This side of Lh'owon was a desert. Sand dunes rolled in all directions to the pink and yellow sky, except to the north, where one might see signs of an ocean - sunlight reflecting of of the ribbon of blue - or maybe not. A violet moon hung ominously low over the planet, looking ready to crash. Off in the distance the ruins of a city could be seen.
There was a shimmer of light and a person appeared on the sand. He wore all black and had a large bulbous helmet with a semi-reflective visor. In his belt he had fifteen clips for his MA-75B, which he had in his hands, and three clips of grenades beside them. On his hips were two .44 pistols and thirty clips. There was a pack on his back with ammo, flares, and a Zeus-class fusion pistol. All of his other weapons had been dropped or lost.
He took off his helmet and looked around. His hair was long and greasy, plastered to his head by the helmet. There was a full beard on his chin, mussed and unkempt as his hair. He let the dry breeze hit his face. The air was cooling now that the sun was going down. "Where the hell am I?" he said aloud. He hadn't had actual contact with anything organic and friendly for God knows how long, or even any of the baerson AI's, for that matter. The last terminal on the Pfhor ship had looked something like this:
Good w@//*^ We &8^&^$?>?)* 739384579374ontact with *^&*^&G&%?&*%#?et
7!// control
****JUMP PAD READY****
And now he was on this planet. Something had happened to the computers and he was alone on this planet, as he had been alone on the enemy ship. He saw the city and began to walk towards it, putting his helmet back on and hoping to find some operative computer or sheilds generator - he was down to half of his1X sheilds.
The ruins weren't as far as they looked, and with the sky only beginning to darken he came over a dune to look at them. It wasn't a city. A huge ship had crashed and was standing on its side. There was nothing left of it but a black, smoking skeleton.
He dropped his arms and stared. He was so close he could smell the smoke. It smelled of metal and mechanics and flesh. He wanted to run forward and search for any trace of life - Pfhor or otherwise, he didn't care. He wanted to fall on his knees and break into desperate, violent, human sobs. But he couldn't move, and he couldn't feel, so he stood still with his mouth hanging open behind his visor and his gun dangling next to his leg, and all he could think about was home.
*Inspired by and based on the painting by Craig MullinsBack to the Front Back to the Pfhor War Chronicles Back to the Stories Index Disclaimer