Chapter 9

9.

         “Well here it is,” the man said, brushing aside some stray branches to reach the brown and green mottled box sitting in the middle of the forest. His clothing would have been considered odd by the people in the villages, though there was nothing unnatural about any of it. At his belt swung a stubby black object that occasionally his hand would brush up against, as if confirming that it was still there. His eyes focused on the box, darting all over its surface with muted intensity. If he was searching for something specific, he didn’t appear to be finding it. The man gently ran one hand over the exterior of the box, as if looking for a seam or a crack.
         From the direction the man had come, there was another rustling, possibly announcing the arrival of someone else.
         To the unseen person, the man said, “You’re a mindreader, Ranos, maybe you can tell me why the hell Joe came here. I thought being in charge meant you didn’t have to go on these sorts of missions.”
         The branches parted violently and a tall, dark skinned man strode through, the bottom-most twigs on the trees lightly striking his bald head, while various other plants tugged at his loose fitting brown robe. Stepping over the undergrowth to join the other man, Ranos’ lips twisted at the question.
         “While I may be, as you say, Tristian, a `mindreader`,” Ranos answered, “I’m not privy to the Commander’s thoughts. If I had to guess I would say that he hadn’t yet decided which of his soldiers he can trust and so feels a need to oversee these missions himself.”
         “That’s one theory,” Tristian replied without looking at the other man. He suddenly tapped a spot on the vehicle before quickly stepping back, his hand reaching for the object at his belt. With a quiet hiss, part of the surface slid away to reveal the interior of the box. Ranos stepped around to look inside as Tristian stuck his head in, his hand still not far from his belt.
         “That’s a . . . unique entrance,” Ranos commented dryly, running his hand over the same spot Tristian had tapped, his fingers sensing nothing.
         “It only works for me, apparently,” came the slightly echoed sound of Tristian’s voice from inside the vehicle. His faded shadow straddled the doorway. “Or the host, more specifically. They told me that once they had a host get stuck outside one of these and it took off without him, which meant they had to go and get him. So they convinced the cabinets to recognize our genetic signatures.”
         “Convinced them?” Ranos asked, raising one thin eyebrow.
         Tristian shrugged as he exited the vehicle. The door slid shut following his departure. “They tell me these are somewhat sentient . . . but I don’t know how much of that to believe. Sometimes the Agents aren’t the best conveyors of information.” The edges of his lips twitched. “They have this habit of believing all of life’s questions are multiple choice.”
         “Perhaps that’s better than seeing no answers at all,” Ranos remarked, his expression guarded.
         “Hm,” was all Tristian said, casting another look at the vehicle before turning and taking a few steps away from it, his eyes looking over the area. After a few seconds he said, “I don’t see any signs of an ambush.” Crouching down, he ran his hands over the undergrowth and said, “I mean the grass here is trampled but it’s not all torn up, like a lot of people were running around.”
         “That makes sense,” Ranos noted. “If it had happened here then someone probably would have been able to make it back to the vehicle and summoned aid.”
         “Instead, we just lost contact,” Tristian added dourly, almost to himself. Catching a handful of grass in his fist, he pulled at it without tearing out the roots and hissed, “Dammit, why did they go? He didn’t need to come.”
         “Perhaps, like I said, he’s not sure who-“
         ”That’s not the whole story,” Tristian snapped, standing up abruptly, looking up so he didn’t have to speak to Ranos’ neck. So many things to get used to again. “It can’t be. No, he wants to have it both ways, to keep the responsibilities of being in charge and be able to go out there and lead the teams.”
         “It’s a hard change to get used to,” Ranos said neutrally.
         “We used to be out there together all the time,” Tristian told the other man. Glancing at the undergrowth again, as if trying to discern a sort of pattern, he picked a direction and began to walk. Ranos fell into step along side of him and slightly behind, to make room on the path. “On the missions, sometimes it would end up just being the two of us by the time it was over with. When I was . . . gone, it became just him, and then it was the two of us again, but . . .” he stopped and ran his thumb over a nearby tree, scraping away some of the bark with a nail. Without commenting he set off again, sliding through the meshwork of plants with barely a sound. “He’s in charge now . . . . before, it didn’t matter because the General was always there and . . . now he’s not, so . . . so Joe’s it. And I don’t think he realizes that.”
         A strange expression briefly flashed over Ranos’ face at the mention of the General but he kept silent.
         “You still participate in missions,” Ranos pointed out a second later, feeling the need to say something. Time and age were making him more talkative, once he might have just let such comments slide past without hindrance. Now he felt a need to address them. Still it was more fact than accusation. Tristian would not have hesitated for a moment to undertake the same mission he was condemning Brown for. “Some might say you are more useful in Legoflas instead of out here.”
         “They would be wrong,” Tristian replied, somewhat archly. As open to debate as ever, I see, Ranos thought wryly. Tristian’s eyes swept the area, examining the space around the vehicle for clues that might hint at what happened to the crew. “My only responsibilities are to Kara, and to a certain extent, I suppose, myself. Joe is at the top of the chain of command. There’s no real comparison.”
         “Yet you both place yourselves in danger to lead others.”
         “Not quite,” Tristian said, running his hands along the undergrowth, as if a tactile investigation might reveal what he needed. “They follow Joe because he’s their leader. Me, I’m no leader,” he said without looking at Ranos, although the ghost of a knowing smile trembled on his face. “Merely an adjunct. I may live at Legoflas but I’m not all that much different from you. These days, I’m strictly freelance.”
         Because you have no wish to accept orders from others, or because you do not want the responsibility that leading entails, Ranos thought, watching his former partner skim the area and wondering if it was possible to avoid being both a leader and a follower. It was a goal Tristian very much seemed to strive for.
         “Some of these branches are broken,” Tristian observed, brushing one aside and then holding it in place for Ranos to see. “See, so they must have come this way.” Abruptly, he flung it back, leaving Ranos to smoothly sidestep it as he continued to follow. “You haven’t sensed anyone else around, have you?”
         “No . . . there’s no one,” Ranos confirmed. Tristian was beginning to move faster through the forest, as if he had caught a scent and was determined to follow it, even if its ultimate destination was at the bottom of a cliff. The increased speed made no difference to Ranos, who could easily keep up. A cliff would be an entirely different issue, although it wouldn’t be the first time.
         “No one at all?” Tristian asked, his voice strangely insistent. Suddenly Ranos knew what he was really asking.
         “She may be shielded, Tristian,” he said, knowing the other man would realize what he meant. Sometimes finding the answer meant ignoring the question asked. “If something happened to her, she knows how to stay completely hidden.”
         “But what good is it if we can’t find her?” Tristian asked brusquely, angrily thrusting another branch out of the way, nearly snapping it off. Ranos calmly finished the job, tossing the branch off into the undergrowth. “God, do I have to keep her locked up in Legoflas all the time now?” Frustration infused his voice like a form of static, rendering the edges of his words unclear and fragmented. “And Joe, has he gone completely out of his mind? Taking a teenager along with him?” A branch tried to wrap itself around Tristian’s leg due to his hurry, but he merely twisted his leg and whipped it around, breaking the stick and leaving it broken on the ground, all without breaking his stride. Ranos merely stepped past it, his boots making only a faint crunching in the dry soil. “I should keep them both locked up in a room, they can keep each other company.”
         Up ahead the trees began to thin and more sunlight was elbowing it ways through the gaps. Tristian began to force his way through a tight knot of branches but was unable to make any progress, although the wood strained and bent at his attempts. The man tried to snap the sticks off in a swift, angry motion, but the wood was too flexible to yield. “Dammit . . .” he seethed, his hand going to his belt.
         Ranos stepped forward. “Tristian, I can get it . . .”
         “No need,” the man replied and the air was suddenly stained red. His arm moved methodically up, then down and then to the side. Branches fell to the floor in a shower, insect limbs cruelly amputated. The red glow vanished and Tristian stepped neatly through the now clear area, his progress unimpeded. “I’ve got it.”
         Ranos could see the sun faintly shimmering through a haze of dust and dirt, which he assumed marked a road of sorts. “What kind of technology does this planet have, Tristian?”
         “They’re at a decent level in this area,” Tristian said over his shoulder. “The people are organized into fairly autonomous villages that rely mainly on farming and the like. They trade back and forth but that’s about all the talking they do. The other side of the planet has some larger cities and is a little more advanced but there’s nothing here . . .” he trailed off, either lost in thought or unable to finish the sentence. Ranos couldn’t tell anymore. Once he might have said for sure, now he could only guess. He still wasn’t sure how that made him feel. It had been so long now.
         “That would pose a problem to six Time Patrol soldiers?” Ranos ventured. Finally the forest stopped and the two of them emerged onto a grassy area that marked the edge of the forest. The road lay before them. There was no one around in either direction.
         “Right, right . . .” Tristian said quickly, turning to the left and the right, trying to decide which direction they had gone in. He looked at the road for footprints but the wind had smeared them away and the history was written in no language he could decipher. “So where did they go?” he asked no one at all, squinting into the sun as he tried to peer as far down the road as possible. “Dammit,” he said suddenly, his voice taut, “where did they go?”
         Ranos walked up to his friend, resisting the urge to place hand on his shoulder. A gesture like that would mean nothing. “As much as I share your concern, Tristian, remember the men are Time Patrol, if they are killed they’ll recover . . .”
         “And Kara?” Tristian demanded, spinning on the other man. Ranos impressed himself by standing his ground. Parenthood has not softened what the years have done to you, have they? he thought, keeping his face carefully neutral.
         “She is, in her own way, Time Patrol as well,” Ranos responded calmly. “She cannot be killed either.”
         “But she can be hurt,” Tristian shot back, and that seemed to make all the difference for him. The two men stared at each other for a long second, before Tristian turned away again in a sharp motion, causing a ripple in the dirt at their feet. Pointing down the road, he said, “The nearest village is that way. That’s probably where they were heading. Maybe we can get some answers there.” Immediately he stalked off, looking for all the world like he would walk through whatever obstacle was in his way until he reached the village, whatever the consequences.
         “And are we just going to walk in?” Ranos asked mildly. Traveling with Tristian again had not made being killed anymore desirable. “Perhaps into whatever ambush struck down the soldiers?” And your daughter, Ranos added only silently. Mentioning Kara just seemed to make Tristian edgier.
         “I figured that’s where you would come in,” Tristian commented, turning slightly to face Ranos as he said so, although he didn’t slow his stride down any. “I’m the muscle, remember? You’re the guy with the fancy tricks, if I recall.”
         “Mm, I suppose,” Ranos mused. There were several things he could do, now that he thought about it. After a second he said, “Would you like to appear to them as pair of wayfarers, a man and his horse, or simply no one at all?”
         Tristian nodded, smiling briefly. “That’s more like it.” He kept looking ahead, as if he was trying to see the village already, and through it, Kara. “It’s weird, isn’t it?” he said after a second, not facing Ranos.
         “What is?” Ranos asked.
         “You know, discussing our plans. Outloud,” Tristian explained. “Instead of . . .” and he tapped his forehead with one finger.
         “Oh. Yes. That,” Ranos replied, realizing what Tristian meant. “That is . . . different. Weird, yes, I could you could say it was . . . weird.”
         The two men walked in silence for a bit, the only sounds the steady thumps of their boots on the packed dirt road. Any onlookers might think they were engaged in some bizarre race to see who could walk the fastest.
         Ranos increased his pace a little to walk alongside Tristian. The other man barely seemed to notice him. He glanced at the man, trying to read his face but unable to find anything concrete to latch onto. He was tempted to do a cursory look, just to gauge his general state of mind, but Ranos didn’t doubt it was akin to a tempest, and after all these years, he didn’t know what he would wander into in there.
         “Tristian . . .” he asked, surprised at how quiet his own voice sounded, almost too deep to register with human ears. Tristian cast him a sideways glance, but said nothing, which Ranos assumed was the okay to continue. “Would you . . . would you like to . . . be able to talk that way again . . .” he couldn’t use the actual phrase. It implied too much. A partnership that no longer existed. Sundered.
         Tristian’s eyes widened at the suggestion and he ducked his head briefly, face deep in thought. Ranos stared at him intently, but the man was opaque as ever. He wondered if it was somehow possible to become more and less open as the years went on. “No, no, I don’t think so . . .” Tristian said after a moment. Ranos was surprised to find a tiny sliver of hope die in his chest. He didn’t know where that had come from. “It’s, ah, it’s been a long time and . . . I mean, ah, you just came back and maybe you’re not . . . you won’t . . .” he ran a hand through his hair, grabbing a handful and squeezing it before letting his hand drop to his side. “No,” he said again, simply. “I’m sorry, Ranos. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
         “Very well,” Ranos replied. A million rebuttals shrieked to the forefront of his brain, how useful it would be if they were separated, how they might need it in the middle of a fight, all those reasons and advantages. He stated none of them. Tristian knew them already. He knew them and he didn’t care. Ranos couldn’t blame him. It had been a very long time ago, but a very deep wound. Sometimes even if the cut healed the infection still remained.
         Another silence settled on them, as fine as the dust that glittered in the sun around them, yet unlike the dirt it resisted all their efforts to shake it off.
         Tristian spoke first, his voice pressing but not breaking the quiet, “Listen, it’s not that . . .” but then he broke off suddenly, his head snapping to stare into the distance.
         Ranos looked up as well, sensing it immediately.
         The acrid scent wafted to them lazily, tickling the inside of their nostrils, as if taunting them to recognize it.
         “A fire . . .” Tristian whispered.
         “There’s smoke,” Ranos pointed out, his hand indicating the thin wisps reaching into the air, aged fingers already crumbling before they would ever touch their impossible goal. “But it might just be a . . .”
         But Tristian was already running, a arc of dirt nearly striking Ranos across the face. He briefly hardened the air in front of him and the dust splashed harmlessly. “. . . brush fire,” he finished uselessly. Who had told him that time had cured some of Tristian’s apparently innate impulsiveness? Ranos had thought he was better at spotting lies than that.
         Before him the man was already a distant blur. The chances of catching up to him now were slim and Ranos had no intention of racing him. He gathered his will, squinting ahead to get some idea of how far he was going, focusing on the distance and pulling it toward him, finding the path that was shorter than a straight line. Tristian had forgotten, there was no need to run if you could walk and no need to walk . . .
         The world twisted and Ranos felt space wrench around him. His vision imploded, blurred, cleared, like mud sliding off a window. A lightness formed in his head but passed quickly. Ranos blinked, gauging where he had landed.
         If you can teleport, he finished slyly. People used to tell him stories about how some saw abilities like his to be a type of curse. He would never understand people like that.
         He was facing the direction from which he had come. The air was thick and hazy, and the smell of smoke was much more intense here, almost enough to make his eyes start to water, tiny claws scratching at his face. Very close by he heard a fire crackling, a pop not unlike bones breaking. He didn’t see Tristian at all, which was curious.
         “Over here,” Tristian called out from behind him. Oh. Ranos turned to see that the man was already there, just a little farther down the road. As Ranos got closer he saw that the source of the fire was obvious. A tree was down, on its side like a fallen giant, and its upper branches, not resting on the ground, were in flames.
         “A lightning strike?” Ranos asked, shielding his face from the heat. Already he was sweating, although a convenient cool breeze took the worst of it away.
         “No . . .” Tristian muttered. Ranos could barely hear him over the snapping and gnashing of the blaze. Tristian’s face was flushed from the run, although his breathing was as regular as ever. The sword was in his hand but not ignited. The flames reflected off his eyes as he stared deeper into the fire, as if trying to pierce the heart itself. “The weather feels all wrong for it . . .”
         “We are on a different planet . . .” Ranos pointed out. He was tempted to call up a breeze to extinguish the fire but was afraid that it might spread to the other nearby trees then. The fire seemed especially heavy in the center, almost completely dark. The burning wood was making a strange noise, just underneath the usual snappings was a near constant noise, like a whistling. Curious he probed the center of the flames, expecting to find a birds’ nest or perhaps some unfortunate animal.
         He found nothing, just a void. Not merely nothing, but an absence. It felt familiar.
         “What is that noise?” Tristian murmured to himself. “It almost sounds like . . .” Even over the flames he heard Tristian’s sharp intake of breath. The man’s eyes widened and he turned to Ranos at the exact moment that Ranos realized just what a void meant and why he saw it all the time now.
         The two men exchanged glances and even without a link Ranos knew what he was thinking.
         “In the center,” Ranos said, almost shouting. Tristian was already in motion, running around to the other side of the tree where the flames were weaker. His hand twitched and the red of the fire was matched by the blade that sprang from the device in his hands. As he ran he cut into the tree, causing the fiery branches to fall to the dirt.
         Ranos stepped back to get a better idea of what was going on. Tristian was slicing into the tree, but the smoking branches were piling up, making it difficult to breathe or see. Ranos shifted a pile of dirt on top of them, smothering the flames instantly. But visibility was getting worse and he felt his chest getting tight as he tried to avoid coughing. The last thing he needed was a good lungful of the smoke.
         Briefly he considered pulling moisture from the air and dumping it on the tree. But that might just create more smoke.
         “I can almost see . . .” Tristian said, reaching out and cutting again. “Ranos, do you . . .” but then the structure shifted, falling toward him, forcing him to dance back a step to keep away and cutting off whatever else he was going to say.
         Dammit, think! Ranos tried to think of what else might put out a fire. Water, certainly. Dirt or sand. But all that does is smother it. Cuts it off from what feeds it.
         But what feeds it?
         Of course.
         Wiping sweat from his face, Ranos reached into the center of the fire, tried to fix his grip as best he could, and simply pulled.
         The tree flared into impossible brightness, causing Tristian to yell and jump back again. Even the thin slash of the sword faded against the brilliance.
         Then the flames died away instantly. It was eerily quiet suddenly. Ranos only spared a second to take stock of the situation. Something was thrashing in the center of the fire and nature itself was trying to get back in. This had to be quick. Already small slim figures of flame were dancing on the farthest twigs, getting ready to spring back to life. It’s just a switch . . . that’s all it is . . .
         Ranos pulled, a fisherman straining for the catch.
         There was an audible pop in the center of the flame and a thud nearby. Loosening his grip he slowly let go, allowing the air to leak back into the center again. The flames crept back up, almost cautiously, but much more subdued than before. The fire would run its course soon enough.
         “Ranos . . . what did you . . .” Tristian started to run back over but stopped when he saw the form sprawled in the dirt between them, still flailing about.
         Flailing and screaming. Ranos realized what the odd noise they had heard was. A high pitched wail of pure agony, it was all the man had been able to do.
         “Dear God . . .” Tristian whispered in shock. The man clothes were melted into his skin and his whole face seemed misshapen and deformed, a candle exposed to too much of the wick. Wisps of gnarled smoke curled from his body, as if his spirit was trying to escape. His eyes, white and nearly liquid looked at nothing and saw the same. His cracked and charred lips were half open in a permanent spasm of pain and that was the source of the screaming.
         “That’s one of the soldiers,” Tristian said, venturing to touch him, but then drawing his hand back when the man began screaming even louder. Ranos crouched down next to him, trying to get a sense of what the man had gone through, and only finding the same void as before. Time Patrol, he thought darkly.
         A flash of crimson interrupted his thoughts. The man suddenly fell silent. He looked up sharply to see Tristian, a grim expression coating his face, withdrawing the sword from the man’s face. There was a neat hole right between his eyes. The two men looked across at each other, but neither said anything. Yes, Ranos thought, time has indeed made you harder.
         “How did he get in there?” Tristian asked after a moment. Answering his own question a second later, he said, “The regeneration . . . someone was trying to foil it. Why else light him on fire unless you were trying to prevent him from healing completely?”
         “Then the others must be nearby,” Ranos said calmly. His thought asked the question neither of them wished to state. Did they know, then? And if so, how? Without answering, Tristian stood, motioning for Ranos to follow suit.
         On the other side of the tree they found them. A ghastly parade of the macabre, laid out like exhibits in a museum.
         The nearest man to the tree sported a dagger through his forehead, another through his throat. Blood still flowed freely from both, constantly replaced by a metabolism that was unable to quit. He was unable to pull these out because both his wrists staked to the ground with more daggers.
         The next was a little further, the gaping wound in his throat stuffed full of dirt and sticks. The wound had partially healed over and he made a constant rattling noise, gagging on an object he couldn’t eject.
         The last they found was the worst. His head was completely enveloped in flames, to the point where his skull had become a shriveled, warped thing. The back of his head had been damaged but the healing had gone wrong, becoming a nodular growth run amok, like a cancer attached to his head, trying to escape to another body, another place. When Ranos and Tristian put the fire out they found the charred and melted remains of a laser lodged in his throat. Someone had let it overload and left it in the man’s mouth, where it had ignited.
         Tristian surveyed the horror, his face slightly pale. The sights made even Ranos feel weak. The human desolation reminded him of Belmodeus’ work, at the very height of his madness. But Belmodeus at least wasn’t human. Ranos wasn’t sure what the excuse was here.
         “That’s only four,” Tristian said, his voice tight. “Joe always takes five others with him.” He didn’t seem relieved that Kara hadn’t been among the soldiers. “That means three people are missing. Joe, another soldier, and Kara. Where are they?” Some modicum of control kept him from screaming.
         “I think the better question is . . . who has them?” Ranos asked, his own heart rate kept down only by a force of will. These acts struck him as deliberate and the deliberateness held a form of cunning that was more brutal than insane, more calculating than wild. This wasn’t the act of some superstitious people afraid of the dead walking. This was someone seeking to delay a retribution that they had reason to believe was imminent. And not only imminent but terrible.
         “Someone who had the sense of mind to engineer this, someone who knew they wouldn’t stay dead,” Tristian reasoned, already echoing Ranos’ own thoughts. Even without looking Ranos could see his anger, a low hum of pitched emotion, growing without being able to expand, pressing against his mind, forcing him forward. The sword cast a rusted shadow on the ground, a finger pointing at nothing, a manifestation of his anger searching for a target. It would slay someone before this was over. The person or people involved in this were ready to go to any lengths, that much was clear. Quarter would not be an option, if the choice even arose. Tristian was agitatedly pacing in front of the now smoldering tree, waving clutching smoke out of his face with an irritated swipe of his hand, talking outloud but not to Ranos. “But why only some and not . . .”
         Tristian abruptly stopped, letting his words dribble to the air and fall apart. His eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to the side, turning in a slow circle. The sword’s shadow was a clock counting down bloody time. When he was facing the forest he suddenly halted and with a swift sureness stalked off in that direction.
         Ranos followed a second later. As he curved around the tree, his eyes began to pick up a faint sound, almost like a low squeak. It wasn’t the same as the scream from before, but different, more coherent, even if he couldn’t make out the words, if words they were.
         Tristian didn’t go far. Ranos found him standing before a tree. From the back Ranos could that he was shaking slightly, and the hand that gripped the sword was bone white, all the blood leached out of it.
         The noise became clearer and more distinct. It was definitely a human voice. His heart starting to race again, Ranos moved next to Tristian. The man didn’t even seem to notice his arrival.
         Ranos immediately saw why. And all of a sudden he felt very ill.
         The soldier’s head must have been severed. That or damaged. And someone, the same person, must have placed the soldier right up against the tree, put his neck flush against the trunk so that when it started to regenerate it hit the tree instead.
         But it didn’t stop regenerating.
         “Good Lord,” Tristian whispered, crouching down next to the man, his face ashen. Ranos was struck numb, his mind instantly rejecting what he saw, too horrified to turn away even as his eyes tried to deny it, even as his nightmares staked all future claims on it.
         His head hadn’t stopped regenerating. That much was clear. It had grown around the tree, leaving the man with a hideously deformed skull, his features stretched beyond imagination, the bones distorted like something melted and subsequently resculpted. Ranos thought it might have integrated with the tree, but it didn’t matter.
         “. . . help . . . help me . . . please . . . help . . .”
         That was the voice Ranos heard. This was where it was coming from. Out of bulbous lips pulled so tight that the smallest motion might tear them. He said it over and over again. There was dried blood all over his hands, and partially healed scars on his face.
         “. . . please, oh God . . . somebody . . . please . . .”
         It wasn’t clear if he saw them or not.
         Across from him, Tristian bowed his head. Slowly, a man caught in someone else’s dream he looked at the sword, as if he were wishing it was something else. The end of the blade shook violently. It stained his face, leaving shadows of blood around his eyes, falling down his cheeks.
         “. . . help . . . oh please help . . . anyone . . .”
         His eyes cold, Tristian looked up at Ranos, meeting the other man’s gaze unflinchingly. “We will find him.” His lips barely moved when he spoke. For a moment Ranos thought the link was again restored, so tangible was the emotion. “And I’ll kill him,” he finished, very simply, his voice frozen and barren.
         “. . . oh God . . . anyone . . . anyone help . . .”
         “I’ll kill him,” Tristian said again, nearly inaudible.
         Ranos couldn’t argue.