After a long (but not interminable) shuttle trip, and a visit to the public transporter, Thomas was staring at the home he’d grown up in. It hadn’t changed a bit from when he’d last seen it three years ago, following the funeral reception for his mother. He could pick out the window from the room that had once been his, just over the door to the garage where his father kept the “toys” – ATVs for most seasons and snowmobiles for the winter. He’d liked it because it was easy to sneak out from, and much less dangerous than having a three-meter drop to the front lawn. Half a meter onto the garage roof, then shimmy down the drainpipe and he was out of the house and into the trees.

He let a small smile creep onto his face as he remembered using the route to try and learn parkour as a teen. He’d only broken his left leg once, his right ankle twice and various bones in his arms three times before giving up on that particular skill.

Still, standing here and reminiscing about things from more than a decade ago weren’t why he’d come home. Adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, he forced himself to walk up the drive. He made it far closer to the door than he expected before he saw movement in the front room, through the gauzy curtains that provided only the barest minimum of privacy protection, particularly given the sensor pods mounted on the fence posts at the end of the drive.

He strolled with precision and grim dignity up the three steps onto the porch, but before he could reach down and ring the chime announcing himself, the front door opened to reveal his father: Commander Conor McGregor, retired.

Both men stared at each other for a moment.

“Thomas,” Conor said, evenly, looking at his eldest son.

“Dad,” Thomas replied, the wistful smile replaced by a tight expression. Anxiety was roiling in his gut, and before he fully registered what he was doing, he’d closed the gap between them, raised his right arm and punched his father in the face.

COS