The fence had been there longer than Mercer had been alive.
At eight years old, this seemed important.
It ran along the back pasture in a wandering line of weathered posts and wire, disappearing over a low rise where the grass turned gold beneath the afternoon sun. Some of the posts leaned. Others had gone gray with age. One had split nearly down the middle and had been reinforced so many times that Mercer privately suspected the repairs were holding the post together more than the post was holding up the fence.
That was the one they were fixing.
Or supposed to be fixing.
“Hold it still.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
The post shifted.
His brother closed his eyes.
Mercer recognized the expression.
It was the same expression his mother sometimes made immediately before deciding whether one of her children required correction or whether the Almighty might be persuaded to handle the matter personally.
His brother opened his eyes.
“Mercer.”
“What?”
“Hold. The post. Still.”
“I’m holding it.”
“It’s moving.”
“I’m not moving it.”
“Then who is?”
Mercer considered this.
“The ground?”
His brother stared at him.
Behind them, one of the others snorted.
That was a mistake.
Their older brother turned.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“You laughed.”
“I coughed.”
“You cough like an idiot.”
The youngest of them started laughing.
That did it.
Within seconds the entire work detail had collapsed.
One brother sat down in the grass.
Another leaned against the fence.
The youngest was laughing so hard he had stopped making noise entirely.
Mercer was still holding the post.
Mostly.
His older brother looked from one face to another and seemed to realize that whatever authority he had possessed at the beginning of the afternoon had disappeared completely.
“Fine.”
He threw the hammer into the grass.
“Do it yourselves.”
The laughter stopped.
Not because of the hammer.
Because of the voice behind them.
“All right.”
Their mother stood several yards away.
Nobody had heard her approach.
She wore an old dress and work shoes, and a basket rested against one hip. Mercer could see vegetables beneath the cloth covering it. Dirt marked one side of her hand.
She looked at the hammer.
Then at the fence.
Then at her sons.
Nobody volunteered information.
Mercer slowly let go of the post.
It leaned.
His brother caught it before it fell.
Their mother looked at him.
“Everybody inside.”
There was no hesitation.
Four boys moved with the disciplined speed of men escaping artillery fire.
Mercer had made it three steps when she said, “Not you.”
He stopped.
His brothers continued toward the house.
One of them glanced back with the sympathetic expression of a condemned man who had just discovered somebody else was being hanged instead.
Mercer turned around.
His mother pointed.
“Sit.”
He sat in the grass.
His older brother was still beside the broken post.
He looked considerably less pleased about the situation.
“You,” their mother said, “finish the fence.”
His brother stared at her.
“What?”
“The fence.”
“But they—”
“They’re done.”
“They weren’t doing anything!”
“I know.”
“He wouldn’t hold the post still.”
Mercer looked down.
There it was.
He had known it.
This was his fault.
He should have held it better.
His brother had told him exactly what to do, and somehow Mercer had still managed to make a mess of it. Now everybody else had gone inside, and his brother had to stay out here because Mercer couldn't perform the simplest job in the world.
“I can help,” Mercer said.
“No.”
His mother didn't raise her voice.
That somehow made the answer more final.
His brother looked at him.
Mercer could see the anger there.
Not hatred.
Never that.
But enough anger to make an eight-year-old wish he could disappear into the grass.
His mother handed the basket to Mercer.
“Take this to the porch.”
He stood.
His brother picked up the hammer.
The first strike landed hard.
Too hard.
The second was harder.
Mercer carried the basket toward the house.
His mother walked beside him.
Behind them came the rhythmic sound of the hammer.
Wood.
Metal.
Wood.
Metal.
After a while Mercer said, “It was my fault.”
His mother kept walking.
“No.”
“I kept moving it.”
“Yes.”
Mercer frowned.
That wasn't the answer he had expected.
“He told me not to.”
“Yes.”
“So it was my fault.”
She stopped.
Mercer stopped too.
The farmhouse stood ahead of them, windows bright in the afternoon light. Somewhere inside, his brothers had already resumed arguing about something. Their voices carried faintly through the open door.
His mother looked back toward the pasture.
His brother was working alone.
The hammer rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
“He's older than you.”
Mercer waited.
“He knows more than you do.”
That seemed obvious.
“He's stronger than you.”
Also obvious.
“He can do things you can't do yet.”
Mercer shifted the basket against his hip.
His mother looked at him.
“That doesn't give him permission to forget that you’re eight.”
Mercer looked back toward the fence.
His brother had stopped hammering.
For a moment he simply stood there, staring at the post.
Then he pulled it out again.
Whatever he had done, he'd done it wrong.
He started over.
“He has to finish it by himself?” Mercer asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His mother started walking again.
“Because someday somebody smaller than him, slower than him, or younger than him is going to need him to wait.”
Mercer followed.
“He's not very good at waiting.”
“No.”
A smile touched the corner of her mouth.
“That's why he's still out there.”
Mercer looked back one last time.
His brother reset the post.
Carefully this time.
Then he reached for the hammer.
* * *
The monster moved.
Mercer's finger remained on the trigger.
The cavern existed around him in fragments.
Steam.
Black stone.
Hale shouting something he couldn't make out.
The scrape of boots behind him.
His own breathing.
And the weight of the phaser.
Wait.
The word wasn't a voice.
His mother wasn't speaking to him across twenty years.
There was no revelation.
No sudden understanding.
Only a fence.
A brother.
A hammer.
And the memory of being the person who hadn't been ready yet.
The monster advanced another pace.
“Mercer!”
He could fire.
The shot was clean.
That was the terrible simplicity of it.
There was nothing between his weapon and the thing coming toward them.
No reflective surface.
No friendly body.
No uncertainty about where the beam would go.
He knew exactly where it would go.
His finger tightened.
* * *
The uniform had been new.
That was what Mercer remembered most clearly about reporting aboard the *Rowland*.
Not the ship.
Not the docking facility.
Not even the first sight of the vessel through the station windows.
The uniform.
It fit perfectly.
He had checked.
Repeatedly.
He checked it again in the reflection of the turbolift doors.
Then immediately pretended he hadn't when they opened.
A petty officer stood on the other side.
She looked at Mercer.
Then at the reflection.
Then back at Mercer.
“First assignment?”
Mercer stepped into the lift.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes.”
The doors closed.
He resisted the urge to check his collar.
The petty officer noticed.
Her mouth twitched.
Mercer looked straight ahead.
The *Rowland* was smaller than the ships he'd imagined serving aboard when he was a boy. Smaller than the ships shown in recruitment films. Smaller than the ships instructors talked about with a certain reverence.
But she was a starship.
His starship.
For the first time in his life, Mercer belonged to something that went between the stars.
The thought made it difficult not to grin.
So he didn't bother trying.
The petty officer shook her head.
“You'll get over that.”
“I hope not.”
That earned him a glance.
Then, unexpectedly, a smile.
“So did I.”
The lift stopped.
The doors opened.
Mercer stepped into the corridor and nearly collided with a security crewman moving at a run.
“Mercer?”
“Yes?”
“Come on.”
Mercer blinked.
“Where?”
“Transporter room.”
“I’m supposed to report for orientation.”
“Congratulations. You're oriented.”
The crewman kept moving.
Mercer hurried after him.
“What happened?”
“Survey team found trouble.”
“What kind?”
“The kind they send us to.”
Mercer felt something move through him.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Excitement.
He hated remembering that.
Years later, that was the part that remained hardest to forgive.
He had been excited.
The transporter room was already crowded when they arrived.
Four security personnel.
A lieutenant.
Equipment.
Phasers.
A field medic checking a pack.
Nobody looked particularly frightened.
That reassured Mercer.
If they weren't afraid, why should he be?
The lieutenant looked him over.
“You qualified?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With a phaser?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How recently?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Someone behind Mercer muttered, “Fresh.”
A few people smiled.
Mercer did too.
He was one of them.
That was what he thought the smile meant.
The lieutenant handed him a field communicator.
“Stay with Danner. Do what he tells you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Danner was a broad-shouldered crewman with a scar along his jaw and the weary expression of somebody who had been assigned responsibility for something fragile.
He looked Mercer over.
“First time?”
Mercer considered lying.
“Yes.”
“Stay close.”
“I will.”
“And don't shoot unless you know what you're shooting at.”
Mercer nodded.
Danner stared at him.
“That wasn't advice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Danner's expression softened slightly.
“Don't call me sir.”
The transporter chief looked up.
“Coordinates locked.”
The lieutenant drew his phaser.
The others followed.
Mercer drew his.
His heart hammered.
The weapon felt good in his hand.
Familiar.
He had trained for this.
He knew the procedures.
He knew the settings.
He knew the stance.
He knew the rules.
He knew exactly enough to believe that meant he knew what he was doing.
They stepped onto the transporter platform.
The lieutenant looked around the team.
“Move on materialization. Danner, take the new kid.”
“Got him.”
Mercer adjusted his grip.
The transporter engaged.
The room dissolved into light.
For one strange instant there was nothing.
Then a world appeared.
Heat struck first.
A heavy, wet heat that made the uniform cling instantly against Mercer's back.
The landing area was enclosed by tall formations of pale stone rising from the ground at irregular angles. Mist hung low among them. Vegetation grew in narrow seams where water had collected.
Mercer moved with Danner.
Just like training.
Spread.
Cover.
Observe.
His boots slipped slightly on wet stone.
He corrected.
Nobody noticed.
Good.
A sound came from somewhere ahead.
The lieutenant raised a fist.
Everyone stopped.
Mercer stopped half a second late.
Danner glanced at him.
Mercer felt heat rise into his face.
Then another sound.
Closer.
Something moved through the mist.
“Contact.”
Phasers came up.
Mercer's came up with them.
A shape appeared between two slabs of pale rock.
Humanoid.
Armed.
Someone shouted.
Mercer never remembered who.
The figure turned.
Mercer saw the weapon.
He fired.
There was no hesitation.
No uncertainty.
No waiting.
The phaser beam struck the wall beside the figure.
And came back.
For one impossible fraction of a second, Mercer watched the light change direction.
His mind refused to understand it.
The pale stone wasn't stone.
Not exactly.
The entire surface glittered beneath the moisture.
Crystalline.
Reflective.
The beam crossed the landing area.
Danner turned.
Someone screamed.
Then the world became light.
Mercer hit the ground.
The phaser flew from his hand.
He heard another discharge.
Then another.
Shouting.
A body struck the ground beside him.
Mercer rolled.
Danner was there.
Mercer stared at him.
There was a blackened wound across the front of his uniform.
For several seconds Mercer waited for him to move.
Danner didn't.
The lieutenant was shouting orders.
The medic crawled toward someone else.
A security crewman Mercer had been joking with less than five minutes earlier lay against one of the crystalline walls, eyes open.
Mercer pushed himself upright.
His hands shook.
He looked for his phaser.
It lay several feet away.
He crawled toward it.
“Leave it!”
Mercer stopped.
The lieutenant was staring at him.
Not angry.
That would have been easier.
The lieutenant looked stunned.
“Leave the goddamned thing.”
Mercer looked at the phaser.
Then at Danner.
Then at the wall.
There was a scorched mark where his shot had struck.
He had known how to fire.
He had known how to aim.
He had known how to draw.
Mercer stared at the scorched mark.
The medic moved to Danner.
Two fingers against his neck.
Nothing.
Then the medic moved on.
That was all.
No ceremony.
No accusation.
No final words.
There were other people still alive.
Mercer sat in the mud.
His brand-new uniform was filthy.
Someone stepped over his legs.
He stared at Danner.
Stay close.
He had.
Do what he tells you.
He hadn't.
The excitement was gone.
It would never come back in quite the same way.
* * *
Steam rolled across Mercer's boots.
The monster was closer.
The cavern had narrowed to the sight picture above his phaser.
Center mass.
Easy shot.
His hands did not shake.
That almost frightened him more.
He heard Kane somewhere to his left.
“Mercer.”
Not shouting.
Just his name.
Mercer couldn't look at him.
The monster moved.
Mercer's finger rested against the trigger.
He could still see the reflected beam.
Not as memory now.
As possibility.
Not the same possibility.
The cavern wall in front of him was dark, rough, broken. He had checked it.
The shot would not come back.
This wasn't the *Rowland*.
He wasn't nineteen.
He wasn't excited.
He wasn't trying to prove he belonged.
And none of that answered the question.
The monster came another step closer.
Mercer kept the phaser trained on it.
And waited.
The monster stopped.
For a moment, nothing in the cavern moved except the steam.
Mercer could hear somebody breathing behind him.
Maybe Ox.
Maybe Hale.
He didn't look.
The shot was still there.
Nothing had changed.
His finger eased away from the trigger.
“Mercer.”
Kane again.
Mercer lowered the phaser.
“Don't.”
The word came from somewhere behind him.
Rainer, maybe.
It didn't matter.
Mercer lowered it anyway.
The monster moved.
Every muscle in Mercer's body tightened.
His phaser came halfway up again.
The shape turned.
Not toward him.
Away.
It moved across the tunnel mouth, disappearing through the steam.
“It's moving!” Hale shouted.
Boots scraped against rock.
Someone started after it.
“Hold!” Kane snapped.
The team stopped.
The monster reached the darkness at the edge of their lights.
For an instant Mercer could still make out part of its shape.
Then it was gone.
Nobody spoke.
Water dripped somewhere in the cavern.
Mercer stared into the tunnel where it had disappeared.
His phaser remained in his hand.
Rainer came into view on his right.
She looked toward the empty tunnel.
Then at Mercer.
“What the hell was that?”
Mercer didn't answer.
He didn't have one.
Hale finally worked his way around the rock formation, breathing hard.
“You had it.”
Mercer looked at him.
Hale wasn't accusing him.
That almost made it worse.
“I know.”
Ox appeared farther back, still watching the tunnel.
“Think it'll come back?”
Nobody answered.
Kane stepped out of the steam to Mercer's left.
His phaser was in his hand.
Mercer looked at him.
Kane looked toward the tunnel.
Then at Mercer.
Nothing in his expression told Mercer what he thought.
“Weapon safe,” Kane said.
Mercer looked down.
He thumbed the control.
“Safe.”
“Holster it.”
Mercer did.
Rainer stared at Kane.
“We're just letting it go?”
Kane looked toward the darkness where the monster had disappeared.
“It already went.”
“That isn't what I meant.”
“I know.”
Rainer's jaw tightened.
For once, she didn't have another answer ready.
Kane took out his communicator.
“Kane to search control.”
Static answered.
Then a voice.
“Search control. Go ahead.”
“Contact with the creature. Our section, lower tunnel network.”
A pause.
“Status?”
Kane looked at Mercer.
Only for a moment.
Then back toward the tunnel.
“Lost contact. Creature moved deeper into the system.”
“Any casualties?”
Kane looked around the team.
“No.”
Another burst of static.
“Understood. Maintain search pattern. Other teams are converging.”
Kane closed the communicator.
Nobody moved immediately.
Mercer looked once more into the darkness.
He didn't know what had just happened.
He didn't know whether the monster would kill someone else because he had let it go.
He didn't know whether Kane would report exactly how clean the shot had been.
He didn't know whether Hale or Rainer would.
He didn't know what he would say if somebody asked him why.
There had been a shot.
He had not taken it.
That was all he knew.
Kane turned toward the tunnel.
“Move.”
The team moved.
Mercer went with them.