Recruit by Jonathan Brazee (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📖

them still owed operating debts for seeds and fuel that came with the property, personal debts could not be assessed on surviving children. 

Myke lasted one more year on the family farm.  Ryck and Lysa had come home from school, excited about their upcoming high school graduation ceremony, to find Myke gone.  A note with the single word “Sorry” was left on the kitchen table.  Three weeks later, diploma in hand, Ryck turned from student to farmer.

For two years, he struggled.  The first year, despite not knowing what he was doing but with the help from Mr. Choo, he’d managed to barely keep afloat.  This year, though, the wheat crop had almost totally failed.  Only the monk melons growing in a small patch near the house had come in well, but even if he sold them himself at the market, the revenue would not come close to what he needed for the next crop’s planting.  With his credit maxed out to get the Deere back up and running, he didn’t think the co-op would be lending him anything.

He dropped the remaining dirt from his hand and glanced up at the sun.  Its unrelenting rays had burnt out every last drop of moisture from the soil.  As a kid, he had loved the bright sunshine.  Now, the sun had become his enemy, at least to his mind. 

Well, that’s that, he thought to himself.  It’s done.

He slowly stood up, and without a backward glance, walked up the gentle slope and to the home compound.  It already looked deserted.  The old coop in which his mother had tried to raise chickens was leaning precariously to the right, waiting for the next strong wind to knock it over.  Ruined parts for the Deere had been discarded near the shed, good only for scrap.  Only the house itself looked like it hadn’t been abandoned.  The bright pink curtains that were visible through the open kitchen window were about the only splash of color in the washed-out scene.

Ryck kicked off his shoes as he came in the front door.  It was only late afternoon, earlier than when he usually quit work.  Lysa wouldn’t be back for quite some time yet.  He decided that maybe a good meal was in order.  Opening up the cabinet, he took out the last two bottles of Recife Pinot Noir.  This was all that was left of the case his father had brought from Ellison.  He busied himself in the kitchen, more to take his mind off things than anything else as he cut the onions, carrots, garlic, and Hank’s Beef.  Hank’s Beef was not really good for bourguignon.  The texture was too soft, and it didn’t hold up well to slow cooking.  Ryck would rather be using Sunshine or even Healthy Choice, but all he had was Hank’s.  As a kid, he thought there really was a person named Hank who raised actual cows.  He’d been oddly disappointed to learn that “Hank” was a corporation, and the “ranch” was a soy and peanut-processing factory in the capital.

He browned the beef, taking care not to let it break apart, then put it in the slow cooker.  In the same pan, he browned the veggies before adding them to the beef.  When his mom had made bourguignon, she had also used lardons, which she had Mr. Compton make for her.  Compton was long gone, after having given up his farm, but Ryck liked to think that his own version without the pork was just fine. 

He opened one bottle of wine.  Lysa would be upset at his lack of manners, but she wasn’t there, so he tilted the bottle up and took a long swallow.  Ryck wasn’t overly fond of most off-world products, but wine was different.  They had a synthetic local “wine” available, but to Ryck, it could just as easily have been purple-colored vodka, good for getting drunk, but not much else.  The real stuff, though, well, he could get used to having a glass of that with each meal.

With a sigh, he emptied the bottle into the slow cooker, closed the lid, and turned it on low.  He’d make noodles later, something that tasted so much better when made by hand.  Bourguignon was Lysa’s favorite meal, so hopefully, that would ease the blow.

It was almost seven hours later, the aroma of the meal filling the home, when the front door opened.  Ryck was sitting in his father’s easy chair, back toward the door when his sister entered.  He tried to ignore her, but her skintight blue jumpsuit had tiny luminescent micro-LEDs embedded in the fabric that lit in strategic areas as the fabric stretched and pulled.  She was a flashing advertisement of her womanly curves.  She didn’t like to talk when she was in her working clothes, though, so he didn’t say a word as she walked past him and into her room.

“Something sure smells good,” she remarked as she came back out about five minutes later.  “Special occasion?”

“Anytime you come home is a special occasion,” he said.

“Ah, no wonder you’re still single, with lines like that,” she told him as she settled in their mom’s chair, her legs drawn up under her.

She had come in the home dressed in high-tech sluttiness.  Now she sat in baggy cotton pants and an oversized t-shirt, all trace of make-up on her face gone.  She looked younger than their 19 years.

He’d opened the second bottle of wine about two hours before to let it breathe.  Getting up, he poured her a glass and took one for himself.

“The Recife?  This is a special occasion.  And I smell bourguignon.  What gives?”

“Eat first, then talk,” he said.

Normally, they ate in front of their parents’ chairs watching the vid.  Today, though, the formal table seemed more appropriate.  They ate their meal mostly in silence, only talking to pass the food to each other.  Lysa knew something big was up, and Ryck was trying to marshal his thoughts.  Finally, though, dinner was over and the table cleared.

“OK, little brother, what’s up?” she asked as she pushed his chair around and sat side-saddle on his lap, her arms around his neck.

Lysa had been born first, twelve minutes before Ryck, and she had lorded that over him as children.  Now “little brother” had just become part of his name, so to speak.

“The wheat crop’s failed,” he simply said.  “Nothing to harvest.”

“I know.  I’ve been watching.  Maybe the next crop will come in.”

“It’s just this.  I don’t think we can get credit for seeds.  We’re still maxed out from the Deere repairs from, what, three years ago?” he asked.

“You know I can probably swing the seeds. We won’t need that money for another month or so, and I’ve got several friends who’ll be happy to help.”

Ryck knew what kind of “friends” she meant.  He never pried into what she was doing, but it was obvious.  He had kept quiet both because it was her choice, and frankly, they needed the money she brought in.

“It’s just that, I mean, uh, I don’t know.  I mean, I don’t know if we should plant again.  Who knows if next year’ll be better?  I mean, ah, grub.  I don’t want you to be working like you do just to support us.”

There, he’d said it.  It was out in the open.

Lysa leaned back, then slowly got up and pulled out one of the dining chairs and sat down.  She seemed to be considering what to say next.

“You have a problem with what I do?  With how I support us?” she quietly asked.

“No, no, you’ve got me wrong.  I am so grateful for you.  For what you’ve done.  It’s just that I don’t think it’s worth it.  Not your work, but the farm.  I don’t think we can ever make a living here.”

“So, what’re you saying?” she asked, her voice sounding only slightly mollified.

“What I’m saying is,” he started, pausing to take a deep breath, “is that I don’t want to farm anymore.  I’m done with it.”

Telling her that was a huge weight off of his shoulders.  What had been an internal debate was now out there for his sister to hear.

She was quiet for a full minute while Ryck waited to hear her response.  If she disagreed, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do.

Finally, she asked, “So, what would we do with the farm?”

“Oh, you can have it.  I can sign everything over to you.”

She gave a chuckle. “You think I want it?  With the debts, the work?  Do I look like a farm girl to you?”  She raised two hands to frame her face. “Do I want this lovely skin wind and sunburnt?  Not on your life, little brother, not on your life.  Let’s see if Old Man Choo wants it.  He might pay enough to cover our debts.”

Ryck was shocked.  This was their home.  They had grown up together in it.  And Lysa was ready to toss it, just like that.  Of course, he was ready to leave, but he hadn’t thought Lysa would be willing, too.

“So, what are you going to do?  Find work in Williamson?” she asked him.

“I’m going to the capital, yeah, but not to work there.  I’m thinking of the Legion.”

“The Legion?  You sure?”

“Kinda sure.  I don’t think I can work inside, cooped up in an office or a factory.  And what skills do I have?  I can’t even farm, and that’s my job,” he told her with a smile on his face.

“Oh, wow!  My little brother’s going to be a soldier-boy?  That blows my mind.”

“Well, I’m not 100% sure, but I want to go down and learn more.  They might not even take me,” he told her.

“Not take you?  A good, strapping farmboy like you?  Of course, they’ll take you.”

“Well, we’ll see.  But