War World: Discovery

by Discovery v2 lit

  Sergei found a bunk in a small rooming house, while the preacher found someone to take him in and sponsor his ministry. Some of the passengers got jobs in Purity, while the rest got jobs working for Dover Mineral. While Sergei spent most of his early days in the town hunting where he had been directed to, he knew those marked off areas were where he would find the goal of his quest.

  About three T-weeks after he had arrived, during the dim starlight of a truenight, Sergei made his move. The tightlipped miners gave no indication of what had been found to the north, but their strict silence spoke volumes. One night in one of the bars, two DMD security guards had beaten a talkative drunk to within an inch of his life, without any repercussions that were obvious to Sergei. He had always considered the FSB a ruthless bunch, but these Dover Mineral men put the Russian security services to shame.

  Sergei had constructed a small raft and poled his way across the river just above town. He wore a camouflaged suit, constructed of burlap sacks with local vegetation woven into the coarse brown material. This obscured his silhouette, and made him difficult to see from even a few meters distance. His face and hands were mottled with mud of varying colors. The night vision goggles over his eyes, however, would help him see those who could not see him. Most of his gear was left behind, and he carried only his weapons and a small rucksack with ammunition, his data device, and some rudimentary provisions.

  When he made it to shore, Sergei concealed his raft and moved carefully through the brush. The buildings were silent and dark. He picked one in particular that had looked like an office, and was able to jimmy his way into a window. There was a bank of desks at the far side of the room, and each desk had a lid that was closed by a heavy lock. Sergei leaned his rifle against the desk, pulled a long hooked pick from his pocket, and soon had the lid on one of the desks open.

  His night vision goggles blurred, and he was having trouble figuring out what he was seeing. He pushed the goggles up on his forehead, and pulled out a small hand-cranked flashlight with a red lens, which he held cupped tightly in his hand, pointed at the desk. And there he found the answer to the secrecy and the violence, glittering in the faint light.

  It was a bowl full of shimmer stones, reflecting the light of his flashlight back in a hypnotic, pulsating glow. One of the most valuable jewels ever discovered. They had been all over the news before he had left the Earth, the ultimate bauble of the rich and powerful. No one knew exactly where they came from, although much of the speculation centered on the colony worlds of the CoDominium. Certainly the Earth was so well explored and cataloged that such a treasure would not have waited so long to be discovered.

  This bowl alone represented enough money to buy a dozen luxury ocean liners or a fully armed space cruiser. Sergei reached in and pocketed one of the stones as proof. He had his answer, much more quickly than he had ever imagined. He closed and locked the desk, and drew out the data device Fyodor had obtained for him. He needed to gather as much information as he could. But then he heard the scratching of a key in the lock at the doorway.

  Someone must have heard something, seen the glow of his flashlight, or perhaps this building was guarded by some sort of more high tech alarm system. Sergei dove out the window just as the room was bathed in the harsh glow of electric light, and a voice bellowed, “Stop where you are.”

  He ran quickly toward the woods, followed by a spray of bullets. He felt a sting on his leg and an impact on his shoulder, but now was no time to stop. He had to get out of here, and get out of here fast. He pulled his night vision goggles over his eyes, and ran quickly into the night, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the pursuers he knew would soon be following.

  Sergei cut west, along the lower slopes of the volcano. An alarm was sounding behind him, powerful lights were coming on, and men were swarming out of barracks buildings like a swarm of angry bees. Soon there was a group of them hard on his heels, or at least close enough that they felt like they were on his heels, firing randomly into the woods in front of themselves.

  He came to the crest of a ridge, and realized that he would have to fight. Fight, but then run again. He picked three good sites to fire from, a good route between each, and an escape route. Sergei crouched behind a rock, his first firing position, used the bolt to lever a round into the chamber of his rifle, and sighted as best he could with his goggles on. He was going to have to use instinct as much as he used his sights.

  As he waited for the first pursuer to appear, Sergei remembered an argument he once had with an old naval Kapitan, a friend of his father’s. The man argued that on frontier worlds, with their sparse supplies, it would be best to equip soldiers with bolt action rifles. That way, the old man said, they would think before they pulled the trigger, and not waste ammunition in a promiscuous manner. Sergei wished the old man were here now. He wondered how he would feel to be alone with his bolt action rifle, facing a company of men with automatic weapons, men who, from the way they were firing, seemed to have unlimited supplies of ammunition.

  Sergei held his breath as the first man appeared on the hillside, climbing quickly. He squeezed off a round, and without even pausing to see if it hit, rolled left and scrambled to his second firing position. A spray of bullets erupted from his pursuers, pinging off the rock. Sergei paused, got another man in his sights, and fired off another round. This time he scrambled to the right, ran past his original firing position, and halted at a third position. Again, return fire came in, although this time it appeared to be the fire of men shooting from cover.

  More slowly this time, he saw two men creeping carefully up the hillside. He sighted in on the closest one, and squeezed off a third shot. Again, he spun and ran off at an angle, angry bullets whizzing behind him. Any more shooting from him, and they would have time to flank him and pin him down. With any luck, they would be so careful moving in on his position; he would be long gone before they realized that he had given them the slip. He didn’t know what casualties he had left behind him.

  For practical reasons, he hoped he had left men wounded. Dead men could be left where they laid, but the wounded required tending, and would help tie down his pursuers.

  Sergei moved swiftly, and drew on all of the woodcraft of his long military career. After setting his ambush, he didn’t fire again, but instead went to ground three times in as many hours as search parties passed close to his hiding place. He wondered again what had given him away back at the camp. It might have been something someone had heard or seen, or perhaps an alarm system. It was difficult to remember that among the simple technology of the frontier lurked modern devices of the highest complexity. He certainly felt like he owed his life to his night vision goggles. He never would have been able to move so fast in the inky blackness of truenight without them.

  He moved generally to the northwest, but kept his path random, following the ground contours and avoiding ridgelines. He thanked the Lord that there were no horses, or especially dogs, in the Dover Mineral encampment. The former would have allowed his pursuers to get ahead of him, while the latter would have allowed them to track him much more effectively. The heavy forests worked in his favor, giving him plenty of cover, but allowing him to move quickly. He ran until he felt he could run no more, and then kept on running.

  It was forty hours before he stopped to rest, and then only for a short catnap. Two times he had slipped into a streambed, once moving north, and the other moving south. Both times he’d had to kill a large animal, the first time a muskylope and second a spiny boar, putting their corpses in the streams to draw off the razor fish and other fresh water predators.

  He lived off the vitamin supplements and dried salted meat from his rucksack, while the streams allowed him to replenish his canteen. His socks were wet, and his feet were blistered. He was tired to the edge of stupidity, one step away from a mistake that might cost him his life. His running had long since slowed to a stumbling walk.

  Eighty hours into his escape, during the full light o
f a brightday, he paused for a full eight hours of sleep, curled under the branches of a broken tree. During his recon, he had left behind much of his equipment, and lacked the sleeping bag and ground cloth that would have made his rest comfortable, but he still slept like a dead man. He awakened to the sound of a helicopter in the distance. He hadn’t realized there were any such aircraft outside of Castell City--yet another example of the resources available to his pursuers. Fortunately for him, there were enough large animals in these woods to make it difficult for his pursuers to distinguish the form of a man, even if they had thermal imaging and other devices at their disposal. The helicopter reminded him that at this point, lighting a fire would be suicide.

  Twenty hours later, he paused again to check his wounds. The leg wound was just a graze, the shoulder wound more serious, with the bullet entering his arm just above the triceps muscle, and exiting the front. Fortunately, he had bought antibiotic cream and tablets in Castell City, and was able to treat the wounds effectively. If they festered, and became infected, it might slow him down enough to cause his death.

  Signs of his pursuers began to wane, and he hoped it was because the trail was getting cold. At one point, he had a pursuer in his rifle sights, only a hundred meters below him on a hillside. He did not take a shot, deciding that there was too much of a chance that the man would not be alone. Later however, he wondered again if he had lost his edge, if his distaste for violence might cost him dearly.

  Three T-weeks went by, with him still sleeping furtively, but with a more reasonable sleep cycle. He had a fairly good map, and some navigational information in his data device, and he plotted his path across the forests north of the Jordan to Castell City. No river travel for this trip, for now he had to avoid the company of others. His raw feet and his wounds began to heal, and he swapped his socks and bandages frequently, washing them whenever possible. He took a few chances with local vegetation, and found some nuts and tubers that provided some sustenance.

  He also set up snares before sleeping, and sometimes woke to find breakfast in those snares. At night he dreamed of sitting at Harp’s, drinking a beer, and talking to Moira. Or dreamed of burying his head on Moira’s shoulder, kissing her, lying beside her, dreams so real he often awoke feeling around to see if she was there.

  He wondered again what she would say if he returned, no, when he returned, and offered her a new life at his side. Occasionally, he would come across the shimmer stone in his pocket, and remember his mission.

  Sergei stood on a rock that protruded from a steep slope. The forests had thinned as he gained elevation on a line of high hills. He was able to look back to the southeast, along his escape route. There was no sign of pursuit at this point. He looked forward, scouting his path for the next day. There was a large open plain to the north--he would have to tend to the south to keep under the cover of the forest. There had been no rain for the last few days, and he saw no sign of water, which was a little bothersome, as he was running low. If he didn’t find a stream before the end of the next day, he might be getting thirsty soon.

  Sergei suddenly realized that he had quite a bit of room on his data device, marked his position, snapped a few pictures, and recorded some verbal observations. He might as well keep a log of his journey. There was no sign of civilization in any direction, and Sergei thought he might be treading where no man had stood before. The records might someday do someone some good, give them ideas of areas that would be habitable, and which were not worth visiting.

  Sergei had another thought. Perhaps he could guide people out here himself. Like someone from a historical book, a scout and an explorer. An honest profession, but one where he could use his skills to good advantage. He smiled as he climbed down, using the rifle as a walking stick to steady himself on the slope.

  After six T-weeks, Sergei began to see other people--a hunting camp, a few farms, and a small settlement. He had been spending nearly every waking hour walking at a punishing pace, and had put about 1,500 kilometers between himself and the Dover Mineral encampment--roughly halfway back to Castell City, although his journey was far from following the path of a crow’s flight.

  He still kept out of sight of others, but decided it was time for a rest. He also needed to do something about his appearance. He built a small camp, improving a rock overhang with a small lean-to. He killed a couple of muskylopes, a T-week apart so he wouldn’t waste the meat, skinned them, and filled a rock hollow with water and oak leaves to tan the hides. He had enough thread in his pack to fashion a serviceable leather tunic and breeches. He also left the fur on one hide to fashion a warm cloak for sleeping during the truenights, chilly even during the summer.

  He used his small pair of scissors to trim his beard, and shorten his ponytail, with the blade of his knife serving as a crude mirror. Now he looked more like a hunter than a fugitive, and he trapped and skinned a score of small furry beasts called firewalkers. When he felt ready, he restarted his journey, and stopped at a small settlement to trade his firewalker skins for some provisions.

  One day, on the eighth week of his journey, Sergei came over a rise, and found a lovely hillside meadow, surrounded by trees, but with a beautiful view of the rolling hills that stood between him and Castell City. At the bottom of the hill was a stream. He marked the spot carefully on his map. This was a perfect spot for a small farm, in fact, a cluster of small farms. It reminded him of the setting of the family dacha back in Russia, the site of happy memories of his youth.

  Something to discuss with Moira when he saw her. He smiled to himself. Somewhere in the past few days, the feeling of if he would see her again had become when he saw her again. He marked the occasion by playing the whistle that he had found in the bottom of his rucksack, eating a leisurely meal as he admired the view.

  Just a few days later, Sergei’s journey almost ended. Later he wondered if he had begun to slack off as he got closer to his destination, missing something he might otherwise have noticed. It was morning after a truenight, with the temperature just starting to rise. He had been walking through some rocky hills, and following the floor of a small canyon. It was a shadow that warned him, something behind him casting a shadow to his right, a quick motion in the corner of his eye.

  He spun and brought his rifle up to his shoulder instinctively. The move probably saved his life. It was a cliff lion, a nasty animal not too different from the lions of earth, a large one, probably massing over 100 kilos. It hit the barrel of the rifle, which drove Sergei onto his back as the butt of the rifle slammed into his shoulder. He screamed in pain and anger. The lion screamed as well, as the rifle barrel gouged an ugly wound in its ribs. It tried to claw at Sergei, and snapped its jaws, but the length of the rifle threw off its attack.

  Sergei pulled the trigger, and howled as the rifle kicked against his broken collarbone. The lion went over his head with a shriek of anger, and turned again. Sergei scrambled around, grabbed his pistol out of his pocket with his left hand, and as the lion hit him again, he emptied the cylinder into the beast. He ended up underneath the lion, its last breath hot against his face.

  He lost track of time--didn’t know how long he laid there--too weary to push the animal off and check his wounds. It was pain that finally got him to move, pain from his right shoulder, pain from his left ear where the lion’s claws had raked the side of his head, pain from his back where the rocky floor of the canyon had impacted against his spine.

  The first thing he did was clumsily reload his pistol. He didn’t bother chambering another round in his rifle. It wouldn’t be of much use one-handed. He thought about taking the creature’s hide, but that would be a long struggle with only one arm functioning. He didn’t know if these things traveled in packs, or in pairs, or alone, but he figured he should get moving.

  He cut a strip off the side of his cloak and fashioned a crude sling for his right arm. He tried to put a bandage around his head to protect his ear, but couldn’t raise his right arm enough to be successful. He slung his ri
fle over his back, and turned to his route. Nothing to do but keep moving.

  It took a few T-weeks for Sergei to feel anything like normal again. His collarbone seemed to heal pretty well, although he grew weary of wearing his leather shirt continuously. The shirt had no buttons, and he couldn’t get it off over his head. Little tasks became difficult with only one good arm, and he had to carry his pack slung only over his good shoulder, which caused it to ache as well. He practiced firing his rifle left-handed, dry-firing to save ammunition, with the barrel resting on a forked branch he had cut for the purpose.

  Sergei found a small farm where the husband and wife took pity on him, took him into their log cabin, bathed and dressed his wounds, gave him a good meal, and some dried meat and bread for the road. The woman had clucked with sympathy at the wounds the lion’s claws had left on his ear and the side of his neck. She said it was too late to stitch them, and that there would be some nasty scars. Sergei tried to pay them for their troubles, but they refused. Wouldn’t want to take profit in the misfortunes of a stranger.

  This was the spirit that had caused Sergei to grow to love this world, and so many of the people in it.

  Sergei continued to record his journey, taking pictures and recording comments. He described what plants and animals were edible, which posed some sort of a threat, what the best routes were. He also began to record information about the people he encountered, more numerous as he moved west. There was much information to capture, about their settlements, their farming methods, their customs, and other information. He was amassing quite a travelogue.

  Sergei arrived in Castell City at the end of twelve T-weeks of travel. That was on top of three T-weeks on the steamboat followed by another three T-weeks at the Dover Mineral camp, so he had been gone from the city for eighteen T-weeks, well over four months on the Terran calendar.