Ode to Salvador De Forenze

The blue sun beat down upon the weary man. his beard, half-shaven, was grey, and his dusty, black hat was torn. His darkened eyes were strangely bright, and intelligent, and his neural implant showed that there would be water soon. he could see the heats and bones of the wild-threnk, their furtive, scuffling movements invisible to a naked eye. But nobody wore their eyes naked anymore, just as nobody wore their bodies naked in this day and age.
His jacket weighed down and made him sweat, but he could not cast it aside, for then the hunters would find it, and would know that he was a man.
All around him the creamy, golden expanse sprawled. He knew that he must not touch the poisonous Picazon Arbusto, otherwise his hand would swell up and he would have to prick it with the tip of his knife. In the sky, again the man looked to the blue sun, Archangel II, the centre of the solar system, and a cruel master. S.L.D. was a lonely moon, far from the populace of San Esperanzo, or indeed even the almost-civilised, grey-washed, bleak streets of New Berlin. He thought of his last visit to San Esperanzo, and of the colours, the smells, the sounds, and the women. He thought of their bronzed bodies, their bright-coloured tiaras, and the sweet perfumes. How he wished to be back there! How he wished that he had never visited that bar! Now he was hunted. He had not been himself when the Domingo Jugo had been inside him. No, he did not remember striking the soldier with his knife. But when he had looked at the knife again, when had woken up, the dark blood was still there, and he had been a wanted man. Now he was hunted.
He had never killed another man before, except in the Old Wars, but then he had been a part of a crew, so that had been different. Nobody in San Esperanzo, or New London cared anymore for the Old Soldiers anymore. They were forgotten, downtrodden, and unwanted.
Oh, how his vision fluttered! Were his hunters using depth-perception jammers to block his eyes? If they were, it was low, and cruel. How cruel were the worlds! He was not cared for; he was only a worthless murderer, as far as anyone else could tell; a threat to the greater public. Now he has hunted.
The scorpions of the desert lifted their tails in apprehension. The weary man did not heed them, but wearily strode onwards. Rocky crags and shaded caves yawned invitingly, and the man was sorely tempted to rest in their cool recesses.
Looking back, his eyes fluttered again. His peering gaze pierced the hot Nada Seguro, and seeing the hunters who tracked him, twenty-three miles before. The hot winds were naught in his sight, and the hunters were the same. Their blood aura shone like a beacon of light in the dead darkness of space.
The old man thought back to his earlier days, of his expeditions, and of the assignments that he had gone on in his war days. His ship had been named The Alabastar, and had been apart of his soul, as well as the soul of his crewmembers. The ship had been shot down in its eighteenth year, though, and then he was out of a job. Many of his buddies were dead now, either in the Wars, or dead face-down in a ditch. Now he would join them. Their ghostly visages passed over his fading vision slowly, and the man wondered whether he was going mad. But no, it was not his madness; his neural implants were faulty. But why should he have his neural implants any more? He would be dead soon.
He reached behind the top of his spinal column, and lightly touched the nerve ending. The plasma vial slowly ejected itself, and he took it out and held it in his palm. All his recorded memories were held in this tiny canister. He noticed the water for the first time. A small stream trickled from under a rock. In the distance he could see the beginnings of the great Samuel Mountains, and even now the great deserts were beginning to recede, and the foothills were already upon him. The rock was so inviting, and the man was tired. He was already dead. What good would walking do him? He was already dead. He would sit under the rock to await his ending. He was already dead

The old man sat beneath the rock. He wondered what things he might have done, and what things he might not have done. He held a fine golden chain in his fingers. There was a cross and a ring both on the same chain. He rubbed them both, for there was a fine layer of dust on both small amulets. Each had a story, but the old man did not cast his mind back to that. His life regrets meant nothing now.
In the distance the hunters began to appear. The first man, and the second man, and the third man all wore long Krashnek robes. Their headgear was of leather, and they wore strange goggles that filtered the desert sands, and could find the blood of the desert animals. The fourth man was seated upon a grey horse. He wore strange goggles as the third men, but his robes were swathed around his head, not just his body, and he carried a long-nosed rifle. The third man spotted the old man, and chattered excitedly to the mounted man. He lifted his head ever so slightly, and said something quietly. As they approached, the three men on foot circled around the old man. There was no escape for him. It did not matter. The mounted man took his rifle in his arms, and dismounted. he strode to the rock, and took out a small slip of paper. With an electronic voice, he began reading.
"You, Salvador De Forenze, are under arrest for the murder of seargent Gerald Van Althrust. You will accompany us to the aid station at Heilige, where you will be placed under custody."
The old man shifted, and reached underneath his shirt.
"No you will not." He pulled out his knife, and threw it at one of the men. It found its mark, and the man toppled over with a strangled scream. The mounted man pulled out his rifle, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

Two years later, a traveller passed the rock. Her dark locks fell over her neck, and her delicate porcelain skin was sorely scorched by the cruel sun. She stopped for a moment, then noticing the cross, still clutched in the cold bone hands of the man, took it. Then, she saw the small memories cannister in his hand, and took it also, triumphantly. Slowly, she then turned and walked away.

Cold

If it weren't so cold
I'd send a message to you
I'd tell you all the things
That we could do.

If it weren't so cold
I'd send this letter away
Oh, so far away
Just so that you could read it some other day

If it weren't so cold
I'd tell you how I feel
and if I did
I'd tell you while I kneel

When the wind howled
And the window-panes shook
I'd tell you all the things I've thought about you
You were here, on my mind
You were something I thought
I would never find

But it's cold tonight
So I'll tell you some other time
But if it weren't so cold
I'd say the things I've thought of all my life.