Chapter 8: Home Sweet Home

An explosion – then deafness. When Sellihca opened his eyes he saw his childhood home blown open, fire licked at everything. Outside, people ran through the village streets screaming, only to be torn down by vicious creatures leaping through the crisp air. Above, loomed bulk-class troop cruisers, their engines aglow against the night sky, idling, dropping troop cans on the countryside below. In the last remaining corner of their house knelt his mother, Nelope, a cleaver in one hand and a repeater pistol in the other. A large gash sketched across her faded indigo face, pulsing with blood.

“Go, Selli,” she said. “Blend into the night. Run, hide. Save yourself!”

A fellow villager ran screaming into their burning house, only to be trampled by a gruesome creature – half Felta, half Urik. As they watched, the creature tore into the screaming villager’s flesh – blood splattered over Sellihca. All he could do was watch the horror. As the Slavo ate, the creature absorbed its victim – its skin grew mottled with indigo, patches of black hair grew over its body and one eye rolled over white.

Nelope stood up and said, “Go now, Selli! Run!”

Sellihca lurched upwards, quickly grabbed his hunting blade and rifle and rolled out of the stone window. He ran as fast as his small legs could. Every step or so he would turn his head to watch – his mother leaping and slashing the beast with her cleaver, dodging its outstretched claws, firing the repeater into the monster.

Then he stopped and turned. His mother was standing over the quivering body of the slain Slavo, nudging it with her foot. Then she looked up the grassy hill and caught Sellihca’s eyes – she could always find him, even the darkest hiding places. About to run out of the broken house, a horde of Slavos leapt onto her. Sellihca turned and ran, listening to the gurgling, muffled screams of his mother as the Slavos tore her apart. He ran to the only place he knew he’d be safe – his goomwa tree.

Overlooking the village, he climbed the massive tree and nestled into a large branch crook. Thick with red velvety leaves, he was completely hidden, but had enough breaks in the leaves to see it all. His breath heaved. His heart raced. From that tree he watched the complete annihilation of his village. As his eyelids hung heavy, he heard the blasts and explosions in the distance. Other villages were being razed. Repeater fire. Explosion. Screams. Explosion. They were so far off, yet Sellihca felt they were right below him. He leaned back and forced his eyes open. When they fell, he startled himself awake, only to let his lids fall once again.

Sellihca opened his eyes. Gone was his home world, the Slavos, his mother’s screams. His ears rung. Dust floated in the air all around him and odd people dressed in sleeping robes stared at him. Lying broken amid the rubble, Sellihca reached to his chest and felt for his sternum scar. It was healing nicely and there was no damage to the precious cargo within his ribcage. His head spinning and his body numb, Sellihca activated his COM on his ear and chin and gurgled the words, “I could use a clean up crew in here…again.”

But before the Broken Fang could rocket to the side of the building to pick him up, the whole apartment flashed in red light. Peering around the rubble, Sellihca and the awakened tenants saw three Param Eon enforcers hovering about the crater of the apartment – their flashing warning lights spinning frantically. Sellihca held up a hand to protect his sensitive eyes from the bright flashing red lights and said, “That figures.”

While Sellihca freed himself from the rubble, a voice from one of the enforcers yelled, “Down! Face down to the floor and put your hands behind your head!” The sound of activating pulse cannons filled the apartment. Sellihca was no fool. One he could definitely handle, two maybe, but three enforcers full of Handmen were too much – even for him. He lay on the ground and put his hands behind his head. As soon as he did that, doors slid open on the enforcers and nine Handmen jumped out, decked in full-on assault armor and rifles. Two of them immediately ran to Sellihca and pinned him to the floor.

One of the Handmen wore no helmet or armor at all. She wore black Handmen fatigues that covered every inch of her body except her head and neck – perhaps her most striking features. Hairless, her round skull held pale blue watery eyes and as evidence to her experience and endurance, her jaw, lips and neck were stretched with terrible burn scars. From his position on the floor, Sellihca watched as she strode over to him and knelt down, holding a reignfire pistol to his temple.

“Made quite a mess here,” she said. “Scared a lot of people.” She paused to lick her dry and stretched lips. “I’m betting your story hasn’t quite gone the way you had written it.” She pushed the pistol into Sellihca’s temple harder.

Sellihca spit dust out of his mouth and said, “Permissions.”

“What?” she asked.

“Permissions,” he said. “Look me up. I have huntala permissions for Param Eon. Granted by the Outer Realm Magistrate.”

Her gaze wavered as she looked toward one of her Handmen. He knelt over Sellihca with a coder and pressed the tip against his dark indigo skin. Vibrating briefly, the coder registered the captured skin cells and data streamed over the viewplate of the Handmen’s helmet. When it stopped it showed a picture of Sellihca.

“Mairrem Retsbew,” the Handmen read. “He checks out, Kristol. Has huntala permissions. Looking for a Palo Solar.”

Kristol stared her watery blue eyes at Sellihca, mulling over what she had in her hands. Then she pulled back the pistol slowly and holstered it on her hip. She ran a gloved hand over the side of her face and looked down at Sellihca. “Release him,” she said.

Sellihca shrugged off the Handmen holding him down and stood up. Kristol glared at him. He felt like she was seeing through every fleshy layer of him. Thoughts swirled wildly in his head. Was she a patho? Could she read his thoughts? Or was she just really, really good at seeing people for who they really were? The longer he looked her in those ice blue eyes, the more it felt like they were boring through his skull.

Sellihca dusted off his arms and said, “Sorry for the mix up. I didn’t know he had that many friends.”

Kristol blinked for what seemed like the first time since he met her and said without a smile, “Then you’re not very good at what you do.”

He stood by as the Handmen filed into the enforcers. Kristol had leapt onto one but held onto the door before getting in. “I would hope for your sake, our paths do not cross again.” Cuvee engines flared to a high-pitched hum and the enforcers slipped off into the night. Sellihca watched them zoom away.

Almost instantly, the Broken Fang rocketed up from below. The entry hatch slid open and Sellihca jumped inside. The cool air pouring down from the overhead vents soothed his dirty sweaty neck as he walked to the cabin. So far nothing had gone to plan. Sure he defeated Mar, but his armor was nearly destroyed. And this latest setback. He literally had the courier in his hands before… Before that ship crashed the party. What kind of ship was that? He had never before seen anything like that.

He arrived in the cabin and thrust himself into his seat. And that Handman. Odd. He had never felt so unprotected before in his life. Seventy-five years of work, and one Handman got him. Must be getting sloppy. He had to redouble his efforts. Think ahead of everyone. Get to the point before anyone else. Bending over to the console, he said, “Scour the ship for tracers. We aren’t leaving this planet until we find any bugs those Handmen placed on the hull.”

Sellihca leaned back in his seat and punched up his charts on the console. A deep blue planet came to life on his viewport.

“Have to repair my armor,” he said to the empty cabin. “And the only place I can fold flashore is at home.”

* * *

As the Broken Fang slid over the rolling hills of Saculias, Sellihca watched in great delight. The land beneath his ship still lied scorched and torn asunder. The landscape was littered with ramshackle colony prefabs – speckled with plasma burns and repeater fire. Every village he flew over showed no signs of life, only ghost towns remained. Near the horizon a great stone city rose up. Overtaken by bloodweed and rappa vines, it too looked to be deserted.

Leading away from the city, wound rough trails across the prairies, worn down by the migrating herds of sheva. Then he saw it – growing larger out in the distance. A large goomwa tree, his goomwa tree – its massive branches dead and broken, the soft, red velvety leaves long gone. Sellihca felt a dull sadness growing in the pit of his chest. Goomwa trees were great symbols to the Saculian clans – they showed mighty strength. And now all that made Sellihca strong seemed to fade.

He brought the ship down next to the tree. As the entrance hatch slid open, he turned his head in disgust. A foul wind blew the stench of rot and death into his face. It had been almost one hundred years since he returned. Not much had changed – just more and more decay. Striding toward his tree, he looked down on his old village. Rustic hadclay lodges and huts still stood. A few prefabs were scattered throughout.

A smile lit up his face when he saw a few villagers mulling about. There were less last time. He knew the Saculians couldn’t be kept down. The Slavos decimated the entire planet, yet life lived on. A few survivors had made it – determined to resurrect their village, their city, their home.

He patted the withered trunk of the goomwa tree and walked down the hill toward the village. Either he was getting used to the smell or it was fading away. It didn’t matter. As he neared the town a crotchety old man stopped and held his indigo hand up to the fading sunlight.

“Ogidnew!” exclaimed Sellihca. “I haven’t seen you in –“

The man lowered his hand as Sellihca approached and continued on hauling a sack of grain over his shoulder. “About a hundred years?”

He watched as the old man sauntered off, oblivious of Sellihca’s joy. He shuffled forward to catch up to him and said, “Ogidnew. Have I offended you?”

The old man continued walking and said, “Me? You’ve offended everyone which goes by the name Saculian.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” the old man said and continued walking.

Sellihca stepped in front of the old man and hefted the large sack of grain off his shoulder. The old man grew angry and grabbed the other end of the sack and pulled. Sellihca pulled back.

“How have I offended everyone?”

The old man tugged again. “You left.”

“A lot of us did,” Sellihca said. “Your granddaughter, Solte did. Half of those that survived left.”

The old man tugged at the sack and pulled it out of Sellihca’s hands, landing on the ground with the heavy sack in his lap. “We despise them as well.”

“But why?”

The old man stood up and hefted the sack of grain back onto his shoulder. “Our planet was dying and you chose to leave. You chose to abandon your home for the wealth of the guild. You left us alone.”

As the old man carried on without him, Sellihca looked down at the ground, saw his feet once again on his home lands and it hit him. Of course he was to be hated. All these people, left starving, wounded, loved ones lost to the Slavos – they were the strong ones, rebuilding a lost civilization from the ground up. His head spun imagining the hard work, the strength that lied within these few people. How their hands ruptured with blister, their bellies quaked for food.

That night, as he pounded and shaped his armor with his old flashore hammer and steel, he thought about his actions. With each pound and clank he grew to hate himself. The coals in the fire cast a bright glow across his indigo face, his mouth seized, his eyes furrowed. Pound and clank. He saw their tired faces, their sick children, their putrid food. Pound and clank. He saw the Slavos tearing his people apart, the bright blue glow of their starships hovering overhead. Pound and clank. His mothers scream. Her eyes as he turned and ran away.

Then at a moment of utmost clarity, his COM lit up and he listened to the message that wisped into his ear, “I can save your planet. I only ask for your loyalty.”

Sellihca held up his helmet, forged back into its original state, the glow of the fire casting a shimmer across its smooth surface. Around lay the other pieces of his armor, hammered and folded back into their original form. Then as he brought the helmet down, he saw his old friend Ogidnew standing before him.

“The town council have agreed to pass forgiveness,” he said. “They only ask a favor. Deep in the Hoovra Caverns, dwells a rogue Slavo – abandoned by its kind. For years we have tried to rid ourselves of it, but none have succeeded. The council asks you to remove the beast and all will be forgiven.”

The muscles in his face fell slack and the fire felt cold. Sellihca looked at his reflection in the helmet, his fierce white eyes. His mind ground down to a stop, crystallizing in two choices – stay and rebuild his home piece by piece, with the strength in his hands. Surely that would take more time than his lifetime would allow. Or go away again. Fight another battle and bring the boons of Haalastare to his world. Power, wealth, the ability to regenerate a world with a turn of the hand. It seemed so simple.

“I must go, my friend,” said Sellihca. He held his hand out to his friend’s shoulder. “My connections off this world can heal it much faster. My fight lies elsewhere, but the rewards come here. You must trust me.”

Ogidnew’s face fell into sorrow, his white eyes turning a shade of gray. “Do what you must.” Then the old man turned and walked out of the rubble that once was Sellihca’s home.

“You’ll see,” said Sellihca. “Someday bulk cruisers will arrive here…thousands of them, maybe even millions. Loaded to the gills with workers, food, technology. Salucias will thrive and become greater than it once was. I promise you!”

As Sellihca packed up his armor, his mind raced. Ogidnew’s face flashed in his mind, his deep wrinkles growing deeper, his eyes dimming. He imagined the council shunning him, damning him. They could get on without him, they’d say. Who needs him, he’s just one – we are many. They’ll eat their moldy femta bread and drink fermented goanna spirits and toast to his departure. Saculians were strong. They’d carry on without him. Wouldn’t they?

He hefted his armor trunk onto his back and walked up the hill to the Broken Fang. Half way there he turned back to the town. Torches wavered in the breeze outside the great hall. He heard no eruption or clamor. No righteous cheer to strengthen themselves. And for a brief moment, he thought perhaps they weren’t strong enough, perhaps all they needed was one man to lead them, and bring their world back into the light.

Behind him he heard the engines of his ship lurch to a start, so he turned back around and finished his hike up the hill. He stopped at his goomwa tree and rubbed the bark with his hands. Rotten and dry, the bark crumbled in his hands and fell away like dust. He adjusted the trunk on his shoulders and walked into the ship, saying, “Our contact sent us the coordinates. Let’s chart a course and get there before they do. I have to realign the circuits in this armor before we arrive.”

The entrance ramp slid closed and the boosters glowed. The pawney grasses blew and bent to the force emitted by the engines as the ship rose, until high above the goomwa tree, the engines whined to a great scream and the Broken Fang roared into the atmosphere.