Ruined Worlds: Wheel of Fire, #3

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 cocked 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.

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.

Chapter 3 – Symbols

Jerry arrived at Fort Chapman the next morning. He made his way to the Rifle Intelligence building, was directed to General Gardener's office, and knocked on the door.

Come in.

Jerry entered. Sergeant Jerry Harper, sir, reporting as ordered.

Gardener rose from behind his desk and strode towards him. Excellent. Right on time. He gestured to the door. Walk with me, Harper.

Jerry and the general left the office and walked down the hall. They took the elevator to the ground floor and made for the lobby.

Your case is an unusual one, Gardener said, glancing over at Jerry, as I'm sure you're aware.

Yes, sir.

Actually, I'd even say it's unique. I doubt Homestead's ever had a similar situation with a Rifleman before. Gardener waved to the Auxilian manning the front desk and continued out the front door of the building.

Jerry followed him outside. It was late summer, and the mornings were getting cooler, but it still looked like it would be a nice hot day. After his adventures in the cold Chakros River valley on Cortex, the heat felt good. It felt like home.

As a result, Gardener continued, Ealdorman Brewer and I have been discussing you at length. We've finally decided what to do with you. We're going to start by stripping you of your rank.

Jerry's mouth fell open, and his stomach lurched. He stumbled for a moment and had to hurry to catch up. Sir, say again?

"You heard me.