His eyes were haggard, and his mouth cocked to one side. He regarded her, as if studying her for the first time. He stepped forward, his footsteps labored and heavy. “Origin will not speak to me,” he said.
My Own scoured the room for the casing that housed the Origin computer. She found it sitting on a table near the window. “Why?” she asked.
“How the hell should I know,” Uklavar growled. “Origin is the vestige of all knowledge. He is programed to provide information, yet he will not tell me what I need to know.”
“Will not, or cannot?” My Own asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe Origin doesn’t have the information you seek.”
Uklavar gave My Own a dismissive wave, and said, “That’s impossible. It goes against why Origin was created. He must know where my army is.”
“He said on Shin’nor’ee that he can’t get involved. Something about only recording history and never interfering with it,” My Own said. “He might not be telling you because it goes against his programing.”
“That’s feasible,” Uklavar said. He took two steps toward My Own and studied her. His eyes narrowing, scrutinizing every facet of her face as if he was searching for something.
Uncomfortable, My Own clouded her mind with a jumble of thoughts. Thoughts so convoluted she hoped it would bore Uklavar to a point he wouldn’t care. She didn’t know Uklavar’s true power, the idea that he could read minds might have been far-fetched a year ago, but now she wasn’t sure, nor did she want to take the chance to test the theory that he could scan her mind. If Ingle and Doctor Collins were going to detonate their cobalt bomb, she wished they would do it now, before she let the information slip out. Clearing her throat, she said, “Maybe you’re not asking the right question.”
Uklavar withdrew and stepped back, and asked, “What do you mean?”
“Ask it, go on, ask Origin what you so desire.”
Uklavar’s brow tightened and for a moment he looked like a curious child. He turned toward the Origin computer and grunted, “You are Origin.”
I AM ORIGIN> the computer said in a less than bombastic tone, like that in the temple.
“Where is my army?” Uklavar asked. When Origin didn’t answer, he wheeled around back toward My Own, and with a finger shoved toward her he said, “There... nothing.”
My Own stepped forward, arms akimbo she said, “You are Origin?”
I AM ORIGIN>
My Own ignored Uklavar, and said, “I am seeking information.”
I AM A VESTIGE OF KNOWLEDGE, I AM ORIGIN>
My Own stepped further into the estate room, and said, “We are seeking information pertaining to the last known location of...” she looked at Uklavar.
Caught off guard, Uklavar stumbled over his words, and said, “The army of O’voria.”
AFTER THE ARMY OF O’VORIA FOUGHT THE BATTLE OF TYKINREN THEY PROCEEDED TO THE PLANET MAJESTIAN WHERE THEY ENCOUNTERED THE COSMEA>
Enthusiastic, Uklavar asked, “What happened to them after they arrived on Majestian?
Origin didn’t reply.
“I said what happened to my army after they arrived on Majestian?”
Still Origin did not reply and Uklavar snarled.
“You are Origin?” My Own asked.
I AM ORIGIN>
“What happened to the army of O’voria after they arrived on Majestian?” My Own inquired.
Origin didn’t reply.
My Own remembered the frustration Professor Long had on Shin’nor’ee when he first encountered Origin, and she rephrased her wording, and asked, “You are Origin?”
I AM ORIGIN>
“What is your prime directive?”
TO PROVIDE THE LEARNED HISTORY OF THE AGES, I AM THE KEEPER OF THE PAST, I AM ORIGIN>
“Are there anymore sightings of the army of O’voria after they left Majestian?”
THE ARMY OF O’VORIA MET THE COSMEA ON MAJESTIAN>
“The Cosmea gave their lives to stop my army, and only their combined will through Azalum, where they able to confront me,” Uklavar said.
“Then your army didn’t make it out of Majestian,” My Own said.
His voice laced with euphoria, Uklavar said, “That’s where they will be.”
My Own swallowed and clenched her teeth. She drummed the fingers of her right hand on her leg, nervous that she made a miscalculated mistake. Not only did she help the horned beast, she provided him with the information he sought. The only hope left to her now was Ingle and Collins’s idea. Anytime now, anytime, My Own closed her eyes hoping the cobalt device would detonate. It needs to happen now... happen now. The idea of them being discovered crossed her mind. But if they had, Uklavar would have been informed. So, what’s happening?
Alarms rang throughout the ship, and for an instant My Own thought they had been caught. But when the warning blared over the ship’s intercom, “Prepare for wormhole jump, all hands prepare for wormhole jump,” My Own grimaced. They were on their way to Majestian to free Uklavar’s army and there was nothing she could do to prevent it from happening.
North American Wasteland
Tribe of the Free
April 12, 2442
Moyah Everhart spent nearly three-hundred years in orbit on the Watchtower, with the odd trip to the moon and back, but she refused to go down to the Earth. Her thoughts were always with her people, the Tribe of the Free, but she feared any actions by her to help them in their struggle could alter events to the point that she might cease to exist. Over the long grueling years of exile, she had one date in mind, the moment in time she swore, she would intervene. April twelfth, twenty-four-forty-two – a moment in history burned into her mind.
She flew the shuttle down to Earth without assistance. Over the decades she’d become a proficient pilot, and this was one journey she needed to take alone. After three centuries, she didn’t know how she would react to seeing her husband again, especially on the day of his death.
She met Chapel when she was very young and he was much older, but she knew then, even at twelve she was in love with him. Moyah would make any excuse she could to be around Chapel. He taught young people how to track wild game, fish in the river and how to prepare everything that was caught and killed.
Chapel was six years her senior, and though she wanted to be his wife, she never told anyone. With Chapel being much older than she, there was a good chance he would marry by the time she came of age.
Norvene, being a wise father, and leader of the tribe saw how she had taken a liking to Chapel and took it upon himself to arrange a betrothal when Moyah was seventeen, even though she had to wait another year, Moyah and Chapel built a relationship, and fell in love, though Moyah had already done so many years before. Norvene said, ‘it was like something out of a fairytale and meant to be’, but Moyah helped the relationship along, refusing to let Chapel marry someone else.
It was no surprise to anyone that Norvene chose Chapel as his successor. It was a duty that Chapel accepted without reservations and though it was still several years before Norvene retired, Chapel believed it was on his shoulders to broker a peace between the tribe and the scavengers, who had been raiding their village for many years. He felt it was the only way they were to survive.
Headstrong, Chapel left with a week’s supply of food and water. The last words he said to her, “If I don’t come back you have to be strong. You have to be brave and you have to make sure our daughter is safe.” Moyah remembered how selfish he was, asking her not to mourn if he didn’t come home.
Norvene found Chapel at the base of the foothills, seven days after he left. Although bruised and beaten he looked as if someone had cleaned and laid him out as was custom with the tribe’s rituals. Moyah never understood why any scavenger would do such a thing, they never returned a body. It didn’t take her long to realize after she had traveled back in time, that she was the one who found him. Perhaps this was her chance for closure, a chance to say goodbye.
Moyah co
nsidered saving him, bringing him into orbit and explaining what happened. But being a temporal anomaly herself, the last thing she wanted to do was upset the balance of time. The thought was hard to bear, but she would face it with dignity. After three centuries, she thought she could face this moment and be strong, she was beginning to doubt herself.
Timing her meeting with Chapel had to be precise. This was her only chance to get it right. After decades of preparing she believed she knew the right time and place and plotted a course outside the tribe, on the boundary of the wasteland so not to be seen by her father when he finds Chapel’s body.
Dressed accordingly, she wore slacks, and a long-sleeve shirt. She wore a pair of hiking boots and carried a canteen of water. She curled her long hair up on the top of her head and wore UV protection and a pair of sunglasses. With the aid of a long walking stick, she struck out along the wasteland, certain she was taking the correct course. If right, she would come face to face with her husband.
But in what state? Moyah wondered. Would he still be fine and uninjured? Or would he be dead or at deaths door. How would she approach him? In all the centuries Moyah waited to see her long dead husband, not once had these questions entered her mind. She was hellbent on finding him. Was this a mistake?
Resolute, she mustered on. She set out to see him, touch him one last time, and she was going to see it through, no matter what she experienced.
Moyah entered the slag area of an old rock quarry on the other side of the mountain slope, not more than three miles from the tribe. Her husband would have to come back through this area to get home. The rocky terrain was unsettling beneath her feet, and she stumbled her way over the sharp rock. She’d forgotten how unrelenting the sun could be, and it burned down on her and even though she wore UV protection, the sun seared her exposed skin.
In three hundred years, Moyah forgot a lot of things about the surface of the planet, and she froze in her stride when she saw something slither down between the rocks. It was too big to be a reptile, and she wondered if it was a wild dog or something. Swallowing in a cotton throat, she skirted around the crag where she saw the movement, giving it a wide birth.
More movement came from behind a large bolder to her right, and again Moyah stopped, her heavy breathing made it hard for her to hear anything. She steeled her nerves and said with a hint of authority, “Who’s there?”
Some stones slipped off the hillside and she spun toward the noise catching the glimpse of what had to be a man. “I’m warning you,” she said, “I am armed, and I will use it.”
When a sinister laugh filled the air, Moyah got angry at putting herself in this situation. Living in a life of luxury for centuries, she forgot how ruthless the scavengers could be. They were cold hearted killers and took what they wanted without asking. Yet here she stood in the middle of them. She drew her pistol from her hip holster and scoured the rocks wondering how many were watching her.
Back tracking the way she came, she stopped. She couldn’t go back, because Chapel would be coming through here any minute and... her skin chilled. Is this where it happened? She wondered. The idea of warning him forefront on her mind. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the movement behind her before it was too late.
A pair of strong hands throttled her neck and jerked Moyah down to the hard rock below; her sunglasses thrown from her face. She let out a whelp when a sharp stone stabbed her in the thigh and the pistol dropped from her hand and fell out of reach. The shadow of her attacker blocked out the sun and masked their appearance.
A man with a rough sandpaper scratch to his voice, said, “What have we here? You’re a little far from home aren’t you Milady? We never get High-Born peacocks down here in the wasteland.”
“Stay back,” Moyah warned.
“Or you’ll what? I don’t see any of your lapdogs or slaves here to protect you,” the man said and stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled.
Three other men showed themselves, stepping from their hiding places in the rock. They were dirty, and unshaven. The threadbare clothes they wore barely hung onto them, and their unwashed hair lay matted to their heads. They wore animal skins wrapped around their feet, and all of them carried a weapon of some kind.
“We’ve found ourselves a prize,” the man standing over her said. He gave off a foul stench that smelled like cow dung, and Moyah had to struggle not to vomit while being so near him.
“What are we going to do with her?” one of the other men asked.
“What we always do when we get women,” the leader said.
“Oy, we can’t do that,” a skinny man said as he stepped forward. “She ain’t no tribes woman. She’s High-born. They’re going to miss her, and someone will come looking.”
“But why is she here?” the leader asked. “Uh?”
“Hell, if I know,” the skinny fellow said.
“Exactly,” the leader said. “Maybe no one else knows she’s here either and that means...”
The other men in the group broke out in a roaring laugh.
“I want to fuck her first,” the skinny man said in a raging laugh, but then suddenly stopped. He staggered forward, his eyes bulging out of their sockets.
The other men in the gathering stopped their revelry, and watched the skinny man drop to the slag, a knife protruded out of his back. Before they could rally a defense, a gunshot rung through the air, and the leader took a blast to the chest. He hadn’t hit the ground yet, when another gun blast echoed through the valley and another man dropped to the ground, bright red scarlet oozed from his head.
Moyah spun on her backside, and that’s when she saw him. Chapel was a wiry man, nearly six foot with strong well-defined muscles in both his arms and legs. His raven hair lay sweaty on his shoulders as he sprinted pell-mell across the rockface. He threw his shotgun and clobbered one of the scavengers across the face. Without breaking his stride, he plucked the knife out of the skinny man’s back and plunged it into the chest of the final man.
Chapel stood there for the longest time, surveying the area, waiting for more scavengers before he turned back toward Moyah. He studied her for the longest time, as if he didn’t recognize her. She looked up into his eyes, and he cracked a worried, yet reserved smile and said, “What the devil are you doing up here?”
Moyah didn’t speak. The words were lost to her and the only thing she could do was look into his eyes. She wanted to reach out for him but hesitated when she saw him staring. It was evident that he saw the difference in her.
Without a word, he reached down and took her hand. As he pulled her to her feet, he noticed the smooth, callous-free texture of her hand and Moyah felt his rough hardworking hand in hers.
“I don’t understand,” Chapel said. “You look different, you smell different.”
“It’s hard to explain,” she said, though she didn’t think she would have to. Her plan was to find his body and take him home. Moyah was relieved that she didn’t have to. He was there in front of her. Her husband, who she mourned for, for so long. Her mouth moistened, with hopes she could steal a kiss, unsure how she would explain any of this.
When Chapel reached out to touch her face, she surprised herself and pulled away. “Chapel, there’s–” the words stuck in her throat.
Chapel’s sun-soaked face scrunched, studying her. With a raised eyebrow, he said, “You’re not Avara, are you?”
Moyah didn’t know how to answer that. She hadn’t gone by the name of Avara for so long, that she was a stranger to her. Her voice softened and she replied, “It’s hard to explain.”
“You don’t even sound like her,” Chapel said.
Moyah looked down to their clasped hands, and said, “I’ve come to say goodbye.”
Chapel’s brow furrowed and he parted his lips to speak, but instead he drew a sharp breath – his face twisted in surprised disbelief and he staggered forward.
“I’m sorry, Chapel,” Moyah said in a hushed breath as she caught him in her arms and helped him to
the ground. His weight more than she could handle, he struck the slag hard. Moyah dropped to her knees next to him, her trembling hands went to her mouth, her face washed in tears. What have I done... what have I done...? She asked herself repeatedly. What have I done...? The words cutting her as sharp as the knife piercing Chapel’s back when it dawned on her, that her very appearance in the wasteland was the catalyst for Chapel’s death. Why did I come here... why?
“What have we here?”
Moyah used her hand to block the sun. The outline of a man towered over her. Not a man, she concluded. A scavenger... who must have been hiding in the rocks, waiting for the right time to strike.
At first Moyah considered running, escaping, but she wouldn’t leave Chapel’s side. When two more men stepped out of the rocks, she realized there was no where she could run. She studied their lustful eyes, and the primal expressions on their faces. She was destined to meet a fate worse than death. She considered plucking the knife from her husband’s back and plunging it into her chest, but she didn’t have the opportunity when the head of the man nearest her, exploded. Gray matter and blood sprayed in all directions and his body folded to the ground – a look of surprised horror etched on his face when he dropped.
The two other men turned in the direction of the gun blast, but they didn’t have time to react before two more shots dealt them the same fate as their companion.
Moyah fought to catch a breath, but her heart raced like a wild thoroughbred and she trembled, waiting to see who saved her. The idea that it was yet another barbaric scavenger, crossed Moyah’s mind. But when the outline of a man appeared in the distance, she was finally able to steady her breath.
Commander Martin carried a long gun, a sharpshooter’s weapon. Smoke still streamed from its barrel when he came into sight. He’d quickened his pace as he approached, scouring the area for more henchmen – the pistol at his side unstrapped for easy access. He wore his familiar green and black uniform; the calm wasteland breeze brushed his fair hair to the side, and he jogged toward her. His blue eyes were calm, but attentive and reassured Moyah that she would be alright.
Origin Equation Page 22