The Great Takepver Of The Place

17. First Contact.

Lying up, under the tree, Trueman managed to sleep fitfully, troubled by strange dreams that woke him occasionally. He would stare up into the darkness, feeling the new heart beating powerfully in the broad chest. One was of Learner, who he thought of now with regret, admitting to himself that he had sorely misjudged that woe-begotten individual. Not mad after all, he sighed, just misunderstood, a stranger in a strange land. He laughed bitterly at the irony.

At times he turned his attention to the Heads Up Display. An internal HUD, he thought, remarkable. He found that by looking in different directions and blinking, different gauges and monitors appeared. The purpose of some were currently obscure but others, such as blood pressure and BPM were more obvious. He found that prolonged examination gave him a headache so he allowed his attention to wander and the HUD faded somewhat. If only he had a manual!

In the early morning, as he was able to make out the gradually lightening sky through the dense canopy of needles above him, he considered his situation. He was uncertain as to what consequences might arise from his daring escape. Would he be treated as a dangerous fugitive and be hunted remorselessly? This seemed unlikely as there had been no sounds of pursuit during the night. Perhaps the rag tag crew he had come up against would simply forget about him and get on with their rather primitive lives?

Right now, he would have loved dearly to return to his own time and body but sadly, that seemed impossible, for now. He was also a bit annoyed with himself for this rather emotional lapse- he must remember that his current situation offered unparalleled opportunities for the development of new scientific theories of time and space that would surely result in a place for him in the hall of fame of the truly great!

On the other hand, staying on the run was not very appealing. Yes, he could follow watercourses which seemed the logical method of hiding his scent, should they have recourse to tracker dogs but how would he feed himself? Where would he go? What would he hope to achieve? Blunder into answers? It was not a very satisfying strategy. One thing at least was for certain, he did not want to give himself up to an angry mob with their pitchforks and blazing torches; he shivered at the memory, though he wasn't sure now if they'd had pitchforks.

He was still tired and was hungry again and not looking forward to further nights spent under a bush. Ignoring the body’s complaining ache, from the stomach, weary muscles and the embedded thorns in his left thigh, he roused himself to a seated position, leaning against the trunk of the tree.

I need to make contact, he reasoned, pick a likely looking yokel, someone alone and vulnerable; get some answers, namely, who is in charge and where the central authority resides. This new body is powerful, I could frighten them, or force them, if necessary. He wasn't too sure about that last bit; maybe mould them to his will would be more appropriate, persuasion by logical argument. Yes, now he was getting somewhere.

First though, the new body was producing some familiar intestinal sensations. Trueman hurriedly got up, gathered some leaves then opened a useful flap in the boiler suit and squatted. It was as he was thus occupied that the new nose veritably twitched at a familiar smell. Could that possibly be porridge cooking somewhere?

Hurriedly completing his business he crept beneath the trees, following the smell. Moving through undergrowth and down a gentle slope, he heard the faint crackling of a fire and a gentle bubbling. Cautiously parting branches he saw a young woman with short, red hair, stirring something in a small cauldron hung from a chain on a tripod over a fire. Indeed it did smell like porridge!

She was in a clearing surrounded by low bushes. There was an arch of dull, mottled green forming the bowed canvas top of a wooden wheeled caravan and a solid black pony, dappled beneath the further trees. A hen clucked and scratched, encouraging three chicks to forage for seed. As far as Trueman could see, there was no one else about.

Could this be his opportunity? It offered a form of transport with an enclosed space wherein he might conceal himself. Admittedly, it was a trifle primitive, harking back to a pre-industrial era but her age and sex suggested a limited intellect that he would be able to cunningly manipulate. At this stage, information remained his primary aim and perhaps she might provide him with the answers he desired, or at least directions to someone in charge.

Yet he was aware of a nagging doubt, that of insufficient data; he just didn’t know very much about these people, other than that they appeared to have a propensity for mob violence. There was no guarantee that this woman was not liable to sudden fits of extreme aggression or other insanities. Indeed, as he observed, he noted her lips moving, as though she were talking quietly to herself. It might be better to just sink back into the lush undergrowth and continue alone.

He tutted at this feeble indecision and cowardice. Was he not the great intellect here, the master hacker and coder? Surely his huge mental abilities would give him the upper hand in any verbal engagement and the new body (he flexed bulging biceps), provided an impressively obvious display of physical prowess that would in itself surely deter any open hostility shown towards him.

Having masked some of the confusions of his predicament with rational exposition he made a decision; he would make first contact, on his own terms.

He began to rise up, out of his bush but his nervousness returned and brought him to a stop as his internal monologue rapidly constructed various speculations. Suppose she was herself a runaway, possibly dangerous, even insane? He had already seen enough of this land to know that psychological damage was not unusual. Why, even now she might simply leap up and attack him, her eyes wide with a mad stare, fingers raised, nails like claws in a raking assault. Foolish thinking, he scolded himself, based on insufficient data and a slightly fevered imagination inspired by lack of sleep and the downright extraordinary context.

Again he observed her warily, searching for any sign that violence might erupt. She wore a loose tunic, the hem falling to just above her knees, green with some sort of swirly pattern on it and some symbols, one of which looked like a duck. He found this somehow reassuring, having had a mild fondness for the ducks at the Little Big Farm, unlike goats.

There were no visible, obvious weapons although, he thought, even apparently innocuous objects might become lethal killing tools in the hands of an expert assassin, or an ingenious lunatic. And the end of that wooden spoon she was stirring with would be hot.

Dammit, this loose thinking was getting him nowhere. Noticing that he had adopted an instinctive crouch that had become lower and lower he drew himself up again and shook his shoulders in what he thought might be a confident manner. He made an attempt to take another step but found himself unable to raise his left foot that felt as though it had taken root in the ground. He wobbled uncertainly.

This is probably close enough, he reasoned, wisely, judging the dozen or so paces between himself and the young woman to be sufficient to allow him to make an escape if her reaction should prove to be emotional and violent.

Unless she was particularly fast, that is. He took a silent half step backwards, just in case and began to sniff, considering that this might be a suitable method of introducing his presence.

When the sniffs had no effect he tried clearing his throat. Being still unfamiliar with the finer details of operating the new body, rather than the low rumble he had intended, this produced a sudden bark that made even him jump.

She, on the other hand, raised her head only slowly and looked steadily at him, smiling. Almost as if she had known of his presence all along and been waiting on his offer of contact.

“Would you like a mug of tea?” She called. “And porridge?”

Momentarily surprised and rather abashed, Trueman straightened and after a pause, pushed his way through the remaining vegetation to hesitate on the edge of the clearing. The young woman indicated a number of upturned logs arranged around the fire, presumably as seats. Trueman, unable to think of anything to say, grunted and began to edge towards the fire, trying to keep it between himself and her. Finally, arriving at a log, he slowly sat.

She had remained motionless and watched Trueman's slow progress with a slight smile. Now she moved again and Trueman realised that pairs of bowls, spoons and mugs were already to hand, conveniently placed on one of the logs. She ladled porridge into a bowl and passed it to him, along with a spoon.

Trueman, in a state of mild shock and disbelief, smelled the porridge and was instantly taken back to his morning breakfast routine at the Little Big Farm. The emotional surge that resulted was almost overwhelming but he manfully repressed it and, shaking a little, began to eat. Ah, what appreciation, after a night in a bush!

“Ith really rather good!” He exclaimed between mouthfuls.

The tea sparked a similar emotional rush and he actually felt tears start in the new eyes and had to turn away to hide the emotion.

Almost he told her his story then, letting it all blurt out, throwing himself upon her mercy. Had he done so, then life would have been very different for him and so too his story. But no, once more intellect proved too strong, pushing the emotional response back down, his internal voice angrily condemning his weakness and then regretting the overly friendly attitude that had crept up on him so rapidly. Let's keep some detachment, he thought sternly and finished the tea in silence.

Instead he turned an objective gaze upon her, to find her looking steadily at him. It was clear to him that she had not been surprised to find him here, as if she had known of his presence all along and been waiting to make contact. This thought did nothing to allay Trueman’s nervousness; if anything, it increased.

She looked somehow familiar, as if he had seen her in a film, or a news report, in his past. The skin of her face was marked, as though damaged by too much sun with small red webs of broken blood vessels. It was not drastic, but he found it disturbing. He was immediately embarrassed to be staring at her and dropped his gaze. Reminding himself that he needed information, he fumbled for words that might lead to a useful interaction.

"Do you," he asked cautiously, "occupy thith vehicle? Ith, its, very, um, nithe, nice!"

“Thanks, “she replied. “I like it too, though its not mine, I'm only using it. My name's Rhia but most people call me Ri.”

Trueman perked up a bit; she didn't sound very threatening. He thought for a moment.

“And you,” she went on, “Are the INCO found wandering in the wilderness.”

Trueman froze. That label, had he heard it before? He couldn’t quite remember. It sounded like it might be an acronym. So she had known where he was and been waiting for him. How? Of course, the thong around his neck. He had forgotten completely about it. He cursed himself for his failure to realise earlier. Then excused that lapse by citing the extreme stress he had been under.

In a show of independence he grasped the thong with both hands and snapped it. He was both surprised and pleased. Examining the catch, he could see that a miniature tracking device could easily have been fitted.

She shrugged as if this was unimportant.

“Do you have a name?” she asked.

Trueman thought for a moment.

“Some people used to call me, Troom.”

She might have frozen for just an instant and frowned.

“Then I will too, Troom.”

Before he had time to think of a response she had put down her mug, risen and coming close, firmly taken his right hand in hers. The sudden contact sparked tremors in the muscles of his forearm as though they were subject to an electric shock.

For an instant Trueman thought that of its own accord, the hand was preparing to strike her. In sudden panic he clenched it about hers to keep it occupied but underestimated the strength of its grip. She yelped and the hand released her as if it had been burnt. Trueman stood up and stepped backward, his stammering apology further mangled by the crippled tongue.

Fortunately she laughed as she shook her small hand, the imprints of his blunt fingers showing as red patches on her pale skin.

“I am exceedingly, very thorry,” Trueman went on but she shushed him to silence.

“Don’t! Its OK, really. You’re strong and I should have known better.”

She poured the last of the water from the kettle onto the embers of the fire. A hissing cloud of steam momentarily obscured her face. Trueman watched, thinking she wandered about rather aimlessly. The subtle balance of her body seeming to sway with each movement as though readjusting moment by moment. Not that he could really break down her movement, it seemed to flow easily and continuously so that there were no identifiable postures. It reminded him of the way the lunatic had moved, back at the Little Big Farm, particularly when dancing with his mad dog. Yes, watching her feet, which were bare, the toes widely spread, it was not unlike a dance.

After a while Trueman realise she wasn't just wandering about, she was packing up. The, tripod, kettle and chain had hooks along the side of the caravan. The ashes were kicked out over the meadow. The hen and her chicks came excitedly clucking and peeping, entering their housing hung under the caravan when she threw a handful of seeds in.

She searched inside the van and handed him a broad brimmed hat, similar to the one she now donned. Trueman looked at it, momentarily stupefied by the pattern, a complex swirl of colour, reminiscent of the cover of the madman's book, whose story he now seemed to occupy. There was another possible interpretation to add to the growing list of explanations, he had gone utterly and entirely mad.

"Its the sun," she said, mistaking his pause and explaining carefully, as though to a child, "the ultra-violet."

The fact that she had misunderstood him came as a great relief to Trueman. She was a mere human after all, prone to human failings. And ultra-violet he could understand.

The pony came at a whistle and stood calmly while she scratched his shoulder.

"You ready to be off, Toby?" Rhia asked and the horse blew loudly down his nostrils.

The collar was old, well oiled. It went on upside down first, Toby turning his head a little to help her. Part of the breeching had been replaced with what looked like the webbing from a car seat belt. The new stitching was neat, red. There were other minor modifications; on the cart, one of the shafts had been strengthened with a strip of metal, bolted through, the heads filed smooth.

When everything was ready Rhia led the pony and caravan from the clearing. They left only a circle of ash, a grazed patch and some dung. Already a big black beetle with a blue sheen to its wing casings was exploring this mountain of plenty, clicking excitedly.

Trueman was suddenly alone, his body turning, drawn by itself to follow but his mind reeling, unsure what to do. Then the young woman, Rhia, turned her head back towards him.

"You coming?" she called, "I've got some things to deliver.”

Trueman started then broke into a clumsy trot to catch up.

Thanks for reading. Thanks also for comments and feedback- please keep them coming as it is all useful to me at this stage. You’re welcome to email me if you don’t want to just leave a comment. My email can be found on the front page of my web site, here.

Next time we wind up part one of The Great Takeover Of The Place with some words, hopefully helpful, from the traveller Learner and the compilers. Till then, hwyl! Chris.