The Great Goose is gone.

We've made our first jump and now even the heavens around me are strange. I feel odd, challenged by an unrelenting suspicion that I have done the wrong thing... maybe I should have stayed, made a difference at home.

I'm guessing we are at some way-point chosen because it isn't near anything. There seem to be no local star or planets, or anything else but an encompassing spatter of a billions and billions of brilliant pinpoint lights.

The Magister's observation deck is a disorienting experience now, nothing even remotely reminds me of what I'm looking for when I look out at stars. All I see is a distant light show, it could be painted on the port windows with some planetarium program for all it matters. Sure, it's pretty, but it's not only not home, it never will be again.

I sit alone with my thoughts. Happens a lot lately. Between Tim and Mister Matsushima, there's nothing to do on my mechs.

Boredom leaves me with no defense from the empty galaxy.

Add to that the needs of running my own mercenary unit and I am so far in over my head that even if there were sunlight here, it would never get through to my depths. For example, Joe was unable to bring up his Longbow on the Erin, seems that with the last lot of salvage the Kell Hounds got, there's no longer anything like enough space on board the Magister for another light 'Mech, much less an assault. I need to arrange something for him, but for now I'm just not focused enough.

Second guessing myself has become something of an obsession and there's no limit to the time I can devote to it. It really doesn't matter where I am, I'm depressed without anything to promote the feeling; Bobby can be giggling at some silly game and I still get bummed.

I can't go outside and a quicksand of chills catches me unaware. I don't think it's claustrophobia, more like discovering that I'm locked in my algebra class with no expectation of being allowed out for at least several weeks. Surely this must never effect the experienced travelers, but I unexpectedly discover that there's a depressing quality about not being able to feel an evening breeze or hear birds.

That's not all that rushes me as I sit in the semi-sterile cabin; I'm hit by a wave of feeling sorry for myself. I miss Zuzan and Father Murphy, da and Kathleen. I miss running in a field, fishing, hunting, and riding horses. I miss playing with Sabby, hearing her barking madly or watching her chase ball.

Will I ever get to lie on my back in warm sunshine, hat pulled over my face to my nose, just smelling fresh cut grass on an afternoon breeze? I even miss the chores I hated, like mucking out the stalls and mowing the lawn. Why couldn't I know in advance that all those things would become precious when I no longer had them?

The bed is hard in places and careworn in others, sleep seems repulsed by the discomfort, eluding my exhausted body for what must be an epoch...

…..

A hint of haze hovers over the quiet lake surface. The night star, Lonitar, casts its distant glow over the mirrored waters. Soon Miran, first of the day stars, will reach the horizon with a blaze of intense color.

I have not slept… perhaps the presence of my Khan is a factor, but there is more. Why has he come to see me? I had served on his staff while in the Eleventh, but I was not an adviser or even a senior officer; ranking staff had even joked occasionally that I was more incisive than decisive. Now, my little cabin in the woods seems an unfitting place for the Wolf Khan.

Why the mystery? Ordered home for "rest" and only last evening suddenly discovering an aerodyne on approach for my pad with Khan Ward at the controls!

The first hints of fiery red explode onto the snows gracing the granite shoulders of Tanalahi and her reflection on the mirroring lake glows with promise... it seems at some level that I am seeing my beloved home through eyes that will know it no more.

"Take beauty when you find it, for a Wolf warrior must have more in his life than his battles. Without valuing beauty, you fight as the enemy does, with only self-interest or blind purpose to guide," my senior Loremaster had once said. "In balance between the horrors of war and the value of what is fought for, we can keep from destroying what we seek to defend. Without balance, there can be no honor." Even though he turned out to be a Warden, he was right about that truth.

I have seen much beauty, but have never found a place like this where I remember what is best about our Great Hope. Deep in my heart, I know that my Kahn is here to have me leave it, maybe forever. I have spent the night sitting on my porch looking at the darkened greens and whites. The air is chill on my face, but the munsmuir blanket wrapped tightly around the rest of me is thick and its warmth scoffs at the night's cold.

From the tall conifer stands up-mountain from me, trill birds begin their morning calls. The ringing notes, clear and bright, etch in my mind like a future memory, a sound of home to be recalled when I am far away.

Behind me, the rustic door creaks open.

In respect I start to rise, but Khan Ward simply says, "Stay, Commander."

Miran crests the ridge and floods our waiting eyes with her warm rays. They are too bright to long endure, but for this first moment I sense that we both look towards the star, and beyond her to the unknown.

"Patrick, I have a something that I want you to do..."

…..

I waken in the chill stateroom, unsure if the dream has ended or just begun. It's as if I know well those places I've never seen. Yet I have a sense not of wistfulness, but unease, as if the reason I've dreamed this place and time is not what it would appear.

In the quiet, I can hear some powerful equipment whisper its vibrations through the walls from some distant quarter. There's not much else, and I find myself suddenly wishing to hear Sabby snoring. I miss her, back home I would probably be lying in bed coming up with some ridiculous idea about how to scare her awake, knowing that more than half the time she would catch me sneaking up on her. There was a lot of joy with that dog, I don't think I've really played in the months since I lost her.

The floor is carpeted, but only barely; it's a dark blue to hide dirt and the padding is worn thin enough that standing on it is little better than putting my feet on the cold deck plates below. Cheap flourescene rods seem woven into the walls, leaving the room with an even but unnaturally off color light that drains just a hint of warmth from my reflection above the sink.

Haven't really looked at myself for a long time, da used to say you have to look yourself in the eye when you use a mirror; if you can't face yourself, you need to fix why before you do anything else. Now, all I see is a boy encompassed by a weariness that... wait... is that a mustache?

Jix! Ok, it's a bit whispy, but it's sort of there, like a light shadow across my upper lip. Slabbed indeed! Maybe I should get a razor... hmmm, what if I cut myself shaving it? I wonder if Sonia's noticed... does she like men with mustaches? She's only four years older than me...

Hmmm... reality check: Sonia's mature and probably not only unimpressed with me as a man, but likely figures I'm not far removed from robbing the cradle.

I'm suddenly drawn back to my own eyes. There's something there, beyond the weariness, that I find myself being just a hint proud of... that experienced look that says, "I have been through a lot, I will face whatever comes when it gets here." It's a look da had at times. I really miss him. Have I ever grieved for him? What does it mean to "grieve" for someone, anyway?

…..

"That's enough, Alexis."

We have been drilling for several hours, but I just can't focus. I let the stick go and Sharks neurohelm projection fades as the sim ends and my visor slides quietly clear.

The only solace I find is working on my skills, I never again want others to look down on my fallen mech or comment that I left the hard work to them. No one else will drill with me because I seem driven to keep at it; even Sonia has been telling me I need to give it a rest.

The dream comes to mind again, "Alexis, would you know if there is a real place called..." what was that name... "um, Tanalahi?"

Her tone seems odd even though the answer is straight-forward, "Yes, Sir."

"Would you tell me where it is?"

"It is a mountain." She is being unusually reticent about what information she is offering.

"Is where that mountain's located some kind of secret?"

"It is in Wolf space, Sir. Did you dream something about it, Padraig?" She is changing the subject, but so subtly that I might not have noticed once.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did."

"What did you dream, Sir?"

"Hey, I'm not offering any more details with you just handing out a pittance."

"Patrick Carn's had a home of sorts on a planet in Wolf space. I can not reveal where that is. The cabin was close to a mountain named Tanalahi. It was the last place he had to relax, and it was there that Khan Ward gave him the mission."

"I think that must have been what the dream was about."

"That is twice you have dreamed of things from Patrick's life. Have you had other dreams like these?"

"No. Why?"

She does not answer for a minute, then seems reluctant to say what comes out, "because I can not allow Wolf space to be compromised, and I'm not sure if you understand that."

"So would you kill me and destroy 'Patrick's hope' as you call it?"

"I do not know."

I'm stunned.

"Part of my underlying original programming is to protect sensitive knowledge of Wolf space should my 'Mech be captured or taken as salvage."

"But I'm not your 'Mech."

"No, but I am responsible for you being where you are. I was the one that pushed you in the direction of completing the mission, instead of simply self-destructing when your father told me of the Blakist approach. Even more basically, I was the one responsible for not self-destructing when Padraig died. I was the one who wanted his pain and suffering to have a chance to mean something."

It's been a while since Alexis surprised me with her nearly human emotions, but now she's making up for lost time. It had never occurred to me to question why she was waiting in that bay the day da introduced me to her and Rocker; these revelations cast a new light on what has happened.

She continues, "I had no orders to continue if Patrick died, if anything, I had orders to self-destruct should security be breached."

"You loved him, didn't you?"

"Love?" She is puzzled and silent.

I wonder where my question came from, it is so obviously wrong to think a computer would have anything approaching affection.

"I admired Patrick. Respected him. Worked towards a common goal with him. Was concerned about him when he was in danger. Perhaps even enjoyed our time together..."

Silence.

Admire, respect, work together, concern, joy. Other than sex, isn't that what a loving relationship is? She sounds more like his wife than his AI.

She seems to be thinking along the same lines. "Based on some definitions," she finally resumes quietly, "yes, I did and still do 'love' Patrick Carns."

"Wow."

"By those same definitions, though, I also 'love' you now."

The bombshell goes off and my mind seems entirely aired out; a whispered "wow," is all I can come up with.

"Yes, Padraig," she almost whispers too, "I have no better comment than 'wow'."

…..

Scanning through music archives for the last thousand years or so, trying to find something that suits my mood that Patrick Carns hadn't liked first. It seems like I'm defying all statistical laws, granpa liked so darn much.

The drama of discovering that Alexis' emotions run deeper than anyone ever knew or intended has left a distant unease. I'm not sure why I'm now so driven to find my own ancient music, but at some level it's a coming of age.

I like this one: "Off the Ledge" by the twenty-forth century group Midnight Jump really works for me... (sigh) no joy, Alexis has a long collection of them too.

Bored. I listen to easily the ten thousandth snippet and tap the screen for the next. On and on. I must be going bats... this is such tedium that... wait, I like that one.

SUCCESS! Alexis has nothing for a twentieth century group called the "Alan Parson's Project" and I like what I'm hearing so far! Checking the archive connection, there are several individual tunes and a few collections called "albums"... I listen and am connected with what sounds like a distant relative of modern 'Lectroid music; maybe it all started back then.

I seem hooked by this one called "Hawkeye"... I wonder what "only what's on the menu" means. Great 'Mech walking tune!

Now its something called "Mammagamma," the consummate hunting tune... I need to get all of this over to Alexis' memory and try them in the drills... I am SO psyched!

…..

"The cost of customizing a 'Mech is much greater than just changing the rails and couplings to match salvaged gear," the Chief is explaining to Tim and myself, "no, in the field having it so different means you have to work much harder to repair the damages. You can't just grab typical parts from the local arms vendor and expect them to work. Instead, you must have your own stockpile or you are crippled; this is the cost most forget. Consider the difficulty you will have in replacing just your Sha Yu's heat-sinks now that you have swapped the standard Capellan doubles with less bulky but rarer Clan doubles. How many places will have them handy and what will they charge you for them? If you plan to keep that BattleMech long term for your own personal rig, it may make sense, but as you equip and maintain a whole mercenary unit worth of 'Mechs, this will become both a logistical and financial liability."

What he says makes sense. "Well, what would you propose for the remaining 'Mechs?"

"Word within the crew is that we have no room for more stock and hence no reason to take another contract until they are sold; after we finish avoiding Capellan space, they expect that we will execute jumps straight to a planet with large established 'Mech markets, perhaps even Solaris VII. It will be a brilliant opportunity for you to choose 'Mechs that work better for you as a unit rather than trying to modify all your current 'Mechs to make them fit. You can also sell whatever of your chassis you determine you do not need, probably for a reasonable profit."

Tim nods, "sure be better than adding all that clan wiring to everything else, boss."

I have to agree, "OK, I trust your judgment, Sir. Cancel any upgrades on all but Sonia's Mad Dog and we'll see what the market has in store for us."

"I believe you will be happy with this choice, Sir."

"Any idea when we will know if we will be on Solaris?"

"I do not know."

Solaris 7: for over a century, the very name has conjured images of towering 'Mechs in combat, megatons of galloping vehicles embracing the gladiatorial extremes in violent confrontations. Even on our WoB clouded world, there had always been rumors of the arenas where behemoths of every shape and description hurl ordinance and themselves at each other until only one remains standing. Part of me is almost afraid to go there, another is thrilled at the chance to perhaps stand as others have before me and hear the roar of the crowd...

…..

"Is that all for this session, Sir?" Alexis queries.

I have been in the chair for hours on end, I'm not even sure how many. One sim after another, drills and drills, targets and more targets, shot after shot... keeping busy to evade the gnawing hunger in my heart that demands something I can no longer give. The only positive constant is my new music selection, I've found seven tunes that establish such strong groves that I can't help but smile when I start each and I've heard them over and over. Oddly, this new ancient music touches part of me and I feel like my own man, not just a hapless child caught in the shadow of a Wolf.

"Padraig? Are you alright, Sir?"

"Just tired, Alexis."

"That would be normal, you have been on the command couch for twenty-nine hours straight."

"How long!?"

"At the tone, twenty-nine hours, seven minutes, forty-five seconds," there is a brief tone, then she continues, "I have never seen you so dedicated, Sir. Patrick would occasionally drill this long, but it was rare and never without a specific target to train for. You have seemed distracted, but were performing well. I chose not to interrupt to suggest alternatives."

"The Magister may be jumping to Solaris 7 soon. The Kell Hounds will be selling some of the 'Mechs on board and I guess the best prices right now may be Solaris. Anyway, I want to have options to change the overall composition of our lance there too."

Silence, I almost sense she is waiting for me to say something more.

More silence.

"Did anyone come by while I was practicing?"

"Neg, Sir."

In the cockpit for over a day and no one came by to see me. I've noticed how the rest of the Wild Geese seem quite at home with each other, but I feel like the odd man out. Imaginary companions in the simulators are my best friends right now. I'm alone with my adrenaline and my 'Mech... my AI replacing the sensations of the real world with constant action and excitement very like a bigger than life computer game.

Alexis has not moved on, "I have told you about Patrick and Solaris, are you sure it is wise to go down?"

"Certain it's wise? No, Ma'am. Certain I must do it? Yes, Alexis. I may have walked in Granpa's shoes a lot in the last year, but I'm discovering that I need to be myself and learn something new."

"It might be a needlessly dangerous lesson."

"Yes, it may be a gamble, but even if I do compete in a match, I will stand on my own and not ride in his wake."

"As you wish, Padraig."

…..

The galley is entirely empty of others and mostly quiet. My steak sizzles and I remember Sonia making one for me not that long ago.

What is it with memories that makes them hurt so? I miss da. I miss Sabby. I miss what should have been my life. I feel like there should be someone to blame, like it isn't fair... the thought only barely crosses my mind before it's being chased by memories of Prontsi, both granpa's and mine. Was it fair for those in Prontsi who had nothing to do with the Loyalists to die in a nuclear blast?

I flip the steak over and smear it with a paste of garlic, cumin, and my own "home-made" bloodpepper-heart extract.

Was it fair for Father Murphy to be gunned down in such a place of refuge? Was it fair that... WOW! Some of my spicy paste has gotten unnoticed onto a super-hot pan surface and is now producing copious amounts of an eye-burning smoke that has me momentarily blinded. I start crying uncontrollably. The steak continues to sizzle and long training barbecuing with my da takes over: I turn the heat off so I can suffer safely.

An alarm goes off somewhere near at hand, but I'm still in my own private darkness and can't see what is giving the offense or why.

I hear a door burst open, followed quickly by, "What in the hells are you doing?!"

"AHHHH, that HURTS!"

It sounds like at least three people are coughing, two uncontrollably.

"Damn-it man, what are you cooking, demon steaks?"

"Get the med tech down here!"

"I've been GASSED!"

Another voice in agony, now another person hacking as their throat gets what must seem the chemical equivalent of a blow-torch.

"My eyes are on fire!"

"AHHHHHH! Make it STOP!"

"What've you done?!"

None of the voices seem rather happy with the situation, but then again, few folks like chemically hot food like I do, and none seem to have ever had the consequences of it smoking.

"Now THAT'S what I call SPICY!"

Well, correction... if that person can take it, maybe I'm not quite so alone.

"Shut up Warren, just because you like to suck on dropship exhaust..."

"Bite me, momma's boy!"

The latter voice is getting closer, "you OK there Commander?"

"Just got some smoke in my eyes, it'll be Ok in a couple minutes."

"WHAT is going on here? Warren, did you forget the fan again?"

"Not me this time, Sir," the voice that seems to belong to my spice loving friend responds. "It's the new merc commander that's done this one, but I bet he doesn't forget again."

…..

I lick my wounds and lay still in the night... strange concept "night" while tucked in a metal shelled bubble of humanity lost in the depths of the perpetually inky sunlessness of space. I'm hungry, never got to eat my steak... I suspect it was marked "hazmat" and dumped out an airlock. Further, I've now lost all galley privileges; if I so much as touch a cooking utensil in there I've been threatened with all kinds of painful consequences and costly repercussions.

Sigh... they don't understand how trapped I feel.

The door chimes.

I really don't want to see anyone right now.

It chimes again.

Probably some other officer wanting to weigh in on how I'm never to cook again on this ship or anywhere in civilized space.

Once more, the door indicates a visitor.

"Open," is all I finally can manage, disgust mingled with frustration.

"Though you were in here."

Hmmm, I know that voice and look up to see Warren checking both ways out in the hall before stepping in. He seems to be holding something carefully behind his back.

"Did they let you eat your steak?"

"No," my annoyance must be obvious because it elicits a grin.

"Bet you missed chow too."

"Yes, thank you so much for reminding me. While you're at it, why don't you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?"

"Well, you know your classic ancient movies... Princess Bride, right?"

"Well, we did it as a play in high school, but yes, I think it was from some old trivid."

He laughs heartily, "who did you play?"

"Why, Miracle Max, of course."

"Slabbed!" He looks around like he expects to get caught doing something he shouldn't and holds out the nastiest looking... well, not sure what it is. If I were guessing, it would be a blenderized cross between rust, yellow paint, and horse dung molded to look like a chocolate bar.

"Yes?" is all I can muster while eying the material with the same anticipation I might have for a plate of week-old roadkill.

"My secret recipe: Kerensky pepper hearts, Zovan Fire flowers, and chocolate."

"And this is...?"

"Food, moron. If you like hot, I guarantee you'll love this."

I'm torn between taking it for the experience and wanting to retch at the very thought.

Seems he's had this reaction before, "of course, if all that stuff in the kitchen was just an accident today and you're just another wuss who really can't stand hot stuff..."

I sense I will regret my decision, but I take the offered "food" bar, break off a piece and stick it in my mouth. Somewhere between instantly and the end of the first second, I feel the hiccups begin and my ears start to burn... and I can feel my face twist into that grin that speaks louder than any words, "this is HOT!"

"Oh, yeah!"

"See, not as bad as it looks, eh?"

I'm already chewing on a second piece as tears cascade down my cheeks. All I can do is nod.

"Let's swap stories and recipes some time, ok Commander?"

"Sure thing, Warren," I manage to gasp out.

He rises and is out the door as quickly as he came. I, however remain chewing the piece until all is gone and the endorphins flood my system. While my lips and mouth are now numb, my headache and leg pains are starting to diminish too. I wish there could be some spicy food that would do the same for my heart.

…..

There's a hint of music coming from our common room down the hall, it reminds me of the ancient Irish music in Alexis' archives. I don't recognize the tune, but curiosity moves me towards it anyway. Louder it gets, now I hear a voice singing along. Someone laughs. I push the swinging door open and find the O'Days, Miss Matsushima, and several folks from the Kell Hounds involved in playing what must be acoustic musical instruments with great spirit.

It isn't a recording, it's live.

Rory is holding an bizarrely shaped contraption at one end with his left hand and the other, well, it's tucked under his chin; his right hand, meanwhile, seems to be vigorously moving an odd wood-like bar back and forth, almost like a handsaw. Shannon is holding an equally odd looking thing between her hands, it consists of a bellows between two small boards; she moves her hands together and apart, all the while moving her fingers as if pressing keys on a keyboard.

Nanako starts a new verse, she has a lovely voice and is singing words that I know not in a haunting style that manages to draw me in anyway. While I listen, I notice her mouth, then her eyes, then... well, I really hadn't noticed before, but she is actually quite attractively feminine.

Of the remaining players, one has something that looks like a larger relative of Father Murphy's whistle, a second has what must be a drum of some sort, and the last is playing some kind of instrument with what looks like a bag under one arm, a bellows under the other, rods laying across his lap and an odd stick held in his constantly moving hands.

Rory looks up and abruptly stops, the others do likewise in rapid succession.

Shannon breaks the silence, "Kathleen said you'd be wanting a session to play with and these fine folk are the match of any we've know back home."

"Would you care to join us, Commander?" one of the Kell Hounds asks.

"Please, call me Paddy." Then remembering Mister Kell's words I add, "at least when we're here and off duty."

"Fine, Paddy it is then," another chimes in. "Grab a chair and join in."

"I'm not a musician, at least not yet," I offer. "I just got my first whistle as a gift a few weeks ago and I've never actually played it yet. But I love what all of you were doing, please continue."

Rory shakes his head, "No, first we need to be introduced and then you need to go get your whistle... we'll help you out a bit. You can't learn by not playing."

I shrug and he continues, "do you know what any of these instruments are?"

"Um, well... no, just that he," I point at the lad with the whistle, "is playing a whistle too, though it looks to be a great bit larger than mine."

"Very good. Joel?"

The man with the whistle stands, "my name is Joel Silverberg, and yes, this is a low 'A' whistle."

Rory picks up, "I think you remember me, I'm Rory O'Day and this is the family fiddle; it's been with the O'Days at least since the year our clan moved to the Bays, nearly 300 years ago."

Shannon follows, "I know you remember me, I'm Shannon (Oday, of course), and this," she holds up her instrument, "is called a concertina."

The second of the Kell Hounds picks up, "I'm a Paddy too, Padraig Michael Flynn, and these are a full set of Uilleann pipes made in Terran Ireland about 1400 years ago. Well, the bags and such have been replaced, along with the reeds, but the pipes remain the same."

"And I'm Liam Kell," the last one offered, "and this is an ancient frame drum called a bodhran."

My eyes drift back to Miss Matsushima and she smiles shyly, "I'm Nanako and I sing."

"Yes," I reply while not realizing that I'm staring, "and you sing incredibly well."

She blushes and looks down.

"Go get your whistle, boss," Rory interrupts my attention with a chuckle, "we'll wait."

…..

We are two jumps further along, and while some things will never change, I feel better. I really can't put a finger on what the change is, but I am not so depressed when I gaze out at the stars.

I think it's the music more than anything else. Almost every night two or more of us get together for what Shannon calls a "true" session, and I seem to have taken to the whistle like a hondon to water. Joel has even taken time to teach me various tricks and how to read "Father Flanagan's Irish Whistle Tutor" to best effect.

I look at the thin silvery metal tube laying in my lap and wonder about it. It is unadorned except for the word "Copeland" on the head, a large "D" on the front of it's lower portion, and "2266" stamped opposite. Joel says it looks ancient, but neither of us can find much more about it. Rory says Father Murphy had it for as long as he could remember. I wonder about the hands that must have played it and the hearts it brought music to. Irrespective of where it was made or when, Father Colm said it would be a link and now it has become so.

It does seem that the Kell Hounds have a high number of folks with at least tenuous family connections to Terran Ireland. Perhaps the affinity was what brought them to the Bays, perhaps not. For now, I await the evening session and am glad.

The door to the observation lounge whisks open and closed somewhat behind me. For the moment, I suspect someone just walked past it close enough to set off the motion detector that opens it. A throat clears right behind me, I'm startled and jump.

"May I sit with you?"

I look back to see Nanako standing demurely near where I'd been a moment before; I must have jumped pretty distinctly, she is grinning.

"Um, sure, Ma'am," is the best I can come up with.

She sits beside me and we look out at the universe. I don't know what kind of garment she's wearing, but I've noticed her in them almost everywhere but the sessions; bright, often flowery robes with oddly wide bands of cloth about the waist.

"I see that you come here often, Sir."

"Please, call me Padraig."

"OK, Padraig." There is a kindness in her face that I appreciate. "You usually look sad and I have not wished to disturb your misery."

Hmmm, guess that is spot on. "I never knew you were watching."

"I come here for my own memories and griefs, here there is nothing lost to remind me and everything glorious to distract me."

"Guess I kind of feel that way too."

"Chichi says I must leave my hurts and losses, he says we will some day make it home."

"Who says that?"

"Oh, please forgive, 'Chichi' means 'father' in our ancestral tongue."

"How long have you been away from home?"

Her eyes sparkle, but her face makes me imagine it is more from anger than from wistfulness. "Only several weeks now, I was born on your world too. I am more at home with you Irish from the Bays than the few wajin from "home" who have visited our dwelling over the years."

"Did your mother stay behind?"

"Only her dust." A tear looks ready to escape her eye and I'm immediately sorry I asked, "she died when I was just sixteen."

Competing thoughts war for my attention: compassion that she too has lost her mum and a realization that she says "sixteen" like it was a very long time ago. Maybe I just misunderstand or maybe the light has been fooling me... or maybe my own wants and desires have let my mind wander, but I had begun to forget that I am so much younger than all but one of my companions. What is it about a pretty girl that can confuse me so much that I loose track of reality?

"Chichi says you have lost your family too."

My brain comes back to the conversation, fighting with my awareness of how her lips moved when she spoke to get me to answer intelligently.

"Yes," I finally reply. I note with irritation that she may have interpreted my delay to be from grief and not from noticing her, but if Sonia would think of me as barely more than a child, how must Nanako view me when she now seems even older?

"If you ever want to talk about it, I will listen," she offers.

She has lovely dark eyes that seem deeper than the skies beyond the viewport. I am at best confused, and can finally only nod. She looks back out at the heavens all about us and I finally do too.

(ooc: This is the last chapter of ItSoaW. Originally, the story was intended to continue with two more books taking Padraig through interim years but finally making it to Wolf space... but it has been years since I last considered starting the next book or otherwise returning to the project. I know this is unsatisfactory point to stop.

I'd intended to submit this to the folks who publish Battletech and MechWarrior books... but after I was informed that the story is not canon enough to even submit I dropped the goal and my motivation rather expired. I have too many other writing projects current or still inside to waste time going further right now... perhaps someday if there is enough interest I will return to it. Thank you for reading it and please know that your comments are welcomed.)