Protector

by Luke Norris

  After the display Shael had just seen, the poems and stories that she had categorized as fantastical, now seemed dull and tame. What was he? A man? Some sort of immortal being? He looked physically to be in his late twenties. How far did the strange legends extend? Was he even from Laitam, or descended as a sort of deity from the skies? None of the crazy legends seemed implausible now.

  To Shael’s surprise, she felt a sense of excitement and curiosity. The answers to her innate questions about existence suddenly had new scope, not limited to digging up fossils.

  The commotion had dropped away to relative silence outside. What did that mean? The battle had been decided? Many of those men had ended up working for the zewka through circumstances outside their control and were not necessarily automatically bad men. They certainly didn’t deserve death. Shael felt the indoctrination in this place. Walking through the building, you’d think there was no democratically elected government in Naharain.

  It wasn’t long before zewka guards came into view, weaponless, with their hands clasped behind their heads. They marched in single file, chastened and muted, in their white uniforms.

  18

  REUNITE

  “Oliver my boy,” Targon attempted to awkwardly embrace him with the armor on. “It really is true. You are King Oliver.”

  It warmed Oliver to see zest in the old man. He seemed invigorated, like an excited child.

  “You have been sleeping for all this time,” Targon murmured, prodding Oliver as if to confirm that his skin was real. “Frozen in a monastery. It seems impossible. Impossible. But we are glad to have you back.”

  Oliver put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Thank you Targon. It’s good to have friends,” he emphasized the last word, and instinctively looked up at Shael. She had not come over to greet him like Targon but kept her distance. She stood against the white walls of the complex and watched him with without coming closer. She had a look of trepidation and even anger.

  Oliver left Shael to her thoughts, she was processing a pretty big paradigm shift. Oliver thought back to waking up on the ship and almost losing his mind with the reality check Lego had given him. She would need time. But ultimately she was a truth seeker, her innate curiosity would prevail.

  “Where is Arif?” Oliver asked the guards again, who were prostrate on the ground. “Is he among you?”

  They looked at each other in confusion. Clearly terrified of antagonizing Oliver. Several of their fallen comrade’s bodies still lay nearby with fletched arrows protruding from them.

  “He’s not among them,” Shael said, walking around between the guards and inspecting their faces. “But Oliver,” she said approaching him for the first time. “He is dangerous. Maybe not in the same way you are, but unpredictable, conniving.”

  “Thank you, Shael,” Oliver replied. “I will be extra vigilant.”

  She was so cagey, hardly looking him in the eyes.

  One of the prisoners spoke up. “I saw a wasp take off from behind the grounds near the river. It was Arif’s aircraft.”

  “That man will be a thorn in my side,” Oliver said. “I can feel it.”

  “A thorn in your side?” Shael said in disbelief. “You just single-handedly commandeered the zewka headquarters. They have been a purge on society since… well, basically the Kahlro invasion. And you’re talking about their leader escaping as though it’s a nuisance.”

  She was getting her fire back. Good!

  “Yes, I find it a decided nuisance that he escaped.”

  “Arrgh, you’re insufferable!” she fired at him. “You died. Died!” she yelled. “And then you come back as,” she paused, not able to say the words, “as him.”

  “I’ve always been him Shael,” Oliver said gently. “I’ve never tried to deceive you about my identity.”

  Shael turned away in consternation, seeming unhappy with his answer.

  “Let’s round these men up,” Oliver said. “They will need to be unbrainwashed, from the propaganda they’ve been feed here. I am of the opinion that if Arif has decided to kindly abandon his headquarters, then we can set up here for the time being. We have resources. An entire fleet of wasps.” Oliver looked around himself satisfied. “Yes, this will do very nicely.”

  A man emerged from the building, clutching a scroll to his chest. He looked around nervously. “Is it safe to come out now?” he asked, calling to Shael and Targon.

  “Who is this man, Targon?” Oliver asked.

  “Ander is zewka,” Targon confirmed, eying the jittery man with contempt. “He’s not dangerous, just slimy. He tries to pass himself off as a scientist.”

  “I am a distinguished scientist,” Ander said curtly, “highly esteemed in the community…” He cut short as he fully took stock of Oliver standing there, his jaw went slack as he stared in bewilderment.

  In Ander’s defense, Oliver still hadn’t removed the helmet. A precaution in case a guard, on a one-man suicide mission, jumped out from hiding nearby. Only his mouth and chin were visible between the black iron mandibles that flanked his jaw.

  Ander dropped his gaze, and continued in a nervous mumble, “I am responsible for the discovery of that spear you stole.”

  “You mean this spear?” Oliver snatched the weapon up and spun it in a series of complex maneuvers around himself. He added a little unnecessary flare for good measure. The guards on the ground cowered at the humming weapon, terrifying and familiar. It whipped a wind up around Oliver. He came to a stop with the weapon leveled at Ander. “This is my spear, I’ll have you know. Now answer, what are you holding? Speak!” he boomed.

  Ander clutched the scroll tighter to his chest as if to say you can’t have it. “This is potentially the most important scientific find of the modern age. It details the burial of King Oliver and Queen Verity. It doesn’t belong in the hands of a miscreant and a thief,” he said defiantly.

  Oliver was surprised by the man’s bravery, especially after just seeing his display with the spear. He held out his hand. Ander slowly and reluctantly handed it over. Oliver unrolled the document and scanned through it briefly. “Ah Ponsy, you old dog,” he laughed, shaking his head. He felt the warm memories flooding back reading his old friends humor.

  “Please don’t damage that,” Ander pleaded gently. “You couldn’t possibly understand the significance of what you are holding.”

  Oliver noticed Shael was watching with intrigue to see how he would respond to Ander. Fine, he would make a show of it.

  “Let me read this, and decide if this is important then,” Oliver said clearing his throat. “Where are we here?” he theatrically looked for the first passage.

  “You mock what you don’t understand,” Ander mumbled

  Oliver raised an eyebrow at him and then began to read aloud in fluent ancient Hajir.

  It was merely the instructions that Oliver had given Ponsy before going into hibernation. He could see where Ponsy had also used the driver language, exactly as Oliver had notated it five hundred years ago. It was on the second half of the page. Oliver spoke with the authentic throaty Hajir tones loud and clear. As he read he could see Targon closing his eyes, nodding along, smiling. Shael was concentrating.

  Once he reached the end of the passage, he then switched and continued in the Second-stage tongue. As he spoke the words, memories of Verity flooded back, almost overwhelming him. He stopped reading and was quiet for a moment.

  “Very nice,” Ander said sarcastically. “Some of that even sounded a little like Hajir, but then you lost it halfway, and got the sounds all wrong. Now can I have it back?”

  “It’s not important to me,” Oliver said distractedly, as he tried to quell the painful memories. “Targon and Shael, do you feel like you need this?”

  Targon’s first reaction was to take the scroll, but then he considered, looking at Oliver. “I guess it’s actually not so important now.”

  Shael was quiet. She was lost deep in troubling thoughts of her own.

  Ander looked
confused at Targons nonplussed attitude towards the document. He reached out cautiously and took it back. He was clearly suspicious of the scroll’s authenticity now that Targon no longer found it interesting. He held the document in his hand again, bewildered.

  “You!” Oliver pointed to a man who was trying his best to look inconspicuous among the twenty or so guards kneeling on the lawn. This one had his head down. “Stand up Eorol!” he commanded.

  Shael gasped behind him. “No Oliver, don’t do it,” she said beseechingly.

  Eorol’s face was white, the blood drained out of it. He looked at Oliver with superstitious dread. He was still trying to reconcile how Oliver could possibly be alive, let alone doing these things of legend he had witnessed. Good. Let him speculate.

  As Eorol stood there, his eyes kept glancing nervously from the spear in Oliver’s hand to the ancient longbow on the ground, then to the fallen guards. Eorol was trying to decide which way would be cleaner, or more painless.

  “Oliver!” Shael whispered. “Please…”

  Oliver removed his helmet and held it under his arm. His short brown hair, which had grown out to nearly two centimeters, was slick with sweat. He pointed his spear at Eorol. “Come here!”

  Eorol looked as if he had to force his body to move. His posture was hunched like a man begging for clemency.

  “You conspired, under orders from Arif Zewka, to have me murdered. You attempted to do just that by sabotaging my seat in the wasp. There are two witnesses here who can attest to your actions.”

  Eorol dropped to his knees and groveled at Oliver’s feet. He was visibly shaking.

  “Your sentence is clear, Eorol.” Oliver turned his head slowly, and looked pointedly at a fallen guard with an arrow in his belly, and let the moment linger. “However, I am suspending your sentence while you perform a task for me. Once you have successfully completed the task, I will reassess the sentence.”

  Eorol looked up with hope on his face.

  “You will fly Targon and Shael back to their homes in the city.” Oliver heard Shael and Targon audibly gasp at this. “If they wish to return once they have collected their things then you will transport them back here.” Oliver bent down close to Eorol’s face. “If you think it’s a good idea to try and fly away, and not return, know that I will hunt you down. There will be no place in all of Arakan where you will sleep soundly. There is no way you can kill me. If you think being an enemy of the zewka is bad…” He walked over and pulled an arrow shaft out of the dead guard’s chest. The motion lifted the man half off the ground, as the barb tore its way through the body. He walked back to Eorol with the dripping arrow. “I promise you, I’m worse,” he paused. “There may be a chance for redemption for you yet.”

  Oliver addressed the rest of the men. “Arif zewka has left, abandoned you all. I understand you were all just performing your job, and following orders. You will all be treated fairly.”

  Oliver could sense his driver instincts working, the way he controlled the men psychologically.

  “Now all these old scars on your body make sense,” Shael whispered to herself, as she dabbed the bullet wound clean, and prepared the bandage. He’d received several small grazes, though nothing serious. Several dark entry wounds, with red streaks running down his torso. She still wouldn’t hold Oliver’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You couldn’t have done anything to prevent the situation in the wasp, Shael! That was sabotage…”

  “No. I didn’t mean that,” she paused, placing her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry you lost Verity.”

  Oliver was silent. Her comforting hand brought the emotions straight to the surface. Verity’s face. Her large brown eyes. Her inherent good nature. She was scared to go into hibernation, scared that something would go wrong. It had.

  Initially, it had been Verity who pushed the idea to go into hibernation, she wanted to return to Terras and see her father again. Oliver would have been happy not to go into cryogenic sleep, and simply live out their lives together here on Laitam, even if it was a primitive life. They both had nanites in their bloodstream, which made the chance of death by disease very low. It would have been a good life. But then Verity had told him something that changed everything. Earth had not been completely ravaged. The UWF had interrupted the Early Traders. Yarn and the crew had escaped, but Earth, although severely affected, would recover. She kept reiterating, Earth would be radically different from Earth as he knew it. They were also part of the United Worlds Federation now.

  This news had given Oliver hope. Despite Verity’s assertion that things would not be the same if he returned, it was still his home, and he had to go back to see it himself.

  Verity’s reasons for wanting to hibernate were her own, and she’d gone into cryo sleep of her own accord, with full knowledge of the risks. It had just gone wrong. He shouldn’t feel guilt over this, should he?

  “In the monastery,” Shael continued, “when you were standing over her sarcophagus, you were grieving. I tore you away from her so quickly. I never realized. I never believed. I’m so sorry, Oliver.”

  “For me, it feels like only months ago,” Oliver admitted, “like the five hundred years in between were but a short sleep. She is still so fresh in my mind, almost as if she will walk into the room again.”

  Shael listened in silence, he thought he saw her eyes watering. She tended another wound on his shoulder blade.

  “Did I tell you, you remind me of Ayla?” Oliver asked.

  Shael was quiet, despite her opening up for a moment to him.

  “You have the yellow pigment of the Highlanders, and you have her features. Maybe you were descended from Hajir. A descendant of Ayla and Ponsy, as we’d planned.”

  “Maybe,” Shael conceded reluctantly. A few hours ago she would have laughed at the absurdity of such a low probability, but now Oliver could see the internal battle—who was she to decide what was realistic or not? She felt unstable again.

  “Before my parents’ accident,” Shael said, “and I went to live with the old man, my father had shared his passion for family history, and human history in general. He did say our family line stemmed from the highlands. And our ancestors migrated later than many others, so it’s possible.” She stuck the last bandage on him and pressed it down firmly. “Anything’s possible, I suppose,” she added, standing. She left the room without another word.

  “I will come back,” Targon confirmed. “There is too much to be learned about history from you for an old scholar to deny such an opportunity.”

  “I will help you where I can,” Oliver replied helping Targon into the wasp. “But things will become busy if all goes to plan with the space program. For this to happen, we will need the all of Arakan, perhaps even Laitam to be involved.”

  “An entire planet?” Targon exclaimed. “You don’t think small, I’ll give you that.” He buckled himself in.

  Shael walked past without looking directly at Oliver.

  “Will you also come back?” Oliver asked her.

  “I have a lot to process, Oliver. Right now I feel like I don’t know anything. All my life, all the study I did, and everything I believed, is bogus. I thought scientific method was a path to truth, only to learn today that the fantasy stories had right it all along.”

  She was visibly rattled to her core.

  “It’s not fantasy Shael,” Oliver raised her chin and looked her in the eyes, “it’s just science that is beyond your current level on Laitam. You want truth, right? That’s what you’ve always sought, it’s what you prize the highest. Archaeology was just one way for you to learn about human origins. Come back, Shael. I will tell you everything I know and explain what I can. You have new questions, and you know in your heart the answers you seek now are not in your history books.” Oliver helped her into the aircraft.

  He went to close the door, then stopped to add one last thing. “I will be honest with you, and tell you everything I know. But there’s something you need to know,
all the knowledge I can impart to you will probably only leave you with more questions… it did for me.”

  Oliver closed the door and stood back as the wasp lifted into the sky, pitched forward and accelerated in the direction of Naharain.

  Oliver needed friends, he was not an island, and he needed Targon and Shael. He watched the aircraft slowly shrink to a small black dot above the glistening Tashka waters.

  19

  ARIF

  Arif sprinted towards the wasp. He ripped off the silly silk robes he was wearing. Those things were a nuisance. Underneath he had on his training clothes, still blood speckled from the morning’s session. The loose fitting pants and top allowed him to move freely, and gracefully when sparring with his opponents.

  Today’s sparring session was especially good. Fresh zewka recruits had to go into the ring with him. He had been in a particularly foul mood this morning. The unfortunate wannabe, a sixteen-year-old boy from one of the local villages, had received the brunt of Arif’s anger. He had not stopped pummeling the boy's broken face until the eye had ruptured, both cheekbones were sufficiently shattered, and several front teeth were broken or dislodged. The others knew not to interfere when he was in such temper and had left him to finish his business. It had worked as it always did, and put him in a decidedly better mood. It was far better to get it all out first thing in the morning, rather than going through the entire day acting sullen and treating those around you unprofessionally.

  Now, Arif ran for that wasp. He could hear the gunfire and screaming on the other side of the estate. He hadn’t even had time to find his pilot. No matter, he could fly the machine if he had to. He preferred doing things himself. Like the old days.

  These days he was flown everywhere, wearing those hideous silk robes, and even the rings. The lavish facade had infested all aspects of his life. But all necessary, unfortunately. When talking to rapacious government officials and the Naharainee captains of industry, there was an expectancy. Even among these shrewd men and women was a kind of superficial appraisal. Simple intimidation wasn’t enough at that level, there had to be the kind of respect that sometimes only the flaunting of wealth could bring. It was disgusting, but a necessary evil that he had to take part in until he could purge Naharain of their broken democracy.