by Sara King
“Joe, do you have to go?” Milar’s mother’s face was red from crying, her strawberry blonde hair falling out of its lazy bun. “Your enlistment contract only said two long-distance trips. You flew that last freighter of Nephyrs out here two years ago—by law you don’t have to go back until your enlistment’s over and you can take your family back with you.”
“Pumpkin,” a muscular—but physically small—man said. Milar was startled to realize it was his father before the Wide. “It’s a special assignment. I get these things back to the Core alive, the guys on top are gonna fix me up with anything I want. We’re talking a homestead, Vala. All I gotta do is fly them home.”
“Let them clone them, for godsake,” his mother said. “Joe, you served your time. They’re your children. You won’t see them for a decade—” She paused to blink at Milar’s younger self, who was stuffing the lid of the salt shaker into his mouth. “Aanaho Ineriho, Miles, you can’t eat that!”
Go home, Miles. They need you there, Milar’s father said.
“I am home,” Milar said, frowning.
Not yet. But I will help you…
“Milar! Milar, come here right now!” The panicked sound of Milar’s mother’s voice from across the yard made a young Milar drop the stick he’d been using to try to hit birds as they flew to the feeder and spin around with his hands behind his back. Milar remembered thinking maybe he’d hit the last one and his mom had seen it.
She just got the news, Milar’s father said. She’s terrified.
“Milar!” his mom said, rushing across the manicured lawn to him. A young Patrick and Caroline trailed along behind her, both looking pale and wide-eyed. In a quick motion, she wrapped the younger Milar in her arms and squeezed him tightly against her chest, sobbing into his shoulder.
“Mom…” Milar’s younger self stammered. “What…?”
It was the Shriekers. As soon as they got out of range of their hive, they started to scream. We couldn’t get turned around in time. We were killing them, so they screamed.
Milar frowned and turned. Behind him, the striking image of his father stood there, watching him. Unlike the greasy, unkempt old man Milar had always known, Joe Whitecliff was clean, with a close shave and his light brown hair shorn into a tight military cut. He wore a sharply-creased black military uniform and spacer’s boots, and he looked like someone used to being in charge. Hesitantly, he asked, “Dad? What the hell is going on?”
But his father wasn’t looking at him—he was looking at his mother. There was sadness in his face, hurt in his sky blue eyes. She asked me not to go, but I did it anyway. Four hundred thousand was a lot of money back then. I thought I could make you boys rich, give you a better place to call home. Slowly, Milar’s father turned to face him. I didn’t listen, and the beast found her, instead.
Milar frowned at his father, mention of ‘the beast’ making his spine prickle unconsciously. “Who are you talking about?”
His father turned back to the scene. He didn’t even let her claim my death benefits. Made her go penniless. Made her think I’d lied, that I was trying to run away with the money.
Milar felt a stab of pain in his chest remembering the news from so long ago, but the scene was already fading.
“Sorry, ma’am. You’ve gotta take the kids and go. Your authorization to live in Rath base housing was revoked.”
He’s lying, Joe-his-father said, sounding agonized.
Milar’s mother’s face was already a thunderhead. “You mean my husband, who was flying a suicide mission for your government, died.”
The Nephyr at the door cocked his head almost in confusion—almost. The slight glitter to his eyes, however, was something that Milar had learned to read over the years, and it betrayed his amusement. “I’m sorry, he never registered you or your children as dependents,” he consulted his pad for a moment, then, looking directly into Milar’s mother’s eyes with total smug satisfaction, said, “or you as his wife.”
A lie! Joe shouted, facing the Nephyr directly, now. I registered her, Bradon, and you know it.
Milar’s mother hesitated, obviously in total shock. “What do you mean?
“It means, collie,” the Nephyr said, stuffing the pad back under his arm, “you’ve got twelve hours to get your crap and crawl back to that hole you came from, or my friends and I are gonna come back and have a little fun with you.” His eyes stopped on Caroline. “Maybe her, too. You colonists breed like vermin anyway—she’s probably already been rolling around with the local farm hands. We’ll show her what a real man can do…”
“Get out,” Milar’s mother said, her voice too cold and quiet for anyone but Milar, who was standing right beside her, to hear. “Right now, you piece of shit.”
The Nephyr’s arm lashed out and he grabbed Milar’s mother’s throat in a single fist. Yanking her forward, he squeezed, making her struggle and choke.
“You,” the Nephyr said, “are nothing but the colonist shitstain on the heel of my boot. I want you, or your daughter, all I’ve gotta do is come find you, and you’re all mine.” He pulled her even closer, so that he could whisper into Milar’s mother’s ear, “How’s that sound, my grubby collie princess? It can be a game of hide and seek. I’m the hunter, you’re my very fuckable prey.”
On instinct, Milar tucked his head and lunged at the Nephyr, hitting him like a linebacker, but instead of connecting, he passed right through him and out the other side.
As if Milar hadn’t even touched him, the Nephyr went on in a whisper against his mother’s ear, “Tell you what. You go run and hide, and one year from now, I’ll come find you. I’ve got another four years on this hellhole, so I’ll look forward to the entertainment. Always love teaching natives on backwards, Podunk places like this just how much I appreciate having to come out here and guard Coalition property from their grubby colonist fingers.” He shoved her away, and Milar’s mother fell to the ground, gasping and choking. Pulling the pad out from under his arm again, the Nephyr made a note. “So let’s see. It’s September nineteenth. Shall we make it an even twentieth…Vala Healthmore?” He snorted at the pad. “Healthmore? Seriously? You guys choose the stupidest names.”
“It’s one of the oldest names on Fortune,” Milar snapped, despite himself.
The Nephyr didn’t even look at him. Grinning, the glittering bastard lowered the pad again. “So. Vala. We’ll give you an extra day to hide, then you’re mine. Have fun, tootz.” Without another word, the Nephyr turned and stalked away, leaving Milar’s mother still choking on the floor. Milar followed him to the exit, but then turned to see if his mother was okay.
Beside his mother’s sobbing form, his father was crouched, eying her with remorse.
Bradon Garren. I played poker with him on Fridays. Bragged to him about how great my wife was, that she was the best thing I’d ever had in bed. I did it even knowing he was a jealous shit.
His father looked up at Milar, mountains of pain crushing him from within. Then one night when the whisky was flowing, he suggested I share her a little bit, told me that collies should be used to it by now, and what could it hurt? I didn’t think about it—I told him he got anywhere near her, I was gonna kill him. He actually thought that was funny, stood up and told me to ‘try, little man’. I was so pissed, I pulled rank. I told him he said another word, I’d make a call over to Ops and have his C.O. take his skin for a week. That made him stop laughing. You know, Nephyrs and their skin? His father briefly looked up at Milar for confirmation.
“I was never a Nephyr,” Milar whispered.
His father didn’t look convinced. Or maybe didn’t care. He turned back to the vision of his wife. Bradon would’ve killed me that night, but there were six other Nephyrs there, and they told him to back off and sober up. One of them was his squad leader, so he left and didn’t come back for a night or two. When he did, he was smiling and laughing just like usual. I thought he’d forgotten.
Milar’s father took a deep breath, then let it out unstea
dily. Bradon didn’t forget, he whispered, reaching out to touch his wife’s face. He was just waiting… Then the scene shifted again.
“Boys, I told you to milk the cow, not roll in its shit!”
Milar, who was still stunned from the last vision, had to struggle a moment to take in the new scene. He and his brother were wrestling in the mucky yard of a farm in the middle of the jungle. Verdant greenery surrounded them on all sides, with only a couple acres having been carved from the alien foliage. Everyone was dirty, Milar and Patrick, especially, because they no longer had access to running water.
“Pat pushed me, Mom!” Milar’s younger self complained. “I was milking.”
“He was not!” Patrick immediately cried. “He was trying to tie a flashlight to the cow’s tail!”
“Liar!” Milar’s younger self grabbed Patrick by the head and shoved him back towards the mucky ground as the cow continued placidly chewing its cud beside them. Patrick started to scream and kick, trying unsuccessfully to free himself. Milar’s younger self almost managed to get his brother’s lips into the dirt before their mom grabbed him and pulled him away.
“Stop it! You two have been nothing but trouble since your father—” She hesitated, her eyes on something walking across the fields towards them. The sound of horror was unmistakable. “Oh no.”
Milar, who stood taller than any of them, could see the Nephyr striding across the plowed furrows, completely careless of what he trampled as he leisurely walked towards them, crisp and pretty in his black Coalition uniform. Milar tightened in recognition, but his younger self still associated those uniforms with friends, people like his uncle and father.
“Miles, Patty, go get your sister and go to the river,” their mother said softly. “Don’t come back until tomorrow morning.”
That had shocked them. “Tomorrow morning?” Milar’s younger double demanded, with the same childish indignance he remembered feeling. “What are we supposed to eat?”
“Go!” his mother screamed. It had been the terror in that scream that jolted them into instant action. They stood up from the muck and bolted, powered by their own fear. They found Caroline at the chicken hutch and, between the two of them, dragged her into the forest with them at a run. They’d huddled by the bank of the river all night, sharing warmth and terror.
Milar remembered the scene vividly, and his fists were knotting as he continued to stand there beside his mother, watching the Nephyr approach.
“Well, that was a merry chase,” the Nephyr said, looking around at the empty yard. “Took me a whole week to figure out which hole you crawled into.” When he turned to look at Milar’s mother, his glittering face was smiling, but there was no pleasantness there. “You wanna do this here or in the house?”
Once a year, Milar’s father said. He came once a year.
“I don’t want to see any more,” Milar whispered.
Soon, Milar’s father told him. I’m pulling you back. Have to follow the line.
Watching the Nephyr grab his mother by the arm and lead her into their home, the bones in his fists started to ache. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”
Not dead, Milar’s father told him. Lost. But I’m here, son. I won’t let it happen to you, too.
“Let what happen to me?” Milar whispered, tears in his eyes.
But the scene was shifting again.
Milar found himself standing beside the front door to the chicken coop of his childhood home. Immediately, he tensed, able to recognize that morning anywhere—there was a slight fog that was catching the morning light in streaks of orange. It hadn’t rained in three weeks, but it had fogged every morning, teasing them as their crops died.
Swallowing down dread, Milar glanced down.
Wideman Joe lay collapsed in the dried muck beside the door, curled in on himself as he babbled gibberish. A chicken was pecking near his face.
They were done experimenting on me, his father told him solemnly. He was standing nearby, looking down at the skinny figure twitching on the ground. Spent eight whole years hooking me up to every machine they had, but they still couldn’t figure out why I lived when the rest died. Released me in the streets of Rath afterwards, and someone eventually recognized me and brought me home.
The door slammed open and Milar’s younger self stepped out of the hutch carrying a dead rooster, almost tripping on the body sprawled there. His face was dark—from, Milar remembered, yet another argument with Patrick, this time over who would pluck a chicken for dinner. Immediately upon seeing his father, he froze, gaze locked on the tattoo on Wideman’s arm. Slowly, Milar’s younger self lifted his gaze to his father’s face. Immediately, he brightened and dropped into the muck to shake him awake.
“Time,” Wideman babbled. “Too much time!”
Milar’s younger form yanked his hands back, recognizing the odd roundness to his father’s eyes.
Patrick, though, didn’t notice. He had been crossing the yard to let the goats out for the day when he saw Milar squatting by their father. Immediately, he spun to scream towards the house, “Mom! Mom!” After all, their mother had stubbornly insisted their father could still be alive, because the coalers had never shown her a corpse. She’d held onto the hope he was coming home, showing her triplets pictures of their father, healthy and happy inside the cockpit or posed beside a gigantic leg of a Yolk freighter. Not once had she mentioned he’d been chosen to ferry Shriekers back to the Core, a task that had always resulted in a ghost ship of dead spacers and dead alien blobs. Still not noticing that their father had the Wide, Patrick raced back to the house, shouting, “Mom! Dad’s home!”
Not home, Joe’s father said, watching Patrick solemnly. Trapped.
“What is this?!” Milar demanded, spinning on his father. “I’m dead, is that it? This is you making me review my life, own up to all my sins before I can cross through the pearly gates?”
No, his father said placidly. He turned away from Patrick to give Milar an appraising glance, then said, Son, you have the Wide.
“Miles, you’re one of the ones they’re looking for.” Patrick’s voice had not yet started to crack from adolescence.
Milar looked down at his younger self, who was hunched over a fishing rod beside the river, his face troubled. “One of who?” his younger self asked, chucking a stone into the water.
“Those kids,” Patrick said. He sounded afraid. “The ones the coalers are looking for. I heard Mom talking with a guy from Deaddrunk. They’re thinking about moving you out there so they can keep you safe.”
Milar’s younger self snorted, but Milar remembered being uncomfortable. “What guy?”
“David Landborn.”
His younger self made a dismissive grunt. “Some dickcheese miner can’t protect us.” Milar remembered vividly the fury he’d felt the last time the Nephyr had come visiting his mother. They’d moved twice since the first time, and he’d still found them both times. The last time, he’d told them he’d extended his stay, and next time he’d be having some fun with Caroline, as well.
“He might be able to protect you, Miles,” Patrick said, sounding hopeful.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Milar said.
Patrick just shook his head. “Mom’s gonna do it. You’re smart, Miles. Way smarter than me. They take kids like you for the Nephyrs.”
Milar’s younger self gave a dismissive grunt, but he knew it was true. When he tried, he could memorize a year of lessons in a couple nights, where it took Patrick months. What he really liked, though, the only stuff that really interested him, was the deadly stuff. Like how to trap rabbits and catch fish and kill starlopes. Things like that just came naturally to him. Survival, hunting, fishing, finding shelter—at twelve, he was already better than most old-timer starlope hunters that came down from the crags only twice a year. Already, he had a stack of fish beside him when Patrick still hadn’t brought one to shore.
“So I can fish,” Milar said, nudging one of the fat, extra-oily genatrout with his boot. �
��That’s not exactly Yolk Baby material, Patty.”
Patrick frowned at him as if he were the most stupid person on the planet. “It’s only ’cause fishing is all you care about. David told Mom he was gonna make you start playing chess.”
Milar’s younger self prickled at the way the matter already seemed to be settled in the adults’ minds. “I’m not going anywhere,” he growled. “You can tell that to Mom.”
“It’d be all three of us,” Patrick said. “Mom doesn’t want Caroline around when the…” he trailed off, swallowing.
Milar watched his younger self’s jaw tighten.
Patrick pressed on, “David said you, me, and Caroline are the only set of multiples where only one of them turned out to be a Yolk Baby. He said there’s special investigators out looking for kids like us. They were saying we might be some sort of key.”
Even back then, Milar knew exactly which key his brother was talking about, and it had suddenly stopped him cold, his entire body prickling with chills and goosebumps. Yolk Babies were supposedly created when the mother consumed raw Shrieker nodules at exactly the right point in a baby’s gestation. And yet, for two identical twins and a fraternal sister to have different outcomes in their development, it defied the popular belief that Babies were simply a result of their environment. The Coalition had spent billions trying to figure out what created Yolk Babies, and if they knew about this exception to the rule, they would have done everything they could to acquire the three of them for study.
Milar, however, kept his response totally nonchalant. “They wouldn’t care about us,” he’d lied, knowing his brother wouldn’t understand the breakthroughs that could be made by studying the three of them. “That Landborn guy was just trying to scare Mom when she was in town with sis.”
“It wasn’t him,” Patrick told his younger self. “It was Tormund Sellic. Back when Mom was selling him that last turkey. He told her she shouldn’t be keeping us kids in one place, that sooner or later somebody was going to talk.”
