Honor's Reserve (Galaxy Mavericks Book 1)

by Michael La Ronn

He always tried to pretend that he was coming home for the first time when he returned from tours, tried to imagine how someone might think about his planet when they saw it for the first time. Maybe it was nostalgia, or just pride.

  But as he slid down a rocky path toward a tram at the foot of the hill, he told himself that this was the last time he was coming home as a Guard officer. What would it be like to just be a civilian now? For six years, he’d deferred the thought, thinking of only his duties.

  Now, it hit him hard, and it was the only thing he could think about.

  As he made it to the tram station, a raised platform with a white roof and polycarbonate walls to shield passengers from the western wind, he decided it would be a good idea to surprise his parents.

  He jogged up the steps to the platform and checked the run times on a digital screen.

  Just in time.

  A blue tram hustled into the station and screeched to a stop. He entered and found a seat in the back of the tram, a bench underneath a warm window. As the tram pulled off, he rested his arm on the windowsill and watched the dusty terrain speed by. The desert-like plains ringed with mountains whistled past, like a scene from a western. Then the tram entered a dark tunnel that descended in a long, sloping slant.

  The tram bounced along the tracks and the wheels screamed as it pushed through the shadows.

  When it exited, into the city of pods, he raised his sunglasses and watched the city in real color.

  The city looked like rows and rows of gleaming ball bearings. The streets were arranged in concentric circles around the pods, and cars rushed down them in orderly lines. Above, a military ship, green and gray, eased over a suburb, its engines roaring like white noise.

  The tram stopped on a raised platform over a busy street. He climbed off and followed a thin crowd of people down the marbled steps onto the street.

  The sunlight seemed brighter here. The wind blew, a slight chill on the sunny day.

  He stood on the corner and tried to decide between hailing a cab or shopping for a gift first.

  No point bringing his mom food. There was always plenty of that, though his dad loved a box of wings from Jamaican Me Pizza every now and again.

  He scanned the storefronts across the street, metal pods with sliding automatic doors and brightly colored signs above them.

  He settled on a flower shop.

  ***

  He left the flower shop with the fattest flower basket he’d ever seen. It was shaped like a rectangle, with a wide handle. Pink azaleas hung over the sides, along with lush green plants with thick, triangular leaves.

  The florist, a blonde with a ponytail and wearing a gray apron, had asked him how much he had to spend. Grayson told her, and she had returned a few minutes later with the basket.

  Grayson smiled wide. He imagined it on the dinner table, smelling all lush and floral. He imagined the look on his mother’s face when he brought it through the door.

  Somehow, it might make telling her the story of the slave ship more bearable.

  But he didn’t want to think about that.

  He decided to forego a taxi, walking down the quiet streets of downtown instead. The basket wasn’t too heavy; he could bear it. Plus, he didn’t mind the curious looks of the women he passed, old and young alike, as they glanced first at the flowers, then at his uniform. They all smiled. He kept walking, his gaze focused ahead and a quiet smile on his face.

  ***

  The Hathaway Place development was only a short walk from the flower shop. Grayson passed a white sign with the subdivision’s name on it, and then entered a park. He walked across artificial grass to a playground, then stopped at a picnic table and set the flowers on it.

  He stood at the entrance to the playground. His dad would bring him here once a week when he was young, and he’d climb the back of the curvy, green caterpillar, then enter through the back of its head and slide down a long slide into a sandbox at the bottom.

  The caterpillar was still there, green and shining in the sunlight.

  Grayson rubbed his hands together. Then he ran up the slide and climbed onto the caterpillar’s back. Its metal surface was warm to the touch. As a boy, he’d burned his legs on the slide. He’d cried and cried, and his dad had to pick him up and carry him all the way home, telling him the whole time “You got to toughen up, son.”

  He’d dreamt that night of evil slides, of the caterpillar under the stars, coming to life, its eyes burning and its slide tongue wagging from side to side. Grayson woke up that night drenched in sweat, and his mom had to nurse him back to sleep.

  The next day his dad dragged him back to the playground. Grayson resisted the whole way. But his dad kept saying “You’re not going to be scared of a caterpillar, son. What happened yesterday was an accident, that’s all.”

  He climbed up the slide with Grayson, put him on his lap, and together they slid down.

  It wasn’t so bad after all. The caterpillar didn’t eat him. He didn’t burn himself.

  He learned to enjoy the playground.

  He dad kept bringing him back. He learned to climb the caterpillar faster. And he wore pants so the slide didn’t burn him.

  He didn’t give up. He didn’t let the hot slide scare him.

  There was something to conquering your fear.

  Every time he came home—and when you thought about it, space was a scary place—from dangerous missions and the threat of aliens and catastrophic technological failure, he always stopped at the playground and climbed the caterpillar, the first fear he’d learned to conquer.

  He slid down the slide and slapped the bottom of it as it spit him into the sandbox. He laughed to himself and brushed sand off the back of his flight suit.

  Then he grabbed the flower basket and started the short walk home.

  ***

  His street hadn’t changed in years—a long row of metal pods, all different colors, with shrubs in the front yards.

  The pod homes ranged from nearly claustrophobic to roomy. Their rounded metal surfaces made the homes look small, but they were more spacious than they looked.

  Grayson stopped in front of his parents’ home, a burnt sienna pod at the end of the street.

  His father’s motorcycle was parked in the driveway next to his mom’s white sedan.

  They were home.

  Perfect.

  He tiptoed across the artificial lawn, trying not to let the sound of his boots on the grass give him away.

  Through the front window, the curtains were parted, and he saw his mother’s back. She was in the living room, sitting on the couch.

  The television was off.

  He checked his watch. It was mid-afternoon. Saturday. His dad was probably taking his midday nap.

  He walked up to the front door and put his index finger on the fingerprint lock. The door unlocked quietly.

  The cool air conditioning of the home welcomed him, along with the familiar smell of vanilla and incense.

  He was home.

  He treaded softly on the tiled floors and made his way down the small foyer to the living room.

  The pod was open concept. The walls of the foyer cut away and the entire living room ceiling stretched far above. A small, galley kitchen with fading cabinets was to his left. To the right were several doors that led to the bedrooms, bathroom and laundry.

  The home of his childhood. Worn. Loved. Memory-filled.

  His mom sat on the couch with her back to him. Her hair was done up in curls, and she wore a black dress and a pillbox hat with a black veil over her face.

  He grinned wide.

  “Ma.”

  She sniffled.

  “Ma.”

  She turned around. Her wrinkled face was blank.

  He held up the basket. “I’m done with the Guard.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, I’ve got some paperwork to wrap up, so I have go back every now and again until they finalize it. But I’m officially done with missions.”

&nb
sp; He took a few steps closer and studied his mom’s face. Looking at her closer, he could tell she had been crying.

  “Ma, what’s the matter?”

  She brought a handkerchief up to her face.

  “Your father died last night.”

  Then she broke down and began to cry.

  Grayson’s hands went numb.

  The flower basket fell, and soil spilled across the floor.

  Chapter 20

  Grayson caught his mom as she fell on the couch. She sobbed uncontrollably.

  “Ma, it’s okay,” he said.

  “No, it’s not!” she said. “You can’t console me!”

  He let her cry for a moment.

  “What happened?” he asked after a while.

  She wiped her face and blew her nose. “He was coming home from work. He was stopped on his motorcycle at the stoplight to the subdivision. Then… then…”

  “Take your time,” he said.

  “His heart gave up on him.”

  Grayson looked away. He teared up.

  “Was he taking his medicine?”

  His mom nodded.

  “Goddamn it,” he said. He punched the arm of the couch. “Goddamn it!”

  His mom slapped him. The blow stung. “Watch your mouth, boy. Just because he’s dead, you don’t have the right to start cursing all of a sudden.”

  Tears covered his eyes and he wiped them away.

  He had to be strong.

  He couldn’t do this.

  “The Lord took him,” Ma said. “And there wasn’t a thing you or I could do about it.”

  “Did you call the base?”

  She shook her head. “You were supposed to be home yesterday. I didn’t want to interrupt anything. I know how important your work is to you.”

  He thought about what he was doing yesterday.

  “Where is he?” Grayson asked.

  “At the funeral home. The service is tomorrow.”

  “What about the rest of the family?” Grayson asked. “Where are they?”

  Ma pointed to the phone. It was unplugged from the wall. “Your uncle came by this morning. I told him to go. Phone calls have been coming in all morning, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

  Grayson walked over to the phone. It was a white, cordless phone. His dad had bought it years ago on sale at the electronics store—Pop never bought anything full price. And the phone hadn’t even worked properly at first. The electronic store didn’t accept returns, so Pop had to take it to a repairman. When he paid the bill, he’d griped all the way home, his knuckles tight around the steering wheel.

  There wasn’t a damn thing in the pod that didn’t remind Grayson of Pop.

  “I want to see him,” Grayson said.

  “You know where the funeral home is, right?”

  “You wanna come?”

  Ma shook her head. “Been there all day. Had to come home. You caught me at the right time.” Her eyes wandered down to the flower basket, which was overturned on the floor. “The flowers are beautiful, baby. Maybe you can take them and put them on the casket?”

  “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “Fine as I’ll ever be.” She sniffled. “Everything go okay with your tour? See any aliens?”

  Grayson picked up the flower basket. “No. Things were pretty boring up there this time, Ma.”

  Chapter 21

  Grayson took his dad’s motorcycle. The bike revved and purred exactly as he remembered.

  His dad loved bikes. He’d bought this one in a midlife crisis, and he took care of it. Polished it every Friday night with a beer in one hand and a rag in the other.

  As Grayson drove down the neighborhood streets, he tried not to think about the fact that his father was dead.

  His Pop was dead.

  Died yesterday, when he was saving the passengers.

  If he’d just listened to Beau to stand down, he would have been home in time. Maybe he could’ve saved him.

  Should he have felt regret? Pop would’ve been proud of him. He would’ve told him to go back in time and save those people.

  He gripped the handlebars and accelerated on the open road.

  He didn’t wear a helmet. He should have worn a helmet.

  Pop always wore a helmet. If there was a heaven, Pop would be looking down, mortified right now.

  But Grayson didn’t care. He pushed the accelerator harder and leaned into the speed.

  He turned left out of the subdivision, onto a quiet suburban road. He gunned the motor again, staying low to the handlebars, weaving in and around cars that honked at him.

  “Come on, pay attention, man,” he told himself.

  He nearly ran a red light and had a close call with a garbage truck. But he kept driving ever faster.

  The house pods on the sides of the street passed by in a colorful blur. The wind blew at him with its chilly daggers. The sun, a white disk behind a cloud, blazed and blazed, and the blue sky felt like the lid of a coffin. He wanted to punch it, blow the lid off the place and let some happiness in.

  But the sky was just as blue as it ever was, Pop dead or alive, and he hated it.

  ***

  Provenance Funeral Home V was a complex of pods on an oversized lot at the edge of the neighborhood. There was a giant parking lot sectioned with spaceships and cars, and people in black streamed in and out of the different pods.

  Grayson parked haphazardly on the grass in front of the home. With a quick kick, he activated the bike’s kickstand.

  The funeral home pods were gray and shiny. The windows were tinted, and the artificial grass was edged with shrubs and bushes to give it curb appeal. Flower trays hung on the sides of the pod, bougainvillea draping over the edges. Grayson smelled them from the parking lot.

  As he walked toward one of the funeral pods, a group of people gathered near the front door.

  They were all wearing black. And they were all Caucasian.

  Were they here for Pop?

  Where was his family?

  “Yo,” said a voice.

  A jaunty black man in a burgundy suit and a goatee waved at him from another pod.

  “Unless you want to go pay your tribute to somebody else’s grandma, the party’s over here, nephew.”

  Grayson fist-bumped his uncle Ray and they embraced.

  “Looking muscular as always, bruh!” Uncle Ray said. “Ain’t no aliens giving you hell, I hope.”

  “Naw,” Grayson said. “Search and rescues are pretty quiet, Unc.”

  “Sorry about your dad,” Uncle Ray said. “Completely unexpected. These goddamn heart attacks, man—they just happen and there ain’t nothin’ you can do.”

  “Yeah.”

  Uncle Ray sensed Grayson’s sadness. He hesitated, adjusted his gold tie clip, and said, “My brother ate more rabbit food than anybody I know and his heart still gave out. Sheeeet, at the rate all of us are dropping, I’m thinking about going vegan.”

  They started walking toward a funeral pod in the distance. “What do they feed you in the Guard?”

  “A balanced diet,” Grayson said, grinning.

  Uncle Ray laughed and clapped him on the back. They passed two of Grayson’s cousins, who waved.

  “Your Pop was so proud of you,” Uncle Ray said. “First one in the family to join the Galactic Guard!” He enunciated every syllable of Galactic Guard. “Your mom never could come around to it, but he wouldn’t ever stop talking about it.”

  Grayson thought about yesterday and tried to push from his mind.

  “Besides,” Uncle Ray said. “All of us knew you were always born for space. To tell you the truth, I always wondered why it took you so long to decide.”

  “What?” Grayson said.

  “You can’t deny it,” Uncle Ray said. “You were always up inside a spaceship when you were a kid. Asking me what part did what and all of that. Real natural. Every time you came home from the base and had to go back, your Pop always called me and said you were itching t
o get back up there.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Grayson said sadly.

  “Now look,” Uncle Ray said. His face turned stern. “Don’t go thinking for even a moment that any of this is your fault. You couldn’t have stopped this even if you were here. Understand me?”

  “I hear you.”

  Uncle Ray grabbed him. “No, you don’t. This isn’t on you, Gray. Not at all.”

  Uncle Ray put an arm around Grayson’s shoulder as they entered the sliding doors of the pod.

  “The mortician’s putting the final touches on your Pop. Let’s go and see how he looks.”

  ***

  Carter McCoy lay peacefully in his casket in a three-piece suit.

  The curved walls of the pod were padded with brocaded floral wallpaper. Red curtains covered the windows.

  The wallpaper gave the room a golden glow, and a single ray of sunlight shone on his father. His beard was neatly trimmed, and the black suit he was wearing slimmed down his potbelly.

  It took everything for Grayson not to break down.

  The funeral director, a black woman in a black suit, handed him a brown and turquoise polka-dotted tie.

  “Would you like to tie it?” she asked.

  Grayson took the tie gingerly.

  His dad loved fat knots. Grayson could never get them quite right on himself—he preferred skinny ties. “You can tell a lot about a man by his knot,” his father once said.

  Grayson draped the tie around his father’s shoulders. Then, as best as he knew how, he crossed it, threaded it back on itself, pulled, and tried to recreate the steps.

  The knot wasn’t perfect. Asymmetrical. But it was as fat as Pop liked it.

  Grayson straightened the green handkerchief in his dad’s front pocket.

  “So long, Pop.”

  He wished for his dad to open his eyes and say goodbye. Just for one moment.

  The funeral director touched his arm. “Would you both mind helping me wheel the coffin into the parlor?”