From: bkoike@sdcc13.UCSD.EDU (Bryce Koike)
Subject: STORY: Otherworld (Chapter 18)
Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc
Date: Thu, 7 Jan 1993 22:40:57 GMT

                 ___________________________________
                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
                              ****
                             **  **
                             **  **
                         The  ****  THERWORLD

                              CHAPTER 18

                            (> Journeys <)

                    Copyright 1992 by Bryce Koike
                         All Rights Reserved
                 ___________________________________
                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
     Any comments, criticisms, opinions, etc, are welcome.  I can
be reached on Internet as:
     bkoike@sdcc13.ucsd.edu
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
"Don't believe what you hear
Don't believe what you see
If you just close your eyes
You can feel the enemy . . .

And you can swallow
Or you can spit
You can throw it up
Or choke on it
And you can dream
So dream out loud
You know that your time is coming 'round
... don't let the bastards grind you down"
                            ("Acrobat" -- U2)
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
On History
    A Federated scoutship searching for new habitable planets came
across the dormant form of the Dark and without understanding what
they had found, placed it in the hands of the nearest research
facility.  Sensing new, pulsating minds by it, the Dark awoke with
anger.  It struck out with its only weapon -- its mind -- and
encountered the biometal.  Using it, the Dark was able to imbue its
spirit into the metal and form it into shapes fit for battle.  The
planet, whose name has now been lost over the long years, was
assaulted from space by the nearest destroyers available, but the Dark
escaped.
    Its spread was slow but terrible.  War was engaged for over ten
centuries.  During that time the human people formed the Legions --
the most brilliant men and women in the armed forces into a single
combat team devoted to the destruction of the Dark.  Thousands of
colony planets fell over those centuries of war, once green landscapes
now covered by the festering black metals of the Dark, huge spiked
spires reaching into the skies, human bodies impaled on them and
wasted away to skeleton.
    The war finally reached the planet Earth, the last and final stand
of all humanity.  Twenty of the finest Legions to see battle, the last
of their kind, were stationed there.  Seven Legions had been evacuated
from the Terran Sphere and sent into the uncharted regions of the far
galaxy with a single command -- preserve the seed of humankind.
Ninety years of war saw the twenty Legions on Earth, called Ter by its
inhabitants, carved down to thirteen.  From year to year their numbers
would be bolstered by the Lost Legions, the progeny of those seven
Legions sent into the uncharted realms.
    To this day, the war rages on.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Date:      September 28, 1992
Location:  Hombany Mansion
           Otherworld
Time:      8:15 am

    The man, whose name was Roger Norwell, made a face when he saw
what they had gathered for the girl.  He slowly went through the
equipment, tugged on straps, and muttered darkly at worn seams.
    "You call this a pack?" he asked finally.  "It's too small."
    "She is a slight girl," Victoria rebutted.  "She will wear it
well."
    "It's going to be cold where we're going and you've only given her
a small wool sweater for warmth.  No jackets?  She doesn't even have a
compass in case she gets lost."
    "Without a map, her compass would be useless.  What we have
gathered is all that our small mansion can give.  Despite the great
need, there is precious little that there is available."
    Norwell sighed.  "Girl, come here," he commanded.
    "My name's Angela," she retorted, but advanced anyway.
    "Put this on," Norwell said and held the pack up in front of him.
    Angela turned around and slipped her arms through the shoulder
straps.  Even though Norwell let the pack down softly, the weight of
the pack surprised Angela.  Walking around to face Angela, Norwell
reached around her, knelt, and fastened a belt around her waist.
    "It's heavy?"
    "Uh huh."
    "Mm.  Shrug your shoulders up.  More.  That's it.  This is your
hip belt, see?  The idea here is to make all the weight rest on your
hips so that your shoulders don't have to take it.  Your hips are wide
enough to hold the pack's weight and they don't have muscles.  How's
that?"
    Angela furrowed her brow.  How was it supposed to be?  "Feels
okay," she answered.
    Norwell tugged on her shoulder straps.  "You don't want your
shoulders to carry the weight," he explained, "but you don't want the
pack to drop too far back so that they're pulling on your shoulders.
That better?"
    "Mm hm."
    Norwell sighed then and stood up.  "If your shoulders are taking
too much strain, tell me.  If your pack is unbalanced, you'll know.
Tell me about that too.  We're a team now and we've got to take care
of each other."
    "I thought you didn't want me."
    Norwell smiled.  "Well . . . I'm not being given much of a choice,
now am I?"  He sighed.  "Look, I am doing my best to be frank with
you.  If I've got to take you, I want you to be my friend and I want
to be yours.  Do you think that's possible?"
    "I guess so.  Can I take the pack off?"  The belt, despite its
thick padding, was already digging into Angela's hips.
    "No.  I want you to get used to it.  We're going to start off easy
and do somewhere between four and seven miles a day depending on
terrain.  As your stamina and strength go up, we'll try to increase
the pace to about twelve or so.  You're going to have to get used to
carrying a pack for several hours, sometimes as many as nine or more a
day.  Packs are heavy and you're not used to it, so you're going to
get tired out.  If you do, you've got to tell me because exhaustion in
dangerous climates can be as deadly as a bullet to the head.  You've
got to make sure that you eat, stay warm and dry, and don't dehydrate.
Hiking, especially in hot weather, you could need four quarts of water
or more a day.  We've got to make sure that we keep ourselves
hydrated.  Because we're sweating so much, we'll also have to eat
salty foods.  Sweat draws salt out of our bodies and without salt we'd
die."
    It was so much information.  With each passing moment, Angela felt
herself getting smaller and smaller.  The pack was too heavy for her.
Norwell was a really big man; why couldn't he carry some of her
things?
    Norwell paused for a moment.  "We'll stop around every half hour,
possibly more, to rest, rehydrate, and maybe to snack if we need to.
More so if the going is hard.  I'll take the lead since I know where
we're going, but if I'm going too fast, you tell me.  You're not
experienced and if you get too far back, you might get lost.  If you
get hurt, you'll have a whistle."
    He pulled it out of a pile and started tying a shoestring to it.
    "Wear this always," he said.  "If you get in trouble, blow it hard
three times.  Keep doing it if you can, but reserve your strength.
We'll be starting out in very cold weather, so we've got to be careful
to stay as warm as possible.  Do you know what hypothermia is?"
    Angela nodded.
    "Frostbite?"
    Nod.
    The black man let out a satisfied sigh.  "I'll tell you more once
we're on the trail, but I think that this is enough for now.  We won't
be hiking far this first day because I want you to get a feel for your
pack and walking.  Remember, that pack is heavy and it's very clumsy.
Don't leap around and don't try to rely on your balance too much.
Packs shift around a lot and it's bound to pull you off balance.
Okay, now I want you to watch how to load up your pack.  First off,
we'll put your sleeping pad on the bottom.  If it's uncomfortable,
we'll switch things around until we get them right . . ."
    Norwell continued to talk and Angela watched him numbly.  Hombany
Mansion was hardly home for her, but just as it was beginning to feel
familiar to her, she was being forced out into the wilderness of the
world with a complete stranger.  The backpack's hipbelt continued to
dig into her hips and rub them raw.

    Finally they were prepared to leave.  Norwell turned to Victoria
and Christine and bowed deeply.  His eyes sparkled as he looked at
them.  Something special existed between the three that Angela could
not fathom.
    "She's very young," Norwell said.  "Are you certain that she is
the one?"
    "She really is quite a remarkable young child," Christine said and
waved her arm puppet-like.  "Go, now, black man and take Angela with
you."
    Norwell smiled for the first time since they met and gestured
toward a door which had slowly grown in the side of the room.  When
Angela opened it, the briny smell of sea water assaulted her senses as
the damp wind of the ocean swept across her face.
    "Well, this is it, girl.  Let us go."

    The stepped out onto the dock and watched the Mansion fade behind
them into the day's mist.  The small rowboat looked too fragile to
face the choppy seas, but Norwell forced Angela to be brave and board
it.  As he rowed, she turned to see were they had come from and there
was only the fog.  Turning back around, Angela looked toward their
destination and watched the clouds leisurely roll down across the
silver-grey cliffs whose slopes looked cold enough to be ice.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Date:      September 28, 1992
Location:  Campground of the Tribe
           Southern California, Otherworld
Time:      11:33 am

    As noon approached, the desert began to heat to uncomfortable
temperatures.  Some had retreated to their tents, although Bates did
not understand how they could bear them.  One of the "bikers," a man
named Carl Lee, walked over to him and waved.
    "The Great Mother wants to talk to you," Lee said.  "I suggest you
go."
    Bates nodded and stamped out his cigarette.  "Where?"
    "That tent over there.  The largest one.  You can't miss it."
    Indeed, he couldn't.  Some of the tents were army, others were
slim camping tents.  The Great Mother's tent was a huge tepee with a
large opening at one side that was currently sealed.  Along its sides,
various figures were painted -- dancing men, gazelles, a sun, more.
Bates approached it with something akin to tunnel-vision, that single
tepee consuming his sight and concentration.  At any moment, Bates
expected to watch blackened spikes rising out of the tent, tearing its
sides apart, and to find his own dead body splayed across their barbs.
    As he approached the flap opened and a girl emerged.  She was clad
in a skin-tight outfit that revealed her emaciation.  The skin on her
face was stretched tightly against high cheekbones and an arrogant
brow.  Her hair was pulled tightly back into a ponytail save for a few
stray hairs that waved in front of her eyes.  She glanced at Bates for
a moment, then left the tepee without a look back.
    "Enter," croaked the woman's graveled voice.  "Enter, Jonathan
Bates."
    Light filtered in from the top of the tepee and for the first
time Bates had a close look at the old woman.  She regarded him for a
moment with a slim pipe in her hands, then she breathed smoke through
her nose.
    "You are not a member of my tribe," she said, and turned back to
the pipe and the sour smoke it produced.
    "What?"
    The woman shook her head.  "You are not a member of my tribe.  You
do not belong.  Why have you come to me?"
    "I- I was sent," Bates stammered.  "I was sent by-"
    "I am the Great Mother of this tribe," she interrupted.  "You may
stay for as long as you want, but in the end you will leave us."  She
shook her head.  "I cannot accept the burden you carry.  You are too
frightening for me.  The tribe cannot accept you as a blood bond.  If
you leave today or tomorrow or the day after, it does not matter.  You
may stay for now, but in the end you must leave.  You were not sent
here to become a member of my tribe."
    She coughed into a cloth and when she pulled it away, it was
bloody.  The woman turned her blank eyes at Bates and they said
everything.  She did not hate him.  She pitied him.
    Bates nodded.  "Alright.  I understand.  I'll leave tomorrow."
    "That is good.  Learn from Xavier and the people.  We will be
ready for you tomorrow."
    Xavier waited for Bates outside with a grim look on his face.
    "Come with me," he snapped.  "Now!   You four!  See to the Mother!"
    Xavier stabbed his finger at a sidecar.  "Get on!" he shouted.  The
entire tribe was swarming.  Women, their children in their arms, ran
shrieking for old VW vans.  Men were grabbing what they could,
sweeping up running boys and girls, and depositing them in cars and on
bikes.  Bates held on as Xavier accelerated, watching the chaos in
confusion.
    Looking toward the ground, he noticed that there was black grass
growing.  Blackness.
    "No!" shouted Bates.
    Xavier shook his head.  "It knew!" he cried.  "Somehow it knew!"
    Behind them the spires were already beginning to rise and consume
the encampment.  Those who didn't make it out in time would surely
die.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

    Sea water formed cold puddles on the bottom of the rowboat.  It
creaked noisily as Norwell strained at the oars, fighting against the
waves that forced them off course.  The wind beat at them and Angela
was thankful for what little warm clothing the owners of the Mansion
had given her.
    "Do you see the beach!" cried Norwell over the wind.  "It's very
small, can you see it!"
    "No!" shouted Angela.
    "There's a peak!  Can you see that!"
    She peered through the fog.  Yes!  There!
    "I can see it!" she yelled.
    "Guide me to the left of it!"
    "You're too far over to the left!  Your left!"
    A wave swept over and soaked their pants.  Norwell grunted and
turned the boat as swiftly as he could.  Angela's wet pants were
sending an unpleasant cold through her.
    "That's good!  Don't change!"
    "Keep using the peak as a guide until you see the beach!  We've
got to make that beach!  It's the only safe landing point for miles!"
    Things were quickly becoming miserable.  She yelled instructions
for Norwell over the wind and he changed course as well as he could.
Soon, as the beach loomed close, they were travelling almost
perpendicular to the waves.  The veins stood out of Norwell's forehead
as he strained against the ocean's fury.  He was tiring and if he did
not get them further up the coast, they would be crushed against the
rocks and the cliffs.  Angela clutched the sides of the rowboat in
fear, the muscles tensing all along her arms.  Norwell pulled and
moaned.  As black as he was, Angela could see paleness in him.
    They only barely managed to reach the beach, sliding up against
its most shallow end.  Norwell stumbled out, waving for Angela to stay
in, and dragged the boat higher up the beach.  There he nearly
collapsed, falling to his knees and panting heavily.
    "Are you all right?" asked Angela in a small voice.
    He nodded, still too out of breath to say a word.  Angela reached
down to pick up her backpack, but found that it was too heavy for her
to lift.  Norwell waved a tired hand at her as if saying, don't worry,
I'll do it.  She sat in the boat and moved uncomfortably, now very
aware of her soggy clothes.
    "Change your clothes.  I'll show you how to rig up a clothesline
on your pack."
    He lurched to his feet looking considerably better.  Angela felt
relieved.
    "Um," she said after a moment.
    "I'll turn my back," he said.  "Go over there.  Here's some
clothes."
    Angela walked over to where he had pointed and changed as quickly
as she could, not wanting any of the cold sea air to stick to her skin
as she changed.  Norwell was busy digging in his pack for his own
clothes.  He didn't seem self-conscious enough to care if she watched.
When he dropped his pants, Angela giggled to herself.  His white
underwear contrasted starkly with his dark skin.
    "I'm done," she said.
    "Alright voyeur," muttered Norwell, "come over here and get your
pack on."  Angela blushed.  "See that ridge over there?  That's part
of the path that we're using.  There's not many trail signs in this
part of the woods, so stay alert and don't lose the trail.  If you do,
call out.  You shouldn't let me get so far ahead of you that you can't
see me, though.  Okay?"
    Feeling the weight crushing down on her hips again, Angela nodded.
The added weight of her water-laden clothes only made things worse.
She looked upward at last and was startled by the stark beauty of this
place.  The silver-grey cliffs rose toward the sky, topped by the
greenest plants and trees that she had ever seen.  The cliffs
glistened with moisture where they could be seen clearly, for the fog
was rolling upward, hugging the coastline like a wreath.
    "Ready?"
    "Yes."
    "Good.  Let's go."
    Angela could tell that Norwell was holding back to allow for her
slow pace.  What was even slower than a leisurely pace for him was
strict for her with the pack resting on her shoulders.  Each step she
ventured to make was dampened by the sand which slipped away under her
feet.  She thought that she'd be glad when they finally reached the
ridge, but as they began up it, her calves started to cry out.  She
hadn't gone a dozen steps before she was out of breath and beginning
to sweat.
    Norwell wasn't even tired despite his trial earlier.  People did
this for fun?  Angela would have gladly traded her pack in for a warm
room, her sketchpad, and her dreams.  The dreams were safe.  This was
too painfully real.
    Her eyes swam across the ground at her feet.  She felt so tired
that she could barely even concentrate enough to focus her sight.
Angela's pace slowed and Norwell continued onward, rising up the ridge
toward the top.  It had looked close down at the beach, but at the
pace she was keeping, Angela might as well have been miles down.
    All the rock around her was wet grey.  Not just any grey, but
every shade imaginable.  The boulders swirled into a gorgeous marble
collage.  Angela clutched her shoulder straps so that her arms
wouldn't hang loosely at her sides and continued to laboriously push
herself upward.
    "Can't be this steep," she panted.  It couldn't.  The slope looked
so gentle.
    Norwell was incredibly patient and gave Angela more than enough
time to rest.  If he was having such an easy time, why didn't he carry
some of her stuff?  Angela huffed in irritation.  She thought that
mountain men had good manners.  This one was obviously as rude as they
come.
    They reached the top of the ridge sometime after lunch.  Norwell
decided that they would hike in several yards and then camp.  He knew
of a stream where they could get fresh water from.
    "No giardia," he said, but Angela didn't know what he meant.
    When they reached a clear, flat area, Norwell told Angela that
they'd stop and camp there.  Angela sighed in relief and dropped her
pack to the ground.
    "Where's the stream?" she asked tiredly.  She had two water
bottles to fill.
    Norwell gestured down a hill some ways.  "It's that way.  You'll
hear it before you see it.  Fill my bottle too, will you?"
    "Why can't we just camp by it?"
    "Our waste would pollute the stream," Norwell explained.  "And if
you need to go to the bathroom, make sure you do it well away from the
water.  Bury your feces about five inches down."
    Too much information.  She was already forgetting everything that
he had told her that morning.  The whistle swung like a pendulum as
Angela tiredly walked down the slope toward the stream.
    The stream was about two yards across and fairly shallow.  She
leaned over and carefully filled both of her water bottled, then bent
over to dip her hands into the water and draw a delicious sip of cold
mountain water to her lips.
    The crack of a branch broke Angela's concentration and her eyes
darted upward.  On the other side of the stream was a large black bear
lazily walking along the bank.  Her strangled gasp drew the bear's
attention momentarily, but then it continued on its way.
    "Roger," Angela whispered, far too soft for Norwell to hear her
cry.
    Should she blow the whistle?  Should she run?  Mom had told her to
never run from an enraged animal, but this bear didn't seem to care
much about her.
    Slowly, she drew the whistle to her lips and blew into it three
times.

Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives