Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was one of those long hot dusty afternoons that occur towards the end of summer. I was sitting on the rail of the corral trying to find an excuse to avoid hoeing the vegetable patch. We'd had a much greater variety of vegetables these last few years; some of the new settlers had brought the seeds of Earth plants with them. Father always likes to tell me of the old days - when he and Mother first lived here they had had nothing to live on except tinned food from the old factory. They'd had to experiment to discover which of the native plants were edible.

      The first couple of years were very bad - Mother told me that she had two children after me, and lost them both. Then new people started arriving. They said there had been a great war with aliens from another galaxy; many good agricultural worlds were damaged and people were looking for new land to cultivate. Hollerith isn't a bad place to live once you've got something to plant that is worth eating. Father says the settlers named our world. It just had a number before, but I don't know what the number was.

      The settlers brought livestock too. Obviously they didn't transport fully grown animals, they brought along gene stock and brood units. I can still remember seeing my first horse - the idea of a tame animal seemed really strange to me. Heidi Schultz always used to complain to her husband that a ground car would have been more convenient, but Schultz said that horses didn't need spare parts from off world, and besides, they produced their own replacements.

      Anyhow, as I was saying, it was a hot day. The sort of day when a boy would far rather be lazing around than working. I liked just sitting there on the rail enjoying the view. That was when I first noticed him - the stranger that is. I spied him a long way off down the track, near to Denham's place. He was walking, carrying a pack on his back, and didn't seem to be in any hurry, just walking as though he was going some place that was far far away, and expected to take forever to get there.

      A stranger of any kind was a novelty in the valley. Where had he come from? There were other settlements on Hollerith, but none close by. A ship had come down near the factory the week before. There was a rumour going around that there were plans to start up mining again. Had he come in on the ship, or walked from one of the other settlements?

      I watched him as he came closer. I could make out more details now. His clothes must have been smart once upon a time. His black tunic showed signs of much wear, but there was something about it that suggested a man who cared about what he wore. His trousers were black too, tucked into leather boots. A silver studded belt encircled his waist, and that was when I realised what was unusual about him. He didn't wear a gun. Here on Hollerith, everyone wears a gun. We're a small friendly community in the valley, but there are a lot of dangerous native animals. Most of them have been shot out of the vicinity now, but it still pays to go armed.

      I could tell he'd seen me watching him. His eyes seemed to be constantly checking his surroundings. He'd taken me in with one glance and decided I wasn't anything to worry about. I waited there on the rail. I'm not sure I could have moved if I wanted to. The stranger fascinated me. There was something about him, in spite of the absence of a weapon, that said he was dangerous.

      Walking the last hundred meters towards me, he stopped and spoke conversationally, "I'd appreciate a drink of water."

      "Sure." I jumped down hastily. "The pump's over here." Another thing the settlers had brought. Father said that he'd had to get water from the factory, or to wait for rain, until the newcomers came.

      The stranger made his way over to the trough, pumped some fresh water, and then helped himself to a drink. Having satisfied his thirst, he proceeded to to wash his face and hair. Wet, the slicked back hair was a deep dark brown, almost black. Father came around the corner from where he'd been working and watched silently.

      "Thank you," the stranger said to me. "I'll be on my way."

      "Wait a moment," said Father.

      I've never seen a man turn so fast as the stranger did then. He spun around, his eyes boring into Father's face . "You!" he gasped. I shivered in spite of the heat. There was something dark and dangerous in the air.

      I stared in wonder as Father and the stranger looked at each other for a long moment, measuring each other in some strange adult way. "You know me?" Father asked.

      The stranger looked at him again, then shook his wet hair. "No, you reminded me of someone I once knew. Just a passing resemblance." His manner became slightly aggressive. "What do you want anyway?"

      "Why nothing," Father replied with a friendly smile. "In these parts it's considered good manners to ask a passer by in for a meal and a bed for the night. Besides, Rashel's been baking. She'd be insulted if you didn't come in and sample her cooking."

      "I see." He seemed slightly amused. "And Rashel is to be placated at all costs?"

      Father seemed offput by that for a moment, then he nodded in agreement. "Rashel is my life," he replied simply. Then he smiled at me and reached out to tousle my hair. "Along with Joey, of course."

      I ducked and dodged out of his way onto the porch, leaving the two men looking at each other. They seemed to be sizing one another up. The stranger gave a peculiar half smile. "I'll stay for supper, but don't expect anything more."

      Father held out his hand. "I'm Roj Blake."

      The stranger hesitated, as though Father's hand was a live snake that might bite him, then he decided it was safe, and shook it. "Shane," he said finally. "You can call me Shane."

Mother put on her best dress for supper, she always did when we had guests. Father smiled to see her - he's proud of Mother and what they've built together. Shane's eyes took in everything, including Mother. For a moment, I saw the cabin through his eyes. What had always seemed normal to me, must to him have appeared a strange mixture of old and new technology. The walls were of timber, unhewn logs, but inside, lining the walls, were insulating panels salvaged from the factory. The lighting was electric, Martin the trader had brought some small wind generators on his last trip round these parts. Mother still cooked over an open fire though. She talked about something called a food processing unit, but whatever one of those was, they were too expensive to be worth importing from off planet. Hollerith doesn't have the technology to produce anything more complex than horseshoes and farm tools.

      Supper was good - fresh meat, tomasc beans with cabbage, all followed by one of Mother's sponge puddings. Shane worked his way through it, quietly, but appreciatively. His attention wasn't totally on the food though. He kept watching Father when he thought Father wasn't looking at him.

      Shane scraped the last trace of sponge from his dish and spoke to Mother. "Thank you," he said. "That's the best meal I've had in a long time."

      Mother blossomed under his praise. It was a trite enough compliment, but Shane sounded as though he really meant it.

      "Wait a little longer," said Father. "I've got a new batch of beer. Rashel won't touch the stuff, but I'd like someone to drink it with."

      "Beer?" he questioned. "Not like -" Then he stopped himself. "Why not?"

      The beer was in an empty drum out back. I remembered the trouble Father had had cleaning it. He'd had no idea what it had contained originally, so he'd scrubbed it, scalded it, and done just about everything you could think of, to ensure that it was clean. We didn't have much in the way of money you see. The settlers had brought their own goods and money with them, but we were here first. Schultz once told me that he'd never have made it through the first winter without Father's local knowledge. So anyway, we never had any money until we started trading with the other settlers. Wouldn't have had no use for it anyhow until the town developed. Either we scavenged from the factory, or we did without. I call it a town, but Mother says it's really only a few buildings thrown together. She says a real town has millions of people. I find that hard to believe, though.

      Father brought back a clay jug filled with beer and sat down. (We fire our own pottery. Schultz has a kiln.) Shane eyed the jug with a slightly jaundiced eye, but accepted the mug of beer Father poured for him. Father watched him, waiting for his reaction. Shane seemed to take that as a challenge, because he promptly tipped his head back and took a large swig. Putting down the mug, he looked at Father with mocking respect. "You drink that stuff? You're a better man than I thought."

      "And who did you think I was?" Father asked casually.

      Shane slammed his hand on the table, making the mug jump a centimetre into the air. "Don't try to manipulate me, Blake."

      Father looked surprised at the venom in Shane's voice. "I wasn't. I just thought you might have known him."

      "If by him, you mean Roj Blake, the late and unlamented rebel - then, yes, I met him a few times."

      Father poured himself a drink and gazed into its depths. "I never met him. He was my cousin. I'm told we were very alike."

      "Roj," Mother interrupted. "Don't start talking about him. You know it upsets you."

      I wanted them to carry on talking. This was all new to me. Who was this mysterious uncle of mine? I'd noticed a couple of people react oddly to Father's name when introduced, but I'd never known why. Father always brushed it off with a joke, saying that he was darned if he was going to change his name merely because someone else happened to share it. Shane knew something though, and I was all eagerness to hear more.

      While Shane and Father drank their beer, the conversation changed to other topics. Shane seemed to have been everywhere and done everything. Our life here appeared tame and dull by comparison. Yet he showed an interest in the farm, asked what sort of crops we grew and how we harvested them. It was obvious that he had never lived on a farm. Father got really wrapped up in the discussion. He loved a chance to talk about the farm, and Shane was the perfect man to talk to. He listened, asked questions, argued back, suggested alternatives, and in short gave Father the best run he'd had for his money since he tried to talk old man Schultz into loaning him his stallion for a week.

      Eventually Father got to his feet. "Why not come and see for yourself?" he suggested.

      "Why not indeed," murmured Shane. "They say you learn something new every day."

      I wasn't quite sure if he meant that seriously or as a joke. That was one thing I was to learn about Shane. He had a sense of humour that easily tipped over into sarcasm.

      Still, Shane followed Father outside, and being not only curious, but also eager to escape washing the dishes, I tagged along. They walked around the stable and the corral. Father pointed out the lie of the land down to the river and Shane duly took it all in. He solemnly inspected the quality of the soil, looked at the grain on the corn, and even studied the horses, albeit from a distance.

      Walking back to the house, Shane almost tripped over a root of the stump. We called it the stump. It was to big and ornery just to be a stump. Father gave it a kick. "Used to be a fine old tree once," he said, "shaded the house. Went down in a storm several years back. I keep trying to remove it, but its a real job. Most mornings when I come out, I take a chop at it." He booted it again. "It's stubborn, but we're practically friends that old stump and I."

      "Reminds me of someone I used to know," Shane said reflectively.

      "What happened to him?" Father asked suddenly.

      Until I saw him tense up, I hadn't even realised how relaxed Shane had become. "Who?" he demanded.

      Father squared off against him. "You know who I mean."

      Shane laughed. A short sharp ugly sound. "All right. According to the viscasts he was murdered - short down in cold blood by his closest friend, on a nowhere world called Gauda Prime. That same friend led all his followers into a Federation trap where they were butchered. Is that what you wanted to know?"

      Father stared at the ground, breathing deeply. There was a long silence before he spoke again. "What happened to the friend?"

      "He collaborated with the Federation. He had a lot of information they wanted. I imagine they killed him when he was no further use to them." Shane sounded indifferent, lost in some recollection of his own.

      "Shane -" I don't know what Father intended to say, because at that moment Mother called for me to go to bed.

      "Do I have to?" I protested, but she was adamant. I went indoors and crawled into bed after washing myself. I couldn't sleep. All I could think of was Shane's story. I'd never even known I had an uncle, and now he was dead. Then I woke up from a nightmare in which my best friend, Jon O'Brian, shot me, and realised I must have been asleep after all. It was quite dark now, but the electric light came through a chink down the side of the door.

      "What do you make of him?" Mother asked.

      "Who? Shane?" Father replied. "He's an odd one. I can't figure him out at all."

      "But you like him?"

      Father considered that. "Yes, I suppose I do. He's independent, not the type to let anyone push him around. I could use a man like that."

      "And he knew Blake."

      Uncle Blake again. I propped my elbows on the pillow and rested my chin on my hands to listen better.

      Father sounded disappointed. "Shane didn't want to talk about Blake, said they fell out over a misunderstanding."

      "He doesn't talk about himself either," Mother pointed out.

      "I noticed that. Whatever his past was, I think he wants to forget it."

      "Send him on his way in the morning, Roj. Men with a past are dangerous."

      "Dangerous?" Father commented. "I suppose he is, he's certainly short tempered enough. But, Rashel, everyone has a past. You do. I do. Should anyone be forced to carry a burden all their life? All lives are linked. His - Mine - Yours."

      That was one of Father's favourite sayings. He lived up to it as well. He helped every newcomer who came to the valley, and I think that was one of the things that made us such a close-knit community. I hadn't yet made up my mind about Shane, but Father liked him, and Father was rarely wrong in his judgement of people.

In the morning the trader arrived, and that was an occasion of some importance. Most minor items we could buy in town, but anything that needed importing from offworld was Martin's speciality. He had a powered van, the only one I'd ever seen, and it covered the distance between the settlements far faster than a man with a wagon could ever hope to do.

      I ran out of the house as quickly as I could, hoping against hope that Martin would let me sit in the cab. He was already out on the ground though and starting to unload something from the back. Bright shining steel - the new plough share Father had ordered. I tried to see my reflection in the polished surface, then moved out of the way as Father came to inspect it. The two of them dickered over the price before finally settling on two hundred and fifty credits. That was expensive, but the metal was far harder than anything Chong the blacksmith could produce on his forge.

      "Here," Martin said, "I've got something else that might interest you." He pulled a box down off a shelf and opened it to reveal a small computer. "Complete farm management system. Can handle soil analysis, weather prediction, animal breeding records and all the rest. You can use it to predict which crops will grow best on which soils, do cost benefit analysis on which crops to plant early for maximum profit and all sorts of other things." He grinned easily. "You can even use it to keep your good lady's recipes written down."

      Father took it gingerly. There were other families in the valley who used computers, but we'd never had one. "How does it work?" he asked.

      Martin proceeded to run a series of demonstrations with dazzling finesse, calling up field maps, crop rotation schemes and market prices on half a dozen worlds.

      "How much?" Father asked.

      "Three hundred and forty credits," Martin said promptly. "And cheap at the price."

      Father was hesitant. "I don't know. It's a lot of money."

      "Look Mr Blake, you've always been a good customer of mine, so I tell you what I'll do. I'll let you have it for two hundred and ninety. That's cutting my own throat really, but I can see you're an intelligent man who would get full use from such a system."

      Shane had been watching the negotiations without comment. Now he strolled over from where he'd been leaning against a post. "Do you mind if I take a look at it?" He was asking Father's permission, not Martin's, but it was Martin who answered. "Go right ahead," he said expansively, "but be careful you don't damage it."

      Settling down on the porch, Shane balanced the machine on his knee, produce a tool from a pocket, and levered open the casing.

      "Hey!" protested Martin. "You'll invalidate the warranty."

      "What warranty?" said Shane disgustedly. "This thing's obsolete. It has to be at least ten years old. It would be overpriced if new. Second hand, with spare parts probably impossible to obtain - it's barely worth having as a gift."

      "You lying scum!" Martin expostulated. The date is there on the casing. It was made last year."

      There was a sudden dangerous quality to Shane's dark brown eyes. He didn't move from where he was sitting, but the aura of menace was such that Martin took an involuntary step backwards.

      "I don't take anything on trust," Shane said quietly. "Labels are so easy to alter."

      "Blake," said Martin angrily, "are you going to believe this man? He's obviously got some grudge against me. I recognise him now. He's a drifter, a gambler - travels from town to town, does a few people out of their money, and then moves on before they chase him out of town."

      Shane made no comment. He sat very still, watching Father, as though Father was the only person who mattered to him in the entire world. Father looked at Shane, then at Martin, then gazed back at Shane again. "How much do you think it's worth?" he asked.

      After considering it for a moment, Shane answered, "Sixty credits. But get him to throw in a surveying tool. It'll be useless unless you know the size of your fields accurately."

      Father never hesitated. "Martin, it's as Shane said. Sixty credits and a surveying tool, or no deal."

      "That's ridiculous!"

      "Take it or leave it."

      Martin slammed a fist furiously into his palm. "All right!" He grabbed a small optical device out of a basket and slammed it into Father's hand. Sixty credits, but don't expect me to do you any favours in the future."

      Father went indoors to get his money, and returned with a pile of crumpled credit slips. Shane watched him all the while, a strange wildness in his eyes that I couldn't fathom. No sign of triumph showed on Father's face as he paid Martin the money. He watched in silence as Martin closed the rear door, climbed back into the cab, slammed the door, and drove off. Then Father looked around for Shane. He wasn't there. I wondered for a moment if he'd left already, but then I heard a sound from around the back of the house.

      An axe biting into wood.

      A slow smile spread over Father's face. He walked around the house and stopped close to the stump. Shane swung the axe once more, and the clunk rang out loud as the metal bit into the heavy wood.

      "There's no need for that," Father said.

      "I think there is," Shane replied. He took another swing and the axe bounced off the wood. He was no axeman, that was for sure. He steadied the axe and brought it over his shoulder again, both hands keeping a steady grip on the handle.

      "We often have guests," I said. It's nothing special."

      Father rested a hand on my head for a moment, mussing up my hair. "He doesn't mean that, son." He eyed Shane's inexpert handiwork carefully, but said nothing. There seemed to be a kind of desperation in Shane, a need to carry out his self-appointed task at all costs. He had the strength, in spite of his slight build, but he wasn't applying it properly. Father winced as another stroke hit the wood at the wrong angle and bounced. You could see he was itching to tell Shane how to do it properly. I had the feeling though that Shane was the kind of man who didn't like to be told that he was doing something the wrong way.

      Suddenly, Father whipped around and headed for the barn. A minute later he was back with the big double-bladed axe. Taking up a position opposite Shane, he started to work on the next root. Left hand holding the base of the axe, right hand near the head to get the control. As he swung the axe down, he slid his right hand to join his left to increase the power of the stroke. Shane smiled, and it was as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud. A few strokes of the axe later, and his action was an exact copy of Father's. The blows began to fall in a steady rhythm, and I watched fascinated. Father was more heavily built than Shane, his blows more powerful, but Shane had a restless energy that forced the pace. He was getting into the swing of it now, and seemed to have no inclination to stop. The cuts bit into the hard old wood and built into a "v" shaped notch. Tackling first one side of the notch and then the other, Shane worked his way into that root.

      After ten minutes or so, Shane paused in his work briefly to remove his shirt, then started once more with the axe. He was making progress, but it was obviously going to be a long slow job. The sun was slowly getting higher in the sky as I settled down on top of a water barrel in order to watch better. Mother came out after a while to see what was going on. She watched for a few minutes, and then returned without comment with a plate of flapjacks, a jug of Father's beer, and a couple of mugs. She placed the food and drink on the ground, and watched as the two men helped themselves. No one was talking. It was kind of eerie, but somehow there seemed no need to talk.

      Shane finished the last of his beer and picked up his axe, waiting for Father. After draining the last drop from his mug, Father removed his shirt and tossed it on top of Shane's. Mother spoke for the first time. "Roj Blake, you are every kind of a fool." She turned to Shane crossly. "And you're no better."

      Shane didn't seem perturbed. He just hefted that axe, met Father's eye for a moment with an amused glance, then resumed his assault on that stump. Father grinned right back and picked up his own axe.

      I watched them for another half an hour or so before I got bored and wandered off. It was obvious they were going to be at it for ages yet. Mother caught up with me, and we spent an hour or so peeling vegetables for lunch and clearing out a cupboard. After that, she made me read to her from one of the few books we owned. Mother was always very fussy about me learning to read - said she didn't want me to grow up ignorant. Lunch was nearly ready when we eventually went out into the yard again to see how they were getting on.

      It was well past midday now. Shane was on the way to getting a fine case of sunburn; Father was brown already - the sun didn't bother him. Shane was working on the last root. Father had a spade and was shovelling soil out from under the cut roots. It seemed like a long, dull and tiresome job to me. I just couldn't see why the two of them had put so much time and effort into that old stump.

      Then Shane cut through that last root. Father and he looked at each other; they put their shoulders to the stump and began to heave. There was a creaking sound and the stump began to move. Suddenly, it didn't seem boring any more. It was a battle and it was being won. The stump rose a a few centimetres, then a few more. I was practically jumping up and down with excitement. Sweat poured off Father's back as he pushed. Shane grunted with exertion, the strain showing on his face. The stump refused to shift any further. Gasping for breath, they released it, and let it fall back to the ground.

      "Must be a tap root," Father said with an effort. The first words I'd heard him say for hours.

      Shane simply nodded and looked at Father. Then he picked up his axe and stood waiting.

      Father looked at Shane, doubt on his face for a moment. He flexed his hands, stretched his back, and then leaned into the stump once more. Slowly it lifted. Father strained, sweat running down his face, leaving streaks in the dust. Slowly, painfully, the stump lifted until the edge was nearly half a meter off the ground. Shane placed his left leg in the gap under the stump and crouched low in the narrow space. Swinging the axe sideways, he made strokes that cut right under the stump. If he was aware of the great weight of the stump bearing over him, he gave no sign.

      The stump lurched suddenly upwards. Father jerked, almost losing his footing. Shane was out from under the stump in a flash, helping Father lower it safely to the ground. They rested a moment, then, side by side, the two of them heaved once more. The stump rose, higher this time. Father scrambled down into the hole and took the weight onto his shoulders. Together, they pushed, rocking that stump back and forth, each time gaining a little extra ground, until with one final surge of effort they pushed it right over, the mass of wood toppling onto the ground like some strange dead beast.

      I though they would cheer, and shake hands at least, but they didn't. They just looked into each other's eyes as they had done when they started, and stood silent.

      The spell was broken as Mother called for lunch. If the meal was later than usual, I for one didn't mind.

      Lunch was a quiet meal. Father obviously had something on his mind. He ate without saying much, and answered most questions with a grunt. I managed to beat him to the second helping of apple pie, and that was unusual. Father liked his apple pie.

      Mother had cleared the table, when Father finally made up his mind to speak. "Shane." Father sounded hesitant, as though he was afraid of causing offence. "I could use a hand on the farm. The pay wouldn't be good, but it's a busy time of year, and I do need the help."

      Shane stared at his feet. "What the trader said was true. I'm no farmer. I'm a drifter, I make money gambling."

      "Do you cheat at cards?"

      Turning to look directly at Father, Shane gave a slight ironic smile. "Sometimes. A knowledge of the odds isn't always enough to enable a man to eat."

      Father considered that a moment. "The offer's still open. What do your gambler's instincts tell you?"

      "My gambler's instincts tell me to get the hell out of here."

      "But you'll stay?"

      Shane nodded slowly, his face unreadable. "But I'll stay."

Shane had been right when he said he was no farmer, but he was willing to learn. We got the harvest in, we got the winter root crops in the ground and we started work on a new enclosure to allow us to keep some pigs.

      Shane slowly unwound during that time. The tension that had seemed so natural to him began to drain away. He seemed to demand little company beyond ourselves. When the neighbours came round to call, he would sit quietly and listen to the conversation, but he rarely joined in. He seemed to unnerve people somehow.

      "He's got the look of a killer to him," old man Schultz once said to Father, when Shane wasn't around.

      Father pinned him with a cold look. "I'll thank you not to say anything about Shane that you wouldn't say to his face."

      Schultz held up his hands defensively. "No offence meant, Blake."

      "None taken," said Father mildly. The subject was never raised again, leastways, not in my hearing, anyhow.

      I got to know Shane better as the months passed. I watched him as he worked around the farm. He didn't have Father's strength and build, but there was a determination in him. He wasn't a man who liked to let any task defeat him. In conversation, he never talked about his own past. He had stories aplenty, of smugglers, of worlds where people lived underground, and of the strange things that you could meet in space; but whether they were places he'd been or had simply heard of, he never let on. Gradually, he was becoming a part of us, settling into the valley life as though he'd always been here. The only thing, apart from his natural reserve, that set him apart from everyone else, was the fact that he never carried a gun. That used to puzzle me, but I hadn't the nerve to ask Shane about it, so I ventured the question with Father instead.

      "Why doesn't Shane carry a gun?" I asked.

      "I don't know," Father replied. "Something in his past no doubt, but that's his business. All I can tell you is that if a man like Shane chooses not to carry a gun, then he has a good reason."

      I let the subject drop. It didn't seem that important.

The only thing that bothered us that autumn was the mining company. Seems the price of rare earth metals had risen sharply over the last few years. The deposits that had once cost too much to work, were now worth mining again. Our land in the valley was apparently right on top of the best deposits. The surveyors had been taking samples all summer and now they'd handed in their report. We were being hassled to move out. Schultz, Morgan and several of the others had had offers made for their land, but hadn't accepted. The offers were low and they'd put a lot of work into the land to improve it. We had isolated incidents of fences being damaged, livestock escaping and so forth. Nothing actually illegal, but all increasing the pressure.

      A group of roughnecks started hanging about in town, throwing abuse at any of the settlers who ventured in for supplies. Mostly we ignored them, but things came to a head when Haggard, who worked for Schultz, got beaten up in a fight. He handed in his notice and said he was never coming back.

      I heard all about it when everyone came round to visit that evening: Schultz, O'Brian and the rest. They always gathered at our place when there was a problem. Father was the unofficial leader of the valley men. He didn't hold any kind of formal post, but everyone respected him. Everyone was talking nineteen to the dozen: making suggestions, tearing them down. The room was hot and crowded, a couple of people had to lean against the wall because there weren't enough chairs. Shane was in his usual place in the corner - he always liked to sit where he could see the door. Every so often someone would break off from making a point to glance in Shane's direction. I kept down near the floor, half under the table, and hoped that nobody would tell me to go to bed. This was my home too, the only home I'd ever known, and I was worried. Sure, Father would sort it all out in the end. I had every confidence in Father: he could do anything. But, all the same, it was disturbing to see everyone getting het up.

      "Who'll be next?" demanded Morgan. "That's what I want to know."

      Then I realised why everyone had been looking at Shane. Father was important around here - simply by employing Shane, he was saying that he had no intention of moving off his land. If they succeeded in scaring off Shane, everyone else would be a step closer to giving up.

      Shane spoke up for the first time that evening. "I've been thinking," he said to Father. "We need some more wire. Besides, there's some information I need to look up. I'll go into town in the morning and use the public data terminal in the store."

      Father nodded, as though he hadn't expected anything less. Shane was Shane. He wasn't the type of man who would frighten easily.

      Everyone else seemed to quieten down after that. There were tail ends of conversations that lingered on for another half an hour or so, but several people had a long ride home, and they slowly took their farewells and departed.

I was up early the following morning, but Shane was up even earlier than me. I could hear Father arguing with him. "Shane, I'm going with you."

      "No," Shane said flatly. "I don't want you with me."

      "But suppose they...." His voice trailed off. "All right. It's your decision to make."

      I flung my clothes on as fast as I could and sprinted outside. There was a bend in the trail where it went around a steep outcrop of rock. Running as fast as I could, I scrambled over the outcrop and down the other side. Coming around the corner, I could see Shane riding the wagon. I slid down the last few meters of the outcrop, almost tearing the seat of my pants.

      "Shane," I shouted. "Can I come with you? Please."

      He brought the horses to a standstill and looked at me, a quirk of humour in the back of his brown eyes. "You Blakes are all alike. Just stay out of the way, if there's any trouble."

      I needed no further invitation. Shane gave me a hand up and I clambered onto the seat beside him. I always liked the view from the front seat of the wagon. It was a bouncy ride, but that was all part of the fun. I reached into my pocket and showed Shane a handful of coins I'd acquired doing odd jobs for O'Brian. "Look," I said, "I've been saving up for a new pocket knife."

      "Which one do you want?" he asked.

      I knew which one I wanted. There was a marvellous gadget in the store that could do everything from getting stones out of horses' hooves to gutting fish. It even had a miniature circuit probe built in. It also cost far more money than I'd ever had. I thrust the coins back into my pocket. "I can't afford it yet." Maybe I'd get Chong to make me a belt knife instead. It wouldn't be as much fun, but I could still use it for carving wood.

      We drove pretty much in silence after that. I spotted a takara in the river and pointed it out to Shane. They're pretty rare now, I hadn't seen one in over a year. Big things, with long tentacles as thick as my waist. They come on land sometimes, but prefer to stay in the water mostly. This one was only small though. I told Shane about the one I'd seen when I was six. That was a real monster, killed and half ate a horse before it was caught and shot. Shane raised an eyebrow at my description. Well, maybe I was exaggerating a little, but it was over ten meters long all the same. "Have you ever seen anything better than that?" I asked a little defensively.

      "How about carnivorous plants?" Shane said.

      "I don't believe you," I protested.

      Shane sounded sardonic. "Far be it from me to come between a Blake and his beliefs."

      It was only later that it occurred to me that calling Shane a liar might have been an incredibly stupid thing to do. But I felt safe with Shane - that was the way things were between us. Shane wasn't exactly the easygoing type, but he never lost his temper with me, and he never shouted. He would argue long and passionately, especially with Father. He was easily irritated by trivia, but if I asked him a sensible question, he would always give me a straight answer. He wasn't an easy man to like, but I liked him none the less.

      When we got into town, Shane stopped the wagon outside the store and we both went in. The store was a minor wonderland. Patel bought grain and stored it in a warehouse out back until it could be transported to the spaceport. He also bought a small quantity of root crops and so forth which he sold on to the townsfolk. That wasn't the interesting part though. I ignored the sacks of foodstuffs, the supplies of seed corn, wire and nails etc. I wasn't interested in the essentials of life. I headed straight for the counter were Patel kept his imported goods, a small supply of guns, pocket knives, electronic gadgets, communicators, light bulbs and so forth. I pondered over these, looking at the entertainment sets that cost more than I would ever be able to afford. Jon O'Brian let me use his sometimes - you got sound over the headphones and a three dimensional image from the specs. It was great, especially when the picture came towards you fast, and you ducked even though you knew it wasn't for real; but the power packs were expensive and besides, he only had a couple of tapes for it.

      There were knives there too. I lusted over them, counting my change carefully, until I decided it was a lost cause and went to get some sweets instead. After several minutes of careful consideration, I picked out a credit's selection and gave the coin to Patel.

      Shane had already loaded a roll of wire onto the wagon and was now discussing something with Patel. I'd missed most of the conversation, but they had obviously came to some kind of agreement, because Patel swung his terminal around to face Shane and took some money in exchange. "Ten minutes connect time," Patel warned. "No more."

      I watched curiously. I'd only seen the terminal being used a few times before. Father occasionally used it to download current data on crop prices, and I knew it gave access to most publicly accessible databases in the Federation. What I really had no idea of, was what was actually in all those databases. Shane started typing, and it came to me suddenly, as I watched, that this was where he belonged. Words and diagrams flashed across the screen, questions were asked, and answered as quickly as Shane could type. I was afraid to move in case I broke his concentration; yet, I suspect that even if I had shouted out loud, he wouldn't actually have taken any notice. It seemed no time at all before Shane came to the end of what he was doing, and broke the connection.

      "Did you find what you wanted?" I asked.

      "I don't know yet," Shane replied. "I have to wait for the reply. Some of the data I want is in the next system. It'll be a few minutes before the communication relays get it back here. Do you want a drink while we're waiting?"

      "Sure," I replied. "Keeson juice, please." I liked keesons, they were one of the few local fruits that really appealed to humans. There was talk of starting up an export trade if the bushes could be grown in any quantity.

      Shane nodded to Patel, who went out to get the juice. That was when the men came in. There were three of them. I think they were employed doing reconstruction work up at at the factory, but there was a general belief in the valley that they got an unofficial bonus for making our lives difficult. When Patel returned, he handed the mug over to Shane without comment.

      The taller of the three men, a big hulking fellow with a dirty red scarf tied around his neck, came up to Shane. He had an odd way of walking, you could almost say he wallowed. He was grossly overweight and seemed almost double Shane's size. "Fruit juice?" he jeered. "You have to be one of those valley scum. Only a mud grubber would drink stuff like that."

      If Shane was perturbed, he gave no sign. He held onto the mug and nodded. "That's right. I work for Blake."

      The second man elbowed the third in the ribs. "He works for Blake." They seemed to find that hilarious for some reason.

      "I hear his wife's a real bit of all right," the first man said with sneer.

      Shane ignored the remark.

      "Tried her yet, have you?" asked the second, making a suggestive gesture with his hands.

      "No," Shane said calmly. Well, his voice was calm enough, but I could see the tension building in him all the same.

      The third man laughed crudely. "You must be the only man in the valley who hasn't."

      Shane went rigid. His hand clenched convulsively on the handle of the mug. His shoulders tensed, and I though for a moment that he was going to lash out and punch the speaker in the guts. But he didn't. Shane looked at me, and slowly, he let out his breath. A finger at a time, he relaxed his grip. I'd like to have thought it was because I was there, but it wasn't. I said he was looking at me, but that wasn't really true. Shane was looking through me, at something only he could see.

      At that moment, the terminal chimed for attention. Shane looked at it wildly for a moment as though it was something totally alien, then hit a key and pulled out a data disc. Stuffing the disc in his pocket, he stood up, completely in control of himself, and smiled ironically at the trio. "Some other time perhaps?" He gestured me towards the door and we made our way back to the wagon with no further trouble.

That afternoon, I was sitting beside the river with Jon O'Brian. In theory we were fishing. I tossed a stone into the water and watched the circles spreading out. It was one of my favourite spots on a sunny day. The water had cut away under the bank to form a slight hollow. If you sat on the turf at the edge, you could dangle your legs over the edge and dip your toes in the water.

      "Hey, Jon," I said. "Guess what Shane gave me on the way back from town?"

      "Dunno," he said. "Anything interesting?"

      I took my prize from my pocket with pride. A pocket knife, but not just any pocket knife. This was the knife of my dreams. Scissors, wire stripper, two blades, a device for getting stones out of hooves, even a pair of tweezers. Heck, there were two gadgets I hadn't been able to identify yet. The look of envy in Jon's eye's was worth waiting for. It wasn't often I was able to impress him. I selected the largest blade and carefully carved my initials in the trunk of the tree behind us. Then I generously allowed Jon to use the knife to carve his own initials beneath mine. When he handed the knife back, I carefully wiped the blade and folded it away before placing it back in my pocket.

      Jon baited his hook and leaned back against the tree. "So," he asked, "what was the fight like?"

      "There wasn't a fight," I replied.

      "You mean Shane lost?"

      "No!" I said indignantly. "There wasn't a fight."

      "You mean Shane was scared. Dad told me that Shane said he'd go into town to show they couldn't scare him off. If he didn't fight them, he's chicken."

      I found it hard to put my feelings into words. Shane had backed away from the fight, but I was sure it wasn't because he was afraid of the miners. "There were three of them," I protested feebly. That cut no ice with Jon.

      "One valley man is easily worth three miners. Shane's chicken." He got up and began to dance around behind me, chanting, "Shane's scared. Shane's scared." Jon was two years older than me and quite a bit bigger. He circled round and round, looming over me, repeating his chant.

      I burst out, "It's not true!"

      "Then why didn't he fight?" Jon said cruelly.

      I couldn't answer. Everything that had seemed right back in town now seemed wrong. Shane was a coward. Even my new pocket knife suddenly seemed cheap and tawdry. I didn't want to hear any more. I got to my feet and ran, abandoning my fishing rod in my haste.

      The ground was rough underfoot, every tree and plant seemed to want to bar my progress. I didn't look behind me to see if I was being followed. It didn't seem to matter. Once away from the river, the ground opened out onto the drier grassy plain, but I still didn't stop running. I was out of breath, my chest was beginning to hurt, but if I stopped, something horrible was going to catch me. I tripped once, almost twisting my ankle, but made it to my feet again. Ahead, beyond the cornfield, I could see our cabin. Home. Security. The safety of familiar things. I burst through the door only to stop in frozen horror as I saw Shane sitting at the table working at something on the computer.

      Mother looked around from the oven in astonishment. "Joey! What on Earth is wrong?"

      I trembled, trying to catch my breath. Then I flung the knife across the table at Shane. "I don't want it," I shouted. "It's a stupid knife, anyway!" Before either of them could respond to that, I ran into my room and flung myself down on the bunk to cry. If Mother and Shane said anything to each other, I don't know what it was, because for once I wasn't listening. I buried my head under the felt of the blanket and tried to shut out the entire world.

I didn't want to come out for supper, but Mother insisted. She didn't say anything about what had happened earlier though. It wasn't her way to ask questions. She knew I'd tell her when I was ready. That was part of what made her so special. Shane didn't mention it either. He just glanced at me when I sat down, and passed a dish of vegetables. All the same though - something was different. I just couldn't put a finger on it. Shane talked to me as he always did. Maybe there was an extra bit of reserve in his manner, maybe he was a touch more sarcastic than usual - I don't know. All I knew was that I had hurt him, and that oddly enough, I was both pleased and distressed by this. I avoided speaking to him as much as I could.

      After supper, Mother proposed a game of cards. Nobody was terribly keen on the idea, but Mother had that knack of persuading people without pressurising them. Father gave in with good grace and got the deck out of a cupboard. We played a couple of hands, and I was actually ahead of everyone else, when Shane raised a new subject.

      "Blake, why haven't they made an offer on your land yet?"

      Father put down his cards, shoulders sagging. "Because I don't hold title to the land."

      I butted in, "That's crazy. You could have registered a claim at any time. Once the mining company moved out, everyone had the right to claim for agricultural land. Pete Deperd told me so."

      "Joey!" Mother said sharply. "Don't talk to your father like that. It's time you went to bed in any case."

      "It's all right, Rashel," Father replied. "He had to know some day. He might as well know now, as later."

      "No," she said. "Once you tell him, he'll tell all the other kids, even if only as a secret, and then where will you be?"

      "No worse off than I am now," Father answered evenly. "If a man can't accept me for what I am then he's not worth having as a friend in any case. Take Shane here. He's guessed what I am, haven't you, Shane?"

      "Well now," Shane said. "I thought you were never going to mention it. You're either Blake's twin brother or a clone. Except that Blake's only brother was killed by the Federation - so that leaves you as a clone. You can't have title to the land, because clones have no legal rights." He nodded at Mother. "I imagine there's some equally good reason why she can't hold title either."

      Seeking Mother's permission, Father looked at her before answering. "Escaped slaves don't have any rights either."

      "That's not true!" I blurted out. "Mother can't be a slave."

      "She isn't a slave." Father spoke with determination, "A person is only a slave if they accept that status. Your mother and I decided long ago that we were free people." He caught Shane looking at him sardonically, and flushed slightly. "Do I sound that much like him?"

      "Sometimes," Shane agreed. "You don't have his memory, and you lack some of his mannerisms, but there's a surprising amount of similarity. I'm pleased to say that you lack some of his worse traits, though."

      "Such as?" Father asked defensively.

      "A desire to rush out and liberate the entire universe?"

      I was torn between a desire to try and get Father to deny what had been said, and the need to keep on listening. How could Father be a clone? Clones weren't real people. They were just a copy of somebody else. Even the horses and chickens reared from the brood units were individuals. And if I was the son of a clone, what did that make me? Mother needn't have worried about my telling anyone. The son of a clone and a slave? The other kids would have ragged me silly. I felt slightly sick and my head was beginning to hurt.

      Father was talking again. He sounded serious. "Shane, if it comes to a showdown with the mining company, I may not have any choice. I'll fight rather than give up this farm. I've spent my entire life building it. Since Servalan died, the Federation have forgotten I exist. I'm safe here. If I leave Hollerith I'll be recognised. They'd probably shoot me just on general principles."

      "So Servalan knows you're here?" Shane asked. "I'm surprised she never came back. I can think of at least one occasion when she could have used you to save herself a lot of time and effort."

      "I'll show you why she stayed away." Father rummaged around in a small cupboard on the far wall, flinging out fishing tackle, an old pair of shoes and a box of nails before finally finding what he was looking for. A blue box with buttons on it, about the size of his hand. He tossed it casually onto the table. "That's IMIPAK."

      Shane went white. "Don't throw it around like that!" He grabbed it and held it in a hand that couldn't quite control a tremor.

      "You look like you've seen a ghost!" Father said in surprise.

      "I have," Shane said bitterly. "My own. If I'd known what planet this was, I'd never have come here. If you value my life at all, don't ever switch that thing on."

      "Why shouldn't we?" Mother's voice was unexpectedly shrill. "All the people ever marked by that weapon are dead - with just one exception."

      "Take it easy, Rashel. He could be one of the technicians who worked on developing it."

      "No," Mother protested. "He knew Blake. Knew him well enough to recognise you for what you are - Roj, you don't know what he'll do."

      There were things going on here that I didn't understand. What was IMIPAK? Was it some kind of weapon? Why was Shane so afraid of it? And why was Mother so suddenly set against Shane when she'd always rather liked him before. Most of all though, who had Blake been? The original man I mean, the man Father was apparently a copy of. None of this was making sense, and my headache was getting worse.

      "I know, Rashel," Father said evenly. "I know who he is."

      Shane's knuckles were white where he gripped IMIPAK. He was a tense coiled spring, ready to explode into action. I could see now what the neighbours saw in him. He was dangerous, a natural killer, and I was suddenly afraid for Father.

      I could see Shane's eyes flick towards the door where Father's gun belt hung on a peg. He was sitting closer to the door than Father, if he was looking for a way of escape, it was there.

      Father followed his glance. "Shane, if that's what you want, you're free to go."

      "Free!" Shane burst out. "I've never been free. Not from him, not from you either. Do you think I don't see him in my dreams, even now?"

      "Shane," Father began.

      "And that's another thing," Shane interrupted. "You know my name - so use it!"

      A sudden knock on the door distracted everyone's attention. There was silence for a moment, then Shane came to his feet in one fluid motion and went to open it. O'Brian stood in the doorway. "Blake, Shane," he said, "I want to speak with you."

      "Not me," Shane said. "I'm leaving."

      O'Brian looked at him in disgust. "I'm not surprised," he said. "Jon told me what happened this afternoon. Blake should never have taken you on. You're yellow, Shane."

      Shane looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Why should a man have to allow himself to be beaten to a pulp just to show that he isn't afraid?" Shane's hand shot out and seized O'Brian by the collar of his shirt, pulling him close to Shane's face. "Or would you rather I'd killed one of them for you? Would that prove that I'm the better man? Or would it just prove that someone else is dead?" He thrust O'Brian contemptuously from him, and strode angrily out of the door. The wind outside caught the door and sent it flapping and banging. O'Brian closed it and fastened the latch.

      "You're better off without that one," he said finally.

      Father didn't reply. Head resting in his hands, he sat and stared at the table. He looked old and weary. Mother came around the table and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Roj, you always knew he wouldn't stay forever. Besides, it's safer this way. You never could have trusted him again."

      Father heaved a deep sigh. "Maybe you're right. I just don't know any more."

      I didn't know either. In fact, I was just plain confused. "Is Shane coming back?" I asked.

      The sound of hoofbeats came suddenly and clearly from outside. "There's your answer," O'Brian said. "He's taken one of your horses. He's not coming back, all right."

      "Shane wouldn't steal a horse," I protested weakly.

      O'Brian snorted. "He's just done it!"

      Father sat up straight. "No," he said with determination. "Shane wouldn't steal from me."

      Mother stayed where she was standing, behind Father. "Are you sure, Roj?" she asked.

      Father nodded. "Whatever Shane may have done before he came here, he's still the man I've worked with all season. I know that man."

      "Then just where," O'Brian demanded caustically, "do you think that horse thief has gone?"

      Father looked at O'Brian as though he had just crawled out from under a rock. "He's gone into town," Father said positively. "And as for you Seth O'Brian, you can get out of my house!"

      O'Brian glared at him, then snorted, and left. He didn't even say goodbye. He slammed the door as hard as he could, but it promptly flew open again, rather spoiling his dramatic exit. A handful of playing cards caught in the gust performed momentary aerobatics before I caught the door and closed it again.

      Father reached up to the peg and took down his gun belt. He strapped it on, and then shouldered his jacket on. Mother placed her hand gently on his arm. "Roj," she asked gently, "what if you're wrong?"

      Father hugged her briefly. "Then I'll look damn silly in the morning apologising to O'Brian," he replied. Then he went out to saddle his horse.

      I picked up the playing cards for something to do, and then watched out of the window as Father rode off. "Is Father going to bring Shane back?" I asked.

      "I don't know what's going to happen," Mother replied. "To tell the truth, I'm not even sure what I want to happen."

      "Why did Shane go?" I pleaded.

      Mother held my hands in hers. "It's a long story. Some day when you're older I'll tell you." And she refused to say any more. Instead, she busied herself making a batch of pastry men. Soon, she had me busy as well, bringing in wood for the fire, measuring out flour, and cutting out shapes. Mother never did believe in idle hands. She was also sensible enough to know that I wouldn't be able to sleep that night until Father returned safely. Once the pastry men were cooking on a tray over the fire, she started me on learning my math. Shane had programmed the computer to set a series of math problems. If I got them right, they got tougher. That night, I cheated, getting loads wrong to persuade it to give me some easy ones. Mother was normally wise to that trick, but this time she overlooked it, deep in thoughts of her own.

      The hours passed slowly. I'd moved onto one of the farming programs, and was experimenting with growing alien crops in the south pasture, when we finally heard sounds outside. Mother froze in her chair for an instant, then came to her feet and went smoothly to the door. Even at times like this, she didn't panic. I was proud of her, whether she was a slave or not. Perhaps that was what Father had meant when he said that people chose what they wanted to be. She opened the door, and there stood Father, half supporting, half carrying Shane. They both looked terrible. Shane had a cut right across his forehead, and Father's shirt was ripped in half a dozen places. Father took in our looks of consternation, and then grinned. "You should see the other fellows," he said.

      Mother looked at both of them helplessly, then took over. "Sit down both of you. I'm going to find some antiseptic to put on those cuts."

      Father and Shane looked at one another. Whatever the earlier quarrel had been over, they seemed to be operating on the same wavelength now. Shane collapsed onto a chair. "Never argue with the boss," he said.

      Father sat down beside him, wincing as some injury pulled at the motion. "Coming from you, that's rich."

      "Ah!" Shane retorted. "I don't acknowledge you as an employer. I just choose to work here."

      Father gripped him by the shoulder for a moment. "I'm glad you do," he said quietly.

      Mother located the antiseptic, and proceeded to to discover numerous cuts and grazes that needed treatment. I'm sure it was her way of getting revenge on them for all the worry they'd caused her. She ticked them off as she worked, but I think she was as much relieved as she was angry. "And just what was all that about?" she asked.

      "Why, Rashel," Father replied, "we just had a little disagreement with half a dozen of the miners. Nothing serious." He winced as her probing fingers found another bruise.

      "Nothing serious," she retorted. "Two grown men go hareing off into the night, and come back looking like death warmed up, but oh no, it isn't anything serious."

      "Let's just say," Shane replied, "that we felt a need to defend your reputation."

      "And was that worth getting getting beaten up for?" Mother asked gently.

      Father looked first at Mother, and then at Shane. "Yes," he said. "It was."

They left us alone for a while after that, but it wasn't long before they tried a new tactic. Claims were being filed on land all around us by men who worked for Minerva Mining. Inevitably it was only a couple of weeks before we were notified that our farm had had a claim filed for the land, and that we had only a week to move out. I was tempted to ask Shane why he hadn't registered a claim himself, but I guess he must have had some good reason. Maybe he didn't legally exist either.

      We sat down that night around the table to consider our options. Father was depressed and angry. Mother was calm, although I could sense she was worried. Shane? It was hard to tell. He leaned back in his chair, legs crossed at the ankles, a faraway look on his face.

      Father pounded his fist on the table. "I won't let them take the farm!" he declared abruptly.

      Shane was unruffled. "Just how are you planning to stop them?" he asked. "Are you prepared to kill?"

      It was a question no one had asked until now. It scared me. Things were desperate enough already, but that question made everything seem even more real.

      "No," Father protested. "It won't come to that. It mustn't. All life is linked"

      Shane pushed back his chair and walked around the table to where Father sat. Father rose to face him and the two of them stood eye to eye. "You're dreaming, Blake," Shane said viciously. "You have to face reality. I've checked the facts. The mining corporation is on the verge of bankruptcy. To raise enough capital to survive, they need to convince their backers that they can make money here. To do that, they need you off this land. There's new men in town now. When they send the bounty hunters to drive a squatter off land they legally hold title to, what then? What if they threaten your wife, your son? Will you fight, or will you leave?"

      Father stood straight. "I'll fight," he said hoarsely. I knew what it cost him to say that. He'd brought me up to believe that human life was sacred. Killing was wrong. If you took a life, there was no way that it could ever be restored.

      He looked back at Shane. "What about you?" he asked. "This isn't your fight."

      "It should be," Mother interrupted. "Killing's easy for him."

      I couldn't see Shane's face, but I could see Father's. He looked sad, and I wondered why. "Is it easy?" he asked Shane softly.

      Shane was all prickles and bristles. "You know what I am."

      "You don't have to be," Father replied gently. "You made that choice once. You don't have to go back." He squared his shoulders. "There's land elsewhere. I could always move on."

      "Roj!" Mother protested. "This is our home."

      Shane ignored her. "Where could you move to?" he said bluntly. "The best land is already gone. You can't afford to move off planet. Besides, if you go, what about the rest of the farmers here? Minerva Mining hasn't the resources to pay them what the land is worth. They'll be forced out one way or another."

      "So we fight," Father said slowly. "And people will die."

      Shane sounded indifferent. "That's always been the price."

I found Shane next morning, sitting on the rail of the corral. He was looking down the road, like I'd been when I first saw him. I climbed up and sat next to him. Shane glanced at me, but he didn't say anything. There was a good view from here. The sun was still low over the river, but it had cleared the tops of the trees. The shadows were long and spindly. When I stretched out my arm, the shadow on the ground looked like the long tentacle of a takara. Blaze, the chestnut mare, came up behind me and nuzzled her head at my pocket. I found a piece of fruit and let her eat it off the palm of my hand. I stroked the length of her face, thinking of nothing in particular. I liked horses. I liked everything here. Suddenly, I was filled with the cold fear of losing it all.

      "Shane," I asked timidly, "will everything be all right?"

      He looked at me, his face oddly empty. "Yes," he said. "It will be all right." I believed him. I always believed Shane.

      I jumped down from the rail feeling relieved. "Do you want to come fishing?" I asked.

      Shane shook his head. "I've got other things to do." He reached into his pocket and took something out. "Here," he said, "you'd better have this." It was my pocketknife.

      I loved that man. If he hadn't been out of reach up on the rail, I'd have hugged him. I'd never dared to ask for the knife back, after the day I'd thrown it at him. I thanked him profusely, but he didn't take much notice. He swung his legs over the rail and jumped down into the corral. "Joey," he said, "tell your father I've got something to do today. I'll be back this evening." He had a horse already saddled. There was a long thin package of some kind tied onto the saddle, about a metre in length. I was on the point of asking Shane about it, when I noticed something else. For the first time since I'd known him, Shane was wearing a gun.

Shane was back late that evening. I didn't see him come in. He was there the next morning though. He and Father were busy out in the cornfield when the men came.

      There were six of them, all mounted, all armed. I could see them out of the window. Mother heard the noise and came over to stand beside me. She wiped her hands on her apron. "Joey," she said quietly, "go and get your father and Shane. She took a gun down from where it hung by its strap from a peg on the wall, and took up a position by the window, while I slipped out the back way past the woodpile.

      I sprinted out to the field and yelled, "They're here!" Father and Shane looked up from the plant they were studying and ran towards me. "Get indoors," Father shouted as he passed me by and headed towards the front of the cabin. I hesitated. Shane grabbed me by the collar. "Come on," he said. We ran together across the yard and into the back of the cabin.

      "Stay here," Shane instructed. He grabbed something out of a cupboard and dived out of the front door.

      I didn't want to miss anything, but neither did I want to get shot. I settled for opening the door a tiny fraction so that I could at least hear most of what went on, and see part of it.

      Shane was sitting motionless on the step below me, listening to Father. Father was making an impassioned plea to the riders, but they weren't having any part of it. The man who appeared to be their leader, a sandy haired man with a short beard, spoke for them all. "You have one hour to get out. If you're not on the move after that, we'll burn you out." I never doubted for a moment that he meant it.

      I could see Father's hand hovering near his gun, but there was no way he could shoot six of them before they gunned him down. Mother would probably get one of them, but there was no way they could all be stopped. If Father and Shane came indoors to gain some cover, what was to stop the enemy setting fire to the place with a few well aimed blaster bolts? The fireplace and the chimney were stone, but all the rest of the cabin was built of wood. With a sinking feeling, I knew we were trapped. There was no way out.

      "I don't think so." Shane's voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly.

      The sandy haired man turned his attention to Shane. "You don't think what?" he inquired icily.

      Shane sounded calm and relaxed. "I don't think anyone's leaving, unless it's you."

      "Really?"

      Shane came lazily to his feet. "Yes," he said, "because I've got IMIPAK and that gives me the edge."

      Father spun round incredulously.

      "Shane!"

      "Don't interfere, Blake," Shane said sharply. "This is my play. I'll call it how I like."

      Father froze. The gunman looked at Shane and asked, "What is IMIPAK?"

      I couldn't see Shane's face, but I sensed he was smiling. He said, "IMIPAK is a combined weapon. A projector and a key." He glanced at Father. "Just in case you're wondering, the projector isn't where you left it." He held up his hand - I could just see the blue box in it. "This is the key."

      "So what does it do?" the gunman asked.

      "It kills," Shane replied. "Quickly and efficiently. A man marked with the projector stays marked. If I press this button, anyone marked - dies. I marked all of you yesterday."

      Now his opponent looked worried. He wasn't totally convinced though. "You can prove this?" he asked.

      "Of course," Shane answered calmly. "Just decide which one of you wants to die. You'll have to move away from the others of course. I'd hate all of you to get caught in the field effect. If I set the range to minimum, I'm sure Blake will be willing to demonstrate."

      "What's the minimum range?" Father asked. He sounded as though his voice was about to crack.

      "Two meters," Shane replied. "But I'm sure you'll understand if I ask you to go a little further than that." He held out the box, and at that moment, one of the men on horseback raised his gun.

      "Look out, Shane!" I shouted.

      Shane pressed the button. As if in slow motion, six men crumpled and fell off six horses, landing lifeless on the ground. A shot went wild past Shane's head.

      I stared at the bodies on the ground. They couldn't be dead. There was no mark on them, no sign of any injury. But they lay horribly still. One moment they'd been alive and talking, the next - gone. Just by the push of a little button. I'd never seen someone die before. It wasn't at all glorious or heroic, it was cold and frightening.

      Shane dropped the box as though it had stung him, and started laughing. Not a good humoured laugh - a wild hysterical laugh. Father grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard. Shane stopped abruptly. "It wears off," he said stupidly. "It wears off over time."

      Father released him and bent down to pick up the box. He looked at the setting. "Maximum range," he said quietly. Then louder. "How many men did you mark, Shane? How many?"

      Shane stood very still. "All of them," he said finally. "Thirty three. If I hadn't done, they would only have sent someone else. Don't you understand?"

      Father paused a long time before he finally answered. "No, I don't understand, Avon."

      Shane said nothing. He stared, frozen, into Father's face. For a moment I thought he might speak, but he didn't. He turned silently and climbed up the steps into the cabin. He never even noticed me as I scrambled out of his way.

      Mother came slowly down the steps, still holding her gun. "What's the matter with Shane?" she asked. "He just walked past me as though I wasn't there."

      "I don't know," Father replied shortly, in kind of voice that made it clear that he did know, but wasn't going to talk about it. He walked over to the corral and started pulling at the posts as though testing them for strength. I could have told him that the posts were all sound. I didn't though.

      Mother stood and watched him - for once uncertain what to do.

      When Shane came out of the cabin again, he was wearing the clothes he'd had on when he first arrived. His backpack was slung over his shoulder. He walked over and stood behind Father. He didn't say anything, but Father knew he was there all the same. Father's hands gripped tightly on the corral rail, then he turned to face Shane.

      Now, I thought. Now, they would sort things out between them. But they just looked at each other. Father glanced a moment at the bodies lying on the ground, a kind of horrified fascination on his face. Shane just looked sad - well I say sad, but it was more a sort of lost look. Then he seemed to draw inside himself, shutting the emotion away out of view. Cold and distant - the way he'd so often been when he first came here. He shrugged his backpack to balance the weight better. He flicked his eyes over Father and myself, then he turned away towards the road.

      Down that long dusty road and out of the world I knew.

      A man heading for some far off place, and with no hope of ever getting there.

      "Shane! Shane!" I shouted after him. "Come back, Shane!"

      But he never came back.