“Aye,” Kieran replies. “Die by thirty, so those folk can live to a hundred. It ain’t bloodydamn right.
I just want my children to have more than this, brother.” He stares at me intensely and I remember how my mother asked me what comes after revolution. What world are we making? It was what Mustang asked. Something Eo never considered. “They have to have more than this. And I love Ares
as much as anyone. I owe him my life. The lives of my children. But…” He shakes his head, wanting
to say more but feeling the weight of Narol’s eyes on him.
“Go on,” I say.
“I don’t know if he knows what comes next. That’s why I’m glad you’re back, little brother. I know you’ve got a plan. I know you can save us.”
He says it with so much faith, so much trust.
“Of course I’ve a plan,” I say, because I know it’s what he needs to hear. But as my brother contentedly refills his mug, my uncle catches my eye and I know he sees through the lie and we both feel the darkness pressing in.
It’s early morning as I sip coffee and eat a bowl of grain cereal my mother fetched me from the commissary. I’m not yet ready for crowds. Kieran and Leanna have already gone to work, so I sit with Dio and Mother as the children dress for school. It’s a good sign. You know a people have given up when they stop teaching their children. I finish my coffee. Mother pours me more.
“You took an entire pot?” I ask.
“The chef insisted. Tried to give me two.”
I sip from the cup. “It’s almost like the real thing.”
“It is the real thing,” Dio says. “There’s this pirate who sends us hijacked goods. Coffee’s from Earth, I think. Jamaca, they said.”
I don’t correct her.
“Oy!” a voice screams in the hallways. My mother jumps at the sound. “Reaper! Reaper! Come out
and play-e-ay!” There’s a crash in the hall and the sound of stomping boots.
“Remember, Deanna told us to knock,” says a thunderous voice.
“You are so annoying. Fine.” A polite knock comes at the door. “Tidings! It’s Uncle Sevro and the
Moderately Friendly Giant.”
My mother motions to one of my excited nieces. “Ella, do us kind.” Ella darts forward to open the
door for Sevro. He bursts through, scooping her up. She shrieks with joy. He’s in his undersuit, a black sweat-wicking fabric that soldiers wear under pulse armor. Sweat rings stain the armpits. His eyes dance as he sees me, and he tosses Ella roughly onto a bed and charges toward me, arms outstretched. A weird laugh escapes his chest, hatchet face split with a jagged grin. His hair a dirty, sweat-soaked Mohawk.
“Sevro, careful!” my mother says.
“Reap!” He slams into me, spinning my chair sideways, clacking my teeth together, as he half lifts me out of the chair, stronger than he was, smelling of tobacco and engine fuel and sweat. He half laughs, half cries like an excited dog into my chest. “I knew you were alive. I bloodydamn knew it.
Pixie bitches can’t fool me.” Pulling back, he looks down at me with a rickshaw grin. “You bloodydamn bastard.”
“Language!” my mother snaps.
I wince. “My ribs.”
“Oh, shit, sorry brotherman.” He lets me sink back into the chair, and kneels so we’re eye to eye. “I said it once. Now I’ll say it twice. If there’s two things in this world that can’t be killed, it’s the fungus
under my sack and the Reaper of bloodydamn Mars. Haha!”
“Sevro!”
“Sorry, Deanna. Sorry.”
I pull back from him. “Sevro. You smell…terrible.”
“I haven’t showered in five days,” he brags, grabbing his groin. “It’s a Sevro soup in here, boyo.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “You know, you look…erm…” He glances at my mother and tames his
tongue. “Bloody terrible.”
A shadow falls over the room as a man enters and blocks the overhead light near the door. The children cluster joyously around Ragnar so he can barely walk.
“Hello, Reaper,” he says over their shouts.
I greet Ragnar with a smile. His face is as impassive as ever. Tattooed and pale, callused from the wind of his arctic home, like the hide of a rhinoceros. His white beard is braided into four strands, and the hair on his head shaved except for a tail of white that is braided with red ribbons. The children are asking him if he’s brought them presents.
“Sevro.” I lean forward. “Your eyes…”
He leans in close. “Do you like ’em?” Buried in that squinting, sharp-angled face, his eyes are no longer that dirty shade of Gold, but are now as red as Martian soil. He pulls back his lids so I can better see. They’re not contacts. And the right is no longer bionic.
“Bloodydamn. Did you get Carved?”
“By the best in the business. Do you like ’em?”
“They’re bloodydamn marvelous. Fit you like a glove.”
He punches his hands together. “Glad you said that. Cuz they’re yours.”
I blanch. “What?”
“They’re yours.”
“My what?”
“Your eyes!”