(3 ratings) Rate this Story (5 best) 1 2 3 4 5

SUMMARY: This story suggested by Radthorne's art @ http://www.kevinradthorne.com/Graphics/Cowboy%202a.jpg

The barn looked as if it had seen better days, just as it was supposed to look. Settling into a world unobtrusively took thought, planning, and luck. Pointer assumed all thinking, planning and aforethought had been accomplished before they dropped him into this mess but now he was less certain. In fact, his certainty was so un- he was getting a headache thinking about it.
Out here in the middle of nowhere, on a no-when backwater known to be in a neo-industrial phase, this rickety old barn ought not to draw any comment whatsoever. The ovinulacrum ought to have been the perfect support device, able to meld into the herds that ought to be roaming the pasture land around them. The history books clearly cited Columbus as the culprit for the introduction into the Americas. He brought his ‘walking food supply' with him on his second voyage. Cortez used the descendants to supply his explorations. And, then, the Navajo took up the industry so the presence of his beta version of the rocket-equipped nudida should not have raised an eyebrow.
Back in 3006, that's what the brain-trust had told him, anyway. His briefing prepared him to expect sheep country , fences, horses, settlers, and a few remnant cowboys, thus, his uniform. There was another bit of information they'd passed on to him but he hadn't paid much attention to it at the time as it seemed inconsequential. The chronodisplacement engine had a theoretical statistical certainty factor of +/- 3%. Of course, there were rumors that the certainty factor could fluctuate by as much as 30% but no one put any stock in rumors, did they?
Pointer had put no stock in the rumor. As he'd been trained from birth, he'd adopted the confidence of the scientists as his own. The fastest index finger in the school, he'd come up through the ranks, earning his spot on the retrieval teams. Any person who could manipulate μpod interfaces using a single digit with the speed and accuracy of folk using all their digits, well such a person was precisely the kind of person you want to send into history to retrieve lost artifacts. No matter that folk using all their digits might be considered more skilled, more natively intelligent, more sophisticated. You didn't really need skilled, intelligent, sophisticated people to go fetch. You needed expendables and what person could be more expendable than the fastest digit in the school?
"Hey, b-ren, I wish we were not in this spot at this moment." Pointer delivered the command without turning to look at the ovinulacrum. He blinked several times but nothing changed. Fifteen blinks later he was still in front of the barn, b-ren still stood behind him, and the trio of folk still stood calmly before him, apparently content to watch his actions. Curiosity, he guessed.
"Something wrong with your audio pickup, b-ren? I said I wished we were not at this spot at this moment." His words instilled a new thought and now Pointer did turn to look at his b-ren. "You can displace us, can't you?" Incipient panic made his voice hit those shrill registers he hated, had practiced for hours on end to eliminate from his vocal repertoire.
"Nothin' wrong with my functionin', mate, but you hain't accomplished the mission so we hain't goin' nowhere till you do...does...did...till you get the mission accomplished." The b-ren's voice wasn't audible; it was mental, a link that few humans could tolerate but Pointer Cardigan was one of those who could.