Star Crossed

by C. Gockel

  The dark eyes seemed to bore back into hers. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  At that remark she gave a small, bitter laugh. “And how was I supposed to do that? You didn’t exactly make yourself available.”

  One eyebrow lifted slightly. “I can be found—if you know where to look.”

  “Well, you knew exactly where I was, and you never came calling,” Miala snapped. Then she looked down at her hands, white-knuckled as they clenched the soft leather of the seat back. Damn it—she had sworn that she wouldn’t take him to task for his absence. She’d known she had no hold on a man such as Eryk Thorn. Taking a breath, she replied, in as reasonable a tone as she could manage, “I made the decision to have him. So it was my responsibility to raise him.”

  Finally Thorn looked away from her and glanced around the room, at every detail, from the softly pulsing light sculpture on her desk to the expensive antique lithographs on the textured walls.

  Perhaps he thought she had raised the boy in too soft an environment. Miala had always tried to make sure that Jerem never lacked for anything—not in his home, not in his school—not even in the friends she’d made sure he cultivated. Outsiders they were and always would be, but Miala’s continuing successes and the unremarkable life she and her son led had eventually won over most of their acquaintances in the upscale neighborhood. Not for Jerem a life on the margins, where he never fit in or felt comfortable in his surroundings. Too often in her own childhood she’d considered herself ignored, superfluous—she was the reason her father got stuck on Iradia in the first place, after all, and between her half off-worlder status and their continuing poverty, Miala had always felt on the outside, even in as marginal a place as Aldis Nova.

  But in making sure everything was safe for Jerem, perhaps she had denied his heritage. Maybe the continuing scrapes he got into at school were simply the expression of a restlessness he had inherited from his father. Miala knew nothing about Thorn’s background, except his admission during that one half-drunken dinner they’d shared at Mast’s compound that he’d been born in a brothel, begotten by a man he’d never seen or met. But who that father was, or which world he called home, she had never known.

  Thorn spoke then, in that same flat voice which revealed nothing of his true thoughts. “And you never thought it was your responsibility to let me know he existed?”

  He had her there, and she knew it. So many times over the years she’d thought of hiring an agent to track down Thorn and inform him that she wanted to meet, but over and over again she’d rejected the idea. Miala could never think of a way to approach Thorn that somehow didn’t seem like the cry of a desperate woman, and so she’d maintained her silence, telling herself that Jerem was doing just fine without a father. The unfairness of it struck her now, as she looked on Eryk Thorn’s hard face. She could see nothing there of the passion they had once shared. He might have been a stranger.

  It hurt. Of course she’d known he wouldn’t sweep her into his arms and murmur soft words of forgiveness into her ear, but at the same time she’d hoped that perhaps he would soften once he had seen Jerem, once he realized what a fine son he truly had.

  “I wanted to tell you,” Miala said at length, and to her horror her voice sounded thick, choked with tears she only just now realized had sprung to her eyes. Blinking, she tried to force them away. The last thing a man like Thorn wanted to deal with was some weeping female. “I just didn’t know—know how,” she ended and, to her dismay, began to sob. Idiot! she berated herself. He’ll definitely walk out on you now...

  To her surprise, he did exactly the opposite. Almost before she realized what was happening, his arms were around her, and she found herself held once more by the only man who had ever felt so strong, so real. All the others over the years had been but ghosts.

  Miala leaned her head against his firm chest, felt the wonder of his hand stroking her loosened hair. And what was that? Had his lips just brushed against the top of her head?

  Some of his strength seemed to flow from him into her own body, and, almost as immediately as they had begun, the tears dried on her flushed face. It was enough for now just to feel his chest rise and fall against her cheek, to feel the heavy warmth of his hand against her hair.

  After what seemed like several eternities, Miala lifted her face to his. “Sorry about that,” she said, and raised a hand to wipe at her eyes. “I always swore I wouldn’t fall apart, but—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He watched her closely, eyes narrowing a bit. “Does he know about me?”

  Biting her lip, Miala shook her head. “I couldn’t tell him. Not when I didn’t know if I would ever see you again.” She managed a shaky laugh, then added, “Besides, he’s enough of a handful without trying to be the next Eryk Thorn.”

  That remark brought the quirk she remembered to the corner of his mouth. Seeing it, Miala experienced a sudden rush of relief. Perhaps there would be additional recriminations later, but she realized he would not make a scene over this. She’d forgotten that, above all things, Thorn was a realist—and a cold one at that. Accusations and threats would not change the fact that he had a son. Best to deal with the situation calmly and logically.

  That’s probably why he held me just now, she thought, with an odd mixture of wryness and sorrow. What’s the fastest way to get a crying woman to shut up, anyway? Take her in your arms and tell her everything is going to be all right.

  Of course, Thorn hadn’t really said any such a thing, but his actions had been enough. Just the sensation of his heart beating against hers had calmed her.

  Looking up, she caught his gaze and tried to convey some of her regret to him as his eyes locked with hers. “I’m sorry, Thorn,” she said. “I didn’t do it to—to hurt you, or to have something to hold over you later. You have to believe me about that.”

  “I believe you,” he replied quietly. “So why? You were going to a new planet, a new life. Why tie yourself down like that?”

  Why, indeed. Did she dare explain to him that Jerem was the living expression of the love she had felt for Eryk Thorn, that the mercenary’s child had given her the devotion she could never have expected from his father? But confessing that would reveal how much Miala had loved him—still loved him, she thought suddenly. It didn’t matter that eight years had separated them, that he had never tried to see her during all that lonely time, even that he was probably angrier with her now than he chose to reveal. She had never dared to tell him how much she really cared. Perhaps he knew, perhaps not. Strange that telling Eryk Thorn how she felt suddenly seemed so much more difficult than admitting Jerem was his son.

  All sorts of flip answers bubbled their way to her lips, but she knew that uttering any of them would be worse than useless. “He was a part of you I could keep,” Miala said at last.

  The silence between them seemed to lengthen painfully as Thorn stared down at her. For the first time she noticed how taut the muscles in his jaw looked and thought of how difficult this must be for him, a man who had spent almost his entire life alone, who had made sure he had no personal entanglements to tie him down.

  “This doesn’t have to change anything if you don’t want it to,” she went on, wishing that just this once she could read those impassive dark eyes. “If you decide to go back to your ship and fly out of here, I won’t blame you. And Jerem would never have to know.”

  For the first time she saw a brush of anger pass over his features. “What kind of man would I be if I did that?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I suppose some might say it was the way they’d expect a mercenary such as you to react.”

  “All the more reason not to,” he said immediately, and she could finally hear the edge to his voice that indicated a deeply buried rage. “I honor my debts.”

  “There’s no debt here,” Miala replied, and she could sense the anger begin to build in her as well, as she recalled all the times over the years when she had despaired of ever seeing Thorn ag
ain, all the sleepless nights she had spent worrying over their son and wondering if he were somehow going to turn out irreparably damaged because he had never known his father. “No one knows he’s yours. And I’ve already told you I don’t expect anything from you for him.”

  “Who does he think his father is?”

  Desperately, she said, “I told him his father died in the siege of Arlinais.”

  An eyebrow went up. “A brave Gaian defending his home world’s honor?”

  “Well, of course,” she snapped.

  “Of course,” Thorn echoed, and again his mouth twitched.

  Did he think it was funny? God, if he only knew how long she’d agonized over what story to tell Jerem about his father—this fictional parent had to be dead, so there was no hope of Jerem ever trying to find him, but at the same time she wanted the father Jerem had never known to be someone he at least could be proud of. Time after time she had reproached herself. I am going to burn for the lies I’ve told my son. Desperate and alone, she could think of nothing else to do.

  “I had to tell him something,” Miala said at length. “What was I supposed to do?”

  Another long pause. Finally Thorn replied, “I don’t know.” To her surprise, he reached out and smoothed the hair away from her brow, then traced his fingers along the curve of her cheek. His gaze was intent, as if he were refamiliarizing himself with the contours of her face.

  His touch was almost too much for her shaky composure. Miala took a deep breath, then another. What can one more revelation do? she asked herself, then said, “I never meant to fall in love with you.”

  “I know,” Thorn replied. He hesitated, a slight frown pulling at the level dark brows. Miala could only guess that he was wrestling with thoughts and feelings he’d never thought he would have to articulate. “That’s why I thought it would be better if I left.”

  “Because you didn’t have the same feelings for me,” Miala said flatly. Even though she’d known he might say something like this, still the pain of it seemed to cut through her the way she imagined a pulse rifle wound must feel—intense, white-hot, searing agony.

  “No,” he replied, his voice quiet. “Because I did.”

  A cautious joy began to spread through her. Had he really just said—

  “Connections kill,” Thorn continued. “That’s what I thought. I’d let you get too close. I couldn’t take the risk of caring for someone. You’d be a target.”

  “So you let me go off to the university here—”

  “—where you’d be safe,” he finished. “And no one the wiser. If I’d known—if you’d said anything—”

  “What could I have said?” Miala asked. “I was so sure you were tired of me, that you wanted to see me off so you could get on with your life—”

  His response was to bring his mouth down on hers, smothering her useless explanations. For a shocked second Miala remained absolutely still, and then she returned the kiss, her own mouth opening to his, remembering the familiar taste of him as if he had last done this only hours ago instead of years. A rush of desire washed over her, so strong that for a moment it made her dizzy. No wonder everyone else had seemed pallid and insipid compared to him, her lost mercenary. Somehow, insane as it seemed, she had always known he was the only man in the galaxy for her.

  Eventually Thorn pulled away from her. His dark eyes had a warmth she remembered from their time together in Mast’s compound. “So who’s going to tell him?” he asked.

  “Tell who what?” she responded, feeling a little dazed. Miala had the sudden thought that she should pinch herself to make sure this wasn’t yet another of the feverish dreams of Eryk Thorn that had haunted her over the years.

  “Tell Jerem his father isn’t quite as dead as he’d been led to believe.”

  The import of his words slowly sank in as she stared up at Thorn. If he wanted Jerem to know the truth, that could mean only one thing. “You’ll stay?” she whispered. Somehow it seemed tempting fate to say the words out loud.

  “As long as I can,” he replied.

  It wasn’t everything she wanted, but it would do for now. “I’ll talk to him,” Miala said.

  Thorn watched her carefully for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ll do it. Better he should hear it from me. It’s time we got acquainted anyway.”

  Slowly, Miala nodded. “I’ll go call him at Mikhal’s—” she began.

  “No need.” Thorn glanced past her to the large windows that opened on the backyard. “He’s still here.”

  Puzzled, Miala followed his gaze to see a small flash of blue at the far end of the yard, out by the fort Jerem had built with several of his friends. Not even her usually hyper-sensitive maternal radar had picked him out, but leave it to Eryk Thorn to have every living asset in an area marked and noted.

  “All right,” she said slowly. “Be—be kind.”

  “He’s mine, too,” Thorn replied. And with that he turned and left her as he went out into the bright day to meet his son.

  Apparently he had forgotten the cardinal rule of Mikhal’s house, which was Always Call Before Coming Over. Or so Mikhal’s mother had told him, her dark eyes shaded with a frown when she’d seen Jerem on her doorstep.

  “Mikhal’s doing his homework,” she’d said crisply, the frown deepening as she looked down at Jerem. “I’m surprised you’re not grounded, after what the three of you pulled. And don’t bother coming over tomorrow, either. I know how to punish my boy, even if your mother doesn’t.”

  Jerem had mumbled an apology, then beat a hasty retreat. In his surprise at seeing his mother back so soon, he’d completely forgotten the prank that had pulled him into Dr. Chand’s office for the latest go-round, but she would certainly find out when she called Risa to check in. He was not looking forward to that interview.

  But his dismissal from Mikhal’s house left him at loose ends in his backyard as he waited for his mother to be finished with her “client.” Weird, because she hardly ever had customers come to her home office. She’d always said she thought that sort of thing should be taken care of at the main office in downtown Rilsport. And something about the man bothered him—he looked sort of familiar, as if Jerem had seen him someplace before, but try as he might he couldn’t remember where. Also, you’d think that his own mother would be excited to see him, even after being away just a few days, but she’d appeared worried and preoccupied, and had rushed Jerem out of the office so quickly it seemed almost rude.

  Nothing in the backyard called to him—not the half-constructed “laser barrier” he and Mikhal had started building along the perimeter of the fort’s roof, not the repulsor-hoop game his mother had bought him for his last birthday, not even the miniature aircar that wouldn’t go more than about five kilometers per hour but had still become the bane of the gardener mechs. Everything seemed stale and flat, dull.

  So he sat on the low step that bordered the flameflower hedge, looked out into the sunny day, and sighed, feeling very put upon. Then Jerem scowled. What the heck is he doing out here? he thought, as he suddenly spied the stranger from his mother’s office coming toward him with purposeful steps.

  The man paused a few feet away and gazed down at him for a minute. Then he looked past Jerem, staring at the fort. “Nice fort.”

  “Yeah,” Jerem said. No doubt his mother would have given him a warning glare over his sullen tone, but he didn’t care. Why was this guy out here, anyway?

  The stranger seemed not to notice Jerem’s state of the sulks. “I told your mother I’d come out and talk to you.”

  At that statement Jerem squinted up at the strange man. Again a nagging sense of recognition caught at him, but now he knew he’d never seen this person before. He was swarthier than most of the inhabitants of Nova Angeles, and not overly tall, but there was something about the way he stood that suddenly reminded Jerem of Clynn Rogeson, one of his favorite vid stars. As if he were ready to go into action at any moment or something. He definitely didn’t look like any of
the other men his mother had brought home.

  “Talk about what?” Jerem asked. Despite himself, he felt almost curious.

  “Your father,” the stranger said.

  “What about him?” Although his tone was casual, for some reason Jerem could feel his heart beginning to pound. “He’s dead.”

  “Not exactly.” The man stared down at him with dark eyes that all of a sudden began to seem oddly familiar. “Jerem, I’m your father.”

  Jerem wanted to laugh, but the stranger looked deadly in earnest, and his words seemed to unlock the puzzle in his mind. Of course the man looked familiar—in his face was the promise of what Jerem’s would be when he was grown. Still, he figured it was better to be cautious. “My mother told me you were dead,” he said, the words flat, a challenge.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “That’s what adults always say when they don’t want to explain things to you,” Jerem shot back, and the man actually grinned.

  “You’re right.” The stranger gestured toward the low wall on which Jerem sat. “Mind if I take a seat?”

  Jerem shrugged, and the man settled himself down a few feet away from him. Despite himself, Jerem couldn’t help staring. This stranger who called himself his father was obviously a good deal older than his mother; he had deep lines around his eyes and a series of odd scars across one cheek. But the shape of his eyes, the color of his skin, even the wave of his hair, were all the same as Jerem’s.

  “So who are you?” Jerem asked. He was having a hard time trying to comprehend that this person might actually be his father, but that wasn’t about to stop him from gathering some facts.

  “My name is Eryk Thorn.”

  Jerem could feel his eyes widening as he stared at the stranger. Eryk Thorn? The Eryk Thorn? Even here on Nova Angeles Jerem had heard of the famous mercenary—he was rumored to be the inspiration for some of Jerem’s and Mikhal’s favorite comics. He was merciless and never lost a fight. He had a thousand disguises and had evaded the authorities on a hundred worlds. Eryk Thorn was wicked cool.