by Lory Kaufman
"There are just under three hundred million people on the planet, Hansum. It is a steady-state number and you really should care . . ."
"Well, I don't."
Another chime rang in both Charlene and Hansum's heads. Charlene answered.
"Hello. Yes, we'll be ready. Bye. The History Camp transport will be here in a minute," Charlene confirmed. "Come on, sweetheart. Time to remove that implant. Don't fight, please."
"If it wasn't you..." Hansum said.
Charlene floated within a few centimeters of Hansum. Resisting an outburst, Hansum closed his eyes and put his hands in his pockets. His left hand took hold of a cool object, a small brass charm in the shape of an ancient oil lamp. Then he felt the familiar warmth of Charlene's orb press onto his skin.
"I'll replace your implant as soon as you return," she said.
"In two weeks?" Hansum asked, opening his eyes briefly and looking, truly sincerely, into Charlene's.
"As soon as you return," Charlene promised.
With more apprehension than he wanted to show, Hansum closed his eyes again. Charlene pressed against him a little harder and he felt a warm buzz as his flesh opened painlessly. The implant was absorbed into Charlene's orb and Hansum's skin closed without a scar.
As Charlene drifted away from him, Hansum put a hand where his implant had been. He kept his other hand on the brass lamp charm in his pocket.
'I may not have an implant or a personal A.I. where I'm going, but at least I'll have a genie,' he thought.
Just then a flying machine quickly and silently approached from high in the sky. It appeared so quickly, it was like it came out of nowhere, decelerating in an incredibly short time, directly above them. He heard a beep come from Charlene.
"Charlene here," she said, answering another call.
Hansum reflexively put his hand to where his implant had been, to be included in the communication. All he got was an eerie, hollow silence. He forced himself to smile.
'It's only two weeks,' he said to himself. 'I can frustrate a lot of teachers and A.I.s in that time.' Hansum always liked to look on the bright side of things.
"Yes, yes, we're ready," Hansum heard Charlene say to somebody. But Charlene didn't look happy. She was wearing her very serious, sad face again.
The History Camp transport landed, barely disturbing a blade of grass. It was shaped like a raindrop on its side. About five meters long, it could hold about half a dozen people comfortably. The familiar History Camp logo, a stylized human eye with an hourglass set within the iris, was emblazoned on the side. Below the insignia were the Latin words, Noscere Praeteritum Ut Lucrare Futurum, which translated to 'Know the Past, Earn a Future.' A click was heard and the back hatch opened up.
Another A.I., similar to Charlene, floated out of the transport. This fellow wasn't balloon-like, though. He was in the shape of a dog's head, a tongue-hanging, ear-flopping, slow-eyed hound. He levitated out of the back of the transport in sluggish stops and starts, his attitude projecting a great and profound boredom. He moved forward, stopped, panted, came out a bit more, looked even more bored, stopped again, and repeated the process several more times. Hansum looked on bemused till finally the A.I. hovered lazily in front of Charlene and himself.
"Me Dogface!" the canine A.I. said in a rolling, lazy growl.
"Well, you look like a fun person to be cooped up in a transport with," Hansum said.
"Dean Turk'shaw said no give you fuzzy peaches."
Hansum's eyes went wide, but he had to laugh. "Oh, my God, Charlene. Time with this guy is going to be more of a punishment than whatever History Camp throws at me."
Dogface made a face and yipped, "Come. You go History Camp. Now."
"Okay, I'll get my stuff," Hansum said, bending to pick up his trunk.
"Leave here. You no need."
"Not even my toothbrush? How about my sword? Can I use it where I'm going?"
"No sonic tooth cleaners in past. Swords? Can't say. Leave here."
"I'll take care of things, dear," Charlene said, starting to sniffle again. "You run along," and more drawn tears flowed from her eyes and slid down underneath her.
"Oh, for Gaia sakes, Charlene," Hansum said, going to the orb and putting his arms around her. "I'll be back in a couple of weeks." Charlene continued to cry. Never mind that they were only animated tears that only slid around on her surface. Hansum knew her emotions were real. "Why are you carrying on so, Charlene? I'm seventeen. I've got to go out on my own sometimes."
"I know, but, but . . ." she just kept crying. Hansum had been taught that some A.I.s found being parted from their children quite traumatic. He hugged her again and then felt the familiar force field grasp and hug him back harder than he had ever felt it before.
"We go," Dogface barked. When Charlene didn't release Hansum, he repeated, "We go!"
As Charlene let her tractor grip loosen, Hansum backed up into the transport, the whole time peering curiously at the still despondent Charlene. He gave a small wave and watched her sad crayon eyes disappear as the transport's door closed and locked.
***
Charlene felt her eyes go wide as Hansum disappeared into the craft. "Be good, son," she said weakly. "Keep safe." Charlene watched the transport rise silently into the clear blue sky. Then it flew off over the Atlantic. In a few seconds it was a small speck on the horizon.
Chapter 3
The trip to wherever this History Camp was took several hours. It could be anywhere on the planet. Hansum was alone in the transport with Dogface. Besides the sound of the wind on the hull's energy field, Hansum was forced to sit in boring silence. Dogface hovered, looking out the window at the passing clouds, his long canine tongue hanging from his mouth. Whenever Hansum tried to engage him in conversation, the dog would stop panting, look away from the clouds and silently stare at the teenager. After a few seconds, he began panting again and turned his attention back out the window. Obviously the dean's threat had been carried out. A.I.s were being chosen who could not appreciate Hansum's charms.
So Hansum sat in silence, passing the time by remembering the faces of quite a few girls, and several older women, who had appreciated what he had to offer. He smiled as he remembered one especially interesting young woman. Rosalind. She was the one who had given him the little brass charm in his pocket. He instinctively put his hand to his forehead to call Rosalind. Then, remembering his implant was gone, he ran his hand through his hair, adjusting it using the reflection of himself in one of the craft's windows.
Finally, the floating dog head turned to Hansum and spoke in a high, staccato bark.
"Put on clothes for new home."
A rough burlap bag appeared suspended from underneath the levitating head. Hansum took the bag and looked in. He pulled out a piece of undyed roughly woven wool. He was able to tease from it the shape of a tunic, a tube with two crude sleeves sewn on it. Hansum glared at Dogface.
"I'm supposed to wear this?" Dogface just stared back at him. "Where and when is this darn thing supposed to be from?" Hansum demanded.
"Put on," was all the A.I. responded.
"Oh for Gaia's sake," Hansum said. Dogface bared his teeth. Hansum shook his head ruefully, knowing that an A.I. could never attack one of its charges. He removed his shirt and exposed his long, lean body. "I've been working on the abs. Whaddaya think?" Dogface just stared with his hound-dog eyes. Hansum shrugged and pulled the tunic on. As his head popped through the keyhole neck, the rough wool fabric came into contact with his skin, which felt instantly itchy. He tried to ignore the sensation but his pectoral muscles twitched involuntarily. Dogface snorted a laugh.
"Pants now. Change drawers."
Hansum pulled out the rest of the clothing.
There were two burgundy wool leggings with strings at the top, and a pair of what looked like voluminous white linen underpants, also with ties hanging from their leg holes. The only thing vaguely obvious was a cap.
"I'm supposed to wear all this?" he asked, pu
lling out a pair of old, cracked leather boots. Realizing he was holding genuine leather in his hand, he dropped the boots to the floor. "Are those from a real dead animal?"
"They'll look rrrovely on you."
Hansum held up the odd pieces of cloth, staring at them like they were a complex puzzle. "How?"
"The pants are braies," Dogface said, referring to the balloonish underwear. "You lace at waist. Leggings called chausses. Lace to braies."
Hansum glared at Dogface, locking eyes with him. With the A.I. thus distracted, Hansum put a hand in his pocket and palmed the brass lamp charm. Then he smiled again and removed his hand from his pockets, continuing his change of clothes. Hansum unbuttoned and removed his modern trousers. He began to pull the medieval braies over top of his twenty-fourth-century, bacteria-balancing boxer shorts.
"Rrrrrrr," Dogface growled. "Lose skivvies, boy."
Hansum looked into the bag. "There aren't any underwear in here."
"Poor indentured apprentice not wear underwear," the A.I. said. "You poor apprentice. At least, will be." Hansum looked over at Dogface. The floating head cocked his head cutely, like a puppy. "And if you thought tunic was itchy."
Chapter 4
The craft landed and Hansum got off, now dressed in his new, old clothes. He stood there in his tunic, braies, chausses and ill-fitting boots. He adjusted his brimless cap, or coif. Feeling hot, he undid the string ties that held the earflaps under his chin. They dangled in the gentle breeze. Hansum scratched himself again as he took a first look around. He was at the back of what looked to be a medieval barnyard containing a few outbuildings and a stone house, all with thatched roofs. The barnyard was about a hectare large and enclosed by a stone fence. There seemed to be a succession of these enclosures, all with neat, organized houses and barns of varying shapes. In the distance he could see the steeples of several stone churches and tall red brick walls stretching into the distance.
He heard a complaining voice at the other end of the barnyard.
"Get away! Leave me alone! Help!" Hansum looked up and saw a young boy being chased into the house by a goat and several chickens.
Hansum felt a nudge at his back and turned around. It was Dogface, pushing him with his snout. The A.I. also used the appendage to point to the house.
"You go," he barked. "Bye bye." And with that, the transport door closed and rose silently into the air.
Alone now, Hansum sauntered toward the house. The goat noticed him and leaped in his direction. The young man smiled and put his hand out. The animal shoved its velvety nose into his palm, sniffing for food. Then it looked up at him with his yellow, slit-pupiled eyes.
"Finally, another mammal," Hansum said. "I've had my fill of A.I.s today." When no food was forthcoming, the animal lost interest and wandered off. Hansum laughed and continued on to the house.
Passing the barn, he looked in and saw a healthy looking cow and calf in a stall. Hearing oinking, he turned to see a large nursing sow in the shade of a tree. Eight squealing piglets nestled together, gorging themselves from the sow's teats. But Hansum saw no humans. Continuing to the house, he paused in front of the roughly hewn, whitewashed door. It wasn't much taller than him. He knocked. No answer. This was where the boy had entered. Was he an enactor, one of the characters of the History Camp? Hansum took hold of the wooden latch and lifted it. The heavy door creaked open and he stepped in.
Looking around the large single room, he saw an earthen floor covered with straw. The ceiling, maybe a head taller than Hansum, was rough-cut whitewashed timbers and beams. There were steps, little more than a ladder, leading to an upper floor.
Sitting on the lowest step, head downcast, was the boy who had been chased by the goat. He was perhaps thirteen. Hansum blinked with surprised when he looked over at a girl sitting on a bench at a table. She appeared to be completely Caucasian. 'There's something you don't see every day,' he thought. She was perhaps sixteen and dressed in clothes Hansum reckoned could be from the same period as his. She looked up at him with two penetrating green eyes.
"What are you lookin' at?" she asked sharply.
Hansum put up a hand and smiled. "Hey, no probs. I'm one of you."
They continued to size each other up, Hansum sure that she was trying to ascertain the same thing as he was: whether they would be on the same side in the upcoming game.
Her head was covered with a linen veil, draped to her shoulders. Wisps of light auburn hair puffed out from under her veil at the temples. Two highly arched eyebrows of the same color rose over the two green eyes that stared intently at him. Through him. She wore a long, simple gray-on-gray striped dress, which covered her from neck to ankle. She had in her hands what looked like a thick twig whose end had been charred and pointed. She had been drawing with it on, 'What is that called?' Hansum thought. 'Oh yeah. Paper.'
"You a hard case too?" he asked. She gave a petulant smirk and he returned it. "Ready for some fun with these guys?" he asked. She cocked her head and looked at him.
"Maybe." Then she lowered her head and continued drawing.
"Jerk-terkers!" the boy on the ladder cursed. Hansum looked over and saw the younger teen tap at his temple, pause, look frustrated, then tap again. "Terk-jerkers," he added, and then he groaned and made a face. "I'm hungry."
'Not hard enough, this one,' Hansum thought. The younger teen was obviously having a hard time coping, tapping where his communications implant should be. He would tap and wait for a response. After a few seconds, when no reply was forthcoming, he would tap again. Hansum knew the boy was making a futile attempt to contact his A.I.
The boy on the ladder wore somewhat similarly styled clothes to Hansum, except for a green medieval liripipe, a hood with a lengthy tubular tail. A long, tawny tunic covered his baggy braies. And his red chausses, the leggings, extended over his feet. They had reinforced leather soles, so he didn't have separate boots. None of the teens' footwear had arch or ankle supports. But then again, everybody in the twenty-fourth century had perfect arches.
Chapter 5
Hansum was just going to speak to the boy when the door to the house opened. A tall, calm woman with short, curly black hair walked in. She had warm, brown skin and a strong frame. She was not dressed in costume suiting the room's theme, but wore modern clothes with a pin on her jacket, which Hansum recognized. It was the History Camp logo, an hourglass set within an eye, the same image as on the transport. Hansum's mother had a pin just like it, so he knew this woman must be an H.C. elder as well. She gave no long and warm greeting, as one would expect at a regular theme-park History Camp. No niceties here. This was a room of hard cases.
"I need your attention. All of you. You're Hansum? Take a seat on the bench by Shamira. Lincoln. Lincoln, stop calling for Talos. He cannot respond. You had your communicator removed."
"I know," Lincoln said sullenly.
"My name is Elder Cynthia Barnes. So, here you are at History Camp."
"Hard-Time History Camp," the girl named Shamira muttered, not looking up from her drawing.
Elder Barnes continued. "None of you will see your families for at least a month."
"Hey, I was told two weeks!" Hansum complained.
"Me too!" the others added together.
"Plans change," Elder Barnes said. "Understand that for the first time in your lives you are on your own. Nobody will come to your rescue."
Hansum knew this statement just wasn't true. Since his parents had both worked at History Camps and his mother was now a director of several, like Elder Cynthia, he grew up hearing about the inner workings of the places. He knew that no participant at an H.C. was ever really alone or in danger, no matter how frightening a situation was designed to appear. While the whole idea was to make the young participants think they were in a time when there was no safety, there were batteries of humans and A.I.s behind the scenes, looking out for each client.
Elder Barnes walked over to the table and looked at the drawing Shamira was working on. Now sitting at
the same table, Hansum could see it was a very accurate rendition of the interior of the room. There were the steps, complete with Lincoln sitting on them, the door, the shuttered windows, the fireplace with the grate and hanging pots, the straw floor and the ceiling rafters, perspective included.
"That's wonderful, Shamira," Elder Barnes said. "It's true what I read about you. You have great artistic talent." Shamira crumpled the paper into a ball and pitched it into the unlit fireplace. Elder Barnes just took a step away and continued. "Okay, let's get to work. You're all probably wondering what era you're in."
"And I'm sure you're about to tell us," Hansum said.
"Does anyone know where Verona, Italy is?"
"In Italy?" Lincoln suggested sourly.
"Very funny," Elder Barnes said.
"It's a monument city now," Hansum sighed, bored. "Just the old city is left. They tore down and reclaimed anything that was built after 1700. All the newer roads, airports, sewers, everything, was taken up."
All students had been taught that as the human-engineered population decrease took effect several hundred years earlier, it was only logical that cities would shrink and disappear. And with no need for a growth economy anymore, most cities' reason for existence, that of an economic engine, disappeared too. As for transportation, roads and rails were replaced by levitation technology, making physical connections between cities obsolete.
"You're right about the real Verona, Hansum," the elder said. "It is a monument town with just a caretaker and artisan population now. But what about Verona in the fourteenth century? Does anyone know something about that?"
Shamira straightened, the tiniest bit of enthusiasm showing through.
"I remember. I was in Verona a couple of years ago, on a school trip. That's where that Romeo and Juliet story happened. I stood on her balcony."
"Well, where you are now isn't anywhere near the original Verona. We're not even on the Italian peninsula. This is a History Camp version of how Verona was a thousand years ago."