"Suffering should be creative, should give birth to something good and lonely." - Chinua Achebe

Cain came from here.

3/5/09

Cain was plagued by nightmares interspersed with brief moments of clarity where he felt himself unable to move. He felt like he was going to suffocate. The air around him felt very heavy and thick, his lungs were having to strain just to take quick breaths.

His memory was a blur, coming and going in fragments as he tried in vain to piece together the moments and choices that had led him to this point. Could he have done something differently? Was there a way out? What if he'd stopped Rikka or simply done what he'd originally intended and sold the Seven?

The scene faded from his vision and replaced by something from his past.

Cain lay on his back, the oppressive heat of the midday sun over Shadow beating down on him. For the past three days and nights he had slept among the sick and wounded, those dying of malaria, dysentery, and a dozen other unholy maladies. The viral bombs had struck less than eighteen hours ago and already they had cut a swath through the remaining inhabitants of the war ravaged world. Soon, they would all be dead.

His body was weak and unable to move. Wracked by disease, he was near-death from dehydration and delirious from fever. He looked out at the infected earth. Corpses littered the fields, as if expunged by the very ground themselves in their foulness and decay.

He saw an army of bodies, people who ran out of time, out of friends. He could feel the dead there reaching up to welcome him as one of their own. It was an easy mistake to make.

"All their homes have been destroyed," he thought. "Everyone is gone, and I will be dead soon."

He was watching a scene out of his past, but still thought of those around him that defined his life in the present. Were they real? Was this a dream? Maybe he really died all those years ago, and his life since was a dream itself. If he could just get past this giant knot of pain, it would be ok...he would be dead.

He saw a young woman, walking amid the rubble and decay. She was humming a melody he recognized. It was an ancient song from Earth-That-Was, Beethoven's Symphony Number Nine. She was young, raven-haired, and angelic, a stark contrast to the death that surrounded them.

It was Africa Chamberlain, but she was different. None of the pain was there, the horror in her eyes as she saw him fall, the explosion and the gunshots and the final blackness. Here, there was only a sense of peace and absolute bliss.

She smiled at Cain. "Music is good," she said. "It brings peace, and revitalizes the human soul. I think that song is the greatest achievement of human culture, don't you agree?

"Who are you?" said Cain, perplexed. "You're not Rikka."

"You're fading faster than I thought," she replied. "You nearly died back there."

"I'm not dead yet," said Cain.

"Of course not," said Rikka. "When your time truly does come, nothing in the universe will prevent it. For now, it was not a good day for you to die, so you did not. That is all."

"Why are you here?"

"I am a part of yourself," she said. "The days ahead will be hard for you. You will be alone again. How does that make you feel?"

"How *should* I feel?" Cain retorted. "I've been alone most of my life. Nothing changes. People come and go. They look out for their own interests. They're not to be trusted, so I'm better off without them."

"But that changed not long ago. People came into your life. Do you hate people?"

"More or less, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore."

"You fear not being in control," she said. "All your life you have avoided what you couldn't control. Why is that?"

"Because I am the only one I can trust," he said, growing agitated.

"You fear yourself," replied Rikka stoically. "You fear what you could become."

"I fear nothing!" snapped Cain. "I kill, and through that I have a purpose for being. Isn't that reason enough to live?"

Perhaps it wasn't. Suddenly, all the pain of his existence washed over him in one moment. Now, he truly knew what death felt like.

He had screwed up and had taken Rikka and probably the others with him. All his life he'd trusted only himself and this was the day his luck truly had run out.

Then he realized that there were no choices. Nothing but a straight line. The illusion came afterward, when asking "Why me?" and "What if?". If he'd had done something differently, it wouldn't be him here now. It would be someone else looking back, asking a different set of questions.

3/8/09

Cain was plagued by nightmares interspersed with brief moments of clarity where he felt himself unable to move. He felt like he was going to suffocate. The air around him felt very heavy and thick, his lungs were having to strain just to take quick breaths. He was on a cold metal table. Tight straps around his arms and legs prevented him from moving, not that he could even if he wanted to. Something had frozen his muscles, making them unresponsive.

Confusion gave way to panic at the thought of having lost all control. His mind willed his limbs to move, but his body betrayed him. Helpless. He couldn't imagine a more terrifying possibility. Was this death? Was he condemned to an eternal damnation of awareness without control?

He fought against the invisible force holding him captive, and managed to will his eyes to open. As he strained to open his eyes, he found that he could not focus on any one image. Everything around him was a blur.

Above him were sterile white lights that blinded what limited vision he did have. They were very hot, and in his state they almost seemed to burn his skin. Yet he felt no pain. Through the haze, he could detect others around him.

They were talking.

"He's coming out of it."

"Is he? You should give him a stronger dose. his body has built up an immunity to drugs, a normal dose won't do for him."

"Where... Who are you? What do you want from me??"

He tried to scream, tried to struggle against the bonds, but again his body rebelled. There was no movement, and no sound came.

Cain barely felt IV needle in his arm as more drugs flowed into his body, returning him to the dream state. He saw himself in a sterile white place. Around him was a misty swirl that his vision couldn't penetrate. He saw a figure in front of him. As he focused on it, he found that he was staring back at himself. His image fixed him with a mocking half-smile.

"So, you've finally gotten yourself into something you can't handle. Typical of you, Cain. You're always trying to blame the world for things you bring upon yourself. You're a real bastard, Cain, did you know that? How many people have you brought down who tried to get close to you, who tried to help you? All you've done is hurt those around you."

"Help me?" he demanded in shock. He was surprised that his voice seemed to transfer in the void despite the fact that he was still unable to will his physical being to move. "No one's ever cared about me... Everyone I've ever known has only wanted me around to use me."

His mirror image laughed mockingly. His expression turned to one of complete disgust.

"You hate yourself, you hate others, you hate your life. You're miserable all the time, Cain. You might as well be dead already. The amazing thing is that you really don't care. You don't care about anyone or anything other than yourself, do you? You're pitiful, you're a joke."

"Why should I fucking care? So that it will hurt more when I get stabbed in the back?"

It was nearly true, or at least he'd managed to convince himself ofthat. It was easier to build a wall around yourself than it was to be vulnerable and risk getting hurt again. Sometimes he wasn't sure what hurt more. The prospect of trusting only to have his heart and mind destroyed again... Or the idea that he didn't really want to be so cold.

Although he could barely admit it to himself, he sometimes wondered what it would be like, to have someone care for you... to be able to trust enough, to feel free enough to care for them in return... it was a luxury he'd never known, and now he wasn't sure he could allow himself to.

"Do you think anyone honestly gives a fuck about your problems, Cain? No one cares. Why should they? Do you honestly think you're so important that anyone should give a rat's ass that your parents never hugged you enough as a kid or whatever the hell seems to bother you so much? You've ruined every life that's touched yours. Dema should be enjoying a ball on Persephone about now, or possibly be dutifully pumping inside Rikka right now. Mag should be happy. Helena should be drinking herself to an early grave. Instead you've dragged them into something that is so incredibly hopeless that it defies nature. Rikka should be back on Ariel, running her business. Hitomi should still have her home, as well as all the people who she gave a home.
Don't you think they're all bitter toward you? I'll bet they're glad the Alliance has you now. One less bitter broken shell of a man dragging them down."

"Who Dema chooses to fuck is his own choice, what Rikka chooses to do is up to her! No one's obligated to me in any shape or form," he hissed back angrily. "I didn't ask them to come with me. I didn't ask them to follow me," he spat, glaring back at his own image.

"These people control corporations, they control governments, they control planets. Do you realize how amazingly insignificant you are to them? You're not even sure of yourself, how do you think you're ever going to escape them? You're not. They have you now and you know what? You're going to tell them everything they want. It's inevitable. Face it, Cain, you've lost."

Cain laughed bitterly. "That's where you're wrong," he replied, bitterly. "A. I have nothing to lose. What the fuck do I have to live for? I'm miserable, and I've spent my entire adult life running from myself. Hiding under my own self-loathing, trying to dull the pain with any physical diversion I could find... drugs, liqour, meaningless sex...and B. I have nothing to tell. What I know about all of this doesn't even begin to draw a picture. I have a few
cryptic puzzle pieces made up of second hand information, speculation and myth. I'm flying blind. So I'm sorry. But if you're looking for information, you're out of luck."

Cain's other self laughed, "You just don't get it, do you? I am you. I know everything that you do, and believe me, it's not pretty inside you. I know that everyone knows what a complete and utter joke you are. They laugh at you, Cain. All of them. They know what a complete waste of humanity you are. Trust me, you won't be missed. They'll be here for you soon. Enjoy yourself, Cain." With this, the image vanished.

3/14/09

Cain relived his life over and over in his mind, each version punctuated by the eyes of all the men he'd killed. It was all there, the Federal prison moon, the Syndicate, the war, the Intrepid, that ancient converted heavy destroyer that somehow functioned as a carrier. Shadow, its final resting place. Shadow, the graveyard of his comrades.

No one should have come out of Shadow alive. None of them did.

He remembered the sight of the Concordia, the Alliance flagship that was supposed to end the war. It was dispatched to Shadow to retake the world. It was the latest Alliance design, the largest ship ever built. It was pressed into service a year early and lacked key dorsal turret mounts that were its fatal flaw. Still, it took an entire Independent fleet to take it out and Cain's squadron hit it again and again in its weak spot. It took hours to die and when it finally did, ten thousand purple bellies died with her.

Cain felt the terror of every one of them as vividly as if it was him on board that ship. The final screams as Concordia's drives overloaded and the ship detonated in a white hot blast like an exploding sun.

He watched helplessly as his own stricken Raptor, unable to return to base, drifted in low orbit as the Intrepid, burning and mortally wounded plunged into Shadow's atmosphere and crashed in the Mistral Sea. He felt the terror of the crew's last moments.

He died thousands of times over.

The past is a puzzle, like a broken mirror. As you piece it together, your image keeps shifting. And you change with it. It could destroy you, drive you mad. It could set you free.

The things that I want by M. Jacob Cain. A smoke. A gin. For the sun to shine. To turn back time a month, sell the Seven to the guild prick on Ariel who offered the lowball price. To have avoided Three Hills, the Alliance and to have just gone on with my life. Unlimited ammo and a license to kill.



"I love you," he told Jade, the woman from his past who started this whole journey with a visit to her grave.

"I love you too..."

"You weren't supposed to die..."

"It doesn't matter anymore. You do not exist..."

"I wish I didn't..."

"You don't understand. You are a literary character..."

"What? That's insane..."

"You do not exist. You are a literary character. Come on, Cain, what do you think you really are? You chain-smoke, you eat junk, you never exercise and yet you're built like a fitness model. How did you suddenly, and by chance, come across not one, but TWO people from your past on Ariel at the same time? And then you ran into Rain on Three Hills, another person from your past. How did you survive Three HIlls at all? You are a literary character, and you're just a figment of someone else's imagination. The pain you feel is irrelevant because it does not exist. A logical impossibility that could only exist in someone else's mind. You...do...not...exist, Cain..."

Like always, the dead had all the things he was missing. It wasn't that they weren't eager to talk. Quite the contrary. The dead had plenty to say. And once they started, they would never shut up. Their words would keep you awake at night.

3/29/09

Cain's head split from the blinding pain. He lost track of how long he'd been in this oppressive dark metal room, but he had long since lost hope and teetered on the brink of sanity. He wore a torn white prisoner smock and was drenched in sweat.

For what seemed an eternity, though only hours in reality, he'd been in this room where a piercing high-pitched siren blared at an ear-splitting volume. Pain shot through him in waves as the noise blinded him to all else. It was enough to drive a lesser man insane, though unbeknown to his captors he had endured similar tortures at Andersonville Federal Military Prison during the war.

He'd trained his mind during that time to go to a place where no one could hurt him, a place where nothing else existed. An empty void free of pain, free of hurting where he was the only thing that existed in an entire universe of nothingness.

It wasn't working.

Cain's throat was horse from screaming yet he still uttered an agonizing cry which could not be heard due to the hellish blaring from hidden speakers.

Suddenly, it was gone.

He was curled in a fetal position, crying and sweating and blood dripping from his lip where he'd bitten down hard. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light as a brightness emanated from the far end of the room If there was a god in heaven, this would be death and he would be granted a blessed end to the infernal howl. Slowly, he began to focus and realized that it was not death, but the door opening and several figures moving into the room. He strained to
focus and struggled to get to his feet.

He recognized the crimson-haired hell-hag Gwendolyn Andrews with a security team in full tactical gear brandishing pulse rifles and stunners. He was in no condition to fight despite his urgent desire to rip Gwen's heart from her chest. Were he in better condition, he would do it and hope he killed her before her guards could take him down.

"I will speak with you now," she said with a cold, unfeeling gaze. "We meet again, Jacob Cain, for the final time I'm afraid."

Cain tried to issue a litany of curses, but they came out only as rough coughing. "I told you I know nothing," he croaked. "Is this some kind of sick fucking game to you?"

Three times Stark and Gwen had come to him and three times he'd told them, truthfully, that he had no idea how to access Sybil nor how to find his comerades. He'd punctuated his replies with liberal curses, which earned him painful rebukes. But he knew it all now, Stark...the genome program...the Templars.

In all his years he'd never heard of anything so hideous.

"And I believe you," she replied. "Ms. Chamberlain told us everything. Pity she proved more reasonable than you. Things could have been much different."

The ego seldom believes it has truly lost, but Cain could not decide whether he was grateful that the pain might now stop or horrified that Rikka had actually given Stark what he wanted.

"I told you I won't be a part of your fucking games," he said. "So what does it all prove? That an interplanetary organization with vast funding integrated into the government can break the will of one girl? I swear on your grave...I will see you die painfully."

Gwen laughed. "Defiant even in defeat. I must say, you *are* a real piece of work."

"I must say you are a real piece of shit. Why not call off the goon squad and settle this just between us."

"Anger and passion. You've never believed in anything your entire life, Jacab Cain. Oh you have from time to time, but every time those beliefs turned out to be ill-placed. But now, for the first time in your life you feel real passion burning inside of you. Even now you are deadly. I see the hate burning in your eyes as you gaze at me now. I give this to you, Jacob Cain. I make this possible. I am the wellspring from which you flow, and when I am gone there will be nothing left for you. Such a pity."

"A cleansing fire is coming to the universe, and when it comes humanity will change forever. The weak die and the strong survive. It's been the law of evolution since the dawn of life. Adaptability, strength and intelligence. Who's to say whether we are simply doing evolution's work? Humans are unique in adapting their environments to suit their needs, so perhaps what we are doing is itself a natural evolutionary step?"

"And what gives you the right to decide what's 'perfect'?" spat Cain. "So far, your definition of perfection is flawed, Gwen. You're fucking psychotic. You're evil!"

"Your evil is my good," replied Gwen coolly. "So save your breath, Mr. Cain. I am the zenith of five hundred years of genetic research while you are a symbol of a bankrupt, outdated culture than will not survive the new order."

"You're crazy!"

Gwen laughed grimly. "No, I'm not crazy. I shall see the universe ruled by the only race that was created in perfection. There will be no room for the weak, the ugly, the unclean...the vermin like you."

"Go to hell!"

"Our day of conquest is on coming. On a day soon, we will make our presence known to humanity. A day when humanity is in its darkest hour and calling out for a savior. We will be that savior. Hundreds of thousands of genetically-perfect minds, an army of invincible warriors, will rise up and side with me!"

"You believe you're a god but you think like a murderer."

"That, dear Cain I will leave to the judgment of posterity," she replied. Turning to her guards she said, "Take him to the nearest airlock and kill him."

"Jacob Cain," she said as she turned to leave. "I bid you adieu."

Cain continues here.