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Chapter Two
The hairs on the back of Garrett’s neck didn’t smooth down until he crossed the footbridge over a small canal and came to the cantina door. He’d worked with Sebastian for years, and he still got the itching, burning need to look over his shoulder whenever the torvar was in the same room. He didn’t understand how others could trust him so easily. He didn’t understand how Leon—the closest thing he still had to family—could trust him so much he fell in love with him.
Even Maxwell—sweet, kind, brilliant Maxwell—liked Sebastian.
The thought of Maxwell Terry went the rest of the way toward soothing Garrett’s anxiety away.
In Garrett’s world of violence and testosterone, punctuated with brief moments of downtime filled with drinking and comradery with city folk who—brothers though they may be—could never truly love or understand where he came from, Maxwell was the only true peace Garrett had found. Just the sound of Maxwell’s sweet drawl softened all of Garrett’s edges and reminded him that fighting had never been his favorite activity.
Garrett knew there was no water for him at that well. Maxwell had never once encouraged him, and he didn’t even blush at Garrett’s innuendos or offers, but that was alright. Maxwell never sent him away, and at the end of the day, that was all Garrett really needed.
“Garrett!” Jun, the bartender, threw his arms out as soon as Garrett pushed open the cantina door. “You survived another one!”
“You sound surprised every time, Jun.” Garrett opened his arms wide and came around the bar to give the older man a hug. Jun had kept the Resistance’s troops fed and watered and given them a place to blow off steam for as long as Garrett had been a part of it. He’d seen Garrett grow up from an anxious teenager watching his back obviously to an anxious adult watching it subtly.
“Not surprised, just happy.” Jun tousled his hair and then filled him a mug of beer and pulled the foil off a bowl of the same stew Maxwell had been eating. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, Jun.” Garrett took his beer and food and turned to lean against the bar and survey the room.
Emptier and emptier every day. Garrett supposed that was a good thing. The Resistance was disbanding now that there really wasn’t anything to resist. The occupation had ended. The war was won. The people who had fought for their country had an actual government to work under now and families to be with. The fight, in a more general sense, was hardly over—their continent still needed to be saved from the ravages of a fear gas sweeping across it in storms and of pirates taking advantage of the chaos. But it was unclear how a militant group founded for the sole purpose of opposing the Klah’Eel occupation repurposed itself into a humanitarian rescue group.
Still, people stuck around—either because they had a sense of loyalty or duty or because they simply didn’t have anywhere else to go or anyone else to be with. And those people were Garrett’s responsibility.
He walked first to a young woman sitting by herself at a high counter close enough to the pool table to watch the game but too far to be involved in the conversation. “How you doing, Bonita?”
Bonita blinked and looked up, then gave Garrett a little smile and shifted her chair over to make room for him. “Hi, Garrett. I’m good.”
“Yeah?” Garrett slid in next to her.
“Yeah.” Bonita nodded, and Garrett took a long sip of his beer to give her a chance to change her answer. He had to start eating too, before she sighed and shrugged. “I mean, considering. We still haven’t heard anything from Libha, but we haven’t heard anything from a lot of places, so it doesn’t mean anything.”
Garrett nodded grimly and wrapped an arm around her shoulders to give her a squeeze. Bonita’s whole family lived in Libha. Like so many others, she waited every day with bated breath for the moment when the city she came from would manage to make contact with someone outside Tava. The hard truth was that no one knew yet how bad the situation on the planet was—the death count, the casualty count, none of it.
The only thing Garrett did know was that the longer it took them to get people off or clear the planet’s air, the worse it would get.
He sat quietly with Bonita for a few minutes finishing his stew and sipping his drink until Jason at the pool table called out to him. “You gonna keep nursing that beer, Garrett, or are you gonna help me beat these losers?”
The other two soldiers duly broke out into loud guffaws and trash-talking, and Garrett patted Bonita on the back once before joining them.
“Well, that’s not fair, Jason. You know Evan here is still learning.” Garrett shot Evan a grin as he took the cue from Jason.
“Oh, shut it, Garrett,” Evan—who had been playing pool for years on years—scoffed without any heat and set up the rack. “You know what, since I’m so not scared of you, I’ll even let you shoot first.”
Garrett crossed his arms. “You wanna put your money where your mouth is if you’re feeling so good?” He was glad Evan was feeling good enough to be here with everyone. Garrett had found him sobbing in the temple a few days ago—wracked with guilt over having left his family to rejoin the Resistance just a few weeks ago and now not being with them.
“Screw money. I’m playing for pride.”
Garrett laughed and lined up his shot. “You even got any of that?”
He kept up the trash talk as he played the game, keeping Evan and Jason and the other soldiers in the bar in the here and now with him. There would be plenty of time for work and worry. They all needed some time for nonsense.
Too soon, Garrett looked up from sinking a ball to see Leon Hess making his way to him, his face set into its usual grim expression. He sighed and passed his pool cue to Jason. “Play time’s over.”
“I need you to come to the sky port with me.” Leon jerked his head back to the exit.
“Right behind you.” Garrett motioned him forward and followed him out of the bar. Once they shut the door behind them, he glanced around for any potential eavesdroppers and then fell into step beside Leon. “What’s happened?”
“Something good.” Leon’s lips pressed together, and he drummed his fingers along the side of his thigh. “Maybe.”
