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Sleeping bags are once again separated and rolled up, bags packed, leftover chocolate and marshmallows put away in Laughing Bull's kitchen tent, red dust washed out of their hair the old-fashioned way: buckets of water. There's that one playful moment where Spike takes a run out into the desert for a game of fetch with the wolf -- the whole thing reminds him so much of the way he used to play with Dragon -- but that's over now.
Time to go.
He knows he's really shitty at long goodbyes, so he tucks a smoke between his lips and lights it and waves. "Catch you later."
And they're back on the Swordfish, and Laughing Bull and his wolf fade into a small speck beneath them. He has no regrets about having been here for this visit or about leaving; it was a good thing to do and he's glad Beth met Laughing Bull. And since piloting within Martian airspace is a by-license thing he's at the controls; years of proficiency make it easy to avoid oncoming traffic or swerve to miss buildings ("just kidding, Slim") or hover lower to point out landmarks.
Tropics on Mars is on a different part of the planet and the coordinates tell them it's just about a 45-minute flight if he travels at acceptably slow speeds. This isn't the time for a thrill ride, though: he's acutely aware of the fact that this is Mars and this is home and this is memories and this is his past and all that shit. In his mind he plays tour guide: this is the first city we lived in, and this is the second, and the third. This is where I got kicked out of school for the fourth time. This is where I ran away to the uranium mines, and right around here is where Dragon got hit by the car.
And more: Tharsis City, where I won't take you. This is where Annie was shot. This is where Julia died. This is Syndicate headquarters.
Moving out further, away from the heavily populated areas: This is where Jet told me some sad and sorry-ass story about a guy dying and seeing Kilimanjaro one last time. He told me to forget my past.
No one can forget their past. It's what makes us who and what we are.
Shaking off the memories, he turns to Beth. "Hey. Woolong for your thoughts."
Time to go.
He knows he's really shitty at long goodbyes, so he tucks a smoke between his lips and lights it and waves. "Catch you later."
And they're back on the Swordfish, and Laughing Bull and his wolf fade into a small speck beneath them. He has no regrets about having been here for this visit or about leaving; it was a good thing to do and he's glad Beth met Laughing Bull. And since piloting within Martian airspace is a by-license thing he's at the controls; years of proficiency make it easy to avoid oncoming traffic or swerve to miss buildings ("just kidding, Slim") or hover lower to point out landmarks.
Tropics on Mars is on a different part of the planet and the coordinates tell them it's just about a 45-minute flight if he travels at acceptably slow speeds. This isn't the time for a thrill ride, though: he's acutely aware of the fact that this is Mars and this is home and this is memories and this is his past and all that shit. In his mind he plays tour guide: this is the first city we lived in, and this is the second, and the third. This is where I got kicked out of school for the fourth time. This is where I ran away to the uranium mines, and right around here is where Dragon got hit by the car.
And more: Tharsis City, where I won't take you. This is where Annie was shot. This is where Julia died. This is Syndicate headquarters.
Moving out further, away from the heavily populated areas: This is where Jet told me some sad and sorry-ass story about a guy dying and seeing Kilimanjaro one last time. He told me to forget my past.
No one can forget their past. It's what makes us who and what we are.
Shaking off the memories, he turns to Beth. "Hey. Woolong for your thoughts."
