Darwin's Soldiers

by Ste Sharp

  Delta-Six jumped to his feet and strode over, pointing his clenched fist at John. ‘Stay there,’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh… I guess I can’t look too friendly walking round with a machine gun, can I?’ John froze as Delta-Six turned a blue torch on him.

  ‘Where are you from?’ the American snapped mechanically.

  ‘Whitechapel, London but…’

  ‘No. Where exactly have you come from?’

  Delta-Six loomed over John, but he was used to people being taller than him.

  ‘Well, Belgium – Flanders.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Nineteen Seventeen, April the…’

  Delta-Six sniffed and walked out of the trees.

  ‘Wait! Where are you going?’ John shouted, fumbling through the branches and back into the open. ‘Stop! Oi – just tell me where we are… you’re the only bloody one who speak s English… ’ Swinging his gun under his arm, John chased the American . ‘Wait!’ He reached out but as he touch ed the man’s shoulder an electric shock blasted through hi s hand and everything went dark .

  ***

  Delta-Six’s face came into focus. ‘At least my auto-defence still works.’

  John rubbed his eyes and blinked, then looked at the red patch on his palm where he’d been shocked.

  ‘ All I want to know is why I’m here,’ he said .

  Delta-Six spoke slowly – ‘I can’t trust you. You may be my enemy’ – and walked away.

  ‘Great,’ John said.

  Keeping his distance, John cradled his gun and sighed when he pressed his burnt hand on the cool metal to soothe it. He followed Delta-Six to the black obelisk and watched him circle the stone, sidestepping the ever-growing crowd of warriors who gazed up at the brilliant-white carvings.

  ‘Some kind of archaic script,’ John heard Delta-Six mutter as he passed.

  ‘What does it say?’ John asked, but was ignored.

  An inquisitive Arab, dressed in scarlet robes and a maroon turban, tried talking to John, apparently mesmerised by his machine gun. ‘Get off!’ John pulled it back. The Arab turned to Delta-Six and shouted, as though giving him an order, but was ignored by him too. John studied him: a lethal-looking curved sword swayed within his robes and his furrowed brow reminded him of the old, fierce French teacher at his school – Monsieur Boivin. How had he managed to dye his beard red? he wondered.

  In the distance, a clash of steel rang out and the cry of a dying soldier signalled the end of another feud.

  John could feel the pressure building. ‘Delta-Six!’ he shouted. ‘What does it say?’ He stood in the tall man’s path, careful not to touch him this time.

  Delta-Six frowned and looked down. ‘My systems don’t recognise the code.’

  John squinted. ‘But you must know something. I mean, why are we here?’

  ‘No, I–’

  ‘Humans,’ a resonant voice silenced him. ‘You are the chosen. You are the supreme warriors of your species.’

  Heads turned. Everyone appeared to understand the voice, which was odd, John thought, because it was speaking plain English.

  ‘Those who stand against you fall in great numbers and those who fight alongside you pale into insignificance.’

  The crowd parted and the speaker appeared: his eyes fixed on the obelisk as he walked. He was short, like John, and wore layers of rough, brown material with his face hidden beneath a hood.

  ‘You are challenged to reach the silver gates within the next fourteen days.’

  Delta-Six scanned the man as he passed.

  ‘Follow the path which leads to growth, strength and endurance and you will achieve victory.’ The newcomer pulled his hood back to reveal a bearded face. Although his red hair was free of grey streaks, the wrinkles around his eyes suggested he was older than fifty. ‘This is what the inscription states,’ he said and pointed at the obelisk.

  The Red Arab moved forward and asked the newcomer a question, to which he replied, ‘I am Althorn and, like you, I have been taken by the gods and deposited here on this wild hillside.’

  The Red Arab nodded.

  ‘You speak English?’ John’s question was lost in a cacophony of other questions.

  Althorn raised his hands and tried to answer each question, but no matter the language of the question, his reply was always in English.

  A warrior with a long spear and red cloak asked a question.

  ‘The writing says we are challenged to reach the silver gates,’ Althorn answered.

  A man with a silver helmet and short sword shouted another question.

  ‘I haven’t brought you here. I heard your questions and read the script for you.’

  The crowd grew aggressive as, like John, they only understood the answers, not the original questions.

  ‘A Bronze Age warrior,’ John heard Delta-Six say, ‘but able to communicate with everyone. How can you read the script, if nobody else can?’ Delta-Six asked.

  Althorn shrugged. ‘I have been taken from my land and brought here. I know nothing else.’

  A man in a black uniform with a red armband pushed forward, shouting what John recognised as German.

  ‘As I said, the writing–’ Althorn began to reply but Delta-Six moved in and touched the German on the shoulder,where a tiny spark flashed and the man collapsed into a pile of fine powder.

  Those nearest stepped back and gripped their weapons a little tighter.

  ‘The laws of physics must be distorted,’ Delta-Six whispered. He turned to Althorn. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘I am Althorn of the Careni people, south of the mountains. I am a… soldier for hire.’

  ‘Hey buddy! What the hell’s going on here?’ A short, butch man in a dark-green uniform pushed his way through the crowd.

  John smiled. ‘Another American? I’m John.’

  ‘Hey, a Limey! Christ , who isn’t here? I’m Crossley – what’s going on?’ He puffed on a cigarette as he spoke.

  Delta-Six shook his head. ‘A Second World War marine? It’s just too perfect to be real.’ He asked Althorn, ‘How can you understand all these languages?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Althorn frowned.

  ‘What language do you speak?’ Delta-Six asked.

  ‘Careni,’ Althorn replied. ‘But I know a few words of – ’

  ‘Have you consumed anything since arriving here?’ Delta-Six asked.

  ‘I have eaten these . ’ Althorn pulled a few mushrooms from a bag. ‘From down by the tree line . ’ Althorn pointed to the purple-leaved trees fringing the hilltop. ‘Would you like one?’

  Delta-Six declined.

  A tall man, with a broadsword swinging by his side, pushed through the crowd. Although he wore no armour, John assumed by the emblem on his tunic he was a knight. The handsome man picked a mushroom from Althorn, chewed and swallowed. He stared at the crowd with a look of annoyance. ‘Well? How am I to know if the bloody thing has worked if nobody speaks to me?’

  The soldiers erupted into a volley of cheerful shouts as they clearly understood every word the knight had spoken.

  ‘God be praised – it worked,’ he laughed.

  Althorn looked relieved. ‘And now we have another translator.’

  John saw men run off to find mushrooms of their own, but stayed put as the knight handed out Althorn’s mushrooms. He smiled as a tall archer with an athletic figure strode up to the knight.

  ‘It is my pleasure to serve such a beautiful lady, ma’am.’ The knight bowed and offered her a mushroom.

  John couldn’t help but stare at her curved body.

  ‘Pretty fine lady, eh?’ Crossley said. He was probably the only person short enough for John to talk to eye to eye. ‘I wouldn’t try anything with her though.’

  ‘What? Why?’ John felt himself blushing.

  ‘That Amazon’s more tiger than princess, believe me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I saw some Frenchy trying to get his way with her,’ Crossley said. ‘She had a knife at
his balls quicker than you could blink.’ He nodded at three men. ‘See?’

  John caught a glimpse of a soldier in a blue tunic, limping and sporting a black eye. ‘I–’

  A distant explosion made them turn and John s aw a leg fall from the sky, shortly followed by another explosion and a n acrid smell John recog n ised as burnt flesh . He felt the urge to fall to the floor and had one hand on his gas bag. The men and women around him had raised their shields or stared at the forest, while others were running away.

  ‘There are some orange toadstools in the woods ,’ Althorn said and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a nasty rash on his forearm, ‘ but these men do know how to check their food, don’t they?’

  John squinted at the rash. He knew of poisonous toadstools but how could one explode?

  ‘ I gotta get my hands on some of those !’ Crossley said , then asked , ‘ But are these ’shrooms worth all this? I mean, why can’t us English- speaking boys just stick together , right ?’

  ‘Communication can be more important than any weapon you wield,’ the tall archer said.

  ‘Hah!’ Crossley shook his head, then did a double take . ‘Those things really work?’ He took a mushroom and looked at John.

  ‘I guess things can’t get much worse,’ John said and popped a piece into his mouth. He waited a few anxious seconds before what sounded like a distant biplane crossed behind him and the murmur of voices transformed into a muddle of English. He clasped his hands over his ears. It sounded like everyone was talking to him. He looked at Crossley, who was smiling.

  ‘Amazing!’

  Tensions eased as the warriors talked to one another.

  John spotted Delta-Six on the edge of the crowd and joined him. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m getting out of here . ’ Delta-Six pointed to a range of golden- coloured hills . ‘To the silver gates and back to my war where I’m needed.’

  John frowned. ‘You want to go back to your war?’

  Delta-Six connected a yellow tube to his streamlined backpack. ‘I’m sure I could help, but my protocol dictates I leave. I have no choice.’ He stepped away. ‘So long.’

  Hot vapour streamed out of the backpack, pushing Delta-Six into the air and away from the hill, painting a white trail behind him.

  ‘But we need your help!’ John shouted, as he and hundreds of pairs of eyes watched their best hope of survival disappear.

  ***

  John looked at the obelisk. ‘Well I’ll be damned!’

  The script which snaked up the black stone was in English now. At least it was to his eyes:

  Humans. You are the chosen ones. You are the supreme warriors of your species. Those who stand against you fall in great numbers and those who fight alongside you pale into insignificance. You are challenged to reach the silver gates within the next fourteen days. Follow the path which leads to growth, strength and endurance and you will achieve victory.

  John stroked the letters but flinched: he had white sores on his palm and fingers where he’d been shocked by Delta-Six. He found a rock to sit on and leant his gun against his leg so he could soothe his hand on its cold metal.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ a swordsman in chainmail asked. ‘And do we get paid when we get to the gates?’

  Althorn shrugged, pulled up his hood and stepped away.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ someone asked.

  The calm created by the effects of the mushrooms began to erode as each person’s anxieties and frustrations crept back.

  The Arab with the red beard was questioning a rifleman. ‘Where are these silver gates?’

  ‘Delta-Six knew where the gates are,’ John said quietly.

  ‘We’ve only got fourteen days!’ a Roman said. ‘What happens after that?’

  John tried again. ‘Delta-Six knew the way to the silver gates.’ But nobody heard him. He thought about giving a burst from his gun to get some attention, but it was a bit risky with the swords, axes and other deadly implements around.

  His grandfather’s face popped into his head. ‘Stop being an imbecile and speak up, boy!’

  ‘I know where the gates are!’ John shouted and everyone turned to him.

  ‘Do you?’ Althorn asked.

  John swallowed. ‘Yes. Well, Delta-Six said he was heading for them – past the golden hills.’ He pointed.

  Althorn smiled. ‘So we know our direction.’

  ‘So we just start walking?’ the Red Arab asked. ‘What about supplies?’

  And the arguments grew again.

  ‘That Delta-Six was probably a decoy anyway. Set up by whoever put us here,’ Crossley said.

  ‘Should we wait for nightfall to see the stars?’ the tall knight said.

  ‘Then we could just find our way home, couldn’t we?’ said a rough voice, and John pictured the tattooed man with the trident. He daren’t turn around in case the man recognised him.

  ‘You can try walking back to where you came from,’ Crossley said with a snigger.

  ‘My home was destroyed by the Romans,’ the man sounded as menacing as John remembered, ‘they sowed salt in our fields, killed our elderly and took us into slavery… they made me fight for their entertainment.’

  ‘Sounds shitty,’ Crossley said. ‘Really… but I don’t give a damn. Walk wherever you want to.’

  John took a peek: it was the same man, standing ten paces from Crossley with his trident lowered.

  ‘Do not poke fun at me, little man. I am Sakarbaal of Carthage.’

  ‘I’m not poking fun, I just–’ Crossley stood with hands on hips. ‘Hey, if I wanted to poke fun at you, I’d ask about your tattoos. I mean, seriously? What’s with all those?’

  ‘I will skewer you, little man,’ the gladiator stepped closer.

  Crossley stood his ground. ‘You want to kill me with your oversized fork just because I don’t like your body paint?’

  ‘This fork will tear a hole from your arse to your mouth, you little–’

  ‘Okay, now you’re being offensive.’ Crossley pulled a shiny revolver from his holster and cocked it. ‘I’m only two inches shorter than average.’ He aimed the gun at the gladiator’s head. ‘One more step and I’ll put a hole through your head.’

  Sakarbaal of Carthage paused.

  ‘Oh, you’ve seen a gun before, eh?’ Crossley was smiling.

  A crowd was building around them.

  John stepped forward and the man’s wild eyes flicked to him. He sneered as he recognised John. ‘You little men with your pissy weapons are like children. When you fight like real men, I will have respect for you.’ He spat on the ground and walked off.

  Crossley turned to John and tucked his gun away. ‘You and him had previous?’ he asked.

  ‘You could say that,’ John tapped his machine gun.

  ‘I’ve got a feeling this whole hill’s full of muscleheads like that – we’d better watch our backs.’ Crossley held his hand out. ‘You’re John, right?’

  ‘John Greene.’ John shook the American’s hand but winced and pulled away. ‘Shit,’ he said and looked at his burnt palm.

  ‘Sorry, buddy!’ Crossley looked at the burn. ‘Jeez, you need to get something on that.’

  ‘No, it’ll be alright,’ John replied and pressed on his cool gun, sure it would heal in its own time.

  ***

  ‘Why should we go to the silver gates?’ a Spartan with long hair asked as John joined the circle that had formed around the obelisk to become the soldiers’ forum.

  ‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ the knight replied.

  ‘I don’t see much point staying on this hill,’ a spearman added.

  ‘Maybe we should stop thinking about where we want to go,’ all eyes turned to a bronze-armoured warrior, ‘and decide how we will get to these silver gates.’

  ‘What do you mean, Persian?’ asked the knight.

  The man paused before answering. ‘My name is Samas and I am from Babylon – I fight for the Persian Empire, but I am no
t Persian.’

  ‘Very well, Babylonian – but why do you ask how we should travel?’

  Samas straightened his back. ‘This is a strange land. There are dangers here.’ He pointed his spear at the dark woodland. ‘Look at what happened with the toadstools. We must decide whether to travel as one or to journey in smaller groups – ensuring some will make it through.’

  ‘If we split up and travel in the same direction we will get in each other’s way.’ The Red Arab spoke with a deep voice. ‘Resources might be scarce… food, water and so on.’

  ‘So we go at different times,’ Crossley said. ‘Personally I’d rather go now and get a camp set up before whatever comes out at night finds us unprepared!’

  ‘No,’ the Red Arab replied. ‘We would travel faster in the cool of the night.’

  Arguments broke out throughout the group and John looked around, bemused by the sight of so many diverse people arguing fluently in the same tongue. A huge Maori with a tattooed face argued with an Asian spearman adorned in jewelled armour, while a Roman soldier was having none of a medieval lancer’s suggestions.

  ‘Quiet, quiet! People! Let’s have some order!’ A commanding voice drew everyone’s attention. ‘Thank you!’

  A tall, slim soldier stepped onto a rock, wearing a suit of armour marked with what John recognised as Chinese symbols. This had to be another soldier from the future like Delta-Six, John thought. A headpiece covered the soldier’s face but the voice was louder than John had expected and distorted like when his officers used megaphones to shout along their trench during bombardments. ‘We must keep order if we are going to succeed in our mission. I suggest everyone who wishes to travel at night moves to this side,’ an arm gestured to the right, ‘and by day to this side.’

  After a few mumbles, the rabble steadily split in two with an equal split of eighty warriors moving to each side, leaving a scattering of unsure warriors in the middle – including John – and one Japanese samurai who simply walked away, choosing to go it alone into the forest, it seemed.

  Crossley caught John’s eye. ‘What’s the point in choosing a group anyway?’