My father.
Me.
I’d seen a lot of barns on a lot of different planets since then. One thing that’s standard in any barn—round topped or pitched roof, old or new, red or gray—is the sweet scent of animal sweat mixed with fresh mown hay. A scent I’ve missed without even realizing it.
Funny how sharp memories can be when they’re connected with smells and how that same smell can bring fond memories forward to replace the bad. I can almost see my friends and I leaping from the loft into fresh cut hay, challenging each other to see who can jump the highest, the furthest. Who can do double somersaults...
“Who you got there, Con?”
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. At first all I can make out is a shadow moving toward us. The shadow slowly resolves into a hulk of a man wearing the same type of clothes as the boy. Only the man’s carrying a rifle in one hand, tipped behind him just enough I can’t quite identify the make or model.
“I found this guy in the field, Pa. He killed a cabby.”
Phelan Lucas pulls off his hat and wipes his forehead, looking at me all the while. He’s older than I remember. What’s left of his hair is steel gray. Wrinkles fill his leathery face. The wrinkles aren’t laugh lines, though. They’re the lines of a life hard-earned. The life of a man who doesn’t fool around with games, who believes that anyone or anything who threatens his family or his livelihood is better off six feet under.
Like a bug under a microscope, Lucas examines me from head to toe without moving. I could tell him my name, but I wait, wanting him to reach out to me, to somehow crack the shell of numbness that’s grown so thick I can no longer feel the world. His gaze meets mine, probing, assessing. All the years of training have built a self-assurance into my body that’s almost impossible to hide. He sees this confidence. Knows I could kill him and the boy right now if I wanted.
And he’s not intimidated. “You carrying any weapons?
No partial truths here. The only way to deal with a man like Phelan Lucas is with total honesty. I move slow. Pull my right pant leg up high enough to show the edge of my ankle sheath. Let the pant leg slide back into place. The boy chokes back a startled yelp, but Lucas says nothing.
Sounds outside are muffled, like someone covered the barn with a heavy blanket. A large animal snorts somewhere deeper in the shadows. A hen cackles for a moment, then goes quiet. I can hear Con breathing—quick, fast little breaths that betray his anxiety. His father takes slow, deep breaths. Quiet breaths.
Breaths like mine.
I let a touch of a smile reach my eyes. Lucas’s brow furrows in puzzlement.
“I know you,” he says. Then his brow clears and he laughs. The end of the rifle dips down toward the floor. “You’re Hendal’s boy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” I should feel relief, but the shell hasn’t cracked. Not yet.
“Didn’t recognize you with that clown suit on and all.” He pokes at the cabby’s shirt.
“I borrowed this uniform from a man who doesn’t need it anymore.”
Lucas’s gaze gets a bit more appraising. I begin to feel less like a bug and more like a mouse beneath a cat’s paw. I lift my hands just slightly to ease his mind.
“I’ve had a bit of a run in with the authorities, Mr. Lucas. Seems they and I don’t see eye to eye anymore.” I visited my daddy’s grave on the way out to this place. Tried to tell him he was right about the ’Mechs. Right about everything.
“Your pa always said you’d come back. Too bad he ain’t here...” Phelan Lucas clears his throat. “So you’re a deserter now, huh?”
Deserter.
The word rings in my ears. A man who should have killed himself rather than bring shame on House Kurita. Bad enough for a Combine MechWarrior to fail his duty—such a man would be dealt a swift death—but for DEST, death would take its sweet torturous time.
I dip my chin in an almost nod, feel my face flush with heat.
“You weren’t never no ’Mech.” Con’s voice is filled with loathing.
“That’s enough, boy.” Lucas takes a deep breath and crams his hat back onto his head. He tucks the rifle into the crook of his arm and steps forward, right hand outstretched.
“Good to see you.”
I take his hand in a firm grip, matching his strength, but not offering more. “Likewise, Mr. Lucas.”
Lucas chuckles and I smile.
This almost seems too easy, but sometimes life’s gifts are that way. You struggle along a rocky path, climbing mountain after mountain, and then suddenly the path opens up on a wide meadow and it’s easy going—until you reach the next mountain.
“I need a place to stay for awhile. Just until I get my feet back under me.”
“We don’t hold with deserters ‘round here. ’Mech patrols shoot ‘em deader than a squashed roach.” Con’s scowl deepens.
Lucas raises an eyebrow, puts a hand on Con’s shoulder.
“Go see if your ma needs help with supper.”
Con’s face grows more sullen. He hangs the pitchfork on the wall and heads out the barn door without saying a word. Lucas turns back to me.
“Look, I got enough trouble with ’Mech patrols nosing around. If they find out I got a deserter hiding out...”
“I watched a friend die, Mr. Lucas.” How do you explain collapsing containment fields and ’Mech reactors self-destructing in a fiery inferno to a non-military man? “Her ’Mech burned itself up from the inside out with her trapped inside. Three of my lance went down with her.”
Amazing how empty words can be when there’s no feeling attached. I want to ache inside, to cry, but all I feel is nothingness, the cold void of space.
Lucas puts a hand on my shoulder, gives
