Mars Rising (Domeworld Saga Book 1)

by John Corwin

  Bits of metal and glass flew through the air. A tire bounced past. I felt something under my hand and picked it up. It was Mr. Cullen's pack of cigarettes. I stood and walked toward the parking lot. Of the car there was little left except a few stray bits. Primarily, there was a large black crater in the middle of the parking lot.

  "Well, I suppose that just happened," I muttered. Today had been the day. I sat down on the walkway, took out my remaining cookie, and nibbled at it.

  Conrad Edison Chapter 2

  I almost ran away.

  Unfortunately, I knew from previous experiences that trying to live on the street would be much worse than living with another foster family. I didn't like the idea of returning to the orphanage, but at least it was safe. Perhaps they'd find me nice people to live with who wouldn't die around my birthday.

  Like Cora died.

  We walk down the street looking for a new grocery store so we can steal food.

  "Stealing isn't right," Cora says. "But when you have nothing, it's sometimes a necessity."

  I look up at her and nod. She'd dyed her hair a darker color, but I couldn't tell what it was.

  A homeless man begs for coin.

  Cora reaches into her small purse and frowns. After a moment, she removes a pound and gives it to the man.

  "God bless you, young lady." He tucks away the money.

  As we walk away, I say, "I didn't think you had any money."

  She smiles. "That was almost the last of it." Cora kneels in front of me. "Always help people if you can, Conrad. Good karma is priceless."

  I felt a tear trickle down my face. I balled up on the ground and tried not to cry. Karma had not treated Cora well. She'd died like the rest.

  I spent the rest of the night sleeping in a chair at the police station.

  "Time to wake up, Conrad."

  The familiar voice jerked me awake. I sat up and saw Mr. Goodleigh leaning over me. He smiled pleasantly. I had seen the look enough times to know he was amused. I suspected the misfortunes that found my foster parents entertained him to no end. He was always the one to collect me in the aftermath.

  I stood and felt my pocket for the remaining bit of angel biscuit I'd saved for breakfast. It was still there.

  "I have finished the paperwork." Mr. Goodleigh motioned toward the exit. "We can go."

  I nodded and followed him outside to the old but pristine black car he drove. It looked like a London taxi, but was much larger. I climbed into the back seat and closed the door. Mr. Goodleigh got behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled onto the road.

  "Mother will be pleased to see you again," Mr. Goodleigh said. "And just in time for your birthday."

  "I will be happy to see her too, Mr. Goodleigh." Due to the bad things that happened to my fosters, I was always at the orphanage for my birthday.

  "Tut, tut," he said. "Since your foster parents are dead, Little Angel Orphanage is once again your home. I am no longer Mr. Goodleigh to you."

  "Yes, Father."

  His gaze met mine in the rear view mirror. I looked down.

  "What did I tell you about looking away, Conrad?"

  With difficulty, I brought my eyes back up. "To never look away."

  "It is a sign of utmost disrespect, son."

  "I apologize, Father." I forced myself to look directly at his reflection.

  He nodded. "Much better." Mr. Goodleigh began to chant one of his favorite songs as he drove. The words were in a foreign but pleasant-sounding language. I tried to make out the words, but as usual, they slipped away from me no matter how hard I tried to listen.

  I fell asleep during the ride as I normally did. It seemed impossible to keep my eyes open for longer than a few minutes after Mr. Goodleigh began singing. A bump in the road just outside the main gates woke me as it had many times before. Tall black iron fences connected to thick gray-stoned walls on either side of the road. The wall surrounded the estate.

  Brickle Brixworth, a giant of a man, stood on the other side of the gate. He nodded once at the car and, with a mighty tug, pulled open the heavy iron. Brickle was a groundskeeper, a guard, and even a farmer all rolled into one. I'd seen him tending to the animals, weeding the garden, and repairing the house. Once, he'd fended off a burglar by picking him up, carrying him outside, and hurling him over the front gate.

  Mr. Goodleigh nodded at the groundskeeper as we drove past. Brickle nodded back. Once we were through, he closed the gates.

  The driveway wound through a wide pasture. Horses and cows grazed in the distance. There were sheep on the farm as well, but they were confined to other fields. The tall gray manor appeared in the midst of tall oaks at the end of the gravel drive. It was not a huge building, but contained thirty-three bedrooms and a large nursery in one wing. Chimneys rose from all sides. The building made an L shape where the residential quarters met with a common room connecting to a large kitchen.

  Mr. Goodleigh pulled into the cul-de-sac and parked in front of the door. A pleasant looking woman stood on the front steps. As usual, Mrs. Goodleigh styled her hair in a tight bun and wore a dark dress. Mr. Goodleigh exited the car, walked around it, and kissed his wife on the cheek. The pair looked at me expectantly.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the car door and climbed out. "Hello, Mother." I dropped to one knee in front of her.

  "Hello, Conrad." She held out a fair-skinned hand.

  I took it and kissed each knuckle. "I ask permission to return to hearth, home, and kin, Mother and Father."

  "With open arms, we welcome you," they said in unison.

  I stood. "Thank you."

  Mrs. Goodleigh inspected me. "You look no worse for the wear. I suppose that will be less work for the doctor tomorrow."

  "As you say, Mother." I was surprised that tomorrow was my birthday. It hardly seemed a year since the last one. The weather didn't seem warm enough for it to be June again already.

  "Twelve years old," Mr. Goodleigh said. He shook his head. "Perhaps this time will be the charm."

  "Perhaps." Mrs. Goodleigh didn't look convinced. She turned and stepped inside the manor.

  I followed them into the empty common room. At this time of afternoon, the other children would probably be doing chores on the farm. I knew not even this day would pass before I was expected to do a share of work. Whether that meant cleaning bathrooms or polishing the wooden floors, I didn't know.

  "Your bedroom is ready," Mrs. Goodleigh said to me. "You will find your work clothes in the chest of drawers. Put them on and go to the farm. There is a patch of weeds that needs tending."

  I nodded. "Yes, Mother." I walked up the wide wooden staircase to the second floor and followed the hallway to the sixth door on the left. A bare metal bed frame sat in the middle of the small room. I unfolded the worn, striped mattress and struggled to put it on the bed. When it toppled onto the frame, the metal feet shifted a fraction, leaving a tiny scar in the wood.

  My stomach tightened in apprehension. Mother would not be happy. I straightened the mattress, looked for the sheets, and found them neatly folded in the closet. I placed them on the bed.

  "What are you doing?" Mother said from the door.

  Startled, I spun to face her. "Preparing the bed, Mother."

  "Is it bed time?"

  I almost looked at the floor, but forced my eyes to stay on hers. She despised looking away even more than Mr. Goodleigh. "No, Mother."

  Her eyes caught on something and hardened. "You damaged the floor."

  "An accident, Mother."

  She stepped into the room and approached me until her nose was only inches away. "An accident," she hissed. "What did I tell you to do?"

  "Change into work clothes and go to the farm."

  "What did you do?"

  "I prepared the bed."

  Her lips pressed tight. When she spoke, her voice was low and cold. "Nearly twelve years of age and you are still as stupid as the day you arrived here. Are you incapable of learning, or do you simply not car
e?"

  I didn't respond because I knew from experience she didn't want me to answer.

  "I believe you are guilty of incompetence and apathy." She turned and walked back to the door. Without turning to face me, she said, "Put on your work clothes and go to the farm. You will be punished tonight." With that, Mrs. Goodleigh left.

  I shivered. The room felt cold from her anger. I tried not to think about what form of punishment awaited me. The Goodleighs were very inventive. Sometimes the punishment was psychological. Other times it was painfully physical. They seemed to know what worked best on each child in their care.

  After quickly putting on my clothes, I walked as fast as I dared—Mrs. Goodleigh didn't allow running in the house—and left by the back door. I felt cold prickles on the back of my neck and looked over my shoulder at the house. I saw the Goodleighs watching me from a second floor window. Averting my eyes back to the dirt road, I forced myself not to shake.

  I always end up back here.

  The dirt road led between several wooden buildings. Stands of oaks bordered the area. Between the trees, I saw open pastures where the livestock grazed and wondered how pretty it would look in full color.

  The chicken coop stood to my left. Hens pecked in the dirt while a bantam rooster colored with several shades of gray kept a watchful eye. He had long spurs on the backs of his legs and liked nothing better than to fly at anyone who dared come too close to his abode. Gathering eggs required a quick hand and agile reflexes. I had neither, and usually resorted to swinging a metal bucket to keep the vicious cock at bay.

  Pigs snorted and rooted in the mud in their pen on the right. They were huge creatures, some of them with long curving tusks like wild boars. Thankfully, their feeding trough was easy enough to reach by standing on the fence. From there, I could pour the slop along the length.

  Brickle enjoyed telling new residents a story about a boy who enjoyed snorting and throwing things at the pigs. He would climb atop the fence and antagonize them into a frenzy. One day, he'd fallen in and the pigs had eaten him, bones and all. I didn't know if it was true, but had little doubt the pigs could tear me limb from limb if I did fall into their pen.

  The sheep and goat pen, now empty, stood next to the pigpen. I saw William and Stephan mucking it out. Their wheelbarrow held a large pile of dung.

  William looked up and saw me. He nudged Stephan. "Hey look, Killer Conrad is back!"

  "How did you kill your fosters this time?" Stephan asked. He jabbed his pitchfork into the ground. "Did you stab them?"

  William made a whooshing noise. "I'll bet he set them on fire."

  Brickle exited the brown barn behind the two boys. "No talking during chores." For someone so large, his high voice always surprised me.

  The two boys immediately got back to work, shoveling dung as if their lives depended on it.

  I approached Brickle. When I drew near, I stopped and waited.

  He looked me up and down. "Still puny." He poked me in the shoulder, nearly knocking me over. "Still weak."

  I recovered my balance but said nothing. My fists wanted to clench and my jaw wanted to tighten, but to do so only invited more pushing. Brickle saw such body language as a challenge to his superiority. He enjoyed putting me in my place. I kept my eyes straight ahead and waited.

  "The chicken coop." Brickle pointed to the building. "Clean it."

  "Yes, sir." I turned and went to the red barn across the dirt road from the brown barn. Though I couldn't see the colors, it was what everyone called them. From inside I took a pitchfork, a small shovel, and a metal bucket. I hoped to slip past the rooster and into the coop so he wouldn't chase me. I could probably close the door, but the fumes inside would quickly overwhelm me without fresh air.

  I stepped back outside the red barn and turned toward the chicken coop. The sound of a stomping hoof pulled my attention back in the opposite direction. At the end of the dirt road near the compost pile, I saw the old bull staring me down. What is it doing here? It was either supposed to be in the pasture with the cows, or locked inside its own pen.

  Thankfully, the bull had never been aggressive, except for the time William had mistaken it for a cow and tried to milk it. The bull had not taken kindly to the attention.

  I wondered if I should notify Brickle. A strange light seemed to dance in the bull's eyes. The animal bellowed loudly and, without further warning, charged me. I froze with shock. Why was it coming for me? What was wrong with him? Dimwitted as I was, even I knew to run from the path of this raging beast. I dropped the tools and pushed against the door to the red barn but it wouldn't budge. I rammed my shoulder against it, but the door didn't move an inch and only made my shoulder ache.

  The bull sped past the other outbuildings. I turned toward the sheep pen and ran. I climbed over the fence and ran through the mud toward the opposite side. William and Stephan were gone, perhaps into the brown barn. I went to the barn door and tried to open it, but like the red barn, it was also sealed tight.

  I wondered if someone was playing a prank on me, or if this might be my punishment. The Goodleighs had used the farm animals many a time to punish me and the others. I heard a loud cracking of wood and turned as the bull crashed through the fence. I cried out with fright as the beast veered toward me.

  Bos Taurus. Temperamental.

  "What?" I shouted. The strange thoughts couldn't have distracted me at a worse time. I jumped to the side an instant before the bull gored me. The beast rammed into the side of the brown barn hard enough to make the building shudder. Its thick, curving horns plunged through the wood.

  I heard a loud pounding from inside the door of the brown barn and Brickle shouting something. There wasn't time for me to hear what it was, for the bull was already working its horns free.

  The manor was too far away. The barns were locked. As a last resort, I might be able to run into the oak trees and dodge around them until the bull tired or help arrived. I turned toward the trees and saw dozens of bovine eyes looking back at me. The cows stood behind the wooden fence. They pushed forward as one. The fence cracked and fell over. The line of cows moved forward in lockstep. With an angry moo, the bull jerked its horns from the barn.

  I ran straight across the pen. There was only one force mighty enough to take on the cows. I simply had to hope they didn't eat me before the bull reached me. I climbed the fence and leapt into the pigpen.

  A large sow squealed and ran from me, a group of piglets trotting in her wake. A large mound of mud shuddered and rose to reveal a monstrous boar. It snorted and pawed the ground. With a loud squeal, it raced toward me on stubby legs. The bull crashed through the fence behind me. When I turned, I saw its eyes flash bright. I had never seen such a thing. I might have stood and stared, but common sense prevailed.

  I ran for the boar. Footing was treacherous in the thick mud. My breath came in ragged gasps, my legs wobbled with fright. I felt certain I would die. Why should I care if I die? Nobody else in the world cares. The thought nearly made me pause. Perhaps this was the fate designed for me, crushed between a boar and a bull in a muddy pen. The others would remember me if only for the entertaining story.

  Weak as I was in mind and body, my survival instinct proved strong. As the two beasts thundered my way, instinct took control of my legs and leapt me out of the way. The bull and the boar crashed hard into each other with an awful bellowing squeal. Something hit me hard on the back of the head. My face burrowed into the muck and I slid forward several feet.

  Strange symbols flashed behind my closed eyelids. I remembered seeing some of them during a math lesson. Others looked completely alien. I might have wondered longer at this strange sight, but my mouth and nose were buried in the mud and I suddenly realized I couldn't breathe. I jerked my face up and spat while scraping the mud from my face. My hands were so muddy it took a little while.

  I felt warm liquid mingling with the cool mud. When I finally cleared my eyes, I saw thick crimson blood pooling where I knelt. I turned. The
bull and boar lay in a huge heap. Blood poured from the bull's mouth. The boar lay on its side, its mouth hanging open, tongue lolling in the mud.

  Red blood? I can see color?

  The sow squealed and rooted at the boar. Her piglets danced around her feet, each one trying to reach one of her many nipples. Her skin looked quite pink beneath the coarse hairs on her hide. The oak trees looked bright and full of green leaves. It was as if someone had taken a gray landscape and painted the world.

  The herd of cows meandered aimlessly within the pigpen while some of the other swine dashed for freedom through the broken fence.

  Suidae suinae sus. Swine. Most notable for bacon.

  The strange words I'd been hearing in my head suddenly made sense. They were scientific classifications for animals.

  Yes, it's a pig. They are very tasty.

  We hadn't learned these classifications in school, so how did I know them? I closed my eyes and saw strings of mathematical symbols flowing like a river of nonsense. The schoolwork at the orphanage was rudimentary, nothing so advanced as this.

  I heard the mud sucking at someone's feet. Before I could turn to see who it was, I was lifted by my scruff and jerked into the air. Brickle held me in front of him, face red with anger. It was so interesting seeing the color in his face, I nearly forgot I was in trouble.

  The Goodleighs stood on the dirt road outside the pigpen. I could tell by the looks on their faces that the blame for this debacle rested squarely on my shoulders.

  My first day back was not going well at all.

  But at least I can see in color.

  ###

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