Starkindler (MechaVerse Series Book 1)

by Jeremy Cunkle

  ISBN: 978-1-36-787550-0

  STARKINDLER

  Book 1 of the MechaVerse Series

  Copyright © 2015 by J. B. Everhart – Jeremy Cunkle

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. For authorization of use inquiries, contact info@jbeverhart.com

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at info@jbeverhart.com – Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including: photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, who can be reached at info@jbeverhart.com - except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. The quotes used within the work were found publicly available on the internet. The characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are products of the author’s wild imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons, dead persons, events, places, or organizations are purely coincidental and not intended by the author (ye damned sue happy megalomaniacs). Any references to actual places, people, brands, or other works of fiction are also fictitious … duh.

  Published by J. B. Everhart

  Jbeverhart.com

  Edited by Savannah Thorne

  Cover art designed and created by Brian Nixon, edited by Anne Fosnaugh

  Printed in the United States of America

  INDIEGOGO BACKERS

  PETER MANN

  DANIEL WHIPPLE

  JOSEPH WHITE

  KATHERINE WHITE

  JENNIFER CUNKLE

  RYANN and ALEX CUNKLE

  GEORGE GEORGIOU

  SANDRA FRANCISCO

  BARBARA CUNKLE

  DWIGHT CUNKLE

  STEVEN WHITE

  PHILLIP JOHNSON

  SEAN PROSSER

  TIM WHITE

  CHARLES McNEAR

  BRIAN NIXON

  JOSEPH NILES

  NICOLE EVERHART

  CHRISTOPHER HOY

  Dedication

  To Ryann and Alex, my children whom I love more than you will ever know. May you see this and future works and know the power of holding a dream fulfilled in your hands.

  Special Thanks

  To Brian Nixon for the original cover art. All rights belong to him for the incredible work he did and his patience for working with me. Also my alpha and beta readers: Peter Mann, Charles McNear, Kendra Cunkle, and Sam and Steven White.

  There is a wonderful group of people in my life who know exactly who they are. Those years spent building our own little world to live in and the ensuing friendships that will last a lifetime because of it. We may not speak often, but we always pick up right where we left off and we are always able to remember those years fondly.

  Lastly, special thanks to Savannah Thorne at the conclavejournal.com for final editing and teaching me every bit as much as working with me on how to make this the absolutely best work it could be.

  Authors Note

  Beware ye who enter here! Dear friends, please bear with me as I momentarily wax poetic. My prose shall be brief, containing within it a warning. Allow me to reiterate the fact, for it is indeed a fact; that this tome and the story contained within are rich and vibrant in ways that you would not have guessed. This story bears within it a message, not hidden! No that would not do, for guile is not a tool that I would employ. Instead, the message is readily apparent to those that would see, for the truth that it does represent. Contained within is a warning of things that might come to be, in a future too far for the eyes reading this story to see in person. But, someday, our children shall; and our hands shape their future.

  My wish is not to be presented to the world as a madman, crying out on the street corner that the end is nigh, death and destruction, the end of the very world! To those who would seek to either argue about the veracity of my suppositions or make the ideals held within to be a maxim which they live by; I have only one thing to say to you. @&!$ off. The world has enough fanatics; leave us moderates in peace.

  I strive to walk a middle ground and present those who would listen with a warning, encased in parable form, while simultaneously entertaining the reader with a story that leaves them able to have temporarily slaked their thirst for curiosity and epic adventure. I have sought to do so in a manner as comfortable as an old pair of well broken in shoes.

  If you are able to open this story and see nothing but the science fiction novel of a first time author, then to you I say, “God bless your innocence”. In all sincerity, I hope you are able to maintain it. If you lose yourself in the future that I have presented, then I have failed and I apologize. My wish is that you would find yourself pulled along to the bitter end; to then be left with thoughts and questions of your own with the basic tools at my disposal and it is up to the reader to then make their own judgments.

  Now, back to the warning; two-fold, equally important. First, the reader should quickly come to the conclusion that this story is not intended for a mass audience; for like all truths, any good advice is always ignored by the intended recipient! Humanity, in its infinite and boundless wisdom, requires first-hand experience in order to learn anything truly worthwhile. Secondly, I intentionally sought to render the reader emotional at times. The easiest way to create a memory is to attach an emotion with it. As humans we remember emotions, not facts.

  From the very beginning of this book, I have tried to organize it in a way that initially punches the reader in the gut. While they are gasping for air, recovering, and unable to look away, the story moves quickly along, drawing them further in. It is up to the reader to draw their own conclusions!

  You have been warned, you will not listen, I wish you good luck.

  Nemesis Trilogy

  STARKINDLER

  J. B. Everhart

  A MechaVerse Novel

  Find out more about the author as well as participate in the community blog:

  JBeverhart.com or info@jbeverhart.com

  BOOK ONE:

  STARKINDLER

  Prologue:

  I once had the opportunity to witness, entirely third person, a verbal exchange between a firefighter and a victim whom the firefighter had just saved from all but certain death. A high-rise tenancy caught fire, trapping the man on one of the quickly destabilizing smoke filled upper floors. The firefighter apparently ignored the evacuation order given by his commander, knowing that there was still one person inside still unaccounted for. The building falling down around him in piecemeal fashion, the firefighter proceeded to retrieve the last victim from Hade’s ever-grasping clutches despite all odds of either of them making it out alive.

  Afterwards, the peculiar pair sat on the back of an ambulance, each of them breathing through a respirator, together recovering from smoke exposure. One of them was there because of raw circumstance, the other because their duty encompassed risk enough that their self-contained respirator melted in the process of saving the former. For comparison’s sake, the duo could not have been any more different. The firefighter’s bald pate reflected more liver spots than strands of shock-white hair in the flickering light of the dying fire. The victim, a much younger man, was still dr
essed in the ragged remains of a designer suit and tie he had worn while toiling away the day.

  As is quite often the case in what could only be loosely defined as similar circumstances, the victim who found himself sitting in an awkward silence on the back of the ambulance alongside the firefighter felt the need to thank and converse with his savior in the quiet moments that occur after the action has died down. The reality of at least a few more moments to spend living in Lady Fortuna’s grace had begun to settle in, so that now the victim needed to cheapen the moment by acknowledging his savior’s heroism, the only meaningful factor that had been just enough to tip the scales in favor of continued life despite the victims own incompetency. The irony of the situation struck me as such that, before the two had a personal and albeit single sided beneficial interaction, that sort of acknowledgement from the victim to his benefactor would otherwise have never occurred.

  Listening in, the victim issued forth what could only be imagined as the standard thank you’s, to which the firefighter at first listened humbly to, interjecting the proper amount of “it was all in a day’s work,” and “no big deal,” as well as a few “I am just glad that you are alright” and plenty of other meaningless and well-practiced clichés where appropriate. That is, until the dialogue suddenly changed to a level of honesty only perfect strangers can ever really achieve.

  I was about to walk away, my sense of voyeuristic adventure having been fulfilled vicariously, when my curiosity was piqued by a rather poignant question, something along the lines of, “I do not understand how someone can knowingly place them-self in harm’s way for a complete stranger. You have experience telling you to be afraid, orders were given to evacuate the collapsing building, and yet you willingly placed yourself in harm’s way regardless of every reason telling you not to. Both of us should be dead right now, and you knew that was a distinct possibility when you stayed. How is that justified or explained? Is it courage, a death wish even? Or, is there something that is simply broken within you that enables you to run into a burning building when other men are going to unimaginable lengths to escape?”

  In that moment, I felt that I had been given a gift of perception so powerful, that I could see the firefighter’s response to that question echoing throughout his long career of service. He transformed before my eyes. The wrinkles around his eyes eased back into the smooth skin of thirty years previously, his shoulders rocked backwards, riding high with the vigorous strength of youth and limitless vitality. Pride in who he was and what he did radiated from him, stiffening his back with the infusion of immortality as he replied. Such was the clarity of the moment that I knew what he would say before the words left his mouth. Within that perfect moment, I knew what the version of him twenty years younger and even ten years younger had said when asked the very same question.

  “Someone has to do it, if not me, than who?”

  Commander Ultor:

  Thoughts and Digressions

  Yes, one man can change the world.

  They say a merchant's life can be measured by the amount of wealth he has accumulated by the end of his life, and that a humble and honest man can be judged by the small but earnest number of the people at his funeral. A holy man can be judged by the devotion of his followers. A great ruler can be judged by the legacy they leave after their passing. How then would you judge a man who lived by the sword? I would say to judge him by his enemies. Mikkhael Dreyfus named the entire corporation of Mars Industries, its proxy government, and the army it controlled as his enemies.

  More importantly, they named him Enemy of the State Number One.

  One man spearheaded the fight against the largest government, army, and their parent corporation that ever existed, and it was my sincere privilege to know him during that fight of fights. The one thought that must be noted is this; what could a man have loved so dearly that, when it was taken from him, he had enough hate that it caused him to go to war against all of that? It must have been something truly worthwhile.

  He never told us his motives for his seemingly suicidal campaign, no matter who asked. They were all like that, though, he and his four friends. They were so close that they referred to each other as “brother” and “sister” and interacted as siblings, although it was clear they were in no way related by blood. There are times though, especially on the field of battle, when people can become as close, or closer, than siblings and lovers. Times that forge a relationship, not by blood, but by bond; a common and profound experience through shared hardship that forges something that cannot be felt or explained, the bond can only be experienced.

  It is one of these times that I was able to witness, or perhaps experience is a better word. A time when the very fabric of the world we lived in was torn, the mountains we sheltered in were moved by the artillery and bombs rained on them, and many of our friends lost their lives. It was also a time that a man can spend his entire life wishing to be part of, and walk away completely defined by the moments experienced.

  Even though our time together was short, the impact of those moments will echo throughout the remainder of my years with a brilliant clarity. I was not the only one who felt this way; Mikkhael touched everyone fortunate to meet him in the same profound manner. His was a simple and genuine honesty, incapable of deceit, and he was loved by all who did not fear him for the resolve and force of will he embodied.

  For the most part he was quiet and kept to himself; possessing a single-minded focus that revolved solely around his purpose. Nothing was important that did not assist him in his mission to eradicate Mars Industries. He was singular in those intentions, a walking weapon in mortal form, and we merely walked in the shadow he cast; but oh what a shadow it was!

  He never asked anything of us. Simply being in his presence drew us to his cause in the way that a lighthouse standing isolated against a terrible storm commands respect and attention. He lit the beacon of hope within himself, and that pillar of light shone so brightly that all who saw it could not help but be drawn to its presence. Like the nearby villagers, we shook in terror as the storm raged against the bulwark that he had become, every so often peering from our windows in our sheltered homes to see if he still stood there in stolid defiance. His strength made us want to stand with him, his silence shamed us into action, and his hatred was so intense that it made ours seem insignificant and paltry by comparison. He became the face in the mirror looking back at us, the one we all judged our own self-worth against.

  Chapter 1

  - Alice Springs, Australia – 2077 A.D.

  “In war, truth is the first casualty.” Aeschylus Greek tragic dramatist (525 BC - 456 BC)

  He watched them die.

  The utter disbelief of the horror taking place paralyzed him. His cowardice was so profound that it overwhelmed even his ability to run away. He stood rooted to the spot, flinching at every scream, every desperate cry for help, watching as they died. He was so powerless that he was unable to even close his eyes, let alone shut out the screams of those being murdered right in front of him. He absorbed every small detail as the events taking place moved in the slow motion sequences that accompanied traumatic events. The steadily rolling staccato bursts of gunfire from every direction ended with the solid thumps of metal impacting wetly against unprotected flesh. Some husbands attempted to serve as human shields for their loved ones, others attempted to flee in panic as cowardice and their natural survival instincts took over, all died regardless.

  He watched as some of them tried to run to safety and were shot down like dogs. He listened as those too panicked to flee screamed uselessly where they were for mercy or in sheer agony, and yet he could not move to help them. Even after feeling the warmness of complete shame trailing down his legs as his cowardice overcame even the most basic of human functions was he helpless to do anything. He stood and watched powerlessly as his friends and family members were systematically executed by men in stark grey uniforms right before his eyes.

  He opened his mouth to scream
in protest at what was happening, but his voice betrayed him. The sound of it ringing out in protest exploded in his mind, but his cowardice overrode even that instinct. He stood rooted to the spot in complete terror, desperately trying to figure out a way to make the horror stop, but every thought he could muster took an eternity to create. Every second that he wasted, more of those who were dearest to him were forever taken from him, and yet he could do nothing, not even look away. He lived, and watched, while they died as he did absolutely nothing to help them. His conscience screamed at him: “Murderer! Coward!” But to no avail. He remained paralyzed.

  In those few, brief moments that everything that made him human was destroyed, demons awakened within him that would forever infiltrate every bit of who he was, becoming an integral part of his identity, plaguing him forevermore. When the people he loved and the shelter they provided to him from the vagaries of the outside world were taken away, they were replaced by an opaque darkness tinged with streaks of red. It was then he looked around and the only question he could form was “Why? Why not me too?” In that moment, he knew true, overwhelming despair. So profound was the pain, that when he looked around the field of death spreading out before him, the only movement he could muster was to reach towards the dead, asking them to take him with them and not leave him behind. Tears poured down his face in uncontrolled streams as the world around him crumbled along with his humanity.