by Luke Norris
Oliver had already discovered these items at some point in the past and kept the fact hidden from the public. But why? Who did this make Oliver? How had Targon and her not heard of him in their field of expertise? His knowledge certainly seemed to rival, if not exceed, that of Targon. Shael had worked so hard to get where she was, and Oliver didn’t appear to be more than five years her senior. Yet, somehow he possessed a disproportionate amount of expertise.
It wasn’t jealousy she felt, but a desire to get to the core of the mystery. Finding the truth had always driven her, more than anything else. Maybe that’s why Shael felt so strange because the more she learned about Oliver, the more mystifying he seemed to become. It was like science working backward.
Perhaps he was some eccentric millionaire, a private collector they’d not heard of. Yes, that would fit with the behavior, the traits he exhibited—solo explorer with a disconnect to authority, a lack of appreciation for value, the way he flippantly offered to purchase a wasp for Targon and Shael’s own expeditions. But then what did he plan to do with these items? Shouldn’t they belong in museums, for the appreciation of everyone? Was it responsible to leave them in the care of such an unstable person?
“Oliver what do you plan to do with these things?” she asked, interrupting their conversation. “You’ve had them hidden away for so long. Are you planning to move them to some other elaborate storage contraption again, for another decade?”
“It is not important to me where these end up,” Oliver said. “I’m sure you and Targon will ensure they are managed in the correct way. The payment I receive for these will be invested in your national space program.”
“You will really allow these items into our care?” Sweet verity, what that would mean for her and Targon? Wait, did he say space program? What did that mean? “You want to invest in the national observatory? With the money you get Oliver, you’re thinking too small.”
“No, I’m not interested in observing, Shael,” Oliver smiled. “I’m interested in traveling up there.”
Okay, definitely an eccentric millionaire, with a lot of emphasis on the eccentric part. “There is no such thing as a space program, Oliver,” she laughed.
“There is now,” Oliver replied. “I will be assembling a team of the best scientists and engineers in Naharain, to devote a concerted effort into designing rockets that will carry people into orbit. I would prefer to be a silent benefactor, and not be in the public eye. Which means I will need somebody to run things. Shael I wanted to ask if you would take the role of program director. You would not be alone of course, I’d ensure you have the best people around you.”
“Oliver!” She stopped herself from calling him ‘Highness’ jokingly, the name somehow just didn’t feel right anymore. “I’m a scientist, interested in things that are real, not science fiction.”
“You’re interested in uncovering truth, Shael. You have a natural tendency towards skepticism and scientific method. I don’t think you’ll find the answers that you truly seek about humanity, and our origins, in these artifacts.” Oliver kicked the chest on the ground. He actually kicked it. Unbelievable.
Why did his words have a ring of truth to them? She had just come into possession of the most sought-after object in history, and yet somehow this historic find had a hollowness to it. Oliver treated the artifacts as if his grand scheme made their discovery trivial. Also as crazy as Oliver was, there was somehow a deeper truth to what he was saying, that pulled at Shael’s heart. Answers were out there, in the cosmos, but they were just so unreachable.
“Shael,” Targon reached out a hand to her, “you should take the offer!”
“Huh, you believe all this Targon?”
“Has Oliver mislead us up till this point?” Targon said earnestly. “He has been nothing but true to his word. I have no reason to doubt it now.”
That was undeniable, which added to the conundrum and turmoil of her thoughts.
Where was Eorol? He’d been gone for some time now. He had disappeared on a phone call, but it was taking an unusually long time.
Oliver and Targon lapsed into silence, both considering the conversation. Shael wiped sweat from her brow. It was humid, and they had all stripped to their T-shirts. A patter of rain began on the roof of the wasp, which quickly became a downpour. It was a noticeably different climate here in Shar. They received warmer air currents from the sea instead of the mountain air in Naharain. The rain was now coming down in intense flurries, and the droplets were enormous.
Eorol came running through the side door of the wasp, with his head down. He climbed passed Shael without acknowledging her and put his wet things down on the front passenger seat.
“Eorol?” Shael enquired. “What kept you for so long?”
He didn’t answer as he climbed back into the passenger area. “Those items need to be packed and stowed,” Eorol told them, removing some packing blankets from under the seat and throwing them to Oliver, who caught them deftly.
“They will be fine with us!” Oliver said.
“No!” Eorol replied. “It’s going to be a rocky flight, I’ve looked at the weather chart, and some mountain drafts are coming in closer to Naharain.”
Just great! Shael’s stomach lurched at the thought. “How rocky will it be Eorol?” she could tell he was agitated, and that slightly terrified her. “Hey Eorol, answer me!”
“It’s nothing serious,” he said, preoccupied wrapping the coin-chest. “I just don’t want loose items in the cabin. And I want the weight balanced.” He pointed to the seats against the cockpit. “You and Targon there. Oliver, you’re on the bench.”
“Eorol, you are making me nervous! Should we really be flying now if you’re concerned?”
“Like I said, it’s not serious, but it’s the only window we’ll have or the next few days.” He lifted open the steel lid to a storage compartment in the floor, and carefully placed the wrapped chest inside. “Besides, I’ve been given instructions to return the wasp,” he mumbled.
He was acting strange, and Shael couldn’t handle it. She was about to have a panic attack. Maybe she should find some overland form of transport? It would take more than a week. She was seriously considering it. Eorol closed the lid and locked it in place. Okay, breath, deep breaths.
“Did I tell you about my tattoo Shael?” Oliver asked. He was obviously trying to distract her. It was a sweet gesture that probably wouldn’t help. He lifted his sleeve to reveal the faded markings on his shoulder. She had a sudden flashback to the guard tower where she had first encountered Oliver, a pale skinny wraith. Sweet Verity, the transformation was uncanny now that she paid attention. His body had filled out in a month or so. He looked strong and athletic. It was almost as though his body had memorized its optimal form and sprung back into shape. Maybe her memory was deceiving her, and he hadn’t been so skinny. Her attention went back to his arm, the faded symbols underneath the leaping animal, were they letters?
“Cougar,” Oliver said as if reading her thoughts. “That’s what the word says in my language. It’s the name of this cat, and… he hesitated, the name my friends called me.”
“That’s a strange name,” Shael replied, “I prefer Oliver.”
Targon leaned closer tipping his head back to see in the orange light of the wasp. “It looks different from the language on the hammer,” Targon said.
“It is!” Oliver agreed. “It is my language—from my home.”
“How many languages do you speak my boy? I’ve lost count. And, you’ve picked up Naharainee quicker than I would have believed possible.”
“It's true. I have an… aptitude to languages.” Oliver chuckled reminiscently. “I’m not sure exactly how many,” he admitted, “but circumstances have dictated that I had to learn several languages.” He sat on the back bench and spoke over Eorol’s shoulder, while the man inspected Oliver’s safety straps, giving them vigorous tugs to assure himself they were appropriately fastened.
Eorol checked Shael’s s
traps, and double checked them. Sweet Verity, she thought as she watched dark flurries of rain wash against the window of the wasp.
Eorol looked at Shael as he checked her clip. “I travel in far worse than this in the mountains regularly Shael. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”
Why was he emphasizing the word ‘you’?
Eorol stood up and addressed them all. “We stay strapped in unless I say otherwise,” he ordered. “Clear?” He gave one more tug on Oliver’s belt, nodded satisfied, and then clambered past the other two into the cockpit.
The four turbines fired simultaneously, sucking rain away from the windows, and blasting vaporized water onto the ground. Eorol watched out the windows at the turbines respectively, testing their movement with his joystick responsiveness. Shael watched his expression carefully trying to detect any concern. He seemed satisfied, but something else was bugging him. She gripped the shoulder straps as the wasp lifted off the ground and pushed her into the seat. She opened her eyes, Oliver was watching her intently. He seemed keen. Focused.
The aircraft pitched forward and ascended into the night. They banked almost immediately eastward, toward the Nahar, or Black River as it was commonly known. It would be invisible in the dark, but they would be crossing its swift waters soon. It was the largest river on the continent, even than the Tashka, that flowed through Naharain. By the time it reached the coast, it was so wide that an entire city, Skalla, was built on the delta at the Black River’s mouth. Even here at Shar, it was over a kilometer wide.
During the Skalien wars, the river had acted as a mote, to allow Skalet time to bolster his forces. But ultimately it had worked against him. The crossing had claimed many of his ocean-going vessels, that were pitted against the combined Naharianee and Wasat river fleets. Shael imagined the hundreds of shipwrecks strewn across the riverbed, deep under those ferocious currents. Its waters were so deep that they were always identifying new aquatic species. From a scientific perspective it was interesting, but nothing more. She shuddered.
The river water itself was remarkably clear in comparison to the yellow waters of the Tashka which ran through Naharain. The pristine canals latticing Shar were testament to this. The Nahar got its nickname from the black gravel sand on the river’s bed.
The flight was smooth, so why was Eorol checking over his shoulder every thirty seconds? Suddenly the aircraft jolted. She looked up at Oliver as the vessel pitched, and lurched heavily over to one side. She was suddenly squashed into the side of her seat. The straps ripped at her shoulders. It seemed to happen in slow motion. The adjacent side doors to the wasp swung open away from each other. The gaping abyss opened up below her. The howling of the turbine engines, roaring under the strain of the vessels awkward angle, entered the cabin with swirls of rainwater. The only thing stopping her from dropping out the side, and into the dark wet abyss were two shoulder straps. Surprisingly, in this moment of confusion, she didn’t feel panic, it was too surreal. She was vaguely aware of Targon’s panic, as his hand gripped hers.
Oliver also seemed to be scrambling frantically. She looked over at him. No, his expression wasn’t panicked—it was focused. Intent. He was trying to free something from his pants. He produced a small knife. He took the little blade and started sawing wildly at the straps. Those straps were the only thing holding him in. What was he thinking? Did he have a deathwish?
“Oliver!” Shael screamed over the raucous. It was all she could manage.
Oliver’s entire seat suddenly jolted, then to her horror slid in the direction of the door before stopping abruptly. One side of his chair had completely detached itself from the steel bracket, causing it to pitch over at an acute angle. The remaining bracket was straining under metal fatigue. The steel was tearing slowly apart before her eyes, with the sound of a train breaking on the tracks. Shael thought she could hear herself screaming.
It didn’t appear to surprise Oliver, he just continued sawing at his safety straps. The first one gave way, and he instantly twisted his body to work on the second one. Now it made sense. He was trying to free himself from the chair, which was about to become a death trap.
“Eorol. What’s happening?” she cried out and managed to force her head around to the cockpit behind her.
Eorol was looking back at them. “Ah, dammit.” He growled, watching Oliver. “Release, you useless contraption!” He pulled on the joystick, the wasp shuddered and roared under the strain of staying airborne at such unnatural angle. It listed even further, now to a full ninety degrees. Was Eorol performing this maneuver on purpose? Fastenings from Olivers chair slid out the gaping open door.
Oliver was nearly through the second strap. Shael looked at the bracket at the base of his chair, just in time to see the final section of stressed steel, with the color of fresh bruises, tear completely through. Sweet Verity, he was too late. His chance had gone. He had nearly made it. Damn the fates.
Time froze. Oliver had sensed the chair coming free also. He stopped cutting, and connected eyes with Shael. It was a chilling point in time, where the hopelessness of the situation was abundantly clear. In that frozen moment, with eyes locked, Shael felt she wanted to say a thousand things to Oliver, all the unanswered questions firing in her brain.
In the next instant, the seat containing Oliver was sucked out into the void followed by pieces of metal and debris. Shael stared in shock at the empty space, where he had been only moments ago.
Oliver was gone.
Shael felt gravity slowly resume its normal orientation, as the wasp righted itself. The turbines’ roar subsided, to their typical quiet hum, and the wasp returned to a smooth plane, without any turbulence. It was as if the harrowing disaster had not even happened. She breathed in as if she’d been underwater for several minutes. Targon looked dazed, his face was bright red from having blood forced to his head.
“It’s over,” she assured him, gripping his hand. “It’s over Targon.” Sweet Verity, who was she trying to convince?
Eorol was suddenly clambering past her. He glanced at Shael and Targon, confirming to himself they were still secured safely. Was this the appropriate time to have the wasp on autopilot? He punched a large industrial button on the metal wall panel, activating the hydraulics. The adjacent doors pulled closed evenly, and the wasp suddenly became quiet as they sealed.
“What was that Eorol?” Shael demanded hysterically. “Oliver’s gone. He flew straight out those doors. Ponsy’s hammer.” She grabbed Eorol’s arm as he tried to climb back into the cockpit. “We have to go down and find his body!”
Eorol ripped his arm free without looking at her. “We’re not going down!” he said gruffly. “The remainder of the flight will be smooth, you have nothing more to worry about.” He wiped sweat from his brow, removed a small flask from a compartment under the dashboard, and took a deep swig of the contents.
Shael was taken aback by his rough manner. “Eorol! Are you crazy?” Shael was crying, but she didn’t care. Oliver’s body is down there somewhere. “We cannot simply fly away, we have to bring Oliver back for his family.”
“There is no body Shael. The Black River took care of that. Those deep waters will wash away any evidence.” He took another long swig from the flask. “I made sure of that,” he added.
“Evidence?” Shael asked nonplussed. “What do you mean evidence?”
Targon shook his head sadly. “Eorol, what have you done? How much did they offer you for such a deed?”
“You really think you could get away with assaulting zewka and have no consequences?”
“No, Eorol, not you. You told us you were not…”
“I’m not,” he cut in. “Not technically. But this expedition will more than clear my debts, and it should gain me admission with some standing.”
“And the price of admission?” Targon accused. “Murder? Eorol, you are making a grave mistake going in cahoots with zewka. Their activities are a corrupt seed that is rotting the fabric of our society. Have you not read t
he history of the war of the three houses?” he said furiously. “They are a legacy of an outdated ideology, one of dictatorship. They would cast us back to the second epoch. Look what it’s cost you! Your conscience. As sure as the mountains shadow, Eorol, there is no amount they can pay you that will free you from the guilt of this deed.”
Eorol was silent, his expression strained. He put the flask to his lips, but it was empty. He threw it against the cockpit wall in frustration. “Be silent, old man! You know nothing of my life, and what my choices are.” He didn’t sound convinced of himself.
“So you’d planned this the entire time?” Shael demanded. “The whole time we were in Shar, you knew in the back of mind you were going kill Oliver? Did you sabotage his seat?”
“Not me personally. They prepared this wasp especially, once they knew Oliver was going to be onboard. They instructed me on which seat he was to sit in, and how I was to fly to make it release. I was ordered to first let you conduct your activities in Shar, as they might be profitable to the family in some way. Turns out they were right.”
“You’ve sold your soul, Eorol,” Shael said sadly. “And what is to become of us?”
“They are unable to translate the transcript from the monastery and require Targon…”
“I’ll never cooperate with zewka, Eorol.” Targon declared before Eorol could finish. “You can forget about that right now.”
“They thought you might say that,” Eorol paused, “so I was ordered to bring Shael too. They said they could use her to… encourage you to cooperate.”
Targon was silent.
“Listen to reason, Shael!” Eorol urged. “They are not sending you to the blackstone mines, or some other horrible job, they’re asking you to do something you love. Archaeology. Please don’t antagonize them! You can both still come out of this on top.”
Eorol was almost pleading with her. Maybe he did feel some genuine regret about the whole situation.
“What’s ironic, Eorol,” Targon said regretfully. “You may have just murdered the most knowledgeable person on the continent. If anyone could have translated that parchment, I’m sure Oliver could have done it.