Bellator: An Anthology of Warriors of Space & Magic Page 2

  Darren picked up a Desert Eagle of a fallen brother and with a powerful weapon in both hands, he stepped away from the jeep and let rip.

  He aimed his shots. Placed them where he needed. He shot the horses to kill the men. Several of the enemy were down when his clips emptied and bullets slammed him into the dirt-packed road.

  The roar of helicopters followed. He heard the gunners and saw bodies hit the dirt. He wanted to cheer with the others, but the pain took his voice and he lost his battle with consciousness.

  The memory ended playing against the white walls and he looked down at his bandaged lower region. The white linen started at his belly button and reached to his knees.

  He sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly. His lower legs were missing. Why? He’d been shot in the stomach. This wasn’t right. But he kept his cool. Maybe the memory had a block. That had to be it. They wouldn’t take his legs for fun.

  A door to his left opened. An elderly man with a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard entered. The cut was precise. Military. In his hand was a black satchel. He placed it on the small table next to a tall jug of iced water.

  “O.T,” he said. “Glad to see you awake. You had us worried for a moment.” He smiled. That too was military perfect. This man had never seen a battlefield. “You may refer to me as Doctor Phil.”

  Darren tried to speak and couldn’t. His throat was dry and he couldn’t get enough phlegm in his mouth to swallow.

  Dr Phil handed him a cup of water with a straw sticking out the top. “Drink slowly,” he warned. “We need to have a little chat that you won’t remember.” His smile faded as he removed a sheet of paper from his satchel.

  Now:

  Darren’s eyes snapped open. “I remember,” he said.

  Nothing moved in the dark room. He swung his legs off the firm mattress and stared at his bare feet. What happened to his boots? He searched his memory but got no answers, as he had passed out.

  Children played outside. Little light filtered in through the curtains covering the one window in this room.

  A drip of cold water ran down his neck. He reached up and removed a damp towel. He tossed it over his shoulder, not caring where it landed, and made his way to a mirror on the opposite wall.

  Someone had cleaned his face. He was sunburned, but didn’t feel it. His lips were no longer cracked and his throat felt fine. A fresh, clean bandage covered his left hand.

  On his left, a flimsy excuse for a curtain separated the bedroom from the open plan kitchen and living room. He pulled the curtain to the side and saw that his boots and socks waited nicely on a small mat.

  Quickly he climbed into his gear and felt better. He was military. A soldier through and through, and he had to find Sarah.

  The door opened and he faced a man with a four inch beard. His clothes were plain white and made of thin cotton. His smile was friendly and his eyes were warm. “I see you feel better.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Darren had no idea who this man was. “The girl, is she okay?”

  “Yes. She was surprised. That is all.”

  “You have a British accent,” Darren said.

  “You have an American accent.”

  Darren smiled. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  The man opened a small fridge and removed a bottle of water. From the sink, he retrieved two glasses and filled them both. One he handed to Darren. The water was not cold, but it wasn’t warm either, and it tasted delicious.

  “I lived with an aunt in Oxford for six years. I completed my MBA and returned here when my father died to carry the family farm. It’s not much, I know, and we consume more than we sell.” He shrugged. “It is as it is.”

  Darren nodded and handed him the empty glass. “I’m looking for a soldier. We got ambushed. They took her.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve not seen anyone come through here in several days. And no one white—until you.”

  Darren considered his options. There weren’t many. “Are there any towns close?”

  The man shook his head. “Not unless you consider thirty miles close.”

  He didn’t. “If you kidnapped a US soldier, where would you hide her?” He held up his hands. “I don’t mean any offense. I’m just brainstorming, here.”

  The man nodded. “I would keep her hidden in the forests until I reached my camp.”

  “That’s wise.” He looked around the room. “Where’re my weapons?”

  “I’ll get them for you.” The man opened the door. The sudden washes of light knocked Darren back a second. He held his hand against the light. “I’ll leave the door open,” the man said, “so your eyes can adjust.”

  He turned away from the sunlight and caught his reflection in a living room mirror. For reasons he didn’t understand, he felt drawn to it.

  Outside he heard children playing and two men talking loudly in a tongue he didn’t understand. One voice belonged to the man who had helped him, probably risking his life to do so.

  Darren approached the mirror slowly. His senses were alert and he felt his muscles tense. His eyes scanned the living room. There were a few thick cushions on the floor and a small collection of books in a tiny bookcase. No people, no obvious traps.

  He looked in the mirror. Without thinking, he said, “Scanning, Analyzing, Responding, Assessing, Handling. SARAH. A.I. Unit seven, version thirty-two. Seven point three two, activating.”

  The mirror hung on the wall by four screws. With one hand, Darren pulled it free and dropped it to the floor. The glass shattered. He rubbed his hand over thin plaster. Something was covered up. He balled his hand into a fist.

  Dr. Phil said, “We need a new weapon and you are it.”

  “I’m honored.” Darren truly was.

  “Your skeleton is getting enhanced with liquid metal. It will form from commands sent from SARAH.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “She’s the thinking you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to. You just listen and sign. That’s all, and that’s an order, soldier.”

  “Yes, sir,” Darren said.

  “Good.”

  “SARAH only activates when you allow her to. Until then, in every mission, you will search for her. You’ll believe her kidnapped. Each search will take you where you need to go.”

  “I knew a girl named Sarah once.”

  “We know.”

  “Did you name her the same?”

  Dr. Phil looked up from his paper. “No. That is a coincidence.”

  “My father said—”

  Dr. Phil stood up. He looked at the chart and sighed. “They got you doped up, soldier.”

  “Where are my legs?”

  “You’re getting new ones. No more questions.”

  “Was there really a firefight?”

  “Yes. No more questions.”

  “But—”

  “That is an order, soldier! You will only respond when I say you will. Have I made myself understood?”

  Darren remained silent.

  “Good.”

  Darren looked at his fist, it felt stronger. Running under his skin, he believed the liquid metal flowed freely to his bones. Plaster was never hard to break. As a teenager, unable to control his anger, Darren had punched many holes in his bedroom walls.

  He drew back his fist and slammed it into the wall with all his strength. The plaster shattered easily and he felt nothing. Looking at his hand, the skin was reddened but that was all. His fingers flexed and felt fine.

  Shattered plaster lay in the hole and Darren cleared it. Inside, he spied a small metal box. It was light as he pulled it out. A small metal clasp held the lid shut. It snapped easily and the lid popped open in tiny hinges.

  Something that looked like a pen-sized flashlight without a light bulb lay inside protective casing. He pulled it out. SARAH analyzed it.

  Not active used until mission complete, she said.

  “What is it?”
>
  Darren spun at the sudden voice. Standing a foot away from him was the man who helped him earlier and carried his holster and Desert Eagle. Well, the man who believed he helped him. He realized it was an act to get inside the house and find this object. He placed it in his pocket.

  “What is my mission?” Darren asked.

  The man smiled. “To find Sarah?”

  “I found her.”

  “In the wall?”

  “Are you Mohammad Abdul?”

  The man shook his head. “That’s a common name,” he said. “Can you narrow it down?”

  “Extremist. Six foot two. A hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Dark hair. Beard. Educated in a foreign country and raised as the next faction leader.”

  The man backed away a single step. “You don’t think that’s me, do you? I helped you. If I was this Abdul fellow I would have killed you instantly.”

  “It is not my place to think. I am trained to act and follow orders.”

  Mohammad turned, about to run.

  A long sword blade punched its way through the bandage on Darren’s left hand. He drove it through the back of the man’s head and angled it up into the back of the brain. Killing him instantly.

  SARAH analyzed. Negative.

  Darren entered the bedroom and parted the curtain. There were three kids outside playing. They were of varying ages, the oldest about ten. Two old women watched them. On the hill, five men herded goats somewhere to feed. They were all old, but not old enough to cause more trouble.

  From outside, he heard, “Come on, let’s go swimming.” In perfect American accented English. The request was repeated this time in the native tongue. Darren looked to the kids. The oldest motioned the others to follow him, and they did.

  Target acquired, SARAH said.

  “No. Not a kid.”

  Target acquired, SARAH repeated.

  Darren turned away from the window. It can’t be a kid, just because he can speak English.

  Educated in a foreign country, SARAH said. No age available. Mission active.

  “No.” Darren swore. He looked back out the window and saw the kids run off out of view. “SARAH, confirm the target.”

  Confirmed.

  An image floated against his eye. It was a photo from an elementary school yearbook. The kid’s hair was longer now, but there was no mistaking the face. He was a perfect match. “SARAH, there’s no way the child could be a hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Reconfirm target.”

  A new image slid beside the yearbook. This photo was on an older man, mid to late thirties. Apart from the beard, they were identical matches.

  “How could you have this picture?”

  Archives.

  “Huh?”

  Your mission, SARAH said, is to stop the instigator of the California Bombings in 2036, which leads to a third world war. A war that no one wins.

  “What? It’s 2014.”

  Inaccurate.

  “I can’t kill a kid.”

  Then you kill millions in a nuclear war. You didn’t seem to mind killing your entire platoon and leaving them in a circle around you.

  Darren slid down the wall into a sitting position and hung his head in his arms. A million thoughts ran through his head. The changes the government made in him to send him back in time were just wrong. And destiny predicted he fail. If he hadn’t failed the first time, there wouldn’t be a need for the military to build a time machine in the first place. If he succeeded this time, there would be no time machine to send him back for success. It was a paradox. A time paradox.

  “Think about that, SARAH.”

  No paradox.

  “What?”

  The time machine was created seven years ago due to an unchangeable event in 2001. There is no paradox in this situation.

  “I won’t do it.”

  The Returner won’t be active until the target is neutralized.

  “The... What?”

  The tube in your pocket. Press the button when it turns green.

  Darren took it out of his pocket. There was no light at all, but he could see a thin sliver of glass circling the button.

  “How would they know if I changed the future?”

  No answer.

  “SARAH.”

  Silence in his head. It appeared his A.I. Unit was sensitive. Darren wasn’t a genius, but he knew in robots, the A.I. Unit controlled their actions and learned new things and understood emotions. A.I. Units didn’t interact with users. Did they? He couldn’t remember everything Dr. Phil said about the unit. Was it an assistance machine, offering higher levels of intelligence for tricky situations?

  The answer wouldn’t come.

  He looked at the Returner. He wanted to return home to Seattle. The desert was too dry for him.

  “SARAH?”

  Nothing.

  “I know you can hear me. Hell, you know my thoughts before I say them.”

  The front door opened. An elderly woman entered. She saw Darren and offered him a smile and a nod. She was being polite but her eyes, the windows to her soul, were dark and iced. She didn’t like him now; she was going to hate him in a second.

  She walked slowly. Her back bent at a forty-five degree angle and she used a thin cane to keep her balance. She hobbled past the kitchen, froze in her tracks and slowly turned to face Darren. He had his Desert Eagle trained on her instantly.

  Her wail of despair carried her voice of a thousand tortured souls.

  Kill her. Now. Quickly.

  “Welcome back, SARAH.”

  Do it, before the kids hear.

  “No.”

  The wail grew and he heard urgent voices outside, headed this way. The front door burst open. A man in his forties rushed forward carrying a weak rifle. He lifted it to his shoulder. His eyes fell on Darren. His brains painted the wall. An elderly man close on his heels met the same fate.

  Kill her!

  Darren ran to the window and looked out. The shepherds ran for the house. He checked his clip. Six shots remained. Plenty.

  He walked to the divider and put the woman out of her misery. Not because SARAH told him to, but because the old bat was getting on his nerves. Her voice was like ice in his veins.

  Well done. Now the kid and we can go home.

  The shepherds didn’t enter, but several bullets did. They shot blindly. Darren was military; he knew how to avoid being a target.

  “SARAH, I’m not going to kill the boy.”

  Silence again.

  “I’m going to fail this mission and if I can’t go back, I might as well die, ‘cause I don’t want to live here, and after what I have done, they’ll chop off my head.”

  Silence.

  Outside, the rifles had stopped. They were either reloading or waiting for a target.

  “You can turn on the Returner or you can die with me.” He stepped to the window. Instantly a shot rang out. The bullet passed so close he felt a thin line burn into his cheek before it plowed into the plaster wall.

  “God, that felt good, SARAH.” He had five bullets left. He could take out those two shepherds and the three kids without breaking a sweat. But kids were innocent. Why couldn’t they send him back here when the kid was twenty-five or somewhere around there?

  He took power at fifteen. The man who tried to help you, he was the boy’s father. The boy is going to become the most ruthless, cold-hearted killer the world will ever know. Hitler was nothing compared to what this man will do.

  Darren faced the window and shot the shepherd on the left. A moment later he took out the one on the right. Now he had to wait for the kids.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Gun shots carried far in barren lands such as these. Their shouts of ‘mama’ and ‘papa’ preceded their entrance into the house. Two of the children entered, one did not. The child he needed to kill stayed outside. As the kids screamed and cried over dead relatives, Mohammad picked up a shepherd’s rifle. He handled it like he knew what he was doing. He called out and the two kids instantly ran
out of the house to stand at his side.

  From the window, he watched Mohammad send the kids home. They still had mothers, all except the boy he had to kill. And Darren still wasn’t convinced that was the right course of action.

  “Hey, kid, you know how to use that thing?”

  “Step into the window and find out, asshole.”

  Darren smiled. The kid has guts, he’d give him that. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  “What way? Me killing you?”

  “We don’t have to die. I’m following orders. Your two friends weren’t on my list. So I let them live.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yep. Only you, but your father and grandmother got in the way.”

  The kid didn’t reply. Darren peeked out the window and a bullet punched the concrete next to him and a spray of dust watered his eye. “You missed,” he shouted.

  Activating targeting.

  A target circle with a tiny X in the center filled his right eye’s vision. When he turned around, it auto-focused and zoomed in. He looked out the window. The kid was fighting with his rifle. It appeared to jam. Giving up, he dropped it and grabbed the other one.

  “I could have shot you a dozen times now, kid.”

  Mohammad looked up.

  The target circle zoomed in and out. “There is another way to do this.” And a brilliant idea hit him. “I’m from the future.”

  The kid laughed and lifted the second rifle.

  “My orders are to stop you. Not kill you.”

  “Stop me doing what?”

  “Joining a ragtag group of madmen.”

  “I’m not Taliban.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “Did you kill my dad?”

  Darren nodded, realizing that was a fatal error on his part. His target eye focused in on his face and the tears were clearly visible. The deepening anger and hate twisted his lips into a deep frown. Now he resembled the image SARAH had shown him earlier of a terrorist.

  He drew the Desert Eagle.

  “I can take you to the future,” he said. “You can live in the greatest country in the world.”

  The boy dropped the rifle.