Praetorian Series [3] A Hunter and His Legion

by Edward Crichton

  I didn’t even bother. We both knew I couldn’t.

  “See?” He asked. “Exactly as I remembered. Now explain that.”

  “You know I can’t. Net yet, anyway.”

  “That’s fine, Hunter. Take your time. It looks like we’re going to be here for a while.”

  “Great…” I muttered.

  He ignored me and decided to put his hand on my shoulder. I felt my head instinctively snap toward it, my mouth ready to bit off a finger or two, but I didn’t. I just sat there with the pages between my legs, looking at his hand.

  “I know we’ve had our differences in the past,” the man said as he squeezed my shoulder, “but the Hunter I knew made his peace with me, and so did Artie. I just wish you and I could do the same, so let me start by saying again: do not read the next two pages.”

  He finished with that and left as abruptly as he’d arrived.

  I turned to watch him walk away, his back a wall of muscle as his figure was slowly obscured by the invasion of night. I watched him go with a frown, feeling little comfort at his words. The only reason I’d decided to read the Other Me’s twelfth mission entry in the first place was because I’d hoped to learn where he’d screwed up and what he’d done so wrong that ended with Archer, Artie and the rest of them showing up here. I’d also hoped to find answers as to why and how they were such different but eerily similar versions of the people I remembered, but it wasn’t exactly something I wanted to do. I’d always been too curious for my own good, or at least that’s what people kept telling me, and my present circumstances hadn’t changed that.

  After Archer and Artie had told me that they’d found my skeleton in a cargo container with nothing but the orb and my journal in some warped, alternate version of the year 2021, I’d known almost immediately that I had to read it. But I had been terrified of what I’d learn, and still was, and now that I’d gotten my first taste of it, I was glad for Archer’s warning.

  Despite how convoluted the Other Me had started, I’d been drawn to his words, entranced by his broken story. If not for Archer’s intervention, I would have read right through to the end without pause, only realizing what I’d done once it was too late, because I already knew how it was going to end. I already knew the evidence that the Other Me had gone insane would be quite evident in his words.

  I knew this because I could already feel it happening in myself.

  It started six months ago when I tortured one of the most beautiful women in antiquity.

  It had continued when I saw a friend’s head blown to pieces.

  It was furthered when I’d witnessed another friend’s stepson crushed beneath a slab of concrete.

  Or, finally, when I’d watched the woman I loved die for a second time, a memory only exacerbated by the fact that she’d been carrying our unborn child.

  Then again, maybe none of that should matter, because through the grace of God, science, and/or magic… whatever… the man with the shattered head had recovered. The crushed man had regained his lower half. And the woman I loved had been raised from the dead, and our baby preserved. But while they’d all come back, the pain I felt at the memories lingered, building and growing and becoming harder to handle as the days rolled on.

  Archer was right.

  I could do without the gory details and soliloquies I was sure the Other Me was bound to add. I was prone to them myself, and if what I’d just read was true, and if he’d repeatedly operated the orb, reliving the same moments over and over, thinking and thinking, trapped in a voluntary Groundhog Day scenario with nowhere to go and no one to interact with for what may have been years…

  Well, I didn’t want to think about it.

  Without another thought, I pulled up the pages again, peeled off the top three and placed them behind the rest. I angled my head down and read.

  believe it’s come to this. We were ready. Prepared. So prepared. Shoulda listened to Helena. Should always listened to Helena. Never again. But never more. Dead.

  Must find way to fix. Had two weeks to think.

  How to fix this.

  I’ve thought of something.

  My name is Jacob Hunter. I was born in Greenwood, Indiana.

  August, 199…

  At 6, family moved to Columbus.

  Dartmouth U.

  History an Classical Studies.

  Became Navy SEAL

  Find my sister. Diana Hunter. Should be a astronaut.

  I don’t know how the orbs work. Not really. Been using mine. Feels good to use. Been using mine for months but have no idea how. It just work. But the first time I connected with a Roman. Marcus Varus. Hes dead, but we connected.

  I think. I thnk Diana and I can connect. Just like Varus and me. I… I dont know. Maybe she can help me. Help me somehow. Brng some light. So dark.

  I need help.

  I…

  “How’s the ending?”

  I didn’t jump at this latest voice, because it was far more recognizable than the last and I was used to it popping up when it was least expected – or wanted. I glanced up, only two pages left, and searched for the unwanted voice. I looked to my left but found nothing, and to my right, but also nothing. I hadn’t thought the voice had come from behind me, but maybe it had.

  “Over here.”

  This time it clearly came from my left and I looked at the small shrub that sat there. A shadow moved and grew taller, revealing the shape of a man. I sighed and stacked the pages against my knee and tapped them there to realign them. Neat and orderly, I held them up to cover my face.

  “This really isn’t a good time,” I said.

  The man in black strode closer, clad in his combat fatigues and gear, complete with face concealing balaclava. Acting as our quick reaction force should our Listening Post/Observation Post call in a bogie, he could react instantly while the rest of us geared up. It was standard operating procedure these days, and one we took very seriously.

  The man in black shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “Do you want to know what happened? Really want to know??” I asked, anger rising in my voice.

  “Well, yeah,” he answered.

  I flipped through the pages in my hand, tearing free the skipped few, and flung them at him. He caught them in midair, but no more than ten seconds passed before the pages were held out before me again.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I don’t want to know.”

  I nodded and retrieved the pages, placing them back in their proper places. The man took a step back, just beyond the glow from my light source, but I could still see him cross his arms as we contemplated each other in companionable silence.

  I probably shouldn’t have snapped at him earlier, but my mind was growing ever more difficult to reign in these days. My eyes reflexively peeked toward the bag at my feet, but I looked away just as quickly.

  “So…” my companion started, never one for awkward silences or missed opportunities to annoy me, “…about that sister of…”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “What? All I wanted to know is whether brown is her natural hair color or not.”

  “This conversation is over.”

  He chuckled. “Keep telling yourself that, buddy.”

  “She’s off limits,” I said flatly. “God knows how many STDs you’ve picked up since we’ve been here.”

  He laughed out loud this time. “You wish. I’m clean. Trust me.”

  “Not. Happening.”

  “Lighten up, Hunter. I’m just busting your balls.”

  “Please… for the love of everything sacred… leave my balls out of this conversation,” I pleaded.

  He snorted and I couldn’t help but smile as well. In that moment, I hardly cared about Artie’s innocence or keeping her away from this smiling buffoon, because all I felt was that old tingle of happiness at the banter and idiotic levity he never failed to offer.

  Which was why I kept this particular idiot around.

  Because I loved the guy
.

  Platonically, of course.

  “Just get out of here,” I told him with a wave of my hand. “I’ll let you know what happens later, but I wouldn’t expect a fairy tale ending if I were you.”

  He held his hands out in front of him. “I’ve read enough. Don’t bother. Just remember that this didn’t happen to you. It happened to him.”

  I nodded, knowing the truth behind Santino’s words, and like always, was thankful for his random bursts of clarity and insight that were so unbecoming his normal character. I glanced at the closest friend I’ll ever have and watched as he melted into the shadows while I remained, keeping my ass firmly planted on the dry, hard, uncomfortable rock.

  And read.

  …need help.

  I’m terrified. Made so many mistakes. Every one led us… me… here. There’s nothing to do. No more tricks. No more friends. No mre magical blue balls. Nothing. Nothing left. Just me and this box. My grave.

  Air is thin. I can feel it. Could use orb, but Im done. Finished. Ready to die. Ready to join my love, my life, my… everything.

  Helena.

  I regrt. Much. Most everything. All my fault. Would never b in Rome. Only no regret is helena. But i killed her. Kill her baby. keeled them both. my Son. my grl. WIL nevEr kno.she wuld have be great mom. uch A woman. the prfct womn.

  sory. Head feals lite. Gting dark.

  rgrets. Regret what I did 2 timeline. i know it brokem. nothing is will besame. I feal it in m bons. Evrything is gainst me, an theres nothing i do. not thing.wouldt no wht do if ere ws

  my falt.

  Falt.

  i…

  I…

  sorry. Trying to focus…

  im ramblng.

  I dont kno wht to do.

  HELP

  I stopped.

  The Other Me continued on for a few more paragraphs after that, but I didn’t see the point of continuing. He had clearly lost his grip on reality long before his final words, and I was certain the orb had led him down the dark path we all suspected it could, and that it had plagued his mind, taking him on a quick trip toward insanity. He had been just as insane as Caligula in the original timeline and Claudius in the last.

  I’d read enough.

  My heart was pounding against my chest as I thought about it all, a rhythmic thumping that seemed to beat faster by the second. I placed a hand there to steady it, and felt the drum of my beating heart begin to slow, but the pain in my head continued to linger. The Other Me’s journal had more of an effect on me than I’d first suspected it would. It wasn’t so much from the content but from the fear of what had happened to him, and how I knew it could happen to me as well.

  I pinched my nose and bit back the emotion swelling in my chest.

  The man who had written those words had been me. He’d been a me that, for all intents and purposes, had sacrificed himself so that I… me… could live. Without his journal reaching my sister in the future of his timeline, there never would have been an opportunity for them to come back into mine and save our asses. Without Archer’s intervention, we would have been dead, just as dead as he was because he hadn’t had their assistance. Instead, we’d created yet another timeline, one where we’d all escaped Agrippina’s trap in the villa because Archer and his troops had arrived.

  Just like when my friends and I had shown up two thousand years in the past, and had created a timeline that ended with us dead a few days ago, when they showed up, their presence had changed the timeline as well. We were now in yet another timeline. Whether their presence would affect more positive change in the long run was still up for debate, but since it had at least resulted in the continuation of our lives past a few days ago, I was okay with it for now.

  I lowered my hand from my face and pushed off my rock, still clutching the six pieces of paper. I let my attention linger on the horizon, the shimmering water reflecting the moon’s image just below my focus, and found my mind wandering. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply before opening them and glancing down at my hand, realization setting in.

  I was alive.

  All of us were alive.

  This arrogant, self-centered, pessimistic, wimpy, know-it-all Other Me had died so that I could live. Had it been a heroic death? No. In fact it pained me that his death was more of the opposite. It had been a whimpering death, one where he had died alone and unable to help himself, all while he fought a losing battle for control of his sanity. But that no longer seemed to matter anymore. The Other Me had died and I had lived. Whether he knew it or not, his mistakes were not so horrible after all because I would learn from them. I wouldn’t make the same mistakes twice. Not when I had a second chance.

  I edged closer to the water and tore the six pages in half, then again, and again, until I was no longer able to continue halving it. I lost much of the document as I voraciously tore what remained to pieces, but when I was finished, I threw the rest into the lake like a relative releasing the ashes of a family member into the ocean. I watched as they scattered across the water, floating off into obscurity before dissolving into nothing.

  I stood there thoughtfully, watching them go, when a soft sound emanated from behind me. Unconcerned by what sounded like someone coughing politely into his fist to garner someone’s attention, the only thing that concerned me was the identity of my latest visitor. I turned to see the outline of a small man standing a polite distance away, loitering near my old rock. He wore his night ops combat pants and a t-shirt that I assumed was white. Attached to his shoulders was a backpack that seemed comically large for his slight frame.

  At the moment, he seemed embarrassed, almost bashful, but I knew better. Most of the time he was just as big of an ass as Santino, only this one knew how to read his audience and act appropriately when necessary.

  “Sorry, mate,” he said in his Welsh accent. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  I walked toward my rock and rubbed my palms against my pants, ensuring any last remnants of the Other Me’s documents no longer remained.

  “Don’t sweat it,” I said. “You’re not the first person to show up tonight unannounced, but I’ll at least give you extra credit for politeness.”

  The figure shrugged. “You seemed pretty distracted. Considering the few days, I didn’t want to interrupt. I saw what you were reading and figured you had a lot to think about.”

  I smiled. “You the team’s psychiatrist now too?”

  “No,” he said as he shrugged off his large bag. “I’ll leave that bullocks to the Frenchy, but I’m still your doctor. Now sit down and remove your shirt.”

  I complied with his order and once again sat upon my rock, but found that removing my shirt wasn’t so easy a task anymore because of my wound, so our friendly medic had to help.

  “Thanks,” I said as he finally pulled it over my head. “I’m having mobility issues with the arm.”

  “Expected,” he said as he pulled out a small head lamp from his bag and secured it over his forehead. He flicked the light on and examined my side before beginning the procedure of unwrapping the gauze from around my chest. “Your entire left flank was carved up pretty good, mate. You’ll be jammy if you gain full mobility at all, and it’ll certainly take a few months before you’re a hundred percent.”

  “Wonderful,” I said with a wince as he removed the pad attached to my side with a sticky, wet sound. “I think I’ve had just about enough purple hearts for one career. Time to cash in my pension and get the fuck out.”

  “Not bloody likely,” he said as he completely removed the blood soaked pad.

  I didn’t want to look, but my curiosity, like it always did, got the better of me, and I very nearly threw up at the sight and smell of it.

  “Aye,” the medic said, “pretty nasty piece of business there, and you’ve managed to pop a few of the stiches as well… great. Give me a minute to sew you back up.”

  I nodded and gritted my teeth in preparation. I felt a syringe plunge its way into the area, the morphine tak
ing its sweet time before finally working its magic, but when the area felt numb, I risked another look, again immediately wishing I hadn’t.

  The laceration was at least seven inches long, and despite the stiches, the wound was flayed open in places where they had popped, and the dark red wound gaped like a ravenous maw ready to devour anything that came near it. I was almost worried my surgeon would lose a finger or two to its voracious appetite, but my fears were quelled when he stitched me up in seconds, his deft movements dancing with practiced ease.

  When he was finished, he carefully set his tools on an already laid out piece of cloth and removed another large gauze pad. He placed it carefully over the wound and used some tape to hold it place. Removing a large roll of gauze from his bag he got to work wrapping me up.

  “Thanks,” I grunted as he pulled the wrap tight.

  “Not a problem, Hunter. Just try not to pop the stitches this time or it will never heal.”

  “Agreed. I’m sick of your bedside manner anyway.”

  He chuckled and tied off the dressing, giving it a final inspection before nodding to himself. He then dug around in his bag and removed a cleaning rag and a bottle of disinfectant, which he used to sanitize his tools while I worked my shirt back on. Even with my arm refusing to cooperate fully, putting it on was easier than removing it, and by the time my companion was finished, I’d just about secured it around my waist.

  The medic stood and shouldered his medical bag over one shoulder and turned to leave without another word. I twisted at the waist, immediately regretting it, and called out after him.

  “Wait.”

  The small, former member of Britain’s Special Air Service turned to appraise me with his large, round eyes that tugged just slightly at the corners. “Need something more for the pain?”

  I shook my head. “I’m good on that actually. It’s just that I was, um… just wondering what you thought about everything.” I shrugged. “About… where to go from here.”