a forgiving man. I believe in second chances, and now I am offering you one. A chance to own your own piece of land. A chance to be a respectable gardener. Are you ready to take this responsibility?”

“Why are you doing this, Skip?” I asked, my voice considerably deeper than the last time we had talked at length, and his face turned red.

“Are you not exited for the opportunity, Horatius ? I believe that you’ve had time to reflect on your past transgressions and poor marks, and-”

“Cut it, Skip,” I answered, “I know you’re not doing this because you want to. Why are you doing this?”

Skip sighed, “Look, Ann is getting old. She works in the center of the garden and complains that the bright lights hurt her eyes there, and she’s never able to carry enough water there to properly water the plants. No one else wants the spot.”

“I’ll accept under one condition, then, Skip.”

“You’ll what? Accept? I’m giving you the chance to turn your life around. You should take it gladly!”

“No, I’ll take it under one circumstance. That I manage my garden on my own, with none of your supervision, and none of your intervention.”

“Ridiculous! I won’t have you ruining a perfect square of soil because you can’t garden. I won’t leave you unatended, Horatius, I absolutely won’t.”

“Fine, then I don’t want it.”

“You have to take it, no one else will.”

“Then agree to my conditions. I’ll even make you a bet, Skip. If my plot of land produces three times as much as when Ann worked it, then for a full month you can have half of my rations. Half, and you choose first.”

Skip looked at me, his eyes narrowed, chewing on his lip.

“Fine,” He spat, “Fine, be difficult. But when you fail, I’ll be taking those rations. And you’ll be doing exactly as I say from then on, Horatius. You hear me? You-”

But I was already walking away, reviewing the Guide To Gardening in my mind. For twenty years, Ann had worked that spot, and for twenty years it had likely been neglected. I’d seen her work, not taking care that every drop of water found its home, spacing her plants too far apart, walking slow from a combination of old bones and general apathy.

Which meant for twenty years, the spot with the brightest lights in the room had been mismanaged.

And now it was mine.