Hostile Planet

Chapter 4 – Colonel Glover

Chapter 4 – Colonel Glover

A week later, Jerry was back on stage. The pain of his breakup still hurt, but he'd been dumped before, and he was starting to get over it. Playing his banjo helped, even if just for a little while.

It was a smaller crowd this time, and a different venue, but that didn't matter. He appreciated audiences of all kinds, even audiences of one. It was the music that was important. Not just for his own joy of performing, but for the joy in the listener's eyes. Playing for an audience was a symbiotic thing, and each gig was like a new creature being born.

Halfway through Timberland Mountain, he looked up at the crowd. Just like the week before, someone caught his eye. But this was no Felid couple, and there was no war-related flashback. It was the man from the hedgerow at Miss Carpenter's house.

Jerry squinted, trying to memorize his features. He was dark of skin and blond of hair, just like every other Agrarian. He was a little short, though, and something about his mannerisms seemed foreign, though Jerry couldn't put his finger on it. The man's hair was lanky and unkempt, and his face sported a day or two's worth of stubble. There was a shifty look in his eyes that Jerry didn't like at all. The man was Agrarian, but definitely not a Homesteader. Probably some rambunctious frontier sort who got into trouble and had to planet-hop to avoid the law. Wouldn't be the first one.

After a moment, the man stepped to the side and was hidden behind a taller fellow. Jerry waited for him to reappear, but he never did. After a few moments, he put thoughts of the man aside and focused on his playing. By the end of the show, he had forgotten all about him.

When the gig was over, he went backstage to pack his banjo away. He had just snapped the clasps shut when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.

“Sergeant Jerry Harper?” a man asked. It wasn't the man from Miss Carpenter's. This man was tall, with close-cropped hair in the military style. He wore civilian clothes, but carried himself with the rigid posture of a career soldier.

“That's right,” Jerry said. “Can I help you?”

“I'm Colonel Paul Glover, Rifle Intelligence. I'd like to have a word with you.”

“What for? I'm not a Rifleman anymore. I've been out for nine years.”

“I'll explain everything in private.” Glover cast a glance at Bill and Clay.

Jerry turned to look at his bandmates, and then turned back to Glover. “Maybe another time. I'm tired and I want to go home. Excuse me.” He grabbed his banjo and walked past the man.

“It's about Corporal Brandon Woods.”

Jerry stopped and turned.

“He's gone missing.” Glover gestured to an empty table. “Please?”

Jerry sighed. “All right.”

* * *

“I thought I had talked him out of it,” Jerry said, shaking his head. “I told him not to go, to find another way, and he agreed. Or I thought he did.” He ran his hands through his hair.

“He must have had a change of heart,” Glover said. “Or maybe he simply lied to you.”

“Brandon? Lie to me? No way. We were squadmates. Brothers in arms. He saved my life.”

“I'm sure that's all true. Nevertheless, Corporal Woods left for Skytower the day after you spoke with him. Three days of cross-space travel later, he was in the capital city of Seagate. The same day he arrived, he sent a message to Ealdorman Brewer. The Ealdorman has not seen fit to share with Rifle Intelligence the exact contents of that message.” Glover's mouth twisted. “What we do know, however, is that upon reading that message, Brewer requested an immediate audience with Ambassador Turecius of the Paragon Hierarchy. According to my sources, Turecius informed the Ealdorman that Brandon Woods had been assailed by members of a Tier 3 crime syndicate on Skytower and was presumed dead.”

“He's dead?” Jerry's heart sank.

“That's the official word from the Paragons,” Glover said, raising an eyebrow. “Ealdorman Brewer doesn't buy it, nor does Rifle Intelligence, and neither do I. We believe Woods is being held captive on Skytower for reasons relating to the Third Battle of Blackshoals.”

“But why?” Jerry's brow furrowed. “That was nine years ago. What do they think Brandon can give them? Or tell them? Or whatever it is they want from him?”

“I'll answer that, but first I need you to swear not to tell any unauthorized personnel about this conversation until after Mr. Woods is rescued or found dead.”

“I swear.”

“Land oath, please.”

Jerry was offended, but he tried to keep a lid on his anger. “Land oath? Seriously?”

“Completely serious.”

“You've got a lot of nerve asking for that. I haven't sworn one of those since I was sixteen.”

“It's necessary. To protect us both. And Corporal Woods.”

“Fine. I'll do it for Brandon.” Jerry took a deep breath. “I swear on the land of my birth that I will not reveal any of this conversation to any unauthorized personnel until Brandon Woods is rescued or found dead.” It was only the second land oath he had ever sworn. The first was his oath of enlistment. He could almost feel the words melting into his blood and imprinting themselves on his bones. It was a quirk of the Agrarian genetic code, and the most trustworthy thing in the Wheel of Fire. He couldn't break a land oath even if his life depended on it. It was a potentially deadly limitation, and Agrarians tended to only swear on the land for very good reasons.

Glover gave him a formal smile. “Thank you. As to your question... it probably has something to do with the Artifact.”

Jerry folded his arms across his chest and shivered.

Glover watched him closely. “We know something happened to the two of you that day. We know the Artifact was involved. And we know that Blackshoals was never the same afterwards.”

“I don't know anything.” Jerry glared at him. “I don't know, all right? Ask the doctors. They did a full psychological workup on me after I got back to Homestead. They'll tell you everything I know. One minute, the battle was raging all around us, and we were getting our heads handed to us by the other Breeds, and the next minute—”

“—the next, the battle was over. Blackshoals was ours, but every grav engine on the planet was suddenly controlled by the Artifact. Ships could leave, but they couldn't descend. Everyone was forced off-world because there wasn't enough food to stay for any length of time. The Artifact kicked us all off the planet, and Blackshoals remains uninhabited to this day.”

Jerry scowled, but didn't say anything.

“I think the Paragons think Brandon knows something... something that can help them, uh, subdue the Artifact, I suppose, and allow them to settle the planet and exploit its Chevenite resources.” Glover leaned back in his chair. “That's why I want you to come with me. I want you to help me rescue him.”

Jerry blinked. “Sir, say again?”

“You heard me correctly. I want you to go with me to Skytower.”

“Sir, I'm not a Rifleman anymore. I'm just a landscaper now. Also, I'm twenty-nine years old, and I haven't exactly been keeping in top shape. I doubt I could sprint to the other side of this bar without getting out of breath. Wouldn't active-duty personnel be more—”

“Active-duty personnel don't know Brandon Woods. They didn't serve with him, and they're not his friends. He knows you, and he trusts you. That might mean the difference between success and failure. Besides, it won't be just the two of us. I'm assembling a team, not a duo. I can't say who all the team members are at this time, but I can guarantee you'll be well-protected. That's a promise. And I doubt your physical fitness level is as bad as you say. You're young, and you work outside. You're in better shape than you think, and you'll quickly adapt to military rigors.” Glover's face softened. “Corporal Woods has had a rough go of it. You two drifted apart after the war, correct?”

Jerry stared at the table. “It was... a difficult time for both of us. The war—”

“You don't have to explain. I've seen it many times among combat veterans. Woods's behavior was common—almost typical. After receiving his medical discharge, he bounced around from one Commonwealth planet to another. He took odd jobs, but nothing seemed to stick. He probably has War Strain like you, but for some reason, his was never diagnosed. If he has fallen into the hands of malicious Paragons, then he's probably frightened right now. He may be paranoid. He may even be insane. There's no way to know what sort of condition he's in. All we know is that if he trusts anyone at all, it'll be his old squad leader. That's why we need you with us.”

Jerry's lips tightened, and he looked towards the stage. His landscaping business barely paid the bills, and his music career would probably never prove lucrative, but he was more or less content. It wasn't a great life—especially now with the loneliness brought on by Laurie dumping him—but it was a serviceable life. A safe, tranquil life. It was better than the lives of many.

On the other hand, Brandon had been in his squad. He was one of Jerry's men. They had fought together that day in Fort Baker, right up until the end. Most importantly, Brandon had saved him from the Harowaith. Jerry owed him, simple as that. He wouldn't just leave him to rot on Skytower. Discharged or not, Jerry was still a Volunteer Rifleman at heart, and he had a job to do and a man to bring home. He turned back to Glover. “All right. I'm in.”