Chapter 5
Sergeant Aimes was pissed. "You're more than an hour late Turner."
Squinting against the light, Aaron rubbed his eyes and studied his personal nemesis. Like always, Aimes wore his perpetual frown. Deep lines cut in around the deeply tanned skin of his mouth, cheeks, and eyes, making his face look like the puckered asshole he was.
"Sorry, sir." Aaron winced in anticipation of the forthcoming explosion.
"Sorry doesn't cut it," Aimes snapped. "Brass are waiting for you in the Yellow Room. I have two noncoms lounging around outside this room, sitting on top of your new supplies, and I have duties of my own to attend to." His voice echoed in the bare eight-foot square room. "Now get your ass down the hall."
"Yes sir!" Aaron saluted and hurriedly left. Corporals Hill and Gore sat on his supplies in the corridor outside his arrival room. Smoke drifted lazily from Hill's cigar. Silently cursing, Aaron hurried past them because Aimes really was an ass, and Aaron's legs were beginning to tingle and ache again. His pace slowed to a lurching limp. By the time he reached the door to the Yellow Room, his left shoulder had fallen. His left arm had curled up, and his fingers were folded into a half-fisted claw. As always. Legs trembling, his knees threatened to give way as his body once again twisted into that of the cripple he was.
Cursing his crippled body, Aaron reluctantly reached up with his good hand and hesitantly knocked on the yellow room's door.
"Get in here!" The door jerked open. Corporal Benson stood before him, a lone sentinel to a room filled with brass from two different militias. General Field's glare fastened on Aaron. From his chair at the conference table, Klein gave him a sympathetic smile. A dozen and a half other men, mostly Hispanic or Asian, sat in the black leather chairs surrounding the rectangular table. Every eye in the room rested on Aaron. Nervous sweat ran down Aaron's back because he knew what they saw. Just under five and a half feet tall, he was a narrow-faced, broken caricature of a militia recruit who probably looked more ridiculous than usual because this now unaccustomed pain made the tendons in his neck bulge.
More than a dozen dusky faces stared at him with contempt. Aaron shifted before squaring his shoulders as best his broken body would allow. As a rule, he seldom felt uncomfortable because he was a pale man in a dusky land, but that was only because Field's militia leaned heavily towards Angelo recruits. In this room, now, Aaron felt both somewhat dirty and thoroughly defiant.
Firming his will, Aaron saluted General Field with his good arm and tried to focus on the pointillist art decorating the light yellow walls behind the General's head so he would not have to meet the eyes of men who judged him because he was the wrong color. The sweet scent of lilacs rose from a single vase set in the table's center. More pollen, so his nose instantly started to clog, which he was sure would further the impression he was making.
"Private Turner reporting."
"You are late, Turner."
"Unavoidable, sir," Aaron crisply replied, ignoring his churning stomach. "There was a robbery at the store. It was late before I became free to report."
"So this is the thing we waited for," a voice asked with contemptuous derision. The speaker, the only white man in the room who was not part of Field's Militia, wore a gray uniform with insignia Aaron did not recognize, but his position at the table indicated that he did not hold much power, a not unusual occurrence. Though the race wars had ended a few decades ago, color prejudice was not dead.
"This thing," General Field said, "is Aaron Turner, a private in Field's Militia and a good man for the assignment he has been handed."
"He's a damn cripple!" the only black man snapped. "He looks like a little broken arthritic scarecrow."
Firming his lips, Aaron stared hard at the black man. Broad shouldered, probably well over six feet tall, possessing graying hair and deep set eyes, he showed no clue where he stood in the room's hierarchy, despite the fact that his too dark skin should have handicapped him almost as much as Aaron was handicapped by his pale complexion. To further the mystery, the black man's dark blue uniform bore no insignia, and his seat was in a position that Aaron usually associated with people who were merely observers.
"Turner is a soldier with special abilities just like I am a soldier with my own abilities," Colonel Klein defended. "He and I are the only people who can access the other world. Yes, he is handicapped because he was involved in an accident when he was ten years old, but he is the only person other than me who has learned how to transport over to the other world. Furthermore, for reasons we do not yet understand, once he is over there the difficulties caused by his injuries seem to disappear."
"None of that is important," Field said impatiently. "What matters is that the two of them can access a world where technology is low, and gold is almost as plentiful as copper. Silver is the rare metal over there. They have little iron. The few steel items we have transported over are thought to be wonders. More importantly, their weapons are as primitive as their society. Sit down, Turner."
"Thank you, sir." Finding an empty chair, Aaron sat down gratefully. Living in constant pain was no longer second nature to him. The muscles in his back were not acclimated to the strain his unnatural posture placed on them.
"Why are they operating in separate areas?" the black man demanded.
"Good question," Klein answered. "As a rule, we can only teleport safely to an area that we are familiar with. Unfortunately, our first visit to the new world forced us to travel blind, and I'm here to tell you that the thought of having to make that jump had me sweating buckets for months. The least bit of bad luck could have put me anywhere from a mile above the ground to fifty feet beneath it. A pure crapshoot where we both got lucky, but it's not a chance either of us will take again so we always return to the same area where we first arrived. Unfortunately, we don't know where each other's theater is located.
His mouth a straight humorless line, Helmet Klein took a moment to look each of the attendees directly into their eyes.
"Now, as to our other strengths and limitations, we both have the ability to enter the new world, but we also have different strengths. I am able to shunt back and forth only every three to five months. Attempting to return before my body is ready accomplishes nothing and forces me to wait several extra months for my transferral strength to rebuild. When I am at full strength I can transfer up to two thousand pounds. This weight mostly consists of several men and trade goods. Since transporting back here is more difficult, I can transfer no more than myself, the clothes I stand in, and maybe ten pounds extra. None of the people I take over there can return except for one particular man who owns a small resonant ability of his own. Because there is not much else in the area that is worth bringing back, the extra weight I carry is usually gold." He paused to take a small sip from his drink.
"The area I arrive in is a primitive land called Chin," Klein continued. "As a rule, most of the people live in nomadic tribes in a temperate zone. The majority of them are hunters and herders, though some agriculture is not unheard of. Their tools are primitive, but their language is rich and full. Since life is hard and resources few, they tend to be warlike. They prize gold only for cheap jewelry; otherwise it has little value to them since it is plentiful. The land is mostly tall grass and possesses little water so much of it is unlivable. Because of this their living conditions are appalling. Disease runs rampant. On average, life expectancy is probably no more than thirty-five for those who manage to reach their majority. As with the entire world, infant males die at an alarming rate. The male to female ratio is on the order of six to one. Now as to Private Turner..."
"Let him speak for himself," the black man demanded.
Aaron cleared his throat but it did not do him much good. Thick phlegm made his tongue stumble over words. "Umm, yeah. Right. Well, I can transport over to the other side more easily than Colonel Klein. Going over there is simple for me. The problem is that I can carry no more than a hundred and twelve pounds on any one trip, and there has to
be at least a two-week layover before I can return here. Even then, I can usually return with no more than the clothes I wear."
Drawing in a deep breath, he studied the stern faces set before him and mentally reviewed his truths, half-truths, and lies. An Asian man released an impatient grunt and received a disapproving look from Klein in return. Still standing guard by the doorway, Benson chuckled quietly.
"The area I can access is more developed than Colonel Klein's," Aaron continued. "As best I can determine, I live three hundred miles from the coast of a continent discovered only two hundred years ago. The town I can access is called Last Chance, and it is in a country called Isabella. Fortunately for our plans, the place is a perfect operational base because major government intervention in that area does not exist. Each town or village governs itself. Generally, the national government offers help only on rare occasions because its resources are over stretched. Best of all, none of the national governments on the continent are larger in territory than several of our smallest states, and none of them possesses much authority over their populace."
Pausing, Aaron studied his listeners to see how many of them actually believed him. Some of the faces he saw looked doubtful, some looked interested, but most of the listeners gave him blank, unemotional stares. One Hispanic fellow wearing a deep blue uniform covered by dozens of medals slowly drew on a thick cheap cigar before blowing out a cloud of rancid smoke, drawing irate stares from those sitting on either side of him.
Nervous, Aaron rubbed his hand across the back of his neck and rested his eyes on Klein.
"Go on," Klein encouraged.
Aaron nodded and drew in another deep breath through his mouth because his damn nose was now totally stuffed up. Gods, he hated lilacs, something only Klein and Benson knew. Their placement in the room had to be deliberate on Benson's part. "The people in my area work in bronze, brass, copper, tin and lead, alloying it in a manner with which I am not yet familiar. The process makes the metal better than it would be over here, but it is still far inferior to our fine steel. From what I can tell, war between the different nations is rare. My guess is that this is because populations are spread too thin to provide the pressure and conflict which causes war. The town I live in has maybe sixty families. There are about ninety more families living nearby, but that number changes constantly as people move away and new people move in. Outside of town are mountains that were once considered impassable, but a route through them was found a few years ago, and people are beginning to migrate into the new lands. Supposedly, the new lands are occupied by savages, and there are rumors of unrest."
"How are you positioned there?" the black man asked predictably. Of all the people there, he was really starting to tick Aaron off with all his questions. Something about him, his manner, his steady eyes, something told Aaron he was different from the others, more important somehow.
"I am a storekeeper."
"A storekeeper!" The man snorted in disgust. "What about you?" he demanded of Klein. "What power do you have?"
"Because I've consolidated several tribes into a larger group our territory is now over one hundred miles across," Klein calmly answered. "Tribes are either absorbed into our group or they are killed off. So far, my efforts have had small results, but they are a beginning. Matters should expand at a greater rate from here on."
"And how--"
"Excuse me, Captain Brant," a Hispanic man interrupted.
"Yes sir, General Mays. I yield the floor to you." The black man saluted the new speaker respectfully, but he wore an irritated frown. The frown grew deeper when Aaron took that moment of freedom to grab a tissue from a box setting on the table and blow his nose. Almost a mistake because he was instantly assaulted by the stench of cheap cigars and expensive cologne, and the damn lilacs were still there.
Running his fingers along the brim of the officer's hat set on the table before him, Mays looked at Aaron with piercing eyes while he waited for Aaron to finish clearing his nose. "Tell me, Private," he finally asked, "geographically, how far is your area of influence from that of the Colonel's?"
"Sir, as Helmet explained earlier, we don't know," Aaron confessed while he looked around for some place to dispose of the used tissue. Finding nothing, he clenched it in his hand, grimacing at the wet feel of it. "We have no idea where we are in relation to each other. We always transfer to the same area and seem to have no ability to transfer with each other. I don't know if the Colonel is over the next mountain or if he is halfway around the world."
"I see that you both keep to the same story." Mays twisted his hat around, raised it, and settled it on his head before setting his stare on Field. "Now tell me, General, why should we be interested in this new land or world you have discovered? I'll admit that what you have here is wondrous, but it is limited in its usefulness to me. The Colonel can bring back a small amount of gold but not much else. The other one can bring back nothing, and so he costs your organization money and support for no gain."
As his weight shifted, with a slight creak of leather, Field leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his belly. "General, the answer is very simple. It is well known that you have a tech base denied to us. In fact, some of your people have been involved in psychic research for the government. We believe you have the ability to devise machines that will increase the natural abilities of our two men. During this last year we have taken extensive readings of their brain activity when they are transporting between worlds. With the resources at your command I believe you could use those readings to finish development on a booster which will allow us to transport men and equipment almost at will." He leaned forward and pointed a large finger at Mays. "This is not a positive thing, but can you sit there and tell me that you are willing to take the chance of us going to someone else?"
"I still don't see what the benefits are to my organization," Mays said. The black man, Captain Brant, looked at Mays disapprovingly, telling Aaron that there were other questions that he wanted asked. Though only a captain, he still struck Aaron as being one of the most important people in the room.
"We both know, everyone at this table knows, that Jefferson is quickly going to hell. This is our opportunity to go someplace where we can make sure things are done right. Both our organizations have similar views of proper government. Between us, we could control the two areas our agents are preparing. With our superior technology we will eventually set the entire world along the paths we choose."
"People are not generally happy about taking a path that's forced on them," Mays observed. "The course you suggest will be very bloody."
Field chuckled. "Do you have a problem with that? Neither of us has shied away from blood. Just two years ago you sank that passenger liner. We have sponsored political assassinations." Field paused and turned his eyes towards Aaron. "Turner, we are done with you. You can leave now."
"I want to speak with you before you go back," Klein added.
Awkwardly saluting with his wet tissue holding hand, Aaron stood. His stomach hurt, and his legs trembled more than normal. Field was a good man. He knew this. Field had taken him in and paid for his operations when Aaron's own parents had not wanted him. Still, Aaron had to admit he had difficulty with some of the things the Militia did. Yes, the world was going to hell. Politicians spent far too much time raising money for the next election and far too little time caring for the people who elected them. Campaign financing drives and crony back patting left them almost no time to do their jobs. Some of those politicians needed incentives, and it seemed that the only incentive they recognized was the threat of assassination. It was amazing how hard they worked when one of their colleagues was killed for sponsoring a bill that was intended to further weaken society.
Accepting that all people had to die sometime was easy. Aaron just did not like knowing the Militia had a part in causing some of those deaths.
Benson insolently jerked the door open when Aaron approached it. In payment, Aaron reached out and stuffed the
tissue, damp with his snot, into the man's front pocket before exiting. Benson released a small smile, but his eyes blazed fury.
Once outside, Aaron found that the two non-coms assigned to him waited near the door. Gore drew lazily on a cigarette while leaning his lanky form lazily against the building wall. Squatter, more heavily muscled, Hill stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back, an impatient frown on his face. When he saw Aaron, Gore nodded, straightened, and flicked his half finished cigarette away. Hill's frown deepened and then relaxed into a forced smile.
"Everything's ready, Turner," Hill said. "You leaving soon?"
Aaron shook his head. "Not for a while. Is everything I asked for in the room?"
"Nah." Relaxing his stance, Hill unclenched his hands and held one out towards Aaron. Gore's hand instantly shot out too. "I've a couple more things to pick up."
Nodding, Aaron reached in his pocket and pulled out four gold. "Best I could hope for, I suppose. You haven't had much time to deliver everything."
Hill and Gore each grabbed two of the coins and slipped them out of sight. Hill took a quick look around and nodded satisfaction. "Nobody watching."
Gore snorted contemptuously. "Wouldn't have stood here if anybody was."
Ignoring his partner, Hill looked at Aaron. "I stuck some extras in your load already. You may be overweight."
"I'll chance it."
Hill nodded and left.
"Lean on me, crip," Gore said. "You seem to be more shaky than usual."
Aaron accepted gratefully. His legs trembled violently. Spasms ran through his left fingers. Of late, his condition seemed to worsen every time he returned home.
"Be sure to melt those down," he warned. "Those are the only coins like them in this world."
"We always do." Gore half lifted Aaron as they continued along. "You been gaining weight?"
"A little, but seriously, be careful. The General will be pissed at all of us if he finds out I've been bringing those back for you."
Gore laughed silently. "Trust me on this one. He'll never find out."
The once empty transfer room now contained one hundred and twelve pounds of official goods and another eighty pounds of supplies the General did not know about. Aaron's limits had been carefully tested a year ago and not tested since. The brain scans he had been forced to undergo gave away a lot of information, but nothing in them indicated how much weight he could carry. The General and his pet scientists had assumed his ability was complete and unchanging at the time of his initial testing when they systematically removed items from a pile of goods until he was finally able to transfer the stack. After all, why should they think differently? Klein's ability had been born full force and unchanging. He had been tested for years before Aaron's ability began working. What nobody but Hill and Gore knew was that Aaron's limits had increased slightly with almost every trip. Fortunately, his secret was safe with them. As best he could tell, the bribes he gave them were double their paycheck.
When he was finished Gore left, and Aaron gratefully sat down in the hallway outside of his room as he waited for Hill to arrive. More than an hour passed before he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He gathered himself to rise and then froze.
"Stay down," Helmet Klein told Aaron as he drew nearer. "I know how much it pains you to stand."
Unsure, Aaron settled back down. He studied Klein, giving him a more through going-over than he had been able to manage in the conference room. Klein had not been a young man when he found Aaron in the hospital fourteen years earlier. Back then he had been starting to turn gray and the lines around his eyes were pronounced, but he had been strong and healthy. Now Helmet looked rough and worn. The lines around his eyes were deeper. Crevasses and cratered scars marred his cheeks, and his dark circled and baggy eyes looked tired. From all appearances, Hemet's assignment was not as easy as the one Aaron's ability had given him.
"Helmet, you need rest."
Leaning one shoulder against the wall, Klein shook his head. "Don't have time for it, lad. Things are rolling along now. I'm going to give these poor bastards something to look forward to other than killing each other and dying young."
Aaron cocked one skeptical eyebrow. "I doubt the General has much interest in civilizing a bunch of savages. He'll only use them as a stepping stone towards the more civilized areas."
Raising his hand, Klein rubbed at an open sore high on his right cheek. Clear fluid ran free, showing that it was infected. "The General and I don't always want the same thing. These are my people. They took me in and adopted me. Before I'm finished I'll see that some of them live lives that don't kill them before they turn forty."
"Very commendable," Aaron said dryly.
Klein grinned boyishly but the grin never reached his weary eyes. "Isn't it? I'm a saint. Oh sure, I plan on turning myself into an Emperor along the way, but that's only a side benefit."
Looking into Klein's humorless gaze, Aaron was struck by the sudden realization that the man did not lie. Klein was really building himself an empire. Aaron wasn't sure if he should laugh or rant or cower. No, he would never cower before Helmet Klein because Helmet was the closest thing to a father he had remaining. Aaron would not betray this confidence.
Klein released a thin smile. "Considering your little act, I figured you wouldn't be surprised. Neither of us were very truthful when we gave our presentations. I forgot to mention my plans, and you seem to have forgotten that there are plenty of very good maps available. As a matter of fact, I have a few of them myself. A couple even have a small country named Isabella on them."
Aaron shrugged his good shoulder. "So I lied. Does it really matter? We're so far apart that I can't hope to support you."
"But you can support me, son. I want you to come look me up when you grow tired of your grocery. I'm building an empire. There's a place for you in it."
"Empire building is bloody work."
"It is," Klein admitted. "A lot of people have died. The difference is that I am giving the survivors some hope that there will be a change. Come to me, Aaron. I want you with me."
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Twisting his head, Aaron saw Hill approaching, a heavily taped box held in his arms.
Klein raised an eyebrow. "Taking on extra supplies? You're keeping more secrets than I thought. I don't want to make your man nervous so I'll leave now."
Straightening, Helmet turned and walked back up the hall, accepting Hill's hurried salute when they passed.
"What did the Iron Man want?" Hill asked when he reached Aaron.
Painfully pulling himself to his feet, Aaron opened the door to his room while silently cursing his twisted tendons. He wasn't used to this anymore. The pain was excruciating. Biting his lip to keep from groaning, Aaron waited a moment before answering.
"He--he wanted to talk of old times. We have a lot of history together. A ways back when I needed somebody, Colonel Klein was there. For all practical purposes, he pretty much raised me off and on for five or six years when he wasn't in the other world."
"Really? I always thought he was a cold bastard."
"Maybe," Aaron admitted, "but he was there when I needed him."
"Hmm, maybe you could give me an intro to him someday," Hill said. "I could do for him like I am for you. Speaking of which, here are the things you wanted. Wasn't easy, and I had to pay the quartermaster sixty bucks for them. Next time you come back I want an extra coin for my trouble because Gore never has to pay for anything out of his share."
"You're right," Aaron agreed. "The next time I come back I'll bring you two extra if I can manage it."
"Don't give me that. I know how cheap gold is over there. Next time you come back I want three, and don't you let Gore know about it either. I've spent a good deal of cash on you. Almost comes to more than the coins are worth."
Aaron sighed. "I'll carry what I can. There's still a limit to what I can bring back. I can at least bring four of the coins back and only give Gore one, but I really don't know if I
can carry even one extra gold. I almost didn't make it home this time."
"Well, do what you can," Hill grudged. "Can you handle this load? That box weighs ten pounds, and you were a little overweight to start with."
"I moved some of the stuff," Aaron lied. "Hid it away. Now go."
Hill left. Aaron waited an extra five minutes to make sure he was not coming back. After deciding that the man was gone for good, he concentrated on his return.
Stilling briefly, Aaron pictured the lower cellar in his mind while longing surged through him. He reached out his thoughts, encompassed the supplies, and folded them into his self-image.
Flicker
And he was there.
"Ugh!" His shoulder cracked and slowly straightened. Gradually uncurling fingers sent pains shooting up his forearm. His hips shuddered. Waves of agony radiated through his spine and into the back of his neck. Tentatively, Aaron lowered himself to the floor. Past experience had shown that only time allowed him to walk without wanting to scream. If he had need to he could manage the climb back up to the main floor. Right now he did not have that need.
While waiting he thought of General Field and the black man and Mays. He even thought of Klein and wondered if there was really a one of them who had anything other than their self-interest in mind when they made their plans for what they were going to do to this world.
He snorted in self-derision, closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. Acting in their own self-interest was one crime he could not condemn them for. He was as guilty of that as the rest of them.