Warren Murphy: Time Trial

Remo stopped cold. Two men stepped out in a blaze of the whitest light Remo had ever seen. Behind Chiun, giant trees crashed to earth like broken toothpicks. Yards of moss and dense, low plants turned into smoldering black goo.

In the warriors' hands were weapons. They vaguely resembled the M-16s used during the Vietnam war, but they were sleeker, cleaner looking. The metal they were made of was green and sparkling with newness. The men handled them as if they were made of balsa wood, tossing them onto their shoulders with delicate deftness. When they fired, there was no explosion, no crack as bullets shot out from the barrel. Except for a whining ping like the sounds on a television video game, the weapons worked in silence, sending out beams of blinding light.

"Lasers," Remo whispered, marveling at the destruction wrought by the two weapons.

"Move," Chiun commanded. "Match me."

Automatically Remo obeyed, his body moving opposite Chiun's, circling, crouching, leaving the ground in what would have been a flying tackle if there had been less flying.

They moved so fast that the men with the weapons hadn't even turned their heads to follow them when the assault came, crumpling the two warriors into one another, kicking out at the others who rushed to their flanks, circling, moving, always moving, a cracked spine, a crushed skull, two fingers in the windpipe, a kick that turned one warrior's intestines to jelly.

A weapon was pointed directly at Remo. One stroke, and it lay on the ground in shards. Metal was easy enough to break, but this metal had shattered as if it had been made of glass. Remo finished the man off with a snap of the neck, and then everything was still.

"These things fell apart like Tinker Toys," Remo said, picking up the shattered fragments of the weapon. Only one remained whole. Remo fired experimentally into the air. With a ping, a shaft of light blazed in a visible line from the barrel to the sky. Everything in its path— leaves, branches, even a low cloud— disintegrated. The cloud rumbled once, distant thunder, and then dissipated into thin air. "Well, it works," Remo said.

He placed it in the empty bag he carried, proof for Smith. "Whoever made this thing is light years ahead of us, only..." He squeezed the butt of the rifle between his thumb and his forefinger. It crumbled beneath his touch as if it were made of paper. What kind of weapon was this, sending deadly power from a casing as fragile as butterfly wings?

The boy stepped cautiously out of the brush. His face looked pale beneath the sun-browned skin, his dark eyes wide.

"Do not be afraid, my child," Chiun said gently, extending his arms. The boy took two steps nearer, his left leg dragging uselessly behind the right. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted.

"Fools," Chiun said angrily. "We have both been fools." He bent over the boy and propped him up in his arms. "He no doubt has not eaten for two days or more. He needs food. Go find us fish, Remo."

"Fish? We left the river six hours ago."

"It has wound around this way," Chiun said stubbornly. "I can smell it."

* * *

Chiun carefully unwrapped the bandage around the boy's knee. Inside, next to the skin, was a poultice made of hundreds of the white flowers he and Remo had seen the night before. They were crushed and fragrant, their effect making Chiun dizzy. He slowed his breathing, watching the boy take in the quieting fumes as he slept. His leg was mangled, hurt beyond repair. The boy would never walk normally.

His parents must have been compassionate indeed, Chiun thought. Few outside of the "civilized" countries of the world, where everyone was forced to live long lives while encouraged to poison themselves with bad food and alcohol and tobacco and medical drugs and worries, would have allowed this child to live. Small, maimed, silent.

Did he speak any language? Did he understand words at all? He must. He said something at the river, one word. Had it just been nonsense, the babbling of an idiot?

The sight of the boy tore at the old man's heart. This lame child, mute and doomed, unreachable, was the lost babies of Sinanju, all of the bright new lives that were never to be. By right, this boy should not have lived, either. But he had somehow escaped the Great Void to be with Chiun and Remo now.

The question was why. Chiun did not know the boy's destiny, but he knew, understood without words, that it was somehow tied in with his own.

He spotted a few of the flowers near where the boy lay. Keeping his breathing slow, he gathered them up and crushed them into a fine paste, which he smeared on a piece of silk torn from his kimono.

The boy had awakened when he got back. In the distance, he could see Remo returning, three fat fish in his hands. Chiun wrapped the bright blue bandage around the boy's knee and knotted it expertly. The boy followed him with his eyes.

"Why have we been brought together, my strange little one?" Chiun said softly. "Is it you who needs, or is it I?"

"It is my father's prophecy," the boy said.

Chiun sat up slowly, appraising the young face with its ancient eyes. "And who is your father?" he asked, exhibiting no surprise that the boy could talk.

"One who knew the Old Tongue," the boy said proudly. "He is dead, but I know the Old Tongue, too."

There was something hopeful in the boy's dark eyes. "And what is the Old Tongue?" Chiun asked.

"The language of the gods. Not this white language that the white priest taught me, but the true language. The language of power."

"Did your father have the power?"

"Yes. When he died."

"What did he say?"

"That I alone of my family would walk with the gods."

"I do not understand," Chiun said.

"Nor do I. Yet."

"Ah." Chiun did not press him. The child spoke like a man, firm, calm, sparing.

"That was why I had to come with you," the boy said with quiet urgency.

"Was the pain very great?"

"Yes." It was plain, true, simple.

"Is it bearable now?"

"It is always bearable. But it is better now. Thank you, Master."

"My name is Chiun."

"My name is Po."

"For crying out loud, you speak English," Remo said, throwing down the fish. "Why wouldn't you talk when I asked you where the village was?"

"I do not belong in the village," Po said. "I belong with you. For now. Until I have completed my journey."

Remo put his hands on his hips. "Will you listen to that?" he said. "What journey?"

"Make the fire," Chiun said. "We have things to discuss."

* * *

They roasted the fish over the open fire. While they ate, Po told them about his family, his meeting with Sebastian Birdsong, the invasions of the Lost Tribes.

The boy grew drowsy after eating, and the three of them sat quietly with their thoughts. It was then that they heard the sound, far and muffled, like the mewling of a cat. Remo sprang to his feet.

"No danger," Chiun said, frowning, trying to locate the source of the sound. It seemed to be buried. No footfalls, no breathing.

The boy shook himself awake. "I heard nothing," he said.

"You cannot hear what we hear. Where is the Temple of Magic?" Chiun asked.

The boy pointed toward the faint sound. "It is near."

Remo and Chiun sprang away like two animals. The boy pulled himself to his feet, amazed at the speed and grace of the two men.

No, not men, he said to himself. That is why they fight as they do. That is why they can run faster than the wind. These are beings like Kukulcan himself who walk with me.

He found a stick and used it to walk, easing some of the constant ache in his leg. Near the entrance to the temple was a crashed helicopter. The bodies inside had already decomposed nearly to bone. By the time he reached the moss-covered, debris-littered ruin, Remo and Chiun were already flinging away the huge stones like handfuls of sand as the sound inside grew louder.