He's a shell of a different man
Looking down on a boy
Already broken.
~Karliene, "Already Broken"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I Really Should Remember This
FIVE YEARS AGO
Begay Agricultural Outpost, Vesta
A child's face, left side a ruin of scorched flesh and white bone, eyes glazed in death. An old woman screams before blaster fire tears off her arm, and she falls, oddly silent to the pavement.
He stumbles but rounds the corner into the alley, evading fire.
Another explosion rocks Lance to his knees, more civilian screams. Around him, the pavement splinters under a sudden barrage of blaster fire and bullets. Mars Authority troops, mistaking them for terrorists. A sharp pain as shrapnel strikes his jaw. Lance fires back; his team fires. More blaster fire, this time sizzling from behind him. Xiphoid? Reds? Shapes move between him and the Martian troops.
Screams. Screams.
Screams.
The faux light of artificial dusk dropped a pale purple wash over the bright colors of the intersection of Lulani and Dorado alleys. Lance sucked in a deep breath through his nose, held it several seconds, then exhaled through his mouth. Leaning against a building, he probably looked like an intoxicated bum. Unfortunately, he was dead sober.
Resisting the urge to close his eyes—eyelids were like a projection screen for bloody images—he stared at his hand where it rested against the building's faded and chipped, sky-blue paint. Graffiti, a Xiphoid sword painted in red and black, lay under his hand. Inches away, the words "Honerva Lives!" were scrawled in Altean and English. He yanked his hand back, hissing in disgust. Whatever happened to plain, old-fashioned dirty graffiti, crude drawings of dicks and pussy? Far preferable to this terrorist shit.
The building faded…. A Varge hound lunges. He shoots and it dies with a horrifying shriek, its features morphing from coyote-brown to black with a cyan mask. Kosmo. No, not Kosmo. Doesn't matter. He hates killing hounds.
The child is screaming again. Or maybe it's him. Mortars shake the earth. Railgun fire cleaves a civilian transport in two, spilling bodies into black space. A Galra ship bears down on him and Veronica, eclipsing the sun. He shuts his eyes and awaits oblivion….
Pain. He'd bitten his lip.
Ahead, at the end of Dorado Alley, the word "Yazzie's," spelled in looping cursive in yellow neon, pulled at him like a beacon. He straightened, dragged fingers through his overly long hair, and continued toward the bar.
Yazzie's was his favorite dive on Begay. The place reeked of fried food, beer and cigarettes, and the atmosphere was totally the quintessential cantina, right down to the roaches as big as rats. With some imagination, a person might detect the petroglyph-style animal prints in the heavily chipped linoleum. No expense had been spared to light and stock the bar, but the rest of the place was cast in dim murk. Nothing hung on the red clay walls, although there were numerous amorphous blobs of red paint; an attempt to cover graffiti. An aquarium, filled with enormous, lamp-eyed fish, hung above the bar and might have been mistaken for the real thing, if the hologram projection didn't fizz and cut out periodically.
At this time of day, there were only a handful of other patrons, but as the evening progressed, a band would stuff themselves onto the small stage, and the tavern would be raucous and packed to capacity.
Hector Yazzie, barkeep and owner, was a fellow dirt monkey. An old soldier, he'd seen action everywhere, Earth and skyward. Like Lance, his cornerstone was a big family. But unlike Lance, he was never given to nervous chatter, a trait Lance appreciated at a time like this. He found a table, sat with his back to the door, and took another steadying breath.
Hector, seeing him, immediately left the bar. "'Lo, Cuba." He always called him Cuba. "How you doin'?"
"Good, good," he lied.
"You Ma Hogan bound?"
He nodded. "Back to Earth tomorrow. Say, how's Alice?"
By way of an answer, Hector reached for the datapen hanging at his neck, unsnapped it, pulled up a photo, and handed the device to Lance. Lance whistled appreciatively. A pretty young Diné woman, Alice, Hector's daughter, beamed; in her arms a fat, happy baby. "Grandbaby girl," said Hector.
A tremor shook Lance's arms and he set his elbows on the table. "Elle est tesore. Beautiful. Congratulations." Before his shaking betrayed him more, he handed the pen back, his smile genuinely warm.
The old soldier took the pen, his creased, brown face impassive, but ink brown eyes filled with compassionate understanding. Never one to pry, he laid a hand on Lance's shoulder for a second, then turned to go. "I'll get you a vesa and some food."
"Thanks," said Lance, appreciating Hector's taciturn ways.
By the time the others found him, the press of conversation and the music, in collusion with a plate of Navajo tacos, and several beers had anesthetized the worst of the tremors; and a band playing the weirdly perfect mix of sad Ladino lyrics set to a throbbing beat had faded the crimson from his memories.
"What's with you and this place?" grumbled Greg. "Can't even get decent drink here."
You mean, they don't spike the booze with Serenity to hide the fact that it's watered-down bilge. Escaping into booze was stupid; chasing it with a narcotic, stupider. Lance blinked dully at Greg, too blazed to bother speaking aloud.
Tessa picked up his beer and took drink. "What's this bilge?" She pulled a face, then gestured at a waiter for a round.
"Bartender said it was the cure for terminal sadness." Lance scowled at the bottle. "Which is false advertising."
Elda pulled up a chair next to him, and Ursan did the same on his other side. Lance gave them each a feeble grin, appreciating the gesture. He wasn't in the mood to share close space or oxygen with the rest of the team. Who, he noted, seemed none the worse-for-wear. Greg and Tessa, constant sociopaths, were snickering about something. Soren lit a cigarette, took a long drag and scrutinized the room with Altean arrogance. Only Elda and Ursan seemed subdued.
The waiter brought another round, and Lance drained the bottle before him and got to work on the next. A familiar form caught his attention, and he turned a fogged eye toward the bar. A big man, black hair shorn close to the skull, coffee-colored skin and muscles for days, had just picked up a drink and was heading toward the opposite side of the room. Obviously not intoxicated, he felt Lance's stare and turned, grinned and nodded. Lance returned the gesture and added a wave. Jake Sandoval. Weird coincidence in a day full of weird coincidences.
Their target had been a warehouse below Mars Regional Government Offices, Carver burb-city. The coincidental terrorist attack made their job technically easy; slide in, get the swag and slither out in the chaos. Lance drained another bottle, clunked it down on the table and rubbed his eyes. Coincidence or did ChemLore have intel on Reds and Xiphoid activity in area?
He'd heard rumors before. That Xiphoid and the Reds, but Xiphoid especially, had big money donors. Elbows on the table, he leaned his face into the palms of his hands.
"Why're you so mopey?" said Greg. "Today's job scored us some big Mammon."
"I'm not mopey," Lance responded, lifting his head from his hands. "I'm merrier than a masturbating monkey." He gestured for another beer.
"You're blazed, is what you are, boyo," observed Tessa. Her eyes glittered and he looked away. Blazed is how he ended up in her bed the first time. Although, after that, he'd fucked her stone-cold sober plenty of other times.
"Civvy claret," said Ursan. "Bad mojah, bad mojah."
"Superstitious claptrap," said Soren. "And we didn't kill the civvies. That was the Reds." Lance noted that the Altean made no mention of Xiphoid, although the obvious presence of Alteans, Galras and other alien species meant both terrorists orgs had decided to play nice for the opportunity to blow shit up and murder civilians.
In the ensuing chaos, Lance and his team ended up exchanging fire with Mars Authority troops. He gritted his teeth, fully aware that civilians had stumbled into their line of fire.
"Ignore McClain," said Tessa. "He's always a little emo."
Lance tapped a thumbnail on the bottle and thought: "Wrong Paladin. Keith's the emo. I'm the stupid one." At least he thought he thought. He froze, feeling all their eyes on him. Shit.
He'd kept his past as a Paladin close to the cuff; had stayed out of the news feeds for years. Went as far as avoiding ever wearing even a stitch of blue. Even with the brief wave of Voltron fame he had allowed, years ago, it wasn't that hard to slide back under the radar. The solar system was big, the galaxy even bigger; the public's attention span, mercifully, short. Even the marks on his face could be easily dismissed; Altean-style face tattoos were now all the rage among Earthers.
"Yes," said Soren. "We know who you are."
Lance gulped, for a second utterly sober. Of all the team, Soren was the one Lance least wanted to know the truth. His shock must have been obvious because Soren laughed and blew a smoke ring in his face.
Soren looked to be somewhere in his thirties, which in Altean years probably meant centuries. His hair was on the dark side of blond, eyes blue, and skin tone similar to Lance's. He smiled and curiously the expression actually made it to his eyes. Curious because imperious sneer was Soren's default expression.
"You look as though someone's walked over your grave," the Altean said.
"Nah," said Lance, pointing at his face. "This isn't my grave face. This is my 'Pidge just told us she's a girl' face." Which, he thought, was really his 'Lance doesn't read people as well as he thinks' face. At least, he thought that part stayed in his head.
Tessa chuckled. "You may have book smarts, but you're short on people savvy."
He laughed darkly at "book smarts."
A deep base belch ripped across the table, its source, Greg. "Lance fucking McClain and his dead space princess. Big, damned hero."
Lance, keeping his expression neutral—easy when blazed off his ass—enjoyed a lurid fantasy where he carved Greg's skull open and found a broken marble. Too intoxicated to start shit with Greg, he muttered, "Yeah, all kinds of tragic." Turning to Elda, he gestured toward the door. "Let's get some air."
"You and your alien girlfriends," chuckled Greg.
"Once you go Balmeran, you never go back," said Elda with an easy smile.
Rather than moving to the front, Lance made for the back of the bar, nodding at Hector, who jerked his head toward the rear. The door that Lance and Elda exited was technically staff-only, but Lance's friendship with the owner had perks. The door opened to a small patio, a break space for staff. A long bench sat by the wall, flanked by planters containing Oxy-beans, engineered legumes that bound CO2 at a high rate, releasing large volumes of oxygen.
Lance plunked down on the bench, and Elda, with surprising grace for a big person, especially one with a tail, joined him. Something small and dark scuttled out from under the bench and paused by his foot. A roach. When humankind left Earth for the stars, they brought their vermin with them. Europa had a plague of mice, and not the cute, semi-sentient kind. Titan, on the other hand, was infested with chabbits, lizard rats from Daibazaal.
He raised his foot, menacing, and then lowered it, gently nudging the roach on its way. A pointless mercy, but he had enough death on his leger.
They sat in companionable silence for a while. Lance loved Elda in a totally "planetonic" way, her solid, calm energy a constant lighthouse to his dark seas. Grateful as always for her presence, he nevertheless felt a longing for family. His blood relations in Cuba, but also the found family he'd abandoned, his Voltron family. e HeHis alcohol saturated thoughts turned to two in particular. Keith with his thousand-mile, blank stare that spoke volumes. And Pidge. He rubbed his forehead. Seeing him like this, she'd probably hit him so hard, his great-grand kids would be born dizzy.
"I take it everyone knew." He sighed.
Elda nodded. "I assumed you knew, that we knew."
"Nope. I figured I was incognito. Stealthy, sneaky, sneaky." He giggled stupidly.
"Your face is rather unforgettable."
He tapped rim of the beer bottle against an Altean mark. "I'm so damned pretty."
"Greg is an asshole." Elda's command of English, including idioms and curse words, was nearly flawless. "For what little it is worth, now, I am sorry about Allura."
Lance nodded and committed to killing this bottle.
"It is a funny thing," Elda observed, taking a slow sip from her drink, "I thought you were with the little one."
"We're all little ones to you, darlin'. Gotta be more specific."
"The one who flew the green lion."
"Pidge?" Lance barked a laugh. "What gave you that idea?"
"Her energy suggested a link between you."
"We were friends, that's all." He swatted at a moth that buzzed in his face. Stupid Altean marks seemed to fascinate insects at night. "What you picked up was her irritation. I drove her nuts. She was smart. I was stupid." I've gotta stop drinking.
"Anyway, she would have snapped me like a toothpick, if I'd even thought of kissing her." He mimed breaking a toothpick, beer bottle sloshing in his hand. "She's married. I think. To some Dr. of Everything High and Mighty, they're gonna have lots of genius babies." Or had she been divorced? He couldn't remember.
"Lance," Elda said, gently, "give me that, please." She gestured at his beer.
"You out? Sure. Have some." He handed it over.
Without so much as a by-your-leave, Elda poured the bottle's contents into the planter. She handed it back with a smile, mirth in her yellow eyes. He took back the empty bottle, scrutinized it, puzzled for a moment before turning to her, bleary-eyed. "Thanks. I needed that."
He shoved his hair off his face, only to have it flop back over his eyes again. Several weeks past a haircut, he was downright fluffy. I'm starting to look like a brown Keith, he thought with another blazed giggle.
"Evening, Lance." Lance startled, as much as startle was possible this far into alcohol poisoning. Jake had followed them out to the patio.
"It is, isn't it, evening?"
Jake's dark eyes narrowed, confused by Lance's comment. "Sorry," continued Lance. "Jake Sandoval, this is Elda. Elda, Jake. Jake, Elda." He waved his hands between them, then gestured at the empty part of the bench.
"I'm not interrupting anything?" asked Jake as he sat.
Elda, with no hesitation, said in her flawless English. "He's not my type."
Lance slumped back, arms sprawled over the bench's back, gaze skyward at Begay's envirodome. "I'm no one's type."
"Ah," observed Jake. "A pity party. I'm underdressed."
"You sound like my mom."
"And you're blazed."
"Whoosh! Like a supernova."
"Bad day at the office?"
"Dead civvies."
"Sorry, man. That's rough." He clapped a sympathetic hand on Lance's shoulder.
Lance gave him a cheesy grin. "I'm yyyour type."
Jake rolled his eyes and took his hand back. "We tried that once. It was fun, but no." His next words were directed at Elda. "He really is this flirty, all the time?"
"He does not have," she waved her hand, searching for the words, "an off-switch. Fortunately, he is lovable."
Jake chuckled. "Yeah, I get the impression everybody likes Lance."
"Not Greg. Greg hates me. He'd skin me and turn my hide into a lace doily." Lance winced. "Wait…" There was something wrong with that metaphor, simile, literary thingy. Need more alcohol. "Getting another drink." He started to stand.
"No!" Elda and Jake slammed their hands on his shoulders and pushed him back onto the bench.
"Man, I wish you weren't so damned blazed." Jake shook his head. "Look, I'm shipping out tomorrow and I've got something to tell you." Lance opened his mouth, unclever retort ready, and Jake snapped, "Enough!" Chastened, Lance subsided.
"You were at Carver, yesterday."
"Uh…"
"I've got contacts in Xiphoid. You and your team were there."
"You're Xiphoid?" Lance blinked, eyelids trying to wipe away eight to ten beers.
"My relationship with Xiphoid is like yours with gay sex."
"Eh?"
"I tried it once but it wasn't for me."
Lance snorted.
"The Fade, sitting with you at the table…."
"Soren?"
"Now he's Xiphoid."
"Yeah. I know. Not just Xiphoid, but an 'Allura Lives' loony. Sometimes even Lance McClain knows stuff." He tilted the empty bottle back and forth, watching the dregs moved in the light. "Soren usually keeps to himself. You know how Fades are. Too pretty for the rest of us." It was odd that the Altean was out with the rest of the team. Usually, he went off and did whatever Alteans did, sharpened his pointy ears or something.
"And the two Marvins are Reds."
"Yup," Lance drawled. "Knew that too. I'm a genius."
"There's been talk within Xiphoid, lots of chatter lately, about Voltron."
Lance frowned, doubtful. "Voltron? Voltron's old news."
"It's just chatter, so far. But you need to watch your back."
"Me? Why?" Because hope sprang eternal, especially blazed out of one's mind, he played dumb, eyes wide with confusion. "What's Voltron got to do with me?"
Jake panned a look from Lance to Elda, saying to her, "Seriously?"
"He thinks he is…incognito," noted Elda.
"I know who you are, you beautiful idiot. If you're going incognito, you should at least use an alias."
"Don't wanna. Like my name."
Snap! Snap! Jake snapped his fingers in Lance's face. "Focus."
Resigned, Lance asked, "What's Voltron have to do with Xiphoid?"
"To some in Xiphoid, Voltron is why we're where we are now."
"You mean the Galactic Coalition," said Elda.
"Yes. Xiphoid hasn't accomplished much. Their backers are getting…disenchanted. They need a new scapegoat or leverage."
A thought occurred to him. Legendary Defenders, the Holts. "So…shouldn't you be talking to the Holts, instead?" An old spike of protectiveness flared. Pidge. Except Pidge had left that world too.
"Paladins, Lance. The original Paladins."
"Uh," said Lance, running this past his two, least-intoxicated brain cells. "What use is there in, killing us or…?"
"You're symbols." Jake stood up. "Look, at this point, it's just chatter. And the powers-that-be in Xiphoid aren't interested in you…yet. But if they keep losing political and financial capital…."
"Thanks for the warning."
Jake studied him for a moment. "Go home, Lance."
"Earth? I'm headed there tomorrow."
Jake shook his head. "I mean go home, find a girl, fill her belly with your babies, and live the rest of your life on that farm. You're not cut out for this business." He gestured at Elda. "You either. Both of you. You're too…kind."
Elda chuckled and Lance said, "Uh, thanks?"
After Jake departed, Lance closed his eyes, thinking he should make an attempt to remember what Jake had said, but the bench spun like a carnival ride. He swallowed hard, battling a touch of nausea.
Elda's hand fell on his shoulder. "Come on, back to your room."
As they headed for the street, Lance leaning on the big Balmoran, he giggled and said, "My room? I knew you wanted me."
He felt her laugh. "Nope. You're still not my type."
Translations/Slang-
Dirt monkey: Derogatory for Earther.
Ma Hogan: Earth.
Elle est tesore: She's a treasure.
Vesa: Beer.
Civvy claret. Bad mojah, bad mojah: Civilian blood. Very bad luck.
Fade: Derogatory for Altean.
Marvin: Derogatory for Martian.