Crude in Sur Amerika

Chapter 1

They launched at dawn from the Cape Keys, like a flock migrating south to warmer climes and abundant forage. It turned into a rougher ride than Project Mission Control could've foreseen.

Hugging the serpentine coastline, as sailing vessels did in flat earth times, it was Project HQ's directive they avoid the shortest route as the crow flies and not venture over open sea so as to skirt the island chains scattered throughout the eastern gulf, all occupied by forces hostile to the Project. Good thing too.

Not two hours airborne, thunderheads swiftly glided in behind the convoy out of the north, bullying them off course and inland, pulseing with the muffled crackle of lightening in their darker bellys. The gale winds shivered the Super Transports down to their rivets, causing engines to moan and fuselages to creak under stresses they could just handle without bursting at the seams. With the careening every which way of the compass for kilometers on end, some greenies up-chucked their morning chow in the main passenger compartments.

It went against the grain right down to greenhorn recruits, to leave the Transports behind, unescorted, at high risk. It even struck the five pilots involved as pure abandonment, but the Commander was clear and sound in his judgement. Unlike the Super Transports, the hyper scout and interceptors were vastly more vulnerable to the extreme weather but could handily outrun the storm, so why put the entire convoy, and mission, in jeopardy at the very outset.

Commander Malory stood braced between the pilot and copilot, studying the monitors and intrument readings.

"Could be through the worst of the beast..."

"Affirmative, sir. We'll be back on course in short order."

Both pilots crinkled their brows. Malory couldn't see their eyes but could well imagine each had a quizzical look and why.

"Outstanding. Keep the transports strung out for now. No formation. Make sure when we regroup with the iterceptors that they come up the rear and the hyper scout take the vanguard."

When he said "beast" he was thinking Kraken. Looking at the storm raging waters, it was Kraken he imagined they harbored. Those legendary beasts of many tentacles and epic proportions, lurking below towering swells awaiting to grapple unsuspecting vessels and devour their crews. He had a fondness for the old lore, unknown to most. The Pre-Collapse lore itself not a common interest with the Project populace at large and his fondness for it, unknown even among his closest circle. That secret passion was how he survived as a youngster new to the world of Borgs and the Project. The tales were what his mentor used to engage his interest in learning to read. From those long bygone days to this moment was a journey none of his kind before him had ever made.

Many were the secrets he guarded. The greatest being he wasn't supposed to remain so vividly attatched to life before his synaptic link implant. But he was. Where it to be known, who could say for sure what corrective treatments he would be encouraged to undergo. Strongly encouraged, no doubt. Not a chance he was willing to take.

With the worst of the gale assuredly behind them, the interceptors and hyper scout re-joined the Super Transports, the whole convoy back on course.

"Commander, we're in visual of the LZ. Time for everyone to strap-in."

They landed on a sandy penninsula and deployed amid lingering wisps of mid-morning fog. It was ebb tide and the stench of rotting seaweed made for a bustling LZ as none wanted to linger catching their breath for long. Then there was the pod of beached dolphins, not far up wind, carcasses deep in rot. Malory ordered a couple flammers to incinerate them to ash and crumbling bone shards.

By mid afternoon the fog had burned away, the off-loading completed and the Super Transports headed back North accompanied by two of the four interceptors, to the Project's eastern mainland HQ in the Cape Keys.

Even with stiff sea breezes, the sun's scorching face was unrelenting. Any shady spot was like an oasis.

Commander Malory was inspecting the topo map, indicating his teams destination and mission, from beneath a jury-rigged desert camo canopy on the beach, above the high tide mark.

"Commander... ?"

"Sarge. At ease. What's goin' on ?"

"Sir, scouts have found a clearing 'bout three clicks N.W. beyond the tree line and have secured the perimeter. All is ready to move in and set-up night camp. Also, the air survey team is awaiting orders, sir."

Malory shuffled through the topos till he found the sub-section with the grid overlay.

"Give this to the flight team. Have the interceptors escort the hyper scout for the first 25 kilometers then return. The hyper scout should then proceed to the marked grid and recon. This topo indicates what seems to be the best location to land and plant the sensor array securely. Let the pilot use his best judgement but I want no more than two landings. Every touchdown is a risk and we can't afford to lose the scout. Have the rest of the men move supplies to the inland clearing."

"Commander, should I have a small detail await the return of the interceptors ?"

"Yeah. Have them land by the tree line, then camo them. When they're done this beach should not look like an LZ. I want the hyper scout to return directly to the night camp, well before sunset. See to it."

Sargent Emil went about his orders and Malory stepped from under the canopy, keeping the sun to his back.

He walked, preoccupied, down the beach towards a jagged precipice that cut the tree line in half. He'd surely have to attend the joints of his entire exo before calling it a day. This wind-tossed sand was creeping insidious.

"Oil... everything has come back to it... till now", he thought, unable to shake the sense that he would face his greatest test on this mission. The hydrogen powered chassis, if they found it, would be a radical game changer in future conflicts.

By this point in his military career he'd been on many missions, knowing the fear mingled excitement common to a warriors life. Deprivations and near defeat he'd known but was stranger to this sense of loss by continuing to expose layers of a life long past reclaiming. It made for an imbalance in his ki that troubled by drawing him inward, and uncontrollably, to pre-implant memories.

The crashing surf filled the air with a salt spume he tasted breathing through his mouth. Better that than rank decay.

He sat on a piece of driftwood, just beneath the jutting escarpment, reviewing what lay ahead.

Every incursion into the unknown south west had to be considered an encrouchment into hostile territory. Even though the foray team preceeding his had spent a week scouting this stretch of coast and encountered no hostiles, little could be taken for granted and that would hold even after reaching their objective, estimated at some 250 kilometers inland.

Stareing off beyond the roiling white caps, the horizon's vanishing point, he tended an impaired ki, not taking much heed of a few fist-size stones that fell from the rock ledge atop the precipiece to land but five meters away, to his left.

"This is a wind blasted coast", flitted through his mind, "what could be more common than erosion."

Chapter 2

Silvana of the far eye scrabbled on her belly like a land crab, elbows for pincers, to the edge of the bluff overhanging a tongue of beach now occupied by an invading Mekka force. Her slight weight on the lip of the escarpment caused a few small rocks to drop. She couldn't hear their tumbling descent over the roar of surf but did catch them plunk into the sand not far from where a Mekka sat hunched over, metal sheathed hands gripping metal shod knees. He struck her as the leader being apart from the rest that were engaged in various tasks. He appeared not to take heed of the fallen stones. She let a sigh of relief escape her parched lips and noted the salt tang in the air, usually refreshing, was over layed with a stench coming from the Mekka.

Then three Mekka birds lifted off the sand below, stirring up swirling plumes of sand. When reaching an elevation of 50 meters they screeched inland like hungry birds of prey, their billowy tails dissipating quickly in the coastal wind shears.

"Mekka, this far south...", she whispered to herself, half in awe, half in dread. "And for a second time in less than a moon."

Even though it would befall the Seer the task of breaking this news at the council fires of the Snake Clan's camp hours before Silvana's return, she would etch the Mekka, their numbers & kind, in her mind's eye. Akbar of the scar, her chief, would yet question her sharply and Akbar's manner was rarely less than fierce, any hesitation would lower Silvana's standing as lead scout. A woman scout was rare, a leader, unheard of and Silvana's pride, while never boastful, was as staunch as any battled hardened warrior.

She hand signaled her brethren, Nezacle & Balaros, to hold their position under cover of a scraggly copse, well back of the cliff edge. Balaros signaled in turn. Could he make his way to the boulder between them and a bit to the east ? This, Nezacle would never do. Different they were, as owl and hawk, but their stregnths blended. They were a good team. She gave Balaros the go ahead gesture.

Sea winds pounded the bare bluff, mingling sand with sun, they branded forearm flesh over the hours of her vigil, but Silvana held steadfast. She carefully broke position twice. Once to relieve a cramp, the other to quench her thirst with a few drops. It would not do for the Mekka to be alerted, or worse, the scouts captured or cut down before word could be got back to the tribe and thus confirm the Seer's long vision with precious details.

Two Mekka birds returned shortly after departing and were carefully concealed by the tree line, sufficiently above the high-tide boundry that could yet be made out as wet sand.

Silvana marked their position against the base of the cliff.

When the Sun began westering Silvana heard the third Mekka bird return, though this one settled inland of the tree-line. Surely the Mekka's night camp its destination. She marked that position as well for they would have to skirt it on their return.

The scouts held position till after sunset. It was a starry night with a sliver of moon when Silvana, Nezacle & Balaros finally retreated from the cliff face, staying well clear of the Mekka night camp, to wend thier way through the steaming jungle, by boar trail, back to the Snake Clan village.

If they loped all night without resting they would reach the vision camp before sunrise.

Chapter 3

Tatanka's moon hung low, barely over the hump back peaks that sheltered the Seven Nation's solstice vision camp. The air was balmy and weighed heavier yet with the scent of burning sage and sweet grass wafting from hosts of Yuwippi lodges scattered throughout the winding valley floor and atop the three switchback plateus called the "Spinsters".

Again, for the second time this night, belieing his years with the sure-footed stride of a much younger man, the grizzled Seer of the snowy mane ascended the anchient pronghorn path, the sand stone trail glistening flecks like constellations.

"As above, so below," he whispered, as much to himself as to his spirit guide, the raven and to the bretheren flock that followed his ascent cawing.

Criss-crossing the layered cliff face leading to the cavernous entrance of Akbar's sanctuary, the flickering torch flames cast dancing shadows on glyphs of blood ocher mingled charcoal. Glyphs of creatures and peoples long gone but alive yet in the four-fold way of the Seven Nation's warriors. Glyphs that bespoke the lore of thier origins from the mud pools of the Palo Verde sink holes in the midlands to the greatest strife of their ancestors across the length and breath of these lands, some 30 generations past, at the hands of the red-bearded, green-eyed ones. The long dead interlopers from beyond the vast sea's horizon, whose blood-letting still stained the earth. Invaders who also wore helms of metal and wielded weapons that killed from great distances like the Mekka of the Northern wastes alighting on thier shores for the third time in as many new moons.

"Would history repeat ? Was it an omen ?" His far-sight didnot answer these questions but rather posed another.

More precarious than the narrow, crumbly, slope leading to the chiefs council retreat, was the nature of his duty. To be messenger of ill tidings not once but twice within hours was to try the patience of even fair-minded Akbar. Worse was it that this later vision went to the heart of his chief's hopes & dreams for the peoples of The Seven Nations. Hopes reaching out to the generations yet to come.

This new vision was not the long-sight of events in action but rather the far-sight vision of what was yet to be and it concerned Chandar, the chief's son and sole offspring.

Under a westering sun The Seer had narrated the Mekkas coastal landing as seen through the lead scout Silvana's eyes with the gift of the long-sight.

Akbar would hear nothing of dampening the vision quest camp fires of the solstice enclave, stilling the drumming or cry-chants, as a precaution to discovery by the Mekka. Those youth who'd been escorted four days earlier to thier sacred circles, up Mount Grey Beard, to endure solitary days & nights, no food, no water, singing & dancing for their naga vision, Akbar would not allow them to suffer the rites of passage without the steady spirit support arising from the Seven Nation's steam sweltering Yuwippi lodges.

This the chief swore before his ancestral totem and the Mekka men be damned to thier infernal masters !

"The greater risk is honor's sacrafice and that is forever misbegotten," as was told in the lore of the Snake Clan as handed down, elder to youth, in a long line of Seers stretching back to the begining of time on Turtle Island.

Chandar was one of those unbearded youth due to return this very dawn, hoping to have engaged thier naga vision and be surely on the threshold of the four-fold way of a true scav warrior.

"Warrior hood...," The Seer mused, "therein lay the salt in the wound."

Having reached the uppermost level of the trail, The Seer turned and gazed over the valley. The fire pits, thier smoke billows and cinder trails licking the night, were ringed by torch-bearers like undulant serpents coiling and uncoiling.

"Hoops within hoops," The Seer reflected, "the four-fold way is everywhere."

From the corner of his eye, a momentary glint, a sense of flowing; the meandering creek that ran the length of the fertile valley floor. The sight made him long to quench a thirst he had not heeded before making the ascent.

He turned and headed to the deepest recess of the yawning, smoke charred cavern. The chief of chiefs retreat and where Akbar sought the council of the seven chiefs, along with their accord, in whatever was decided to be the path of the Seven Nations in a world brought to its knees, a generation past, by the madness of a few who would hold themselves above all others, even onto the Great Spirit, teasing the fires of creation itself.

Akbar's guards motioned The Seer to enter the sanctum as they had but hours earlier.

Akbar was already holding council with the seven chiefs. Voices were heated, excited, stepping over one anothers words. This recent incursion of Mekka men had veteran warrior chiefs anticipating battle.

When The Seer crossed the sanctum's inner threshold all faces turned to him and free-wheeling conversation subsided as if a summon for silence had been decreed.

"Seer, enter. Make yourself at ease. I thought not to see you again till the sunrise prayer and our greeting of the youth descending from Grey Beard's sacred circles." Akbar kept his tone lighthearted but The Seer could read the concern in his hawk like stare and clipped gesture.

The elder bowed, then shuffled gingerly round the dieing fire to sit, cross-legged, on the chief's left as tradition honored the tribal seer's place.

"My chief, I come again, this time bearing tidings of the far-sight... for your ears alone."

Akbar's jaw clenched causing the cheek welt of a long healed wound to quiver as he gestured to his guards and his co-chiefs.

"Allow me some moments with the Seer, my brothers." And without another word, the seven retreated to the other side of the chamber's threshold, along with the guards, and through the over-lapping boar hides which were let to shutter behind their exit with a soft thud.

"Wakan ! Come old man, we will smoke from the red pipe. I will tell you of night journeys with my naga and you will speak of the bones, the sacred circle and what whispers of the Northern Mekka have lodged in the hearts of our people."

Akbar the sly and his canny tests of mettle, baiting his trap with comraderie. The Seer would have none of it.

"No disrespect, my chief, but I would get to the heart of it."

Akbar tucked his chin into his left collar bone, looking askance briefly, then gave The Seer a full on, lopsided, toothy grin.

"You know me too well, old man. Cut to the quick then."

There was no way to lessen the blow with words of wisdom.

"Chandar's path remains forked and his naga, the trickster. Upon his return from Grey Beard it will be no clearer. He will not have had his naga vision. I have seen with the far-sight this outcome, my chief. Shall he follow the way of the warrior or the way of the seer ? I cannot say, you cannot say, even he cannot say. But this much I have also witnessed in my vision. Chandar will be in the thick of battle with Mekka men and only in the heat of conflict, on pain of death, will he move forward in seeking his One path ... though even then, I fear, his journey will remain unclear."

Akbar nodded as if this news came as no revelation.

"It is then as I have sensed since he first toddled at my feet. Your duty came heavy this night and you have acquited yourself with honor, Seer."

The Seer said nothing.

"Are Silvana and her scouts on thier way back to camp ?"

"They are, my chief, and will reach our valley well before sunrise."

The Seer could tell in Akbar's eyes, the chief of chiefs was making plans and that tasks for him were forthcoming.

"Silvana will come to me directly, that is assured. What I would have you do, old friend, is meet Chander. Asure him, as I know you can, and then bring him to me directly. His disappointment, and deep uncertainty, must be turned to a great task."

"That is wise, my chief. Will that course be to the vision I have imparted ?"

"It will indeed. A new quest. I will send Silvana and her scouts back out after a short rest to track the Mekka movements inland. Chandar will join them."

The Seer nodded approvingly.

"Take your leave old friend and see to my guards - I would not be disturbed again till Silvana's arrival. Wakan !"

The Seer spoke no more. There was no need to. He would do as he was bid and would melt the other side of twilight till then.