Like honey, the golden noon light of Lambda Aurigae poured into the cleft of a small valley. A horse and rider entered the valley from the west. The dirt road curved around a gentle hillside, revealing a small neat ranch. The rider halted his horse. He raised a sun-darkened hand and wiped his mouth several times, scrubbing away the half-dried blood below his nose.
Mike Stein-Carver was thirteen years old, fourteen in Old-Earth years, and tall and rangy with rapid growth. He was dressed like a cowboy, though he had never seen a cow except in videos. Dust streaked his face and his denim jacket and trousers; sweat trickled from the shadow of his grey stetson.
Mike looked upon the ranch, but he saw a tall, sturdy girl with dark, alert eyes and a long black braid. Her complexion was as richly dark as moonless night. She was unbuttoning her shirt.
Mike started, sitting up straight in his saddle. He shook his head violently, dispelling the unwelcome vision.
His abrupt movements caused his knees to nudge the horse's sides; the roan gelding broke into a trot, moving eagerly toward the ranch.
On the hillside south of the dusty road, flop-eared Nubian goats grazed on dry Old-Earth grass and scattered green shoots of the broad-bladed native grass. North of the road, the Stein-Carver horses were at pasture, all save a dapple-grey mare. She stayed near the barn, pacing and tossing her head.
Outside the electric fence, a stocky man and a small boy stood watching the restless horse. The man, Vance Stein-Gordon, was talking into a small phone, his white stetson tipped back. Mike smiled to see his eight-year-old brother Sam imitating the man's boots-apart stance. Vance Stein-Gordon was considered the finest rancher in the eastern hills, and Mike hoped to be half as good as his father some day, though of course he wouldn't inherit this ranch; it would go to Jenny, the first-born. Mike would homestead an empty valley, as his parents had done. As the younger sons and daughters of the ranchers had always done, from the days of the First Generation.
A voice came from behind him: "Michael."
Mike rubbed his mouth to remove any remaining trace of blood. Then he dismounted and turned around. "Hi, Mom."
Joan Devereaux-Carver was short, plump, and curly-haired, with a face as broad and placid as stone. She smiled and stepped off the porch, approaching her son. "Free at last," she said.
"Yeah," Mike said. Today was the last day of school until the end of fall harvest. He should be overjoyed. Instead, he felt vaguely disappointed. He would have little opportunity to go to Unity, the human colony, during the next three months.
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