Pakistan, Islamabad, 2099 A.D
Department of History
Adam mulled over the document in his hands, taking a look at the briefcase near him, then back to the paper. It was a photocopy of the original diary, the one belonging to the son of Mansa Musa, the world’s richest man ever. It spoke of a treasure hidden within a set of riddles. Perhaps it was meant to be an enticing adventure. Sadly, it was considered to be useless. The diary of Mughan Musa was certainly something, perhaps even interesting to someone who cared for money.
How that worked was beyond Adam’s comprehension. Some fancy business tactic involving selling artifacts, he supposed. At any rate,he had been ordered to decipher the riddles in the diary. Riddles was too fancy a word, it was mostly a collection of poems that were meant to describe a location, still he was eager to aid the archaeologists. Most archaeologists lived horrible lives, barely having the cash to live from day to day, normally uncovering little of importance or value. At least, that had been the case until recent events. Now, it was considered quite the career option, with the strange structures located on different worlds. Maybe there was one on Earth too.
Gotta stop doing that, thought Adam. He had a bad habit of slipping into random tidbits of info. It would help in a conversation but not while having to pay attention. He was beginning to forget the environment and even his attire, despite the two being boring by design. Or perhaps he was forgetting because they were boring by design.
Adam discarded the document in the nearby trash can, and hours of work were wasted. It had been an easy decipher, Mansa was known to be a generous man. His son had grown under him and had not shown any signs of rebellion so his personality was traced along the same lines. The result had been incredibly disappointing: a family portrait, ruined by sand, under a crumbling pile of rocks.
“Mr. Way?” called out a voice. Adam looked to his side, taking in the surroundings again. He sat on a black metallic chair, arranged next to four more such chairs. The walls were yellow with a white square pattern on the bottom, the bottom being a foot tall. There had been an open plastic bag-covered trash can next to him, a vending machine to the front, and a wall behind him. A series of doors cluttered the hallway he was in, each leading to a private laboratory. One of the doors was open now and out stood quite the gentleman.
His name, mentioned in the dossier, was Zain Armstrong. Born to an age gap marriage of a 40-year-old and 25-year-old pair of gardeners, Zain was almost nothing like his parents. They were thin but firm, simple-looking people who enjoyed crafting medicinal herbs for the poor. He was a well-muscled, silver, and dark-haired man. His face was picturesque, like one of those Japanese anime-type people. Brown skin, thin cheeks, small nose, sharp chin, and yet, the face looked almost clouded, as though there was a layer of darkness on him. Then he stepped forward under the tube light and it became more clear.
He was jittery, his eyes nervously looking around. He was nervous, as anyone should be while holding the D.N.A fragment in a glass case. It wasn’t glass, just transparent so that light would enter the nucleotides better. The effects of light on D.N.A had been fascinating but such a thing would be worth thinking about later. Adam stood up, the thousands of credits visible in his hands. He walked towards Zain, admiring the body but not the attitude. Zain paid full attention to Adam’s body, hoping to see more than a mechanical movement. But Adam had been trained well in the psychology department, making his arms and legs move as still as possible, to give a sense of ease that this was nothing more than a simple transaction. He would be gone afterward. Most people would pay attention to the head…which is why Adam wore a motorcycle helmet. Associating with any particular historian would have upset the others so he had gone for a look that made others look at him, then look away, the ridiculous notion of someone wearing a motorcycle helmet for a business meeting quickly flying by.
Zain had been informed of said disguise beforehand. He reached out to shake Adam’s hand, then hesitated, expecting cybernetic enhancements. So did Adam, history research was dangerous at most times, and boring at others. He had reached out at the same time as Zain had, hesitating at the same moment. Already Adam could hear the sound of his boss chewed him out, telling him not to get personal with business employees. The hesitation made him feel more human.
Zain reached out again. Adam, knowing he would have to write about this in his report, shook his hand. They felt warm and firm. The handshake vanished and in came the business. Wordlessly, Adam handed him the credit notes. Zain pulled out a scanner and began to scan the codes.
Where on Earth was he keeping that? Thought Adam
Zain slid it back into his pocket. It contracted a bizarre mechanism for a scanner. Then again, Armstrong did wear bizarre attire. He was in an actual motorcycle outfit, the customary close for Adam’s helmet, signifying that this was Zain and not an imposter. Zain wore a black shirt with no sleeves, green army pants, and the sign of Christ around his neck. The most important part, the D.N.A fragment, was just on his shirt, visible for everyone to see. His dossier mentioned that he loved to brag but this was a little too much. It had been taped to the shirt.
The scanner beeped a sound and released blue light in his pocket, the sign that the transaction had been successfully operated. Zain slowly removed the tape off his shirt and handed the foot-long transparent case to Adam. Adam Aways glanced at the case, then walked back to his chair, where the briefcase was. He opened the briefcase and put the smaller case in. He closed it and wrote the code into the scroll of 0 0 0. Easy to crack, even for him.
Quietly, he turned towards Zain, who was fidgeting with his sign of Christ. Faith was a useful tool for becoming calm. Adam considered staying, almost. Then he remembered where he was and began to walk away, unaware of the smile forming over Zain’s lips, his silver hair turning, black.
1511 A.D
Egypt
The River Nile is one of the most famous rivers in the world. It provides life for a desert, providing a form of travel and water, precious water, for drinking and agriculture. Every year, water is collected from it, and said water is observed because the many men who drown in it often pollute it. Mostly, it occurs because the water is a lure for desert walkers. Sometimes, wild animals like hippos and crocodiles drag victims.
Now and then, someone pushed them. However, tonight was going to be special for four men in the southern part of the Nile. They would find answers to questions that had plagued them throughout their lives.
As for the four men they were waterboarding, they wished they were dead. Four people’s heads were submerged in water for quite some time, with one getting pulled up, only for said one to scream
“Please! Let me go, I don’t know anything,” bellowed the old man with broken teeth in nothing but a grey shawl. A blue hand raised and the old man was allowed to breathe. The blue marked hand was a glove, bearing the markings of a blue dragon. Such symbolism would give an assassin away but assassins are meant to be stealthy. The Dragon was anything but. He whipped out his hammer from his back and with a single swish, hit the man’s head.
Flesh caved in, teeth broke, and the jaw shattered. Blood oozed from the mouth, the man unable to scream as the pain engulfed him. He fell to the earth, moaning pathetically in pain. The three remaining men held firm to their three victims while the brute began to beat the elder to death with his foot. Recognizing how ineffective that was, and the fact that he was dirtying his clothes, he popped out his animal-slaying knife and slit his victim’s throat.
Even while drowning, the three victims were able to open their eyes. Mostly they couldn’t see but they felt something warm. It could have been pee but they knew better. Their blood ran cold and was finally pulled out. They had been kidnapped in the middle of the night and now it was nearing morning. Scars rang throughout their bodies, the kind they would never recover from. They knew the scars well. After all, they had spent each of their lifetimes inflicting them.
One of them finally gained the will to speak. He was the youngest. His face was smashed black and blue but his tongue remained.
“You’re slaves…right? Maybe there’s a way around this.”
The brute turned towards him. Then his eyes flickered to the one that held him. The one that held the youngest was old. He had a name, but the life of a mercenary was such that a name could cause as much harm as good. For tonight, he would be called Alexander.
Alexander took a deep breath. In and out. By all accounts, he should have retired by now. The average life expectancy of people in the 1500s was 50 years. He was well above that, for good reason. While holding on to his captive, he stretched his back, slowly bending back to allow his muscles to contract and relax at the appropriate time. Then he spoke, his voice grizzled and somewhat raspy.
“We weren’t your slaves if that’s what you’re thinking. You were slave owners, which is reason enough for me to kill you. That might attract the attention of the other slave masters. Still, we both know they won’t bother with a rescue attempt. You broke the slaves and made them worthless to sell. Physically I mean, mentally, every slave is a broken man. I know that too well. There is a way for you to help me.”
He dropped the captive, seemingly allowing him to get his bearings. As the captive looked up, he saw the glint of a blade above him. Before he could turn around, the blade came down upon his back, cutting open the ropes that held his hands together. Abruptly, the blade vanished and the captive slave master was free to ponder upon the strange set of circumstances. Then he got slapped, a reminder of the physical condition of his face, the sound of the act ringing in his ears, and roaring heat in his face. He attempted to stand and was pushed back down by the pommel of the blade, breaking another one of his teeth in the process.
Alexander spoke once more, now clearly agitated.
“Here’s the deal. I’m gonna let you go in exchange for you freeing all of your slaves. To make sure that happens, I’ll follow you along.”
“Gentlemen,” he ushered to his companions, Henry and William, two young archers holding the two remaining captives.
“Aye boss?” Said the two in the union.
“Let them go. Let them run a little bit. Then take your shots.”
With malicious grins, they cut loose their captives. Confused at the term “shots”, they attempted to question it, forgetting that their broken teeth had cut their tongues so badly that they may as well have cut the tongues off entirely. The brute barked at them to flee, his hoarse voice hiding the tension he felt at having to confront slave masters. The two captives ran, leaving their red and brown cloaks behind. They fled into the dark desert, not knowing of their destination but aware of the journey and the foes they had left behind.
Or so they thought.
With a grin, William raised his crossbow and fired one bolt at one of the runners. He missed. He fired again and it came close. But it didn’t hit. Then, he was pushed aside by Henry, who raised his bow. The muscles in his back tensed while he began to work out the appropriate technique for archery. Archery did not technically require brute strength but it was useful to have around. He aimed and loosened the arrow, neatly hitting one of the runners straight in the back. Said runner did not bother to scream and continued to run.
Stolen novel; please report.
With the right technique, a man could fire a lot of arrows very quickly. Within a minute, Henry managed to shoot eleven arrows. Only two connected, one in the leg, slowing him down, and another in the throat, ending him. Arrows could kill quickly if aimed right. Against armored foes, not so much. Henry reached for a new arrow to eliminate the second runner, only to be shoved aside by Alexander.
Alexander sighed. This was meant to scare the final captive into spilling his guts at the accuracy of the ranged foes. Instead, he got to see the whining and bumbling of teenagers on empty land. With a half-assed effort, Alexander unveiled his cloak, revealing a long rifle barrel base of a gun, the Arquebus. He held the weapon firm in his hands and aimed at the now seemingly small target. Even if the bullet were only to scratch him, it would probably be enough to kill an already wounded enemy with no armor. He aimed and fired.
Most would assume that with old age, a mercenary would become weak. Yet, true mercenaries knew the truth: to never underestimate an old man in a field of work where men died young. The shot rang true and forward, blasting the witness’s head clean off. It had been quite loud, sure, then again, the gun was never meant for stealth. Alexander peered into the barrel of the gun and began to reload it with the very expensive ammunition.
And then there was one left. Both a bullet and a body to bury.
He turned towards the final slave master. He had never bothered to learn his name. The scare tactic had worked, perhaps it had convinced the captive that he was dealing with animals and not men. He looked sunken and spoke.
“Fine, fine. I’m dead already, might as well make it quick. Can I just ask…why?”
The brute stepped forward, ready to beat him again but Alexander calmly put a hand over him, his son far too brash for his age. The brute, his son, talked to him in private.
“Da, only good Turk is a dead Turk. These guys deserve worse.”
“They do,” responded Alexander, “but I want this one to understand. I know you’ve heard the story so maybe go clean your weapons with William and Henry. They can break after too much usage, Brutus”
Shrugging, the aptly named Brutus made his way over to his friends and began to clean the weapons. Alexander knelt with the captive and began to speak in a low tone.
“Do you want to know my age? I’d say I’m around 80. I should be in bed, awaiting my last rites. However, I find myself not content with my life. You see, my childhood was the most important part of why I decided to be what I am now. I was a wee lad, enjoying the morning sun in the lands of the Holy Roman Empire. The church, ever so watchful, ever so corrupt, asked people for money in fighting those devils from the south. I choose to be ignorant of this. I was, after all, a child. I’d say I was in my early teen years when the Ottomans finally arrived at Constantinople, my city of birth.
“Don’t look so surprised. There were plenty of survivors after what happened there. I kind of wish I had just died. I had so much faith in our army and knights, that no True Men of God could fall before evil incarnate. I imagine the Ottomans thought the same thing, under Mehmed the second. I thought it would have been a clash of wills, sword against shield, one-man army kind of thing.
“Then the explosions occurred. Have you ever felt fire? I doubt it. Since ancient times, cities had depended upon walls and ramparts to repel invaders. True, a siege was a horrible affair but there was hope. My father was a tailor, blessed be his soul, who made custom armors for knights of a different caliber. The fortifications were overcome with the use of gunpowder, specifically in the use of large cannons and bombards. Siege warfare changed too much, too quickly.”
“One of the first explosions was near my house. I was hunting boars illegally on the hillside when I saw my house burst into flame. My father died oh so slowly, burning to death. His skin melted off, her fabric suffocated her while she searched for her child, my sister. He saved her. I and my sister ran to our mother, leaving the corpse of our mother behind. Little did I know that he would be the lucky one.
“The rest, I’m sure you know, is history. The 21-year-old Mehmed the Conqueror blew the hinges off our walls. His soldiers came in with guns, crossbows, bombs, and21-year-old arrows, cutting down waves of troops before the actual fighting could begin. Enough about them. They tried, but they failed to stop the Ottomans, from leaving me.
“Mehmed called himself a good king. Such things do not exist. I think Leonard of Chios described it best ‘All the valuables and other booty were taken to their camp, and as many as sixty thousand Christians had been captured. The crosses which had been placed on the roofs or the walls of churches were torn down and trampled. Women were raped, virgins deflowered and youths forced to take part in shameful obscenities. The nuns left behind, even those who were such, were disgraced with foul debaucheries’
“I did not know all that yet I’m certain it was accurate. My sister and mother were sold to the Ottomans, their bodies defiled in every way possible, branded with no chance of escape. After having completely overcome the enemy, the soldiers began to plunder the city. They enslaved boys and girls and took silver and gold vessels, precious stones, and all sorts of valuable goods and fabrics from the imperial palace and the houses of the rich... Every tent was filled with handsome boys and beautiful girls. As soon as the Turks were inside the City, they began to seize and enslave every person who came their way; all those who tried to offer resistance were put to the sword. In many places, the ground could not be seen, as it was covered by heaps of corpses.
“I tried my hand at escaping. They were everywhere. Then I tried my hand at revenge, slitting the sleeping soldiers' throats. Now here comes the most unbelievable part. When I tried to rescue my sister, she ratted me out, hoping to get a reward for her service. She and my mother were freed while I was to be given a special treat. I was taken back to your desert, along with many others. Mehmed was rumored to have a fondness for men, often procuring handsome nobles. He often talked to his hostage, Radu the fair. I was taken straight to him, another boy toy. With me he spared no expense, often beating and torturing me, though with devices that would not leave permanent injury upon my handsome body. He wasn’t much older than me.”
“I eventually escaped. Then a long story happened, at the end of it, all was Mehmed dead, poisoned by my hand during another one of his conquests. And you, my friend, are going to be doing something wonderful for me.”
“You’re going to help me kill one more king.”
1511 A.D
Malacca
Alfonso de Albuquerque sat down on a chair and began to read a book. He gazed over the nearby horizon, his soldiers being soldiers and breaking into houses, stealing valuables, and the like. The conquest of this city had been a most unusual affair. Not least compounded by his companion. Alfonso took one more look at his companion, Asmodeus.
As usual, Asmodeus wore a strange suit which he claimed would not be on Earth yet. It was black with something called a tie in the middle and straight pants. Of course, most people would scream if they could see his red face, black horns, and yellow eyes. Truly, a demon from the old tales. Their meeting had been one of fright, for Alfonso at the very least. Then the demon had proved himself a most worthwhile ally, with his knowledge of weapons and the inner workings of the city. Truly, he was an aid to a king.
He was also a backstabber and a liar, who could kill Alfonso at a moment's notice. He claimed bullets could kill him but those were not exactly easy to use in guns. Earlier the morning, Asmodeus had handed him a book. He now sat in his chair, sipping tea and waiting.
Finally, Alfonso was drained of patience.
"Why have you given me this book?"
"It is interesting."
"In what way? Will it help?"
"My friend, you brought upon yourself to conquer this city. Without my monsoon winds, you could not have come this far. Without them, this expedition would have failed with you being unable to return to India. Now you understand that this city is very far away from Portugal and that the commoners do not speak the language that we speak. Thus you must govern them, and bring administration and order to this place to avoid further damage. This book is merely something to distract you for a while."
"But you've read the contents of it?"
"Yes."
"What if I choose not to read?"
"Then you will have gained and lost nothing. My friend, if I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead."
"That does not reassure me."
"Then read and reassured."
Sighing, Alfonso began to read the contents of the book. Upon doing so, he re-read them aloud, hoping for Asmodeus to give some clarification. He did not.
A million years ago, mankind advanced and formed different societies on Earth. These societies possessed advanced technology and a special kind of power called Essence. More on that later. Then, something changed.
ALIENS!
They arrived. They fought, they traded, then they married. Then the majority of the population went with the aliens to their home worlds, leaving the upper class (the working class left cause they were tired of the upper class) to fend for themselves. Most of the people who remained on earth died due to the inability to duplicate the advanced technology and a few who learned Essence just got a teleporter working and left for the other world.
Of course, a few million people is not a fair estimate. Those who continued to survive would become hunched over, a sign of sheer hard work done on their backs, becoming Homo Erectus. Then, when they found a place without technology, the fresh fruit and meat would pleasure them, causing them to become Homo Sapien. This deprived them of their ability to use Essence, their bodies no longer needing it.
The old machines crumbled to dust. The empires blew away. And virtually nothing was left of a once-proud people.
Fast forward to the start of China and history begins as normal. But it is the unwritten parts of history where the magic lies in wait.
Elsewhere, on three of the planets, greed and malice continued despite ample resources. The worlds became embroiled in a few world wars each other. They had World war 1, world war 2, and world war 3, fighting world war 4 with sticks and bones.
The planets are now barren, with few survivors. Ravenous beasts, specters of fallen foes, and bizarre shapes roam the lands, biting but never eating on account of being photosynthetic. Venus, Mercury, and Mars are planets of blood and fuel. To the naked eye, these creatures are invisible.
Jupiter and Saturn fared much better but it took time for the people to get used to the increased gravity. Through genetics and mechanics, they adapted and became something other than humans. The harsh weather was tough for the original inhabitants. They came to Earth for a new home, not expecting to return. But they have endured and view Earth as a delicacy, visiting only when they want to.
You'd think the big planets' gravity tolerance would make them gods on earth. But Gravity and Essence are opposites. The Centurions can only stay on Earth a brief while before their blood circulation begins to run backward. They too have a low population, but only because their people have a low sex drive.
Three more planets with names not yet decided lie beyond the solar system. The teleporters from Earth come here, a kind of time travel, as bizarre as the concept sounds. They bustle with life and Essence. Light Essence, Force Essence, Fire Essence. But they have a problem.
The system beyond the Solar System is cursed. There is no way to say it. The ones who came from the systems beyond were bloodthirsty on Earth. Upon arriving at their worlds, morality begins to twist. You feel as though you are in a game, where you can do anything and be anyone. Darkness follows these places, churning them inside out. And everyone knows that. It is not a food chain, it is not even a competition. There is a need for MORE.
Of course, it does have regular problems. No fossil fuels cause bodies would normally vanish. Metals are hard to extract because they have a mind of their own and prefer to speed up the process of erosion rather than get excavated. Agriculture is difficult because of sentient diseases and technology is not a straight curve.
But one man cheated. He gathered a bunch of foresight users on his world and saw the future. It was ashes. He went to the world after world, hoping to see a world still alive. At the time, you could control foresight. Its range varied from a few million to a billion years. Usually, the world would be dead in a couple of thousand.
At last, they arrived on Earth, the final option. They peered into the future and saw modern society. Glass buildings, nuclear reactors, rich cuisine, and phones, they saw it all. And the methods to build them. They raided earth for resources and returned, rapidly advancing to modern society.
And so a few of them remain on earth, constantly observing its future, aware that any passing meteorite could easily end it.
In the 1500s, one of these watchers dies, leaving behind his or her home in a desert that a merchant uncovers.
And thus our story begins.
Finally, Alfonso began to speak again
"What the hell is this?"
"It is a novel I'm writing."
"It looks terrible. You've given me too much information at the start and not a story."
"What story is without conflict? Thus, I decided to make the first such story. No conflict, just information."
"I don't understand most of the information here."
"It's meant to be confusing at the start."
"No, no, this is terrible. Try again."
The sky seemed to darken with Alfonso's words. Asmodeus stood up, clearly upset.
"Fine. Next time I shall spin a truly worthy tale. Perhaps it will be one worth remembering." And with that, he vanished.