HerOutlandishStranger (2 page)

Chapter Two

Somewhere in the Castilla La Mancha Province of Spain.
After the Siege of Ciudad Rodrigo and before the start of the siege of Badajoz,
1812.

The mist grew heavy and turned to drizzle. Jazz pulled the
itchy wool cloak over his head and murmured to the CR he’d illegally sneaked
into the assignment.

The Department was strict and thorough. They’d removed his
internal psunder CR. No agent wore those brainwave units in the field—no point,
anyway, there was no connection to the web. But Jazz was a pretty good tech and
could tune his favorite external CR unit to give off the vibrations of a bit of
wood, an acceptable substance for any DHUy.

He’d also managed to sneak along a few other supplies such
as a lighter, a real warming cloak, vials of medicinal goop his mother had
given him—in real glass, just in case they were detected—and a cap to fend off
the cold. During his too-brief training, he’d heard about dreadful privations
in the past and was determined to avoid at least a few of them.

He kept the forbidden objects packed away in the bag they
gave him, a peculiar shapeless dull brown object that, empty, weighed far more
than any full satchel he usually carried.

They said it was an imitation of leather, a substance made
from actual dead animal skins. Disgusting, he’d thought at the time. If he’d
only known. During the hours he’d been in this devastated wilderness, he’d seen
far worse things than leather.

“CR, how much longer for the father-and-daughter team?”

“They will appear in approximately one half hour.”

“CR, what do I do when—”

“Wait. When they appear, hide.” Jazz wondered if it were
possible the CR had a note of exaggerated patience in its toneless voice. “The
man will leave, returning in the same direction. Approximately two hours later,
the progenitor will enter the cave, father the child, and disappear from
record. Your recorded assignment is the second stranger, the protector.”

“I know the da’ assignment. I don’t want those details, CR.
What’ll I protect her from besides the war? Find anything new in your files?”

“I am no longer connected to a network. I barely manage to
remain informed of local time. According to accessible data, I do not exist. I
therefore can answer only basic questions.”

Jazz despised machines that sounded human, so he’d set his
CR to plain-speak, the old-fashioned voice that did not express emotion. But he
could swear the machine sounded annoyed.

Jazz flicked the CR off, shoved it into his pocket, and
settled on the damp ground. He listened to the unfamiliar quiet. No music, no
human voices. Just the occasional shriek of some far-off bird and the drip,
drip of water from the scrubby trees around him.

The silence didn’t unnerve him nearly as much as the smells.
Almost at once when he started DHUy training they made him stop taking his
meds, including the Klorfyll, so his body soon filled with wretched
microorganisms.

For the first time in his memory, when he sweated, he
reeked. When he awoke in the morning, his mouth was filled with an unfamiliar
metallic flavor. Very disagreeable. His old wild-state sensations came flooding
back, including the once enjoyable sexual sensations that now made him nervous.
He felt like an animal.

“You’ll probably want to clean yourself more often,” the
trainers told him. No joke. If he had a choice, he’d wash every few hours. They
wouldn’t let him, though, telling him he’d get used to it.

True enough, on this hillside he barely noticed his own
stench—probably because the damp wool cloak stank even more. He’d already
placed the clue that would lead the DHU to him in another couple hundred years.
Now he stared off into space and felt like a fool waiting for nothing.

Suddenly, with a jolt that set his heart pounding, he
recognized the rhythmic thud of a horse’s hooves.

Jazz squatted down low behind the rock. He listened to the
soft snort of the horse, then the creak and jingle and the grunt of the man as
he slid the unconscious woman off the animal’s back.

A surge of dizzying dread swamped Jazz.

“Huy-man,” he numbly repeated to himself, “it’s true. I’m
here. It’s all true.”

The man, Edward P., was carrying his unconscious daughter
into the cave. Edward, whose last name was lost in history, had slipped the
woman some kind of drug, perhaps laudanum, the annals suggested. Whatever
laudanum was.

Most sources agreed that Edward had likely given her the
drug because she wouldn’t leave his side, and the fighting drew close to the
already near-decimated village where they lived. The only verified fact,
experts had solemnly informed Jazz, was that Edward would place his drugged
daughter alone in a cave in a foreign land. Then the father was lost to
history, though he probably returned to their home in a small village, where he
likely died.

The female, Eliza, lived.

Though the general net didn’t reveal many details of the
next few years of her life, according to the DHU’s secret files, she would
survive because of Jazz.

Jazz considered attempting to look at the mysterious Edward
P., but he’d risk too much. The man might change his mind about leaving his
daughter in a cave near a spot where strange men lurked behind boulders.

Instead Jazz lay down in a useless attempt to get
comfortable. He listened to the rustling and snorting of the horse standing
outside the cave less than ten yards away from him. The creature packed a
powerful stench, like everything Jazz had encountered in this world.

It seemed hours until the man backed out of the cave
entrance and swung himself onto his animal. Jazz waited until the hoof beats
faded, then he slid down the hillside. He didn’t know what else he was supposed
to do, so he wandered for a time, then slipped into the already familiar cave.
“CR, medium light,” he whispered. In its eerie yellow glow, he studied the
woman’s features.

It was the woman, no question. Eliza. In person, she
appeared thinner than the three later portrait paintings the CR had displayed.
Could he see any resemblances to the world’s greatest leader, Madame Blanro,
this woman’s descendent?

She was much younger than the Madame of his time, of course.
She lay sprawled on her back, a thick cape, similar to his own woolen
monstrosity, wrapped around her. Jazz thought her pale skin was exotic but not
ugly. She was so white that the long, dark eyelashes showed against her cheeks,
which were pink. Good, a sign she had enough oxygen.

Because her eyes were closed, he couldn’t see if she
possessed the leader’s legendary melting brown eyes. Maybe the shape of the
straight nose and full lips were somewhat like Madame’s?

He leaned close and watched her chest slowly rise and fall.
Her steady breath seemed quiet. No sign of nightmares or fits. Her lips were
delicate pink too, another indication she had enough oxygen and wasn’t cold. He
brushed the odd material of her clothing to make sure it wasn’t soaking wet.
Damp maybe, but the thick, plush stuff was good. She wouldn’t die of
hypothermia. Her pulse beat slow but strong at the base of her throat.

He grew aware of her scent. Not bad. Not what he was used
to, but the alien, rather musky odor wasn’t awful by any means. He touched the
skin at the side of her throat, and without thinking, spread his palm to make
contact with more of the soft warmth. His hand looked large and dark against
her slender neck.

And suddenly he became aware of something else, about
himself. He backed away quickly, almost knocking his head on the low cave
entrance. He’d had some wild-state symptoms over the last few months, but this
response seemed ridiculously potent.

He ducked out of the cave and clambered back up to the spot
where he’d perched earlier. Out of breath—and not from the exercise—Jazz leaned
against a rock. He held the comfortingly familiar shape of the CR for a long
moment before flicking it on.

“CR,” he mumbled. “I’m having an extreme male response. Is
this normal?”

“You have been off all inhibitors for four months. More than
enough time for even the strongest dose to wear off.”

Maybe. But even during his feral period years ago, his male
reactions had never seemed this intense.

After the fall of the Way, and after he’d been purged of his
worst memories, he’d allowed himself to go into wild-state for a time. He’d
fallen for a woman back then, and had been involved with Rae until she took
off.

Leaning against a rock in antique Spain, waiting in the
drizzle that was fast turning to sleet, he could actually feel that old despair
in the pit of his stomach, with all those damn urges and sensitivities
restored.

Trapped in the wild-state, maybe he’d use his old memory as
an exercise to pass the time in this stink-hole Spain. He’d work on banishing
emotion, a popular DHUy agent exercise.

Still resting against the rock, he folded his arms across
his chest and closed his eyes to concentrate. Nah, he couldn’t stop the welling
up of peculiar longing and pain he’d last experienced more than ten years ago.

Too bad the DHU dim-bonks wouldn’t let him have
suppressants. Going wild was fine for younger idiots, but a useless affliction.
Particularly when he had to clamp down on his instincts—ex-Truthies like him
always had to be careful. Besides, the whole process made him grubby and
disorganized. Life was much more comfortable without that ugly drive cluttering
things up and distracting a person.

“The natural state” was the euphemism the DHU used to make
the whole process sound less messy. Lack of control, he’d call it. And
undoubtedly a problem when he started dragging the woman around the
countryside.

If he couldn’t banish it, he’d take a look at what was
muddying his brain. Surprisingly, Rae was not a problem. The old pain surfaced,
but he could barely recall her face.

The image of the woman in the cave flickered through his
mind. Now that picture knocked into him a bit. He looked down at his hand,
recalling the feel of her skin…warm. Soft. He wondered when he’d last touched
another human. A year? Two?

Aha. No great agent work required here. She seemed to be the
focus of his current bother. And she was key to the flipping assignment.

He absently pushed back his wet, too-long hair and pulled up
the hood again.

Mental exercises didn’t cut it. He’d distract himself from
uncomfortable speculation by practicing a few DHU physical exercises. He even
unsheathed the sword he’d been issued and fenced inexpertly with a few of the
surrounding trees. Steele, who’d turned out to be Jazz’s favorite agency instructor,
had taught him moves so he’d blend in with the time. Eh, not a good sign that
the trees won most of the matches.

He switched over to flinging the dirk he kept tucked in his
boot. The sharp blade whizzed from his hand and stuck fast in all of his
targets. No huge surprise there—he’d long suspected he’d been programmed with
that skill in the bad old days of his lost Way of Truth years.

Time passed.

The sleety rain pelted down harder. He hunkered
uncomfortably under the cloak. Even its invisible layer of rain proofing wasn’t
enough to keep cold at bay, so he dug out the wool blanket too. He considered
flipping up the false bottom he’d built into the bag and pulling out the
warming cloak. No, he’d wait until it was absolutely necessary, maybe at the first
symptoms of frostbite.

Of course, the cave would provide shelter from the
wind-driven rain, but he did not dare go there in case the first stranger came
along early. Nothing could inhibit that vital event. The baby must be
conceived. His era depended on it. Gah, his own freedom depended on it.

The rain tapered off.

Time stood still.

For something to do, he opened his CR and messed around with
the psunder connection. He pressed his thumb into the imprint shield and tried
to make a connection through the skin. Nothing. Not even the best techno could
manage brainwave function without a nudge from the network. He’d have to stick
to speech and, if he was truly desperate, touch. That outdated skill was rusty,
so he practiced a bit.

“How much longer,” he touched the CR, “before the first
stranger appears?”

“It must occur in less than an hour,” the CR flashed back.

“What is ‘it’, CR?”

“The impregnation.”

“
What?
” he asked aloud.

For some reason the CR answered aloud, though Jazz had
trained it only to speak when addressed as “CR”.

“Archival records indicate the fertile period will pass in
approximately one to two hours.”

A frisson of terror ran up his spine. No. He sat down on the
hard, wet ground.

Naturally there were no portraits of the mysterious first
stranger, but he had saved some descriptions. “CR, primary historical documents
of the first stranger. No DHU dull-crap analysis this time.”

Words taken directly from Eliza’s own correspondence flashed
on his CR, a note she had written to one of her grandchildren.

During that dark time even our sleep was haunted by fear.
And the dreadful drug my father administered to me in the wine made the
nightmares so much the worse. Early spring proved damp and dreary. We all had
been cold for days but the man gave me warmth. You asked me to describe him. I
cannot, other than to recall I had an impression he was of large stature and
had dark hair. The only memory I still hold is that for a brief while he made
me feel sheltered and warm. Outlandish isn’t it, since his goal was ravishment?
Even in that stuporous state, I felt safe.

Jazz sucked in several deep breaths of the cold, damp air,
and allowed the terror to dissipate.

He’d had so much to assimilate in training he’d never paid
much attention to this part of the story. Huy-man, he’d forgotten the dark
hair, and thought of own his pale, curling hair with relief.