Sword of the Future

The Sword of the Future

-by Spence Colby



              Colonel “Thrasher” Lynne rolled the sleek plane over on its side and stared down at the ground so many, many miles below. Even though he was doing over Mach 3, at this height the Earth appeared to be unmoving, a cloud-wrapped marble of rippled blues and browns nestled in a blue blanket of space so deep that it shimmered near-black. The stars up here, this close to true space, were clear and sharp pinpoints of diamond brilliance. There wasn’t enough atmosphere at this height to cause them to twinkle.

                Somewhere, far below him and this streaking aircraft, was a specially modified F-15 Eagle chase plane. Its job was to follow him and monitor his flight. Fat chance! After he had struggled to reach 50,000 feet the ramjets had started to really dig in and his speed was much greater than the designers had even dreamed it could be. He arced away from the F-15 and shot for space like a home-sick angel. This plane didn’t look like much; short stubby wings and gaping intake, but in the rarified air of near-space, she was in her element. He was about to breach an area that only astronauts had ever been before. The altitude record was going to fall today.

              “Angel One, this is Firefox One, do you copy? Over.” Static crackled for a second in his earphones, then the radio signal returned to its normal quiet hiss.

              “Loud and clear, Firefox. How’s the view from down there? Over.”

Another burst of static. “Angel One, Badger Control reports a concern.” the sound of Firefox’s voice, the pilot of the chase plane, was filled with worry and not the normal devil-may-care banter of fighter pilots on the sharp edge. “Badger is seeing an anomaly directly ahead of you of unknown composition. They recommend you abort the test. Firefox, over.”

                Thrasher squinted through the windscreen at the darkness ahead. Nothing appeared. He grunted and thumbed up the resolution of the forward radar scanners. There was a faint area of haze directly ahead and closing rapidly, but it didn’t register as a solid object. He shook his head disgustedly. The ground-pounders were far too cautious some times.

              “Firefox, Angel One. I see no reason to abort the flight. Looks clear, over.” Static popped and sizzled on the radio. Odd, that didn’t happen with the new systems. Must be the height and the lack of surrounding air playing hob with the transmissions. Or solar flares…but that was why the F-15 was along for this trip—to act as a radio relay in this thin air.

            “Ang*** ne, They s*** o return now. Repeat, th******** soonest. Ov****” The radio gave a loud crack and went dead. Thrasher flipped through the emergency channels to find only more dead air. Great, the radio was gone. But that still wasn’t a reason to quit this close to breaking the land plane altitude record and of proving the technology that this plane embodied.

              He eased back on the joystick yoke and the plane smoothly poked its nose higher and slid deeper into space. Thrasher smiled and watched the stars grow brighter as the surrounding wisps of air thinned even further. Then he frowned slightly. There was a patch of stars just ahead that was twinkling. Something was causing a distortion. He glanced at the radar screen. Just a faint fog across his path, nothing the radar could identify. The HUD (heads up display) on the canopy continued to feed him numbers as his speed and height grew. No threat warnings there. But this wasn’t strictly a military plane, even though the budget for its design and construction had come from the Pentagon, and it didn’t have the state-of-the-art threat assessment gear mounted. A small spider of worry started to tickle the back of his neck. He rolled the plane over in a gentle banking turn—the only kind you could make at this speed and altitude without spinning out of control.

              The first flash of cyan fire off the plane’s nosecone startled him into shouting a curse and jerking into a tighter turn. The discharge danced the length of the nose and flickered off the short wing tips, arcing brightly and then dissipating. But that first electric display was quickly joined by many others until the entire plane that Thrasher could see from the cockpit was covered with flashing snakes of blue fire. He howled and pulled the joystick over sharply to clear the area. Too much, the harsh control exerted pressures and stresses on the airframe it just couldn’t handle. And neither could the pilot. Just before Thrasher passed out from the lack of blood to his brain, his narrowing vision through a gray tunnel of sight noted that the HUD was now blinking with a rash of red lights. He was in deep fecal matter.



          There was something roaring at him and plucking at his flight suit with a thousand small clawed hands. He opened his eyes. He was still in the flight seat, a deep bucket, but the plane was gone from around him. The wind rushing past was howling a deep bone-piercing shriek and the air buffeted him with cotton-covered bars of steel. He was falling fast and from the amount of wind, he was deep in the atmosphere already. The auto-ejection system had punched him out of the crumbling wreckage; his sharp control movement had reduced the plane into so much scrap metal tumbling to earth. He was…how high up yet? He struggled against the thundering river of air to pull his left arm in front of his visor. On his cuff was a simple skydiver’s altitude gauge. He was down to 3,500 feet already. He had slept through one of the longest free-fall skydives of all time!

          At 2,000 feet the seat slammed against his spine and dropped away—its task completed, the chair fired the separation charges and deployed his drogue chute. Thrasher looked up to see the reassuring streamer of nylon over his head. He could sense the headlong speed of his descent slowing, the roar of wind decreasing to a rumble. There was a crack and the main canopy opened, a broad orange rectangle of rip-stop nylon. His straps jerked once, sharply, then he floating, quiet and peacefully. He looked down below his dangling feet at the ground. Plenty of time to pick a soft landing spot; he was still a thousand feet up. But there didn’t appear to be a spot open enough to land in—the tall trees and dense overgrowth stretched in all directions. Far to his right he could see some open fields and structures, but he would not be able to glide that distance. He gritted his teeth and muttered, “Damn, I hate this part…” He assumed the position; legs crossed to protect the family jewels from tree branches and knees bent to absorb some of the shock of landing. He could set down light as a breeze-drifting feather in a field, but crashing through trees in a chute was another matter completely. There wasn’t a good way to do it…

          He pulled on the shroud handles and slowed to an almost halt just above the foliage, hovering there momentarily, then easing through the thick branches and leaves. He crashed into the branches, bouncing and cursing, until he finally tangled the chute in the uppermost limbs, leaving him hanging about fifteen feet off the ground.

          Under him, arrayed around the base of the tree, were three men, rough and dirty looking. They were wearing rags and –honest to God—bits of leather and chain mail armor. And waving rusty swords, for the love of Mike!  Just where in Hell did he land, anyway? He couldn’t see their faces, just the tops of their heads, They were all wearing leather caps, one was reinforced with metal bands. Figures he would land in the middle of some whacked-out Medieval re-enactment party. They probably didn’t even have a cell phone in their leather pouches. Luddites!

          They were nervous and on guard. He had made enough noise crashing through the tree to assure that. But they seemed confused as to where he was. They didn’t look up, just peered into the surrounding woods.

          There were no branches under him that he could drop to…he sighed and hit the quick-release and plummeted the last distance to smack onto the ground and promptly shouted a loud curse. His left ankle screamed and threatened to buckle under him. He had landed with all the grace of a falling grand piano. He grabbed the tree trunk to prevent toppling over to the dirt. The three actors whipped around to face him. He had literally gotten the drop on them by landing behind them. The rusty swords that appeared to be a joke from fifteen feet up didn’t look so funny up close. They weren’t very sharp looking, but they could still give a guy a nasty bruising and a reason for a tetanus booster shot.

          “Hey, guys, wazzup? Sorry to drop in on you unexpected and all!” Thrasher shot them a bright smile and sketched a brief salute with one index finger to his brow. They stared with wide-eyed apprehension and slack-jawed amazement. “Could you guys get me to a phone or something?” He unlatched his heavy flight helmet, pulled it off his head, and dropped it at his feet.

          The filthy three goggled and waved their swords, backing up. “Aw, com’n guys, I love the Middle Ages stuff—great garb and all that—but I need some help here, you know?” These people really took realism to insane levels, they were not only dirty and unshaved, they reeked of body odor and their grimaces were showing huge gaps in their yellow teeth.

          The biggest of the trio edged towards him and poked tentatively at Thrasher with his blade. He gobbled something in a strange language full of harsh gutturals and odd vowel sounds. Thrasher frowned and waved the man off. “Okay, dude, enough with the acting. Drop the pig-sticker before I get annoyed.” Colonel Lynne turned on all the “glower power” his eyes possessed, the look that melted many a new lieutenant on the flight line. “There is a good reason my handle is Thrasher, you know? Don’t piss me off.”

      “O’ Aah thyn k e’s a dwymmer lich.” The dirty little beggar actually thrust the sword into Thrasher’s flight suit. The Kevlar suit was made to withstand high Gs, moderate impact forces, and flame—it stopped the dull blade but enough of the pressure penetrated that Thrasher flinched and leaned away from the sword. This seemed to surprise the trio. They acted like the thrust was supposed to slay him or something. Retards playing Robin Hood? Maybe…

      They started a lively discussion, hooting and babbling, filled with many arm gestures in his general direction. Some of the words sounded familiar, but Thrasher found he couldn’t quite make out the gist of things. The language sounded like badly rendered English spoken by someone with a mouthful of gravel. Where in the Hell was he?

      The debate was apparently settled as the three spread out around him. Swords were no longer lowered, but raised in a chopping position. Thrasher didn’t care for this development. The suit might slow down a penetration, but his bare head wasn’t going to stand up to a battering from those rusty chunks of iron. He slipped his service .45 from his shoulder holster and thumbed back the hammer. Everyone else had switched to the newer models of 9mm pistols being issued, but rank has its privileges. He kept the old Colt automatic. He pointed between the leader’s eyes and grinned a feral and menacing smile. “Game’s over, gang. Ya’ll don’t bring a knife to a gunfight. Now—let’s knock this shit off!” The scuzball slowed, but continued to edge closer. Didn’t he realize what Thrasher was aiming at his melon? Lord…he couldn’t shoot a local—no matter how insane they were acting. He sighed and raised the pistol and squeezed off a round.

      The bullet, a heavy slug of copper-coated lead, hit the sword over the ragged man’s head and ripped it from his hand. The ka-BOOM of the shot echoed and reverberated from the trees and made Thrasher’s ears ring. The effect on the ragamuffin trio was nothing less than amazing. They dropped everything and holding their ears, squealing like piglets, disappeared into the surrounding trees. Even with his hearing tinny and muffled from the blast effects of the pistol, Thrasher could clearly hear the crashing as they raced headlong through the brush and thickets. He shrugged and put the gun away. “Assholes…” he muttered.



    He sat on his flight helmet and stared morosely at the pile of gear he had available. He had stripped out of the heavy flight suit and wore just his jumpsuit and the flight boots. Pockets in the suit had offered up a treasure trove of odds and ends, some worthwhile, some trash--an emergency beacon—working perfectly—and a survival radio—that was not. He couldn’t raise anything, on any channel. It must have suffered some damage during the bailout, but that didn’t make much sense. These babies could be fired out of a cannon and still work. He had some food packets, toilet paper, sunscreen, two extra clips for the .45, shark repellant and dye marker, and a slim booklet with the helpful title “You’ve Survived This Far…” But it didn’t seem to offer any advice about dealing with sword-wielding idiots. Dehydration and fire ants, but not his current situation. A small pile of bits and pieces of gear and supplies.

      He leaned back and closed his eyes and held a think-tank session. What that anomaly was, and if it had any bearing on his present state, occupied most of his thoughts. He had been flying for almost twenty years and he had blasted a plane through every type of atmospheric dysfunction man had a name for…therefore, that misty, fuzzy area that zapped his plane was something unknown. So, all bets were off. Anything could happen by scooting into something unknown. But what did happen?

      The fact that the radio was dead was scary. Technically, it wasn’t dead—the power light worked and the unit produced a hiss of white noise at full volume. Tuning it to the frequency of his survival beacon, he received the beep-beep of the locator signal. The radio was receiving. There just wasn’t anything out there to receive. No signals? Is that possible? Even if all the satellites in orbit fried out and the ground transmitters were down, there was still AM radio, tracking signals and nav beacons, and ham radio operators. Someone out there could scrape a wire bare and brush it across a power source and send a message in Morse code in static pops. But there was nothing.

      When you have discarded the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, is the answer. Lord, could he really have traveled back in time and, in fact, be sitting under a tree in a medieval forest? Well, one way to find out! He packed the odd gear into the flight suit, including the helmet, and zipped it closed. He tied the arms and legs together and made a passable bag to sling over his shoulder. His .45 went back in the shoulder holster rig he transferred to his jumpsuit, and he strapped a combat knife to his right boot. Thrasher picked up a spear that one of the medieval dudes had dropped in their terror. The crude iron point was loose. He wedged it a tree fork and snapped off the blade leaving a sturdy oak shaft of about 2 meters length with a metal cap on the end. A fine walking staff to help until his ankle stopped hurting. He was as ready to explore as he was going to be. Lining up with the sun, he projected a line of travel towards the cultivated fields he glimpsed on the way down. He pushed his way into the shrubbery.



    He hadn’t gotten too far when he heard the sound of people moving through the trees ahead of him. There was the nicker of horses, the clank of metal on metal, and the low rumble of male voices above the crashing of undergrowth. He slid down behind a thick bush and waited. In a matter of moments a line of ragged, dirty looking types pushed into a small clearing beneath a tall tree ahead of him. Several were mounted on small, rough-haired horses. The leader was dressed a bit better than the rest—his chain mail wasn’t quite as rusty and the tunic he wore wasn’t as filthy. He rode a dull-white horse and carried a staff with a remnant of a rag attached in a hopeless attempt to resemble a jaunty battle banner. His face was a mess—dirty and covered with blackheads and open sores, framed by oily, lank dark hair that hung lifeless to his shoulders. His eyes were clear blue and appeared to be full of intelligence. He was, unlike most of the others, clean-shaven. He had a strong mouth and jaw line, sharp cheekbones, and a wide brow. His teeth, the ones that showed, at least, were yellow and green with crud. Thrasher guessed with some soap and a week in a tub of hot water this guy could be almost handsome. Almost. Not that he was great judge of good-looking men. The man raised a hand and stopped the column. There appeared to be perhaps a dozen men, total. He turned and spoke to someone behind him and the guy that had rudely poked him with a sword stepped forward and pointed towards where Thrasher had been. They were looking for him, all right.

      Thrasher thought for a long minute. He didn’t want to get in a fight, but he would need some help. Either he had smacked is head coming through that tree and he was having a delusion of remarkable complexity or he truly was lost in time. Pick one, but he could use friends over enemies at the moment. He sighed quietly and lay the flight suit down on the ground and drew his .45 and stepped from the cover of the brush.

The reaction was immediate. The men in line behind the leader shrieked and cowered, trying to stay behind the guy in front. The leader looked startled, but quickly regained control. He raised a hand and shouted something to his men. They quieted, but still looked ready to slink away if they could. The leader slowly dismounted and stepped forward, hands well away from his sides to show he had no weapons in his fists. He nodded to Thrasher. “Ah hight Ahurther d’peendrahgoon, sire. Pright thee a’ nuble laird?”

      Thrasher squinted in thought. It was almost there! Like one of those MagicEye pictures: if you stared at them long enough, the hidden image would pop into focus. This speech was almost something he understood…

    “’O oou cum to be ere, laird? Mah men decries oou fell from the skies. Be oou wizard or dwymmer?”

    Thrasher smiled and lowered his weapon. “Ah, I’m beginning to understand your speech, By God, it is English, after a fashion.” He slowly holstered the firearm and raised a hand in what he hoped was a friendly greeting. The dirty man slumped in relief.

    “Ah hight Ahurter. Wha bee ur callin, mahlord?”

    Thrasher frowned in concentration. What be your calling? Oh! His vocation! If this truly the Middle Ages, everyone was classified by what they did to live. “Ah, I’m a fighter pilot.”

      The blank look on the man’s face didn’t make Thrasher feel too confident that this was all a joke. A medieval chap wouldn’t know a hot-rock jock from a Palm Pilot. “A warrior” he amended. That appeared to register with this Ahurther character, but he didn’t seem to quite believe it. Colonel Lynne didn’t doubt that it would be difficult for this guy to understand—he didn’t have any visible armor or swords strapped to his side. He was displaying none of the items that would be proof of his claim. Perhaps he should go on the offensive to keep this joker from thinking too much and arriving at an answer that would spell difficulties.

      Speaking slowly, Thrasher asked, “Where are we?”

      Ahurther studied him for moment and scratched his head in confusion. “Ootwods from Londonium.” He raised his eyebrows in query. Did that answer the question?

    “Londonium?” The Roman name for London? Ouch! “What year is this?”

      This one stumped the dirty character. He scratched some more and looked behind him for help, but no one else could hazard a guess. He finally stepped closer and held out a hand to Thrasher. “Cum wit us, sire. We caan talk mure lyter.” His breath was foul. It was clear that dental hygiene hadn’t made an appearance here yet, or maybe he had a rotting animal stuck in his teeth…most likely both of these guesses were correct. Lordie!

He fell into step beside the man and they headed off. To somewhere, some place in time.



    Supper was a haunch of what Thrasher suspected was venison. It was charred black from the open fire it was roasted over and bloody raw inside. There were no seasonings or spices, just half-raw meat. No plates, either. Everyone just ripped a chunk of flesh off the spit with their hands or haggled a bit loose with a dull knife and worried the meat from the bone with their teeth. He ate little.

      Ahurther sat with him and they tried to talk. Thrasher spent more time listening than speaking and was gradually getting the hang of the language. Most of it was English with different vowel sounds than he was used to hearing. Some words threw him a curve, but he worked around them enough to get the general idea.

      No one else would sit near them. Thrasher asked about this and was told with a gleam of humor that the men feared anyone that could stop a sword thrust with no armor and then call down thunder and lightening to disarm a knight. Thrasher chuckled at that. To a medieval mind, he must appear to have magic and strong magic at that. No wonder they were afraid of him. And that oaf was a knight? Hardly the picture he recalled from school books.

      Ahurther was not as old as he had first thought. The dirt and grime made him look older, maybe in his late thirties. On closer inspection, as distasteful as that was, he was forced to revise that estimate downward a great deal. Ahurther was maybe twenty-three, twenty-five.

Ahurther was a chieftain of a small but aggressive tribe. He was on his way to a tournament of some sort, a challenge or a fight, to choose the next ruler. He didn’t have much hope of winning. Some of the others were from much larger tribes or had more men-at-arms with them. Or they had more gold, more support, or just more skill. But, he was fulfilling the role of chieftain and giving it his best shot. He seemed to be rough and uncouth, and processing no clue about personal hygiene, but a likable enough young man. There was something firm inside him. A steel core that no one could bend or break, an interior anchor of personal strength. Colonel Lynne had seen this type of young man many times. They made great fighter pilots given the time and training to realize their own potential. And many became great leaders in time.

      As they talked, Thrasher started to slip bits and pieces of college classes into place like a crazy jigsaw puzzle that he hadn’t seen the box cover. Ahurther had no idea of the date. Thrasher was certain that this was post-Roman Britain, but before the Norman invasion—that fuzzy gray area in history, a time of legend instead of facts. Legends…wait a minute!

      “Lord Ahurther! What is it that you are going to do at this meeting?”

      Ahurther described the contest he was heading for—a test of strength that everyone to date had failed. He hoped that the Gods were on his side, and he would be the one chosen to be the next ruler of the land. He studied Thrasher closely. “Ah coold use a wizaerd. Wooud you lend me your aide, sire?”

      Thrasher smiled, amused. “A wizard? Guess I could see the reason that you might think so, but I’m not a wizard.”

      Ahurther smiled in turn. “Ach, you summon lightenin and thunder to your bidden, wear strange garb wit fen arcane signs and symbols of power” he fingered the silver wings on Thrasher’s jumpsuit and brushed a finger across the mission and Air Group patches on his sleeve and chest, “an you are naw a wizard? Ah, to truth, bare kenna one better. Ah request your help wit this task, iffen o’ you achna beholden.”

Thrasher sat and thought. He wasn’t going to be going home anytime soon, most likely, considering that he didn’t know how he got here in the first place. Might be the best bet to hook up with the top dog. And to be sure the top dog owed him a big favor.

      “Listen, is your name Arthur Pendragon?”

      “Tis a strange mouthin, but troo.”

        “And would this contest you’re heading to be to pull an enchanted sword from a stone?”

        Arthur’s eyes lit up. “Yoo knuw of’t! Ach, a wizaerd yoo bee, for certs!”

        “Hah! I cheated and read the book. Okay, Your Majesty, I think I can help you in your quest. I’m your wizard.”

        Arthur beamed at him, rotting teeth and all. “Yoo kin aide me in pullin the Sword?” He knuckled his forehead. “Yoo aide me and Ah will provide lands and hoostin, and yoo will bee ma prime advisor.”

      “I can ask for no more.”

      Arthur stood and pulled his rusty sword from his belt and gently laid it on Thrasher’s shoulder. “Ah hereby swear to the Almighty Gawd that this bee my honored man, and hold bound to mah oath to protect ‘im and raise ‘im up.” Arthur faltered. “Prithee, sire, what hight are yoo?”

Hight? Height? Why does he need to know that? Oh, wait! “Ah hight Ahurter” Hight means “named”. Right! “I am hight Colonel…” now it was his turn to falter and pause. The U.S. Air Force was a long way, a long time, away. He wasn’t a Colonel anymore; now he was a Wizard. Time to shuck the old titles. “I am hight Merle Lynne, Your Majesty.” His given name, seldom used at home.

      “Arise good Mer’Lin, and assume your station!” Arthur tapped him lightly with the sword and smiled as he offered a hand. “Kin yoo trooly aide me in freeing the Sacred Sword?”

    The King’s now and future wizard simply smiled and nodded, pulling a small can of WD-40 spray lubricant from his jumpsuit pocket.” Count on it, my Liege”