Traveller Probo

Hami was no longer there. He had knocked Pokere sideways out of the Area of Convergence to slide down the wet, steep slope away from the main attack.

Pokere was alone.

The bellows of fury from the attackers confirmed his suspicion that they thought both strangers had vanished with their new war chief. But it was not long before Pokere’s body was spotted, sprawled half-way down the slope. He had lost his MP5, its dark shape to be seen further up the slope.

He struggled to a kneeling position and then tried to stand and race to the weapon but slipped and fell as the slick, damp slope made purchase well-nigh impossible. What was worse, his left ankle was in agony, probably from one of the rocks thrown just before Max had tackled Hami. Pokere was now about ten metres down the slope into the extinct volcanic caldera and some of the villagers had gathered there. They grinned in obvious anticipation. He knew that to fall victim to them would not precipitate a rapid nor painless demise.

Wearily he knew what to do. He reached to release his sidearm from his holster and cocked it.

There were only nine rounds, so he had to make eight count and try to access the Area of Convergence before he used the ninth on himself. The decision was neither heroic nor cowardly but practical. Each Traveller knew how the rules of Transporter use negated the possibility of a rescue. That had been perfectly clear. While the operators in the 21st Century would continue to open the time-gateway as often as they could, they had to beware of locals being Transported. Pokere knew he was in trouble. If the locals could butcher a man like they had Markus and Elkington, God knew what horrors they would inflict upon a live captive. Like the rest of the New Zealand Traveller team, he had read tales of South Pacific cannibalism as witnessed by sailors and missionaries in centuries past, where victims were sometimes eaten alive. He did not intend to suffer such a fate.

Pokere again struggled to stand but could not. Believing he was not only unarmed but also injured, warriors and their women on the upper slope hooted with glee. He knew the weapons of his Traveller team had taken a terrible toll on the villagers but there was nothing else he could have done. His priority was to protect those in his command. Tattooed faces showed their delight as they identified his weapon some metres distant and, while some began to make their careful descent, others ran to the lower area. Thrown rocks were barely dodged and their advance was inexorable. He knew, with despair, there was no way he would regain the Area of Convergence, even if the Transporter was reactivated.

He absently evaluated his team’s performance. They had done their best but had simply been ambushed. There was nothing else he could have done.

And there was no hope of rescue. He would die here. He only wanted it to be quick.

The villagers at the foot of the slope began a leisurely advance and the two men and two women hungrily gazed up in sadistic anticipation. Pokere had no illusions about the effectiveness of the women in fulfilling the warrior role. They had showed themselves to be terribly effective as stone throwers, while they carried long digging sticks that were perfect for stabbing. One of the stockier women waved her stick with gusto and yelled threats and encouragement to the others, so Pokere shot her through her thigh. The sharp crack was followed by her screech of pain and surprise, causing bellows of frustration from some of the gathered warriors. All stopped, shocked at the manifestation of yet another mysterious weapon. He watched as the woman fell in shock. Pokere absently hoped the bullet had passed through her leg, for if it remained she would die a creeping, harrowing death through infection.

One of the warriors from the top of the hill yelled in frustration and waved a combat knife looted from Markus or Elkington. He attempted a quick slide down the hill and was shot through the heart for his troubles. Mortally wounded, he continued to slide down the steep slope to lie only a metre or so from Pokere’s combat boots where he thrashed vainly until he expired with a loud fart.

More warriors approached, slowly, ceaselessly. Pokere knew this was it. They began to encircle him and he had to be certain that those behind did not catch him unawares. It was time to turn the weapon on himself.

He felt surprisingly detached as he placed the end of his pistol to the underside of his chin and carefully aimed to the top of his skull. These people were so utterly savage and brutal. He wondered if he and his squad mates with Maori heritage still had that potential. He thought of his family and ancestors. How little did anyone really know about one’s ancestors anyway?

He moved his finger to the trigger and took a deep breath. Only a slight pressure would be enough.

A burst of thunderous gunfire caused all to look to the top of the hill in shocked surprise. Pokere’s commanding officer, Captain Marshall, stood, pale-skinned and white-haired, with Ngawa by his side. Both fired their weapons in short bursts above the heads of the villagers, the heavier thump of the Steyr rounds causing the previously exuberant attackers to flee in panic.

Two visitors became four as Hami and a fellow SAS soldier from the facility also appeared as if by magic. Before the villagers’ despairing eyes, another two warriors materialised and the noise of the firing was horrific. Recognising they were overwhelmed, they ran for their lives. With some difficulty, the villagers slipped and ran for the easier slopes away from where Pokere knelt. A few of the bravest yelled insults as they waved weapons and dragged the wounded woman and dead companions away. Only the lone, dead warrior remained by Pokere. He looked at the dead man and his bearded, tattooed face and wondered who he was. What were his dreams of happiness and the future?

Captain Marshall called down, “Can’t you go anywhere without causing a fight?” The other soldiers silently guarded the rapidly vacating area and watched as the villagers disappeared into the rainforest.

Ngawa chuckled.

Pokere smiled. He was pale-faced, muddy, bloody, and exhausted but as relieved as only a man saved from certain death could be. He gratefully locked his pistol and placed it back into his holster.

“It seems I can’t,” he replied.