Hostile Planet

Chapter 2 – Homestead

Chapter 2 – Homestead

Jerry awoke and lurched up into a sitting position, soaked with sweat and gasping for breath. He jerked his head left and right, searching for those yellow eyes. His conscious mind battled with his subconscious, and the past and the present were intertwined for a few long, horrifying moments.

“You had your nightmare again, didn't you?” a woman's voice said.

Jerry blinked and turned his head in the direction of the voice. Blackshoals began to fade, retreating back into the darkest corners of his mind. His consciousness took over with a firm hand, sternly reminding him that he was in fact on Homestead, his home planet, and that it had been nine years since the battle. Fort Baker dissolved away, coalescing into Jerry's bedroom.

He laid his head back down on the pillow, put a hand to his chest, and sighed. His heart raced, thumping against his palm. A part of him wanted to cry with relief. As usual, though, he didn't. He might be a broken soldier, but he still had some pride.

His girlfriend, Laurie, was getting dressed, and he took a moment to admire the view. She was attractive by any measure, but compared to the horrible visions in his nightmare, she was absolutely beautiful. Seeing her naked body was like a balm for his tortured soul.

She pulled a dress over her head and let it drop, ending the show. She pulled her golden hair out of the back of the dress and ran her hands through it, giving it a more kempt yet still wild look.

“Are you going somewhere?” Jerry asked.

“I'm taking some things over to a friend's.” Laurie sat on the edge of the bed to put on her shoes. “I'll pick up the rest of my things later.”

“You're really leaving this time.” Jerry wasn't sure if he meant it as a question or not.

“I warned you.” She stood and began to gather her things. “Stay on your pills or I'm gone. That's what I said.”

“I have a gig tonight. I had to skip a dose. When I get back, I'll go back on the prescription, and then everything will be back to normal.”

“Until the next gig.” Laurie stopped moving around. She stared at him with big green eyes and sighed. “Look, Jerry. You're not a bad guy. And you're a good lover. We had some great times. But I can't deal with your nightmares anymore. I thought I could handle being with a man with War Strain, but I guess I was wrong. I've got a bruise on my arm where you hit me in your sleep.”

“I'm sorry.” Jerry closed his eyes and sighed. “I would never intentionally hurt you.”

“I know. But intentionally or not, you did. It's not the first time, but it will be the last.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and gave him a sympathetic look. “You know, if you would just give up your music—”

“I can't do that.” Jerry slid backwards to sit against the headboard and looked at her. “You know I can't. Picking on stage is the only thing that helps me completely forget. It's the only time I'm at peace. And the pills mess it all up. I'd do just about anything for you, but not this.”

“So there we are.” Laurie stood and walked to the door. She put her hand on the knob and turned to look at him. “I'm sorry it has to end this way. I'm sorry it has to end at all. But I've reached my limit. I can't handle a man who's not right in the head. I thought it wouldn't be so bad, but I was wrong. Maybe that makes me a bad person. I don't know. But just so we're clear: it's over, Jerry. I'm sorry. Good-bye.” She opened the door and walked out.

Jerry lay in bed for several moments. The front door opened and shut with a thump, and then all was quiet. Laurie wasn't the first one to leave him over his War Strain. Like many women, she had found his status as a war veteran exciting and attractive. But the reality of his condition always ended up souring his relationships. Nine years after the battle, Blackshoals continued to claim casualties.

He lay in bed contemplating his life for a few minutes before crawling out and getting dressed. Girlfriend or no girlfriend, War Strain or no War Strain, lawns didn't mow themselves. He had to go to work.

* * *

After a full day of landscaping work, Jerry found himself doing what he loved most in the world.

“Homestead Blues!”

“Stonefell River!”

“Brown Beauty!”

“Agrarian Breakdown!”

He grinned. The bar's patrons all had their favorite songs, and it was now late enough—which meant they were drunk enough—for them to voice their opinions loudly and often.

Bill Finch, the guitarist, turned to Jerry. “How about another fiddle tune—maybe Green-Eyed Woman, since we haven't done that one yet—and then Spin the Wheel of Fire, and then we take a break. You up for that?”

Jerry nodded. “Sounds good.”

“You sure you can handle the solos? You sure your head's on straight after Laurie—”

“I'll be fine. Laurie's gone, and that's that. It's over. I need to put her out of my mind, and picking is the best way to do that.” He gave Bill what he hoped was a confident-looking grin. “So let's let Clay show off a little, and then I'll bring the lightning.”

Clay Ackerman, the fiddler, laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Then start us off, fat man,” Bill said to Clay with a grin, “and show us how it's done!”

Clay sawed the first few notes of Green-Eyed Woman on his fiddle. The bar's patrons cheered and began to clap and stomp their feet.

Jerry picked the backup rhythm on his banjo, alternating his thumb between the third and fourth strings. It was a fun tune, even though its banjo part wasn't much. It was meant to showcase the fiddler, and Jerry loved hearing the big man play.

And play he did. Clay was six feet, four inches tall, and shaped vaguely like a barrel. His yellow hair was matted with sweat, and his shirt was soaked, but his beefy hands moved just as deftly as they had two hours ago. His body swayed and bounced along with the rhythm. By the time his solo arrived about halfway through the song, he was practically dancing around the stage.

Bill strummed his guitar and sang into the microphone, his voice just barely cutting through the clamor from the patrons. The whole bar rumbled with the noise of clapping hands, stomping feet, and clanging beer bottles. Some of the couples in the audience had begun to dance between the tables. One drunk man even tried dancing on a table, though he soon lost his balance and fell off, sparking laughter among the onlookers.

Jerry chuckled and shook his head. He watched the fallen man for a moment, hoping he was all right. When a few others helped him to his feet, Jerry's gaze shifted, and that's when he noticed a familiar face. Brandon Woods was in the audience.

He saw Jerry looking and gave a wave.

Jerry blinked, stunned for a moment, and his fingers froze. After a moment, he resumed playing and nodded at him. He hadn't seen Brandon in nine years. The last time was after returning to Homestead after the Third Battle of Blackshoals. They had both spent some time in the infirmary. By the time Jerry was discharged, Brandon had already been gone a week.

Thinking of Blackshoals gave him shivers, and he tried to put his old war buddy out of mind. He focused on his playing, fumbling his way through the rest of Green-Eyed Woman. The song ended, and he took a deep breath and exhaled, blowing out his cheeks. He'd screwed up his part a little, but it was just back-up, so it didn't matter so much. The next song would be very different. It was time for him to shine.

“And now,” Bill announced to the crowd, “let's ratchet things up a bit. This next song features our banjo picker, Mr. Jerry Harper. You all know the tune. It's the one you've been waiting for all night. It's called Spin the Wheel of Fire. Clay, start us off.”

The audience hooted and hollered for a moment, but then became abruptly quiet as soon as Clay started playing. They listened to his fiddle, but their eyes were fixed on Jerry's hands. They knew the song well, just as Bill said, and they knew what was coming.

Bill sang the first stanza. It was over quickly, and then the fun part began: the first of three banjo solos.

Jerry picked the down-the-neck break, his fingers transitioning from one roll to another, one chord to another, and hitting the accents on the melody notes. It wasn't a hard solo, but the syncopation made it sound tougher than it was. He wrapped it up, and there was some scattered applause. He played the background rhythm while Bill launched into the song's second stanza.

Jerry took the opportunity to sneak another look at Brandon. His old friend was still there, but he wasn't looking at Jerry. His face was like a storm cloud, and he was looking across the room. Jerry followed his gaze to a young couple. They had orange hair and skin, and they stood out like torches against the brown Agrarian crowd. For a moment, Jerry was back on Blackshoals, and his fingers froze again on the banjo's strings.

“Jerry!” hissed Bill. “Solo B coming up. Pay attention!”

Jerry blinked rapidly. The flashback faded, leaving him in control of his faculties once again. He admonished himself for the lapse. The Claim War was long over, and those Felids at the table certainly weren't the enemy. They were just a couple of teenagers in love, whispering to each other and stealing kisses and whatnot.

He shook his head and focused on the song and his bandmates. Clay was improvising a solo and watching him out of the corner of his eye. Bill stared at him, his face full of worry. Jerry gave them what he hoped was a confident look, nodded, and began picking the rhythm again. That seemed to mollify them, and they set him up for Solo B.

The solo began, and Jerry kept his head down and his eyes on his strings. Solo B was an up-the-neck break, and he filled the bar with high-pitched twangs. He blocked everything out of his mind, focusing on the sounds of the strings with all his might. That's when it happened: his sense of perfect pitch kicked in. It had never happened before the war, but ever since, it had happened at some point in almost every gig. He could hear the minute imperfections in his strings' tunings, and he could pinpoint their frequencies exactly, down to the smallest fraction of a cycle per second. His fingers now moved almost unconsciously, and he was “picking instinctively,” as he liked to call it. When it happened—and it did so long as he wasn't on his War Strain medication—he could sense the strings' vibrations in an ethereal, almost magical way. The instrument practically played itself. It was like being in a trance, and as he had told Laurie, it erased his hurts and doubts and worries completely, if only for a short while. The broken man was made whole for a time. It was the most joyful part of performing.

The solo ended, and the crowd applauded again, louder and with gusto. He resumed the backup pattern while Bill belted out the third stanza. Jerry turned a few tuning pegs, bringing the strings into perfect tension. He was ready for Solo C.

This one was the most difficult of all. It combined up-the-neck and down-the-neck breaks, and it featured all manner of syncopation, triplets, bends, and bell tones. The songwriter had designed it to impress, and only rare banjoists could pull it off.

Jerry pulled it off. His fingers flew, and his perfect pitch trance—lacking a more scientific explanation, that was what he called it—took him to a higher level of consciousness. It synchronized his mind with the vibrations from the banjo in a metaphysical way. He felt one with the Wheel of Fire, the ring-shaped galaxy in which all men lived, in a way that he never did otherwise. Appropriate, he supposed, since the tune was named after the galaxy.

Before his conscious mind realized it, the solo was over, and so was the song. Spin the Wheel of Fire was the stiffest test a banjoist could take, and he had passed it with room to spare. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and looked up at the audience.

They stared at him with wide eyes and open mouths. The entire bar was completely silent for a moment. Then, as one, they burst into thunderous applause. The claps were joined by whistles and hollers and foot-stomping. The clamor increased in volume until it was almost painful on the ears.

Jerry smiled and waved appreciatively. It was a little embarrassing, but flattering, too, and he eagerly soaked it up. He glanced over to Bill and Clay. They were grinning like mischievous little boys with stolen cookies.

Bill turned back to the microphone. “Thanks, folks. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back, so stick around.”

Jerry stood and walked off the stage. The few people who were close enough slapped him on the shoulder as he passed them. He gave them each a smile and a word of thanks. He circled around to the backstage area and returned his instrument to its case.

“What happened back there, Jerry?” Bill asked. He walked over to his guitar case. “You stopped playing in the middle of the song. You looked like you just froze up completely. I thought you were having a stroke or something.”

“Sorry,” Jerry said. “I saw a couple of Felids out there in the audience. War flashback, you know? For a minute there, I forgot where I was.”

Bill shut his guitar case and walked over to Jerry. He put a hand on his shoulder. “The Claim War's over,” he said gently. “Even the Felids' clan wars are over. The four Breeds are all learning how to get along again. I know it's tough, but you need to make the effort. There aren't many non-Agrarians in this part of Stonefell County, but you never know when some tourists might show up at a gig. Like tonight.”

“I know. And I'm usually fine. My brain only goes back to Blackshoals when I'm off my medication. I can't take the pills when I have a gig, though, because they interfere with my playing.”

“Maybe you need a different prescription. There must be something you can take that will fix you up without any negative side effects.”

“If there is, I haven't found it yet.” Jerry cleared his throat. “By the way, I saw an old friend out there, too. He was a corporal in my old unit. I thought I'd spend our break having a chat with him. Is that all right?”

“Go ahead. We'll survive a few minutes without you.” He chuckled. “Just don't be late for the next set.”