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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—”
