Chapter 2

Moab Desert, United North American States

September 2485 - Five days later

-

Somewhere in the depths of the desert, a vintage muscle car sped down a stretch of highway in the bright sunshine. The skies were cobalt blue with thin wisps of cottony clouds trailing across like tracks from great sky-bound tractors. The car itself was a rich electric blue with silver trimming and hubcaps. The convertible top was down, and the three men inside were jamming out to classical music blaring from the radio. All three wore sunglasses and their hair whipped in the warm desert wind.

The three young people in the car were Matt, Devon, and Sam. Matt sat behind the wheel, only nominally driving the artificially-guided car, while Devon rode shotgun and Sam sprawled in the back seat. Two of them shouted along the chorus with practiced ease. "Born to be Wi-i-i-ld...!”

As the vintage Old Rock played on, Sam and Devon laughed aloud and mimed jamming on faux instruments. Matt howled at the sun like a crazed coyote. “Ow, ow-wow-wow! Man, I needed this.”

Devon took a drink from a bottle of soda from a cooler in the back seat and tucked it into their dashboard cup holder. “Hell yeah, brotha.” They continued jamming out to the music.

The car screamed down the four-lane rural highway, virtually solo in the vast expanse of the western American desert. Then Devon sat upright. They were nearing a distant space launch facility as the car raced for the horizon. Devon and Matt watched awestruck as a rocket blasted off into the azure skies above. The sonic boom hit them a few moments later. Matt let out a long low whistle as the craft soars skyward.

Devon voiced their shared curiosity. “Where do you think they're headed?”

“Who knows?” said Matt. “There's a lot of new mining ventures opening up out there, y'know. Maybe they’re headed for one of those new prospect stations out in the Uranus sector.”

Devon turned toward him, one eyebrow raised. “Like they’d waste a shuttle to take some long-haul miners out to the ass end of space. Uranus is too deep into Frontier space anyway. Too close to the Alliance, you ask me.” They turned back to watch the rocket's exhaust push it toward the heavens waiting beyond that crystal clear sky. “My guess is that it's an exploration team outbound for an archeological dig out in the Kuiper Belt. I heard the Pathfinder Initiative some choice new A'Dreyan ruins somewhere around Haumea.”

Sam cut in a second later without sitting up in his seat. “Or, they're just a class of spacer trainees on their way to Luna for EVA school. Either of you gonna consider that option?”

Matt took his eyes off the rising rocket exhaust for half a second to look at Sam in the rearview, frowning. Then he nodded slowly, considering the possibility. “Yeah, maybe.” He grinned wide. “You guys remember our first EVA training classes? When I almost puked the first time they put me in that deep space simulator thing? Remember D.I. Tomlinson telling me I was literally a worthless puke?”

Devon smiled at the memory and even Sam cracked a small grin. “As I remember it, you did puke,” said Devon. “Pissed off the D.I.s pretty bad, too. Thought Tomlinson was gonna have an aneurysm.”

Sam lets out a single harsh laugh at that one. Matt just grinned sheepishly and kept his eyes glued to the road. “Yeah,” he said after a long pause to reflect. “Those were the days, huh? We were like three princes, young, dumb, and strong. And livin' the dream.”

Sam spoke up, still leaning back with his head on his folded hands. “Then not much has changed, huh? Devon's still young, you're still dumb, and I'm still strong.”

Devon let out a peal of laughter, but Matt just rolled his eyes. Still, a small grin found its way to his lips. “And what about living the dream?” Devon asked after a moment of reflection.

Sam hesitates in answering. He turns his head to the now receding distant launch facility. Another rocket's boosters come alive a moment later. The distant flash glints off his dark sunglasses. “You can save the dreams for yourselves, kids,” he mutters quietly, half to himself.

In the front seat, Devon and Matt exchanged knowing looks. Behind them, Sam just turned and leaned back in his seat as the car sped off down the highway. A moment later, he sat back up, turning fully in his seat to look back up at the ascending second rocket. His dark eyes peeked over the rims of his glasses as the afternoon skies and the distant spacecraft reflected off of them. His expression was grave, but resolute.

Ahead on the road, a border checkpoint displays a sign with harsh stenciled letters: “YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE UNION OF PACIFIC STATES”

“LAS VEGAS - 200 KILOMETERS”

“BARSTOW - 440 KILOMETERS”

“LOS ANGELES - 620 KILOMETERS”

“PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY.” The car raced gracefully down the road, racing the sundown.

-

Baja California, Pacific States Federation

September 2485 - a few hours later

Later that day, as the sun sank low in the sky over the Pacific horizon, the car pulled off another stretch of sunbaked desert road onto a dirt path leading to a cliff overlooking a beach somewhere in Baja California. The great ocean lapped at the sand, and seabirds drifted overhead, lazily adding their voices to the wind.

A quaint and cozy-looking shack composed of all manner of spare materials–corrugated steel, plasticine sheets, cheap cinder blocks–sat tucked into the near edge of a small cove. The shack jutted out over the ocean on a set of pilings, and a tiny fishing boat was suspended over the water on a riser.

Matt manually drove the car down the narrow access road leading down from the bluffs and came to a stop next to a beat-up tool shed. He honked the horn a few times as he, Devon, and Sam piled out.

“Mr. Wastani?” Matt called out. “Hey, Mr. Wastani!”

Across the car, Devon cupped their hands to their mouth. “You home, Jon?”

The trio walked toward the shack, then started to disperse as they searched the surroundings for its owner. Suddenly a voice called out to them from the bluffs atop the beach. It was rich in tone and bright with cheer. “My Gods, they'll let anyone on this beach, won't they?” The three twenty-somethings looked up to see Devon’s uncle Jon Wastani beaming down at them from the bluffs. He carried a large net slung over his shoulder and a box of fishing tackle with the other hand. His smile was radiant even from a distance.

Devon’s smile was just as bright. “Hey, Uncle Jon! How've you been?”

The older man made his way down the footpath to the beach, careful not to stumble and fall head over ass to the sand below. He spoke up as he approached. “Oh, you know, same old story. Getting older, tryin’ to stay out of trouble. But always keepin' it real.” He reached them and dropped his fishing gear on the sand before putting his hands on his hips, still smiling. He was tall, athletic, and good-looking, but clearly careworn and weathered, as if by many voyages to sea. Or more accurately, across the solar system.

His curly black hair was graying at the temples and he had a short beard of salt and pepper stubble. His eyes were as bright gray as always. He wore frayed brown cargo shorts and a tattered old sleeveless shirt that showed off muscular arms. His right upper bicep bore a military-looking tattoo: a crossed sword and lightning bolt over a shield–the insignia of the Interplanetary Defense Corps’ Special Reconnaissance Command.

Devon stepped forward and Jon held the younger Wastani’s gaze, his own smile fading to a grin. A familiarity known only to blood relatives passed between them. “It's good to see you, old man,” said Devon.

Jon started to speak, but his eyes welled up with unbidden tears. He then threw his arms out and pulled his brother’s child into a tight, almost fatherly embrace. Devon returned it with vigor. Jon patted them on the back, still misty-eyed. “It’s good to see you, too, kid.”

They separated enough for Jon to get a good look at Devon. He wiped his eyes but kept the other hand on Devon's shoulder as if to make sure he was really there. “You're looking good, D. You all are.” He turned to address the others, his smile brightening as he spoke. “Always good to see you, Sam, Matt.”

He nodded at them and they nodded back, smiling. “Good to see you, too, Mr. Wastani,” said Matt.

Sam grinned. “Likewise.”

Jon smiled and poked a finger at the peach fuzz on Sam’s own face. “See you're trying to grow a tough guy beard of your own, huh?” Sam scratched at his chin as the other two smiled awkwardly.

Devon waved a hand. “Man, forget about that. You got my last message, right? Said we'd be in about this time?” They looked around the small outpost of humanity. “Place looks ratty as ever.”

Jon nodded. “Yeah, I got your message all right. I was just taking some of my catch over to the local medicine woman. She's got four kids, and one is down with a bad flu, so she's kind of tied up this week.” He shrugged. “I told her I'd bring her some food for her and her kids. That’s the least I can do, anyway.”

Matt beamed. “Always the gentleman, huh Mr. Wastani?”

Jon pulled Matt in close and rubbed his knuckles against the younger man's scalp. Matt squirmed but remained smiling good-naturedly. “How many times have I told you? It’s just ‘Jon.’”

Sam stepped in and extended his hand. “Sure thing, Commander Wastani.”

Jon released Matt and took Sam’s hand in a firm handshake. “I can deal with that.”

He shook his head and grinned at Devon as the two of them shared in Sam’s little in-joke. “Well, whatever,” said Jon after a moment. “Enough of the formalities! C'mon, let's get inside, I'm sure you're all hungry from the road. How does fish and chips sound? My old family recipe. Fresh caught fish, too!”

Matt’s eyes widened in anticipation. “You don't have to ask me twice!”

The four of them shared yet another hearty laugh as Jon led the three younger men towards the shack and their awaiting dinner. The great Pacific rolled in and out nearby, providing the mood music. They are all hundreds of miles from civilization, and many times further still from the cares of Solar society.

-

Baja California, Pacific States Federation

September 2485 - Three days later

Sometime later, after they had their share of partying on the beach and swimming in the surf, the three best friends sat on the sand next to the shack, relaxing in the light of the first quarter moon. Jon was inside, working on an after dinner snack. His antique radio played a mix of oldies and classical Mexicana music.

Sam laid back on a beach towel, hands behind his head, watching the sky with muted interest. Devon and Matt played a game of cards by lantern light a few paces away. Devon deliberated over their cards a moment too long, so Matt cocked his head and began to lay into them. “C'mon, dude, you gonna put some cards down. You gonna make a bet, what?”

Devon eyed him narrowly but said nothing; Matt sighed. “I’m getting old quick over here.”

Devon smirked. “I'm just weighing my options, O’ Ye of Little Patience.”

Matt grinned likewise. “Look, I know you've only got one of a few hands there. We've been through this before: poker isn't chess, you can't just logic your way through it and expect to win every time.”

Devon’s smirk grew into a wide grin. The fact that they were always triumphant in any game of chess played against Matt and most against Sam was a great source of pride, and consternation for their friends. “Yeah?” they said. “Well, I'd at least expect to win a few times. Just a few, y'know?”

Matt shook his head, still grinning. He sighed explosively as he shuffled his own hand around. “Whatever you say, my friend. The outcome will be the same.”

Devon eyes him again, eyebrow raised. They cracked a faint grin, before dropping their cards onto the folded towel the pair of players were using as a makeshift gaming table. The hand they dropped was a Queen-straight-high-flush. Devon grinned as Matt looked down at the cards, blinking stupidly. “So, what do you say about that?” they said with relish. “That the outcome you were looking for? Boo-yah.”

Matt rubs his chin thoughtfully, eyebrows raised, and sighed as he checked and rechecked his own cards. He eyed Devon suspiciously for a moment before his face brightened into a raucous grin. He threw down his own cards: a straight royal flush. “Skiddly-bop-mm-dada! Boo-yah that, good buddy!”

Devon stares blankly down at the winning hand Matt had produced seemingly from thin air. They sat back and threw up their hands, more in resignation than in defeat. “I just don't get it.”

“What don't you get?” asked Matt. “How I whupped your ass, again? I'm just lucky, that's all.”

Devon nodded slowly, smirking. “Oh no, I'm well aware of how you always win. You cheat like an A.I. tax machine on a rich guy's returns. There’s no way you had those cards that whole time.”

Matt sat back himself, putting his hand over his heart and fluttering his eyelids to feign hurt feelings. “I'm crushed. How could you point such a dreadful accusation my way?”

Devon raised an eyebrow, still smirking. “How? Oh, I dunno, 'cause it's true.”

Matt held up a hand, index finger raised. “Nah, dude. Not at all.”

“Uh-huh,” Devon said sardonically. “What I really don't get is, if you really did know how things were gonna turn out, why keep up the game? Why put on an act like you were gonna let me win?”

Matt raises a finger in a mock explanatory gesture. “Ah, but you see, sometimes that's the whole point, isn’t it? If you can see what's coming, even if you're sure it's the end, why not go out in style?” He leaned forward to begin gathering up the cards. “Leave it all on the playing field, so to speak.”

Devon stared at him, stony-faced. “Damn, that’s a remarkably bleak analogy you just served up.”

Matt laughed. “Yeah, I guess. But sometimes the only way to win is to keep the other guy playing, eh?”

Devon smirked as Matt gathered up the cards. “Been reading those game theory books I lent you?”

Matt says nothing, only wiggling his eyebrows by way of response. Just then, Jon stepped out from the shack and called out: “All right, guys, crab cakes are ready!”

Devon and Matt both rose to head in for the evening treat. Matt turned to face Devon as they both headed for the shack. “Oh, by the way.” He reached up into the sleeve of his Hawaiian shirt and pulled out a few extra cards. Wiggling his eyebrows once again, he waved them back and forth in Devon's face. “I don't ever cheat, D. I just know how to make my own luck.”

Devon punched him in the shoulder as both of them laughed boisterously. “Jackass.”

They passed by Sam, who remained reclined on the sand, watching as the moon passed across the star-studded coastal sky. Matt nudged him with his foot as they stopped next to him. “Hey, didn't you hear? Food's ready.” His face brightened. “Can’t miss more of Jon’s seafood, can we?”

“So go have some, why don't you,” said Sam, scowling.

Devon and Matt exchanged another worried look. “You don't want any?” asked Devon.

“I’m good.”

Matt was oblivious as always. “C'mon man, it's crab cakes! You've had Jon's crab cakes before, and these will be fresh out of the ocean!”

Sam got up on his elbows and glared at them. “So go have some already!”

Matt and Devon reluctantly obliged, leaving Sam to sulk on the sand as they headed on to the shack. As they left him, he lays back on the sand and, after a few moments, reaches into the button-down pocket of his tunic. He produces a broken shard of military dog tag, embossed with the name, “TASKARO, MICHAEL A.”

__________

The interior of the shack was lit by a mix of Chinese-style lanterns and retro wire bulbs on strings. The glow these cast was warm and homey, like some kitschy neighborhood grill. The blue light of the moon above the beach beyond the windows was ghostly by comparison, as if the inside of the shack was its own world.

Devon, Matt, and Jon sat or stood around the makeshift kitchen munching on homemade crab cakes. Matt and Jon shared stories, or rather, Jon regaled Matt with old tall tales while Matt eagerly ate them up with regular interjections. Devon leaned against the fridge and stared out the window at the darkened beach beyond. They could barely see Sam’s silhouette against the flickering light of the lanterns.

Jon was in the middle of a story of his glory days, sometime in one of the frontier wars. “...so there we were, right? Devon's father and me, and a couple of other operators, all trapped with little to no cover, surrounded by Alliance shock troopers. No way out, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Matt chimed in. “Had to be about a hundred of 'em, right?”

Jon laughed. “More like two hundred, easy. Anyway, we had to make contact with the pickup shuttle and get to a safe LZ before the enemy pinned us all the way down, or we'd have been dead for sure. Yeah, if it hadn't been for Max I would have died on that little rock, no doubt.” He came up short and grew melancholy by degrees. “Wasn't the first time your old man saved my ass, Devon. Or the last.”

Devon turned slightly at the mention of their name. They meet their uncle's suddenly somber gaze with resolve in their own eyes. “You ever gonna tell me how he died?”

Jon hesitated for several long seconds. His failure to speak told volumes. He sighed and looked down at the ground, swishing the beer in his bottle as he finally worked up something to say. “Like I said, he saved my skin more times than I can count. I just wish...” He trailed off, rubbing his eyes, and Devon noticed he'd been welling up with tears again. The subject of Devon's father's death has always been a touchy subject between them, and one of the few things that could make a naturally smooth operator like Jon become emotional. Jon cleared his throat. “Just wish I could have been there when he really needed me, is all.”

Devon and Matt said nothing as Jon continued looking anywhere but at his brother’s child. Matt reached out to shake the older man’s shoulder reassuringly a moment later.

Devon took that opportunity to spring his idea. “Jon, do you… Do you think you could talk to Sam? I think he's feeling exactly what you are right now. That's part of why I made him come with us out here.”

Matt brightened at the mention of his and Devon’s friend. “Yeah, he almost stayed home. Who knows where he'd be wallowing now if he hadn't come with us…”

Jon looked at them both in turn, nodding. “So it's his brother again? I guess it is that time of year.”

Devon nodded, expression solemn. “Yeah. Mike’s birthday would've been in just a few weeks.”

Jon sighed and put his beer down on the kitchen counter. He stretched his limbs with some effort and made his way to the door overlooking the moonlit beach. “I'll go see if I can put him right.”

“I know you can, Jon. If anyone can, it's gotta be you.”

Jon waved a hand over his shoulder in acknowledgment as he passed through the open door and stepped down onto the sand. Devon watched as their uncle walked toward Sam, the lights of the shack falling down his back until finally he, too, all but disappeared into that strange otherworld beyond the walls.

“You think he’ll be okay?” asked Matt from next to the small kitchen island.

“Yeah,” replied Devon. “He’s tough. Just needs to see he’s not alone, is all.”

“Are you talking about our best friend or your uncle there, D?”

Devon said nothing. For once, they weren't sure of what to say. It had been a long time since they’d thought of such things. Then again, it had been a long few years, for all of them. For everybody.