Ruined Worlds

Chapter 2 – Called In

Chapter 2 – Called In

“And where were you, Mr. Harper?” Sheriff Davis Fry asked. He stood in the living room and took notes on an old-fashioned paper notebook while his men surveyed the crime scene.

“Bedroom.” Jerry was still sitting on the sofa, and he gestured towards the hall. “I was about to go to bed. That's when I heard the break-in. I had a gun, so I went to check it out.”

“How did the man end up in the kitchen?”

“He shot at me from the living room. I had to duck in there. He followed me in.”

“Judging by the holes in the wall, it looks like you got a few shots off.”

“Yeah. Emptied the mag. Didn't hit him, though. My aim was off.” Jerry hiccuped.

“How did the beer get on the kitchen floor?”

“I dropped a bottle earlier, but I put off cleaning it up. Just wasn't in the mood. I've been feeling kind of down tonight.”

“And that spilled beer ended up making all the difference in the fight.”

“Yeah,” Jerry said with a grunt. “Never thought being a slob would save my life. But sometimes you get lucky.” The memory of the Harowaith at Blackshoals came back, and he shuddered. “Sometimes luck is all you have. I get lucky sometimes. But my friends don't. Seems like their luck always runs out sooner or later.” An image popped up in his head, a vision of Brandon's corpse lying on the floor in Inquiry Hall. Jerry's voice fell to a murmur. “Their luck always runs out.”

“What happened after the intruder fell on your butcher knife?”

“I made sure he was dead, and then I called you.”

“Ever seen him before?”

“Not that I know of.”

Fry scribbled a few things in his notebook.

The door banged open, making everyone jump.

Jerry winced and looked.

Ann Carpenter, the landlady, stood in the doorway, her gray Reliant face a mix of worry and righteous outrage. Her long gray hair was in disarray, and she wore a light jacket over a frilly nightgown. She glanced around for a moment, taking it all in with her big black eyes, and then entered and slammed the door behind her.

She hurried over to Jerry and sat on the sofa next to him. “Are you all right, Jerry?” She took one of his hands in hers. “You're not hurt, are you?”

“I'm fine.” Jerry gave her a smile and squeezed her hands affectionately. “Sorry this little break-in got you out of bed.”

“Nonsense. This is my property, so of course I wanted to check it out personally as soon as I heard.” She looked up at Fry. “Well, Sheriff? What do you think? Is it as simple as it looks? Just an ordinary burglary?”

“Now, Miss Carpenter,” Fry said, looking somewhat embarrassed, “you know I can't speculate about that at this time.”

“Maybe not. But I'm still your landlady, and I'm old enough to remember when you were a boy.”

“That may be so, but—”

“I was running a successful business before you could shave, young man.”

Fry gave Jerry a defeated look.

Jerry gave him a wry grin.

“And I've always been a patriot,” Miss Carpenter continued. “I'm a Gold member of the Volunteer Rifles Civilian Support Organization.”

“I know, ma'am,” Fry said. “Your generous donations are no secret—”

“And being civilian patriots means we support our soldiers and Auxilians. I expect you to take care of Jerry as best you can. He's a war hero, you know. He was at the Third Battle of Blackshoals.”

“I'm well aware of Mr. Harper's status as—”

“And the Breeder expects us to take care of one another, too. You should have learned that in church. Every Agrarian is your brother in a spiritual sense.”

Fry sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “I promise I'll do my best, ma'am. All right?”

Miss Carpenter gave him a stern look and then nodded. “Good. See that you do.”

“However, I will need to contact the military about this. You're still technically on active duty, right, Mr. Harper?”

Jerry nodded. “Yeah. I was reactivated not too long ago.”

“That's what I thought. Excuse me for a moment.” Fry stepped outside to make the call.

“I'm so sorry, Jerry,” Miss Carpenter said, patting his arm. “I hate it that this happened to you, especially after everything you just went through on Cortex. Losing your friend like that was just so horrible. I can't imagine.”

“I appreciate that.” Jerry gave her a smile, though there was no real feeling in it. The funeral service for Brandon had been two weeks ago, and he knew it would be a long time before the pain faded.

Brandon's sister Candace had been there, along with her husband and children. Their relationship with Brandon had been strained since the Claim War, as was often the case with traumatized veterans. At the funeral, she had accepted an award on her brother's behalf. Ealdorman Philip Brewer himself presented it to her.

Brandon was posthumously named a Shepherd of Homestead for sacrificing his own life to save the life of the Ealdorman. It was the highest and most prestigious military decoration Homestead's government could bestow. It consisted of a small Chevalloy shepherd's crook that hung around the neck on a white silk ribbon. It was the only medal Homestead awarded that was made from Chevalloy, and its recipients were a select few. Brandon's actions in Inquiry Hall had placed him in the company of the most heroic of Homestead's heroes.

Jerry was glad for his friend. Brandon deserved the recognition. He had earned it with his life. But Jerry still wanted to lash out in rage at the galaxy for taking him away like that.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Miss Carpenter asked. “Something to eat?”

“No, thanks.” He gave her another smile; this one had a little feeling in it. Miss Carpenter was like a surrogate mother sometimes, and she had always had a knack for making him feel better. “I'll be all right. Just a little shook up, but that'll wear off. I've seen lots of people get killed. And I've killed lots of people. Just never in my home before, you know?”

“I'll have my workers scrub the place down.” Miss Carpenter stuck out her chin, all fierce determination and industriousness now that she had a problem to tackle. “We'll fix the plasma damage, too. By the time we're done, there won't be a trace of hair or blood or anything, you mark my words. I'll supervise it all personally. And everything will smell lemony fresh, too.”

Jerry chuckled. “That sounds great.”

Sheriff Fry came back inside. He peeked into the kitchen for a moment and then turned back to Jerry. “I talked to General Gardner and told him about the break-in. He wants to talk to you. He'll be calling you soon.”

Jerry opened his mouth to reply when the comm on his end table beeped. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“Harper, this is General Gardener. I've just been informed of your little incident. Sheriff Fry says the man was Agrarian. Is that right?”

“That's right, sir. About middle-aged, I guess. Kind of rough-looking. He had a Forest Hill County library card.”

“That's not good. You know what that means, right, Harper?”

“No idea, sir. I'm a bit rattled at the moment. And a little drunk.”

“It means we've got spies and traitors on Homestead. Working for the Mentarch, probably, though the Hierarchy is a possibility.”

Jerry swallowed. “So you don't think it was just a burglary, sir?”

“The odds are slim, considering you're the victim. You're not a wealthy man, Harper, and your home is modest. No offense, but you're not a very attractive target for a burglary. But you are attractive as a political target.”

“I see, sir.”

“Harper, I want you to come to Fort Chapman tomorrow and discuss this. I want to put you back in action. I know the doctors haven't given you the all clear yet, but they're just being cautious. I was just talking to the Auxiliary-General two days ago and she said you should be healed up by now. I'll have to talk it over with Ealdorman Brewer, but I think he'll agree with me.”

“I'm ready, sir.” Jerry cleared his throat and tried to sound confident. “The breathing thing was supposed to come off tomorrow anyway. I'm ready to carry a sword and a rifle again, sir. All I need is a few hours to sleep off the beer.”

“Excellent. Then I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Also, you should know that I'm planning to publicly announce your electrokinetic ability. It's a matter of morale. We'll make you out to be a sort of secret weapon, if you take my meaning. It looks like we're all going to get plunged headlong into a new war, and our enemies already know about your ability anyway, so I don't see the harm. Again, though, I'll discuss this with Brewer first, so don't say anything about it yet. But I think he'll see it my way, and I think you should prepare to have your secret become widely known.”

“Yes, sir.” Jerry grimaced. It wasn't the sort of notoriety he wanted, but duty was duty, and he'd do his part.

“I won't mince words, Harper. We're in serious trouble here. If war breaks out, then we'll be hard-pressed. We lost a lot of tanks and ships in the Claim War, and production has yet to make up for it. The politicians didn't prioritize it, so the money got diverted to other things. You know how it is. Also, the next generation of soldiers hasn't grown up yet. Our officer corps isn't what it should be. Nine years simply isn't enough time to get back to full fighting capacity. The Reliants may be slaves to their Mentarch, but they're more industrious than us, and they've already replaced what they lost. No Breed can match them on the assembly line. I need you to understand the gravity of the situation, Harper. If the diplomats can't work out a solution, then we're milking cows without a bucket.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. The details of your next mission can wait until tomorrow. Try to get a good night's sleep if you can. I don't care if you're hung over so long as you're alert and able to think. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gardener out.” He severed the connection.

Jerry put the comm on the table and leaned back with a sigh.

“Bad news?” Miss Carpenter asked.

“Not sure yet.” He turned to look at her. “Gardener wants me back on base. For better or worse, I'll be in uniform tomorrow.”

* * *

Calael Avisherin stood in his pasture and patted one of his cows. “Hello, Chaia. Yes... good girl. I hope you're enjoying the nice weather today.”

The cow turned her head towards his hand and licked it.

Calael laughed and scratched her behind the ears. “Yes, you're a good girl. A fine animal. Good girl.”

The others crowded around, bobbing their heads and swinging their tails, all wanting their share of attention.

He moved among them, patting them all in turn. The air was thick with the odor of manure, but it was a healthy, natural smell, and he didn't mind so much. It reminded him of better days from his youth, days spent exploring the woods with his friends and hiking down country roads just to see what was out there.

He smiled as the herd gathered around him. “Hello, ladies. Yes, it's good to see you all. I hope you're all having a pleasant day.”

They mooed in response.

His new residence was in Rocky Ford County, a place on the opposite side of the planet from Jerry Harper's Stonefell County. He'd never owned cattle before, and he wasn't interested in being a rancher, but they came with the place the government had given him, so he was stuck with them. Luckily, there was a very capable Agrarian tenant who handled all the cattle-related chores, leaving Calael to do as he pleased.

The cows had been terrified of him at first; wild animals had a natural fear of humans, and that went double for Felids. Cattle were domesticated, of course, not wild, but they still reacted like wild animals when smelling Calael for the first time. But food in the hand was hard to resist, and they had eventually warmed up to him. Now they came running whenever he appeared.

Calael glanced towards the top of the hill. The bull stood there, silhouetted against the sky, watching him.

Calael hoped he stayed there. The cows loved their new human, but the bull was a different story. It was stubborn and mean and a bit stupid, even by cattle standards. He had tried to train it with the cattle prod, and it had sort of paid off—the bull no longer attacked him whenever it saw him—but it was still unpredictable. He wondered if more experienced ranchers had similar difficulties with their bulls.

He stroked the nose of a cow. This one was named Avelira. He had given them all Felid names, even though they were Agrarian cows, but they didn't seem to mind. Avelira licked his cheek, leaving it covered in thick saliva. It was disgusting, but he laughed anyway and patted her neck.

As much as he enjoyed their company, and as much as they helped him forget the outside world for a while, the cows' affections weren't enough to put him at ease. The encounter with the Mentarch had shaken him to the core, and he was still trying to sort it all out, trying to find a way to reckon it. There was a reckoning for all things, but the Mentarch seemed to be an exception. It appeared indestructible and eternal, and that ran counter to his religion. It was a paradox, and his time mulling it over on the farm hadn't helped him reconcile it. It was time to ask for advice.

He spent a few more minutes with the cows before heading back to the house. Once inside, he washed his hands and face thoroughly, scrubbing hard to remove the cow stink. When he was finished, he headed into the office and sat at the desk. A minute later, his call had gone through, an old familiar face appeared on the monitor, and he was asking a learned elder about the Mentarch. He didn't quite get the answers he wanted.

“I wish I could be of more help, brother,” Ralatar Elliserin said. He was an elderly Felid man from Clan Ch'teven, and he wore a black robe. The scene behind him was that of a private chamber in the Harowaith Temple.

He gave Calael an apologetic smile. “I'm afraid my knowledge of the Mentarch is tempered by the unpredictability of its alien nature. I'm sure it's every bit as evil as you say, but beyond that, I simply don't know what you should do about it. Or even if anything can be done about it.”

“I understand.” Calael frowned. Ralatar was his old teacher, and Calael trusted the man implicitly. If Ralatar Elliserin didn't know what to do, then it was probably unknowable.

“The only advice I can give is to remember your training.” Ralatar gave him an intense look. “Focus on the fundamentals, and they'll see you through to your destination. We are the warrior Breed of the galaxy. The Breeder made us this way for a reason, and it's our calling to fulfill that purpose to the best of our abilities, even if we don't understand why. Especially if we don't understand why. It's a test of faith, and a testament of faith. There is always a reckoning; for all things, and for all men.”

“There is always a reckoning,” Calael echoed with a slight nod of his head.

“We say 'Breeder's will be done,' but it's not just a slogan. It's the reality of the Wheel of Fire. The Breeder's will will be done whether we like it or not, and regardless of what we do or don't do. Our best chances of contentedness come when we attempt to live in ways that are congruent with that will. That's the whole point of our religion. Not to provide us with lives of happiness, nor of ease, nor of accomplishments of which we might boast. It's to provide us with satisfaction in death, the most sublime manifestation of joy.”

Calael nodded. He already knew all the doctrine, of course, but it helped to hear it again from a trusted elder.

“I suppose that's all I have for you. Did you have any other concerns?”

“No, not at this time.”

“Then good luck, Calael, and may you fulfill the Breeder's will.”

“Thank you, brother.”

“And I'd like to see you in person again soon.” Ralatar gave him a kindly smile. “Too many years have escaped us, thanks to your Agrarian jailers.”

Calael smiled back. “Of course. Now that I'm out of prison, I'll try to plan a trip to the Temple.”

“I look forward to seeing you. Farewell.”

“Farewell.” Calael ended the call.

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. His life had been orderly and purposeful once. Then the attack on Valaia's Dream had happened. Later, during his imprisonment, he had thought it over and decided he had avenged his clan as best as he could given the circumstances. There was a measure of satisfaction there, and he was resigned to the way things had turned out. He would never repair the hole in his heart, but it was gradually scabbing over and becoming something he could live with.

Then he had become entangled with Jerry Harper, and everything had become chaotic once again. He needed to restore the old order somehow, to at least regain the resignation he felt in prison. Ralatar was right; Calael needed to get back to fundamentals. He needed to do assassin-monk things.

He needed to be a Harowaith again.

He made a call on the comm. A woman's face appeared on the monitor.

“You've considered my offer?” she asked.

“Yes,” Calael said, “and I accept.”

“Good. I'll send you an assignment shortly.”

Calael severed the connection. He leaned back, cracked his knuckles, and laughed.