The Loved and the Lost (11 page)

‘If I ever get a chance to redeem myself,' he thought, ‘I will never again overreact or let my emotions cloud my judgment.' He closed his eyes and repeated this to himself three times.

“I said, does this hurt?” Dr. Barnard's voice asked. Hansum opened his eyes and looked at her intently. “I turned off your pain block and asked you if it hurts when I touch your thumb.”

“No,” Hansum answered dryly.

“Good. That's good,” Elder Dr. Barnard said. Hansum looked over at the A.I. doctor, who was staring at him. Hansum stared back, matching his inscrutable gaze. They studied each other. “And we can get rid of that scarring for you right now, on your hand and your chest,” Dr. Barnard added. “Nobody will know there's been a problem. Soon, not even you.”

“No,” Hansum said again, still staring at the A.I.

“I beg your pardon?” Dr. Barnard asked. “No what?”

“Leave the scars,” he said. “I don't ever want to forget what happened.”

A month later Hansum was sitting cross-legged in long grass, his razor-sharp rapier across his lap. He was watching two African warriors battle one another. The female, a Mino warrior of the ancient West African Dahomey Kingdom, had a grass skirt, a lion-skin top and a wicker helmet shielding her eyes. She held a single, long flint-tipped spear and had the much taller Zulu warrior well under control, even though he had a deadly bronze stabbing spear in one hand and a murderous-looking fighting club in the other. But then, Hansum knew she could take care of herself. She had beaten him nine of the twelve times they had fought.

As the fight went on, Hansum looked around. The others were either cheering the combatants on or watching in silence. There was the young man with an English bastard sword, eagerly yelling encouragement. As well, an Asian-looking girl with a Chinese Dao sword was whistling a shrill note through her teeth and pumping her arm up and down. Finally there was the quiet, serious looking middle-aged man with a Roman short sword. He was eyeing the fight with his customary shrewd assessment.

Hansum looked up at the sky. It was a bright, almost cloudless day. The sun was now half way down in the west.

Since the time travel blackout, every time Hansum looked at the sun or moon he thought how their solar system was speeding through the universe and wondered what far away object was affecting their ability to jump from era to era. He also wondered whether it would clear up by the time he had the accreditations to be allowed to present a plan for going back to save Guilietta.

All this made him very anxious, but he kept his vow. “I will never again overreact or let my emotions cloud my judgment.” He repeated this to himself several times a day. Until he accomplished his goal, he would only show calm determination and excel in everything he undertook.

His vow was quickly tested. Two days after his heart replacement operation, Hansum went home to recuperate the required three extra days. That didn't work. His parents were bad enough, hovering over him and trying to anticipate his every need, but Charlene was worse. The sight of the scars on his chest and thumb horrified his A.I. and she cried and rebuked him for wanting to go back for more. Even when his parents said they respected his choices, his father saying it was Hansum's life and his adventure, they still tried to talk him into resting for a few months.

At the exact hour when his five assigned days of recuperation were over, and he started to do pull-ups on the tree branch outside their home, Charlene flew out of the house and loudly insisted he stop. He asked her to please quiet down and let him be, but she continued to hover around him, her eyes wide and her orb quivering. His mind made up, he kissed Charlene, then his parents, and he called for a transport back to the History Camp Time Travel campus. And here he was.

“Alma's got him now,” he heard the youth with the bastard sword shout.

He looked over and the Mino female warrior had knocked the wooden war club out of the Zulu's hand. The big Zulu seemed unnerved as the shorter and quicker female pressed her attack. She continually lunged and swung the blade of her six-foot spear against his shorter stabbing weapon. The Zulu was being backed up against a tree, and you could see the desperation in his face and on his long, taught arm muscles as he desperately tried to find a way to stay the onslaught. He grunted and made a desperate defensive lunge . . . and that was his end. The female warrior's deadly-sharp spear came under his blade and caught him full in the liver.

“Zzwitt!” came a sound from where the spear met the Zulu's leopard-skin cape. A large ring of red formed.

“Bumanda!”
he swore and the woman pulled her spear back and thrust it again, “Zzwitt!,” right into her opponent's chest, knocking him off his feet and onto his back. The animal skin clothing was now more red than leopard-spotted.

“Competition over,” the man with the Roman sword called. The other two watchers cheered loudly, jumping up and down and waving their weapons in the air. Hansum remained sitting on the ground, offering only a perfunctory clap.

“Next fight, Hansum and Bill,” the older man announced.

“Me?” the boy with the bastard sword asked. “Against Hansum? Ah, come on, Journeyman Marcon. No way.” Journeyman Marcon, the man with the Roman sword, scowled. “But he'll kill me dead in a minute,” Bill complained.

“Yours is not to question why,” the Asian girl cried in a sing-song voice.

“Yeah, yeah, but it's my big butt that's gonna die!” Bill paraphrased as he plodded out to where the Zulu was lying face up. “Get up Larry,” he said kicking the downed lad. “My turn to bleed.”

The large Zulu opened one eye. “Did ya have to make me land so hard, Alba? It hurts,” he said struggling to his feet. As he did, the large blood stains on his leopard-skin clothing faded. As well, the animal skin transmuted back to the tunic and shorts of a time travel student. “Why doesn't my A.I. uniform protect my butt from hitting the ground when it can stop a sharp blade from splitting me in two?”

“Because A.I.s have weird senses of humor,” Bill replied, taking a few feeble practice swings with his large, sharp weapon.

Alba plopped down by Hansum, letting her shoulder knock into his. Her dark skin was glistening with sweat and, as she pulled off her wicker helmet, long golden hair streamed over her shoulders. She looked at him, blue eyes gleaming.

“Nice fight, Alba. You win . . . again.”

“You're getting better,” she replied. “You've beaten me a few times.”

“C'mon,” the Asian girl called. “Let's get this over with. I'm hot and want to shower.”

“You're up,” Alba said.

Hansum got up and walked slowly into the middle of the tromped-down grass, their makeshift arena. Standing at ease, he raised his sword and let the hilt flip over the back of his hand. It executed a back flip, the blade spinning in a large circle and ending up back where it started, gripped in Hansum's hand. Hansum took up an
en garde
stance, leaning slightly forward on the balls of his feet and staring at his opponent with hard, cool eyes. Bill swallowed perceptibly and assumed the position too, but Hansum could see trepidation in the other young man's eyes.

“Fight on,” Marcon called.

Hansum cocked his head, just a little, and let his free hand go casually to the top of his tunic. He pulled down the fabric and seemed to scratch an itch, but his real intention was to expose the top of his ugly scar. His opponent's eyes widened at the sight and Hansum needed only to shift his weight, moving his weight to his front foot. This was enough to unnerve the youth, and he took a full step back. His apprehension was such that he stumbled over his own feet, and then he didn't have a chance. With one quick lunge, Hansum pushed his opponent's heavier sword down, making a parry impossible. Its blade came into contact with the fabric just below his opponent's breastbone, still aimed slightly up to pierce into his heart. “Zwwitt,” came the sound from the A.I. tunic as it stiffened to protect the human flesh below. It created another animated circle of oozing blood where it was hit, but Hansum wasn't finished. He pulled his blade back and spun his whole body around. In one quick, fluid motion, the razor-sharp sword was now coming full force at his startled opponent's neck. Hansum showed no quarter and watched Bill's terrified eyes bulge out at the sight of a solid steel blade coming to decapitate him.

“Zzzwitt!” the electrical crackle came as the blade hit the A.I.'s invisible protection field an inch from Bill's skin. But although the suit protected him from the sharp edge, it did allow the transfer of kinetic energy. The overmatched opponent was thrown off his feet, his sword went flying, and he landed in a heap on his side.

“Ya okay, Bill?” Hansum asked, still holding his sword to his victim's neck, the tunic discoloring as the animated circle of red widened.

Bill, wide-eyed and pale, nodded. Hansum gave a little grin and bent down to retrieve the fallen sword. That's when Bill pulled his dagger from its leg sheath and, attempting to redeem himself, tried to stab Hansum in the back. But Hansum sidestepped and came around with a crosscut, “Zzwitt,” into Bill's right kidney. Hansum fell back into a roll, to get away from any last-ditch revenge strike, coming up, again in the en garde position.

“Are we done?” Hansum asked.

Bill nodded once.

“Fight over,” Marcon announced.

Hansum allowed himself a small smile, but still kept the very business-like attitude he was now known for.

“Gather round,” Marcon called, motioning the students to him. Besides Bill, there was Larry, the tall black boy, all long legs, arms and enormous, beautiful hands. He again held the Zulu stabbing spear in one hand and the war club in the other. Larry's ambition was to become a History Camp time traveler and go back and study his Zulu ancestors before white settlers arrived. Luckily his mixed genetics didn't show the European blood he had in him. Then there was the chastened Bill. He had only been in class for a few weeks and had never touched a sword before. His interest was to study the bureaucracy of Rome at its height, but he had to take a physical elective. He had been heard to say that sword fighting “seemed like a good idea at the time.” He was questioning that now. Marta was a tiny woman, just over five feet tall, who looked mostly Asian. But she was actually a second cousin to Larry, sharing a grandmother three generations back. She just liked to fight, she said. And then there was Alba, tall and athletic, with long blonde hair, dark skin and blue eyes. Only seventeen, she'd had a myriad of swords in her hand for a decade. And she had already been back to the very early 18
^th
-century, to see what it would take to become a Mino, a female warrior. With her hair shorn and dyed, and her irises temporarily recolored, Hansum was amazed how she looked in the Mists of Time Chronicle recordings. And she could use a European sword as well as a fighting spear. Alba had invited Hansum to get-togethers at her family's home a few times, but he had declined, saying he had to study. But then, Hansum had begged off all of his class's social gatherings.

“All right then,” Marcon said. “Bill, besides your fight with Hansum being a mismatch, why were you so nervous? You knew your suit would protect you.”

“When I saw that sharp edge coming at my neck, I just had a visceral reaction, I guess.” Bill said this, reliving the moment with a shudder. “But what really freaked me out was Hansum's scar. When he touched it, I saw the Mists of Time Chronicle replay in my head, when Feltrino just stuck his blade,” he winced, “right through him . . . and laughed. And to see the results of that in person, it gives me the willies.”

“Thanks for being so forthcoming, Bill,” Journeyman Marcon said, and then turned to Hansum. “I've noticed how you use that little scar trick before each bout.” Hansum gave a little smile. “Very effective . . . on a beginner. Do you think it would have any effect on . . . Feltrino say?” The smile on Hansum's mouth reversed for a second, and then it reappeared.

“Probably not, sir,” Hansum said. “It doesn't with Alba either.”

“Exactly,” Marcon said. “And I'd lose that other little thing you do, flipping your sword around. This is not a sporting class. There's no point system. We teach real combat. It's only blood and severed limbs that count. If any of you ever meet an opponent for real, you can't be worrying about big ugly scars, or any other bluffs. A show of fierceness is not only to scare you, it's a distraction. Half way through making a face, opponents may lunge,” he said jabbing his sword right at Larry, catching him off guard and stabbing him hard in the gut. “Zzwwitt!” He doubled over, a new red circle appearing. “And then sometimes they may act calm, so you don't know what skills they have.” He said this taking a few nonchalant steps, and then swung his blade at Alba. Her wrist and arm moved effortlessly to parry or deflect the blow. “Very good,” he complimented.

“Thanks,” she answered, and then winked at Hansum.

“So train, be calm and don't do anything stupid,” Marcon continued. “Because to do otherwise is to die or end up like this . . .” he said moving to Hansum and pulling down the neck of his tunic, “Or this,” he added, holding up his arm. Just below his wrist, Marcon sported his own scar. It completely encircled his forearm, where his wrist and hand had been reattached. “Training is teaching the body to do things automatically in emergencies. Okay, day after tomorrow we're going to History Camp Castle Mamure. We'll review fighting on parapets and long stone steps, plus review castle and fort design. Meet here at 05:00 and we'll transport there together.”

“Zippidy,” Larry exclaimed. “They've got a great Mussulman night club there!”

“Yea! Party time!” Marta cried, waving her blade.

Then all the other teens but one shouted. “All for one!” and they hoisted their weapons into a circle.