Page 14

Leave of Absence

Callum

“Get outta here!”

The blustering voice hammered his ears.

The air launched from Callum’s lungs as he landed on his back, thrown out of the bar by its burly bouncer.

A heartbeat later the other man joined him on the ground in a plume of dust and sand.

Blood dripped down the man’s nose and over his cracked lip.

One eye was already swelling shut.

Cal was certain he didn’t look much better.

He winced at the sting as he wiped at an itch on his face, and his hand came away dark with blood.

Cal staggered to his feet and glanced at the other fellow, feeling his lip curl in disdain.

“You may wanna check your facts before you go throwin’ punches,”

he said through a fat lip before turning on his heel and stalking back toward the barracks.

That had been real stupid.

He should have just gone back to his room and grieved his brother instead of drinking to destruction.

Cal could almost hear Barlow’s voice in his head, scolding him for losing his temper.

The ache in his chest bloomed anew and he clutched at his heart, pausing in the middle of the dusty street with only the moonlight to witness the shine in his eyes.

Something had broken, cracked open, inside.

Irreparably damaged, the sharp edges slicing his lungs with each breath.

A loud pop and crackle exploded above him and he looked up to see a burst of light dissolve into glittering dust in the sky, leaving a distinctly sweet scent in the air.

Shit.

He’d forgotten about the FireFlower Festival.

No wonder the bar had been so crowded.

He’d need to stay out of the bar for another couple nights while the celebrations lasted.

After several moments, when his breathing returned to normal and he regained the tenuous grip on his control, he began the long walk back to his room, the occasional flashes of light limning the perfect silhouette of his black shadow in neon colors.

The mess hall bustled with music and laughter, shouts and curses echoing through the place as they often did.

Tonight was game night in addition to the festival, and many soldiers had money to burn, it seemed.

Last year, Jameson had lost more than two months wages over the course of the festival’s two days, ending the holiday in a drunken stupor on Cal’s floor.

Another shout and the clink of cups colliding joined in the cacophony of popping fireworks in the sky.

The luminars flickered as he passed, the glow casting long shadows on the floor.

Callum halted abruptly midstep.

Barlow hadn’t been the only one spreading the rations.

Fynten.

A low growl rolled up his throat and he whirled back the other direction toward the rooms on the east end of the barracks.

He must have looked like the hand of fury, because people who saw him coming quickly moved out of his way, practically leaping from his gaze.

“Where can I find Fynten,”

he snarled at one of them, catching his arm in an iron grip.

The man pointed to a door at the far end and nearly stumbled over his feet when Cal released him.

He tried, he really tried, to keep his head.

But when he reached the door, his fist hadn’t gotten the message and he pounded on it hard enough to shake the wall.

“Who’s there?”

the familiar voice answered.

Was there a quiver in it?

“Open this door right now, Fyn,”

Cal demanded, growling against the wood.

A few moments later, the lock clicked and a frazzled, pale-looking Fyn stared back at him, ushering him back into the room and closing the door behind him.

Fyn eased back with his hands in the air, watching Cal with a wary expression.

“Now I don’ want trouble.”

“Trouble?”

Cal said, with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

“We’re long past that Fynten.

It’s your fault Barlow’s dead!”

Fyn looked away, his big brown eyes dropped to the ground, welling with tears.

“I know,”

he whispered, his voice cracking like firewood.

“They shoulda got me instead, but dey nabbed him ‘cause he had the numbers.

He was the one askin’ for the extra. For me.”

He hung his head and some of Cal’s anger eased.

Only some.

He took a calming breath and rolled his shoulders, reeling the emotions back into his control.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

Cal unfisted his hands and shoved them into his pockets to keep from lashing out.

Fyn rubbed his hands together and swiped at his eyes.

“I dunno, man, someone turned us in.

I dunno who woulda, ‘specially since we wasn’t breakin’ no laws or nothin’.

Alls I know is we’d jus’ come back from visitin’ Kiora an’ they was waitin’ for him.

Black Coats.

He shoved me away in the nick o’ time, but I know they’s be after me next.

“We wasn’t supplyin’ no rebels—you gotta believe me.”

The plaintiveness of Fyn’s voice tore at Cal’s conscience.

Callum glowered into Fyn’s eyes, the smaller man shrinking further beneath his wrath, searching for even a sliver of deceit.

“I believe you,”

he finally replied.

His shoulders fell after a sigh, weary bones drooping like old laundry on a chair.

His statement surprised them both, but he meant it.

Whatever had happened, Fyn and Barlow believed they’d been doing the right thing.

They had been, hadn’t they? Feeding the hungry was a good thing.

Fyn sank with relief and wrapped his arms around himself.

“I gotsta leave, ya know.

Ya won’t tell no one, right?”

“Deserting?”

Cal shook his head dubiously.

“You’d be in more trouble if they caught you then if you just came clean now.”

Fyn shook his head quickly.

“No way, Cal, there’s someone in there that’s afta blood, I tell ya.

I’m gettin’ out of here before they get t’ me.

Gon’ lie low a couple towns over til things settle down.

Then I’ll come back like nothin’s changed.

There’s a place jus’ past Marta’s.

I’ve heard ‘bout people gettin’ away an’ hiding out ‘round there. My man Mark knows a guy who’s gonna get me to safety.”

“If that’s what you want, Fyn, but I don’t know if it’s gonna work out for you.”

Cal placed a heavy hand on his old friend’s shoulder.

Poor guy looked like a wreck, stubble on his chin and bags under his eyes, his long neck hanging from his shoulders like wilting grass.

“You could come wit’ me,”

Fyn suggested.

“What, and leave my whole life?”

Cal let out a derisive snort.

“After everything I’ve worked for? For what—to live on the run? Pretend like I’m someone else until I can come back?”

he gave a rueful smile and shook his head.

“That doesn’t sound much better than what I’ve got going now, and at least now I have three square meals a day.

I’m the best piercer they’ve got.

They’d know if I went missing.”

“I’m jus’ sayin’, some time away might be good.”

It was strange for him to echo the same sentiment as the investigator.

Time away.

Barlow had wanted that for him, too.

Maybe that was what he needed after all.

Fynten’s face lit up in victory, apparently recognizing the shift in Cal’s expression.

“Meet me there t’morrow.

Put in yer leave o’ absence an’ get away from all this.”

“I’ll think about it. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The gap in Fyn’s teeth had only grown wider over the years, and his smile bore it proudly.

Fyn patted Cal on the shoulder and tugged him closer.

“He was a good man, Barry, m’ heart—”

his voice cracked and he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Cal. Truly.”

Cal dipped his chin in a single nod, a lump tightening his throat.

Fyn patted his shoulder again as Callum left and wandered the halls, ignoring the celebrations—a discordant irritant grating on his nerves.

A strange emptiness had settled over his chest.

A floating, directionless sensation.

The anger had faded from his blood and left a leaded weight in its place that made his feet scrape on the ground as he trudged back to his room.

***

“Tha house’s jus’ over tha ridge there, d’ya see?”

Fynten pointed across the desert, the morning rays glinting off the amber glasses shielding his eyes.

They’d ridden for about two hours, the sweet scent from the evening’s revelries a lingering companion on their journey.

Cal followed the direction of Fyn’s finger, squinting into the distance.

There, nestled between two plateaus and a small grove of tall lefiin trees, was a little farmhouse.

“What do you mean, the house is right there?”

Callum said, irritation warring with the strong urge to laugh.

“Fyn, you said it was going to take a long time to get there.

I packed enough rations to last for days!”

He shook the backpack at Fyn.

Fyn shrugged, smirking a little.

“Well, it took alls of two hours, that’s quite some time for some, ya know.”

Callum opened his mouth, then shut it again.

It wasn’t worth the argument.

Instead, after a deep sigh, he squinted at the house in the distance.

“It looks abandoned,”

Cal replied dubiously.

“Well, it ain’t.

Melba ‘n’ Weston are there.

You’ll see.”

Fyn clicked at his solarith and the beast lumbered forward.

Already the heat was sweltering, and Cal wiped sweat from his forehead before replacing his hat and following behind Fyn.

He’d pondered it most of the night and then decided to join Fyn in his escape and take some time off.

A small vacation.

He deserved it, after all.

At least, that’s what people kept telling him.

More than ten years in the military, doing anything and everything they asked and taking missions no one else really wanted simply because he had the skills, and now he was finally taking a break.

Truthfully, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Didn’t really believe he needed it, but he certainly couldn’t stay. He saw his brother around every corner, heard his bright laughter in the mess hall, longed to share his sketches of the Bay. The desire to draw had parted so swiftly he’d considered leaving his supplies. Only the thought that Barlow had been the last person to see his drawings had made him keep the book with him, stuffed in his bag. Directionless, he simply rode behind Fyn on their way to the little farmhouse where he’d promised there would be breakfast and coffee for them both and travel papers for Fyn.

This was further from the city than he was comfortable with and he had to keep reminding himself that he had put in his leave papers and was allowed this reprieve.

He didn’t need to report.

Cal was essentially a free man for the next few weeks.

Red dust kicked up from the sandstrider’s hooves, leaving a glittery trail behind them that shimmered in the breeze from the dunes.

The house was crafted from clay and shinweed as most were, though the roof looked to be in poor repair.

At least it was functional.

The rainy season would be upon them soon, and it would be better to be prepared when it arrived.

Though it was rare and only lasted a short time, that rainwater was essential to survival.

He spied the collection pots on the side of the house, and canals dug into the roof that allowed the water to pour directly into the pots to be stored for later.

A poor man’s way of doing things—those in the cities used a cistern to avoid evaporation.

An older man in his early fifties was working in the fenced yard, chopping up and pulling the needles from the large cactuses he’d gathered around the chopping block.

Based on the piles, he’d been at it for a while.

He looked up with a sun-weathered face as Callum and Fyn neared and waved at them with a cheerful smile.

“Well, howdy! You brought a friend, Fyn,”

he called and approached them as the sandstriders neared the gate.

“Callum, this’s Weston.

Weston, m’ friend Callum.”

Cal slid down from his solarith and offered his hand to Weston.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“And you, as well.

Don’t get a lot of new folk around here, as I’m sure you can imagine.

Well, come on in, fellas, Melba’s expectin’ you.

She just finished cookin’ up some food and I can smell it from here.”

Without another glance, Weston sauntered inside.

Fyn and Callum followed, and the three of them removed their hats as they entered.

Weston was balding and had a fluff of greying hair around his temples and whiskers on his face.

Though older, he was clearly strong for his age.

Cal noted no less than three large knives and an axe placed around the house, and at least one piercer.

Seemed a bit excessive for just a local farmer.

“Feel free to leave your bags here by the door,”

Weston gestured as he spoke.

Fyn dumped his belongings without a backward glance, sniffing the air as if he was a damn hound.

“No thanks,”

Callum said coolly, shifting his bag a little more securely on his shoulder.

“Got some valuables in here, would rather keep it on me.”

“Suit yourself,”

Weston said dismissively, heading purposefully toward the table.

Melba was a handsome woman, made even more welcome and beautiful by the large tray of food she brought with her into the kitchen as the men sat down, Callum placing his bag by his side.

“Good morning,”

she greeted them with a warm smile.

“Dig in—there’s plenty, and some freshly baked bread as well.”

They all ate eagerly, scarfing down the fresh bread and coffee like they’d never tasted something so good.

To be fair, the mess hall didn’t always have the best food.

“Now, Fynten,”

Weston said, turning in his chair to speak to Fyn.

“I got your transfer papers here with me, but I didn’t know I’d need some for your friend.

Hard ‘nuff forgin’ these things for one.”

Callum looked over at Fyn, his jaw clenched.

Just how much shit could this man get them into? He quickly tallied the crimes he’d committed just by entering this place.

Aiding and abetting for sure, and now consorting with criminals.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,”

Callum said just as Fyn was saying, “Nah, he’s stayin’.”

Weston gave them both a once over with a steely, blue-eyed gaze before he nodded his head.

Cal made to stand but Weston’s lips tightened and his eyes hardened.

Warning bells tolled in his head and he slowly sat back down.

“Will your friend here keep his mouth shut?”

Weston asked Fyn, his eyes glued to Cal.

Only a few options in this situation and none of them were pretty.

Option one, he could report the crimes he’s seen here.

If he did that, Fyn would be in the shitter too.

Option two, he could go right along with Fyn, but then he’d be complicit in whatever other things were going on behind closed doors.

That left option three.

Cal glared at Weston and crossed his arms.

“I’m off duty, sir.”

There.

A natural response that would neither incriminate him nor Fyn.

Hopefully.

He could claim innocence if it came to it.

That seemed to placate Weston and he nodded.

“Fair ‘nuff.

The rest of the boys’ll be here soon.”

Cal froze.

What did that mean? The boys? What boys?

“The rest?”

Callum asked.

“Yeah, my men,”

Weston replied absently.