John Smith, World Jumper Book One: Portal to Adventure

  Part of me was stunned that humans seemed to be using another presumably intelligent species as a food source or for some other industrial purpose, remembering my brief yet personal encounter with the Other who had not killed me when it could have. Then I remembered the fear shown by Layla at the prospect of being overtaken by the creatures.

  I knew very little about this world or its cultures, so any speculation at this point was just that. I also had something else to devote my thoughts to, Layla’s safety, and perhaps my own survival. Hopefully, the two were compatible goals.

  While the ring of fires extended around the entire perimeter of the camp, I saw no sentries ocean-ward. Since this was my direction of approach, it made my task significantly easier. My movement toward the camp had loosened up my muscles somewhat, and although still chilled, I felt up for action should the need arise.

  I crouched for a minute and examined my options now that I was closer. Since I had been left for dead by Layla’s captor-guard, I did not expect my reception to be a warm one. Stealth was of the essence. I needed to find a way onto the vessel before it departed, and without being noticed. The difficulty in stowing away successfully upon a type of ship which I was totally unfamiliar with did not cross my mind yet, but perhaps it should have.

  The only conceivable route unseen to the airship, which now hovered some fifty feet above, was clearly its mooring lines. The ladders which hung down for the crew to use were all well within the lit area and near to the busily active cargo platform. Getting aboard that way was not an option.

  I began looking in detail at the several lines by which the ship was anchored to the ground. Although they extended away from the ship at an angle, and most of them were secured well outside the lighted area, it would be a dangerously visible climb. I needed a distraction, one that would keep the crew, both on the ship and on the ground, busy long enough for me to scale the rope.

  My rifle was gone, presumably taken after I had been shot. It seemed my choices were limited, but then another opportunity presented itself. One of the workers, after depositing a jointly carried load of limbs onto the cargo platform, walked out of the camp almost directly towards me. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him, and he stopped a few yards away, to my left.

  At first he lifted a small flask from inside a large slit-like pocket in his parka and brought it to his lips, tilting his head back briefly. Putting the flask away, he made a grunt of contentment and I thought he was finished and would begin moving back to his task before I could get close enough to take advantage of the situation. My luck held however, and he began fumbling with his pants.

  Using the darkness and rocks as cover as best I could, I crept towards him as he relieved himself. Although I have undertaken combats of honor, fair fights as it were when the need arose, I had no trouble distinguishing this as a different situation, with different rules. I also freely admit to feeling no guilt or remorse at taking advantage of my situation and the unsuspecting sailor.

  That being said, I did not kill him. As he finished his business and buckled his pants, he turned back towards the camp and raised his arms above his head in a stretch before starting back. With his vision even more limited now that he was facing the fire, and with his arms blocking his peripheral vision, I knew I would not have a better chance.

  I kept crouched, moving as quickly as I could while keeping quiet. I was directly behind him when he lowered his arms, and rising up, I clamped one hand over his mouth and the other around his neck. From there I simply tucked in close and applied pressure to both sides of his neck until he went limp, his struggles ceasing quickly.

  Choking is a fearful way to be subdued or killed, slow and filled with the anxiety of not being able to take a breath. Instead, I temporarily cut off the blood flow to his brain, causing him to fall unconscious in a few seconds, his thoughts blanketed in a foggy haze. I hoped it was less traumatic.

  As I lowered him to the ground I released my grip on his neck and mouth. Placing my hand on him I felt the slow but steady pattern of his chest rising and falling as he resumed breathing normally. Divesting him of his parka, I realized that he was shorter than I, but not significantly so. Still, as I donned the fur lined jacket, it was a snug fit, as he was also of a more thin build. I noticed briefly that he was of a far more swarthy complexion than either Layla or the two guards who had bested me.

  I decided at once not to attempt to fit into his pants or boots. Not only were his feet tiny, but in comparison to his torso, his legs were quite short. Wearing my own pants, I had to hope, would be better than trudging back to the camp wearing what in effect would look practically like knickers on me.

  An afterthought, I pulled the flask out of the side pocket in the sailor’s parka and sniffed it, verifying the strong alcohol content. Liberally sprinkled it over his mouth and chest, I laid it on him afterwards. I wondered briefly if he would admit to being overpowered in the dark, or keep it quiet. I hoped my dousing of him with his drink would bring doubt to his story. It was a tenuous hope, but I had little time to act, and even less to think of detailed, foolproof plans.

  Mimicking his walk as near as I could, I made my way back towards the fires, intending to blend in and resume working. In the vein of my continued seeming good fortune, a foreman of sorts spotted me and gave me direction, “Khat, get over here and ride up with that load. We are done here. Tell them.” While I could understand his words, I did not trust myself to be able to mimic his accent flawlessly enough not to arouse suspicion. His language was far more guttural and crude than any I was used to. Hoping a nod would suffice in reply; I did so, and approached the platform. In any case, he was already walking off to take care of some other matter.

  A handler standing near the platform paid me no more heed than the foreman and I stepped on, wrapping my arm around a load line and holding on. Presently the load was lifted, in fits and starts, but not at any dangerous rate. Rising into the darkness, I muttered to myself, attempting to generate a passable copy of the foreman’s words. The ride took perhaps two minutes and my disguise would soon be put to a more difficult test.

  The load lifted until it was clear of the main deck, then sailors began hoisting on another line to swing the load to the ship. Trying to look as comfortably agile as a sailor with well developed sea legs, I jumped to the deck and away from the load. Luckily, the lack of light I had seen on the ship from a distance had been maintained, and only a few small portables lit the deck dimly.

  I may have been overdoing it, but I bent my legs slightly as I walked, both to appear shorter and to duplicate the slightly bow-legged gait I noticed the crew affecting. Moving off, as if with a purpose, I pointed back casually at the load. Deciding fewer words would be better, I gave a simple message, “Last load,” was all I said.

  Again, no one seemed to be paying much attention, and my disguise held. I walked along the deck, hoping to be moving in a believable direction. I was torn between two conflicting desires, one to immediately find and free Layla, the other to find a hiding place, safe and warm, to recuperate and gather my strength.

  I had no illusions that I would be able to fit in with the crew during the day, or upon any close inspection. With the realization that a rash charge of bravado at this point would most likely prove futile, I opted for caution. I would find a place to hole up, and creep around in the dark when the ship had assumed a more regular routine.

  With most or all of the crew awake now, dealing with the storing and loading of the cargo from below, it was too chaotic to move freely. Later, when the tired men slept, and whichever unfortunates, probable discipline problems anyway, stood a lax night watch on deck, I would have my chance.

  Unobserved, or so I thought, I ducked into a supply locker. Working my way through hanging ropes and tackle, I found my way to the back. With space at a premium, the very back of the locker was apparently on top of some other space. It narrowed greatly and left only crawling
room, stacked as it was with dusty rope fragments and coarsely woven burlap sacks.

  Thinking it was as good of a spot as I would find, I crawled in amongst the ropes, wriggling my way towards the back. Taking note of voices, seemingly directly below me, I moved slowly and carefully. To my surprise, I found a clear spot on the deck near the very back of the crawlspace.

  Instead of grinning at my good fortune, the open space should have set me on alert. I do not however lay claim to always accurately assessing the potential danger of any situation. Finding a cork driven into the floor, I merely found it interesting. I pulled the cork out and found a narrow, but clear view into the room below.

  Lamps, spherical with strangely non-flickering light lit the room dimly. Seated at a desk, near one of the lamps was a man, dressed in a tight fitting shirt, probably part of the undergarments worn with the parkas. Warm air came up through the hole, making it clear the space was heated.

  Another man, this one presumably making a report, stood near the doorway and continued speaking to the seated man. I had pulled the cork up in the middle of their conversation and missed the first part. In any case, the conversation was inconsequential to my purposes, being a weighting and ballast report based on adjustments made for the on loading of the cargo of the Others.

  Tired, I rolled away from the hole but left it unplugged so that I might benefit from the heat rising from below. I closed my eyes, intending merely to rest them for a minute, but drifted off instead, into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  I slept for an indeterminate amount of time. When I awoke, I immediately knew that the ship was moving. Not only was a gentle motion present, but interspersed with the low groaning of timbers and creaking of ropes, I heard a droning noise, regular and stable. I assumed that final noise was caused by the propellers I had seen upon first sighting the vessel, and I was not incorrect.

  For some reason, I remembered to replace the cork into its hole before crawling out of my cramped location into the larger locker. It was my intention to stretch my muscles briefly, exercising quietly before returning to my hiding place proper, as I saw light streaming through several small holes in the walls of the locker. It was still daylight, and not my chosen time to attempt moving about.

  I did complete a series of simple exercises, suitable for the cramped situation when the door burst open. Sunlight streamed in, blinding me temporarily and causing me to shield my eyes with one hand. I also realized that the air outside was far warmer than it should have been. Not balmy by any means, it was nonetheless above freezing. I must have been unconscious for longer than I thought.

  My eyes adjusted sufficiently for me to lower my hand and I did so. What I saw shocked me to the core of my being. Standing in the doorway, flanked by the two darkly garbed guards from earlier, was Layla.

  Dressed differently than before, she was quite scantily clad. Her form fitting cloth, as it seemed to be a single long yet narrow piece, was wrapped around her in such a way as to accentuate various features and reveal hints of others. This cloth was held in place by a wrapping of a narrow strap or straps, offsetting the golden tones of the cloth with bright red lines.

  That she was royalty was clear from the jeweled headband, along with various anklets and bracelets, but royalty garbed thusly, I had never imagined. Most disturbing however was the pistol in her hand, a duplicate of the one I was painfully familiar with. She was pointing it at me. With a sneer of contempt, she motioned me forward.

  Stunned I numbly complied, stepping slowly forward. As the two guards grasped me roughly by the arms, Layla laughed. It was a cold, heartless laugh, and I could scarce imagine it coming from the woman who had done so much to save my life.

  With that, she turned and walked onto the deck. Her words drifted back to me over her shoulder as she left, echoing in my head, “Curious little man, there is someone you need to meet.” As if she had uttered some private joke, she laughed again and with no more warmth than before.

  Chapter Five