Chapter One

600 A. D. (After Departure)

Boss kept a stick close at hand. It was a gnarled old thing with a leather loop through its knobby head and a brass cup on the foot.

The uninitiated would call it a walking stick.

Boss, however, did not call it a walking stick because it was of no use to him for walking. For Boss, it served a different purpose. He whacked people with it. Mostly, Boss whacked Wyatt with the stick. In fact, Wyatt had been hit so many times and with such regularity he would cringe and flinch any time Boss reached for it. Not that he could help it, the cringing and the flinching, that is. Repeated beatings tend to instill such reactions. Over the course of years Wyatt had become attuned to the stick, alert and ready should Boss find himself in a funk or just generally surly .

Nothin' like a good beating to keep a Speck in line, Boss would say. He talked about the stick like that, as if he were nothing more than a passive observer of its actions whenever it chose to mete out punishment to those deserving of such. Careful Wyatt, that stick's wanting to get busy, or Watch out, that stick be looking your way. The stick went everywhere with Boss because it was never really known when he might encounter someone in desperate need of a good thrashing. He seemed to believe no real communication could occur without a proper tenderizing of the hearer by the stick.

On the day Wyatt's life would change forever, his thoughts and attention were focused on the stick, much like every day. This day was a special one, the last day of the trading season but one on which very little actual trade had occurred. This rendered Boss irritable and foul, looking for an excuse to loosen the fury of the stick. He sat perched on his stool muttering incomprehensible grumblings and breathing out the occasional vitriolic threat, his hand straying at times toward the stick idly leaning against the counter. For his part, Wyatt worked at remaining inconspicuous yet busy enough with his broom to maintain an appearance of productivity should Boss think him slothful. Nothing drew the attention of the stick with any greater certainty than sloth.

The rusty cans hanging above the door to the shop clattered, signaling the arrival of a customer. Without ability to resist, Wyatt's eyes were drawn to the stick, apprehensive of whatever malice it may decide to dispense at this unexpected intrusion. Yet Boss stayed his hand and the stick remained in place, its wrath left dormant. Wyatt gawped at Boss in confusion, this new inconsistency both puzzling and disturbing until he realized Boss was as equally flummoxed by the man standing at the door.

It was a trader, one of the Rama.

The man was lean and weathered, everything about him faded to a sun bleached gray and covered in a film of dust. He wore a vest fashioned of leather from a creature found deep in the Wastelands, a creature spawned of another world. An ebony tusk about the length of a man's hand hung from a cord around his neck, accompanied by smaller versions pierced through his earlobes. Other than those adornments, little distinguished him from countless other travelers who passed through Cairo each week.

He merely stood, letting his eyes adjust from the harsh glare of the street to the relative dimness of the shop.

"Welcome friend." From behind the counter Boss slid from his stool, his palms extended outward in an expansive gesture while his tone and posture belied the warm words.

"Friend?" snorted the trader. "I ain't your friend and they ain't no way I plan on becoming one." His gaze swept across the shop noting the bolts of cloth, the meticulously organized bins of salvaged nails, the spools of wire and rope, and the jars of fruit preserves brought down from the north at great expense. It passed over Wyatt as though he were nothing more than just another bundle of goods or a piece of worn out furniture. And Wyatt certainly was accustomed to this treatment, he was--by all accounts--far less valuable than a bundle of goods or a piece of furniture.

Boss cleared his throat and peeled his sweat saturated shirt away from his chest, billowing it in and out in a futile effort to provide some relief from the heat. He dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with an already saturated rag. "Meant no offense, meant no offense." He paused, biting his lower lip. "It's just... Well, we don't get your kind in here often."

"Often?" It was said more as an observation than a question. The trader pulled his hat from his head and ran his fingers through a crop of short, wiry hair. Tiny clouds of dust wafted into the air.

"Your name Elgee?" This time it was a question.

Wyatt busied himself with the broom but managed to watch as Boss tensed and sidled toward the stick.

"You ain't gonna need that." A sardonic smile flitted across the trader's face. "Now I been told you're a man who knows how to get things. Maybe some things might be tough for others to get."

He drew a tiny leather pouch from his vest and hefted it in his hand. It emitted a muffled clinking sound, drawing Boss's eyes and holding them riveted with curiosity. Boss pursed his lips as a new film of sweat formed on his forehead. Greed won out over caution because he was nothing if not greedy.

"Yeah, I'm Elgee. But I don't know who you been talking to cause I don't do nothing illegal. I ain't no agent, but I follow the code best I can, and better than most."

Wyatt was sure he heard the trader give another brief snort. "You're a regular paragon of integrity, I'm sure."

Boss stammered and his face began to turn red.

"Oh, now don't go getting yourself worked up into a lather. If I got the wrong information, just tell me. I'll move on and be taking these crystals somewhere else." He moved to slide the leather pouch back into his vest.

Boss jolted into action like he'd been poleaxed. "Well now, hang on trader. I never said I couldn't help you out. But a man's got to be careful. Yessir. Too much dangerous business going on these days." Wyatt and the broom drifted into his line of sight. "And you, Speck. Don't think this stick don't see you. Now get busy with that broom and quit your slacking." He thrust at Wyatt with the stick then dabbed again at the sweat beading on his forehead.

The trader turned, looking Wyatt up and down as though he had somehow been invisible until that very moment. Having lived a life valued far less than a barrel of ale and unaccustomed to such scrutiny from a stranger, Wyatt squirmed in discomfort. The eyes of the trader peered at him with a menacing intensity that left him feeling like a rat cornered by a pack of dogs. He stood powerless, his legs and arms dangling without ability to move, clutching his broom and feeling even more stupid than normal.

"So. You got yourself a Speck?" Another statement more of an observation than a question.

"And you got yourself some crystals," Boss said, acknowledging Wyatt's existence with an absent nod. He again jabbed the stick toward Wyatt but with his attention focused on the leather pouch, he missed his target by a wide margin.

Wyatt took the hint and roused himself, sweeping at the already clean floor but ensuring he maintained a safe distance from both the stick and the trader.

"I got 'bout half a pound here." The trader placed the pouch on the counter between himself and Boss. "And I just might be in the market for some old tech."

Boss's mouth dropped open. It was the second time in less than a minute he looked like he'd been poleaxed. "Old tech? Are you out of your mind? What would possibly make you think I got any old tech? And even if I did, there is no way in the world I would allow any of it to get into the hands of the Rama."

The trader nodded and the pouch of crystals disappeared into his vest. "Well, I guess I been misinformed. I'll be taking my business elsewhere."

"Ain't nobody in Cairo gonna trade for old tech. I can guarantee you that. Not with the Rama and specially not for that little old dab of crystals."

"Too bad. 'Cause this little old dab is just a taste. I said I had 'bout half a pound here. But I got considerably more on the other side of the river." The trader paused, reading Boss like a book. "Suppose an even thousand pounds or so could hook me up with what I be after?"

Wyatt knew Boss--who was fairly panting in anticipation--craved what he had referred to as that "little dab of crystals" and would do anything to get it. Everybody in Cairo wanted crystals. The whole reason this miserable outpost existed in the first place was to buy, cheat, steal, manipulate or trick the wily traders out of their precious cargo. But one thousand pounds? It was enough to make even the most jaded sit up and take notice. That leather pouch with the half pound would make for a good year, but a thousand pounds? A man would be covered in wealth, dipped in luxury, and wading in finery for the rest of his gilded life.

Boss mopped at the sweat. He paced behind the counter and muttered obscenities under his breath. He gazed out the windows of the shop then turned on Wyatt with a snarl, barking out orders. "Get your lazy bones busy and lock that door. And get our guest something to drink. Can't you see the man's dying of thirst? Stupid Speck don't know nothing." He added that last bit in a mumble.

Wyatt watched from the corner of his eye as Boss stood with his arms folded across his chest and stared at the man who had just walked in out of the blue with an offer of unimaginable wealth. Wealth that had eluded Boss his entire life. Wealth that would lift him away from this remote trading outpost and into the position he always felt he deserved but had forever been just beyond his reach. One thousand pounds of crystals meant he could head back north, back to Chicago, back to civilization. Boss would be a man of means, a man who could get what he wanted when he wanted it.

Wyatt poked his head out the front door peering up and down the street knowing Boss would surely wallop him with the stick should the door be shut in the face of an approaching customer. Other than a bedraggled mongrel stretched out in the shade, nothing looked alive or even close to it in the inferno outside. Anyone with any sense at all would be safely ensconced indoors behind thick masonry or mud walls which had hopefully retained a margin of the previous night's relative coolness. Satisfied the street was empty, he locked the door and scooted to the storeroom where Boss kept a cask of ale.

"Let me tell you something," even from the storeroom Wyatt could hear Boss growling this out like a dog hunkered over a fresh kill. "Trader or not, you be tryin' to set me up, there's gonna be one less Rama crossing back over that bridge before the day is done."

It was the same tone Boss used when the stick was about to get busy. "You hearing me clearly? I ain't no official agent and can't legally trade in crystals, but I expect you knew that."

The trader smiled. "Them's yangee rules. Don't mean a thing to me. I trade with anybody what got the means."

Wyatt filled two mugs with warm ale--it couldn't be anything other than warm--and paused, wondering if he should carry them out on a tray. He was uncertain how to proceed. Boss had never asked him to serve food or drink to a customer, because Boss never shared anything with anybody. It didn't matter, he decided. No tray was to be found and the longer he dithered the more he feared Boss would think him to be dawdling. Dawdling and dithering always earned a session with the stick. In the end, he just carried the mugs and placed one in front of each and backed away hoping he could blend into the wall.

Boss grabbed at the mug and belted down a healthy slug. "So what makes you think I got access to any old tech? They ain't been anything of the like go through Cairo for a couple hundred years."

"That so? You think you got your finger on every single thing that passes through here?"

Boss went to the window. He crossed the shop and scanned the deserted street out the other window. He scrubbed his chin with his hand and returned to the stool. "No," he said. "Maybe not. But if someone's hustled something into Cairo, I would've caught wind of it."

"Who said anything about someone bringing it in?" said the trader making Boss frown and squirm a bit in discomfort.

"How else would it get here?"

"You don't know jack about history, do you?" The trader smiled but Wyatt, hovering in the corner trying to look busy with his broom, realized it didn't touch his eyes. In fact, it gave the trader a bit of a sinister appearance. "They say the old world had every sort of old tech on just about every corner. Stuff that'd make your eyes pop if'n you saw it today. Weapons that could kill from miles away, wagons traveling faster than any horse, and even ways to send messages through the air! Course, I'm believin' most them tales be nothing but made up stories, things old men tell around the fire at night. But some of it's true enough, even though everything was confiscated when the visitors come. But some, here and there, slipped through the cracks and then after the occupation ended they kinda remained unaccounted for."

He walked over to the shelf and pulled down a jar of what appeared to be some sort of fruit jelly or preserves. "And wouldn't you know it? I believe they's an item here or there like that been just laying around for six hundred years or so just waiting for an enterprising young man such as myself to find them."

With that he unscrewed the lid to the jar and used his finger to scoop out a goober of jelly which he popped into his mouth with a smack of his lips. Boss, who normally would have whacked such a presumptive visitor with the stick, sat slack-jawed at this fantastic tale.

"You're asking me to believe there's something been hiding out here in Cairo?"

"I am not asking you to believe a thing, Mister Elgee. A man's believes what he wants. But let me tell you what I believe." He stopped for a moment clearly relishing both the jelly and the opportunity to see Boss squirm. "I believe you just might know exactly what I'm talking about. I believe that if'n the right delivery of old tech were to show on the bridge at midnight, in its place would be left one thousand pounds of crystals. Give or take a pound or two."

"A thousand pounds of trouble is all you're offering," said Boss without an ounce of conviction in his voice. "Besides, all old tech goes to University. Even your kind ought to know that. You've got nothing worth ending up on a labor gang for."

"Well, if somebody wanted to follow me out into the Wastelands and catch me with it then try and haul me back, they be welcome to give it a shot. The way I see it, a fellow sitting right here in Cairo caught holding would be the one who oughta be worried." He scooped another blob of jelly into his mouth.

Boss snorted. "And I suppose a person interested in such a transaction could just wander around asking if anybody's heard anything about some ancient artifact and if so, would they be willing to share this invaluable information? And that person, who don't happen to be a member of the Guild in the first place and ain't legally supposed to be trading in crystals, might wish to acquire these antiquities and possibly place them into the hands of one of the Rama. I suppose then, this person would spend this rest of his miserably short existence wondering why he listened to the half-baked stories of a trader who has clearly spent too much time out in the Wastelands getting his brains addled in the sun."

The trader leaned forward. "No, I don't suppose that'd be wise," he allowed. "However, an equally enterprising feller who just happened to have a shop in an old, Pre-Departure bank building with a vault hidden behind a false wall of trade goods might be able to take a look-see inside. Then he wouldn't have to be wandering around town asking."

Boss's face turned scarlet and the veins on his forehead looked to burst under the pressure. "I don't know where you got your information trader, but let's be clear on one very important thing: you have no idea who you're dealing with here." Wyatt hadn't seen Boss this agitated. Ever.

"Well good. As long as we're being clear, let me continue," said the trader. "I know exactly who I'm dealing with and I know exactly what you got in that vault. You got yourself a pair of lead lined crates with a bunch of symbols and writing covering 'em that you got no idea what it means or what it really is. More importantly, I do know. I know the words and I know what they mean."

Boss slumped back onto his stool, somehow defeated yet doing his best to remain defiant. "What?" he managed in a voice tight with emotion. "What are the words?"

The trader leaned forward across the counter, inches from Boss. "Scott. Scott AFB."

Wyatt gaped in disbelief as Boss was again left without ability to speak. Color drained from his face while his mouth hung open and his normal scowl was replaced by a look of profound stupidity.

"Now I'm offering you a fair trade for something you're never gonna use and you'd have no idea what to do with even if you had a mind to. I suggest you take my deal and take it fast before word gets out."

Boss recovered now that actual negotiations resumed. "Is that a threat? Are you really gonna threaten me? Here in my own place?" He gripped the stick with both hands and hefted it toward the trader. "Suppose I take this stick and bop you upside the head and dump your body in the river? You come in here and threaten me in my own place, you gotta be out of your mind! I got every right to..."

"You got every right to one thousand pounds of crystals, you ignorant twit. You want the deal or not?"

Boss's eye started to twitch.

"Two thousand pounds."

"Oh? Offer's now at nine hundred."

"What?" Boss slammed his meaty fist down on the counter. "That ain't no way to negotiate! Fifteen Hundred."

"Eight hundred."

Boss was furious. "I always heard the Rama were the most underhanded and devious of all creation." He stormed around the shop ranting and cursing. Then he stopped and opened his mouth to speak but another look at the trader got him flustered all over again and instigated another diatribe.

Wyatt trembled in mortal fear, holding his broom like a sort of talisman that could ward off Boss's maniacal tirade. This was exactly the kind of mood that would earn him a session with the stick later on and dread began to take hold. Boss hadn't even been half this worked up the last time the stick administered a beating. That was the time a customer had knocked over a case of salvaged glassware and Wyatt was somehow to blame for leaving the merchandise in the wrong place. He had been beat until he had lost consciousness, waking hours later with a broken arm and covered in bruises and crusted blood.

In spite of his trepidation, Wyatt knew Boss would take the deal. It was the Big 'Un. He didn't really know what kind of old tech Boss possessed or how it might be used, but he did know Boss had finally stumbled onto the deal of a lifetime. The Big 'Un had finally arrived, the one he had always talked about with a faraway look in his eye and hoped would come his way to get him out of this hellhole that was Cairo.

"And how do I know this ain't some sort of set up? You get me out there on that bridge in the middle of the night and take what you want then leave me holding nothing. Who am I gonna complain to?

The trader looked like he could bite through nails. Without a word, he turned and unlocked the door, opening it wide to the street. He gave a shrill whistle, startling Wyatt and making his ears ring at the same time. The old dog in the shade flicked an ear but otherwise paid no attention. Waves of heat poured through the door while a few dust devils skittered south toward the river. Then a figure emerged from the shadow of the abandoned building across the road and trudged toward the shop, shuffling in the dust with head hung low under a wide brimmed hat.

He was young, on the smallish side. A boy really. And he was the scruffiest, most bedraggled figure Wyatt had ever seen. His clothes were a collection of ill fitting hand-me-downs that should have been discarded rather than worn. They were tattered and hanging from his scrawny frame, serving only to make him more pitiful and haggard. Wyatt began to believe he had encountered the Raman equivalent of a Speck.

The boy edged into the shop halfway hiding behind the trader.

"So you think I'm setting you up, eh?" The trader smirked. "How 'bout I leave you some collateral?"

"Collateral?" said Boss believing he had gained the upper hand at last. "Other than crystals, what could you possibly have worth anything?"

The trader turned and reached for the young boy. "How about my only child? Suppose I leave Rison here with you until the deal be done? That oughta prove I ain't setting you up, don't you think?"

Boss scratched his head as if in deep thought and hemmed and hawed around like he was torn with indecision but Wyatt knew better. Boss had lived his whole life never once mentioning, using, or looking at any old tech and that meant he could therefore live without whatever it was they were talking about. But he would surely live a whole lot more comfortably in the possession of one thousand pounds of crystals. No question it was a done deal. Boss was just trying to show the trader he couldn't be pushed around.

The trader continued, "Course, I wouldn't take it too kindly should Rison come back to me with so much as a single bruise or blemish. I might be inclined to get upset."

Boss smiled his most winning smile. It was like watching a wolf try to grin. "Alright, alright, you got me. Can't blame a man for trying, can you? One thousand pounds even and this little ragamuffin stays with me until I get my crystals. You got yourself a deal."

The trader slammed the now empty jelly jar on the counter and gulped down a slug of ale, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "The crates best be intact and sealed. Got it? The seals be broke then the deal be off. One thousand pounds. Midnight at the bridge. Do not make me wait."

Having scored a victory over the inscrutable trader, Boss gave a nod and struggled to keep a grin from spreading across his face. "And how do you propose I get past the customs inspector? None of this is gonna be even remotely legal and it sure ain't gonna be very inconspicuous."

The trader tossed the leather pouch to Boss, who caught it with one hand. "You got yourself half a pound right there. I suggest you apply some charm and bribe the man."

With that, the trader turned to leave then paused at the door. "One last thing. Bring your Speck."

Boss scowled at Wyatt. "What's he got to do with it? I'm thinking the stick's gonna be getting busy with him before the day's out. He's stupid as a box of rocks and besides, he's been lazy today."

The trader sent a look that painted Boss a fool. "You think that's wise?"

"What?"

"Beating your Speck."

"What do you care? He's not worth even half the feed he chokes down every day, let me tell you."

"So if you damage him, how you planning on getting a thousand pounds safely off that bridge tonight? All by yourself?"

Boss hated it when he perceived anyone interfering or outwitting him. "Why don't you just mind your own business? And that business just happens to be getting my load ready for delivery."

The trader took two steps forward causing Boss to retreat in equal measure. "Use your brain for something other than a divider for your ears. It's in my best interest to get this deal over and done quickly and quietly without stirring up a bunch of busybodies. And if you thought about it, you'd see it was best for you as well."

He gave Rison a long, steady look before turning and walking out. The door slammed in his wake, rattling the cans while Wyatt trembled in fear. Boss stared at the door for a long moment, not saying a word. The stick was going to get busy, if not tonight, then first thing tomorrow and both of them knew it.

NOTE:  I apologize in advance for my shameless and pathetic pandering, but if you did enjoy chapter one of Derelict, perhaps you would be kind enough to follow me or vote for this story.   Maybe you noticed this chapter takes place 600 or so years after the previous one... did you catch that?  You may have also noticed Wyatt is referred to as a "Speck."  Any thoughts as to what one of those is?  Hint:  Specks play an important role in this story!

Hey... this chapter is dedicated to linahanson who has shown enormous support and really helped me up the ante.  Be sure to check out her 'Cursed Times' series and see what I'm talking about!