No, it's not a joke. It's just a one-shot I wrote really late the other night. It really isn't that good. I hope to go back sometime and use that idea and rewrite and actually do something more with the idea. But since I wrote it, I thought I might as well post it. If you're taking the time to read this #1 Bless you #2 please review if you have constructive criticism (obviously I can use it).

Thanks

Years on the run. Years spent hiding, skipping town unexpectedly, never staying too long, staying in the shadows . . . and staying busy. No better way to avoid thinking, or regret, than constant action. Years like that with a trail impossible to follow led to a small tavern on the outskirts of the Leboon, a small, wooden, brown, sturdy little place.

There was a lot of light inside, but also plenty of smoke and dark corners. It was a good place to go to be busy and yet unseen. There was more than one person there like that.

A middle-aged human walked slowly towards a corner table, a pronounced limp in his left leg. He held a rusty tankard. And though he was obviously a worn spacer, like everyone else here, he seemed at odds with the boisterous atmosphere. He seemed preoccupied; though he looked up long enough to choose one of the less crowded tables. The only other occupants were a drunken Ons who looked close to passing out and a middle-aged spacer with a missing leg glaring into space over his drink.

The human had a small bag over one shoulder. It looked as nondescript as any other; but it had been across half the galaxy—one of the possessions he'd had longest. He moved it off of his should so as to sit down.

It wasn't long before the Ons had passed out with his face in his beer. The third occupant had awknowleged the human's presence. There was no conversation at the table; but the silence was drowned by the noise throughout the building.

The human rested one elbow on the table and ran his hand through his hair, just starting to grey. Where to go, now? There didn't seem to be much left for him to do. No, not much left at all . . .

"Leland!" a voice called. A red-headed, red-faced human (with obviously a bit too much drink in him) stumbled to the table. The human at the table looked up.

"Lor, haven't seen you in ages!" Mr. Red said, sliding onto the bench. "Where ya been?"

"Eh, traveling. Life of a spacer," said the human, trying to sound light.

"Just traveling? Hey! When's last time you've been to the Crestentia. There's a great market there nowadays for old salts like you. And of course," he laughed, "Young blood like me." Red laughed loudly, the drink making itself apparent.

"A bit too close to home," Leland said lightly. "You know me, I go uncharted."

The other spacer, with the missing leg, had stopped staring into space and was listening now.

"You always were crazy, Hawkins!" Red laughed. Leland didn't see the other spacer start.

"Hey!" an insectesoid bartender called, walking towards Red. "Lunk, you're broke! I've told you before," he said, hauling Red up by his jacket collar, "Get out until you've got a decent day's wages with you." He hauled the half-drunk Lunk out.

"Look me up if you change your mind about Crestentia!" he called over his shoulder.

Leland shook his head. Forget the Cresentia. Too close to home in more ways than one. When he looked up, he noticed the other spacer studying him.

"Hawkins, eh?" the man said, through brogue.

"Leland Hawkins," Leland said, extending his hand. "Why?"

"From near Cresentia?"

Leland shrugged. "I used to live near there."

"How near? As near as, say, Monstressor?"

Leland looked up, surprised. "Eh, yes, actually. I lived there, why?"

The other shrugged. "Just asking. It's near the spaceport, worked there."

"Ah?" Leland asked, sensing a spacer-story session, something he was used to. He racked his brain for some good yarn.

-----------------------------------------------

Silver had seen the man come in. He would never have recognized him. Wouldn't have cared. But he took notice when talk turned to Cresentia. And then, when he heard the man's name, Hawkins, his curiosity was piqued.

It had been years now. But now he was caught studying the spacer opposite him, trying to find something, some resemblance to the boy or some sign of callousness, something.

The talk drifted around various cruises, similar to many a bar-conversation. But the whole time, he was trying to piece things together. The man didn't much resemble the boy, in looks or manor. He seemed so tired, not the interested, quickened air of the boy.

"But then, you would have heard of the expedition lead by that female captain," Leland was saying. "That upstart who left the navy."

Silver looked up. "Oh yes, Captain Smollet. Sailed with her actually."

"No," Leland leaned forward. "No one knows much about that expedition. But people say she set out with nearly a score of men and returned with a damaged ship and only three others."

"Something like that," Silver allowed.

"Were you there? What happened to the others?"

Did that man wonder about the boy? Did he even know his son had been on that ill-fated trip? No, Silver decided. Just curiosity—looking for a story. Still might as well . . .

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was," Silver allowed.

"Is it true they lost so many men?"

"They did," Silver said. "Course, it was the mens' own fault. And not one of them would've made it out."

"But for what?" Leland asked, thoroughly enjoying a story to keep thoughts of reality at bay.

"The cabin-boy," Silver said, off-hand.

"The . . . cabin-boy?" asked Leland. "But, really . . ."

Silver glanced at him. No, that man had no idea.

"True," Silver said. "He started the expedition. An he saved the lives of everyone that came back. Remarkable lad."

"Apparently," Leland said. He didn't know why, but something made him uneasy.

"Yeah," Silver went on. "He'd had a rough go of it, that kid. The place his family ran burned down. Heard he'd been in some kind of trouble. But look at him now."

"Now?"

"Heard he passed the Interstellar Academy with flying colors, got in by the recommendations of that 'upstart female captain.'"

Leland shrugged, conceding the jab.

"Come to think of it, that kid was from Montressor, also."

Leland looked up.

"People didn't think much of him. But he was something. Proved them wrong."

Leland's mind was working. Was it coincidence? The child he'd left, years ago . . . no, it couldn't be the same person.

While he thought, Silver watched him. Part of him wanted to get mad at the guy, for the boy's sake, wanted some sort of revenge. Would get satisfaction out of throwing it in this man's face.

But, when it came down to it . . . was he any better?

This man had left his wife and child on a selfish whim, left them to fend for themselves, with no living, no hope, no future. It made him easy to hate.

Part of him so wanted to do something. But . . . it wasn't his place. He was no better.

Silver set down his empty mug and made ready to leave. Leland would soon be doing the same.

Leland almost didn't want to ask, was afraid to know. Was afraid to know if this hero was . . . or was not . . .

"Do you . . . know anything else about this kid?" Leland asked quickly.

Silver had turned to the door and donned a coat. He looked over his shoulder. But he couldn't exact any revenge. Better to just leave him to his own life, wondering and asking, and suffering the mistakes of his own actions. Same as what he, himself did. Silver opened the door to the night, and said, without looking back,

"His name was Hawkins," and closed the door.

Well, there you have it. It isn't much. Like I said I hope to take that idea and rewrite and do something more with it. But, it was late. And it's my first one-shot. Any constructive criticism would be appreciated.

--Inkgirl