Lucky Dave

by Pam Uphoff

  “It does . . . but I can remember them without being there, and tomorrow I need to be back at the University.” Qamar shrugged. “I really hope you find something, But the bags are just things. Interesting historically, and maybe there will be journals and stuff.”

  Chapter Three

  On the Road Again

  Dave gave himself three days to recuperate.

  Not easy in a makeshift room maybe two meters by three meters, two meters tall. Roughly sawed off saplings strapped together to hold the wall of the bubble from closing down onto them.

  The first weeks, trapped under rubble, had been a nightmare. When his frequent checks had shown loose dirt instead of immobile stone he'd nearly cried. And started digging. And once he'd gotten the handles—the only part of the bag that actually existed in the real world—out of the bulldozed pile, he'd finger walked down to the construction camp. He hadn't been in any shape to do much spying, but he'd listened. Hindi voices, speaking of ordinary things.

  He'd almost emerged right then. But . . . he was completely helpless.

  And they needed food. He'd finger walked the handles—two fingers curled to hang onto it, thumb and two fingers creeping across the ground as he peeked out—over to a tent. Full of supplies. Exactly what he needed. He'd crawled out of the bag and dragged himself around, loading the bag with cans of food, gallons of water . . . and crying in silent pain as he hastily got back in it at the sound of voices.

  He'd crept closer to hear . . . Mandarin Chinese. Two men, talking about how they'd like to kill the nasty Hindu workers . . .

  And then he’d finger walked as far from the camp as possible. Southish, according to the stars. Into a forested area, and concealed the handles before closing them. Eating, sleeping, heading south by painfully small increments. As often as possible, with him out of the bubble, so the Commander would be in slow time.

  I will get to a large city. I will find a hospital and spin a tale, get Davos and Nicholas medical care.

  That town . . . I had to go around. It just wasn't big enough for us to be anonymous accident victims. Calcutta. I will get to Calcutta.

  His brother Davos woke several times. Ate and renewed the healing spells that were suppressing his infections. Peritonitis. Gut shot. If he weren't the son of Daiki and the grandson of William he'd have died of his wounds, or my incompetent one-handed stitchery, or the infections from the gut contents spread all over his abdominal cavity.

  At least he's not getting worse. His guts are working. He can piss and poop, even if he's too shaky to stand.

  Dave had briefly propped the handles open and lit a tiny fire. Boiled finely-minced not-really-dried-enough goat and a few greens in a tin can. The second day Nick had roused enough to drink it.

  I've heard of the healing trance. I hope that is what is happening, and not head trauma getting worse.

  Lucky Dave had long since managed to make a crutch. And a cane. Stolen native clothing when he'd encountered a fallen clothes-line as he crept along.

  "I'll move to the road tonight. And then, maybe on the hard surface I can actually stand and get somewhere."

  He closed his eyes and saw again the smoky battlefield they were losing. Had lost. Finding his little brother whimpering on the ground, holding his guts, trying not to scream. Davos had inherited the power gene, trained with the Warriors. Their father had willed Davos the bag. Lucky Dave was just a soldier. An elite guard, but only able to use magic in the smallest way.

  Trained in field medicine . . . but his brother's wounds were well beyond his skills, and the doctor was dead . . . He'd gotten his brother into the bag, and headed out.

  Time to try to evade the Chinese troops, get to help in Calcutta . . . He'd tripped over Commander Nicholas, limp on the ground. Stopped long enough to check . . . he was breathing. Put him in the bag.

  A fusillade of shots, falling, right shoulder, a hit to the bone, right arm useless. Right shin . . . open fracture. Open the bag and crawl in, before the pain hit . . .

  He'd had to set his own leg and splint it before he could help Davos.

  Dave had stitched up three rips in the small intestine, washed them and stuffed them back inside. Rough stitched the wound closed, because as soon as they found a doctor . . . escaped . . .

  He shook his head. Forget it. Concentrate on what you must do.

  Two weeks we were trapped in rubble, nearly four centuries out there in the world, before they bulldozed the area and we were merely buried in dirt. And a damn good thing. We were nearly out of food. Thank God there was plenty of water, Davos and I both running fevers. Used up all the antibiotics. I had to be so careful starting feeding him. And Nick barely conscious enough to eat a few spoonfuls.

  He popped the handles open. Rosy and dim. Dusk or Dawn? Only time would tell.

  If I didn't have to stop to find food . . . and rest for days so often . . . Those three days? Something like eighty years passed on the outside. By now? Over a thousand years have passed. Everyone I've ever known or loved is dead.

  Or dying here beside me.

  He crawled out of the bubble and closed it. Slid it into the cloth sleeve he’d stitched, the attached cord around his neck. Tucked it inside his shirt. Got out his compass and checked. That way. In the open, he could only hitch along, sitting on his left hip, reaching out with his left arm, curling his left leg under. Lift and push with his left leg and pull with his left arm and ease down to not jar the right leg and shoulder.

  The night was not quiet. There were . . . machine sounds. Not loud, but multi-sourced.

  If I had magic I could look for people, maybe find someone who could help us.

  He put his head down and hitched his way eastward. Over and over, until he got into the trees. Where he could reach up and grab a branch, sometimes even daring to stand and hop along for a few steps.

  The ground is pretty clear. Goats or mowed occasionally . . . I could try to get to those lights, twinkling through the trees . . .

  He shifted warily and tried to go faster. East, to the road.

  It got darker and he slowed further, until the gibbous moon rose and lit a winding footpath. He dragged himself along bit by bit and found the road.

  Tarmac. Smooth. Much wider than the last time his creeping progress had encountered it. He'd detoured around a good sized town . . . Maybe I ought to have just gone in and asked for help. Am I too paranoid? Not paranoid enough?

  The road was eerily empty of traffic, even so early in the morning. A curfew, perhaps?

  He sat down on the road and considered what was needed now. What order to do things in.

  Shave first.

  He'd kept his hair and beard short in the army, but if his eighty-years-ago glimpse was still relevant . . . He open the handles and pulled out the hygiene kit. There wasn't much soap left, but it would have to do.

  The results felt all right, and didn't look hideous in the tiny mirror.

  Then there was the native garb . . . and shoes. He had no shoes but his old army boots. and since he'd splinted his leg by shoving two slats into each side of his boot and wrapping the mess up . . . perhaps the boots were sufficiently battered to not be identifiable. Loose pants, loose tunic shirt. It would have to do.

  He bundled his ragged uniform back into the bag and pulled out both the crutch and the cane.

  Maybe if he used the crutch on the left side, his right hand could manage the cane enough to help his balance . . . Little hops, just tiny . . . he put a bit too much weight on the cane and pain shot up his whole arm and exploded in his shoulder.

  He managed to not fall down. He stood quietly until the pain died down. Weight on the crutch. Hop. Hop.

  "Oh damn it all. Crawling is faster. Hell. Finger walking is faster."

  Light from behind, lighting him briefly. A very quiet motor car passed him, left him in darkness. The red lights brightened as it stopped down the road.

  Could I actually get a ride? Without being turned over to possibly hostile authorities? My H
indi isn't very good . . .

  Chapter Four

  Hitchhiker

  "Aunt Rael! That man has a bag!"

  Rael hit the brakes. "The old cripple? Hmm, bet he found it and is hoping to get filthy rich selling it. He could too. Let's go see—and not a word about bags until we check him out."

  She put the car in reverse. "Good thing we took a fleet car. Mine doesn’t have enough of a back seat to mention."

  She stopped beside the . . . beggar?

  She stepped out and eyed him in the dim light. Not as old as I thought. Injured, not crippled. Feels like a low Halfer, not much glow. "Do you need a ride? Umm, savaaree? Jarurat savaaree?"

  "I speak English. Yes . . . I walk to find doctor. Hospital."

  "Well." Getting a whiff of unwashed male, Rael almost wished she hadn't stopped . . . "Let me help you get in . . . "

  Ryol bounced out to open the back door . . . and backed off, one hand going to her face.

  The man lurched awkwardly, a crude splint on the right leg, and a right arm obviously not right.

  "Oh my, umm, back in, sit and I'll help you scoot the rest of the way in . . ."

  Chapter Five

  Just a Harmless Fellow

  Thank God! Two ditzy redheads!

  The older one was strong and knew how to help him. The younger one was quite young, once he got a look. And even on the cusp of adulthood, strikingly beautiful. She managed to help maneuver his splinted leg in as he scooted back, the mother with a solid grip on both sides of his ribcage lifting and pulling from the other side of the car.

  Then the young one was scampering to the back of the car for a blanket to use as a cushion as he leaned back against the driver's side back door.

  A cold bottle pressed into his hands., something labeled "boost." Slightly sweet, slightly salty. Electrolytes. Exactly what I need. Well, fruit and veggies maybe. Or this chocolatey looking bottle . . . Milk and who knows what. If it's got vitamins added, it's all good.

  The mother leaned in and popped out a tray with circular depressions. Placed another bottle of boost in one.

  "Do you have a regular doctor?"

  A shake of his head. "I need a hospital." Careful! Keep the accent and cadence right! I'm just a nice honest Hindu fellow, had an accident, having trouble getting to a doctor.

  "Umm, yes. We're headed for Calcutta, umm, Kolkata. Shall we take you there?"

  "Yes. Dhanyavaad. Thank you. I feared I would not ever get there."

  Then both redheads were in the car and it moved smoothly off. It was enough to make him cry. In a few minutes they covered as much ground as he'd hoped to cover today. In an hour, they'd cover a month or two's painful progress.

  Houses everywhere. Small towns. Did I not notice them as we hustled up to block the Imperial Chinese Army?. . . or were they not there, a thousand years ago. Oh surely my calculations are confused. It can’t have been that long!

  He leaned his head back and tried to relax. To think. Analyze . . . a heavy solid feel to the car. Rich, prosperous. A safe world where two women would give a ride to a ragged stranger.

  The girl was talking now, all about the great pictures she'd gotten for some school project.

  But the accents! Speaking English, but the faint Spanish flavor, and a few Spanish words, here and there added to the vocabulary. Damn it all! Greater Argentina must have waltzed in and beaten both the Union and the Chinese Imperium after we'd torn each other apart. Nicholas had said that was what he'd do, if he was them.

  So . . . what will they do with an enemy soldier, a thousand years later?

  Oh dear God. What will they do to the Prophet Nicholas, if they get their hands on him!

  And how long has it been, anyway?

  Well, I'm not going to ask, that's for sure.

  Once I'm in Calcutta, I can check a newspaper for the date. Once I'm in a hospital . . . I'll have to pass out, so I'm not answering awkward questions about who I am and how I'm going to pay for my treatment . . .

  He cracked an eye and pondered the short red hair of the driver. Damn it . . . could I persuade her to pay? Mental manipulation is . . . damn it. Beyond my capacity on a good day. But maybe I can do my subtle thing. My Luck. C'mon lady, be exactly what I need, a charitable rich gal.

  He closed his eyes and slept.

  Chapter Six

  Three for the Price of One

  "Wow. My pix turned out really well. Perfect for my report." :: Eww! He's disgusting! What are we going to do? ::

  Rael grinned. "I think your teachers will be impressed." :: Drop him at a hospital. Hover solicitously, and when the matter of paying for treatment comes up, perhaps we can offer to buy the bag. ::

  "I hope so. I really want to get top grades. Maybe even beat Arno's." Ryol cast a dubious look backwards. "I think he's asleep. He'd be cute if he didn't smell so bad."

  "Stop it! You're too young to notice if men are handsome or not. We'll stop for an early lunch and get some real food into him . . . I've got some stuff I can give him, but it's dangerous to give it to someone with seriously depleted resources."

  "Ooo!"

  :: Hush. No matter how isolated, he'll have heard about the joy juice. Salacious rumors travel at five times the speed of facts. ::

  "Mind you, he was on his feet and stumping along. I suppose there's bus service . . . " Rael trailed off uncertainly. "Well, I don't really know, I've never been here before. But there are good modern hospitals in Kolkata. We'll get him into the hands of some good doctors and then head home."

  Ryol glanced back again. :: Get the car cleaned! ::

  "We're less than five hundred kilometers from Kolkata. We'll get there this evening, without even pushing the pace."

  "Oh good. Because that guy really needs help. I can't believe he was walking to find a hospital." :: Surely Bogra had a hospital. It's just, what ten kilometers north. So . . . oh, he's walking south to sell the bag in Kolkata, right? ::

  :: Right. Those aren't new injuries, they're healing poorly, probably because of malnutrition. Poor sod. Well, that bag will buy him all the medical treatments he wants, with enough left over for a very comfortable retirement. ::

  :: Neat! :: Ryol closed her eyes, then sat up, eyes very wide open. "Aunt Rael!" Swallow. :: There's two people in the bag. ::

  :: Alive or dead? ::

  Rael suppressed a giggle at the girl's look of horror.

  She firmed her mouth and shut her eyes. Slumped in relief. :: Alive. Sleeping. Want me to get them out? ::

  :: Not in the car! :: Rael frowned. :: Let's get to a hospital first. They may need more care than this guy. ::

  :: Because they haven't come out? Aunt Ra . . . I mean . . . Mom . . . Umm . . . Who is that guy in the back seat? ::

  :: He's not of the One. There no connection at the deepest level. But he's got a bit of a glow, so he's a Halfer. ::

  :: That's more glow than most of the Halfers I know have. :: Some uncertainty in her mental voice.

  Poor kid! Only Halfers she knows are the servants.

  :: Some Halfers have a lot of insertions, and I'll bet this guy is one of them. ::

  :: How does that happen? ::

  :: Umm . . . ::

  :: Yes, I do know where babies come from. So some Halfer or Multitude woman wants a powerful child, so she seduces a Oner. ::

  Rael nodded. :: The strongest one she can find. So Halfer boys don't get the Oner X chromosome—unless the Halfer Mother has one, and then it's a fifty-fifty chance—but even the child of a Multitude might have one complete set of insertions. ::

  :: Wow. I hadn't thought about it that way. :: She eyed Rael. :: What about Comet Fall genetic engineering? Can’t they put the power genes in? ::

  :: Yes. If it ever becomes legal here . . . it'll be the next social revolution. Even Comet Fall isn't all magicians. ::

  :: Yeah, that's what Master Xen says. Umm, so does this count as that guy kidnapping a couple of Warriors? ::

  :: Oh, let's just call it rescuing, and we'll ju
st make sure the bag doesn't wind up in a museum somewhere, unopened. :: Rael started grinning. :: Hey! Unless those are this guy's buddies that he's trying to help, you've done it. Saved some . . . umm not necessarily Warriors. But if there are soldiers in there, I hope they're from the Islamic Army. The Chinese Imperial troops had a bad reputation. ::

  "I am going to absolutely ace Social Studies and History."

  Chapter Seven

  Lunch Break

  Lucky Dave woke to the smell of charcoal and curry.

  The car wasn't moving, the windows were down.

  He propped himself up. A roadside stand, strip of stands. The roofs of a more substantial town beyond. No doubt bypassed when this nice smooth highway was built. Enough traffic for a few entrepreneurs, not enough to have attracted a lot of businesses.

  The two redheads were hustling back from behind the stands, and brightened when they spotted him sitting up.

  Damn. This is where I get dropped off.

  The girl bounced up, curly red hair bobbing.

  "Hey are you hungry? And there's umm, umm . . . "

  "Facilities." The mother put in. "Do you need help?"

  "Yes." And you'll be gone by the time I get back, but maybe I can catch another ride.

  It took a bit of maneuvering to get him out of the car, but he felt stronger, just for whatever that was he'd drunk. Hobbling was still . . . The mother handed the crutch to the daughter.

  "Bring this." Then she pulled his left arm around her shoulders, and wrapped her arm around his ribcage. "Lean as hard as you need." And she half carried him around the end of the strip to well, something better than he'd expected. Solid walls he could lean on.

  At which point she thankfully abandoned him.

  Actual paper towels. He wet a couple down, shifted his grip and hopped over to take care of the basics and then apply the paper towel to a portion of his anatomy in desperate need of cleaning.