Contents

Title Page

Tork

Larry

Joe

Brent

Crossover Series

Backstories

Walt Socha

#

Tork

Toru ran with rhythmic breaths, eyes searching for any movement in the moonlight, ears categorizing startled bird alarms and the muffled footfalls of his friends.

They had done it. Had penetrated the Sands people's village and taken one of their sacred totems. Now he and his three friends had the right to petition the Elders for full warrior rights.

A flicker of movement. His running pace slipped into a stationary crouch in a heartbeat. The following footfalls ceasing by the second beat.

A bush to the right exploded into the frightened flight of a young buck.

"Closer home, and we could also have brought our own celebratory feast," a voice spoke in Toru's ear.

"Quiet Nist," Toru said. "We're not out of danger yet." His friend was good-natured but careless. But Toru didn't regret keeping his friend out of trouble.

"It'll be morning before they realize that their sacred totem is missing."

"Always be ready," Toru ended the discussion by moving back into a run.

* * *

At the first light of day, they crested the ridge over their valley. They had been gone a week, and the village lay peaceful and welcoming in the dim light.

Whistling softly, Toru notified the sentry of their presence.

Instead of an answering whistle, a dozen or so warriors separated from the shadows and matched the pace of the still running youths.

Toru's arm moved to fit a dart to his atl-atl, then relaxed as he recognized the village's men.

But something was wrong. While their successful raid was cause for celebration, it didn't warrant their silent escort. And the village could not have heard of their success.

Toru kept running. The following footfalls less muffled and more numerous.

* * *

The sun had completely crested the low hills when the escorted youth reach the village's outer palisade.

"What's happening," Nist asked, moving up to Toru's side as the group slowed and approached the waiting knot of Elders at the palistrade gate.

"No idea," Tour said in a low whisper.

"Greeting, Elders," Toru said in a louder voice, as the four youth stopped before the older men.

"We are successful," Toru said to Batu, the highest ranking of the village's Elders. Toru detached his slung pouch from his back and removed the ceremonial rattle taken from the Sands people's village.

"Nist, take the totem," Batu said. "Then you, Riso and Tuva go to your huts."

The four youth exchanged glances. Then the named three left. The warriors who had accompanied the youth to the village moved in closer around Toru.

"Bring him," Batu said. He turned and, with the other Elders, walked into the village.

Surrounded by men he had known all his life, Toru followed.

Entering the village, his bewilderment turned to apprehension. All was familiar: the huts of his friends, the communal buildings and, rising above the entire village, the Sacred Burial Mound. But now, the usually smiling faces of the inhabitants were blank. Something was wrong.

Weaving through the village, Batu lead the strange procession to the foot of the Great Mound. At its base was the judgment circle, where the Elders ruled on village and spiritual matters. And next to the circle, figures were tied to the prisoner poles.

Then, through the milling crowd of onlookers, Toru got a clear view of the prisoners. His breath stopped as he recognized his parents. He choked a cry and started to run to their aid, but strong hands grabbed him. The sharp edge of an obsidian blade at his throat quelled thoughts of struggle.

His father must have been causing trouble again. Toru's eyes flickered around, desperately looking for help or support. All faces avoided his eyes or looked at him in anger.

All during his short three hands of life, he had listened to his father's claims of being the rightful leader of the Tall Trees peoples. While his father did have some justifiable claims to the leadership position, Batu had similar claims as well as the support of the People's major clans.

Toru was dragged forward to the poles. His mother looked up, anguish clearly visible on her pallid face. His father was motionless.

"Mother," Toru cried out.

She mouthed his name in a wheezing breath.

"Why have you done this?" Toru said to Batu.

Batu didn't answer, just gestured to the men holding Toru.

Hands forced Toru to an adjacent pole, his hands forced upwards over his head and tied.

"Why?" he asked again, a blow to his head the only answer.

The Elders left. Soon, the crowd of villagers dissipated.

"Mother," Toru asked, "can you hear me? Are you hurt?" Although unable to move his arms, Toru could turn his body and head enough to face his mother.

"Tork," she said in a low raspy voice, using her nickname for him. It was the name of the local squirrel; whose scampering and chattering she claimed reminded her of her son.

"You father challenged Batu," she said after a pause. "He had us both beaten. I think your father's dead. I'm sorry Tork." Only low sobs continued.

Toru couldn't think of anything to say. His father had been obsessed with his lineage. His father's parents and grandparents were entombed in the top layers of the Sacred Mound. But, unfortunately, others, including Batu, also had ancestors buried in the Mound. And Batu was from a very powerful Clan.

* * *

All day Toru and his mother hung in the sun as the life of the village continued on around them. His father's body softened in decay. His mother was silent except for intermittent sobs.

Toru tried calling on friends or near-relatives for water for his mother. But those formerly close kept far away. Rivals and acquaintances merely ignored Toru and his mother.

At sunset, Batu brought several men to cut Toru's father down. They dragged the body without ceremony in the direction of the village dumpsite. With night coming on, his father's body would be defiled by scavengers.

"Mother," Toru cried, "I'll get us free. I swear you will be honored in this life and the next." He started crying, not for himself but for his mother. Weak from dehydration and despair, consciousness faded.

* * *

"Toru," a voice said. "Toru, wake up. And, by the gods, do so silently."

The moon was up, casting weak shadows over the village. The shadow next to Toru resolved itself into his friend Nist.

"Nist," Tork said through swollen lips. Then he collapsed as Nist severed the cords holding his stretched weight.

Water dribbled over his face, some flowing into his mouth. Toru coughed and rasped, "my mother."

"You must help me," Nist said.

Toru forced himself up on quivering legs and shuffled to his mother's side.

"Hold her," Nist said.

Toru held his mother's limp form and again collapsed as her weight shifted from the cut chords to Toru.

Then her dead weight released him.

"Follow me," Nist. "I'll carry your mother." He started off into the night.

Toru stumbled after him with unsteady legs.

Nist lead Toru on a circuitous route through the village to a section of the palisade under repair. Several posts were missing.

"Help me lift her through," Nist said.

Toru was steadier on his feet now. He lifted his mother from Nist's shoulder. She was limp. But she breathed.

Once through the wall, Nist again carried her.

* * *

After the moon had moved a hands width through the night sky, they stopped. Nist produced more water and some dried fruit. A blanket appeared around Toru's mother.

"I stashed some supplies here before freeing you," Nist said. "But we can only rest a short time. They will come after us at sun rise."

"Thank you, my friend," Toru said after another mouthful of water. "My mother would not have lasted another day. And I could not have born the dishonor of her body also being defiled."

"Toru, I didn't always agree with your father," Nist said. "But I agreed less with Batu."

"I think Toru is dead. Let me be known as my mother calls me. From now on, call me Tork." He looked down at his mother. She was now aware enough to take water.

"Two things I swear," Tork continued. "First, when my mother leaves this world, that she will reside in the grandest Sacred Mound that will ever be known by all the various Peoples."

Tork got to his feet and started gathering their meager supplies. "Second, I will return and avenge my father's defiled body."

Tork gathered his mother into his arms. "We will travel north."

[end]

#

Larry

"Shit," Larry said, staring into the Refrigerator. No milk.

A long evening of medication, another bad night of images, and now no milk.

He looked back at the counter. Amid the dirty dishes and empty beer cans was a lonely bowl of dry cheerios.

He turned back to the open Frig. Hell with it, only a few minutes till noon. He pulled out a beer and popped the top.

Clearing a space at the table, he poured the beer over the cheerios. Damn, no spoon. He got up.

Vader's Imperial March interrupted the spoon search.

"Hey Larry," a voice said after Larry got the cell open, " we're on the way to a SCA fair. You with?"

"What's a what?" Larry asked.

"Doesn't matter," the voice said. "It's got a beer garden."

* * *

"All right, don't get a weekend off together much," Mike said, swerving around a slow moving sedan.

"Might even live through the whole weekend, if you'd stop driving like we're still in our ambulance," Fred said from the front passenger seat. "Remember, we ain't got a siren."

"Shit, good thing you weren't with me and Larry last week," Mike said. "Now that was a ride. And Larry, you were awesome gettin' that kid outta that car. Christ, thought we were back in the Army with all that fire and smoke."

"So what's this SAC thing?" Larry asked from the back. Got to get off that shit.

"SCA. Society for Creative something or the other," Mike said. "A bunch of freaks wearing Middle Age costumes."

"Creative Anachronisms," Fred said. "Think low cut medieval dresses, leaning over our table serving beer."

* * *

It was as Fred said. It was also a sunny cool June day. Perfect for beer and beauties.

And brawn. Larry was distracted by the guys in the field next to the beer garden, wearing armor and whacking each other with padded swords. Maybe it was the beer or maybe just the bad night, but he envied the fun they seem to be having.

About halfway through the third pitcher, someone in robes and hood started making announcements. One caught Larry's attention.

"If you're interested in tournament fights," the hooded man said through a portable PA system, "stick around after the individual matches and try it out. We got beginners' armor and weapons."

The man finally finished and the next match started. Larry watched. Could he do that?

"Hey guys, how about moving on?" Mike said, breaking Larry's concentration on the contestants' parries and blocks.

"I'm ready for a new serving wench," Fred said. "This one don't flirt."

"You guys go on. I'm gonna stick around," Larry heard himself saying. "I'll bum a ride back."

* * *

"Hope I don't look as silly as I feel," Larry mumbled. He was on the field with several other newbies, holding a heavily padded sword and a shield, and squeezed into the largest set of padded armor that the tournament organizers could find. Some guy in clerical robes was finishing up an explanation of the honor system.

"So basically," he said, "if you successfully block, you live. If you get hit, you must simulate injury. Or flop around on the ground dying."

Larry wasn't sure he liked his guy.

"But as beginners," the robed man added, "we let you have several lives. And to get things rolling, let's run you through some preliminary exercise."

Larry found himself in a line, and, as a group, they worked through basic attacks, parries and shield blocks. After a few minutes, Larry was panting and sweating. Way too much beer and way too little exercise.

Then the newbies were paired up with experienced fighters. Larry found himself facing a knight dressed in black.

At the starting horn blast, Larry rushed him, hoping for surprise. He swung his wooden sword and the ground smashed into his side. Through blurred eyes Larry stared at cobblestones. Screams and rifle shots reverberated through the narrow alleyway. His eyes cleared and he was looking at grass. Christ, it was last night all over again.

Larry staggered to his feet. A heavy bass drum thudded through his body. As he stood, the thuds quieted to something like a normal heartbeat.

"You okay, bud?"  the black knight asked, lifting his visor for a better look. "Keep you weight centered. I was able to just kick your feet out from under you. Let's just try some practice exchanges to get your balance."

They squared off again and exchanged blows and blocks. Larry started to get the hang of moving with the weight of the armor and how to stay upright when the heavy sword and shield clashed. Sweat soaked his clothing.

"Let's do it," the black Knight said.

Larry moved in. An overhand fake, than a thrust to the belly. The black Knight moved his shield and Larry's sword went flying. A flash and the side of Larry's helmet exploded. Once again, the ground rose up and knocked the breath out of his lungs. Blurred vision of a narrow street. Shouts. Running. Carrying George over one shoulder. George's blood dripping on his arm and leg. Oh shit, not again. Larry rose, his body trembling from memory and fatigue.

"You telegraphed the fake with your body movement," the black Knight said. "Wait till the last second before bracing your body for the real move."

Larry glanced around. There was now a large crowd watching. Can't stop now. Frickin' male ego shit.

The black Knight lunged forward, sword sweeping down. Larry blocked, the descending sword flying away. Then the black Knight's shield flared in his vision and he felt himself propelled backward. "Move out," the Sergeant screamed, "move it, move it." Larry ran, George's weight numbing his left side. A flash of color. Larry fired. A kid's head exploded. A goddamned neighborhood kid walking out the wrong door at the wrong time. Larry screamed.  Blue sky, faint clouds moving slow. Then the black Knight's face above him.

"Good move," the man said. "You disarmed me. Hope I didn't whack you too hard with my shield."

Larry got up on one knee. Then stood.

"No, I'm ok," Larry said. Christ, the kid. What a fuckup. George had died anyway. Gotta stop thinking.

"Hey man, how'd you do that," Larry asked. Keep moving.

"Call me Allen," the black Knight said. "Here, let me show you."

Allen spent the next few minutes going over his shield thrust. Then the robed man announced the start of the General Melee.

"The rules are simple, be the only one left," the announcer finished up.

"This gets pretty crazy," Allen said. "You may want to sit this out."

"No, I'll try it," Larry said. Anything rather than thinking of the kid.

It started with all the armored fighters in the field. Then the starting horns. Within seconds it was chaos. Larry stood, perplexed. He and another obvious newbie were ignored, at least for the present, the more experienced fighters trying to eliminate their top adversaries. Then a blue and white-attired Knight ran at Larry, sword swing. Without thinking, Larry thrust his shield. The blue and white Knight fell.

"Damn," the Knight said. "Nice move." Then the blue and white figure began crawling towards the perimeter of spectators.

Larry was stunned. He just beat someone. And not a newbie. Holy shit.

Then a flash from a figure in red. The kid lay there, head shattered. A hand grabbed his arm. "Move it," a voice said, "can't help him. We gotta get out of here." ...Larry shook off the hand, "No, I'll get him". Flames were appearing from the engine compartment. The seat belt was stuck. He slipped his emergency knife between the kid and the belt and ripped. Smoke stung his eyes. No time to check for injuries. He pulled and they both fell out of the car. Hands grabbed him, dragging him back away from a flash of heat. The kid in his hands started coughing. His eyes cleared. Staring at grass again. The red figure had moved on.

Guess I'm dead. Larry propped himself on his elbows, actually relieved to be forced to rest. About half of the fighters were down. Some like Larry, just watching from where they fell. Others were crawling off the field.

But not dead like that kid in Baghdad. There was hollowness with that thought. But he was surprised to realize that it was now bearable.

Within minutes it was over. And it was his black Knight who remained. Allen came over, and helped Larry up.

"You did good for a newbie," Allen said. "Heard you took out a Knight before biting it. Up for a beer?"

"Ah... How about water for now," Larry heard himself say. "Tell me more about this SCA thing."

[end]

#

Joe

SourceURL:file://localhost/Users/waltsocha/Documents/Crossover/backstories/Rude%20Visitor5.doc

Joe woke, groggy from a late night of studying. It was the weekend, but one to be spent pretending to be his ancestors for a bit above minimum wage.

He allowed himself a bit of worrying as he performed his morning toilet. Almost to the end of the school year and still no prospects for a summer job. The budget cuts that had eliminated his planned summer Internship were getting deeper not better. No hope there.

By the end of his cold cereal, he decided to put off thinking about the summer problem until the upcoming week. Today he would get through his part time Museum job. It didn't pay much but did cover food.

Joe arrived early and entered the Museum's back entrance into the rooms that staged the Native American displays. Although he had to be ready at opening, he typically had no visitors until they wandered their way through the front exhibits. He had his displays out and had made a start on a new basket when he heard the first visitors.

Two men entered, one after the other. The first heading his way. The other meandering to the displays of clothing.

"Hey Indian, why you doing baskets," the approaching man asked. "Ain't that squaw's work?"

"Good morning, Sir," Joe said. "Excuse me, but the term 'squaw' is considered to be a derogatory term."

"Whatever," the man replied. "So why you doing women's work?"

"Baskets and skins were the only containers for thousands of years. Even hunters..."

"Yeah, yeah," the man interrupted. "What's with these rocks?"

"These are obsidian and chert. The best of available material for producing sharp edges," Joes said. He took a slow breath. The man looked normal enough, shaved and adequately dressed.

"So what good is a rock with sharp edges?" the man asked.

"These are basic tools," answered Joe. "The edges are used for hunting, skinning and scraping".

The man picked up a scrapper, looked at it and dropped it. "So where'd you learn this stuff?" he asked. "On the reservation?"

Joe drew in another deep breath. This one not so silent. He needed this job, this man he didn't need.

"Actually, I've never lived on a reservation," Joe said.

"So you're a tame Indian?" the man asked.

"We're all tame now-a-days," Joe answered. Maybe a little humor could calm this guy.

The man moved one of the offered chairs and sat down. A little hard from the groan of the chair.

"Ok, show me," he said.

Joe continued with his basket, completing the bottom and working on the beginning of the sides.

"You can buy one of these for a buck at the Dollar Store," the man commented.

Replying was useless, so Joe kept working. He did notice that the other man who had entered earlier was now standing a few yards away. This one was apparently looking at a display of beadwork.

"Heck, I'll give you two bucks for it," the first man added with what sounded like a low laugh.

"Actually, Sir," Joe said, "these baskets go for a quite a lot more at the Museum Shop." Unfortunately, not many sold.

"Hey, not bad for woman's work" the first man said. "Ever think of getting a real job?"

Joe stopped. Not worth it. Maybe this guy's got an issue or two. Joe continued working the basket.

"Hell, this is boring," the man said. He got up and wandered away.

Joe worked for a few more minutes.

Then, with a whirlwind of chatter, a small group of children stopped by, a harried mother in tow. Joe smiled. Kids were always enthusiastic, even if somewhat inattentive.

For the next 20 minutes, Joe fielded questions, managing to keep up with the changing and somewhat tangential flow of topics.

Finally, when he thought his voice would give out, the kids moved on, the harried mother still in tow.

Joe realized that the second man was still nearby.

"Can I explain something, Sir," Joe called out to this watching man. Sometimes people were curious but hesitant to ask questions about unfamiliar topics.

"Actually not," this man said, walking over. He was tall, with tanned skin. He wore what Joe call Country Camo: plaid shirt and blue jeans. His boots looked expensive, but worn and comfortable.

"My name's Alex," he said. "Here in town on business." He stuck out his hand. Joe took it. Firm but without the macho over-pressure thing.

Joe introduced himself, adding "The Museum has me here on weekends to demonstrate the old skills used by the First Americans."

"Later today I'm flying back to a ranch I manage." Clem said. "It's a large Resort operation. And we've been lookin' for some help with the summer season activities. We got us a Naturalist and a Blacksmith to give classes to our clients. Thinkin' of adding someone to cover these pre-contact skills. You interested?"

"Why...," Joe stammered. "Yes, I'd like to hear about it."

"Good," Alex said. "I was sorta watching you with that drunk and with the kids. You handle yourself pretty good. That's important at our resort."

Joe took Alex's business card and gave him his contact information.

"I'll have our Activity Director send you an application first thing Monday." Alex said. "Hope to see you again."

Joe stood for a few seconds after Alex left. Maybe this next year's finances would be ok.

[end]

#

Brent

"Excuse me sir," a voice said, causing Brent to start.

"Oh, yes Mike," Brent said. "Excuse me, but I thought everyone had left."

"Would you reconsider these points you took off on this last exam?" Mike said, showing a recently returned paper. "I believe I had correctly identified the nutrient needs here."

"Technically correct, but the question relates to the interaction between the plant and the soil's microbes," Brent replied. "And you did got the highest grade in the class."

"Yes sir, but points are points," Mike said. "Besides, most agricultural systems today just calculate and add the correct fertilizers as needed. Easier to control yields."

"Nice try, but the class's emphasis is on the soil web of life."

Mike admitted defect with good humor and left, leaving Brent to finish gathering up his materials.

Brent felt empty. Great kids, but not interested in the natural processes. And what does calculating tons of fertilizer per acre have to do with Biology?

Maybe next year's students will be different. Or maybe he'd stop being delusional.

Brent glanced at the wall clock as he left his classroom. He had time to drop off his papers before showing up for an unexpected meeting with the University's President.

* * *

The room was furnished in cold polished wood with most of the walls covered with framed photos of the more successful alumni. Politicians and corporate leaders stared out from their windows while they stood shaking John Eastmann's hand.

President Eastmann himself sat behind his massive wooden desk, whose polished surface was broken only by a few perfectly aligned stacks of documents.

In addition to Eastmann's smiling face, Brent felt Chad Roscoe's. The Human Resource Director sat at the side of Eastmann's desk on a chair repositioned to face Brent.

"You realize of course," Eastmann was saying, "that none of our students are average."

"No sir, I mean, yes sir," Brent said. "They are great kids." He noticed the slight narrowing of both Eastmann's and Roscoe's eyes at the work 'kids.'

"It's just that they're not so interested in plants as part of the eco-system," Brent added. The small talk at the beginning of the meeting had turned towards his concern over the students' attitude towards his approach to his Agricultural Farming Methods class.

"Are they doing well with the assignments and exams?" Eastmann asked.

"Oh yes," Brent said. "They do what's required. And well on the exams."

"Doesn't seem like there is a problem to me."

"You see, Brent," Roscoe added, entering the conversation, "this establishment prides itself on graduating successful leaders, both in government service as well as in corporate boardrooms."

"But that makes it all the more important that they understand...," Brent started to say.

"Yes, Brent," Eastmann interrupted," we appreciated the enthusiasm of your convictions. However, the philosophy of this university is to promote people, not plants."

"Therefore, Brent," Roscoe said, "we think it is in the best interest of both the University, and yourself, that your contract not be renewed for the next school year. You will be expected to continue through the remaining portion of the school year with all the professionalism you have exhibited to date."

Brent sat frozen for a few seconds. Decided to protest and quickly realized that would be useless. Instead he got up from his seat.

"Well, thank you for your support this past year," Brent said. Then he turned and left the office, silently closing the door behind him.

Once outside, Brent surprised himself by smiling. Heck, unemployment was a much easier problem to handle than cold, money-hungry students.

It would be a scramble coming up with something for the next year. Few schools would still be accepting job applications this close to summer, most having already filled any holes in their upcoming staffing. And any corporate work was out of the question given the South American fiasco.

Best reconsider a summer job. He had thought to hang around at the University during the summer and catch up on his reading. But that plan was shot.

He'd check some of the trade magazines, recalling an ad for a summer position as a Botanist at a Dude ranch in Montana. Now that he was essentially a migrant worker, a summer job at a resort sounded less like work than room and board.

[end]