Ruined Worlds

Chapter 1 – Drowning Sorrows Jerry Harper sat on the sofa in his living room and stared at the screen. It was set to a local news feed. He had to raise the volume so he could hear over the noise of his helmet-like breathing apparatus. “We can now confirm,” the Agrarian reporter was saying, “that the Reliant Mentarchy has significantly accelerated its production of military vehicles and equipment. Cameron Forester is on the Reliant world of Baseband, and we go to him now by cross-space feed. Cam?” The scene shifted to that of a man standing outside an immense factory. A few decorative palm trees were in view, and the man's hair was ruffled from the occasional ocean breeze. There was an imposing fence topped with razor wire, and security cameras were clearly visible. “That's right, Kristy,” Cameron said. “The facility behind me is Rifle Production Arsenal #6, and there's been a flurry of new activity in recent days. The local Reliants won't talk to me, of course, but we've tried to count the rate at which vehicles come and go, and that rate has definitely increased. Proxy Rhakmar continues to stress that the Mentarch wants only peace, but the empire's actions speak differently, at least here on Baseband. All indications are that they're gearing up for war.” Jerry took a swig from his beer bottle. It was a little awkward with the breathing machine, but he'd been practicing. After drowning on Cortex, his lungs had needed some care, and the doctors had forced him to wear the machine for a few weeks. The thing was scheduled to come off the next day. Good riddance, too. He tried to focus on the news. It was a good distraction. It kept him from thinking about his adventures on Skytower, the assassination attempt on Cortex, the death of Brandon Woods... and the plasma pistol lying on the sofa next to him. It lay there like a live rattlesnake, ready to strike as soon as he squeezed the trigger. A voice in his head wanted him to do just that. It was the old voice from the Claim War, and it would never leave. “Cam,” Kristy said, “do you feel like you're in any danger there?” “The mood is definitely one of suspicion,” Cameron said, “at least towards anyone who doesn't have gray skin. I intend to stay as long as possible, but if the situation gets dangerous, then I'll do everything I can to get to cross-space.” Senzon appeared in front of the screen. Jerry flinched. “Breeder's name! I hate it when you do that.” “I was wondering if you'd even notice.” Senzon glanced around the room and began counting. “...six, seven, eight...” He nodded. “Yeah. Eight empty beer bottles. And those are just the ones in plain sight. No telling what's rolled under the sofa. Breeder's underwear, boy. How do you even walk around in here without stepping on one? How many of those things have you had?” “Not enough. I'm still just a little drunk. I've got some more drinking to do before the voices in my head shut up. And you missed a bottle. I dropped one in the kitchen. It broke on the floor, and I didn't feel like cleaning up the mess. That makes nine. It was only half-finished, though, so maybe it doesn't count. If you weren't a ghost, I'd tell you to be careful if you go in there. Kitchen floor's slippery.” “Yeah, I think I'll be all right,” Senzon said with a snort. “Not sure about you, though. Booze isn't going to cure what ails you. You're only making things worse for yourself.” He put his hands on his hips and scowled. “And I know what the problem is. The real problem, I mean. I know what you're thinking, boy, and it's not right.” “You reading my mind again?” Jerry picked up the remote and turned the news off. “Bloody Masters. Stop poking around in my head, you... you... you head-poker-arounder.” “I'm not poking around. I don't need to poke around. I know what you're thinking by the beer bottles all over the room and the expression on your face. And by that gun sitting next to you.” Jerry glanced at the pistol. It had been his mother's. His father had purchased it for her after a string of break-ins in another part of Stonefell County. She had been reluctant to carry it, but she saw the utility of it and learned to use it. Later, she had taken up shooting it for fun and had become quite a decent shot. When Jerry's parents passed away, the pistol became his along with the rest of their things. It was a somewhat obsolete model, but it worked as good as new, and it had sentimental value. He wouldn't ever sell it. But he might use it. He hastily pulled his eyes away from the gun and stared at Senzon. “My expression, huh? That's how you're reading my mind? To the Nightfire with that. Don't tell me what kind of mood to have, old man. Don't you remember what I've been through? I almost got killed by a lion. And a sea monster. And I drowned a lot. There was something else, too, something about a barn, but I can't remember. Anyway, I've got a right to be a little down in the dumps.” “Suicide's not just 'down in the dumps.' It's kind of a permanent thing. And it affects other people, not just you. That's especially true for Fenys's Destroyer.” Jerry glared and pointed a finger at him. “Don't call me that.” “It's what you are. You can't avoid it.” “That's where you're wrong.” He glanced at the pistol. “Like I said, that's not a solution.” Senzon shook his head. “Look, boy. I know you've been through a lot. And I know you're grieving for your old war buddy. Brandon was kind of a dullard, but he was a fine soldier, and him getting killed on Cortex was a real shame. And I know you hate this prophecy business. You hate the idea of being the one who's supposed to destroy the whole galaxy. Right now, you probably feel like eating a plasma bolt is the best thing you can do for humanity. After all, you can't destroy the Wheel of Fire if you're dead, right? Yep; I can see it on your face. That's exactly what you're thinking. But think it through a little more. If you blow a hole in your head, then you'll no longer be synced with the Wheelstone. It'll be available for anyone else who goes to Blackshoals and touches it.” “No one can go to Blackshoals.” Jerry raised the bottle to his lips, but clumsily, and it banged into the breathing apparatus. He cursed, ripped the helmet from his head and the tubes from his nostrils, and tossed it all on the floor. The docs would scold him later, but he didn't care. He drank from his beer, swallowed, and sighed. Senzon rolled his eyes. “Grav engines don't work the way they're supposed to,” Jerry said. “Not on Blackshoals. No ship can land there. Not anymore. Not since the Claim War.” “That's because you're connected to the Wheelstone, you plow-head.” Senzon gave an exasperated look. “If you die, all that would change. There would be another race to get there, another Claim War. And the Prophecy of Fenys is going to happen one way or another, regardless of what you do or don't do. Prophecies have a way of doing that, you know, otherwise they're not really prophecies at all. It might just be your death that sets the galaxy's destruction in motion. Did you ever consider that? Either way, there's no way to know. Don't ever think you've got your destiny all figured out, because you don't. You can't. There are too many variables.” “I still don't understand what you want me to do. I don't understand how I'm supposed to destroy the galaxy but save some of it at the same time. It doesn't make any sense, even when I'm sober.” “Breeder's eyelashes, boy! That's why I'm here! It's why I showed up at your gig that first night. I'm the one who's going to help you figure it all out. Eventually. Maybe.” Senzon frowned. “I'm going to try, anyway.” He shrugged. “No guarantees.” He shook a finger at Jerry. “But we have to try. It's a matter of conscience. I didn't become a Master just so I could sit by and watch it all burn.” Jerry sniffed. He tipped his bottle up to take a drink, but it was empty. He tossed it on the floor near the breathing helmet and the other empty beer bottles. It struck something with a loud clink. Senzon c****d an eyebrow. “Miss Carpenter's life might depend on you making the right choice.” Jerry froze, and his lips tightened. His landlady was the closest thing to “family” he had left. If anything happened to her... He ran his hands through his hair and gave Senzon a long-suffering look. “All right, old man. I won't eat a plasma bolt. Happy now? I'll listen to you and do what I can. I'll flap my arms like a bird, fly up to the Nightfire, and fetch the secrets of the universe. Or whatever it takes. Good enough?” Senzon nodded. “Good enough.” “Then I—” Senzon vanished. “Oh, for Breeder's sake...” Jerry pointed at the spot where Senzon had been standing and looked up at the ceiling. “I hate it when you do that. It's rude. You hear me? It's rude!” Jerry stood up from the sofa too quickly and wobbled from a sudden dizzy spell. He took a moment to regain his balance, shoved the pistol in his pocket, and headed towards the bedroom, accidentally kicking a couple of bottles along the way. He passed by the kitchen and grimaced at the pool of beer on the floor. He should have cleaned it up. But it had waited this long; it could wait until morning. He continued to his bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. The night seemed a little too still and quiet without his breathing machine's noise in the background. He listened to the creaks and pops of the house settling. There were certain times in his life when he had felt utterly alone, and he could feel that sensation creeping in again. He missed his parents. His missed some of his old girlfriends. Most of all, he missed his infantry buddies. They understood him in ways civilians couldn't. Brandon Woods's death was like a fist around his heart, squeezing everything out until nothing remained but numb despair. A noise from the living room caught his attention. It was the sound of a lock being picked. There was a click; it was the door's latch. Someone was breaking in. Jerry sat up, pulled the pistol from his pocket, and thumbed the safety off. He rose from the bed and stumbled towards the door. He caught the door's knob, took a moment to regain his sense of balance, and then turned it. He inched the door open and peered out. The hall was dark, but it was still light enough to make things out. There was no one in sight. He waited for a few minutes, listening, but he didn't hear anything. Maybe it was his imagination. Just the same, it wouldn't hurt to look around. There could be a burglar hiding somewhere, waiting for him to fall asleep before robbing the house. Burglars tended to be cowards, so this one would probably run at the first sign of trouble, right? Jerry hoped that was the case. He wasn't in the mood for a fight. Or the condition. He stepped out of his bedroom with his gun pointed ahead. His feet felt thick and awkward. He mentally kicked himself for drinking so much. It was the way his luck ran; he always seemed to get drunk right before he really needed to be sober. He turned the corner of the kitchen doorway and quickly glanced around. Nothing in the kitchen. He stepped past the doorway, down the remainder of the hall, and turned into the living room. There was a bang, and a plasma bolt whizzed past his head, dazzling his eyes. Jerry instinctively pulled himself back, lost his balance, and fell. He hit the floor with a thump and a groan. A ghost image of the plasma bolt floated in his vision. Another bolt blasted through the corner where he had just been standing, blowing a charred hole through it and sending pieces of wall flying everywhere. The air became full of dust. Jerry coughed and began to crawl. A third bolt slammed into the wall behind him, and then a fourth. Jerry got his feet back under him and lurched forward. He entered the kitchen, completely forgetting about the spilled beer until it was too late. His foot hit the puddle and slid sideways. He lost his balance and fell headlong towards the far wall. He hit the floor, rolled a couple of feet, and crashed into the oven, nailing the crown of his head on the hard steel. He cried out and rubbed his scalp. There was already a knot forming. He glanced around the kitchen, trying to decide what to do next. A shadowy figure appeared in the doorway. Jerry didn't hesitate. He raised his pistol and fired off several shots. His aim was wild, and the bolts went everywhere, peppering his home with yet more blackened holes. The burglar cursed and ducked back around the corner. Jerry watched the doorway, ready to fire at any hint of movement. The pistol wavered in his hand. He tried to keep it steady, but his hand-eye coordination wasn't working properly. The burglar's hand and pistol appeared and fired several random shots into the kitchen. Jerry returned fire. He tried to shoot through the wall at where he thought the burglar was standing, but his shots wandered all over. The gun ran dry, his military training kicked in, and he instinctively ejected the magazine and reached for a fresh one. He patted around on his pockets. No magazines. He grabbed the oven handle and tried to pull himself back to his feet. If he could get to the knife drawer, then at least he'd have a weapon. He put his hand on the drawer handle. Something clicked behind him. Jerry whipped his head around. The burglar stood in the kitchen doorway, frowning at his pistol. Like Jerry, he was out of ammunition. He shoved the gun in his pocket and drew a knife. Jerry tried to pull the drawer open, but he moved too quickly, got dizzy, lost his balance, and fell back to the floor. His fingers got caught in the handle, and the whole drawer was yanked out, spilling all his kitchen knives everywhere with a loud crash. A couple of blades pricked his left thigh on the way down, making him wince. The burglar stepped carefully around the spilled beer. He eyed Jerry uncertainly, as if trying to decide how to attack a drunken man who was sitting on the floor in a pile of knives. Jerry grabbed a butcher's knife and waved it menacingly in front of him. “I'm a war veteran. I've killed people on lots of planets. I'll cut out your heart and eat your liver.” The man flinched and took a step back. His toes planted down in the spilled beer, and his foot slid out from under him. He fell forward with wide eyes, open mouth, and flailing arms. He dropped the knife and reached out to catch his fall. Jerry instinctively thrust the butcher's knife out. The burglar landed right on the blade, impaling himself in the chest with a soft crunch. Jerry put both hands on the knife to hold the man's weight and keep him from falling on him. The burglar cried out briefly, and then blood bubbled out from between his lips. He grasped frantically at Jerry's hands and arms. Jerry heaved him aside, shoving the knife in all the way to the handle before releasing it. The burglar hit the floor with a thump and lay on his back, struggling in vain to breathe. His trembling fingers wrapped around the blood-slick handle and pulled. The blade exited his body by about an inch before his fingers slipped off the knife. He whimpered, and then his hands fell to his sides. Several moments later, his chest ceased to move, and his body fell completely still. Jerry waited for a minute or so, watching. He then grabbed a steak knife from the floor and jabbed the man in the neck. No reaction. He stabbed him again, this time in the belly. Again, nothing. He felt for a pulse. There wasn't one. He sighed, practically deflating with relief. It was over. He dropped the steak knife, leaned his head back against the oven, and closed his eyes. After taking a few minutes to catch his breath, he looked over and examined the burglar. The man was Agrarian, middle-aged, with long stringy hair and a few days of beard growth. His clothes were shabby, and there was a sort of “shiftless bum” aura about him. Jerry wondered if he was homeless, or perhaps he was an escaped patient from Stonefell Asylum. He felt around the outside of the man's pockets, but they seemed empty. He heaved him over onto his side and felt his back pockets. There was a wallet, and he pulled it out. It contained a money card and a Forest Hill County resident card. The man was a Homesteader, or at least he appeared to be. Jerry slowly and carefully got to his feet. He put a hand on the counter and waited for the room to stop lurching. When his sense of balance was good enough, he walked out, giving the spilled beer a wide berth. He entered the living room, plopped down on the sofa, and picked up the comm from the end table. He called the Stonefell County Sheriff's Office. “Um... hey. Yeah. My name's Jerry Harper, and there's a dead body in my kitchen.”