Her Celestial Farm on the Scrapyard Planet (by Kay Lucas) novel Chapter 52

Chapter 52 A Soldier’s Cry

“Mr. Orion, I’ve already eaten. Really.” Humus waved his hands dismissively and stepped back. “These are for you. I’m just a old bag of bones. It doesn’t matter if I miss a meal.”

Orion stood. His gaze was unyielding. “Humus, these potatoes… might actually work. You saw what happened today. I’m not eating alone. If you won’t eat, neither will L

Faced with that lo refuse anym

With t peel

compromising care–Humus’s throat tightened. He couldn’t

picked up a potato. Under Orion’s watchful eye, he carefully

Il bite.

of gentle, sweet warmth washed through him.

el the soothing effect in his own mental core. He watched Humus closely.

old man chewed mechanically. Then suddenly, his clouded eyes flew wide. flickered across his weathered face.

nd shot to his head–the source of

is it? Does it hurt?” Orion’s che

no…” Humus’s voice sho it knot–the one that’s

hadn’t felt this ually lessene

less agony.

that wasn’t pain. “My head… it feels… lighter? e… like it loosened a little?”

hat crushing, omnipresent weight and sting had

st shred of doubt dissolved, replaced by a surge of fierce

on him. They worked on old injuries like Humus’s, too.

potatoes…” Humus could barely string words together.

d hard, voice low. “This stays between us. Don’t let anyone on the Salazar

d his mental power could be

hat nothing to sabotage it.

1! Compl

Orion’s position better than

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Chapter 52 A Soldier’s Cry

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He watched Orion finish the remaining potatoes then leaned in with a triumphant grin. “Mr. Orion, rest easy. When I went to buy the potatoes today, I already saved the seller’s contact information. The moment she sets up her stall again, I’ll be first in line.”

***

The ship touched down in Garbage Planet A001’s signature toxic air. Metal doors opened, and a gust of rank decay blew in.

Elizabeth grabbed her supplies and stepped onto the barren ground.

It was fully dark. The recycling station’s sickly white lights barely illuminated the area around it.

She’d barely cleared the station threshold when a series of anguished screams and wailing from the clearing ahead stopped her in her tracks.

A man–tall–framed but wasted down to skin and bone–was curled on the ground, clawing at his own hair, howling like a dying animal.

His eyes were shot through with red. His body convulsed violently. He was deep in the grip of a severe mental power backlash.

A thin, exhausted woman clung to him from behind, ignoring his thrashing, holding on with everything she had. Her voice cracked as she called to him over and over. “Melton! Melton! Hold on! Look at me! I’m right here!”

Around them, a ring of onlookers–the elderly, women, children–knelt in silence, hands clasped, sobbing, praying to nothing.

“It’s open! The station’s open!” someone shouted. The crowd surged toward the exchange window.

“Sedatives! We need sedatives!”

People scraped together whatever they had of value, desperate to trade for anything that might help.

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