Traveller Manifesto
49. Aengland - 11th Century

Aengland – 11th Century. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Their arrival at the old city of Leicester took them by surprise.

“I thought we’d have caught him by now,” suggested Woodbury. “He’s come a lot further than I imagined.”

Skid merely grunted. They had been on the road for over 24 hours and were beginning to tire. Despite the exoskeletons, they had to exercise enormous stamina to use the machines over such an extended period. The longest they had previously ever used them continuously was for twelve hours. Though they could travel at around forty kilometres an hour on the roads, across country had been particularly trying. It was not surprising that Snotengaham had yielded nothing. Hunter had time on his hands and would have fled.

If in Hunter’s position, he would have done the same.

The marshy ground to the south of the town had tested them, as the exoskeletons were weighty. Wearing the device made a soldier taller and able to bear enormous loads, but it also made them heavier, one of the few negatives to the awesome combat system. Their night-vision had not detected the marshy ground and Skid had fallen. Only their winches had saved him from being smothered in shallow puddles and soft earth. The accident had shaken them and a full report was dutifully submitted.

Moran also suspected that the drugs were making them edgy. Ostensibly to sharpen reflexes for combat situations and put off the need for sleep, Moran began to feel more susceptible to irritation; annoyed at the chafing from the exoskeleton, exasperated that Skid had fallen into the marsh, and even the sound of Woodbury’s accent, all were becoming frustrating. Well acquainted to the deprivations of military training, Moran suspected the drugs were wearing him down. It was probably also happening to the others, but he didn’t ask.

Much of their journey was spent in avoiding civilians, for farmers rose before sunrise to till the soil, while travellers used the broken and rutted roads. Their orders were to avoid the general population, so they were compelled to keep to forests and copses, their over two-metre strides and abnormally large footprints left to mystify farmers as their trail cut across tilled soil.

It was with relief that they intersected with the old Roman Road of the Fosse Way south to Gloucester, where they strode on to Leicester. The relic of the Roman occupation of Britain ran almost straight and, travelling in the dark of night, the squad made excellent time. “Just like a modern road,” gestured Woodbury. “God knows how long it’s been here. With the Romans. Right? So about 700 to 1000 years old and it’s in better shape than most British roads of the 21st century.”

“So, we’re just north of Leicester, which our heads-up display says is Ligeraceaster in the local lingo,” noted Skid.

“Let’s get off-road and camp,” suggested Moran. “It’s relatively early, so we can catch a few hours and leave just after sundown.”

Skid led into a thicket close to the road. In the damp conditions they did all they could to avoid soft ground. Not only did they not want a repeat of Skid’s accident, but they made every effort to leave as few tracks as they could. They waited in a copse as the morning gradually lightened.

“Still south,” commented Woodbury.

It was their second morning and they were compelled to rest. In the depths of a small clump of forest they set up a temporary camp. The drizzle had become constant and dampened their spirits somewhat, another symptom that something other than weather affected their mood. Having climbed out of their exoskeletons, the devices stood like scarecrows while they washed and then ate. A campfire was, of course, not even considered, but the luxury of lying down ensured they slept well. One always remained on sentry duty and there were the usual nightmares associated with the drug cocktail they had been taking. One of the pharmaceutical specialists had explained something about an imbalance in the chief chemicals in the brain, namely serotonin and dopamine and a bunch of others he could never remember. Once they returned home, they were assured that removal from the chemical stimulants used on the mission would allow levels to naturally return to normal.

But those stimulants were everything. Once taken, a soldier became immune to fatigue and their minds were razor-sharp. Coupled with the technology, they missed nothing.

Moran grunted as he rose while the sun behind the grey clouds was still high. The other two were also awake. They did not seem to sleep long. “Command suggests south is the most likely direction for Hunter to have travelled, so that’s the direction we’ll have to look.”

“Sounds like a guess as good as any,” confirmed Skid as he helped himself to a ration pack. “The chip’s broadcast range seems less than anticipated, so we’ll have to launch one of the drones to scout.”

“Yeah, the egg-heads have been dying for us to use the Vampires for chip detection,” chuckled Moran. He knew he sounded edgy. Even the chuckle felt forced. Because of the location of the Area of Convergence in the grove near Giolgrave, and the fact that the location was known by the hunters of the village, it was too risky to establish a camp with UAV crews who flew larger reconnaissance units. That explained why one of their mission objectives was to test the new Vampire automated drones that were little larger than a small bat.

As they rested by their armour, Woodbury complained. “So, despite our new technology, and the ability to travel faster and farther than ever a soldier has travelled, we’re restricted by a limited knowledge of our objective. They’re only guessing, for fuck’s sake!”

“We’ll get his signal,” confirmed Moran. “He has one of the older beta-style chips which we know has a limited range, but we’ll find him. All we need is for the Vampire here,” and he nodded to the folded UAV that was attached to his exoskeleton’s left forearm. In its protective cover, it was little more than a dark bulge “This will catch a scent. It will hone in on him and, at worse, give us a rough direction.”

“But why are we even on this mission to capture Hunter?” mused Skid. He was propped against a tree as they ate. Thankfully the food was very good. “I mean, he’s a hero, isn’t he? The fact that he stood up to the powers-that-be made him a hero to the masses.” He spoke in his gentle, Louisiana drawl. To all intents and purposes, Skid was the mellow member of the team, though from what Moran had heard, in a firefight he could be otherwise.

“Dunno,” replied Woodbury. “I never knew Hunter, but I knew Hurley from a few missions, and he was a right nutter at times. Tough and almost fanatical about the mission. He’s smart too, and a cold-blooded killer. But then again, most of the SAS lads are. I can only imagine Hunter’s the same. If I’m ordered to kill Hunter, he’s dead. No questions.”

Moran nodded. “Yeah, it should be fun. Essentially this mission is to test the systems in field conditions. It’s nothing more than that, I suppose. Find him, then what? If they say kill him, we kill him. Or capture…? Well, orders are orders.”

They had heard a lot of good about Hunter, of course. “Yeah. People can change,” confirmed Skid. “Hunter has been in Saxon Aengland for too long and must have gone rogue.”

They nodded. If ordered, they would do whatever needed to be done. No matter what.

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