Sower

Sard loped along beside the mountain stream before angling away to start across the forest clearing that it tumbled through.

His hope of losing the three men who’d chased him for a mile went unfulfilled but good instincts, great eyesight, marvelous reflexes, and a good deal of luck saved him.

His instincts made him look toward the nearby trees on his left. One of the chasers stepped into the clearing and hurled a spear in his direction.

As it split the air on its path toward him, he did a rapid dance to his right and with a practiced motion, he slid his knife from its sheath and snapped his wrist propelling it forward. The honed weapon caught the spear-thrower in the throat. The man collapsed without a sound.

At the same time, another assailant emerged from the trees at a run, a double-sided axe upraised as he covered the thirty feet or so to where Sard crouched.

Sard didn’t have his axe with him, only his scythe, an instrument he considered a tool, but, as it was heavily constructed, it could also be used as a weapon. He quickly drew it from its sling, and holding it at the ready, he dodged the axe of the fast-moving figure. He swung the scythe at the attacker but only managed to hit the axe. It flew from the attacker’s hand and he snatched at the scythe catching it at the upper edge of the handle, but Sard doggedly held on and swept his legs. The man crashed to the ground and dragged Sard down with him. Sard landed on top knocking the wind out of the attacker and causing him to lose his grip on the scythe. The man’s eyes went wide and he sucked in a breath and howled as Sard quickly brought the sharp-edged instrument down. The man’s forehead split open from the force of the blow silencing him mid-howl.

The third man, trailing the other two, ran from the forest shrieking and launched his spear. Sard flattened himself against the dead man and the spear sailed over him coming to rest somewhere to his rear. Tugging the scythe free and rolling away from the motionless body, he scrambled to get to his feet but was still on one knee when, knife in hand and yelling, the wild-eyed assailant tackled and bowled him over. Sard lost his grip on the scythe and it went flying, rotating as it skidded across the ground.

Stones dug into Sard’s back as he caught at the hand that held the knife, preventing a slash to his throat. They went rolling over the blood-spattered terrain, the man hanging on to his knife, Sard trying to gain possession of it. One more roll and the man was on top of him, but Sard gave a forceful heave and tossed him over his head. He jumped to his feet but so did the attacker who still had a grip on the knife.

The man seemed inexpert, holding the knife awkwardly, but Sard knew that wouldn’t matter in the end if he didn’t stay alert, and he was tiring with sweat stinging his eyes. Good at dodging, he could avoid the knife if the attacker threw it, and that would give him an even chance since the man didn’t appear to have another weapon. However, the man hung on to the knife, and glaring at Sard, he crouched, preparing to spring. Sard stared back. At that point, his best hope of getting out of the mess alive was to get his hands on the knife. He braced for the attack, and his foot bumped something in the grass. He did a quick eye flick and spotted the scythe. Getting his hands on that would make the odds of him surviving even greater. Straining to keep his mind clear, he watched for his chance.

The man yelled and rushed him, knife upraised. Sard, acting fast, scooped up the scythe and spun while swinging it - a maneuver that might’ve worked better if his foot hadn’t hit a patch of blood-slickened grass causing the scythe to whiff past his intended mark as he slipped awkwardly to one knee. He grasped the handle tightly and hung on.

Swaying backward as the man clumsily thrust the knife toward his chest, Sard grabbed his hand forcing it down and away, a move that saved his heart but the assailant whacked him on the side of the head making his ears ring, and he lost his grip on the man’s knife hand. Managing to hang on to the scythe, he was unable to keep the knife blade from continuing its downward plunge and penetrating his left thigh.

Sard grunted, shoved his attacker away hard, and retaliated, swinging the scythe out and opening up his belly. With a harsh gasp, the man fell to his knees clutching his middle as intestines came sliding out in a rush of gore. Sard, his energy nearly depleted, used both hands and put all the muscle he could into it, as he swung again, this time across the man’s neck nearly decapitating him. A bright plume of red sprayed forth and he dropped to the ground and lay still with his head at an unnatural angle, his eyes already glazing over.

Sard, covered in blood and gulping in deep breaths, went over on his hands and knees. He made to stand, but the knife, still embedded and sticking from his thigh like some sudden obscene growth, brought him to a halt. He’d felt it go in, but oddly, it had only felt as if he’d taken a hard punch. He grasped the knife and pulled. Blood spurted, bringing with it a blast of the pain he hadn’t felt before. He clutched his thigh and fell back, his head swimming. He lay there for a moment before he could muster the strength to lift himself halfway up. He gazed at the wound through the sweat running into his eyes. The pain was nasty and the blood still flowed freely, but it no longer spurted.

It was an indication that the wound might not be as bad as it felt, but his body was leaden and his stomach roiled, and with a sudden rush of nausea, he rolled over and vomited in the grass. Dizzy, his strength drained, he crawled unsteadily over to the nearby stream and tumbled in.

He barely felt the shock of the icy water as the bright day grayed out around him.

Chapter Two

He came to lying half in the shallow water at the edge of the stream, blood seeping from the gash in his thigh. The red threads streaked off downstream spreading out and disappearing into the flow of the current.

It was the contrast of the chill of the icy water with the heat from the late morning sun that roused him. On the one hand, his body from the thighs down was growing numb from being immersed in the cold stream. On the other, his backside from his hips up was above the water and was hot from the sun beaming down on him.

His upper body lay face down atop a large, partially submerged flat stone and he was gripping the far edge of the rock with one hand. Grabbing and holding on had been an instinctive action he’d taken in his semi-conscious state to pull himself from the stream. It kept him from slipping back in and perhaps drowning before he could get himself fully out of the water. He’d gone into it on purpose, hoping to stem the flow of blood and numb the pain. He had not expected to pass out.

He pried open his eyes and stared at the bare gray rock underneath him, becoming alert. He pulled himself up and crawled onto the shore. Feeling a sting on a certain part of his lower anatomy, he paused, a momentary alarm striking him until he sat up and realized he had merely scraped himself on the rock. That was when he discovered he’d lost his loincloth in the stream. With no time to secure it properly before he made his hasty escape from the campsite of his pursuers, the strip of cloth had loosened further during his desperate encounter with the attackers.

This was the second nick he’d acquired in that area. The first time, the scratches received came when he squeezed through brush on his way into the forest. The circumstances were similar, but that time, he had made a clean escape. In this case, he hadn’t been as lucky.

He grunted. At least the blood from the dead man had washed away in the stream along with his loincloth. His knife sheath was also gone, but he still had his moccasins. That first time of almost getting caught had taught him to keep them on when he went about doing what he’d come to do. That time, he had removed them and then had to run with them in his hand when there was no time to put them back on. He’d cut one of his feet before he finally got a chance to stop.

Since then, he didn’t remove his moccasins when he took off his loincloth. His feet didn’t get cut this time, though they were going to be sore. Unfortunately, the moccasins were in sad shape, and he would have to get another pair, but that was the least of his worries at the moment.

Although the incident had seemed to go on forever, it couldn’t have lasted more than four or five minutes. Someone could’ve been following minutes behind the first three, and coupled with the time he’d spent in the stream, he could still be in danger.

He looked up. The pale blue sky was cloudless, and observing the shadows cast by the surrounding trees, he estimated he hadn’t been lying there for long, five or six minutes at the most, though he couldn’t be certain. That, however, was longer than he’d intended. He was not in the best of conditions and he needed to get out of the open as quickly as possible. He wouldn’t last through another fight if it came.

First, he gave the wound in his thigh a quick examination, ignoring the minor abrasions he incurred in the fight and his headache from where the attacker bashed him upside the head. That the cut wasn’t gushing indicated no major vessel had been hit, confirming his first impression that it was not a life-threatening wound, or not immediately so.

The knife had missed the bone, but the cut was moderately deep, and it looked bad. Immersing himself in cold water had been effective in staunching the heavy bleeding, but it still oozed. The gash interrupted the smooth flow of his skin and seemed to glare up at him, giving off a sense of wrongness. Now that he was no longer in the icy, pain-deadening water and his adrenaline was wearing off, it was beginning to ache. He needed to act fast or it would soon become full-blown agony.

His nausea threatened to return but he swallowed and managed to keep it in check. He picked up the nearby, gore-encrusted scythe grasping it by its rat hide wrapped handle, and used it as a support to help him stand. He warily swung his piercing black eyes around the quiet vicinity looking for signs of any other attackers that may have followed and crept up while he was in the stream.

The only things in sight were the blood-spattered rocky shore, a stretch of scraggly meadow grass glistening with dark red splotches, the stunted and twisted trees of the surrounding forest, and the still, lifeless bodies of the three men who had pursued him hoping to exact revenge for finding him in their camp. Their weapons lay near where they fell.

His stomach lurched again. He looked away from the grisly remains and tilted his head, listening. He heard the splashing of the stream as it continued its timeless rush through the small clearing, the whisper of a slight breeze, and nothing else. Even the forest birds were silent, no doubt frightened by the noise and violence of the fight.

He took a step and a sharp twinge shot through his thigh. A thin line of dark red welled up and spilled out, trickling past his knee and continuing down his leg. He pushed the heel of his palm down on the gash, held it there for a moment then lifted his hand. It oozed but the heavy bleeding didn’t resume.

Blowing out a breath, he oriented on where he’d been heading before the attack - a narrow, barely visible cave entrance up a small rise. He limped toward it, his wet moccasins squishing with each step. He had lost his tieback during the fight and the ends of his long, jet-black hair hanging in damp hanks about his broad shoulders stirred in the gentle breeze.

He went up the rise and down the short slope to the opening into the tiny cave. It was little more than a hole in the ground and he stooped to keep his head from banging the ceiling only six feet from the floor. The small dirt and stone-covered area was dim and unoccupied. Spread out in one corner was a worn animal fur pieced together from the hides of large rats. There were a couple of big, flat-topped stones, one of which had the corner of a less tattered fur peeking out from behind it, and in a spot near the other stone was a sprinkling of metal slivers.

A shaft of light from a thin crack in the roof of the shallow cave shone down on a handmade woven basket that held a stash of the usual dried, edible fare of the vicinity. There was also some general debris strewn around such as a carapace from one of the large, chicken-sized cockroaches, small twigs, a few dried blades of the grass that went into basket making, etc. The rough stone walls were smudged with soot.

He went over to the back of the cave and bent lower. The movement brought a grimace to his face as bright pain shot through his thigh with the movement. He laid a palm down on a small rock that had a slightly flattened top, and the rear wall irised open. He stepped through into the much larger space on the other side, relieved at being able to fully stand. With a practiced motion, he slapped the wall leaving a smear of blood, and the opening went shut. At the same time, the place lit up with a diffused light that gave it a soft glow.

He gazed with a benumbed brain and weary eyes at the four hundred square foot room. It had a ten-foot ceiling, smooth white walls and flooring, and was devoid of any kind of furnishings or implements.

His scythe clattered to the floor as he dropped it and slumped against a wall. This mission was turning out to be a lot more harrowing - and a lot less enjoyable - than he’d supposed. It left him wondering if his decision to join the Explorer division of the IFCN and come to Earth had been such a good idea after all.

Chapter Three

Six thousand years before Sard Harbrin’s tangle with primitives who were doing their utmost to dispatch him, the people of Earth discovered a method that allowed rapid transit to other star systems. So they went out to explore and spread themselves throughout the universe.

However, to say humans went out into space does not mean that everyone left the planet. Not by a long shot. Their reason for staying was that they found themselves in an exceptionally prosperous era.

Over the years leading up to the beginning of the exodus to the stars, governments rose and fell, national boundaries changed, until the peoples of Earth managed to curtail their usual wars and violent disagreements long enough to unite under one world leadership. They figured out how to make fusion power cheaply so that they had a clean, renewable fuel for energy thus solving the crisis of climate change, and there were no longer any countries with dictators, over-population, and hunger problems. Most people had no desire to go running off around the universe. It was mainly folk with wanderlust and/or who weren’t finding the new era all that satisfying that left to seek other venues. The majority remained Earthbound and enjoyed the bounty brought in from far-off planets.

For five hundred years after the first ships went out, life on Earth was good. But, it is an unfortunate truth that old bad habits die hard. People fell back into doing what humans had always done: engaging in warfare and killing each other for various senseless reasons. Countries pulled out of the World Union, and from time to time after another conflict, someone would declare him or herself the new world leader. Of course, the latest regime would eventually be ousted, so the tensions and clashes continued.

Earth’s expatriates, in due course, built successful societies on assorted planets in other star systems, and didn’t depend on Earth for anything. Called Exearthers, they continued to return to Earth regularly because, after all, it was the home world, and they had kin there. They felt a sense of duty to maintain contact.

They brought many beneficial goods to Earth and various interesting articles coveted by the ultra-rich populace (though after the incident in which a dinosaur-like creature brought in from a planet in the Tau Ceti star system escaped from an exotic animal zoo and caused considerable damage in one of the capital cities, offworld animals were banned). However, they avoided taking sides as Earth continued to stay mired in one petty internal squabble after another, and none of the governments that gained power were any wiser - or saner - than the one it supplanted.

Since the Exearthers brought much-desired goods to Earth, initially, whoever was in overall charge at the time, allowed them to operate outside of the disturbances. However, after a particularly vicious conflict that once again fractured the world back into divergent countries, various factions tried to pull them into the hostilities and force them to take sides.

Exearthers resisted this and began to come home less often. They eventually broke with Earth and avoided the sector altogether.

In fact, they avoided the mother world so well and for so long that her location was ultimately forgotten by her far-flung children, who, incidentally, were just as prone as their Earth cousins to falling back into bad habits, and in making some of the same asinine choices. This caused things to be chaotic for them for a while, however, they were lucky and finally managed to resolve most of their problems with some outside help. They were fortunate enough to be contacted by the Interspecies Federated Coalition (IFC), which aided them in coming to their senses and overcoming their warring ways. They aimed them in new, less violent, directions.

After four thousand years, the Exearthers relocated Earth and returned to see how it had fared. They found a ruined world, one knocked back into a primitive state of existence. The inhabitants had lost everything, including the knowledge they once had. Due to continuing adverse conditions, progress to regain what they lost moved slowly.

The Exearthers, feeling a bit guilty for having deserted it for so long, set about restoring their old home and the remaining descendants of the people who didn’t leave.

<><><>

A pleasant contralto voice that was filled with concern spoke as Sard leaned wearily against the wall.

You’ve been hurt, Sard. Do you require my assistance?

Feeling as if he were using wool to think, he worked through the words until understanding hit him. He shook his head. Just meds, Tamur. A cabinet slid from the wall next to him.

Why are you nude? Tamur sounded perplexed.

Lost my loincloth, was his short answer as he pulled open a drawer in the cabinet and removed a small can, a square, palm-sized paper package, and a clear round container. Hands full, he glanced around, frowning.

I need a seat, he muttered.

A sturdy bench, padded at both seat and back, silently pushed out from the wall. He eased down and toed off his soggy moccasins. The floor was cool and soothing to his bare feet. He stretched out his leg and examined his thigh again. A look of disgust flashed across his face as he shook his head. The disgust was for himself. He should’ve been able to avoid that one.

Tamur said, "Are you certain you don’t need my assistance? That’s a very nasty gash."

He exhaled heavily and shook his head. No, I can handle it.

Tamur could’ve dealt with it but he didn’t feel the cut was all that bad, and besides, Tamur would make him lie down and would likely inject him with a sleep-inducing drug. He needed to stay on his feet for a while longer. Moreover, getting wounded had essentially been his fault, so he would deal with it himself.

Tamur began, sounding slightly apologetic, I only saw the encounter after the attack had already begun, Sard, and I would’ve intervened but you were so close to them that I was afraid of--

I know, Tamur. No need for you to feel bad about it.

He and the assailants had been pretty close together - at times, very close. He didn’t doubt that had she been able to get a clear shot he wouldn’t have had to kill them, or at least not all of them.

Only so much a stationary partner can do, he reflected. What if she shot her stun gun and hit us all? There’s no guarantee I would’ve awakened before them and had they come to first, my mauled and mangled ass would’ve been lying out there instead of theirs. It was a sobering thought, one that made him glad she hadn’t tried to get a shot.

He hoped she wasn’t about to go off into a running chatter as she was sometimes prone to do. He truly didn’t feel like listening to his partner - and ship - bring up again that she thought he should wear his transceiver at all times, and telling him for the umpteenth time that he should’ve gotten the implant so he wouldn’t have to wear the external device.

The implant would amplify his subvocalizations so he could talk to her even if he were somewhere he had to remain quiet. However, he never took the transceiver when he went to visit a campsite. He didn’t need her peering over his shoulder, so to speak, at that time. As for the implant, it wasn’t required by the IFCN. It was optional and he’d opted not to get it.

This time, though, she was silent as he concentrated on attending his wound. He brought the can up, gave it a shake, and pressed a button on the top. He moved the resulting spray back and forth across the cut.

At first, the spray stung, forcing a low grunt from him and causing his thigh to give an involuntary quiver, then, the fast-acting antiseptic painkiller kicked in, smoothing away the stabbing pain. He opened the package of swabs, wiped his hands and fingers down, and cleaned out the wound.

From the clear container, he took out a piece of soft, pliable material, molded it into a strip the depth and length of the gash, and placed it inside the wound. There was a slight movement and the material seemed to melt into the cut. This was the first time he’d used it, and he was relieved it worked as demonstrated during training.

Blood had seeped out when he pushed in the repair filler and the edges of the wound were ragged. He wiped off the small amount of dark red liquid, gave it another spray, and opened the clear container again. He smoothed on more of the colorless material, flattening it out and rubbing out any creases. That would seal the edges. It would also ensure there would be no scar.

He watched as it rippled and then steadied out becoming a part of his muscular thigh, blending in with the surrounding deeply tanned skin. In a minute, his flesh looked smooth, as though it had never been pierced and ripped open. It would take a few days for it to completely heal; for blood vessels, muscles, and nerves to knit, and he knew the pain would return after a while but he had something for that, too.

He sprayed the antiseptic on a swab and cleaned his minor nicks and cuts, making sure he got them all. He sprayed a small amount on another swab and wiped the abrasion on his member incurred when he pulled himself from the rock in the stream.

"How did you get that?" Tamur’s voice held a hint of anxiety. You didn’t get it hurt in the fight did you?

Knowing the cause of her unease, Sard eyeballed one of the sensors in the wall facing him. I’m fine. Just scraped it on a rock.

Tamur seemed to let