by Dan Moren
“What is this place, anyway?” Eli murmured. His eyes darted to Sui’s back cautiously.
Eamon shot him a glare. “Some place no one can find her—or at least it was.”
“So, what? You squirreled her away so that your many and varied enemies wouldn’t be able to use her as leverage on you? Nice.”
Eamon paused mid-step. “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, so why don’t you shut the fuck up.” He resumed trudging up the stairs.
Eli’s mouth set in a firm line, his brow darkening. Sure, whatever you say. Eamon had always been bossy—as the eldest it had been his prerogative and, with their parents both working all day, he’d been in charge of the two younger Brodys by default. But it had been nine years since Eli had taken orders from anybody not wearing a uniform, and the idea rankled like an itchy sweater.
They hung a left at the top of the stairs, walking down a lengthy hallway that was no less well-decorated than the rest of the house. As on the stairs, their footsteps made nary a sound in the rug, though Caledonia’s dry air made it a perfect breeding ground for static electricity.
The doors they passed all wore brass numbers once shiny, now tarnished with age. Twenty-nine, twenty-seven, twenty-five; they stopped at twenty-three. Sui knocked, rapping twice in quick succession, but it appeared to be little more than a formality as she went ahead and opened the door anyway.
Bright light streamed through a south-facing window and white cotton curtains flapped in the ocean breeze. The room was predominantly white: whitewashed walls, white sheets on the neatly-made bed, white painted dresser and bed frame. It was crisp and homey, reminding Eli of the one summer their parents had taken them on vacation to a small cottage on the continent’s east coast. It had smelled like salt water and sand, and Eli swore he caught a whiff of the exact same scent, transporting him back to that place more effectively than any wormhole.
In the center of the room, ensconced in a white rocking chair, sat a young woman with long red hair, dressed in a pale, red-checked gingham dress. A wool shawl was draped about her shoulders to fend off the slight chill from the outside air; she rocked back and forth idly, her gaze fixed on some point out the window, which overlooked the cliffs above the sea.
Even after the nine years that had seen his sister grow from a girl into a woman, there was no question of Eli not recognizing her. Like her brothers, Meghann had a face that was balanced on the knife’s edge between the broad, plain visage of Connor Brody and the sharp features of Molly Brody née McKay. Likewise, her hair, all waves and almost-curls, was neither quite the fiery red of her older brother’s locks nor the more subdued brown of Eli’s own, but a mix of the two: auburn strands flecked with the highlights of a sunset.
Her eyes, though, were the same green as Eamon’s and their father’s. But as Eli looked closer, it became apparent that there was something not quite right about them: they were unfocused, distant—as though staring at something that nobody else could see.
Ms. Munroe smiled at her and bustled over to the rocking chair. “She’s having a good morning, aren’t you, love? She slept well, ate her breakfast, and no fussing.” Plumping the pillow behind Meghann’s back and smoothing down her hair, the older woman seemed to be perfectly capable of carrying on both sides of a conversation by herself. “And we’ve got a special treat for you today—two visitors. I know! You must be quite the special girl to get the attention of these two handsome gentlemen.”
The longer the conversation continued, the more Eli realized that Meghann wasn’t expected to respond. A faint tickle from the outside breeze raised the hairs on his arms, even underneath his long-sleeved shirt, and sent his skin crawling. It took him a long time to summon the courage to speak and, when he did, it was in a low whisper meant for Eamon alone.
“What happened?”
Eamon’s face was carved from stone. “Not here.” He tried on a series of grimaces, finally finding one that looked at least marginally happy. Plastering that one on his face, he went over to sit down on the wooden chair next to the rocker. “Good morning, kiddo,” he said, taking her hand in his own. “How’s my favorite girl?”
Sui Munroe tidied up a few things, then took up a spot next to Eli. “This is a good morning for her,” she said softly. “Sometimes she gets upset and angry, won’t touch a bite of her food. Once she threw a tray across the room.” She nodded at a dent on the wall that had been inexpertly plastered over. “She scared Sally—that’s my niece, she helps out around the place—half to death.”
“I …” Eli started, and then realized he had no idea what he was going to say. What could he say? “I didn’t know,” he finally said, wincing at the pathetic inadequacy of the sentiment. “Excuse me.” He took a step backward and retreated into the hall where he leaned his back against the wood-paneled wall and drew a shaky lungful of air.
The door creaked open and closed and a hand squeezed his shoulder. He looked up into the sympathetic face of Sui Munroe.
“I’m sorry, lad. I thought your brother had told you.”
Eli snorted, though it became more a sniffle about halfway through. “The things he hasn’t told me over the years, well, let’s just say that they could fill a bulk freighter.”
“Well, that’s family for you, isn’t it? I talk to my sister Rae every week, and what does she neglect to tell me but that she’s gone into the hospital for surgery. A minor operation, sure, but she could have said, right?”
Eli rubbed at his face with his palms. “It’s not all his fault. I was … away for a long time.” He paused, then looked up. “What happened to her?”
The woman sighed, fingers pinching at the fabric of her flowered apron. “Young women come to us for all manner of reasons. Some just need a little time to get back on their feet. Others have more … complicated problems. As for your sister, I think perhaps that’s a story best left for your brother to tell. You’re her family; I’m just here to look after her.” A faraway almost-smile crossed her face, but it was tinged with a faint air of sadness.
She’s personally invested, he realized. Someone close to her was in a place like this. He nodded slowly in return. “I understand. For what it’s worth, thanks.”
“For what?”
“For looking after my sister.”
“It’s my job.” There was an almost reproachful edge to her voice.
“To feed her and put a roof over her head, maybe,” said Eli. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “But not to care. That’s all you.”
Ms. Munroe blushed and swatted at him. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you? Just like your brother.”
Eli’s spirits fell at the comparison, then dropped further at the realization that he had to go back into Meghann’s room. As though about to plunge underwater, he took another deep breath, opened the door, and dove in.
They were sitting together, a picture-perfect tableau in the white morning light: Meghann in the rocker and Eamon holding her small pale hand between his own. His brother looked up, brow furrowing, as Eli returned. Eli put his hands up, miming surrender, then closed the door behind him.
Eamon was talking in a low voice to Meghann; he raised a finger toward Eli, asking him to wait a second. Eli took the opportunity to wander around the rest of the room. There was a wooden dresser, whitewashed like the rest of the furniture, on top of which lay a lace-edged cloth that held a hairbrush, a few modest pieces of jewelry, and one framed photograph. It was the photo that caught his eye—not least of which because he was in it.
In fact, the whole Brody clan was there: a ten-year-old Eamon, grinning furiously at the camera, his face freckled from the sun; a more suspicious-looking Eli, at five, squinting at the light while clutching his older brother’s hand; and Meghann, just around a year old, held in their mother’s arms, while Connor Brody stood with his arm around her.
The happy family.
Not that things had been perfect then—it would have been a whitewashing job as thorough as that of the room’s f
urniture to pretend otherwise—but they had been better. He wanted to tell the five-year-old Eli to enjoy it while he could, but even now he could recall how few and far between those moments had been. All three of them had been forced to grow up fast.
“I brought somebody with me,” he heard Eamon say suddenly and became aware that his brother was looking at him. “An old face.” He beckoned to Eli slowly.
The younger Brody placed the picture back on the dresser and walked over to his two siblings. He could see Meghann shrink away, clutching Eamon’s hand tighter, as he approached.
“She doesn’t like new people,” Eamon said quietly, meeting Eli’s eyes. “Be gentle.”
Eli shot him a glare and crouched next to her. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s me. It’s Eli.”
Meghann’s shoulders hunched and her eyes stayed fixed on the window in front of her.
“It’s all right.” Eamon spoke softly from her other side. “He’s not going to hurt you.”
“Of course I’m not going to hurt her,” Eli said, more sharply than he’d intended. Meghann winced at the tone and clung tighter to Eamon. “Sorry. Sorry. Meggy, it’s Lije.” If anything, she only shrunk into a tighter ball at his pleading tone. Her grip on Eamon’s hand was white-knuckled.
She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know me at all.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay.” His gaze shifted to Eamon. “Maybe it’d be better if I waited outside?”
His brother glanced down at Meghann’s hand, still tightly clasping his own, and gave Eli a curt nod. As Eli retreated, Eamon continued making soothing noises to Meghann, stroking her hand until she began to uncoil.
Eli stood by the doorway, out of his sister’s line of sight, and watched silently. He drew a quiet breath to stave off the unpleasant feeling that somebody had poked a finger into his heart and was wriggling it around experimentally, trying to see how he’d react. How can she not know me?
“I think you should come home. Please. Come home.” That was the last message he’d received from her, five years ago, only a year or so after the news came that their parents had died in a traffic accident in Raleigh City. Even then he hadn’t come home, hadn’t gone to the funeral, didn’t—he realized now—even know where they were buried.
With a last squeeze of her hand, Eamon gently untangled himself from his spot at Meghann’s side. Her hand fell, listlessly, back to the arm of her rocking chair and there was a faint noise like a whimper, but she didn’t move—just kept rocking in her chair, back and forth, back and forth.
“Come on,” said Eamon quietly, steering Eli out the door.
He stared blankly as he let Eamon usher him, eyes focused on his boots and the ornate rug beneath them.
Eamon shut the door firmly behind them, letting out a pent-up sigh that had probably been building since Eli had landed on-world. His heavy hand descended on Eli’s shoulder in an unusual display of brotherly affection.
“Sorry to spring this on you, Lije.”
Eli shrugged the hand off. “Yeah. Well, it’s not like you couldn’t have told me at some point. There’s such a thing as interstellar couriers.”
“Hey, I thought you were dead for the last five years.”
“Come to terms with your grief, then, have you?”
Eamon scowled. “I’m glad you’re alive. But I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t had my own life here for the last nine years—and I’m not going to disrupt it.”
“That much is clear.”
His brother’s face flushed as he drew in a breath for a sharp retort, but something seemed to stop him, deflate him. He raised his hands slowly. “Look, I don’t want to fight. Especially not here.”
“Yeah.” Eli glanced sidelong at Meghann’s door. He didn’t want to look at it straight on—its reality was incontrovertible at that angle. “Eam, what the fuck happened?”
A hand passed across the trimmed beard on Eamon’s jaw and his eyes unfocused. “It’s a long story.”
“Best get started then.”
The green eyes snapped back to Eli like a fleet jumping in from a gate. “Come downstairs. We’ll talk.”
Back in the anachronistic parlor, Eamon produced a flask and, unscrewing the top, took a deep belt from it. He passed it to Eli, who was in the process of raising it to his own lips when a memory jolted up through his fingers. He stared at the battered silver container, turning it over in his hands to reveal the engraved letters on the front: CWB.
“Dad’s flask.”
“There wasn’t much left after they died,” Eamon said. “By the end, they’d sold most of it, just so they could live. All that was left were some pictures, mom’s fiddle, and that.”
Eli snorted. “So in the end, it was about as important to him as mom’s music was to her, huh? That seems about right. I hope you had that put on his grave: ‘Connor Brody: loving husband, father, drunkard.’” He raised the flask in salute to Eamon, then tipped it to his lips. The familiar taste of Saltyre’s filled his mouth, this time untainted by the unpleasant bitterness of sedatives.
He passed the flask silently back to his brother, who screwed the cap back on and stowed it in his jacket.
“They’re buried out by Glenfin,” Eamon said quietly. “Not far from the homestead. I figured that’s where they’d want to be.”
“By the house that was repossessed when the mining interests were nationalized? Oh, yeah, I’m sure that’s a memory they want to be reminded of constantly in the next life.”
“I was thinking about the good times.”
“Sorry. Forgotten most of those.”
“I know you’re angry—”
“Angry?” Maybe it was the whisky, but Eli felt his cheeks burning. “Angry? I’m bloody furious, Eamon!” He was on his feet though he didn’t remember getting up. “My parents are dead, my sister’s in some sort of catatonic state, and my fucking brother is mixed up with kidnappers and thugs.” His voice was too loud even in his own ears, but like an animal that had leapt in front of the groundcar at just the wrong moment he saw no way of swerving to avoid it. “And nobody thought to tell me a fucking thing!” His chest heaved as he realized that he’d run out of words.
“Are you finished?” asked Eamon mildly.
“I’m just getting started, you fucking selfish bastard.”
Eamon’s mouth snapped shut, and the hairs on the back of Eli’s neck stood to attention. There’s an inherent sense of propriety, of politeness, of where the lines are drawn in any given conversation and, more importantly, when you’ve just taken a flying long jump across one of them.
That, Eli realized, was the red button.
“I’m selfish? Sit down and shut up, you worthless, good for nothing piece of shite. Let me tell you a thing or two about selfishness. Selfishness would be running away to side with the very people who brutally invaded your home. Selfishness would be leaving behind a brother, a sister, and parents who were just scraping by and could have used the extra income. Selfishness, my fucking idiot brother, would be not returning your sister’s message when she asked you desperately to come home.
“You want to know what happened to Meghann? I’ll tell you. After you left, she decided she needed to help mom and dad out. She was fifteen, Lije, but she lied and said she was eighteen. Got a job working in a pub down by the military spaceport, serving drinks and fending off the advances of fucking crim flyboys. Mom and dad, they didn’t know—but I knew. Tried to talk her out of it, too, but she reasoned that she was safe enough. And why? Because they were Illyrican soldiers, just like her big brother. That was enough for her.
“She got wise after a year or so, realized the punters would tip better if she teased ’em a little bit, so she’d flirt and smile and think nothing of it. Didn’t take it any further than that, though—until she met Padaria.”
Eamon spat the name out, his expression darkening like a storm cloud drifting in front of the sun, jaw clenched with pure, raw fury.
“Lieutenant Karim Padaria. Illyri
can-born nobility, the very picture of an officer and a gentleman. Except he wasn’t much of either in the end. They shipped him out here because he’d gotten into too much trouble back on Illyrica, drinking and whoring it up. So his father, the bloody fucking Minister of Information, pulls some strings and, instead of getting dishonorably discharged, Padaria’s given a commission on a tip-top secret project out here. Of course, it’s more title than actual job, so instead of doing his officering he’s planetside in the bar every weekend.
“And he takes a shine to our little sister.”
Eamon trailed off and Eli noticed for the first time his brother’s hands were trembling. Reaching into his coat, Eamon pulled out the flask again and took another slug. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and paced to the window and back again. Eli heard him take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“So what happens next? Connect the fucking dots, little brother. Padaria’s handsome and charming, even if he is a rotter underneath. And Meghann—she’s just shy of eighteen at this point, barely more than a girl—she falls for him. Hard. He’s bad news, Padaria, which I begin to figure out when Meghann starts stumbling in at all hours. At first, it’s just drink, but it doesn’t take long before he’s getting her on the harder stuff. Dope. Stims. Hop. Sometimes all three. More often than not, she isn’t coming home at all, and when she does, she’s high as a fiend.”
Eamon paused, cracked his knuckles meaningfully. “I figure it’s gotta end, but Meg, she doesn’t want to listen to me. She’s in love with this bastard and I’m just prejudiced because he’s Illyrican and I’m still angry at you for leaving to join ’em. So I do what I feel a good brother should: I round up a few of the boys and we go to have a talk with young Master Padaria.”
He sighed and sat down heavily in the chair. “I’ll admit, probably not my finest decision. It’s late when Padaria and his buddies come out of the bar, and it goes from talk to brawl in about thirty seconds flat. Lucky Jim, he takes a bottle to the side of his head. Someone gets a knife into Padaria, who goes down, but that’s about when the military cops show up. Most of the boys scattered in time, but I’m trying to help Jim rabbit and they nab the both of us.
