by Lory Kaufman
The
Loved
and the
Lost
Book #3 of
The Verona Trilogy
Lory S.
Kaufman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
The Fiction Studio
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Copyright © 2012 by Lory Kaufman
Cover design and graphics by G.M. Landis Marketing
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-936558-53-7
E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-936558-54-4
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First Printing: February 2013
Printed in The United States of America
Dedication
For my children;
Jessica, Luke and Daniel
Acknowledgements
Once again, I’d like to thank my main editor, Lou Aronica, for his steady hand in guiding me through the first two books in The Verona Trilogy, The Lens and the Looker and The Bronze and the Brimstone. His skills and experience was doubly important in the final book, helping make sure it kept the same intensity, making sure the characters remained fresh while maturing, and that it all ended in a satisfying way. It could have all been crazy-making, but Lou said just the right things at the right time and I thank him. Also, much gratitude and admiration is again due to my daughter, Jessica, for doing the first line editing, and also Virginia Bartley, for doing a great job on the copyediting on the final book. Also, my readers, Joanne Blais, author Tom Taylor and teacher Stephanie Taylor were invaluable in making sure I had a smooth-reading story.
BOOK ONE
A Butterfly’s Wings
Chapter 1
Hansum had been watching his younger self for about an hour when Arimus said,
“See, my boy, it’s not so hard,
and after a while it doesn’t seem so odd.”
The elder from the 31st-century was right. When Hansum arrived in his own past and saw his ten-year-old self playing in the commons of his 24th-century home village, he got the oddest sensation. He felt queasy and dizzy. But as Arimus predicted, those sensations were soon replaced with a growing sense of what had made Hansum the young adult he now was.
“Self-knowledge, my boy, self-knowledge,” Arimus explained.
“You will go back in time and discover the whys and wherefores
that made your present therefores.”
The first lecture Hansum attended at the new History Camp Time Travel University was about students going back to see themselves during key childhood events. The aim was to rid these time-travel candidates of unresolved childhood issues.
“After all,” the visiting A.I. professor from the 31st-century said, “on your travels through time, you will see many disturbing things, things that just don’t happen in our modern worlds. Only strong, centered individuals will be able to accept and navigate through the less-than-civilized cultures of the past.”
“But I’ve experienced hard stuff,” Hansum said to Arimus after the class. “I survived the black plague, medieval battles with cannons, fights with poleaxes and swords, poisoners, lying, cheating and beatings. Can’t I skip this part of the course and just get on with going back and saving Guilietta?”
“Calm, Hansum, be composed,” Arimus urged.
“You must be of calm and sound mind
in the new History Camp Time Travel Corps.
Your experiences in the past could be
an advantage to your advancement
or speed your exit out its door.
And there is no need for haste.
The past isn’t going anyplace.”
So, Hansum practiced patience. Or at least the appearance of it. He became a model student, both academically, which surprised his family and past teachers, as well as physically. Those who aspired to be agents of History Camp’s newly-formed Time Travel Council were put through an incredibly tough physical regimen. And now here he was with Arimus, on his first official trip back in time, observing his younger self.
The two hovered, slightly out of time phase, and thus unseen by his younger self. They watched in amusement as the ten-year-old Hansum once again stole out of his home without the knowledge of Charlene, his A.I. nanny. The older Hansum then heard his mentor chuckle.
“Oh my, look, my boy.
Approaching is a favorite scene of you.
Let’s watch your younger self respond,
and see how actions of one day, lead to habits far beyond.”
“Oh, for Gia sakes!” Even Hansum had to smile.
The younger version of himself, already standing aloof and self-assured, was now puffing out his chest and assuming an even more affected posture. That’s because two girls, thirteen-year-old Annadella and fourteen-year-old Darma, were walking up the path toward him. Hansum, at a mere decade, was tall for his age, as tall as these girls and, as soon as they got to him, each kissed him on opposite cheeks. The older Hansum chuckled at an episode he remembered, but was now seeing from a more mature perspective. The younger Hansum slid an arm around each slim, girlish waist and the three headed off to a stand of trees. The girls giggled and Hansum, like a peacock, strutted regally along.
The older Hansum stared at the girls, especially precocious Darma. Hansum remembered her through his ten-year-old eyes as so much more developed and womanly. But here she was, a long-legged and skinny child. But her eyes still looked the same, dangerous and potent.
Hansum remembered what happened next and looked up the path toward home. There she was. Charlene, Hansum’s A.I. nanny, was steaming into view. He watched this memory-come-to-life, as the yellow orb caught up to his boyhood self and used her energy field to separate him from the girls.
Annadella and Darma giggled, but because Hansum didn’t act embarrassed about being pulled away by his nanny, it made him even more worthy of pursuit. He watched his boyish self lock gazes with Darma, and saw how her piercing eyes seemed to say to him, ‘later’. He smiled his agreement and the edges of her lips went up. Their eyes remained locked as he was ushered away up the slate walkway.
The older Hansum and Arimus, out of phase and unseen, used the technical abilities of Arimus’s A.I. cloak and began floating five feet from Charlene and the boy.
“I don’t like that Darma’s eyes,” they heard Charlene say to the younger Hansum.
The older Hansum remembered what his younger self thought about that comment.
‘I do like her eyes, and I’ll be looking at them again tonight.’
Hansum perceived Arimus looking at him, but couldn’t take his eyes off this vision from his past.
“Once your family knew their praises for your looks and talents
had gone to your head in the wrong way,
they modified their indulgences.
But their influence had flown.
Time would have to smooth the sharp edges
you had grown.
Time and . . . History Camp.”
Hansum started to say something. He opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it again. He continued watching Charlene cajole and push his younger self up the walkway.
“Once again it’s time to fly,”
The elder placed his hand on Hansum’s shoulder<
br />
“May I?”
Hansum nodded.
A moment later they were falling through a whirling vortex. They didn’t have to jump into this one. Instead, a large cylinder of the Sands of Time streamed up from the ground and enveloped them. They fell in a controlled fashion through heavy air, moving their arms to keep balanced. As this was such a short trip through time it took only a few seconds before Hansum felt his feet touch solid ground. Looking around, he saw was back in the study of the home Arimus used when visiting the 24th-century. Before them was a Mists of Time viewer, upon which was the scene they just left.
“I was such a little brat,” Hansum said, chuckling. “I can’t remember if Charlene caught me later that night.”
“To this you can be witness. Observe.”
Arimus waved a hand in front of his Mists of Time viewer. The image broke up into a blur of tiny cubes and then reformed. It showed the scene later that night when ten-year-old Hansum quietly got off his levitation mattress and stole out of the house. The older Hansum shook his head as he watched the foolishness. The door to Arimus’s study opened.
“Ah, look who’s here,” Arimus said.
“Lincoln, welcome.
But Hansum, do you wish to share
the sight of this childish affair?”
“What? Oh, sure. It’s kinda funny.”
“Though laughter is not what does grace your face.”
Lincoln entered and, standing next to Hansum, looked up at the hollow in the wall which housed the three-dimensional image. The youthful Hansum was once again sneaking out of his house and running, a big smile on his face, across the village commons toward the woods.
“Hey, you were a cute kid,” Lincoln said. “What were you there, twelve?”
“Nah, ten.”
“Hmmph,” the diminutive, though now well-muscled, Lincoln answered.
As young Hansum entered the woods, a girl’s hand shot out from behind a tree and grabbed him. It was Darma.
“Holy Gia!” Lincoln said. “No way she’s ten.”
“Thirteen,” Hansum said.
“Hey there, Hansum,” Darma said, taking a step very close to the younger boy.
“Hey, Darma,” the relaxed, self-assured ten-year-old Hansum answered. He didn’t look anxious to start his petting session with Darma, who very obviously was. She looked at Hansum with her wicked and flirtatious smile. She stepped closer, her lips a whisper’s breath from his. But Hansum didn’t move. He just stood there, smiling and staring right back at the teenage girl. She then giggled and kissed him hard, quickly pulling back. They both laughed and Darma took the very young Hansum by the hand and pulled him further in the woods.
“Perchance we’ve seen enough,” Arimus suggested.
“Hey, it’s just getting good,” Lincoln teased.
“Just puppy love,” Hansum said, turning and facing his friend.
“Oh, I think it probably got a little sportier that that,” Lincoln chuckled. Hansum shrugged, and there was a hint of embarrassment in his demeanor. “Don’t sweat it, old buddy,” Lincoln said. “Just yesterday I got a load of my own behavior from just over a year ago. That sure put things in perspective.”
“I’m sure I don’t have to mention,
This is the whole of the exercise’s intention,” Arimus said.
“Where’s Shamira?” Hansum asked. “I thought she was coming with you.”
“She’s here, but someone followed her like a puppy dog. A very big puppy dog. Man, it’s like those two are attached at the hip. They went to the community garden, saying they wanted to see the bee hives being brought out for pollination, but I think that was just a whatchamacallit, a euphemism.”
“Ah, yes, the sculptor, Kingsley,” Arimus recalled.
“I’ve heard the good word.”
“Yep,” Lincoln answered.
“Another artist?” Hansum asked. “I thought Shamira would have learned her lesson with Starini. Where’d she meet this one?”
“Kingsley Fine is a sculptor in
the same History Camp art historian course
as our Shamira,” Arimus said.
“You’ll not find him of the same low character as Master Starini.
He’s talented and a gentleman of the first order.”
“And he’s hot,” Lincoln added.
“You think he’s hot?” Hansum laughed.
“Don’t get me wrong, muchacho. He doesn’t do it for me that way. But let’s say he makes you look average. Taller, bigger, and besides an artist, a real athlete. Champion rugby player, planet-wide. And he’s a nice guy.”
“Planet-wide rugby star?” Hansum questioned. “I follow rugby. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have,” Arimus said.
“This fellow is from the 26th-century.
Apparently they’ve become quite . . . friendly?”
“Is that what they call it in the 31st-century?” Lincoln asked.
“Well, I’m happy for Shamira and this Kingsley,” Hansum said.
“And Lincoln, how goes the first month’s introduction
to your mind-delving instruction?” Arimus enquired.
“Yeah. Who would have thought you’d have that sort of talent?” Hansum mused. “Any sort of talent, for that matter. But an actual mind-delver?”
“I’m a deep well that hides many secrets,” Lincoln jested.
“Back in school, and despite his jesting,
it was a talent uncovered by our clandestine testing.”
Mind-delving was an A.I.-enhanced ability now being used during History Camp missions. If people were to learn from the past, they must properly understand what was going on — not just the historical facts, like dates of when things happened and what was invented when, but how people in the past perceived the world intellectually, emotionally and spiritually, as well as their feelings of justification for doing things that just seemed wrong now, like killing other people. To understand that, you had to truly be in someone’s head.
“Have you tried doing it, yet?” Hansum asked. “And have you been paired with your mentor?”
“My whole class had a group experience, where we hooked up with an old A.I. teacher. It was pretty zippy. So much clearer than implants. You get to see what’s really in a person’s mind. And I have been paired up with a mentor, but haven’t met him yet. We’re supposed to meet here, so Arimus can determine if we’re a good match.”
“Ah yes,” Arimus said,
reaching for a tiny hand-blown bottle of glass from his robe.
“Although, you are misinformed as to the gender.
Of that, your mentor is of the more tender.
Here is her tear vessel.”
The bottle fit in his palm.
“Lincoln, please give your greetings to Medeea.”
“Hello Medeea,” Lincoln said to the bottle. “Sorry for the misunderstanding.”
Mind-delving was performed by a person drinking a liquid full of nano bits. The collection of atom-sized particles from one bottle contained the A.I. personality of a single entity, like the neurons in a brain or the bytes in a memory chip. A human needed only to ingest a drop or two of the liquid and they could telepathically communicate with the A.I., as well as any other person who consumed some of the same potion.
“Lincoln, off with the cap and bottoms up.”
Arimus urged.
Lincoln took the stopper out and carefully poured a single drop into the hollow cap. He held it up in salute.
“And yet another new adventure begins,” he said, winking at Hansum. He downed the miniscule drink.
Hansum watched Lincoln’s gaze quickly change focus to somewhere in empty space.
The nano-bit-laden drop had no sooner splashed against Lincoln’s palate when he felt the glow of warm light behind his eyes. His first response was to grimace, for even though he knew of the super-quick integration of mind-delver nano bits into their host’s nervous system, feeling another intellec
t overlay your own consciousness was disturbing.
On his first experience, within a few seconds of the light forming behind his eyes, the image of a wizened old professor appeared in front of him. It happened the same way now, except for one striking difference. As Lincoln’s new mentor appeared, Lincoln’s jaw dropped.
“Oh dear,” a female voice in his mind said. “I hope we’re not going to have a problem.”
“Uhhh . . . .” Lincoln managed, then, “Oh no. Sorry. My first mind-delver was Professor Bix. You’re . . . you’re . . .”
“Who’s he talking to?” Hansum asked Arimus.
“His mind-delving mentor, Medeea,” Arimus answered.
“She’s visible and audible
only to those who have taken of her waters.”
“Lincoln, what’s she look like?” Hansum asked.
Lincoln was still in a daze. “Oh, she’s . . .”
“Please don’t describe me,” Medeea said in Lincoln’s mind. “It’s part of my culture to be seen only by humans of the same sex, unless they are my students, mentors, or until I’m married.”
“Married?” Lincoln repeated dreamily. The image he was staring at was definitely not old, a professor or male. This was a beautiful young woman of maybe fifteen years of age, with cream-colored skin, raven hair and fine features. Her tiny frame, which could not have stood taller than five feet, was draped in a shimmering silk toga.
“Lincoln?” Hansum asked. “Are you all right?”
“Wha? Oh yeah,” Lincoln began. “Medeea . . . Medeea? Yeah, Medeea seems a bit shy and doesn’t want to be described.”
“I am only for you,” she said.
Lincoln’s mouth opened a little wider as he stared into the apparition’s eyes.
“Lincoln?” Hansum asked again. Lincoln turned to Hansum, definitely dazed.
“You’re acting like you’ve never seen a girl before,” Medeea remarked.
“You’re . . . you’re . . .” Lincoln fumbled.
“You can think it and I shall hear. Remember, I am in your mind . . . and body.”
“You . . . are . . .” Lincoln began to think, and then he blushed.
“You think I’m beautiful and are attracted to me, even though I’m just a sensory image,” Medeea said. “Oh, and that too? Naughty boy.” Lincoln turned a deep vermillion. “It’s not just what you think to say to me,” Medeea spoke in his head. “I can see everything in your brain. Wasn’t that made clear in Professor Bix’s class?”