Iowa Loam

Chapter 1

2109. It was a big year for Planet Earth.

It was the centennial anniversary of U.S. President Barack Obama's inauguration and the deaths of Ted Kennedy and Michael Jackson. It was the seventy-fifth anniversary of the end of World War III. It was the sixtieth anniversary of the year that the Earthlings found out that they were not alone in the universe.

The world was suddenly becoming a much bigger place. The peoples of Earth and Vulcan were uniting to establish a Federation of Planets. Diplomats were meeting. Politicians were arguing. Historians were rejoicing. Trade was expanding. Allies—and enemies—were being made.

But the cares and worries of the universe were lost on the ears of children—lost to the laughter of the four young boys in the woods of Riverside, Iowa, currently engaged in a game of Spaceship.

"He went that way! C'mon, we can still catch him before he gets to Earth!"

"We have to get the other one! He's around here somewhere…"

"But the other one's a bigger threat!"

"Stop telling me what to do; I'm the captain!"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Well I'm staging a coup! C'mon, Engineer Scott, let's go!"

"What? Mutiny! Mutineeeee!"

"Attaaaaack!"

A lean, blond boy with ice blue eyes and a gleeful grin let loose a battle cry and launched himself at his Asian friend, who gave a yelp of mock terror and promptly slipped in the leaf litter, falling with a thud to his backside.

A skinny redhead standing a few feet away cracked a grin of his own and cried, in a thick Scottish brogue: "For Scotland! Charge!" He cupped his hands and made a noise like an ancient battle horn before joining his blond friend in the fun.

The Asian boy squealed as his mutineering crew started to tickle him. Thrashing about in the leaf litter, he managed to let out a giggled cry for help: "Nooooo! Ack! Noooo! Len! They're killing me! Ack—gaaaaack!" He made a few choking noises before crossing his eyes, sticking out his tongue, and assuming the position of a dead cockroach.

A fourth boy—a taller, burlier one—appeared from behind a nearby sycamore.

"Ya know, you guys just let Earth get blown up by aliens," he announced in a slight Southern accent.

"Who cares? We're staging a mutiny!" the blond exclaimed. "C'mere, Len, I think we killed him."

The taller boy knelt by the Asian boy's head, poking him in the shoulder.

The Asian boy twitched ever so slightly for dramatic effect.

"Yup," the taller boy declared, "He's dead, Jim."

"Zombie!" the Asian boy suddenly shouted, sitting up and grabbing the blond by the shoulder.

Jim, the blond, jumped back with a screech of surprise.

"Braaaaaains…" the Asian boy breathed, pretending to drool as the tall boy and the redhead laughed. "Braaaaains…BRAAAAAINS!"

The three boys then ganged up on the blond, subjecting him to the tickle torture they'd inflicted on the now zombified Asian boy, tackling one another and screeching.

Finally, Jim drew an ancient yellow toy gun out of his belt, firing two of the orange, plastic darts into the air.

"Wait, wait, guys, stop a sec, I think I heard—Len, quit! I'm trying to hear! HEY!"

The gun clicked twice as the darts flew upward.

"What?" the taller one, Len, asked, bemusedly.

"I thought I heard something," Jim answered, scrutinizing the empty upward branches.

A large, orange-red leaf floated down from above, landing on his face.

"Jeez, Jim, it's just the wind."

"It's not just the wind, I heard something."

The four boys sat in the dead leaves, straining their ears for the unknown sound their friend had picked up.

Somewhere in the distance, they could hear a voice on the faint October breeze.

"Montgomery Scott!" it called, in a distant singsong.

"Ah, jeez," the redhead muttered, hearing his own name. "It's me mum, lads. Gotta go."

He rose, reluctantly waving goodbye as he crashed through the crackling leaves.

"See ya tomorrow, Scotty!" Jim called after him.

The other two chorused the same a second later as Scotty disappeared from view.

The Asian boy sighed, glancing up at the darkening cloudy sky.

"I should probably take off too, guys," he said, "I have to watch my sister tonight 'cause my mom's doing another law project again."

"'Kay. See ya tomorrow, Hikaru."

Hikaru ran off in the opposite direction, calling, "Braaaains!" evilly over his shoulder.

The two remaining boys exchanged glances.

"You don't have to run out on me, do you?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Nah," Len answered, with a shrug, "You know Gran and Gramps. They're completely oblivious. They wouldn't notice if I fell off the face of the earth."

Jim laughed. "C'mon," he said, "it's getting dark. Let's go to the playground."

"What's wrong with the woods?" Len asked.

"Nothing. Well, I mean, I heard something. Probably just an animal, but still."

Len frowned at Jim, curiously.

"Who are you and what didja do with Jim Kirk?" he questioned. "What ya heard was Scotty's mom."

Jim ran a hand through his floppy hair, thoughtfully. "Wasn't," he answered. "Besides, I like the playground."

"You like to loaf around at the playground, ya mean," Len corrected him.

"Yeah, yeah, shaddup," he said, grinning.

They rose, crunching through the crackling leaves as the slight breeze picked up to a minor whistle as it cut between branches.

"Seriously," said Len, "What's with you? You were never scared of any dumb ole raccoon."

"Y'know, it might've been something else," Jim told him, "Something other than a raccoon."

"Then you would've wanted to investigate it."

Jim shrugged.

"All right, fine. What was it then? A chupacabra?" Len asked, jokingly.

Jim looked at him seriously. "Maybe."

Len's face fell. "For reals?" he questioned, wide-eyed.

"I dunno," Jim answered, unhelpfully. "Or Bigfoot. It could always be Bigfoot." He cracked a grin, and Len realized he was being led on.

He slugged Jim in the arm, rolling his eyes.

The leaves underfoot eventually became cement sidewalk as they emerged onto Derby Drive, next to Old Man Archer's crumbling farm.

A few conversation-filled minutes passed before Jim and Len reached the playground.

The "playground" was not really a playground, but an abandoned lot where people dumped their old stuff. It was nicknamed "the playground" because the three broken-down antique cars, the stacks of wood for building forts, and the ancient shower bath made it a popular spot for the local misfit children.

It was full of old toys, old clothes, and old junk that no one wanted anymore. To the local kids, it was a treasure trove of wonders.

Half of the things Scotty had ever used to build, Hikaru had ever attached to his bike, Len had ever used to ward off his grandparents, and Jim had ever used to play pretend had come from the playground.

Jim climbed atop one of the rusty cars, stretching out on the roof and staring up at the cloud-patched sky.

"Check it out," he said, smiling, "You can see over the trees and into the sunset."

Len scrambled up the hood, flopping down on his stomach next to Jim.

"Cool," he said, indifferently, but Jim knew it was an act.

He kept his mouth shut about it and picked up a sycamore leaf caught between the window and the roof.

"What movie d'ya wanna watch on Halloween?" he asked, carving two holes in the leaf with his fingernails.

Len shrugged. "I dunno. Didja wanna watch an old stupid one, or a scary one?"

"A scary one, duh," Jim told him. "But just 'cause it's old doesn't mean it's not scary. Hikaru said he asked his mom if we could watch Silence of the Lambs—"

"That's ancient!" Len protested, incredulously, "You can't be serious."

"The remake," Jim clarified, ominously.

"Ohhh. The remake. That's still really old, though."

"Apparently she said no 'cause it was too scary."

"Hmmm," Len mused, scratching at a bit of peeling red paint.

"I vote we watch it anyways, after she goes to sleep. We can play it real quiet so she won't hear anything—"

"Yeah, but do you have a volume knob for your screams?"

Jim drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't particularly tall, one hand on his hip and the other over his heart.

"I will not scream during Silence of the Lambs," he declared, solemnly.

"The remake," Len added, grinning, unable to resist the bet.

"The remake," Jim repeated.

"So swear you?"

"So swear I."
"Good." Len poked Jim in the stomach, shouting, "Tag! You're it!" and sliding off the roof of the car, landing in a pile of old sweaters.

"You pile of slug guts!" Jim yelled, laughing as he started the chase.

Anyone passing the playground would've wondered what the two boys were doing out so late, why they weren't returning home. The answer was simple.

Neither one had the remotest desire to do so.

Five blocks away, 1588 Noonien Avenue, upstairs.

It was a typical little girl's room, with walls of light yellow and neat decorations to match the child's furniture, a crush can of stuffed animals beside the bed, and a colorfully painted dollhouse in the corner of the room.

It was here that sat a quartet of young girls, lost in conversation.

One of the girls, a tall, dark-blonde creature, was seated on the small desk at the end of the room, hosting a stuffed animal tea party.

"More darjeeling, Mr. Tribble?" she asked, smiling at the round, fuzzy stuffed animal in front of her. She then picked it up and squeezed it, and the creature made a soft cooing noise.

"What's 'darjeeling'?" questioned a green-skinned girl with flaming-red hair, who was bouncing on the bed, chewing a large piece of bubble gum. She blew a large, salmon-pink bubble and popped it neatly back into her mouth.

"It's a kind of tea," the dark-blonde replied, pretending to pour tea into the fiberglass cup in front of her. "There, Mr. Tribble."

"Coo!" went the toy as she squeezed it again.

"You're quite welcome."

A dark-skinned girl with long, braided hair sat painting her nails. She cast a glance at her skinny, short, white-blonde friend, who was making a collage, brows creased, tongue sticking out at a meticulous angle, a slight smile curving her lips.

"Christine, what are you doing?" asked the dark girl, bemusedly.

The white-blonde, Christine, looked up with a slight start, her pale cheeks flushing pink. She gave them an embarrassed smile before pushing the collage over to her friend.

The green-skinned gum-chewer hopped off the bed onto the rug, bounding over as the dark-blonde slid off her perch to get a closer look.

Christine went a darker shade of pink, and said, sheepishly, "It's me and Leonard. At our wedding."

The image had been cut and pasted together to show a bride and groom standing before an altar at the beach. Their heads had been pasted over with the heads of a beaming girl, Christine, and a boy with short, wavy, dark brown hair and a shy smile.

"Are these your yearbook photos?" the dark-blonde, who was named Janice, asked, her mouth parting in an incredulous grin.

Christine cracked a grin of her own and nodded.

"Jeez, girl, you are obsessed," the green-skinned gum-chewer remarked, bending over to look at the collage.

"Gaila," protested the girl painting her nails, smacking her friend lightly in the shin, but smiling.

"What?" Gaila the gum-chewer put her hands on her hips, "It's the truth!"

"Well, like you're one to talk," Christine retaliated with a laugh, "Who was fawning over Jim Kirk all last year? 'Jim this, Jim that, Jim is so cool, I wish Jim would ask me over for a playdate.'"

"That," Gaila declared, "was different. I didn't go around making collages of us getting married or making giant valentines for him every week."

"Aww, come on, Gaila, we were all obsessed over somebody at some point," Janice spoke up, petting her tribble contentedly.

"You mean like you and Jim two years ago?"

Janice grinned. "I wasn't the one who said it, Gaila."

Gaila rolled her hazel eyes, glancing down at the girl painting her nails. "What about you, Nyota? You like anybody at school?"

Nyota looked up, her dark, braided hair falling back as she did so. "Not really," she said with a shrug. "Nobody's really that worth it."

"Leonard's worth it," piped up Christine, but she was silenced with a look from Gaila, who plainly wanted to hear Nyota's rationale for her opinion.

"Leonard's always really sad or really grumpy," Nyota told her. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Chris, but it's true."

Christine shrugged. "I like him, even if he's needy."

"More like you're needy," Gaila muttered, then yelped as Janice poked her in the ribs.

"What about Hikaru?" Janice asked, looking up from her texting, "Or Scotty? They're cute."

"They're just like Jim, only he's their leader," Nyota answered, shrugging. "And Hikaru's got this weird fascination with bugs," she added, as an afterthought.

"I heard he could fly an antique jet plane," Gaila informed them.

"Oh, come on, what fifth-grader knows how to fly a jet plane?" Janice said dismissively.

"He can."

"Can't."

"Can."

Nyota glanced over as Janice and Gaila began a highly academic debate over whether or not fifth graders could fly jet planes, then continued with her speech about boys to Christine.

"Besides," she said, modestly, "Nobody'd fall for me anyways."

"Don't say that!" Christine protested, her blue eyes wide.

"It's true." Nyota shrugged. "I'm ordinary."

"But you're really nice to everybody! And you're really good at dancing, and school, and everything!" Christine told her. "You can speak three languages, for crying out loud! Ny," she whined, "There's gotta be somebody. What about that new kid who lives on my street I told you about? The Russian kid?"

Nyota shrugged again, glancing over at Gaila and Janice, who were giggling and smacking one another with pillows.

"I dunno, Christine, he's way younger than me."

"Len's way older than me!"

"It's different for girls being older."

"Why?"

"I don't know, it just is."

"Gaila's older than Jim."

"Well, not a lot older."

"Same difference as you and the Russian kid."

"No way, really?"

Christine nodded, seriously. "Yep."

Nyota sighed, looking enviously over at Gaila, who had popped another stick of gum into her mouth, adding to the wad that was already there and working on another enormous bubble as she resumed jumping on the bed, trying to reach the ceiling.

"That Russian kid," Gaila spoke up between chews, "Why's he here anyways?"

"I dunno," Christine said, reaching for her collage and the cut up magazine she'd been using earlier. "He just came down the street and said hi, and he was nine, and then ran away."

"Weird," Janice remarked.

"His dad was wearing some kinda military uniform."

"Weirder," Gaila commented.

"You guys want popcorn?" Nyota asked, standing and heading for the door, not liking where the conversation was going.

"Sure," the others chorused.

As Nyota left her room and turned right towards the staircase, she sighed again. She was, after all, a very ordinary girl.

2251 Bay Road, two blocks back.

"Pasha," chided an old woman, looking down at the small boy sitting across from her.

The small boy looked up from the microscope he'd brought to the dinner table. He had short, curly, mousy brown hair and sparkling light brown eyes.

The old woman, bent, gray-haired, and wrinkled, began to scold him in Russian: "What did your father say about bringing your science projects to the table?"

The boy responded. "My father isn't here," he protested, "The test should give its results soon."

"I'm here," the old woman answered. "Now come on and eat your food."

"Five minutes, Nyanya."

"Nyet, boy."

The small boy pouted, his lower lip jutting out, his shoulders slumping, a frown fixed on his face.

Nyanya smiled. "You know," she told him, kindly, "Having these materials you're testing in close contact with your food could mess up the results, and then where would you be?"

The boy's eyes went wide, and he pushed back his chair, hopping down, snatching the microscope off the table and dashing down the hall to his room.

Nyanya chuckled to herself, spearing a bit of broccoli on her fork and munching on it.

A moment later the boy reappeared, looking intensely relieved as he took his seat and resumed eating his food with vigor.

Nyanya looked fondly at him for a moment before asking, "So, why didn't you stay and talk with that little girl? She looked nice enough."

"I had things to do," the boy answered, calmly.

"Like what?"

"My experiments."

Nyanya smiled at him. "You and your experiments," she said, "You're so cute."

The boy froze halfway through a slurp of his borscht. Slowly he put down his spoon, looking her straight in the eye, and said, defiantly, "Nyanya. I am not cute. Babies are cute. I am not a baby. I am…I am devious."

Nyanya chuckled and took a sip of her sweet tea, reaching over and tousling the boy's hair.

The boy ducked out of her reach, pouting, ready to retaliate when the front door swung open in the next room over.

All anger instantly fled the boy's mind as he hopped out of his chair and ran to the front door, his eyes sparkling with happiness.

"Papa!" he cried, dashing up to the tall, thin man in the doorway.

The man, clad in a black Starfleet uniform, cracked a wide grin and swept the boy into a hug.

"Hello, Pavel," he said, in English, his words coated with a heavy Russian accent.

Nyanya appeared in the doorway, a wry smile curving her old, dry lips.

"How was the meeting?" she asked the man.

"It went well," he answered as his son started to herd him towards the kitchen.

"What did they talk about?" the boy, Pavel, asked eagerly as he sat back down, kicking his feet back and forth beneath the table in excitement.

The man took a seat between Pavel and Nyanya, smiling mysteriously at the little boy.

"All sorts of things," he said, mysteriously.

"Like what?" the boy questioned, wide-eyed.

"Oh, I can't tell you, it's top secret."

"I won't tell!"

"You swear it?"

"Yes!"

"Under scrutiny? Under torture? Even the threat of death?"

Pavel stood up on his chair and saluted his father, an expression of determination on his young face. "Da!" he exclaimed.

His father laughed as Nyanya told him to get his behind back into his seat.

"All right," he relented, "But remember…what happens at this table stays at this table."

Pavel nodded, looking intently at him.

"They say that something is stalking the town. It started at the shipyard, Pavel. You know, where Mr. Pike works."

The boy nodded again, remembering a man close to his father's age, who was also a Starfleet officer.

"Now it's moving this way," his father continued, his voice rising, "Coming to this town…coming to eat up little boys who don't finish their dinner!"

He lunged at his son, grabbing him by the shoulder, making him jump in surprise.

"So finish your borscht, or else it'll come and get you in the dead of night…"

"Alexi!" interjected Nyanya, swatting Pavel's father on the arm, "You'll give him nightmares."

"He's a strong boy. He can take it."

Pavel beamed and took a last slurp of soup before jumping off his chair and calling over his shoulder, "I'll fight it to the death!"

Nyanya rolled her eyes knowingly, sipping more of her tea. "He's doing another experiment, you know," she announced, "Brought it to the table. I had him put it back in his room."

Alexi glanced off to the wall where there hung a picture of four people: Him, Pavel, Nyanya, and another younger woman with long, dark hair and a smile on her face, and Pavel's light brown eyes.

"He is so brave," he sighed as he studied his wife's face. "If Sophie were here, she would be so proud."

Xena Apartment Complex, Uptown.

"Mother, I still do not understand—"

"Oh, sweetheart, do I have to keep explaining this to you?"

"But your logic is not sound—"

"Come on; help me set the table."

"Why must I be subjected to such torture—"

"Your father's going to be home any minute, Spock, so please, help me out here. We can discuss this over dinner."

In the small kitchen of apartment number 415 there stood two people: a young boy with slanted eyebrows, pointed ears, and pale, green-tinged skin, the other his willowy, dark-haired mother.

The boy, Spock, regarded his mother without expression.

He's gotten so good at that, his mother thought as she stared at him, holding up three plates in her slim hands. Just like his father.

"Mother," Spock began his protest again, "I do not see the logic in sending me to a Terran school. I will not receive the same level of education as before. You and father are well-educated. Would it not be logical to have you two teach me?"

His mother sighed, placing each plate on a placemat at the table in front of her. "Spock," she said, slightly exasperated, "Your father and I have been busy with the alliance. You know that. We don't have the time to teach you and work all at once. And besides—" she gave him a strained smile, "—it'll be good for you to meet new people—make new friends. Experience a different culture than you're used to."

"Your point about making new friends is illogical, mother, as I had no friends on Vulcan to begin with," Spock told her, walking back around the breakfast bar to retrieve utensils and napkins.

"Oh, don't be so negative, Spock. It'll be fun."

Spock sighed heavily, glancing at his reflection in the oven window. As far as he had seen, no one had had a haircut like his on Earth, at least since the 20th Century.

He didn't have high hopes about "making friends" as his mother had put it.

And something would have to be done to cover his ears.

A hat, he thought, a "beanie", as it is called. That would take care of my ears and my hair at the same time.

At that moment, the front door opened to reveal a tall man with dark hair and pointed ears to match Spock's. He had the same pale, green-tinged skin and emotionless expression.

Despite the man's cool demeanor, Spock's mother rushed over and pulled him into a hug, planting a kiss on his cheek.

The man smiled almost imperceptibly, but it went unmissed by any member of the household—they were all used to it and knew what it meant.

"Hello, Father," Spock said, as calm as ever, "I was just voicing my opinion of the decision to send me to a Terran school with Mother."

Spock's mother sighed heavily. "Spock, don't think that you'll get a different answer by asking your father the same question."

Spock's father, Sarek, relented: "It is all right, Amanda; I will hear what he has to say."

Amanda opened her mouth to answer, but changed her mind, and smiled at her husband, turning back into the kitchen.

Sarek took a seat across from Spock, gesturing for him to begin his argument.

"I do not understand your logic in sending me to a Terran school. Surely you understand that I will not receive the same curriculum as I would on Vulcan," Spock restated, this time waiting for a reply.

"You seem to be of the opinion that different is bad," Sarek answered, raising an eyebrow.

Spock hesitated for the briefest second before replying. "Not that different is bad, but that I may not receive the same level of education here."

"Spock, listen to me. We cannot judge the educational system of Earth based upon facts that we do not yet have. Perhaps Earth offers a lower level of education to your peers; perhaps it offers a higher level. But you cannot know that until you experience it," Sarek told him, "In addition, your mother and I believe that it would greatly benefit you to take part in Earth's culture."

"Benefit me how?" Spock questioned, his slanted eyebrows creasing as he frowned.

"In the sense that it would…Amanda, what is the phrase?" Sarek called to his wife.

"'Expand your horizons,' dear," Amanda said, as she carried a large pot of pasta to the table.

"Precisely," Sarek concluded.

Spock sighed, knowing he had lost. "Very well," he said, dully, "I will attempt to…expand my horizons."

"A wise decision," Sarek agreed, rising to help Amanda with dinner.

The sun had now set on Riverside, Iowa. Twilight was beginning to give away to darkness as street lamps flickered on and families settled down to dinner.

At the playground, Jim and Len had made it through three games of tag, a couple rounds of gin rummy with an ancient deck of cards they'd found in the glove compartment of one of the cars, and another short-lived game of Spaceship. (Starfleet was again victorious over the Klingon Armada.)

Now Len was glancing up at the shadowy sky with distinct unease.

"Hey, Jim," he said, "It's getting kinda late. I think I oughta take off. Gran and Gramps may be oblivious, but if I'm not at dinner, they'll suspect something's up."

Jim, who had been tinkering with the car antennae and a couple of rusty washers and shredded bandannas, looked up, his expression going from curiosity to disappointment in an instant.

"Oh," he said, "Okay. Sure."

Len felt a twinge of guilt. Jim's mom had been off planet for a week now, and would be back until about Halloween, leaving Jim alone with his stepfather.

But, he reasoned, it was getting late, and while his grandparents had never really shown any concern in the hours he kept, he knew showing up late for dinner wouldn't do.

Jim, he could see, was struggling to keep a friendly smile on his face.

Slowly, Len waved at him as he headed away from the playground. "See ya tomorrow?" he asked, trying to keep the mood light.

"Sure," Jim answered, managing a fuller smile this time, waving back.

Len turned and started off back home. Sorry, Jim, he thought, grimacing as he turned away.

He crossed the street and cut through Farmer Barrett's cornfield, then walked up Bay Road, taking a left on Arbor Street and entering the old, Victorian-style house on the corner.

He heaved a sigh, wishing he still could've been playing at the playground with Jim.

He approached the enormous mahogany doors, opening one and walking into the living room, taking off his shoes on the rug and putting them neatly under the nearby bench.

Glancing over at the fireplace, he noticed a haughty-looking Siamese cat, glaring down at him in the dim light, with a single yellow eye that followed him as he crossed the room. The other eye was shut, with a ropy scar stretched across its lid: a souvenir from a violent scrap with an angry calico a couple of years back.

Len watched it warily as he crossed over to the kitchen, entering the warmly lit room where he was greeted by a serene, white-haired woman with light blue eyes and a wrinkled smile on her face.

"There you are," she said, in a thick Southern accent, "I was gettin' a little worried about you. How's Jack doing?"

"Jim," Len corrected her, "It's Jim, Grandma."

"Oh, right…well, how's Jim, then?" she asked.

Len stared at the floor. "He'll be fine," he said, quietly, wishing he could believe it.

Jim waited for only a few minutes after Len left before heading down Derby Drive to home.

Or what somebody could think was a home, he thought, now three blocks away from the playground, walking next to the shadowy cornfield, the leafy stalks rising high above his head.

Snap.

Jim froze in mid-step as a sharp noise sounded nearby. He whirled around to look down the dusty road. It was empty.

It's your imagination, Jim, said a voice, that sounded suspiciously like Len's, in his head.

No, it's not, he argued with it, turning back to check in front of him. There's something out here.

It's some jerk from school trying to scare you, or something. It's getting dark. Go home.

But something's out here.

Mind-Len's voice took on an irritated edge. Ya know what happens to kids who stay out too long after dark? Bad stuff, Jimmy.

I'm not scared of monsters.

It's monsters who you should be scared of, Jim. It's people.

Jim managed to snap himself back to reality and resume walking, not responding to Mind-Len's retort because, deep down, Jim knew he was right.

He glanced over his shoulder a second time as he moved ahead. Len may not have believed it, but he had heard something out in the woods, and it definitely had not been a raccoon—or, for that matter, Scotty's mom.

Saturday would allow time for further investigation, he decided, as he tramped up the path to the old farmhouse at the end of the street, past a broken gate on creaking hinges.

From outside, glancing towards the dinghy living room window, Jim could see the flickering light of the TV.

Good, he thought, a small spark of hope welling up inside him, Maybe he's asleep. Or too drunk to bother getting up. Or both.

Slowly, he opened the paint-peeled front door, trying to be as quiet as possible, slipping inside and beginning to sneak toward the stairs—

"You're late," said a cold voice to his right.

Slug guts, Jim thought as he turned to face his stepfather.

Frank Gallagher had married Jim's mother shortly after Jim's father's death off-planet, and Jim had hated him from the start. He was a tyrant in the Kirk household, assigning extra chores wherever he could, and dealing out harsh punishment when the chores weren't completed in time, or to his liking. Jim's mother was no help. She knew nothing about Frank's bad relationship with her son, and was often off-planet, working on agricultural projects with the government's economy board.

Frank was standing in the living room doorway, unshaven, a cold beer in his hand—Probably not his first, Jim thought—and a colder look on his face. Tall and lanky, he loomed over Jim, his short, curly, graying hair partially silhouetted by the flickering light of the TV.

"I'm not late," Jim told him, defiantly.

"You sure as hell are, kid," he answered, "You come back home this late again and I'll whip your ass."

"You said seven. It's six fifty. I'm early."

"Don't get smart with me. I'm warning you." Frank pointed a finger at Jim, turning back to the TV.

Jim bit back the retort riding the tip of his tongue. It wasn't worth the beating he'd get for it. Muttering insults under his breath, he turned on his heel and headed upstairs to the sanctuary of his room.

He couldn't wait for tomorrow.