Traveller Probo

Osborne sat at a roadside table and tilted his face to enjoy the blistering heat of the tropical sun. After having been in England for the past three months, the sun was a pleasure, though the humidity was stifling. His sticky body felt as if he had been rolled in honey. Dressed in a sleeveless top, he knew he looked pale and that his impressive scars were livid. He sat at one of the ubiquitous bars on Bangla Road, the main tourist area of Phuket. He shrugged his shoulders and there was a slight twinge. There was always a twinge.

His left arm was at least connected. He had to be grateful for that. After his terrible injury in Saxon England, Osborne had been rushed to the care of some of the world’s best surgeons, fortunately located close by in London. There, after exhaustive hours of surgery, surgeons had been able to graft his severed left arm, with the major veins and artery carefully re-joined. It took an additional five hours for more surgeons to join the bones, locate and connect the main nerve trunks and do what they could to repair his severed muscles. Despite the latest technology, stem cell therapy and the best medical care money could buy, it had been a long six weeks before the fate of his arm was known.

He recalled the first physical sensation from his severed arm that was not phantom. Common in cases of amputation, when a limb was either dead or not present, there were sensations, so to have any feeling confirmed as real was a cause for celebration. Further complex operations continued to improve hand function and remove scarring, while a range of physiotherapists worked on his arm. Osborne was determined, his ‘Never Say Die’ attitude an inspiration to both fellow patients and therapists. He wrestled with the recalcitrant, alien limb and the pain, striving ceaselessly to encourage, coerce, and force it to work again.

After long months of plain, old fashioned hard work, his fingers began to move under a degree of control. While activities such as walking and, only recently, jogging, were challenging because of the residual pain exacerbated by his limb’s weight, he restarted his martial arts patterns to strengthen and discipline his body and used meditation to quieten his tortured mind. He battled a new, insidious companion; depression. That surprised him, for he believed he wasn’t the type. Osborne secretly struggled through a tenacious, smothering fog of self-doubt and negativity. He had, by then, returned to his home in Australia but, except in a token support role, he was unable to return to his regiment, the elite SASR, as an operational asset. His determination and status as a highly decorated, international hero compelled the powers-that-be to consider him for other operations on the condition he let himself heal. He hated to even admit that his left arm was largely useless, so he continued to build his body. He even trained with his old training sword, as well as modern weapons and took time for treatments he would have once considered esoteric. Whatever it was, he could never really tell but his arm slowly began to heed his commands and work again.

When he returned to London for examination by the surgeons who had reattached his arm, his healing was heralded as miraculous. It was also Osborne’s perfect excuse to return to Welbeck, the centre for the Saxon Traveller Project for that amazing year. He was permitted to only visit briefly the old mansion that had been handed back to family owners who were renovating the old manor into a conference and wedding venue. His feeling of disconnect was further highlighted by the news that the head office for Saxon Traveller had been moved to the British Army’s Chetwynd Barracks near Nottingham. As Traveller was rapidly becoming a well-funded military operation, the base became home for all British historical projects. Osborne felt the move from the old manor was the passing of a golden age. At the new base, many of the old team fondly greeted Osborne as a friend, while some of the military trainers shook hands and gave his good shoulder a hearty slap in greeting. Like all of the original Traveller team, he had achieved an almost legendary status, while his recovery from the terrible injuries he had suffered confirmed his place in Special Forces history. He watched as new Traveller recruits from Ukraine went through their paces. They were hard men and women who were veterans of terrible conflicts with Russia. He met with Hurley and the recently promoted Major Murdoch who, despite having an infant daughter, was still actively involved in Traveller projects internationally.

Through the international Special Forces network, Osborne learned of employment potential with up and coming Traveller projects. Each member of the original Traveller team were now consulting with various governments in their own time-travel research projects like that being undertaken by the New Zealanders. Some were full blown projects rumoured to be bigger than the Saxon one. Judging from the battering the Ukraine recruits were giving each other in the new training facility, these projects were being taken seriously.

Osborne, naturally, had not been considered for any of these projects but now he was back on his feet he decided to ask Hurley and Murdoch to put the word out for him. Surrounded by the trappings of a normal family, Osborne sat in the living room of the home Hurley and Murdoch shared. The renovated manor was on the outskirts of a quintessentially English village, close to the original training grounds at Welbeck and not far from the new base. The home had a warm and welcoming feel and, he knew, would have cost a fortune. But following the enormous success of Saxon Traveller and the continuing publicity they all endured, money was now of little concern. As Hurley and Murdoch were two of the central characters of the true life TV drama ‘Hunter in Saxon England’, they now enjoyed a celebrity both found abhorrent.

As they discussed the potential for Traveller projects, Osborne leaned forward in excitement. Hurley had just finished discussing one project he knew could involve Osborne, if he wanted. “Fuck me Hurley, you know I would mate. I’d crawl naked over cut glass to do something. I’ve been bored shitless to be honest!” Osborne exclaimed.

A growl from the domesticated Murdoch resulted in an immediate apology. Little Cynthia was in the room, happily rolling about the floor and gnawing busily on whatever she could find. Her infant ears were not to be tainted by any soldier’s crude language…yet.

“Well sure mate, I’ll talk to my connections. I understand you’re on leave from the regiment?” asked Hurley as he gathered Cynthia into his arms and gave her a tickle on her tummy with his nose. The result was a hearty giggle and a long string of drool.

“Yeah, it’s the usual. With pay and all that. I’m free to pursue contracts on the condition they don’t run counter to the interests of the Australian Government,” Osborne replied hopefully. “You know the drill.”

Hurley looked to his wife and simply nodded, “We’ll be in touch.”

They had looked at him and smiled but Osborne wasn’t fooled. His scars were the tip of the iceberg and the least of the trials he faced. But he wasn’t alone. Trained and hardened as each of the Travellers had been, according to the psychiatrists he had been seeing regularly, slicing another human being with a sword took some getting used to. He heard that even the iron-hard Hurley would sometimes wake with a start, terrified of some unnamed peril, conscious only that it had a sword. But it seemed Hurley had his own panacea in little Cynthia, whose disarming smile and dimples would, no doubt, make his night spectres go away.

Osborne nodded gratefully, “Thanks guys. I’m not much use at the moment. I just want something to do.”

A week later, with some initial contacts made, Osborne left England for Singapore, where he spent some days at a healing clinic that involved Chinese medicines and Tai Chi, then flew to Thailand to meet his unnamed contact.

***

The bottle of Chang beer sweated as beads of moisture harvested from the humid air ran down the chilled glass like pearls. Familiar with Thailand, Osborne loved how, when you asked for a beer, the waitress would always serve a large bottle of full strength, worthy of three or four standard drinks. In the heat, it was tempting to scull one of those babies, a dangerous combination that would soon have you staggering drunkenly about the chaotic Thai streets. He watched a motor scooter buzz past, driven by a middle-aged Russian tourist with the physique of a garbage bag of water. He had been suitably sun-burned to a throbbing red and rode about wearing only ‘Budgie Smugglers’. To Osborne’s amusement, the rider’s passenger was a trim Thai girl, obviously his ‘Thai Girlfriend’, contracted from a bar for his enjoyment for the duration of his stay. She laughed, as if captivated and held on to his doughy, soft rolls as they rode joyously past.

Phuket was a tourist nirvana, where endless markets, hawkers, cheap alcohol, easy sex, and a throbbing party atmosphere blended with Thai friendliness to create a holiday destination popular the world over. Vacationers swarmed, most of them overweight and pale, sweating profusely in the tropical humidity while tailors harangued relentlessly for business.

A lady-boy stopped at Osborne’s table and smiled. Osborne spotted the differences immediately. The large hands, feet, and Adam’s apple were a giveaway.

“Can I help you?” asked Osborne with a smile.

“Oh mister, are you new in Thailand? Do you have a Thai girlfriend?” she lisped. Her scant beard was covered in makeup and Osborne knew, for some tourists, the offer would be considered appealing because it was, to say the least, exotic. A trendy handbag and a pierced navel over short shorts and shapely tanned legs completed a package attractive to the gullible or adventurous.

Osborne chuckled but not impolitely. “Um thanks, that’s very kind of you but no thanks, not right now.” He smiled, grateful that his sun glasses hid his eyes. He knew he would be easily identified by the heavily scarred left arm.

“Oh come on mister. I can show you a very good time, best price for you!” There was a flirting smile and a slim hand fluttered and left a piece of folded paper by his glass. The corner of what was obviously a note adhered to a glass-ring of water. The entire episode attracted not a glance from anyone he could see and, as she walked away with a flash of a smile, the slim bottom in tiny shorts attracted more than a few glances from a group of men at a nearby table.

The paper sat, demanding attention. Osborne was certain he was being watched and so picked up the paper, simply a scrap upon which the words, “You sure are ugly!” were scrawled in pencil.

He barely had time to react when someone took a seat at his bar-table. Osborne looked up, surprised at the intrusion. When he saw who it was he stared a moment and burst out in delighted laughter. Chris Parker, his PE Trainer from Saxon Traveller, sat and smiled. He wore the ubiquitous Tiger Beer tank-top, board shorts, and sunglasses that were almost a uniform for tourist men in Phuket. What was not uniform was the man’s impressive physique, with darkly tanned shoulders and arms that bulged as he leaned onto the table.

“I should have known it was you Parker. I thought the lady-boy was to your taste,” smiled Osborne.

“Ha! Cheeky bastard! You were tempted though, I can tell!” Parker leaned back and checked Osborne over. “It wasn’t my idea though old mate. That was McFee’s doing.” He pointed to red-headed McFee, who was at the bar chatting with a pretty Thai girl. He had gone for beers, a task apparently easier said than done.

“Oi! Cam! What’re you doing? We want beers, not dears!” called Parker. Given his opportunity to escape, McFee disengaged from the conversation and sauntered over.

“You two look like Ebony and Ivory!” laughed Osborne. Parker was chocolate-brown while McFee was white, with shades of pink on his sun-touched skin. McFee grunted and rubbed his sunburned shoulders. “I can never tan. I thought I’d try again but I just fuckin’ burn!” His Scottish accent suited his pale complexion as much as Parker’s broad Lancashire accent did not suit his.

“You look good Ozzie. Bloody amazing!” exclaimed Parker. He looked at the scars on the arm with undisguised professional curiosity and interest. He had helped drag the injured Osborne from the battle, where Osborne’s blood had mixed with that of so many others who had died or been mutilated in that appalling field in Saxon England, over a thousand years earlier.

McFee smiled at the waitress as their beers were delivered, then lifted their glasses in cheers and took a sip. “How’s it going then mate?” asked McFee. “We hear you’ve got it all sorted.”

Osborne shook his head but smiled as he raised his heavily scarred arm in a mock salute. “No mate, she’s grown back and I can do some things,” he paused, his smile bitter, “but not like before. I sometimes think I’m lucky, just to have it hanging there.”

“It looks good though,” observed Parker, “Looks strong like, not useless.”

“Yeah, it’s getting there,” smiled Osborne with not a little chagrin, and then lifted his beer to change the subject. “Well cheers to you blokes. It’s great to see you. I was getting tired of the attentions of McFee’s girlfriend there.”

McFee snorted a ‘fuck off’ while Parker laughed. The intervening time vanished and they were mates again, just like during their training at Welbeck in England. Osborne felt embarrassed by their attention. He tried to be fit but knew his arm would never be the same. The mirror didn’t lie. He had deep lines either side of his mouth and pouches under his eyes that were not there before, engraved by months of pain and deep suffering. But he strived to be positive and retain his wry Aussie sense of humour. They sat drinking as they made comments about Thailand or people they saw as they watched the world pass by. Gorgeous, scantily clad female tourists, potbellied mature-aged men with young Thai girlfriends, lady-boys, and more, were worth a joking comment.

“Well gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure? It was obviously you who Hurley suggested I see. No wonder the bastard didn’t give me your names,” smiled Osborne as he took another sip. Not having drunk a beer for some months, he knew he would have to take it easy but he savoured the malty taste. Anything approaching his normal past-life seemed to calm him, assisting his return to how he used to be.

Parker looked to McFee, the ranking officer, who nodded, and the big, tanned Englishman leaned forward and muttered, “We have a job you may like, if you’re interested.”

To this Osborne simply nodded. Unwilling to discuss more in such a public place, they left the sweating beers unfinished and joined the hustle and bustle to wander with the tourists. As they walked, they talked, the blare of music from shops and clubs making it impossible for any potential eavesdropping equipment to be effective.

“As you know, every nation appears to be in a race to get their own Time Travel research under way,” explained McFee. “It seems everyone’s in on it. It’s essentially for the usual reasons, you know, national pride and to have their citizens forget about the usual ongoing terrorism bullshit, financial difficulties, and so on. The Russians are preparing something, we know the Chinese are too, the Japanese are working on a project and the Indians, French, Norwegians and Koreans are all trying to jump onto the band wagon. Then you have those who, like the New Zealanders, are fighting over the Scholarship idea. It’s a fucking shit-fight! But it means lots of work for us because there’s a hell of a demand for anyone associated with the original Traveller project to get these other projects going.”

They paused to cross a major road, always a risk as, by Western standards, they were insane. Scooters, cars, taxis and tuk-tuks; the noisy open-sided mini-van taxis used by locals and tourists alike, joined Kamikaze tourists on motor scooters who were, by far, the greatest risk. With a gap in the traffic, they darted across the road and headed into a sea of traditional Asian knick-knack and clothing stalls.

“You’ve left out the Americans,” commented Osborne.

“Ahh yes, the Americans,” chuckled Parker. “They look to be involved in a couple of projects of interest. Obviously we’ve been in contact with the American crew from Saxon Traveller. Anderson says that they’re doing something in the USA, something in the Mississippi area, you know the drill, because he’s not saying anything. But what’s interesting, something Anderson didn’t tell us, is the rumour that the Yanks might be planning a Traveller project with Israel.”

“Israel! That could open up an interesting can of worms,” observed Osborne in interest.

“That’s not all of it,” added McFee. “It seems that the Arabs, that is the Saudis, are very keen to set up a project too. Remember this is like a ‘space race’ for hire. It’s not between a couple of high-tech super powers trying to boot a couple of poor sods into space for King and Country. This has become a free-for-all! Any country with a spare five-billion dollars is clamouring to be first and we’re some of the very few recognised Traveller Project experts about the place.”

The men cut across another street, the hot, humid, air filled with traffic fumes, spices, and the odd whiff of raw sewage. Sweat poured until they entered a modern shopping mall, complete with air-conditioning. The cool air brought gasps of relief.

“The usual shit then, not only are politics involved but religion too?” laughed Osborne in amusement.

Parker smiled. “Yep, same shit, different day,” he confirmed.

They found a small restaurant and ordered food. Osborne ordered the dishes ‘Thai Hot’, which generally meant that the end of the tongue felt as if it was on fire. The pretty Thai waitress gawped in recognition and they watched with little interest as she chatted with other staff and pointed them out as visiting celebrities. “So how are you guys involved?” asked Osborne, keen to know where this was heading. They ignored the attention, thankful their fame was waning. Earlier, as they passed bustling market stalls, Osborne spotted t-shirts emblazoned with images of Saxon Travellers wielding swords and dressed in Saxon garb. He realised how Hurley must have especially suffered from the sudden meteoric rise in fame, as his dramatised image was one of the two main characters. The other was Hunter, still in Saxon England. Though the other team members had their touch of celebrity, Osborne had avoided most because of his grievous wounds.

“Remember Taylor?” asked Parker. Professor Adrian Taylor had been an integral influence in establishing the Traveller project. He had been their history mentor, guiding their training to target the Saxon society of the time.

“How can I forget? What’s he up to now?” asked Osborne.

McFee continued, “Well you know how Taylor started up a few ventures to cash in on the Saxon Traveller brand. You might have heard how the little shit looked to make millions until he was... well ... compelled might be the best way to say it, to participate in an amalgamation of interests. You will know that now as Transporter Corp. It’s the body that controls the use of the Transporter and it seems that our good friend, Professor Taylor, is the head of ‘Historical Research International’, an integral part of that body. He’s been fighting for the right to establish a Traveller Project strictly managed by the academic historians whom the body represents. He makes no secret in declaring that the world’s premier historians should know which project will be next. He’s finally received funding from the pool of money that countries have paid so far to use the Transporter and is now planning a project of his own.”

“Really? The cheeky bastard! Is that what you’re involved in?” exclaimed Osborne as the food was served.

Parker continued as he shovelled in the food, talking and eating at the same time. “Taylor approached most of the old Traveller team to run this. Not only are we in on it but also the rest of the old Brit gang, though the Yanks look like they’ve all been seconded into their own thing. So we have McAlister and Poxon with us as well. We thought you might want to be a part of it all.” He spat a kaffir-lime leaf onto his finger and placed it onto his plate while McFee, red-faced and sweating, could not continue. He cursed them as inconsiderate bastards as he ordered dish that had no chilli. Osborne grunted and they thoughtfully ate in silence.

“So what about Hurley and Murdoch? Aren’t they involved?” asked Osborne.

McFee continued, “Well it seems that Hurley and Murdoch are acting in an official capacity for the British Government and are working with the Ukrainians.”

“That explains the lads training in England when I was there,” Osborne nodded.

McFee chuckled wryly, “Yes, well our friends, and the UK Government, are being paid a packet, it seems, though strictly in a consultancy role. It’s all something to do with Ukrainian nationalism in the face of current Russian expansionist policies, and so on.”

“So, what is it you guys are up to,” asked Osborne. He still sported his Saxon moustache, now fashionable in some circles and he wore his hair longer than military standard. McFee wore his ruddy moustache but Parker had more than a few days’ beard growth. Both looked incredibly fit. Osborne knew the look. They were preparing to be Transported and he wanted to be a part of it.

Parker smiled and leaned forward, so he looked like a grinning pirate. “Byzantium, my old son, Byzantium!”