Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Children of the Pebble ❯ What a Piece of Work ( Chapter 12 )

Children of the Pebble

By “Clinesterton Beademung”, with all of love.

 

Disclaimer: “Trigun” © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

 

Comments and criticism welcome.

 

Chapter Twelve - What a Piece of Work

---

“Father, I quit.”

Meryl slid a manila folder from the stack on her desk. She leafed through the dry papers, wrinkling her nose at the musty scent. Another old memorandum on the appropriations budget, significant enough at the time to be sent to the president and owner of Stryfe Consultants but never read.

She drew her index finger down a legal pad full of her notes. Just as she thought, the extra toilet paper for the laboratory restrooms had been purchased with Research and Development's discretionary fund. Thank heavens. She'd been so worried. She signed the memo, stamped the folder for disposal, and chose another.

“Father, I respectfully tender my resignation,” she said. If this was a joke on Father's part, it wasn't funny. Last week, Father had called her into his paperwork madhouse of an office and explained that the government had invited him to a series of symposia on the future of technological development. He would be out of the office for at least two weeks.

“Even that hermit Max Simon will be there,” Father said as he snapped his briefcase shut. “The meetings will be closed to the public, so if you need to contact me go through Mrs. Hammersham. In the meantime…”

“Why don't you see what you can do about these old files?” Meryl said, slashing her signature across another pointless memo. “Make yourself useful. Shoulder to the wheel, nose to the grindstone. One folder at a time. Work hard and I'll bring you a present.”

Meryl slapped the folder shut, winced, and shook her tingling hand. A present. That would be nice. It would be even nicer if she were still twelve years old and slaving away after school in her old broom closet office.

“I'm sorry, Father,” she said. “You'll have to find someone else. Father, you may consider this my two weeks' notice. Father, you can take this job and—”

The phone rang.

“Stryfe Consultants—oh, hello, Mother. I know it's late, I'm sorry. No, I'm a big girl, Mother, I can make my own bed. Yes, that sounds delicious. Do you need me to stop at the Circle J on the way home? I'll be leaving within the hour. Yes, Mother, I promise. See you soon.”

Meryl hung up, stretched and yawned. Beyond the pool of light from her lamp, her office was a study in blues and grays. The latest drawing of the company's prototype harvester lay on the drafting table in the corner, awaiting her inspection and approval. Engineering manuals and specifications filled the shelves over the table. In the other corner was the wooden stepladder she needed to reach them.

What a fraud I am, Meryl thought. A child turned loose in a grownup's world. Dealing with Father's leftover business was bad enough. To pretend every day that she could make informed decisions and delegate responsibilities to people who knew this work far better than she did was worse. Even so, she'd earned a modicum of wary respect from her division by inviting as few comparisons as possible with Mr. Torix, retired these three months. This office had been his for almost a decade. A burglar would feel more at home here than she ever would.

Meryl plucked her new watch from her vest pocket. Seven-fifteen. Ericks—Vash—was out of town on business, summoned by his Inepril employers. She'd hoped they'd have the whole weekend for themselves, but Vash had explained by telegram that he'd be gone a few days longer. She'd replied in kind, assuring him of her love and telling him to get his sorry butt home.

My husband, the responsible one, she thought. Who would've guessed. And having him out of the house had helped her make progress on Father's dumb project, too. Now she regretted her cool send-off on the steamer dock. Making up for that was going to be fun.

The pile of folders on her blotter wasn't going to get any smaller tonight. Meryl slipped her watch back into its pocket. She filled her briefcase with the contents of her in-box, tossed her suit jacket over her arm, turned out the light and shut her door.

At her assistant's desk Meryl took a pencil from Monica's pencil cup and scribbled a note on Monica's day planner. Meryl needed more background information on agricultural technology for the Thompson project and wanted Monica to see to it first thing Monday morning.

Meryl turned off her assistant's lamp and dug her car keys from her purse. She ran for the elevator, anxious to avoid a late-for-dinner lecture.

---

“Quite a sight, isn't it, sir?”

In the shadow of the Ship, Matthew Stryfe shuddered.

“Yes it is,” he said, at a loss to say much else. The tall captain escorted him through the cavalry's perimeter of armored vehicles with quick strides. Mr. Stryfe struggled to keep up, coughing at occasional billows of Diesel exhaust as the tank crews prepared their machines for another shift. Turrets worked back and forth to enhance lubrication, and when the guns came to rest they were pointing outward, away from the Ship.

At the end of the labyrinth of men and machines, the captain halted.

“Here, sir,” he said. “We wait here.”

“I can see why,” Mr. Stryfe said. Craters, about a yar across and a hundred yarz apart, dotted the desert in a rough circle around the Ship's impact point. Twenty yarz beyond the cratered perimeter an abandoned tank protruded from a solidified puddle of glazed earth.

“The Ship-dwellers have made it plain that we are not to approach or attempt to board without permission,” the captain said. “Why the hell would we? The damn thing's ten iles tall. Even if we made it past their defenses we'd need portable oxygen just to get to the middle of the thing.”

Mr. Stryfe agreed it seemed futile, though the military aspects of the situation were of no interest to him. He'd accepted the government's invitation to its symposia, expecting to hear a full week of sleep-inducing lectures, only to be directed to an empty office in the Federal building's deepest basement, where only Max Simon was waiting. He didn't remember much after that; considering the shock he'd experienced upon Mr. Simon's offer he was astonished to find himself alive, let alone conscious.

“Dr. Fujiwara will meet you upon your arrival,” Simon had said, shoving him out of the office. Fifteen minutes later he was on a Humpback-class steamer bound for New Oregon.

The captain pointed. “Look there, sir.”

Mr. Stryfe shaded his eyes. A figure was descending from the Ship in what appeared to be a wire cage. When it reached the ground, its passenger swung aside a door and came forward. Whoever it was seemed to be taking his time, as if burdened by a heavy load, but the Ship and its proximity destroyed all perspective, and after a quick calculation Mr. Stryfe realized the man would have to traverse an ile of open desert on foot to just to reach him.

When he did, the short, bald man unslung a canteen, one of four he carried on his shoulders. He drained the contents in one long drink, swept off his floppy hat, mopped his brow with his sleeve, and shrugged off another canteen.

“Mr. Stryfe, I presume,” he said, and extended it upward.

---

The wire cage swayed as it left the ground. Mr. Stryfe, trying to ignore the oppressive metal hulk over his head, held on to the rail as if the fate of all humanity depended on the strength of his grip. In less than a minute, to his heart thumping horror, Mr. Stryfe found himself well over five hundred feels above ground—only halfway up—in a hand welded wire cage held aloft by a braided metal cable that, to his engineer's eye, had seen better days.

“Just one of the many ways we discourage visitors, Mr. Stryfe,” Dr. Fujiwara said. “Don't worry, the cable is quite strong.”

The cage stopped. The doctor, after a full minute of polite assurances that he was perfectly safe, convinced him to release his death grip on the cage and led him onto a platform. Across the platform a dashed yellow line showed a door in the Ship's hull. Dr. Fujiwara's fingers danced over a keypad in a glowing square next to the door. The door recessed, slid aside.

“Your discomfort is quite understandable,” he said. “But I must warn you that you'll need a sterner constitution, as well as an open mind, once we get inside.”

Mr. Stryfe entered the Ship, grateful that he might yet see his wife and daughter again. Didn't these people know anything about safety?

The doctor followed and the door slid back into place. A square of light in the ceiling revealed a room little larger than Maddie's bedroom closet. Another door was in the opposite wall—ah, an airlock. That's what these spaces were called.

Dr. Fujiwara's hand hovered over a switch.

“I invite you to hold onto your stomach,” he said. “Some of our guests have found this aspect of their visit disconcerting. You might wish to close your eyes as well.”

Mr. Stryfe braced himself on the handrail. He closed his eyes. At once there was a deep, quiet hum and a bizarre suggestion of shifting forces, as if he'd leaned too far ahead for a dropped coin and was about to pitch forward onto his face. His sense of balance returned when the humming stopped. He followed the doctor through the airlock's opposite door, into a network of crisscrossing corridors with curved walls. His guide's footfalls were light, almost catlike. He listened for his own footsteps. Not a sound.

Dr. Fujiwara stopped at a doorway.

“We can talk in here,” he said. Inside, four chairs surrounded an ordinary metal table. A kiosk in one corner held a monitor and keyboard.

Mr. Stryfe sat while Dr. Fujiwara thumbed an intercom switch beside the door. A young female answered, agreed to the doctor's request for coffee. Reluctantly, Mr. Stryfe thought, amused at the girl's helpful-yet-not-helpful tone of voice.

The doctor took the seat opposite from his and searched his face with dark eyes.

“How do you feel, Mr. Stryfe?” he said.

“I feel fine. And prepared to discuss business whenever you are.”

“Ah, yes, business.” Dr. Fujiwara folded his hands on the table. “I speak for the others on the Ship when I say we recognize your government's claim to salvage rights. Under the terms of the UEF Colonial Charter, we became citizens of this world the moment our Ship touched the ground—which is why we are puzzled and disturbed by the presence of so many soldiers and armored vehicles. I have assured your government that we pose no threat.”

“I'm not a soldier, Doctor, nor am I a politician. I'm in no position to help you with that. I hate it as much as you do, in fact.”

“Very well. I will register another formal protest. Now for the matter of access. We believe—that is I, Mr. Simon and other leaders believe—that releasing too much lost technology all at once will do more harm than good.”

“My primary interest is in the back engineering. That will take months, if not years. There's no need for concern in that respect.”

“But so much new technology could make a few men very rich.” Dr. Fujiwara stared at him, eyes neutral in a politely blank face.

“Doctor Fujiwara,” Mr. Stryfe said, “I am neither a salvage broker nor a prospector, here to strip your Ship for parts like a stolen car. I can only make money if I can duplicate your technology well enough to make it work. You are not required to assist me in any way.”

“Do forgive me, sir, I intended no insult. My point is simply this. Our ancestors' knowledge has a wide range of possible applications, not all of them benign or life affirming. We humans have never failed to see the profitable side of armed conflict, you see.”

Mr. Stryfe fidgeted. The tanks circling the Ship rode the desert on his company's track design.

“Your point is well taken, doctor,” he said. The door opened, and a young woman with pigtails carried a tray to the table. The aroma of coffee filled the room.

The girl cocked her head. “Have we met? You look familiar.”

“Jessica, don't stare at our guest,” Dr. Fujiwara said.

Jessica put her hands on her hips. “I wouldn't stare if you introduced me.”

The doctor sighed. “Of course. Do forgive me. This is Mr. Matthew Stryfe, from December City. Mr. Stryfe, this is Jessica, one of our Ship's few remaining young people.”

Mr. Stryfe accepted the coffee Jessica offered. She and the doctor argued briefly—something about overdue calculus homework—and after a “Hmph!” Jessica flounced out, glancing back at him again as the door closed. Dr. Fujiwara chuckled.

“They're a handful at that age, aren't they?” Mr. Stryfe said.

“Jessica in particular. I'd hoped Brad's—well, I'd hoped recent events might've imparted some degree of wisdom and temperance. They have, but not to the extent I'd like.”

“They do grow up eventually. Give her time.”

“You have children, Mr. Stryfe?”

He drew out his pocket watch. The back surface snapped open to reveal the portrait Meryl had given him after her last promotion. Her youthful anger was gone, leaving a kindness and affection he'd only dared hope to see a year ago.

“She's lovely,” Dr. Fujiwara said. “I can see why he—” He glanced up, cleared his throat.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Stryfe. It's nothing. Please, let's continue.”

The rest of the meeting proved productive. Dr. Fujiwara, representing the interests of the Ship community, agreed that any technology left intact would be released at the discretion of Max Simon and his agents at a rate necessary to avoid economic or social upheavals. Petitions for the release of technology would come to his office.

“And those, such as yourself, who wish to examine the blueprints and schematics in our library will have to come here until a remote access system can be established. Will that be satisfactory, Mr. Stryfe?”

He nodded. This trip had gone better than he'd thought.

“Pardon me, doctor,” he said, “but you haven't said anything about your needs, apart from the soldiers I can't help you with. Isn't there something you and your people want in exchange?”

“We want only what you want, sir. The chance to live our lives in peace. For a hundred and thirty years we've kept what help we could've offered the world to ourselves, and now we have a chance to make amends.”

Dr. Fujiwara stood. “And perhaps one day we will all leave this terrible place, and go home.”

---

Home, Mr. Stryfe thought.

Bed, nightstand, lamp, bathroom: For thirty years, he'd spent his days and nights away from home in rooms just like this one. A window, if he were lucky. A speaking tube or even a telephone if he felt like being extravagant. That this particular room was an ile above the world on a derelict spacecraft only added to his melancholy.

At least he wasn't a hostage. Dr. Fujiwara had offered him the opportunity to return to his own room at the Cascades Hotel, but the prospect of riding that thousand-feel elevator from hell twice in one day had left him nauseated and dizzy. The doctor had taken pity on him and offered him lodging.

Mr. Stryfe opened his suitcase, grateful to the brave soul who'd gone to retrieve it. Everything Madeline had packed was there, even his shaving kit. That someone on the Ship had searched his luggage was likely, but the contents of his suitcase showed no evidence of being handled. Whoever it was had even let him keep his straight razor.

And why not? That cavalry captain was right. Might as well try to conquer the world with a box cutter.

After a shower, which proved to be an education in itself, Mr. Stryfe toweled himself dry and dressed for bed. The rewards of this trip would make Stryfe Consultants the biggest back engineering firm on the planet. He'd retire a wealthy man, spend more time with Maddie, take a long vacation, maybe to that North Pole resort where they'd spent their second anniversary.

His watch, a gift from his wife, had been handmade by the best jeweler in Inepril. He thumbed a catch, slid the outer cover from its hinge on the side, and stood the two circular halves on the nightstand. His wife, and the daughter they had loved into being on that long ago anniversary, smiled at him. In December, it was already tomorrow. Madeline was preparing breakfast, collecting the newspaper from the front step. Meryl was on her way to the office. And Ericks—who knew what that boy was doing? Half the time his son-in-law behaved like a brain-injured circus clown.

Plant engineer my foot, Mr. Stryfe thought. If that boy's an engineer then I'm a bounty hunter. True, Ericks did seem knowledgeable about Plant systems and the like, but no engineer worth his water would let a goofy, no-account pretender anywhere near a—

The door hissed open. A flashlight beam played across his face.

“What?” he muttered. “Is something wrong? Who are you?”

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Stryfe,” Dr. Fujiwara said. “But there's something very important I must show you.”

“Something to show me? Like what?”

“The real reason you were invited here. Come, we must be quick.”

---

The tram made no sound, but the impression Mr. Stryfe got from the passing tunnel walls and the rushing air was of incredible speed. Now and then the gray transit tube parted to offer brief glimpses of immense spaces full of intricate machinery or distant hectacres of hibernation beds, until the tram headlights revealed a circular wall that parted down the middle as the vehicle approached. Dr. Fujiwara warned him to put on his goggles and oxygen mask, and when they passed through the opening the outside cold seemed to bite into his bones until he remembered to turn on his parka's thermal sheath.

The next gap in the tunnel did not end, and opened onto black nothingness. From then on, Mr. Stryfe stared only at the strange trackless path straight ahead.

The tram stopped at a platform. Dr. Fujiwara led him to a door that dominated the opposite wall. Beside the door was a handle inside a recessed circular opening. Dr. Fujiwara put on his goggles and face mask and urged him to do the same.

“And you'll need these,” the doctor said, and placed two pieces of molded plastic in his hand. “Motion-sense dampers. They'll interrupt and coordinate the electrochemical impulses of your inner ear.”

“A cure for motion sickness,” Mr. Stryfe said.

“Something like that, though these are much more potent.” Dr. Fujiwara demonstrated how to use them. “And there are dangers from long-term use. Despite all this I must warn you again, Mr. Stryfe, you will need to keep your fear in check.”

Mr. Stryfe inserted his pair of dampers. “I'm ready.”

“As you will, sir.” Dr. Fujiwara opened the door onto another airlock. This time there was no nausea-inducing dance of forces, only a hiss of escaping air. Mr. Stryfe swallowed to make his ears pop.

The outer door opened onto a floodlit space not much larger than his office. Beyond the harsh white light was black nothingness. Mr. Stryfe flinched as the door slid shut behind him.

The doctor raised something to his mask and spoke. The lights died, revealing a ribbon of green translucence around the platform's edge.

Mr. Stryfe took a step back. For heaven's sake, didn't these people believe in handrails? He squinted into the dark, searching for a point of reference. There—three rectangular holes of soft moonlight in the flat, implacable void.

“You see them?” the doctor said. “Good, now look again.”

Obviously he and the doctor were standing outside the Ship, but either the dampers or his imagination were playing games on his sense of perspective. One did not normally look sideways and see a sky full of stars. The distant lights of New Oregon twinkled at him through the cold night air, except it was not a city but a gold-speckled map crisscrossed by dark streets. Beyond the flat, implacable void before him the whole world was tilted, as if it were a painting turned askew on an immeasurably vast wall.

Mr. Stryfe stepped back, pressed his shoulders into the unyielding metal of the Ship's hull. His sense of balance told him that all was well. His mind told him that he should be prostrate on the platform, scrambling for a handhold, lest he slide into space and fall to his death in the intersection of Rainier and Main.

“Artificial gravity,” Dr. Fujiwara said. “I didn't bring you out here to frighten you, Mr. Stryfe. I brought you here to show you our most closely guarded secret, one that will have implications for both your people, and mine. Now take these binoculars and watch the rightmost hole.”

Mr. Stryfe raised his hand, as if surprised to find something there. His hands trembled as he adjusted the focus. The hole loomed large in his field of view.

“Another thirty seconds,” Dr. Fujiwara said. “You'll feel a slight bump but don't be alarmed.”

Don't be alarmed, Mr. Stryfe thought. I'm standing on a platform the size of a postage stamp who knew how many iles above New Oregon and the only thing between me and certain death is the best damn magic trick I've ever seen. Why would I be alarmed?

“Ten seconds,” Dr. Fujiwara said.

Mr. Stryfe held the view as steady as he could, until for a moment he felt himself falling, as if the metal under his feet had vanished and reappeared just in time to catch him. He steadied himself, peered through the binoculars. The edges of the hole were white-hot, cooling to orange, then to red. When he looked again the hole was gone.

“I—I don't understand,” he said.

“I think you do,” the doctor said.

“How long has this been going on?”

“On this Ship, almost from the beginning. How much do you know about the SEEDs Project, Mr. Stryfe?”

“Next to nothing,” he said. “Just what I learned in school.”

“Like everyone else in your world. And just like everyone else, you were taught that most of the records were lost in the Fall. Most of them were, except ours.” Dr. Fujiwara crossed his arms and sighed. “I like to think of myself as a scientist, Mr. Stryfe, curious and unafraid of new knowledge. Yet I must confess there is much about our human race that I wish I'd never learned.”

“Such as?”

“The records suggest some kind of environmental catastrophe compounded by overpopulation, but the exact circumstances behind our ancestors' departure from Earth are unclear. What is clear is that the majority of them did not represent the best and the brightest humanity had to offer. In fact, many of them were what our earthbound cousins considered criminals.”

“Why go to all this trouble just to dispose of criminals?”

Dr. Fujiwara stared at him. “Whatever you or I might think of humanity now, Mr. Stryfe, our people knew something of compassion. If you had a planet full of overcrowded prisons and a cheap means of getting rid of them, apart from mass executions, wouldn't you use it?”

“I—well, I'm not sure. I'm an engineer, not a philosopher.”

“I find that surprising, considering so many philosophers at the time were considered criminals. Be that as it may, the bulk of our ancestors were considered undesirables, and shipped off to fend for themselves—or, as it turned out, to die painlessly during an unprogrammed atmospheric reentry.”

Mr. Stryfe shivered in his parka. His grandfather had told him stories about the Fall, passed down from father to son to grandson. The first to awake had learned what had happened, but never why.

“These Ships were built for interstellar travel,” the doctor said, “designed to endure the rigors of acceleration, to survive cosmic radiation and debris and protect their passengers from the same. With every discovery of a new world a five-person crew was awakened from hypersleep to collect data and determine whether the planet could be safely settled.”

Dr. Fujiwara approached, grabbed Mr. Stryfe's elbow.

“No five people ever born could perform all the maintenance necessary to keep the Ships functioning. Human beings did not maintain these Ships, nor did human beings build them. And with time, those hands can rebuild them.”

“Hands? What are you talking about? Whose hands?”

Dr. Fujiwara spoke into his comlink. The floodlights kicked on.

“Come, Mr. Stryfe,” he said. “There's someone I'd like you to meet.”

---

Matthew Stryfe did not sleep that night. Nor did he speak, beyond the automatic courtesies a guest extended to a gracious host as he left the doctor behind on the entry platform. Nor did his stomach tremble or rebel at the horror of being so high off the ground.

When the cage touched the ground he stumbled across the moat of desert, accepted the cavalry captain's greetings with a kindness that might've seemed to him curt and insincere. Mr. Stryfe offered a weak apology, declined the captain's offer to drive him to the ticket office.

Within an hour, he was in a first class cabin on the first steamer to Little Jersey. Meryl liked to travel first class. He'd been meaning to discuss the matter with her, impress upon her the virtues of frugality, but now the need didn't seem so urgent. Here there was no soundproofing, but the engine's relative quiet added to his much-needed sense of privacy.

Mr. Stryfe held his hand to the warm glass of the porthole and contemplated another hand, long and graceful, that was not a reflection of his.

---

“Father, dinner's ready.”

Meryl held the back door as it closed, wiped her hands on her apron. In the kitchen Mother was putting the final touches on dinner, the mounds of salmon patties and fried potatoes Father liked best after a business trip. Comfort food, he'd always called it. Meryl agreed, allowing the scents to call up her own warm memories.

A crash sounded from the dining room. Ericks had dropped one of Mother's best china plates. Again. Disgusted, Meryl removed the apron, wadded it up and threw it into a hamper. Why Mother still let him help set the table after losing three plates and two crystal wine glasses in four weekends was beyond understanding. Ready to give Vash a piece of her mind, Meryl headed for the dining room, but stopped at the sound of Mother's gentle, reassuring voice.

Meryl let her shoulders sag. Mother sounded prepared to defend her miscreant son-in-law, and there was no getting past Mother's defenses.

Father hadn't come in for dinner. She went to the back door, tempted to grab a tablecloth and fan the delectable smells from the kitchen toward the garage. The door was open. Father's work light was still on.

“Father?” Meryl walked to the garage. After his return from New Oregon, Father had gone straight to his office, canceling his appointments and refusing to see anyone. Now he sat on his tall stool, forehead resting on his folded hands, deep in thought. This was how she'd found him on Grandma's birthday every year after her death, but that terrible anniversary was months away.

Her pumps clocked on the sealed concrete as she approached. Photographs in plain wooden frames rested on the low shelf in front of him. In one pair of frames her much younger father held a sleeping infant, chubby hands closed on the fabric of his shirt. In the adjacent frame a girl glared out of the past, gold valedictorian's sash vivid against the deep blue of her graduation robe. The girl's eyes were full of anger, her smirk full of triumph. She held her diploma the way a butcher might hold a chicken's neck before he snapped it. The girl had left for Bernardelli the next day.

In the other pair of frames the angry girl in blue had become an elated young woman in white, and all the veils were gone. The adjacent frame was empty, expectant.

Meryl reached for her father. His back and elbow were moist with perspiration.

“Daddy?”

Father lifted his head and blinked.

“I'm sorry, honey,” he said, patting the hand she'd laid on his elbow. “Did you say dinner's ready?”

“I should be sorry for disturbing you. I can fill a plate and bring it out here, if you like.”

“No, that's all right. We're all here tonight, we should eat together. You, me, your mother, and that husband of yours, whatshisname…”

Meryl smacked his arm. “Don't you think that joke's getting a little old?”

“Who's joking?”

“Daddy…”

“All right, I'll stop.”

Meryl curled her hands around his elbow, tugging him to the back door.

“Want to talk about it?” she said. Father slipped his other hand over hers.

“I have a decision to make,” he said, “one I was hoping to put off a while longer.”

“Can I help?”

“You already have.”

When they were inside Father took his place at the head of the dining room table. When the meal was ready Mother sat on his right, Meryl on his left. Ericks—Vash—took his usual place at the foot. His smile—that goofy, idiotic, knee-weakening, heartmelting smile of his—smashed through Meryl's bulwark of irritation and left her defenseless, prepared to forgive almost anything.

During dinner the talk consisted of concern for the people of New Oregon—now living under martial law, the upcoming fundraiser for the orphanage, and the new, and much higher, price of natural water. To Meryl's surprise Ericks and his father-in-law had found a common interest and discussed dodgeball scores like seasoned fans.

After dinner, Meryl left Vash to help Mother with the dishes and followed Father outside. Dusk was fading, and stars sparkled hard and clear in a moonless sky. Heat seemed to rise from the whole world, as if it were a rough clay jar fresh out of some cosmic kiln, but the night air was cool and absorbed the warmth of earth and blood alike. Meryl took pleasure in the contrast, letting the evening breeze cool her forehead while enjoying the feel of the dying day's breath on her legs.

In the garage Meryl did little more than watch her father work at his drawing table, and it was good to stand close to him, lean on his shoulder, ask questions and offer suggestions. And more than once did Father put down his pencil, wrap his arm around her waist and draw her near, speaking to her as if she were a full partner in the company, privy to its most guarded secrets.

And later, after the goodbyes and good-nights had been said, after the leftovers had been left in the refrigerator, after her grandmother's bedroom light had been extinguished and her promise to make up for her chilly farewell had been fulfilled, Meryl pushed her wet bangs from her forehead and caressed her husband's broad, muscular and mutilated back.

Asleep. She'd worn him out, poor man.

Be fair, she told herself. The journey from December to Inepril was no cakewalk even under the best of circumstances, and Vash had often made the round trip within a weekend. Home at last, he'd offered his apologies, accepted her forgiveness, and after love he'd gone right to sleep. If anyone was entitled to some extra rest, it was Vash.

Meryl turned on her side, reached behind her and patted his rump. Vash often went to bed first when she brought work home, and if he were still on the edge of consciousness he'd turn to face toward her, cup her body against his, and enfold her in his arms. She never failed to fall asleep in that position, although it normally took a couple of tries. Either way, she didn't mind.

Vash didn't move. Disappointed, she curled the sheet around her shoulders. His gift helped. Sweet man, he'd thought of her even when he was exhausted.

Meryl plucked the delicate flower from its thin vase on her nightstand. The scent of the purple blossom was strong, like perfume.

---

Author's Afterword

Next: Milly. Remember her? See you soon!