From the moment his father spearheaded a small packet of city officials into the spaceport, Choron discarded all superfluous thoughts and feelings. Those abandoned apsects of his existence had walked away with Nara; only in seeing her again during so personal a meeting would he permit himself to cast off his public façade. Each stride father and son took to close the gap between each other was one more irrevocable step into the future. The officials stayed close to the door, watching Choron approach his father, listening to the narration provided by Imen Sorn, the charismatic master of ceremonies presiding over the event. Choron silently thanked his mother for providing the details of the day's plans.
When the two men met, his father spread his arms and smiled. “Welcome home, son.” After a long, fierce hug, he held Choron at arm's length for the same critical inspection he gave all his possessions. “You look a little tired, somewhat pale, a little weak, but you're alive.”
“It was nothing a few timely medical injections couldn't fix. Still, if no one had been there, I never would have regained consciousness.”
“Where are our friends, the men who saved you?”
Choron looked away from his father and spoke flatly: “They had other things to do. My emergency interrupted their usual affairs. They wanted to go back to work mining before the rest of the planet headed for the asteroids. You know how shrewd spacefarers like us are.”
“After this incident, I expect you won't wish to skitter through the solar system any longer,” said his father in a low voice as he led Choron to the group that had taken up station at the entrance.
“Yes, father.”
“You ought to settle down, learn to run the family business.”
He introduced the men of his new entourage to Choron. Their names were familiar but easily forgettable, part of the rapidly-shifting core of a new class of man on Orefall: those who did no actual work. They congratulated him on his courage while expressing sympathy, carefully measured to sound best to those listening to radios connected to Sorn's microphone; it seemed that their words of sorrow for Miro's death strayed accidentally toward Choron, but their faces never pointed away from his father. Sorn waited for some response from the new hero; he found it necessary to prompt Choron after ten seconds of silence. “What do you have to say to all those people listening in?”
Choron glanced at the insincere men who wished to please his father by pleasing the crowds. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and regarded the blossoming Planet that had seared itself across his mind. This fruit, he reminded himself, is ripening quickly. The sooner I finish here, the sooner I can prevent it from rotting. “I can't express how happy I am to come home at last,” he finally replied. If only they knew what true home awaits them! “But I need to rest. I hear that my dear mother has prepared my bed for me.”
Sorn enjoyed the cooperation he received from Choron. “I won't get in your way, lad. Just promise you'll visit me for an interview.”
“You have my word.”
His father took his arm. They walked side-by-side out of the port building, greeted by the roar of nearly half the colony's population. Waves of applause rolled past their ears; Choron's brisk salute to them all only made the celebration louder.
The crowd, its reactions, and its great momentum were just what he needed. And he wanted no part of it.