I hear no one laughed.
With gold and oil, we are cautious and this despite the haste demanded by those trendy business dynamos of Earth-Born. And so we have waited until recent times to export and mine. However, in our opening of oil and gold to commerce, we have invited an EB sponsored tragedy to undertake another junket amongst us.
We fight again as we did back in 4008 when we first won independence from EB. Nevertheless, this our Second War of Independence unfolds like none before and with good cause as well.
You see, Here-Born Government, technology, as well as religious and personal Rights, has evolved out here thereby creating a new and legal self-defense. We have given them fair warning as mentioned, but they persist in violating our Rights and ignore all warnings.
I am, as well, sad to say that illegal arrests by EB authorities continue. However, we of Here-Born being expectant of justice and honor in Man have gathered news of each wrongful arrest and records of the perpetrators are encrypted and stored.
They should pay attention to those warnings for on Here-Born following illegal orders or illegal laws or illegal regulations cannot be defended except under one circumstance—you were threatened with immediate death should you disobey.
All others are prosecuted and, in particular, those writing, contributing to, proposing, lobbying for or voting for illegal laws or regulations and those giving illegal orders.
So I say to them, “Beware!”
And so too must we beware.
I personally suspect something heads our way, something worse. But I know not what. Into this uncertainty, I march another day, another week, another year, and longer if needed.
We of Here-Born will not suffer a surrender nor compromise until Freedom lives again.
For us, there is no life without Freedom.
For us, it is impossible to hold onto Freedom without continued vigilance to the coming forth of a new Slave Master—one often surrounded by the obvious minions and cowering curs. Be wary of them for they crawl into view slow enough to go unnoticed...at first.
For myself, I am not sure I will survive.
I can but hope.
Nevertheless, at present all is quiet on all fronts.
CHAPTER 4
Of The First Casualty Of War
I crouch low atop a high dune scanning westwards across a wild and desolate desertscape. A momentary hush as the wind drops. I shift sideways, wriggle deeper into sand and inspect distant dunes as deep concerns gnaw at me.
I search for a Here-Born campaigner, Jiplee Williams, who has gone missing these last several days. We have combed the desert to no avail. For me, it is too trying this, looking for a friend while expecting the worst. Sand whispers as it slithers once again. I glance up and about then focus hard.
But no matter how much I concentrate, there is nothing to see other than naked desert. There is nothing. No one. No signs of life. Naught but sun and heat and sand.
Overhead the sky is harshly blue. In the distance, dust-devils tap-dance along the edge of a dune. Beneath their dancing feet, sand breaks free and cascades downwards, a beached wave slipping back to sea.
Gusts of wind blow sand in my face, into my eyes. Sand forever moves, tumbling and dancing to the tune of Mother Wind and her children as daily they flit and dance across sand.
From out a clear blue sky, our Sun’s glare lessens not at all. A sun who is both merciless and unforgiving, and who smiles without care at Man’s attempts to survive. And assuming one wishes to remain alive beneath Brother Sun courage and endurance, swiftness of mind and reactions superior to any of Earth-Born, are essential requirements.
The moan of wind picks up then subsides and behind me hot metal ticks in evidence of a cooling engine.
I briefly inspect my screaming red SandRider named Hellbent; a breakdown being Death’s kissing cousin. She is almost as tall as a monster truck but built more like an ATV—an All-Terrain Vehicle. Its motorcycle styled saddle lies level at my shoulder. A fairing keeps sand and headwinds at bay, mostly.
I run a finger along the red paint and streaks of pin striping so dark-blue as to appear black. A quick check of her waist high tires—and all are good. A push on the handlebars without power-assistance assures me there is no play in the steering-head.
I kneel and glance about her V4 engine snuggled beneath the seat. This one is designed more for torque than horsepower—no oil leaks are evident. I grin my confidence in her, pat a wheel, shade eyes aflame from lack of sleep and wind-borne dust and once again search the desert. There is nothing but emptiness as far into the distance as I can see.
I check one final time and jolt physically at a sudden flash of color. I close my eyes and mumble a prayer for I had almost missed spotting Jiplee but for a bright red scarf tied around her neck. She lies high upon an opposing dune, frail, unmoving, half buried.
Perhaps I will not be too late.
I leap to Hellbent’s saddle, start her, blip the throttle and she roars in defiance of sand and sun. I drop the clutch and charge down leeward. She slips-n-slides, convulses into a tank-slapper and almost tips. I catch her and angle down the steep face fighting the handlebars.
After a quick charge across the slack, we race up the opposing incline and crest the edge with all four wheels flying. They hit, bounce twice and we slide to a halt. My eyes remain glued to where Jiplee lies despite spewing sand seeking ingress beneath my helmet. Desert silence is intruded upon as my boots pound across sand.
I stop up, bend to a knee, take a moment to calm and check. Sadly, she has no pulse. I drop her hand flinching at her skin so dead upon mine. Regretful, I pick it up, dust it off, place it down with care and check for the cause of death but find none.
I sit silent, breathing fast.
A faint trace of flowers-n-honey mingled with the thick odor of sand surrounds her. I lean closer, but no signs of violence are evident. Perhaps a little hope. But no, the breath of life is gone. I lean back and examine her further.
She is dressed in khaki fatigues and brown boots. Her delicate blouse is of all colors, pink. Blonde bangs peak from beneath a pastel green cap. Typically Jiplee.
Her eyes are closed as though asleep but upon her lips lingers the strangest of smiles. I turn from it but on considering Neatness, I wipe the desert from her face and sit looking at, but not actually seeing her. Several moments on her lips once again hail my attention—they seem alive.
I reach out and a fragment of lingering memory leaps into my hand and divulges she had not anticipated the violent attack she had suffered.
Her life and her memories are gone to me now.
I sigh and gentle her hair, her cap falls free. And with my hand upon her forehead her life essence detaches and bids her human shell farewell. I sense her rise, a silver-n-gold shadow across the corner of an eye. She drifts higher seeking clouds; a forlorn endeavor for there are none and never will be.
She had often dreamed of them, though.
She and her family were and still are of a different religion to mine. Therefore, I understand she’s headed for life anew and will once again live amongst us, as is believed by members of her religion—the Church of the First Faith. But harsh duty calls and despite having no wish to, I yet examine what remains of her.
In tilting her chin, the better to see her face, I discover bruises beneath her red scarf, black and terribly cruel they are. Images of powerful hands choking her return with an insatiable urge for death and reach for me.
I shrink back. My throat constricts and tightens as her final struggle strikes chords better never heard. When they fade, I bow my head and close my eyes in respect of her life, her sacrifice.
I do not know how long I sat in silence thinking about how to find the owner of those virtual hands. With no answer to be found, I glance upwards as the sun touches its zenith, the Half-Day-Moon rises and midday is upon us.
Something still nags at me, though. Something is wrong or out of place upon which I cannot place a finger. Eyes closed I
send perception tendrils into the past looking, searching.
I discover dunes spread off into an endless distance. Many tower one-hundred-n-forty or more floors high. I examine them in passing. Their ever-changing tops sculpted by Mother Wind present my senses with tabletops, ribbed-tops, hump-tops, spinal-twist-tops, shark-fin tops and even octopus-topped dunes.
I accelerate their time backward then forwards and locked together they shift from one place to another, higher today, lower tomorrow. They remain bare sand and devoid of human interaction. Suddenly something touches my shoulder.
I return, and with eyes opened examine it. Sister Storms had awakened and now lifts delicate sand grains leaving small depressions in her wake. I brush her touch from my shoulder as she subsides. Mourner’s Wind whispers an invitation to Sister Storms and they meld, becoming one.
A cold shiver zigzags down my spine. I check for danger and find but a single dust-devil dancing in the wind. Having found no solution to current circumstances, I place the call over my Nomadi, push Jiplee’s bangs aside and ask of her one final question.
“Why no call for help, Jiplee?”
Here where she lies at the edge of a tabletop dune any-n-all direct mind-to-mind communications would hit home at several command posts. Still, with not a whisper had she reached out, neither had she called on her Nomadi. I can but wait and muse on how she had fallen to the enemy, but instead, my mind runs wild.
How can this be? It is not possible that she lies here as she does. Yet she does. If she was killed without evidence of how and without a single call for help...then so can I. Moreover, so can any of Here-Born.
Had Jiplee somehow lost all her skills?
Has our evolution been all for naught?
Has the enemy gained technological advantages that obliterate our evolution from speech to mind-to-mind communication during which we maintained the skills of speaking aloud as a useful tool?
No! That is impossible!
Yet I sit next to evidence of such.
And yes! Those born of EB consider speech and hearing vital, but we hold access to minds a fundamental necessity. We understand those of EB have not evolved to such. But out here and upon this barren sand-n-rock covered planet mind-to-mind communication has become a natural part of life. And although this skill developed over generations of desert life, its history still boils with confusion.
Southerners insist all is due to religion giving us spiritual skills earlier assigned to the mind. Easterners have determined that windblown sand getting into our mouths awoke evolution. Western and Northerners have no opinion either way yet will argue endless hours on the subject.
Along with it, mind-to-mind brought to life a second skill.
Why had Jiplee not used it?
Alternatively, had she lost it? If not lost, then what had defeated it with such apparent ease? And to so final a result? It is an active defense, an incredible advantage. Why had she not obtained or read, as some say, the killer’s thoughts and been prepared?
I reach out to her lifeless form but with her essence departed there come no answers. I take her hand and search all my education that we of Here-Born have named one’s Foundation. I seek in vain for I find no answers there either.
Head bowed I whisper, “I don’t know anymore. Do you Jiplee?” Forlorn, I squeeze her hand harder hoping she will respond. She does not. I cover her and sit gazing out across the desert.
The wind drops and quiet ensues giving birth to greater concern. This campaign of ours has today become a full-blown war, and upon this high tabletop dune we have surrendered first blood. How terrible that a self-defense as non-violent as ours has invited death to savage amongst us.
And worse! She had long been a friend.
I sigh, glance at her but am unable to restrain the memories that rush at me. Nor less the duty I must undertake. To those her child and husband, I must carry the news of her death. I smile sadly as their images spring forth.
She had given to our world a boy and a girl. Both are as blonde as she is but tall and lean like Reggie, their father. It pains me that their names escape recall at a time such as this. Her son, ever quiet and shy, owns a personality the opposite of his younger sister, Little Miss Boisterous.
The first time I visited at their farm her daughter walked up to where I sat in the shade of an awning took my hand and said, “Walk with me...I like you.”
I smiled, entranced a child so young had asked and with such confidence. I can still feel her hand in mine and hear the joy in her voice telling of something she has never seen, butterflies. But today I’m torn that I must bring them sad news yet relieved they receive it from a friend. I only wish....
The roar of several SandRiders shatters the silence. I have been lost in thought of times long gone and danger is about.
I lie flat breathing hard. Dust rises to tickle the inside of my nose. I wipe at it thankful there is no trace of CO2. I keep absolutely still as a posse of SandRiders dance closer through the heat-haze. They storm down a distant dune dragging a sand-cloud behind. They vanish from view leaving puffs of dust to drift aimlessly and upon the wind, the snarl of engines lingers.
This could be rescue in response to my call.
This could be death. I wait, barely breathing, my hand itching for the handgun I had left at home.
Like a stampeding herd of Roanark Braer, they leap the edge of the dune I wait upon. I squint through the dust and heat-haze as various colored SandRiders fight for my attention. As times dictate, desert camouflage dominates. Up close, all are strangers except for one—Madsen Somalo, my campaign senior. This then is rescue.
I stand up and wave, my eyes lingering on Madsen.
He’s seated straight-backed in the saddle of a matte-black SandRider. Despite that, his height towers obvious and so too the magnificent roundness of his belly. Sand swirls as they pull up. Set in a chubby but hard face his cold black eyes check me over as he strides across.
His large boots crunch in sand. He halts as a soldier casually coming to attention, inspects Jiplee turns to me and says, “You round-n-about sure?”
I fight a drugged-like helplessness at this unexpected accusation of incompetence. Why he suddenly thinks I am unable to tell the difference between the presence and absence of life, I cannot fathom. My internal voice whispers something a long time coming—telling of his adeptness at disguising insults as questions and thus filling them with hidden intent.
“What exactly do you really mean?” I ask him. He jolts involuntarily, remains silent, glares hard. Ignoring his glare, I look him over with a critical eye.
Sweat drips down cheeks that appear impervious to the sun. His sand-colored overalls though are no different from what I wear. He shuffles in sand and faces me square on but his eyes dart, never meeting mine.
His voice both cold and burning he says, “Have you lost sight of your last three tourists? Not exactly what we’re round-n-about looking for. The jury is out on you Once-Other. I think you ain’t making it. As a campaigner, my seniors have nothing but questions about you. We’ve a new EB tourist assigned to you. Failure ain’t an option. Get it right an’ all! An’ you be careful of what you do or....”
I turn my back on him and gaze off into the desert. Hot air circles seeking every drop of moisture a body dare expose. The few beads of sweat lingering on my forehead—surrender up.
I wipe my brow as streams of memories rush at me. All are of Madsen’s words backhand included. “What changed?” I ask and his mind snaps closed killing his retort. So he has to hide the answer. Hmm.
I glance at his rescue team who all seem suddenly and unduly interested in a distant horizon. He grabs my arm. “Nothing! It’s round-n-about you! You gone an’ betrayed us an’ all?” he barks.
“Seems a question born of fear,” I say. “I’m ignoring the insult.”
“Be that heavy on your shoulders,” he says.
“And yours on yours,” I snap back at him.
He shrugs, glances around a
nd commands, “You-n-all take her home.”
He looks about and turns back to me. “Last time I was at Sand Lake Flats museum I paid Maggie in cash for a soda. She carefully checked my payment...as though I had shortchanged her! Glad you’re not that way inclined. There’s something wrong with people like that.”
And he walks off.
And that is not the Maggie of my acquaintance. Stranger.
Four of the rescuers lift Jiplee’s stretcher, their boots crunch-n-shuffle in sand. Canvas squeaks on the painted steel framework of a SandRider as they lock the stretcher in place. Some cough, others pant and complain. A final check and they all mount and nod to me. I nod in return. Starter motors whine and V8’s and V4’s snarl alive. They pop wheelies, save for the one with Jiplee on board, and speed off as engines roar and wheels spray sand.
Silence returns. The wind picks up moaning a dirge.
I wet a finger and hold it up for upon these sands wind is a predator. So know well that Mother Wind has many children each of which rises daily from its own cradle. We shall meet them all.
My finger instantly dried, and the wind whispering at my left ear, I wait until the stretcher-carrier with Jiplee on board drops from view over the edge of the dune. Taking a deep breath, I set off home to much-needed rest and replenishment.
However, I am heavy with dread.
There has always been a warmth aglow deep within me. But when I’d first touched Jiplee’s lifeless body, it dimmed. And so faded my future, our campaign and my hopes of victory. But that I instantly realize, is in part surrender. And any bit of such I cannot, will not embrace.
A deep breath in, a virtual hand fans the flame of purpose and my warm light glows once again. I glance about the tabletop on which I stand. It is now a part of me. Part sorrow at the loss of a friend, part understanding of Madsen’s hidden intentions.
“Who am I?” I whisper but find no answer.
I know where I’m headed as a Here-Born campaigner with certainty. But what of myself? Am I lost? What am I to become? What purpose drives me? What is my goal beyond a commitment to this our Campaign?
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