Broken Ride Men of Valor MC 1st

Edition Mila Crawford Crawford Mila

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://textbookfull.com/product/broken-ride-men-of-valor-mc-1st-edition-mila-crawfor
d-crawford-mila/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Rough Ride Men of Valor MC Book 1 1st Edition Mila

Crawford & Aria Cole [Crawford

https://textbookfull.com/product/rough-ride-men-of-valor-mc-
book-1-1st-edition-mila-crawford-aria-cole-crawford/

Getting Wet It s Raining Men 9 1st Edition Mila

Crawford [Crawford

https://textbookfull.com/product/getting-wet-it-s-raining-
men-9-1st-edition-mila-crawford-crawford/

Luck of The Irish Getting Lucky Book 1 1st Edition

Mila Crawford [Crawford

https://textbookfull.com/product/luck-of-the-irish-getting-lucky-
book-1-1st-edition-mila-crawford-crawford/

The Beast's Mate: Fated Mates (Badlands Territory) 1st

Edition Mila Crawford [Crawford

https://textbookfull.com/product/the-beasts-mate-fated-mates-
badlands-territory-1st-edition-mila-crawford-crawford/
Ruthless: Black Mountain Academy 1st Edition Mila
Crawford

https://textbookfull.com/product/ruthless-black-mountain-
academy-1st-edition-mila-crawford/

First Ride (Men of Valor MC) 1st Edition Loni Ree

https://textbookfull.com/product/first-ride-men-of-valor-mc-1st-
edition-loni-ree/

Lucky Ride (Men of Valor MC) 1st Edition C.M. Steele

[Steele

https://textbookfull.com/product/lucky-ride-men-of-valor-mc-1st-
edition-c-m-steele-steele/

Slow Ride : Men of Valor MC 1st Edition Mayra Statham

[Statham

https://textbookfull.com/product/slow-ride-men-of-valor-mc-1st-
edition-mayra-statham-statham/

Shotgun's (B)Ride (Men of Valor MC) 1st Edition Frankie

Love [Love

https://textbookfull.com/product/shotguns-bride-men-of-valor-
mc-1st-edition-frankie-love-love/
BROKEN RIDE
MILA CRAWFORD
Copyright © 2021 by Mila Crawford
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
Created with Vellum
 For you, my dearest reader.
Patriot and Sky wouldn’t have happened without all your love and
support.
Thank you
 CONTENTS

Introduction

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue One- 5 years later
Epilogue Two- Ten years later

About the Author

Excerpt from 323 Tender Way
 INTRODUCTION

Patriot:

They call me to finish the deal, to seal the fate of the damned.
My past tried to take me out, but I never gave up hope and
continued to climb. I won’t stop striving until I reach the sky.
I was a broken man, but Skylar Miller saw through the pain and
spoke right to my heart.

Sky:

He was the quiet one. The deadly one. The man who watched me
from afar.
I knew Patriot helped save me when I was just a teenager. The
seed was planted then and it grew, against all odds, to flower into
something beautiful.
All it took was our faith in one another.
But our lives were intertwined with the scars of our past.
Now we have to chip away at our tragic history to find our
forever.

Broken Ride is a stand alone story part of the Men of Valor MC

series.
 PROLOGUE

P rologue- Three years ago

S ky

I am so high from this feat that I feel like I’m floating. I never
imagined coming this far, making something of my life instead
of just suffering through it.
“You did it, sweet girl,” Malcolm says as he pulls me into a hug.
Malcolm, the big teddy bear, is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a
real father. And Claire is there, too, her face shining with pride. The
MC members from Valor have come too and they’re living it up; I’ve
got a cheering section louder than anyone else in the whole high
school. A year ago, I would have thought graduating at all was an
impossibility, but here I am not only making my dreams come true,
but doing it with a family. A whole slew of amazing people who care
about me and claim me as their own. Simply put, there is no better
feeling in the world.
“Thank you for coming, Malcolm,” I say into his arm.
“You kidding, Sky? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
 I can hear in his voice the conflicting emotions he’s having—
happy to be here, but yearning for Claire at the same time. There’s
no doubt in my mind that he’s staring at her now right over my
shoulder while we hug. I know all about Clair’s sleepless night with
the sobs I can hear through the wall that separates her bedroom
from mine. But there’s no doubt in my mind that they’ll work it out.
The two of them are soulmates and it’s just a matter of time before
they realize they can’t live without one another.
I can feel the tension between them as we pose for photos, but I
don’t let it weigh me down. I feel radiant and proud and I’m walking
on air today. The men of Valor are gathered around and garner so
many looks from the parents and teachers and even my classmates.
I don’t care about the stares because those men make me feel
proud. I know that there’s nothing they wouldn’t do for me and that
they see me as Malcolm’s daughter. It’s a pretty heady feeling to go
from abandoned and alone to being a part of the coolest family ever.
When we’re finally finished with our photo shoot, I make a point
of thanking each one of the guys. They didn’t have to show up for
me, but they did, and I want to let them know just how much it
means to me.
Some of the guys pull me in for a friendly hug, and others just
pump my hand in a hard shake or pat me on the shoulder. A few of
them hand me cards filled with cash or gift cards and my eyes swell
with tears.
When I reach Patriot, he looks withdrawn and I know with him it
will be an awkward handshake. But as I near him, I halt in my
tracks. Something about Patriot’s sadness speaks to my own. I can
imagine he’s had a past as dark as mine. Without dissecting my
motive, I rush to him and hug him myself. He waits a beat and then
brings his arms around me hesitantly. When he pulls me close, I feel
my breath catch in my throat. Being this near to a damaged soul
sparks a sort of fierce affinity in me. Patriot has been hurt like I have
and he deserves better too.
“Thank you for coming,” I say. My chin rests on his shoulder. He
pushes me away gently and looks directly into my face without
saying anything.
 “Oh, my God,” I catch myself. My hand flies to cover my mouth in
shame. Patriot is hearing impaired and he has to read lips to
understand. How could I be so stupid. I tear my hand from my
mouth and look at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was
thinking,” I say. Patriot continues to stare at my mouth and a flame
ignites low in my belly as he scrutinizes my lips. “I forgot, Patriot, I
was just thanking you for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Skylar. You made it happen, it’s an
accomplishment to be proud of.”
He is so stoic, the epitome of closed off and untouchable, and for
some stupid reason, that moves me immensely. I want to crack him
open and peek inside, know the dark parts of him.
It’s unnerving to look at someone so intently, get lost in their
golden hour hazel eyes that never stop staring. But I know with
Patriot looking away is not an option. He’s deaf in one ear and
hearing impaired in the other. I remember when Malcolm told me.
He’d come with Malcolm to the shelter and the two of them stayed
for lunch. When I asked Patriot what he wanted to drink, I was
standing behind him. Malcolm elbowed his friend and Patriot turned
to look at me. I stopped with my pitcher of lemonade and Patriot
nodded almost imperceptibly. I wasn’t sure what it all meant, but I
was intrigued by the interaction.
Later that night at Claire’s, I’d asked Malcolm what happened.
“Was he born that way?” I asked him. “Does he use sign
language?”
“Don’t know, you’ll have to ask him. But he reads lips, Sky, so
you have to be looking at him when you talk, even if you put your
head down, he’ll lose the conversation. Be good practice for you,
seeing you look down a lot.”
I nodded that I understood and remembered what it felt like
when he took me in with his intense gaze—like he was reading all of
me, not just the words falling from my lips.
And now here I was again, on the most special day, feeling his
gaze coupled with his approval of my achievement felt exhilarating,
especially when I wasn’t able to look away.
 “I, uh, brought you this, Sky. It’s not much, but I wanted to give
you something.”
He handed me a white box tied with a black cloth ribbon.
“You didn’t have to get me anything, Patriot. That was really
sweet.” I could feel heat rising to my face and I was suddenly aware
of my own heartbeat.
“Don’t open it here, maybe it’s better when you’re at home. I’ve
got to head out anyway, but I’m glad I got to see this.” His big hand
closed over mine that was holding the box.
“I’m glad you came,” I told him. I was. He stared at my lips even
after I’d stopped talking.
Then he turned abruptly without any goodbyes to the crew. He
strode over to his bike and I watched him put on his sunglasses and
helmet. The wind picked up and whipped my hair around my face
and made my dress cling tightly to my frame as the fabric rippled in
the wind.
Patriot drove away and I looked down and opened the pretty
box. Inside was a small oval locket in gold with two song birds
engraved on the front. When I clicked it open, just a tiny black
mustard seed popped out and rolled into the palm of my hand. I
stared at it there, thankful it hadn’t gone into the grass.
“What’s that, Skye?” Claire asked, coming up behind me. “We
should grab your stuff and head over to the shelter for the party.”
I tucked the seed back into the little oval and clicked it closed.
“Will you put this on me, Mom?” I asked Claire.
She undid the clasp and I held up my hair while she put it around
my neck.
“It’s delicate and beautiful, just like you, Sky. Looks vintage. Was
that a gift from one of the guys?”
“Patriot gave it to me. He didn’t say where it came from.”
“Oh, he’s a good kid. That was really thoughtful of him.”
“It had a mustard seed inside.”
“How sweet. That’s from the bible, I think.”
“What does it mean?”
“Gosh, you’re gonna test me right now, sweetie? Let’s see, if I
remember correctly, it’s from a parable, something about humble
beginnings and the power of faith to move mountains. Like no
matter how small the beginnings, you can do great things—which in
my opinion, is a perfect sentiment for what you’ve accomplished
here today.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you. And Malcolm, too. You can
both have some credit,” I said as I fingered the golden charm. I
wondered if Patriot had put the tiny seed in himself or whether or
not he even knew it was there.
“We both love you, Skylar. There’s no doubt in my mind that you
will do great things.”
“If you guys want to give me a graduation gift, you could stop
pretending to be mad at each other and just, I don’t know, get back
together or something.”
Claire clucked her tongue and guided me back toward the crowd
with her arm across my shoulder. I reached up and touched the
locket, and assured myself that no matter what the future brought,
I’d be okay. I was surrounded by people who cared about me and
thanks to Claire and Malcolm, the Valor Club and the shelter, I’d built
my own family. I had a whole circle of people who loved and
protected me. But despite this happy realization, I still felt a pull on
my heartstrings. I wanted Patriot to feel this happiness too. I wasn’t
sure what it was that happened whenever he was near, but like the
mustard seed, I wanted it to grow. Patriot didn’t say much, but my
heart heard him loud and clear.
 CHAPTER 1

P atriot

W hen a bone fractures, it makes a cracking noise, while a

sprain will sound like popping or grinding. That's how I
knew that I'd fractured his jaw, from the sound it made
under the pressure of my fist. His body fell limp in my grip, blood
flowing from his nose as his pathetic eyes begged me to stop. He
was too weak to actually ask for mercy, not like the girl who’d told
him to fuck off six times. “Sucks when people don’t listen to you,
doesn’t it?” This was one of my favorite parts of being a full member.
I no longer was sent in for clean-up, now I was able to dispense
justice. When I joined the MC, I never set out to be a hitman or be
the go-to guy for exacting revenge. I knew without a doubt that I
had a killer instinct, that an unfathomable ruthlessness lived deep
inside of me. I kept it at bay the very best I could, but joining the
Valor gave me a natural out. The scum my hate was directed at
became my prey. And I could exhaust the violence by using it for
poetic justice, for the weak and the young and the purely innocent
who couldn’t stand up for themselves. I honed my anger into a tool
for the Valor and I became a silent killer who took out the most
sadistic of criminals.
 "Beg for it," I sneered at the piece of shit. The guy wasn't so
brave now that his jaw was out of place. Just as I was about to
punch him again, sirens sounded and flashed as two cop cars pulled
to a stop right in front of us. Guns came out as they screamed
something, probably demanding I freeze, but I was in the zone,
barely registering their demands. Plus, the hearing aid for my good
ear had come out in the scuffle and was probably crushed in the
gravel beneath our boots. Fine with me, I had no desire to hear the
last breath of a sex trafficker. The police probably would have shot
me right then and there if there wasn't a crowd from the local pub
surrounding us. Thing with the MC is, it can be hard for the fuzz to
tell the good guys from the bad guys. I didn’t give a shit if they
locked me away. I’d had more mugshots taken than school pictures
over the years. My rap sheet was long and I didn’t lose any sleep
over it.
"Patriot, you better stop!" a girl in the crowd shrieks. Her voice is
so high-pitched that it comes in clear. I can hear the sirens, her
shrieks, feel the rumble of the bikes through the ground. All my
senses are on high alert. I sniff up blood that’s dripping from my
nose and then wipe it away with the back of my hand. I still haven’t
dropped the perp and for all I know, my grip is tight enough to steal
his last breath from this earth. He doesn’t deserve to take it after all
the innocence he’s stolen.
I looked up and made direct eye contact with the cops. “Drop
him,” one tells me.
I knew the police weren't as bad as they once were in this town,
the MC made sure of that, but I still didn't know if these two were
on my side; you never could tell. I didn't trust cops after a lifetime of
experience. They had their own brotherhood and there was no way
to read the dynamics of what they’d sworn to or who they were
protecting. I preferred justice on my own terms, by my fist or my
boot. The people I dealt with didn’t deserve the quickness of a
bullet, or the luxury of death row. Three hots and a cot were too
good for some folks.
I’d learned at a young age not to trust the police. It wasn't hard
to do when it was a cop who put you in the hospital more times than
you could count, but I also remember the good guy who saved me.
I dropped the lifeless body of the punk on the ground and raised
my hands. I was lit up in the glare of their headlights, blood on my
face, my long hair entangled with the blood. A fine mist began to fall
and in the blinding light, it almost looked like snow. I didn't care if
they shot me, death wasn't something I feared. My only concern was
not bringing heat onto the club. I’d protect my brothers with my own
last breath if I could.
"He's part of the MC," the younger cop said, his hand shaking a
little before he turned to his partner. "Cuff him and toss him in the
back of the cruiser," he said, tossing his friend the metal. “You never
can tell with these guys, but the deceased is probably part of this
sex trafficking ring they’ve been systematically taking down. Bet you
my overtime this guy is the next in command after the last one they
killed.”
I turned around with my hands still up. I could feel the man's
hands shaking as he pulled my arms behind me and slapped the cold
metal on my wrists. Perceptive little fuckers these guys were, I
wondered how long it would actually take them if we didn’t do the
job for them.
"Just call the MC," I said before he began reading me my rights.
My voice came out in a husky crack. I cleared my throat, hoping it
was intelligible. I controlled the sound of my voice by how it felt in
my throat.
The cop yanked me with him over to the cruiser and opened the
back door. I went in without a fight. I wasn't worried about the
charges sticking, but I also didn't want to make a scene. Fuck if I’d
resist arrest or give them a reason to hate on the club. The crowd
was still gathered, all eyes on me, and it would be over my dead
body that I would bring a bad rep to the brotherhood. These
bystanders didn't know that if it wasn't for the MC that they'd still be
ruled by the scum that owned these streets, lock their wives and
kids in at night to keep them from disappearing off the streets. I
tilted my head back and closed my eyes, the adrenaline fading now
in the back of the car as my heartbeat slowed and I coughed on the
blood that slid down the back of my throat. It was always the same,
the rush of the moment, the high from the hit, then the despair set
in. Not over the rat I’d taken out, but rather the plain ugliness of
existence, the abject dirty world and the bad people who lived in it.
The endless fight to take out the evil and protect the innocent. You
needed to be around goodness to know it and to feel it. It had been
so long for me, I wasn’t even sure if I’d recognize it. I looked out the
window and up into the sky as tiny knives of rainwater fell
illuminated by the streetlights. I always looked skyward for good.
“Heaven is up there, Dex, and that’s where I’ll wait for you.”
…
At the precinct, they left me outside in the cruiser, didn’t even
bother booking me. After what felt like an eternity, I felt the rumble
of Rough's Harley as he arrived. He drove up to the car and stopped
right beside it. I swore under my breath, this guy was a fucking
super hero with an in like no other. Of course, they'd call him.
Nothing happened, legal or illegal without Rough being the first to
know. I watched as he talked with the cops, occasionally glancing at
me, his face stern. That was the thing; you never know what the
man was thinking. Did he approve? Disapprove? Was he going to
kick my ass? I always thought he could have been a poker
champion, the man was a blank slate. When he met Claire, all that
seemed to change. He didn’t go soft, but all of the despair left him.
You could see in face that he was in love and he’d found the key to
his heart. It must be nice to be so at peace with someone.
"Sergeant," Rough said as he opened the door for me, "mind
gettin' the cuffs off my boy?"
The shorter cop shuffled back and smiled sheepishly as he freed
my wrists from the cold metal.
"Thanks," I said, rubbing them together.
"Make sure this falls off," Rough said. “Keep him off the report.
This way, you guys get your promotion and my man stays out of it.”
One of the cops exhaled the smoke from his cigarette upwards,
before tossing it to the ground and stomping it out with the heel of
his boot. The smile on his face was all we needed to see to know
he’d comply.
 “Must be nice having the Valor do the dirtiest jobs,” Rough said.
He was jovial enough that the cops didn’t take offense. Malcolm
knew how to make both sides of the law work in tandem like a well-
oiled machine. “Make like you never saw this guy before,” he warned
before we walked over to his bike. "You hungry," he asked as he put
on his helmet.
"I think I need to clean up before I even think about food. I’m
covered in his blood."
"We've got a shower too. Besides, Claire would kill me if she
knew I let you go back to the clubhouse alone after the shit you just
pulled."
"I'm fine," I spat. “You pissed I took it all the way? I caught that
boss red-handed with a girl younger than your daughter.” I could see
the red rise in Rough’s eyes at my mention of Sky. The comment had
the same effect on me, and I could feel my heartbeat pick up again.
"You did good, Patriot. He had it coming any day, my brother.
Maybe you don’t have an appetite, but you know I don't like to upset
my woman."
He drove us back to the scene as the medical examiner’s truck
was pulling out of the parking lot. Rough dropped me at my hog and
I jumped off his bike.
“You coming or not, Dex? Claire will want to see you.”
"Fine." I got on my bike and put on my own helmet, "I'll follow
you."
I wanted to turn around and ride away at least ten times as I
followed Rough back to his house. I didn't know why, but I always
felt uncomfortable there. Their life, Rough and Claire’s was picture
perfect now. A lot of the guys had really good family lives going. I
was happy for them, shit, I truly was, but I also felt hell-of out of
place there. Being with Rough just kept throwing it in my face and
opening old wounds. He was settled, he was happy, and it looked
good on him. Somewhere deep down, I guess I longed for that too.
However, a stable happy life, a woman, kids and a family, was so
far off of my radar that it felt like a joke. I snuffed out life with these
hands, I didn’t even know where to begin to make a step in that
direction. Although, there was one person in this world who made
me dream about something like that, and she lived in this fucking
house. Maybe, that’s why, just the sight of Rough and Claire’s house
made me sweat. They had everything alright, and Skylar Baxter
Miller was the limit of my sky. She was heaven personified.
"Patriot," Claire said, smiling at me. She was standing there,
engulfed by the massive door, an apron tied around her waist as she
rubbed her giant belly. I forced a smile on my face and lifted my
hand in hello. She started to waddle my way as if to throw her arms
around me in a hug.
“Not my blood,” I told her by warning and raised my hands in
surrender. I needed a shower before I went and hugged a mother to
be.
"Look at you in your apron, the picture of domesticity" Rough
said before slapping her ass.
"Miller, we were baking for the shelter" she said, giggling as she
swatted his hand away. “You know I hate rainy days, so I make
them better with homemade bread and cookies. Sky made brownies
and they are—you must be starving by the look of you." She looped
her arm in mine and walked me into the house.
"I'll have a brownie, but I’m really desperate for a shower more
than anything else."
"You know where your room is, Dex. There should be clean
towels," Claire said before patting my check. I commit a murder and
Claire gives me brownies and clean sheets.
They always call it my room. When Claire and Rough married,
she insisted that they give me a room in their home to call my very
own. That's what the two of them did, collect broken people, make
them feel like they belong. I never took them up on their offer to
move in, but she insisted that I'd always have a real home with them
if I wanted it. I smiled at her and nodded, leaving the two of them
embracing as I went down the massive hall. The house smelled like
cedar, like rain, like fresh baked bread and brownies. A man could
get lost in all that love and comfort. A house didn’t make a home, it
was the people inside it . As soon as I turned the corner, I came face
to face with Skylar.
 "Sky," I whispered, my eyes frozen, unable to turn away from her
face. Every single time I saw the girl, I felt the ground under my feet
shift. Big blue eyes, long blonde hair, a willowy figure that was
somehow both delicate and strong. A long lost gaze filled with pain
that she managed to extinguish every time that she smiled. There
was something special about her. I knew it the moment I saw her.
And not just because she was Rough and Claire's daughter. Skylar
had been through it and not only had she lived to tell the tale, she
was like a beacon of light to others who had suffered. She’d been to
hell and come back with nothing but goodness to show for it. Sky
wasn’t jaded or vindictive, she’d turned the pain into grit and
conviction and painted her future with it.
We made eye contact. She scanned me, including the blood and
sweat, the way the rain had streaked me pink with another man’s
blood.
“Are you hurt?” she asked me, raising an eyebrow.
“Not my blood,” I told her frankly.
“Yikes!” she said to me.
I shrugged in response. “Claire said I could take a shower.”
She lowered her face and blushed, her long hair fell in front of
her face and obstructed my view. I hated her hair at that moment
for hiding her face from me. The girl made me fuckin' crazy.
"Okay, Patriot. I’ll see you downstairs."
“I’m sorry, what did you say? I have to see your lips,” I said,
pointing to my ear when she raised her face to look at me.
“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry,” she said fidgeting with her fingers. “I, um
really didn’t say anything.” This time I saw her lips, it was as if she
was being tortured being forced to look at me. I hated that my
fucking hearing was making an issue. She was red in the face and
obviously flustered.
"It’s fine. Everybody does it.”
“There was something I wanted to ask you, but I don’t want to
be rude or ignorant.”
“Ask away. I got nothing to hide from you, Skylar.”
“Okay. You let me know if I’m um, overstepping boundaries or
anything like that. I was wondering if you spoke sign language?”
 Out of all the things she could have asked me, this maybe
surprised me the most.
I bobbed a “yes” with my fist in sign language. Skylar smiled and
then kind of squealed.
“That is so cool!”
I cracked a grin in spite of myself. “I don’t really have anyone to
use it with, so I’m probably kind of rusty, but yeah, Sky, I speak sign
language.”
“We did a semester in the fifth grade. Like maybe two years
before I left school. I don’t remember much from those years, but I
loved that module. I always thought it was just amazing. Really
always wanted to learn it.”
“That’s nice. I was more reluctant to learn it, but I’m glad I did.”
Sky was so beautiful and it made me feel out of control. She was
bright and magnetic, a ball of joy and ambition and despite her
beauty, super easy to talk to.
“I barely remember anything.”
She made an L with her hand and then set down her pointer
finger and lifted her pinky. All the while smiling, she signed it at me.
My heart dropped to my stomach and I had to consciously control
my face.
“That’s really all I can do anymore. What did I say?”
I stared at her mouth and then deep into the blue pools of her
eyes.
“I love you,” I told her.
“What?” she asked. Sky moved her hand from her waist to her
heart. The color drained from her face and her eyes widened in
surprise.
“That’s what you signed. I love you.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have even told her. Color rose back into her
face as she blushed and lowered her eyes. She moved her hand to
her mouth and covered a self-conscious smile. It was adorable.
“I need to work on that I guess,” she said timidly.
“That was pretty good, in my humble opinion. I’m gonna hit the
shower, Skylar, I’ll see you downstairs.
 As I walked past her, I felt like I’d been lit on fire. These
endorphins were real, not for bloodlust or vengeance or killing a
man. I was high on something else entirely. A fragile girl with a cage
built around her heart, had unlocked my own with three simple
words she signed.
And, she was wearing my locket.

I walked into the pristine, modern, grey and white room and
glanced around. It was a far cry from my space at the
clubhouse. Satin sheets, electronic blinds, a television that took
up the whole wall, for a guy like me that grew up with nothing, it
should have been a fucking paradise. Living large just for the hell of
it. It seemed like a world I'd never been comfortable in. I opened
the top dresser drawer, grabbed a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt,
and headed to the bathroom. Rough and Claire kept clothes for me
here, like it really was my house as much as it was theirs. I turned
on the shower and let the water heat until it was scalding as I
checked out my wounds in the mirror. I had a small cut on my
bottom lip from where the guy had punched me. The best swing the
fucker got in before I had him lying flat on the ground. My nose was
crusted in blood. A nose that had been broken so many times, I was
surprised it was standing. The room fogged up, covering my
reflection in the mirror, disappearing me like a ghost in the mist. As
if on autopilot, I took off my clothing and stepped in the shower,
letting the hot water cascade down my body. As I stood there under
the hot spray, all I could see was Sky, her blush, her hands telling
me she loved me.
My erection was so intense, my cock strained against my belly. I
pumped my dick just imagining her face, her lips, the strands of hair
falling over her temple. Sickening guilt rushed in because I wanted
her that way. But, God, I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted
anything. I came into my hand as steaming water pounded my
chest. Skylar Miller was an unstoppable force when it came to my
heart. I was already in love with her and she could be the one
juggernaut that I’d be unable to find my way out of.
 CHAPTER 2

S ky

I never knew how to act around Patriot, and I hated the fact that
I was relieved when he turned down Mal and Claire when they
offered to let him move in with us. It made me a shitty human,
and I knew it. It wasn't because I was selfish, the way Patriot made
me feel was something both unknown and uncomfortable for me. He
made me want things I had no business wanting. Specifically, things
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t mess around with until it was
inevitable. After finishing my undergrad, after medical school, after
years of therapy to work out the issues I knew would come up if I
actually started dating. I was attracted to Patriot, and not just
physically. He was gorgeous with his ochre hazel eyes and his dark
hair. He was big and built and made even a t-shirt look couture. But
it was something deeper that drew me to him. At first, I assumed it
was because we had a similar history of abuse, but it was even more
than that too. I felt that Patriot and I spoke the same hidden
language. Maybe there were more of us in this world, but he was
the only person I’d ever met who made me feel like we came from
the same place, held the same destiny and walked the same road.
 But I had massive expectations for myself and I’d sworn off
relationships in favor of making up for all the time that I’d already
lost.
I still remember the first time I met Patriot as if it were
yesterday. He'd come over with Rough for dinner one day out of the
blue. I think he may have even still been a new recruit. I was used
to Rough bringing along strays, inviting them to Claire’s apartment
to eat with us. That was how I met him. I even remember that
Claire and I baked homemade mac and cheese that day.
Patriot was the best-looking guy I'd ever seen in my life, with a
face that looked like it belonged more in magazines than under a
helmet on a bike. When I looked into his eyes that day, I recognized
a sadness that was only matched by my own. You can’t unsee or
unfeel your past and those who’ve been through the things we have,
well, you just know. People who’ve had trauma usually recognize
their own. It's like a shitty secret club no one wants to be in. That
day, in Patriot, I recognized the pain I’d spent my entire life masking.
When I looked into his eyes, I saw a reflection of myself.
He was really quiet, barely talking unless someone spoke to him.
Stoic and taciturn. He kept his head bent low while he ate, and he
was very polite. The type of politeness that the other guys in the MC
didn't really seem to have—expect Malcolm of course due to his job.
That night after he left, I grilled Malcolm about the mysterious man,
who’d eaten three servings of my mac and cheese, yet used a
napkin and even offered to clean the dishes when we were through.
“Where’s he from?” Part of me even wondered if we’d been in the
same circles at one point along the way.
“Around,” Malcolm joked. “What’s gotten into you, Sky?”
“Why does he have a hearing aid?” I’d noticed the discreet device
in his ear and I was incredibly curious about it.
“Never asked,” Malcolm said. “Didn’t want to be rude.”
“Do you know if he was born like that?”
“Skylar, honey, I’ve got no idea. He’s a new recruit. Ask him
yourself since you’ve got ants in your pants.”
A few years had passed and apparently I still had ants in my
pants. And I still had a million and one questions for him that I was
too shy to ask.
I leaned against the wall and buried my face in my hands,
groaning out loud. The one and only guy I’d ever had a crush on
and I just told him I loved him with my fifth grade signing abilities.
When I bumped into him in the hall, my heart beat a million
beats a minute, and my palms began to sweat. I was such a
bumbling fool that I forgot to actually look at him when I talked,
which I usually tried to be mindful of. Having him in my house was a
whole other level of discomfort. I was hyper aware of every word,
every step, every single breath. And now I had to eat dinner with
him and keep up the small talk while I was dying inside from ten
zillion tiny heart attacks. This was maybe what they meant by the
phrase “boy crazy.” But I’d only ever had it once, and it was
surprisingly debilitating. I’d have to give an Oscar worthy
performance to make it through dinner.
I rushed down the stairs to seek comfort in my parents.
"Stop that," Claire said as she smacked Malcolm's hand away
from the stove. I smiled as I watched them, so in love and so strong
together, always. "No one wants your sticky paws in their food."
"No one's gonna know I had a little taste."
"I'll know," she said. She smacked his hand away again and he
pulled her in for a kiss. Claire smiled when she noticed me. "Sky."
"Hey," I said. Walking into the kitchen, I dipped a spoon into the
pasta sauce, and tried it.
"How come Skylar doesn't get smacked for tasting the sauce,"
Malcolm asked, crossing his arms over his huge chest.
"She's special." Claire shrugged as she stirred the sauce. "She's
my only daughter and you’re already a big lug." She turned to me,
smiling, her arms open for a hug. I walked into them, put my head
on her shoulder and breathed in her scent of lavender and talcum
powder. I still loved how comforting it felt being near her. I’d never
had that kind of closeness with anyone growing up. No mom to kiss
my banged up knees or teach me to cook. No one to explain these
weird acrobatics of my heart and sweating palms. But I had Claire
now. It didn't use to be like this, especially when I first met her. I
was banged up inside and out and my trust with adults had been
broken. She's taken me in, giving me a home and unconditional love.
A gift I hadn't known for most of my life. Malcolm saved me the day
he found me on the streets, but Claire helped heal me. They might
not have been blood, but they were my real parents.
"Wanna go ask Patriot, if he's staying for dinner?"
Do I want to go stick my heart in the blender and turn it all the
way up to insane? You mean the gorgeous man I just said I love you
to like the teen who idolizes some guy from a boyband?
"Who, me?" I asked. Panic rose in every nerve ending I had. As
soon as I said the words, Patriot turned the corner. He leaned
against the wall, setting me on fire with his stare. It was like he was
challenging me to look away and knew that I couldn’t. He was
dressed down in a simple white t-shirt and dark blue jeans. His hair
was wet and all the blood stains were gone, but his lower lip was
split and ever so slightly swollen. He had his cut over his powerful
forearm and he smiled a little at me, relieving the tension.
"Thanks for the offer, Claire, but I should get going."
"But you just got here. You've got to be hungry," she said.
"I'll grab something on the way back to the club. I know it won’t
be as good as what you made, but duty calls."
"Patriot," Claire said, walking toward him. She put her hand on
his cheek, "you know you're always welcome here, right?"
"Thank you, Claire. I do know, but I think I'm just gonna go."
"You still good with picking Sky up tomorrow?" Rough asked.
"Picking me up from where?" I asked. My head flying back and
forth from Rough to Patriot and then back again.
"Your appointment."
"How come you can’t pick me up tomorrow?" I asked.
"I can't. I have an emergency hearing," Rough said. “Just came
up.”
Well I had my own car, that Rough had bought me for graduation
and I was completely capable of driving it. But I was doing some
experimental Gestalt therapy and it had gotten intense. I couldn’t
yet tell if it was going to work in the long run, but it had certainly
made an impression on my psyche already. Two weeks ago, I’d had
a panic attack so strong on the way home that I had to pull over. I
wandered into the food court at the mall to try to get a tea to calm
my nerves and I ended up seeing someone I thought I recognized
from my past. That brought the panic attack back full force and I’d
called Claire in tears. Ever since that day, my parents drove me to
and from my therapy sessions no ifs ands or buts. I didn’t want
Patriot to know all of that though. He’d think I was a total mess.
I was about to make up some lie about my car being detailed
when Patriot turned to me. His gaze was so deep and moving that
again he communicated to me without saying words. I could get lost
in those eyes and never come up for air. Maybe he wouldn’t care
that I went to therapy. It was supposed to be a good thing, working
on yourself.
"Yeah, I’d be happy to pick up Sky," he softly said. “We can chat
more; it’ll be good to catch up.”
And just like that, he erased all of my apprehension. We’d just
‘catch up’ like two perfectly normal people. Even though I felt like a
damn was about to break, we’d be cool and discuss frozen yogurt
and Tik Tok and climate change.
"Great," Rough said, breaking Patriot’s intense stare by patting
him on the back. When Miller patted me like that with his giant paw,
I had to lock my knees to keep from falling over. Patriot however,
was nearly as big as my dad.
"Have a good night," Patriot said to Claire and Malcolm.
He looked at me then and all of the air seemed to rush out of my
lungs. He gave me what looked like a peace sign, which he touched
to his cheek. Then he made an L and dropped it down. This time I
was the one staring at his lips.
“Night Sky, see you tomorrow,” he said.
I tried the sign, guessing it meant goodbye or see you later.
He smiled when I did it, tapped his heart twice and turned to
leave.
 CHAPTER 3

P atriot

"YI oureally
got a hot date?" Vulture, the new prospect, asked me.
hated the guy; he came off as a slimy piece of shit. I
wanted to lay him down flat from the moment I met him. The vote
for members had to be unanimous, and I couldn't figure out how
this fucker managed to get a prospect badge, let alone be voted in
as a full member. I had good instincts, it had been necessary for my
survival, and every hair on my body stood on end whenever he
came into a room. I could tell when the asshole was standing behind
me. He was bad news and it seemed I was the only one who could
sense it.
"You know I outrank you right?" I stepped up to him until I was
so close that I could look down into his sniveling face. You give a
guy like that an inch and they stab you the second your back is
turned.
I laughed as he stumbled a little as he tried to back away from
me. That was the thing about bad men like Vulture, all talk, bullies
to the core, but when a real man called them out, they wet their
pants and run. I knew guys like him, had known them my whole life.
All bark, no bite. Sadistic when violent, but the victim was always
someone smaller and weaker. They didn’t like to lose so they preyed
on the vulnerable. "What's the matter, Vulture? You can’t back up
the mouth? Tell me my business again and I’ll take your eyes out
and feed them to the fucking vultures."
From the corner of my eye, I saw his hand form into a fist and
twitch. That was the beauty of losing my hearing, all my other
senses were intensified. I could see a punch coming before an arm
moved; I could smell danger before it stepped into the room. "You
raise that fist to me, and it'll be the last thing you do."
"Fuck you, Patriot." Vulture spat on the floor.
"That's what I thought," I said. "Keep your nose out of my
business. You’ve got to earn your respect around here. Membership
doesn’t mean I fuck with you. That’s never going to happen. You do
what we say and you don’t have the ranking to ask any questions.
Put in the work and maybe you’ll make it. But with the attitude you
brought, I doubt you can cut it. Being a prospect takes humility, the
trust and loyalty come later. You certainly do not have my fucking
trust, so your only job is to bust your ass working for it. You don’t
talk about my life or the people in it—ever. Go that?"
I was usually light on the prospects. Maybe because I
remembered what it was like to be one not so long ago. But this
fucker thought that being part of the club meant power, which
wasn't what we were about. It never was. Power was earned, it
didn’t come cheap and it didn’t come easy. The vulture would have
to learn that the hard way. I grabbed my jacket and walked out of
the club into the sunlight leaving the angry man with his fists still
balled and a look of rage settling into his already ugly face.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, took it out and glanced at
the screen. A text from Rough.
Don’t forget about Sky.
As if I ever could. That girl was branded into my heart and I’d
tried to do the right thing and forget her, but the affliction only got
worse each time I saw her. I’d more easily forget to eat or breathe
than I’d forget my assignment to pick up Rough’s daughter.
Still don’t trust me, Rough? I sent in a text.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of A trace of
memory
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: A trace of memory

Author: Keith Laumer

Illustrator: Lloyd Birmingham

Release date: November 3, 2023 [eBook #72015]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company,

1962

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TRACE OF

MEMORY ***
 A TRACE OF MEMORY

By KEITH LAUMER

Illustrated by BIRMINGHAM

When Legion signed on as a soldier of fortune he did

not expect to wind up as the master of a private island.
Nor did he expect to cower in ancient Druid pits ... nor
fight for his life in the great hall at Okk-Hamiloth, on
a planet galaxies away. A master story-teller sweeps
you through time and space in a novel of retribution.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Amazing Stories July, August, September 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He opened his eyes and saw a grey wall where a red light gleamed
balefully in the gloom. He lay on a utility mat on a high couch, clad in
a gown of strange purple. In his arm there burned a harsh pain, and
he saw on his skin the mark of the Hunters. Who could have dared?
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the narrow cot ... and saw
the bodies of two men huddled on the floor, blood-splashed. Beyond,
at a doorway, lay another, and another.... What carnage was this?
Gently he rolled the nearest body on its back—and crouched rigid in
shock. Ammaerln, his friend.... Not dead, but the pulse was faint, too
faint. And the next corpse? That, too, wore a face that had been dear
to him. And the bodies at the entry—his faithful men. All were friends!
Beyond the door the ranged shelves of a library gave back not even
an echo when he called. He turned again to his dead. It was fresh
death, the blood still wet. Quickly he scanned the room, saw a
recording monitor against a wall. He fitted the neurodes to the dying
man's temples. But for this gesture of recording his life's memories,
there was nothing he could do. He must get him to a therapist and
quickly. But no one answered his calls. Was he alone in these
chambers of death?
He ran through the library to a great echoing hall beyond. This was
not the Sapphire Palace beside the Shallow Sea. The lines were
unmistakable: he was aboard a ship, a far-voyager. Why? How? He
stood uncertain. The silence was absolute.
He crossed the Great Hall and entered the observation lounge. Here
lay another dead man, by his uniform a member of the crew. He
touched a knob and the great screens glowed blue. A giant crescent
swam into focus, locked, soft green against the black of space.
Beyond it a smaller companion hung, blue-blotched, airless. What
worlds were these?
When he had ranged the vast ship from end to end he knew that he
alone still lived. Seven corpses, cruelly slashed, peopled the silent
vessel. In the control sector the communicator lights glowed but to his
call there was no answer from the strange world below.
He returned to the recording room. Ammaerln still breathed weakly.
The memory recording had been completed; all that the dying man
remembered of his long life was imprinted now in the silvery cylinder.
It remained only to color-code the trace; that he would do on his
return.
His eye was caught by a small object still projecting from an aperture
at the side of the high couch where he had wakened. It was his own
memory-trace. So he himself had undergone the Change!
He thrust the color banded cylinder into a gown pocket—then whirled
at a sound. A nest of Hunters—the swarming globes of pale light
used to track down criminals—clustered at the door; then they were
upon him.
Without a weapon, he was helpless. He must escape the ship—and
quickly! While the suffocating horde pressed close, humming in their
eagerness, he caught up the unconscious Ammaerln. The Hunters
trailed him like a luminous streamer as he ran to the shuttle boat bay.
Three shuttles lay in their cradles. He groped to a switch, his head
swimming with the sulphurous reek of his attackers. Light flooded the
bay, driving them back. He entered the lifeboat, placed the body on a
cushioned couch. Perhaps he would find help for his friend below.
It had been long since he had manned the controls of a vessel, but he
had not forgotten.

The last of life ebbed from the injured man long before they reached
the planetary surface. The boat settled gently and the lock cycled. He
looked out at a vista of ragged forest.
This was no civilized world. Only the landing-ring and the clearing
around it showed the presence of man.
There was a hollow in the earth by a square marker block at the
eastern perimeter of the clearing. He carried his friend there and
placed him in it, scraped earth over the body. He lingered for a
moment, then he rose and turned back toward the shuttle boat....

A dozen men, squat, bearded, wrapped in the shaggy hides of

beasts, stood between him and the access ladder. The tallest among
them shouted, raised a bronze sword threateningly. Others clustered
at the ladder. One scrambled up, reached the top, disappeared into
the boat. In a moment he reappeared at the opening and hurled down
an armful of small bright objects of varied shapes and textures.
Others clambered up to share the loot as the first man again
vanished within the boat. But before the foremost had gained the
entry the port closed, shutting off a terrified cry from within the shuttle
boat.
Men dropped from the ladder as it swung up. The boat rose slowly,
angling toward the west, dwindling. The savages shrank back, awed.
The man watched until the tiny blue light was lost against the sky.

CHAPTER I
The ad read: "Soldiers of fortune seeks companion in arms to share
unusual adventure. Foster, Bos 19, Mayport."
I crumpled the newspaper and tossed it in the general direction of the
wire basket beside the park bench, pushed back a slightly frayed cuff,
and took a look at my bare wrist. It was just habit; the watch was in a
hock shop in Tupelo, Mississippi. It didn't matter. I didn't have to know
what time it was.
Across the park most of the store windows were dark along the side
street. There were no people in sight; they were all home now, having
dinner. As I watched, the lights blinked off in the drug store with the
bottles of colored water in the window; that left the candy and cigar
emporium at the end of the line. I fidgeted on the hard bench and felt
for a cigarette I didn't have. I wished the old boy back of the counter
would call it a day and go home. As soon as it was dark enough, I
was going to rob his store.
I wasn't a full-time stick-up artist. Maybe that's why that nervous
feeling was playing around under my rib cage. There was really
nothing to it. The wooden door with the hardware-counter lock that
would open almost as easily without a key as with one; the sardine-
can metal box with the day's receipts in it; I'd be on my way to the
depot with fare to Miami in my pocket ten minutes after I cracked the
door. I'd learned a lot harder tricks than petty larceny back when I had
a big future ahead with Army Intelligence. That was a long time ago,
and I'd had a lot of breaks since then—none good.

I got up and took another turn around the park. It was a warm
evening, and the mosquitos were out. I caught a whiff of frying
hamburger from the Elite Cafe down the street. It reminded me that I
hadn't eaten lately. There were lights on at the Commercial Hotel and
one in the ticket office at the station. The local police force was still
sitting on a stool at the Rexall talking to the counter girl. I could see
the .38 revolver hanging down in a worn leather holster at his hip. All
of a sudden, I was in a hurry to get it over with.
I took another look at the lights. All the stores were dark now. There
was nothing to wait for. I crossed the street, sauntered past the cigar
store. There were dusty boxes of stogies in the window, and piles of
home-made fudge stacked on plates with paper doilies under them.
Behind them, the interior of the store looked grim and dead. I passed,
looked around, moved toward the door—
A black sedan eased around the corner and pulled in to the curb. A
face leaned over to look at me through lenses like the bottoms of
tabasco bottles, the hot evening air stirred, and I felt my damp shirt
cold against my back.
"Looking for anything in particular, Mister?" the cop said.
I just looked at him.
"Passing through town, are you?" he asked.
For some reason I shook my head.
"I've got a job here," I said. "I'm going to work—for Mr. Foster."
"What Mr. Foster?" The cop's voice was wheezy, but relentless, a
voice used to asking questions.
I remembered the ad—something about an adventure. Foster, Box
19. The cop was still staring at me.
"Box nineteen," I said.
He looked me over some more, then reached across and opened the
door. "Better come on down to the station house with me, Mister," he
said.
At Police Headquarters, the cop motioned me to a chair, sat behind a
desk, and pulled a phone to him. He dialled slowly, then swivelled his
back to me to talk. Insects danced around a bare light bulb. There
was an odor of stale beer and leather and unwashed bedding. I sat
and listened to a radio in the distance wailing a sad song.
It was half an hour before I heard a car pull up outside. The man who
came through the door was wearing a light suit that was neither new
nor freshly pressed, but had that look of perfect fit and taste that only
the most expensive tailoring can achieve. He moved in a relaxed way,
but with a sense of power held in reserve. At first glance I thought he
was in his middle thirties, but when he looked my way I saw the fine
lines around the blue eyes. I got to my feet. He came over to me.
"I'm Foster," he said, and held out his hand. I shook it.
"My name's Legion," I said.
The desk sergeant spoke up. "This fellow says he come here to
Mayport to see you, Mr. Foster."
Foster looked at me steadily. "That's right, Sergeant. This gentleman
is considering a proposition I've made."
"Well, I didn't know, Mr. Foster," the cop said.
"I quite understand, Sergeant," Foster said. "We all feel better,
knowing you're on the job."
"Well, you know," the cop said.
"We may as well be on our way then," Foster said. "If you're ready,
Mr. Legion."
"Sure, I'm ready," I said. Mr. Foster said goodnight to the cop and we
went out. On the pavement in front of the building I stopped.
"Thanks, Mr. Foster," I said. "I'll get out of your hair now."

Foster had his hand on the door of a deceptively modest-looking

cabriolet. I could smell the solid leather upholstery from where I
stood.
"Why not come along to my place, Legion," he said. "We might at
least discuss my proposition."
I shook my head. "I'm not the man for the job, Mr. Foster," I said. "If
you'd like to advance me a couple of bucks, I'll get myself a bite to eat
and fade right out of your life."
"What makes you so sure you're not interested?"
"Your ad said something about adventure. I've had my adventures.
Now I'm just looking for a hole to crawl into."
"I don't believe you, Legion." Foster smiled at me, a slow, calm smile.
"I think your adventures have hardly begun."
I thought about it. If I went along, I'd at least get a meal—and maybe
even a bed for the night. It was better than curling up under a tree.
"Well," I said, "a remark like that demands time for an explanation." I
got in the car and sank back in a seat that seemed to fit me like
Foster's jacket fit him.
"I hope you won't mind if I drive fast," Foster said. "I want to be home
before dark." We started up and wheeled away from the curb like a
torpedo sliding out of the launching tube.

I got out of the car in the drive at Foster's house, and looked around
at the wide clipped lawn, the flower beds that were vivid even by
moonlight, the line of tall poplars, and the big white house.
"I wish I hadn't come," I said. "This kind of place reminds me of all the
things I haven't gotten out of life."
"Your life's still ahead of you," Foster said. He opened the slab of
mahogany that was the front door, and I followed him inside. At the
end of a short hall he flipped a switch that flooded the room before us
with soft light. I stared at a pale grey carpet about the size of a tennis
court, decked out with Danish teak upholstered in rich colors. The
walls were a rough-textured grey; here and there were expensively
framed abstractions. The air was cool with the heavy coolness of air
conditioning. Foster crossed to a bar that looked modest in the
setting, in spite of being bigger than those in most beer joints.
"Would you care for a drink?" he said.
I looked down at my limp, stained suit, and grimy cuffs.
"Look, Mr. Foster," I said. "I just realized something. If you've got a
stable, I'll go sleep in it—"
Foster laughed. "Come on; I'll show you the bath."

I came downstairs, clean, showered, and wearing a set of Foster's

clothes. I found him sitting, sipping a drink and listening to music.
"The Liebestod," I said. "A little gloomy, isn't it?"
"I read something else into it," Foster said. "Sit down and have a bite
to eat and a drink."
I sat in one of the big soft chairs and tried not to let my hand shake as
I reached for one of the sandwiches piled on the coffee table.
"Tell me something, Mr. Legion," Foster said. "Why did you come
here, mention my name—if you didn't intend to see me?"
I shook my head. "It just worked out that way."
"Tell me something about yourself," Foster said.
"It's not much of a story."
"Still, I'd like to hear it."
"Well, I was born, grew up, went to school—"
"What school?"
"University of Illinois."
"What was your major?"
"Music," I answered at once.
Foster looked at me, frowning slightly.
"It's the truth," I said. "I wanted to be a conductor. The army had other
ideas. I was in my last year when the draft got me. They discovered I
had what they considered an aptitude for Intelligence work. I didn't
mind it. I had a pretty good time for a couple of years."
"Go on," Foster said. Well, I'd had a bath and a good meal. I owed
him something. If he wanted to hear my troubles, why not tell him?
"I was putting on a demonstration. A defective timer set off a charge
of HE fifty seconds early on a one-minute setting. A student was
killed; I got off easy with a busted eardrum and a pound or two of
gravel imbedded in my back. When I got out of the hospital, the army
felt real bad about letting me go—but they did. My terminal leave pay
gave me a big weekend in San Francisco and set me up in business
as a private investigator."
I took another long pull at a big pewter tankard of ale and went on.
"I had enough left over after the bankruptcy proceeding a few months
later to get me to Las Vegas. I lost what was left and took a job with a
casino operator named Gonino.
"I stayed with Gonino for nearly a year. Then one night a visiting bank
clerk lost his head and shot him eight times with a .22 target pistol. I
left town the same night."

I swallowed some more of Foster's ale. It was the best. Foster was a
pretty good egg, too.
"After that I sold used cars for a couple of months in Memphis; then I
made like a life guard at Daytona; baited hooks on a thirty foot tuna
boat out of Key West; all the odd jobs with low pay and no future. I
spent a couple of years in Cuba; all I got out of that was two bullet
scars on the left leg, and a prominent position on a CIA blacklist.
"After that things got tough. A man in my trade can't really hope to
succeed in a big way without the little blue card in the plastic cover to
back his play. I was headed south for the winter, and I picked Mayport
to run out of money."
I stood up. "I sure enjoyed the bath, Mr. Foster, and the meal, too—
not to mention the beer. I'd like real well to get in that bed upstairs
and have a night's sleep just to make it complete; but I'm not
interested in the job." I turned away, started across the room.
"Legion," Foster said. I turned. A beer bottle was hanging in the air in
front of my face. I put a hand up fast and the bottle slapped my palm.
"Not a bad set of reflexes for a man whose adventures are all behind
him," Foster said.
I tossed the bottle aside. "If I'd missed, that would have knocked my
teeth out," I said angrily.
"You didn't miss—even though you're weaving a little from the beer.
And a man who can feel a pint or so of beer isn't an alcoholic—so
you're clean on that score."
"I didn't say I was ready for the rummy ward," I said. "I'm just not
interested in your proposition—whatever it is."
"Legion," Foster said, "maybe you have the idea I put that ad in the
paper last week, on a whim. The fact is, I've been running it—in one
form or another—for over eight years."
I looked at him and waited.
"Not only locally—I've run it in the big-city papers, and in some of the
national weekly and monthly publications. All together, I've had
perhaps fifty responses."
Foster smiled wryly. "About three quarters of them were from women
who thought I wanted a playmate. Several more were from men with
the same idea. The few others were hopelessly unsuitable."
"That's surprising," I said. "I'd have thought you'd have brought half
the nuts in the country out of the woodwork by now."
Foster looked at me, not smiling. I realized suddenly that behind the
urbane facade there was a hint of tension, a trace of worry in the level
blue eyes.

"I'd like very much to interest you in what I have to say, Legion. I think
you lack only one thing—confidence in yourself."
I gave a sort of laugh. "What are the qualifications you think I have?
I'm a jack of no trades—"
"Legion, you're a man of considerable intelligence and more than a
little culture; you've travelled widely and know how to handle yourself
in difficult situations—or you wouldn't have survived. I'm sure your
training includes techniques of entry and fact-gathering not known to
the average man; and perhaps most important, although you're an
honest man, you're capable of breaking the law—when necessary."
"So that's it," I said.
"No, I'm not forming a mob, Legion. As I said in the ad—this is an
unusual adventure. It may—probably will—involve infringing various
statutes and regulations of one sort or another. After you know the full
story I'll leave you to judge whether it's justifiable."
If Foster was trying to arouse my curiosity, he was succeeding. He
was dead serious about whatever it was he was planning. It sounded
like something no one with good sense would want to get involved in
—but on the other hand, Foster didn't look like the sort of man to do
anything foolish....
"Why don't you tell me what this is all about?" I said. "Why would a
man with all this—" I waved a hand at the luxurious room—"want to
pick a hobo like me out of the gutter and talk him into taking a job?"
"Your ego has taken a severe beating, Legion—that's obvious. I think
you're afraid that I'll expect too much of you—or that I'll be shocked
by some disclosure you may make. Perhaps if you'd forget yourself
and your problems for the moment, we could reach an understanding
—"
"Yeah," I said. "Just forget my problems—"
"Chiefly money problems, of course. Most of the problems of this
society involve the abstraction of values that money represents."
"Okay," I said. "I've got my problems, you've got yours. Let's leave it
at that."
"You feel that, because I have material comfort, my problems must of
necessity be trivial ones. Tell me, Mr. Legion: have you ever known a
man who suffered from amnesia?"

Foster crossed the room to a small writing desk, took something from
a drawer, looked at me.
"I'd like you to examine this," he said.
I went over and took the object from his hand. It was a small book,
with a cover of drab-colored plastic, unornamented except for an
embossed design of two concentric rings. I opened the cover. The
pages were as thin as tissue, but opaque, and covered with
extremely fine writing in strange foreign characters. The last dozen
pages were in English. I had to hold the book close to my eyes to
read the minute script:
"January 19, 1710. Having come nigh to calamity with the near lofs of
the key, I will henceforth keep thif journal in the Englifh tongue...."
"If this is an explanation of something, it's too subtle for me," I said.
"Legion, how old would you say I am?"
"That's a hard one," I said. "When I first saw you I would have said
the late thirties, maybe. Now, frankly, you look closer to fifty."
"I can show you proof," Foster said, "that I spent the better part of a
year in a military hospital in France. I awakened in a ward, bandaged
to the eyes, and with no memories whatever of my life before that
day. According to the records made at the time, I appeared to be
about thirty years of age."
"Well," I said, "amnesia's not so unusual among war casualties.
You've done well since."
Foster shook his head impatiently. "There's nothing difficult about
acquiring material wealth in this society, though the effort kept me
well occupied for a number of years—and diverted my thoughts from
the question of my past life. The time came, however, when I had the
leisure to pursue the matter. The clues I had were meagre enough;
the notebook I've shown you was found near me, and I had a ring on
my finger." Foster held out his hand. On the middle finger was a
massive signet, engraved with the same design of concentric circles I
had seen on the cover of the notebook.

"I was badly burned; my clothing was charred. Oddly enough, the
notebook was quite unharmed, though it was found among burned
debris. It's made of very tough stuff."
"What did you find out?"
"In a word—nothing. No military unit claimed me. I spoke English,
from which it was deduced that I was English or American—"
"They couldn't tell which, from your accent?"
"Apparently not; it appears I spoke a sort of hybrid dialect."
"Maybe you're lucky. I'd be happy to forget my first thirty years."
"I spent a considerable sum of money in my attempts to discover my
past," Foster went on. "And several years of time. In the end I gave it
up. And it wasn't until then that I found the first faint inkling."
"So you did find something?"
"Nothing I hadn't had all along. The notebook."
"I'd have thought you would have read that before you did anything
else," I said. "Don't tell me you put it in the bureau drawer and forgot
it."
"I read it, of course—what I could read of it. Only a relatively small
section is in English. The rest is a cipher. And what I read seemed
meaningless—quite unrelated to me. You've glanced through it; it's no
more than a journal, irregularly kept, and so cryptic as to be little
better than a code itself. And of course the dates; they range from the
early eighteenth century through the early twentieth."
"A sort of family record, maybe," I said. "Carried on generation after
generation. Didn't it mention any names, or places?"
"Look at it again, Legion," Foster said. "See if you notice anything odd
—other than what we've already discussed."
I thumbed through the book again. It was no more than an inch thick,
but it was heavy—surprisingly heavy. There were a lot of pages—I
shuffled through hundreds of closely written sheets and yet the book
was less than half used. I read bits here and there:
"May 4, 1746. The Voyage waf not a Succefs. I muft forfake thif
avenue of Enquiry...."
"October 23, 1790. Builded the weft Barrier a cubit higher. Now the
fires burn every night. Is there no limit to their infernal perfiftence?"
"January 19, 1831. I have great hopes for the Philadelphia enterprise.
My greatest foe is impatience. All preparations for the Change are
made, yet I confess I am uneasy...."

"There are plenty of oddities," I said. "Aside from the entries

themselves. This is supposed to be old—but the quality of the paper
and binding beats anything I've seen. And that handwriting is pretty
fancy for a quill pen—"
"There's a stylus clipped to the spine of the book," Foster said. "It was
written with that."
I looked, pulled out a slim pen, then looked at Foster. "Speaking of
odd," I said. "A genuine antique early colonial ball-point pen doesn't
turn up every day—"
"Suspend your judgment until you've seen it all," Foster said.
"And two-hundred years on one refill—that's not bad." I riffled through
the pages, tossed the book onto the table. "Who's kidding who,
Foster?" I said.
"The book was described in detail in the official record, of which I
have copies. They mention the paper and binding, the stylus, even
quote some of the entries. The authorities worked over it pretty
closely, trying to identify me. They reached the same conclusion as
you—that it was the work of a crackpot; but they saw the same book
you're looking at now."
"So what? So it was faked up some time during the war—what does
that prove? I'm ready to concede it's sixteen years old—"
"You don't understand, Legion," Foster said. "I told you I work up in a
military hospital in France. But it was an AEF hospital and the year
was 1918."