Breakable by mosylu

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Alonzo’s voice floated up from the ground and into the depths of the half-unloaded Transrover. "Danz? What are you doing?"

John wedged his hands under the bulky piece of equipment and heaved. "Getting--oof--the hydrocompressor out. Wanna give me some help?"

A few thunks announced the pilot’s progress up the side of the vehicle. His head popped over the side. "Whaddya need that for?" he wanted to know. "We’ve got plenty of water. It just rained, remember?"

"Yeah, I know," John said, shifting a few bundles of winter clothing away from the compressor’s base. "But this thing’s been sitting around all winter. It needs a good cleaning and checkup, and I’d rather do it now when we don’t need it than later when we do. You gonna help, or what?"

Together, they managed to wrestle the compressor up out of the Rover and down to the ground. Sweating, Alonzo stared at it. "Looks fine to me."

John took the screwdriver True handed him and took off the top panel. He pulled a filter out and held it up so the pilot could see the thick layer of sludge. "You were saying?"

"Never mind," Alonzo said, and left.

John held the dirty filter out to his daughter"True-girl, how about you go and scrub that off in the stream?"

She poked the gunk, wrinkling her nose when it smeared on her fingertip. "Do I have to?"

"Yes. Go." When she stalked off, the filter held disdainfully away from her body, he delved deep into the hydrocompressor’s innards with a feeling of enormous relief that the months of idleness had wrought the expected effect. He’d’ve looked pretty damn silly if the filters had been clean and shiny. He needed to do something with his hands, and this was as good as anything. If he didn’t, the things rattling around in his mind right now would drive him crazy.

What had he been thinking, throwing her around like a rag doll?

Jesus Christ, didn’t the woman have one working brain cell?

She’d been so light, all skin and bones in his arms. Just how much goddamn weight had she lost, anyway?

She acted like being on her hands and knees in the middle of the road was nothing.

Her eyes had actually rolled up in her head. He’d always thought that was a figure of speech.

She sure had yelled. Yelled and squirmed and fought--if she’d been able to put any muscle behind that elbow to his stomach, he’d still be wheezing. Stubborn--

She needed a keeper. She needed a fucking keeper.

You volunteering, Danziger?

With an exclamation of disgust, he heaved a filter to the ground. It clanged loudly, and he swore, crouching to make sure it wasn’t bent to shit. It wasn’t, but that was sheer luck. He glanced up and saw Martin staring at him warily. He glared until the other man blanched and turned away.

John let out a sigh and shoved a hand through his hair. He had to calm down and concentrate on what he was doing. He wouldn’t do anyone any good if he let all this get to him.

He went back to work, making himself focus on valves and pipes and filters. True came back and groused because the stuff on the filter had been sooo groooooss. He handed her another one and nudged her off again. By the time he’d gotten halfway through the job, he could feel himself settling back into calm.

Then Uly started screaming.

John's head jerked up, and then he realized there was nothing to be worried about. It wasn’t scared screaming--just good old-fashioned pissed-the-hell-off. He laid down his wrench and started toward the noise, all ready to separate the two kids by force if necessary.

But Uly wasn’t yelling at True.

He stood in front of his mom, face as red as a beet. "--and you fell today and then when you tried to get out of the dunerail, you couldn’t even stand up!" His hands were clenched into useless fists at his sides.

She was at least sitting in the shade, but the damn maps were spread out in front of her again. She wasn’t looking at them, though. "For the last time, Uly, I'm fine!"

"You're not, YOU'RE NOT, YOU'RE NOT!" he shrieked.

Now Devon was on her feet. "That's it, young man. Go to your tent! This discussion is over."

"Is NOT!" he shrieked.

"Ulysses James Adair, this is your mother speaking and I told you to go to your tent!"

Uly wobbled on the spot, clearly torn between obedience and fury.

"Ulysses! Don't make me tell you twice. I mean it."

He turned and stomped toward the Adair tent. When he reached John’s work area, Uly threw a look over his shoulder, saw that his mom was shaking her head at Julia, and veered around behind the Transrover. He plopped his butt down in the shade, his face twisted in a black scowl.

John turned to study the kid thoughtfully. As tantrums went, that had been a pretty poor showing. True could have done better in her sleep. Then again, it took so much to blow Uly’s gaskets that he hadn’t thrown enough of them to get really good. He sure had the post-tantrum sulk down, though.

Looked like John wasn’t the only one getting annoyed with Devon’s stubbornness lately.

True, the newly clean filter in one hand, came up. Eyes wide, she asked, "Dad, was that Uly screaming at his mom?"

"Yup." John shook his head at her before she could go over to her friend. "Let him fume awhile, kiddo," he muttered, leading her back to the compressor and handing her another filter. She made a face and took it away. John returned to his work, keeping half an eye on Uly, but still not speaking.

After about ten minutes, Uly was just staring at the ground instead of glaring a hole in it. John decided it was safe. "Hey."

"Hey," the boy said in a muffled voice.

True, back from the stream again, said, "Are you mad at your mom?"

"Yes," Uly said.

True frowned. "Why?"

Uly stabbed the ground with one vengeful finger. "Because."

"Because why?"

"Because because."

"You gotta have a reason," True said.

Behind his daughter's back, John rolled his eyes at the sky, remembering all the times "because" had been enough of a reason for her.

"No I don't," Uly said pugnaciously. "Just because."

Before True could answer that, John said, "Uly, you got some three-eighths bolts there. How ‘bout bringing ‘em here?"

It distracted the boy immediately. He pulled the box of bolts into his lap and bent over it studiously for several seconds before holding up a fistful of the bolts John had asked for.

"Thanks," John said, taking them and delving into the guts of the machine again.

Uly sat on the ground next to them, holding the box of bolts in his lap. John worked his way deeper into the compressor, which luckily didn’t need much but cleaning. True passed him tools and, every so often, asked questions that he answered.

After several minutes, Uly burst out, "How come she lies?"

Here we go, John thought.

"Who?" True asked. "Your mom?"

"She keeps saying she's fine, she's fine. Even when she has to sit down and she's all sweaty and cold. She's lying. She's not fine. And then she yelled at me because I said that."

John’s hands paused on a valve, then finished tightening it. "Is that what happened?"

"Uh-huh. I'm being punished," he confided. "I'm 'sposed to be in my tent."

"I won't tell," True promised. "Dad?"

"Nope," he said. "Uly, hand me that oil there."

The boy passed it up, and John finished up his work. "All right, now we test ‘er." He hit a button. "What do you think?" he asked.

Both kids listened to the engine seriously. When True said, "Sounds good, Dad," Uly nodded.

"Okay." He swung the panel up and dug in his pocket for the screws.

True sat cross-legged on the ground and started putting the tools away. Like True, Uly didn't have to be told to where to put the bolts and the oil. He'd helped them before, especially while his mom had been in cryo, because it gave his sharp mind something to focus on instead of brooding. While he didn't have True's gut instinct for machines, he had a good brain and halfway decent hands. He'd probably be the first Adair in about six generations not to need paid help to put together a bike when he grew up.

When everything was in its place again, the kid sat down in the shade, frowning again. This time, it looked like he was thinking something over.

"How come she lies?" he asked again, less angrily than before. "She told me she was okay before she got sick, and she keeps saying she's okay now, and she's not." He blinked hard a few times and rubbed at his nose, leaving a dark splotch behind. "I know what you're gonna say," he grumbled.

"Yeah?" John said, wiping his fingers on a rag. "What's that?"

Uly's voice took on a singsong quality. "I'm the kid and she's the mom and I should listen to her when she says she's okay."

"Stupid," True said. "Dad wasn't gonna say that."

"Everybody's reading my mind all of a sudden," John said to nobody in particular. Uly was looking at him expectantly, waiting for words of wisdom, something that would make everything make sense. John thought, Good luck with that, kid, I’m still lookin’ for it myself.

But the boy’s expression was so confidant and patient that John heaved a sigh and sat down. "Look, kid," he said, already fumbling, "your mom's--not lying on purpose."

Uly shook his head, mystified. "How can you lie on accident?"

Good question. "She just doesn't want you to worry."

"But I do." Uly frowned. "Should I not?" he asked in a small voice.

"No--I mean, yes." Oh, Jesus. "What I mean is, you're going to worry because you love her. That's just the way it is. It's your job. If you didn't worry about her some after everything that happened, you'd be a pretty heartless kid." John ruffled his hair, and Uly smiled a little.

"But then how come she gets mad?"

"Because," True said. "She doesn’t want you to worry."

Uly scowled. "That doesn’t make sense," he complained, and sighed deeply. "I just don’t know what I’m going to do with her."

The words were so wearily exasperated that John had to cough back the laugh that welled up. "Yeah, it’s pretty annoying."

Uly looked up. "Can you say something?"

Caught flatfooted, John blinked. "What? You mean to your mom?"

"She listens to you," the boy said. "I mean, she did. Back when you were talking to her."

"I talk to her," John said. "I talk to her all the time."

Both kids gave him a please, how dumb are we? look. Those two were definitely getting way too big for their britches.

He looked at his hands, rubbing the tip of one finger over the new scabs on his already battered knuckles, trying to figure a way out of what he wasn't so sure he didn't want to do anyway. "Tell you what," he said finally. "I’ll say something if you will."

Uly drew slow, complicated patterns in the dirt with the tip of one finger. "What should I say?"

"What you told me is a good start."

"That I don’t like her lying?"

"Uh--I wouldn’t use those exact words." He was getting diplomatic in his old age. Damn. "Apologize first, then tell her you don’t like it when she blows you off."

"Why do I gotta apologize?" the boy asked, with more than a trace of whine in his voice. "She was the one who was lying."

"Yeah, but she’s your mom, and you screamed at her."

"You heard that?"

True rolled her eyes. "They heard it back at the Stations." John gave her a look, and she said, "What? They probably did."

"Oh." Uly looked at his knees. "I guess I should then."

"So, we got a deal?" John asked, holding his hand out.

Uly shook it with extreme and delighted formality. "Deal. Should I go now?" he asked.

"Ah . . . might want to wait until she cools off. Maybe even go to your tent and pretend like you were there all along. Can't hurt."

Uly pouted. "My tent is boring."

"Is not," True said. "You've got neat stuff. Can I go play in Uly's tent, Dad?"

Undoubtedly, Devon hadn't figured on Uly having a playmate while he was being punished. On the other hand, she hadn't specified solitude. John shrugged. "Knock yourself out."

He watched Uly and True go, and scratched his eyebrow, thinking of what he’d told the kid. She doesn’t want you to worry. Was that it? Was that all? She just didn’t want anyone to worry?

Couldn’t be. There was more to it. He knew that like he knew the sky was up and the ground was down. For right now, though, they had to get this thing about Uly fixed.

"Hey lady," he said under his breath. "Your kid is sick of you blowing him off. Which is a coincidence, cuz so am I."

He made a face.

"Adair, we're all worried about you, and we'd like you to take it easy. Uly especially."

Ha. No.

"Devon, sit your ass down in that Dunerail and don't get up until Julia says you can."

Right. Because he didn't need his face for anything in particular.

He pushed a hand through his hair. Just talk to her. Like you used to. The way everyone seems to think you should.

But he didn’t know if that was possible anymore.

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