New equipment is rough...

Chapter Twenty-Two: Time to Own It

“Y’know,” Gus said, leaning back on my porch rail with a tin of cider in hand, “you keep borrowin’ that harvester of mine, I might start callin’ it yours.”

I gave a half-smile, brushin’ corn silk off my sleeve. “She’s got character. Starts up mean but settles nice. Kinda like Lu when she’s been up too long.”

He snorted. “That’s gonna get you smacked.”

Maybe so. But he had a point. I’d been makin’ do since I touched down on this sun-struck moon farm, but truth was, the operation was growin'. We had cash crops poppin’ up left and right, orders comin’ in from the saloon and two nearby settlements, and I couldn’t keep runnin’ everything on borrowed wheels and elbow grease.

So we went and pulled up the catalog.

Gus wheeled out his portable holotable—rusted on one corner but still kickin’—and booted up a crisp 3D spread of machinery from a hub called Selvaron Station, about three lighthops from our little speck of paradise.

The holograms spun slow and gleamed, showin’ planters, harvesters, and seeders of every shape and size. They glowed blue and gold, labeled in neat script with specs, weights, and power ratings. One even had a voice sample that said, “Now you’re farming like a king!” in a real chipper tone.

“Prices ain’t bad,” I muttered, scrollin’ through with a flick of my fingers. “That planter says eighty-two percent off standard Earth cost.”

“Yeah,” Gus nodded, “the Martian settlements and Europa domes started floodin’ the market. Turns out they built more than they needed. Lots of surplus. Now we get the benefit.”

“And they deliver?”

“In under twelve days. Comes packed in crates with setup instructions and free calibration.”

I found a compact dual-use harvester that’d work wonders for our smaller plots. Solar-boosted, with a grinder head I could swap out for stalk or fruit. Right beside it was a planter with modular seed tanks and a smart terrain sensor—knew where not to sow if it saw stone or rot.

Lu wandered in as I made the final selection. She peered at the display and raised a brow.

“You buyin’ a spaceship or a tractor?”

“Bit of both,” I said. “We’re in space, after all.”

With a tap, I ordered both, along with a crate of standard parts and a barrel of lubricant I’d probably never use up. The final price? Less than seventy-five percent of what I remembered payin’ back home just for a used combine.

Two days later, we got the transmission confirmation. Delivery was scheduled for next cycle’s end. I stood with Gus on the porch again, lookin’ out at the corn stalks and the still chuggin’ along with brew.

“Feels strange,” I said, “ownin’ instead of borrowin’.”

Gus took a sip. “Strange’s just the first stage of settled.”

Lu set out mugs of cider for us. “Long as it makes work easier, I say it’s a fine choice. Just don’t ask me to read the manuals.”

Uno piped up from the still doorway, “Can I drive it?”

“When you’re twice as tall and four times as careful,” I called back.

That night, I sat out alone, watchin’ the sunny sky, no stars peeking faint through the misty dome above. Somewhere, a hauler was preppin’ my shipment. Not from down the road, but from another world altogether.

Felt kinda right. Like I was finally plantin’ roots in soil not my own—but mine all the same.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Brewing Storm and Steel

We’d barely finished breakfast when the alert ping came through the wall panel—cargo hauler inbound. Gus happened to be over for coffee and nearly spit his drink.

“That your new gear already?”

“Faster than expected,” I muttered, sliding my boots on. “Didn’t think interplanetary shipping ran early.”

Lu handed me my hat. “You gonna be nice to the delivery pilot this time?”

“He earned that chewing last time. Dropped a crate of mason jars and drove off like he was late to a funeral.”

We loaded up the boys in the mule, and sure enough, out on the southern edge near the ridge, a silver freighter was hissin’ steam and unfolding its cargo ramp. The thing looked like a cross between a corn silo and a crawdad. Big round belly, stubby legs, and more exhaust ports than I knew what to do with.

A lanky fellow stepped out in a wrinkled flight suit and waved with two gloved hands. “Delivery for a Mr. Hosen!”

“That’s me,” I said, offering a handshake. “Right on time. Or a little early.”

“Early delivery bonus,” he said, flashing a toothy grin. “Courtesy of Selvaron Freight. You got room for crates?”

We helped unload—six big pallets wrapped in vacuum tarp. The harvester came folded tighter than a pocket knife, panels and arms nested like origami. The planter was sleeker, looked almost like a space yacht’s cousin, painted in forest green with smart sensors glowing amber.

The boys circled the equipment with reverence. “We really gonna drive that?”

“Someday,” I said, patting Uno on the head. “But first we gotta build it.”

Took the better part of the day to unpack and calibrate both machines. Fortunately, the AI help module walked us through every bolt and latch. Gus laughed at how fancy it all was, but I could see even he was impressed.

By afternoon, the new planter was crawling down the main field, laying barley seeds with perfect spacing and automatic cover. It even left a tiny tag in the soil every twenty meters for easy tracking.

“We’re not even gonna need to eyeball it?” Tres asked, amazed.

“Don’t get too soft,” I warned. “Tech’s a tool, not a replacement.”

Back at the stillery, Uno and Dos had three new batches bubbling—two were pale ales, one a honey brown that smelled like heaven. She had that look again, the one where her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head like she was solving some puzzle.

“You’re gonna ask me something,” I said.

She smiled. “You think the saloon will want a whole keg this time? They said last week our growlers sold out in two nights.”

“I’d say send ‘em a full batch. And tell ‘em next delivery, we’re bringin’ corn whiskey too.”

Her eyes lit up. “We’re really doing it.”

“Feels like it, don’t it?”

That night, as the last of the equipment was parked under the lean-to and the sun glowed high as ever, I walked out back alone for a minute. The field stretched wide, tidy rows marking our future.

We’d gone from barely planted to booming, and the machines made it real. I was no longer just borrowin’ someone’s legacy—I was makin’ my own.