“Better,” she says. “You nearly broke my hip the last time.”
“Oh, don’t be such a Pixie,” he mutters.
“Say that again?”
He steps back. “Nothing, ma’am.”
“What word from Leanna?” I ask.
“They’re well. Was hoping to visit them soon. Maybe take Pax along to Icaria in the winter. This place gets too cold for these old bones.”
“All the way to Mars?” I ask.
“It’s his home,” she says sharply. “You want him to forget where he came from? Red’s as deep in his blood as Gold. Not that he’s ever reminded it, ’cept by me.”
Dancer looks away, as if to give us privacy.
“He’ll go to Mars,” I say. “We all will when it’s safe.”
We might control Mars, but that’s a far cry from it being a world of harmony. The Sirenian continent is still infested by a Gold army of iron-skinned veterans, just like the battleground of South Pacifica on Earth. The Ash Lord hasn’t risked putting a major fleet in orbit in years, but ground wars are decidedly more stubborn than their astral counterparts.
“And when will it be safe, according to you?” my mother asks.
“Soon.”
Neither Dancer nor my mother is impressed by that answer. “And how long are you staying here?” she asks.
“A month, at least. Rhonna and Kieran will be coming, like you asked.”
“About bloody time. Thought Mercury had stolen them.”
“Victra and the girls will come up for a spell too. Though I do have business in Hyperion at the end of the week.”
“With the Senate. Asking for more men.” Her tone’s as sour as her eyes.
I sigh and look at Dancer. “Infecting my mother with your politics now?”
He laughs. “Deanna most certainly has a mind of her own.”
“With both of you in my ears I’ll go deaf,” she says.
“Plug your ears,” Sevro replies. “It’s what I do when they jabber about politics.”
Dancer snorts. “If only your wife did the same.”
“Careful, boyo. She’s got ears everywhere. She could be listening now.”
“Why weren’t you at the Triumph?” I ask Dancer.
He grimaces. “Please. We both know I’ve got no stomach for pomp. Especially on this damn moon. Give me dirt and air and friends.” He looks fondly at the trees around. A shadow passes over his face at the thought of returning to Hyperion. “But I must be heading back to the mechanized Babylon. Deanna, thank you for letting me garden with you. It’s just what I needed.”
“You’re not staying for supper?” my mother asks.
“Unfortunately, there are other gardens that need tending. Speaking of which…Darrow, could I have a moment?”
—
Dancer and I leave my mother and Sevro bickering about the smell of his wolfcloak to walk along a dirt footpath leading into the trees toward the lake. A patrol skiff skims the water on the far shore. “How are you?” he asks me. “None of that patriotic hero shit. Remember, I know all your tells.”
“Tired,” I admit. “You’d think a month’s journey back would let me catch up on sleep. But there’s always something.”
“Can you sleep?” he asks.
“Sometimes.”
“Lucky bastard. I piss the bed,” he admits. “Probably twice a month. I don’t ever remember the bloodydamn dreams, but my body sure as hell does.” He was in the thick of the fighting to free Mars. The tunnel wars there were even nastier than the block fighting on Luna. Even the Obsidians don’t sing songs of their victories in the tunnels. The Rat War, they call it. Over the course of three years, Dancer personally liberated over a hundred mines with the Sons of Ares. If Fitchner is the father of the Rising, it’d be fair to call Dancer the favorite uncle, despite the dissolution of the Sons of Ares.
“You can take meds,” I say. “Most of the vets do.”
“Psych meds? I don’t need Yellow synthetics. I’m a Red of Faran. My wits are damn sure more important than a dry bed.” On that we agree. Even though he’s my wife’s main opposition in the Senate, and thereby mine, he’s still as dear to me as my own family. Only when Mars and her moons were declared free did Dancer give up the gun and take up the senatorial toga to found the Vox Populi, the “Voice of the People,” a socialist lowColor party to counter what he saw as undue Gold influence over the Republic. It’s a bloodydamn thorn in my boots every time he gives a speech on proportional representation. If he had his way, there’d be five hundred lowColor senators to every Gold senator. Good math. Bad reality.
“Still, must be good to feel grass under your boots instead of sand and metal,” he says softly. “Must be good to be home.”
“It is.” I hestitate and look out at the rocky shore below. “Gets harder every time. To come back. You’d think I look forward to it, but…I don’t know. I dread it in a way. Every time Pax grows a centimeter, it feels like an indictment against me for not being there to see it.” I pick a loose thread impatiently. “Not to mention the longer I spend here, the more time the Ash Lord has to prepare Venus, and the longer this all stretches out.”
His face hardens at the mention of the war. “And how long do you think this will…stretch out?”
“That depends, doesn’t it?” I ask. “You’re the only thing standing in my way of getting the men I need to end this.”
“That’s always your answer. Isn’t it? More men.” He sighs. “I’m the mouth of the Vox Populi, not the brain.”
“You know, Dancer, humility isn’t always a virtue.”
“You disobeyed the Senate,” he says flatly. “We did not give you permission to launch an Iron Rain. We preached caution and—”
“I won, didn’t I?”
“This isn’t the Sons of Ares any longer, much as you and I both wish it were. Virginia and her Optimates were content to let you run roughshod over the Senate, but the people are learning just how strong their voice is.” He steps close to me. “Still, they revere you.”
“Not all of them.”
“Please. You’ve got cults that say prayers in your name. Who else has that?”
“Ragnar.” I hesitate. “And Lysander au Lune.”
“The line of Silenius died with Octavia. You were a fool to let that boy go, but if he was alive we’d know it. He got swallowed up by the war just like the rest of them. That leaves only you. The people love you, Darrow. You can’t abuse that love. Whatever you do, you set an example. So if you don’t follow the law, why should our Imperators, our Governors? Why should anyone else? How are we supposed to govern if you go off and do whatever you damn well please, like you’re a—” He catches himself.
“A Gold.”
“You know what I mean. The Senate was elected. You were not.”
“I do what’s necessary. You and I always have. But the rest of them, they do what gets them reelected. Why should I listen to them?” I smile at him. “Maybe you want an apology. Will that get me the men I need?”