Later on, he was surprised to realize the smell hadn't given it away.

 

When Poole rounded the corner, at first he didn't recognize the little valley that had been his home. Then he looked up at the familiar treeline over the still-smoking ruins of his cabin and everything snapped into focus.

 

Dear God, what happened while I was gone?

 

Without thinking, he drew his blaster, an old friend he'd carried through the War and after. Then he sat still, taking it all in, his mind automatically noting oddities: the curiously straight burn line at the base of the slope, the way the blaze hadn't spread into the trees, the complete absence of any livestock in the few surviving patches of green meadow by the brook.

 

Suddenly, a jolt coursed down his backbone. Janie! Where's Janie? He spurred his tired mount into a gallop.

 

The fallen timbers still radiated heat, and there was no way for a close inspection, but that didn't stop him trying. The sting of his scorched hands soon brought him partway to his senses, and he stood there at a loss.

 

Force of long habit soon brought him to care for his mount. He led Jasper to a clearing just upstream of the ruined homestead, letting him drink as he removed gear and rubbed him down. Eventually he realized he was preparing the site for camping. It seemed crazy with all that had happened, but what else could he do? There wasn't much day left. He'd be wise to get some sleep if he could.

 

He took special care with his cargo: precious seeds and cuttings collected from the colony's hydroponics garden at the spaceport far to the east, the reason for his recent journey. The sprouting plantlets needed water. He stared at them bitterly for a while, then tended to them.

 

After an eternity, he slept.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Poole rose early. He began his investigation at the mouth of the little valley. The fire there had begun along a precise line running across the dry grass, as he'd noticed earlier. Close inspection revealed sharp angles and the sort of scorching only a laser could produce — he'd seen it often enough in the War. The sloping ground had done the rest.

 

He made a note of the trail his limited livestock had been driven along — toward the Bilston spread — then proceeded back uphill.

 

Again he took his time, noting clinically the way each of his outbuildings had been deliberately torched, even those out of the path of the fire. Each showed the distinctive signs of laser scorching. They must have lit the grass last, or they wouldn't have been able to steal the stock. Or escape the flames themselves, come to that. He looked for traces in the scorched earth and found several, but no trails that led anywhere except downhill.

 

He'd now put it off as long as he could. He sighed heavily, dismounted, and began digging through the ruins of the small cabin that had been his home. Whenever he found something that had survived — a blackened silver tray, a lone china teacup that had survived the long trek from Earth — he carefully set it aside. Then he saw it: his wife's wedding ring, still on the little hook she used while washing dishes.

 

Oh, hell.

 

She'd been home when this happened.

 

Poole blinked away tears. He kept digging.

 

After a while, he found what was left of her.

 

* * *

 

He had just finished marking the grave when he heard a soft noise behind him. He spun, blaster in hand, diving hard to one side.

 

"Jee-zus!"

 

It was his neighbor, Bill Wurtz, who raised sheep in the adjoining valley. Dear Lord, I nearly shot him, and he with a wife and small children. Hands shaking, Poole carefully safed and holstered his sidearm.

 

"Sorry, Bill. I guess you can see why I'm a bit on edge."

 

"Y-yeah. I shoulda called out, but I didn't want to interrupt."

 

The two men regarded each other for a moment. They'd never been friends, still divided by a bitter war long over. Yet now between them was a sudden connection born of need, and the sympathy of loss.

 

"I'm gonna kill them, Bill, kill them all for this." His voice was rough, strained. "I can't..."

 

"Hey! Easy there, Tom." His neighbor was at his side, hands on his shoulders. "We already got in touch with the Patrol. Sent a comm into town as soon as Jane told us what happened—"

 

Poole grabbed him by the lapel. "Janie? She told you? I just buried—"

 

"One of the raiders. Jane's fine. She's at our place."

 

Poole never remembered mounting Jasper, nor much of the ride. His next clear moment he was holding her in his arms, blubbering like a small child, heedless of the family that looked on.

 

"Why, Tom Poole! How you do carry on," Janie said, blinking back tears of her own.