The Loved and the Lost

by Lory Kaufman

  Hansum started to cough in distress.

  “Cool it you two,” Lincoln broke in.

  “Finally, he’s awake,” came Arimus’s voice.

  The room went silent. Hansum lifted his head a little and saw the elder standing in the doorway. Arimus walked over and stood next to Hansum, ignoring the others. His face was serious, not kindly and non-judgmental as usual.

  “Guil . . .” Hansum managed to say.

  “She’s fine now.”

  “How?”

  The teens could tell Arimus was extremely angry. He didn’t even try to rhyme his words.

  “As soon as we got you back to the future,

  I took the best time travel emergency team available

  and went back to fix things.

  We even tried taking Guilietta forward with us, but still couldn’t.

  But, for some reason, we were able to put things back

  to before my blunder occurred.

  Time and events proceed as before.”

  Hansum closed his eyes and relaxed. It felt like the whole weight of world had just been lifted off his chest.

  “Thank you, Elder,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

  “Elder, it wasn’t your blunder,” Kingsley said resolutely. “I’m the one . . .” Arimus cut him off.

  “Yes, you are the one whose gross actions precipitated this.

  You broke the cardinal interference rule

  and disobeyed my instructions.”

  “But it’s really my fault,” Shamira argued. “I’m the one who got Kingsley to go into the 14th-century, as a tease at first. And when he saw how upset I was when Guil was being hurt . . .”

  “All are guilty and all are punished,”

  Arimus shouted. Actually shouted.

  “But they shouldn’t have revoked your time travel license,” Lincoln said. “That’s not fair.”

  “The elder holds responsibility for all his charges.

  It is proper. But it’s only temporary, till an inquest is held.”

  “Still, I’m sorry,” Kingsley said, his head down.

  “Me too,” Shamira added.

  “What I don’t understand,” Lincoln said, “is why an inquest? Isn’t that when somebody’s dead? Hansum was, sure, but . . .”

  “Never mind that death was defeated,

  An inquest’s held so the pain’s not repeated!”

  Arimus put a hand to his temple to take a message.

  “This is Arimus. Has the Council . . .

  What? Really? When?

  So it happened the same way.

  How is the Council reacting?

  Any indication of its duration being different?

  I shall see you directly.” Arimus tapped his temple.

  “That was Talos, my A.I.

  There’s news.”

  “What’s up?” Lincoln asked.

  “A blackout period.

  Time travel has stopped.”

  “Like we learned about in the lectures?” Shamira asked.

  “Yes,” Arimus answered.

  “It’s the first time your 24th-century Council has to deal with this.

  Some members are feeling overwhelmed,

  since they must also deal with their first disciplinary inquiry.”

  As the teens had learned in their basic classes, blackout periods in time travel are not an uncommon phenomenon. Once in a while, the ability to travel through time stops completely and, on other occasions, traveling from one specific time on Earth to another specific time is affected. Even the lecturers from the future admitted the scientists from their eras hadn’t figured out the exact causes. Their best theory involved the fact that the location of Earth in space is constantly changing, not only around the sun, but also as the radial arm of the galaxy spun around its center. Added to the computation, the Milky Way is also moving, expanding outward from the universe’s “big bang” center, along with several billion other galaxies. Since the time vortices have to go from where the Earth is to where the Earth was, or will be, as it cuts through the fabric of time/space, they frequently pass by large singularities, stars, black holes, etc. It was postulated that it’s the gravitational influences of these that stopped time vortexes from passing by them, so they can’t remain coherent. The majority of blackout periods were usually only seconds or minutes, a few hours, and still fewer, a day to a month long. But some blackout periods had been known to last for a year or two, the longest having been ten years.

  “I am called in front of the Council again.”

  Without saying goodbye, Arimus snapped his fingers and site transported away in a blink.

  Hansum fidgeted under his energy restraints.

  “Thank Gia, Guilietta is okay,” he began, and lifted his arm. Then he remembered his thumb and looked. Though swollen and with a white line around where it had been severed, his thumb was there. It had been reattached. With effort, he moved it.

  “I had the fun of picking that thing up,” Lincoln said. “They say it will work as good as new in a few days. Hey, just about now you’re cutting Feltrino’s thumb off back at that river. What’s that, Medeea?” Lincoln asked, looking to the empty space at his side. “Yeah, a thumb for a thumb, she says. It’s kind of ironic. And Medeea says all your new scars look very manly.”

  “All my scars?”

  Shamira’s hand went to touch Hansum’s bare chest. The bed’s force field buzzed red again, keeping her away.

  “Sorry.”

  Hansum bent his head and looked. The last time he had seen his chest, Feltrino’s blood-drenched sword was sticking out of it. Now there was about a ten centimeter white cross welded into his flesh. It reminded him of the cross cut into the large loaves of medieval bread.

  “Our patient is awake,” another voice at the door said. Dr. Barnard walked in with Dr. Ramma floating by her side. “Let’s take a look at him.”

  The other teens moved back, allowing the doctors to flank Hansum. Ramma floated right up close to Hansum’s eye, his monocle only millimeters away.

  “Open your eye wide, please. Very good. Very good. Now, bare your chest,” he said cocking his head and aiming his piggy ear at the big scar. “Your new heart sounds just wonderful,” he said. “Better than before.”

  “N . . . new heart?”

  “That’s when Feltrino . . .” Shamira began.

  Hansum winced and closed his eyes, using the hand with the reattached thumb to cover his face. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “I watched your adventure on the Mists of Time Chronicles this morning, young man,” Dr. Barnard said. “Half the planet has by now, I’m sure. You four young people certainly do get into interesting dilemmas.”

  Lincoln looked to his side. “Five,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Dr. Barnard asked. “Oh yes. The delver girl. Okay then, let us finish with our patient. All of you out.”

  As the two doctors chatted, probed and admired their work, Hansum thought hard, remembering what had gone on less than a day ago for him. Once again he had been unable to protect his wife. And now, what was worse, his entry into the History Camp Time Travel Corps was at risk, along with all the others, including Arimus. He wanted to cry. He wanted to shout. But, as the doctors tapped and scanned him, he remained silent. After what happened, he couldn’t see how the History Camp Time Travel Council could possibly believe he had the right stuff to go on with his training.

  ‘If I ever get a chance to redeem myself,’ he thought, ‘I will never again overreact or let my emotions cloud my judgment.’ He closed his eyes and repeated this to himself three times.

  “I said, does this hurt?” Dr. Barnard’s voice asked. Hansum opened his eyes and looked at her intently. “I turned off your pain block and asked you if it hurts when I touch your thumb.”

  “No,” Hansum answered dryly.

  “Good. That’s good,” Elder Dr. Barnard said. Hansum looked over at the A.I. doctor, who was staring at him. Hansum stared back, matching his inscrutable gaze. They
studied each other. “And we can get rid of that scarring for you right now, on your hand and your chest,” Dr. Barnard added. “Nobody will know there’s been a problem. Soon, not even you.”

  “No,” Hansum said again, still staring at the A.I.

  “I beg your pardon?” Dr. Barnard asked. “No what?”

  “Leave the scars,” he said. “I don’t ever want to forget what happened.”

  Chapter 2

  A month later Hansum was sitting cross-legged in long grass, his razor-sharp rapier across his lap. He was watching two African warriors battle one another. The female, a Mino warrior of the ancient West African Dahomey Kingdom, had a grass skirt, a lion-skin top and a wicker helmet shielding her eyes. She held a single, long flint-tipped spear and had the much taller Zulu warrior well under control, even though he had a deadly bronze stabbing spear in one hand and a murderous-looking fighting club in the other. But then, Hansum knew she could take care of herself. She had beaten him nine of the twelve times they had fought.

  As the fight went on, Hansum looked around. The others were either cheering the combatants on or watching in silence. There was the young man with an English bastard sword, eagerly yelling encouragement. As well, an Asian-looking girl with a Chinese Dao sword was whistling a shrill note through her teeth and pumping her arm up and down. Finally there was the quiet, serious looking middle-aged man with a Roman short sword. He was eyeing the fight with his customary shrewd assessment.

  Hansum looked up at the sky. It was a bright, almost cloudless day. The sun was now half way down in the west.

  Since the time travel blackout, every time Hansum looked at the sun or moon he thought how their solar system was speeding through the universe and wondered what far away object was affecting their ability to jump from era to era. He also wondered whether it would clear up by the time he had the accreditations to be allowed to present a plan for going back to save Guilietta.

  All this made him very anxious, but he kept his vow. “I will never again overreact or let my emotions cloud my judgment.” He repeated this to himself several times a day. Until he accomplished his goal, he would only show calm determination and excel in everything he undertook.

  His vow was quickly tested. Two days after his heart replacement operation, Hansum went home to recuperate the required three extra days. That didn’t work. His parents were bad enough, hovering over him and trying to anticipate his every need, but Charlene was worse. The sight of the scars on his chest and thumb horrified his A.I. and she cried and rebuked him for wanting to go back for more. Even when his parents said they respected his choices, his father saying it was Hansum’s life and his adventure, they still tried to talk him into resting for a few months.

  At the exact hour when his five assigned days of recuperation were over, and he started to do pull-ups on the tree branch outside their home, Charlene flew out of the house and loudly insisted he stop. He asked her to please quiet down and let him be, but she continued to hover around him, her eyes wide and her orb quivering. His mind made up, he kissed Charlene, then his parents, and he called for a transport back to the History Camp Time Travel campus. And here he was.

  “Alma’s got him now,” he heard the youth with the bastard sword shout.

  He looked over and the Mino female warrior had knocked the wooden war club out of the Zulu’s hand. The big Zulu seemed unnerved as the shorter and quicker female pressed her attack. She continually lunged and swung the blade of her six-foot spear against his shorter stabbing weapon. The Zulu was being backed up against a tree, and you could see the desperation in his face and on his long, taught arm muscles as he desperately tried to find a way to stay the onslaught. He grunted and made a desperate defensive lunge . . . and that was his end. The female warrior’s deadly-sharp spear came under his blade and caught him full in the liver.

  “Zzwitt!” came a sound from where the spear met the Zulu’s leopard-skin cape. A large ring of red formed.

  “Bumanda!” he swore and the woman pulled her spear back and thrust it again, “Zzwitt!,” right into her opponent’s chest, knocking him off his feet and onto his back. The animal skin clothing was now more red than leopard-spotted.

  “Competition over,” the man with the Roman sword called. The other two watchers cheered loudly, jumping up and down and waving their weapons in the air. Hansum remained sitting on the ground, offering only a perfunctory clap.

  “Next fight, Hansum and Bill,” the older man announced.

  “Me?” the boy with the bastard sword asked. “Against Hansum? Ah, come on, Journeyman Marcon. No way.” Journeyman Marcon, the man with the Roman sword, scowled. “But he’ll kill me dead in a minute,” Bill complained.

  “Yours is not to question why,” the Asian girl cried in a sing-song voice.

  “Yeah, yeah, but it’s my big butt that’s gonna die!” Bill paraphrased as he plodded out to where the Zulu was lying face up. “Get up Larry,” he said kicking the downed lad. “My turn to bleed.”

  The large Zulu opened one eye. “Did ya have to make me land so hard, Alba? It hurts,” he said struggling to his feet. As he did, the large blood stains on his leopard-skin clothing faded. As well, the animal skin transmuted back to the tunic and shorts of a time travel student. “Why doesn’t my A.I. uniform protect my butt from hitting the ground when it can stop a sharp blade from splitting me in two?”

  “Because A.I.s have weird senses of humor,” Bill replied, taking a few feeble practice swings with his large, sharp weapon.

  Alba plopped down by Hansum, letting her shoulder knock into his. Her dark skin was glistening with sweat and, as she pulled off her wicker helmet, long golden hair streamed over her shoulders. She looked at him, blue eyes gleaming.

  “Nice fight, Alba. You win . . . again.”

  “You’re getting better,” she replied. “You’ve beaten me a few times.”

  “C’mon,” the Asian girl called. “Let’s get this over with. I’m hot and want to shower.”

  “You’re up,” Alba said.

  Hansum got up and walked slowly into the middle of the tromped-down grass, their makeshift arena. Standing at ease, he raised his sword and let the hilt flip over the back of his hand. It executed a back flip, the blade spinning in a large circle and ending up back where it started, gripped in Hansum’s hand. Hansum took up an en garde stance, leaning slightly forward on the balls of his feet and staring at his opponent with hard, cool eyes. Bill swallowed perceptibly and assumed the position too, but Hansum could see trepidation in the other young man’s eyes.

  “Fight on,” Marcon called.

  Hansum cocked his head, just a little, and let his free hand go casually to the top of his tunic. He pulled down the fabric and seemed to scratch an itch, but his real intention was to expose the top of his ugly scar. His opponent’s eyes widened at the sight and Hansum needed only to shift his weight, moving his weight to his front foot. This was enough to unnerve the youth, and he took a full step back. His apprehension was such that he stumbled over his own feet, and then he didn’t have a chance. With one quick lunge, Hansum pushed his opponent’s heavier sword down, making a parry impossible. Its blade came into contact with the fabric just below his opponent’s breastbone, still aimed slightly up to pierce into his heart. “Zwwitt,” came the sound from the A.I. tunic as it stiffened to protect the human flesh below. It created another animated circle of oozing blood where it was hit, but Hansum wasn’t finished. He pulled his blade back and spun his whole body around. In one quick, fluid motion, the razor-sharp sword was now coming full force at his startled opponent’s neck. Hansum showed no quarter and watched Bill’s terrified eyes bulge out at the sight of a solid steel blade coming to decapitate him.

  “Zzzwitt!” the electrical crackle came as the blade hit the A.I.’s invisible protection field an inch from Bill’s skin. But although the suit protected him from the sharp edge, it did allow the transfer of kinetic energy. The overmatched opponent was thrown off his feet, his sword went flying,
and he landed in a heap on his side.

  “Ya okay, Bill?” Hansum asked, still holding his sword to his victim’s neck, the tunic discoloring as the animated circle of red widened.

  Bill, wide-eyed and pale, nodded. Hansum gave a little grin and bent down to retrieve the fallen sword. That’s when Bill pulled his dagger from its leg sheath and, attempting to redeem himself, tried to stab Hansum in the back. But Hansum sidestepped and came around with a crosscut, “Zzwitt,” into Bill’s right kidney. Hansum fell back into a roll, to get away from any last-ditch revenge strike, coming up, again in the en garde position.

  “Are we done?” Hansum asked.

  Bill nodded once.

  “Fight over,” Marcon announced.

  Hansum allowed himself a small smile, but still kept the very business-like attitude he was now known for.

  “Gather round,” Marcon called, motioning the students to him. Besides Bill, there was Larry, the tall black boy, all long legs, arms and enormous, beautiful hands. He again held the Zulu stabbing spear in one hand and the war club in the other. Larry’s ambition was to become a History Camp time traveler and go back and study his Zulu ancestors before white settlers arrived. Luckily his mixed genetics didn’t show the European blood he had in him. Then there was the chastened Bill. He had only been in class for a few weeks and had never touched a sword before. His interest was to study the bureaucracy of Rome at its height, but he had to take a physical elective. He had been heard to say that sword fighting “seemed like a good idea at the time.” He was questioning that now. Marta was a tiny woman, just over five feet tall, who looked mostly Asian. But she was actually a second cousin to Larry, sharing a grandmother three generations back. She just liked to fight, she said. And then there was Alba, tall and athletic, with long blonde hair, dark skin and blue eyes. Only seventeen, she’d had a myriad of swords in her hand for a decade. And she had already been back to the very early 18th-century, to see what it would take to become a Mino, a female warrior. With her hair shorn and dyed, and her irises temporarily recolored, Hansum was amazed how she looked in the Mists of Time Chronicle recordings. And she could use a European sword as well as a fighting spear. Alba had invited Hansum to get-togethers at her family’s home a few times, but he had declined, saying he had to study. But then, Hansum had begged off all of his class’s social gatherings.