The message was sent; Schaz was merrily bubbling away under the surface of the sea, working on the decryption of the data and the analysis of the mask I’d nicked from the Cyn’s ship; the Cyn himself, the fucker, was still trapped in the abattoir he’d made of Valkyrie Rock. We had nothing but time.
Our days spent in Mo’s villa—or rather, the Jaliad villa Mo was squatting in—quickly fell into a certain pattern. Mo would go out in the morning to hunt, or else sit on the upper levels of the villa’s decks to fish, watching Jane and me training along the beach, while Sho did roughly the same in the shade of the villa, trying to learn how to actively manipulate the fusion energy he gave off in waves. Jane had something against enforced idleness, and after three years, I’d grown to appreciate that fact: if we had nothing else to do, we trained.
We’d break for lunch—usually leftovers from the night before—and then I’d practice channeling energy through my telekinesis, while Jane would take Sho and try to walk him through his progress during the morning. Both of us had incremental success, though it always came hard earned: Sho always looked worn out and frazzled when lunch rolled around, and I had to shave my head again after the stubble that had been slowly taking over my scalp decided to catch fire on a bad day.
Still, we were making progress. By the end of the week, Sho could generate an electric current out of thin air, a current he would then lash at me: I could hold off his attacks at the very least, and once or twice I managed to siphon off enough energy to gather it up in a teke spike and toss it back at him—though I aimed for the beach beside him, not for Sho himself: he hadn’t gone through any defensive training yet, and we didn’t have the facilities here to implant an intention shield into his neck.
The evenings were for relaxing, or being as relaxed as any of us got: two old soldiers, and two teenagers doing their damnedest to adjust to having superpowers. Or in my case, trying to do new shit with old superpowers. I’d just been starting to get a handle on using my teke in combat, and now this new wrinkle came up.
One night, Mo and Jane were trading war stories on the deck—not stories about when they’d worked together, unfortunately, more “what’s the craziest thing you’ve fought since we went our separate ways”—and I wheeled Sho off to bed. When I came back, I paused by the door. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, per se; Jane and Mo were just deep in conversation, and I didn’t want to interrupt them.
Also, I wanted to eavesdrop.
Mo was speaking as I made my decision not to approach. “How much longer are you going to keep this up, Red? You’ve fought your wars.”
“There are always more wars, Mo.”
“And always new blood to fight them. The girl’s good.” That was nice to hear.
“She’s not as good as me.” Well, okay, but still.
“She’s not what you were when you were her age, no. But that’s not what I meant. You and I . . . we’re compromised. And I don’t just mean the pulse; I don’t just mean the decisions we made, with the Justified. From before that, even. When I say she’s good, I mean she’s good, Jane. She’ll be able to find ways . . . solutions . . . we never could. She’s not a killer. Not at heart.”
Jane sighed, shifted in her chair. I drew back, farther into the shadows. “You’re right,” she said, staring up at the rings that split the night sky.
Mo shrugged. “I’ve always been able to read people.”
“I mean about me, old man. Esa too, but mostly . . . I’m getting old, Mo.”
“Ah, you look fine. I meant more how long did you want to do it; wasn’t asking how long you could. I’m a hundred years older than you are, and I’m still kicking.”
“You’re Mahren; you’ve still got a ways to go on your natural lifespan. I’m well past mine. It’s just nanotech and synthetic . . . everything, holding me together now. Humans just weren’t meant to live this long. I certainly never was. When I was Esa’s age, I never dreamt I’d see my next decade, let alone a century or more.” ’
“Then retire. Scoop up this Javier of yours, find some forgotten world somewhere, live out what’s left of your days. Take up fishing, basket weaving, whatever. Just don’t take up a gun again.”
“You’ve still got your guns.”
“But I don’t have your ghosts. The Justified made me a killer, Jane. For better or worse—”
“They didn’t have to make me anything. I know. I was already . . . by the time you found me—”
“You needed training in a lot of ways. Never in that one.”
I think Jane almost smiled at that; I could hear it in her voice. “Was I really so feral?”
“It’s a question of degrees,” Mo shrugged. “I just had to remind you that you were a person, underneath all the rest. She’s doing the same thing—the girl, I mean. And that’s why you feel old, Red. It’s not because you’re failing, or fading. It’s because for the first time in a long time, you’ve got someone around to remind you that you have more to offer than death.”
“And also because she’s seventeen, and I’m . . . not.”
“And also that, yes.” Mo sighed, shifted in his chair. “Do you remember the story of Aeliadh Hill, Jane? I told it to you, when you were young.”
“Where the last of the great Vyriat knights made their stand, defending the last library, before the Vyriat Dark Ages descended. Yeah, I remember. They died, to a man. And their cause was lost.”
“Their war was lost; not their cause. After, they became legend, their story told, over and over, a reminder during the Dark Ages of what the Vyriat could become. My point is: you’re not there. Not yet. Your story doesn’t have to end like that, even if that ending for them was a beginning for someone else. They fought to the last because they had no other choice. You shouldn’t go looking for your Aeliadh Hill. That’s all I’m trying to say. You’ve still got a good fight or two left in you.”