By most anyone’s standard, he was an elderly man. Ninety-seven years on the planet yet still active as a 30 year old. You might indeed catch a tell by looking at him though. His hair, grey as highway snow in March, almost as much dirt. His eyes were the color of Lake Superior in a hailstorm, and his brow formed by nearly a century of deep intent. His features were Germanic by blood, he had the heart of his mother and the strength of his father, both long passed, yet fully alive with every lofty breath he took. His stature was that of a tightrope walker and every movement measured as if he were making a living 1000 feet from the ground. With his hair pulled back he could be welcomed at any high society social event and when it fell to shoulder length he took on the look of an unkept barbarian. He possessed the strength of several men, yet used a gentle approach to his surrounding most often, just short of always.
For many years after his sentence, or what he served of it rather, he spent time as a manual labor and hired hand. He’d spent time digging ditches, felling trees, ranching, baking, cobbling, killing, cultivating, counting, building, destroying, herding, logging, and so much more. He met many people in his time, but one stood out more memorable than any other. She held a sacred space in his heart and mind no outside world would compromise. Were one lucky enough to be friends with the man, they were warmly received at any hour. Cross him once, and one may certainly not live to tell the tale.
His clothes were worn. Certainly not new. Made from a prized cattle craftsman in an outskirt town near the border of what was Nebraska and South Dakota, just along the great Missouri River many years ago. His jacket contained some of the finest wool his bartering could manage. His shirt, some poor crook who no longer tells tales of any sort. The old man was the last of his kind. By this, he was the last living data prisoner of the famed National Prison Reformation movement of the final years of the last century. Shoulders, wide enough for a small family to rest gently. Legs the circumference of sequoias, great and rooted.
His wide feet sank inches into the soaked ground below. He focused on his breath, feeling the sensation of a slowed heart rate. Steady breath, in and out. His eyes colored as he imagined steel, rolled up into his cranium and his hands relaxed. As if by silent waves of consciousness, the 13 blackbirds above began to caw in protest of his presence. He’d been here before, and knew the location well. Still, it had been several decades since he was physically in this space. Though frequently his thoughts and memories were regular visitors. He tilted his head to the right, then left, feeling a satisfying pop in both directions. It was cold. Late in the evening, early Spring. With swift precision he moved to an aged oak tree and moved 30 paces to his left. This was the spot. Below him, somewhere about 5 to 7 feet in the ground, the reason he was here, back in the spot he fled so many years ago.
There was no time for reminiscing, at least not at this crucial hour, and the elderly man knew it. With a rather quick gesture, he motioned to the 5 men behind him. Not one of them moved. These specific men were part of the ‘Detroit United’ general guard. Typically their daily duty was to never leave the side of Mr. Daxter Pingree, the acting Minister of Defense for Detroit United and surrounding regional territories, all falling under the domain and guardianship of Detroit United’s Artificial Intelligence system, Galaster, lovingly referred to as GAL.
The region under the guardianship of Detroit United and GAL was notorious for neither trusting nor taking kindly to outsiders, elderly or not. But especially a stranger who had no identity, showing up at the Renaissance Capital nearly unnoticed by city sentries. Mr. Pingree was alarmed and amused simultaneously and yet, sensed something about this elderly stranger he couldn’t quite understand. This sense... led Mr. Pingree to allow part of the general guard to accompany, rather escort, the elder into the forbidden zone for no more than 16 hours. Unbeknownst to the elder, should the excursion garner nothing relevant, he was to be executed and left for decomposition.
Five men in total, weighing well over the mass of 7 normal men. Rough around the edges these men were. Collectively, like a tin can opened hastily without proper tools. There was the biggest of the group, Taluus. Standing nearly 6’6”, thick as the Great Wall and bald like the sun. Cloaked in black with nearly as black a smile, but smile he did, chewing tobacco and all. The twins Garrett and Barrett. Putting it succinctly, the twins were more brawn than brains. Garrett was born 38 seconds before his twin brother, and he never let Barrett forget who was older. Filt, which was short for Filter. No one knew his real name unless they looked deep into the nonexistent archives of those born to the nameless in the outskirts of the city. He was given the name Filter, as he showed again and again that he seemed to not have a filter between his thoughts and lips and said the wrong things, often at the most inopportune, wrong times. And finally, last and definitely least in the eyes of the others, Malar the Mute. He was by all means a normal child growing up. However, he was enslaved by the Divi Tribes for more than a year, he was lucky to only have lost his tongue. A favorite means of the savage Divi Tribe in an effort to silence the communal slaves. Still, Malar the mute was one of the deadliest forces in all of Detroit United.
The elderly man turned slightly to catch a glimpse of what was holding the men up. And in this case, the men were held up by the very digging tools they had brought with them. Each with a pick-axe, each with a shovel, now nearly unanimously being used as crutches to lean on. The 5 men were none too pleased to be on an excursion with the oldest man they’d ever seen in an upright position. Still, when Mr. Pingree gave an order, none would be wise to argue the least or disregard. The elderly man however, wasn’t Mr. Pingree. The 5 men were not pleased and looking for a reason to end the excursion early.
The elderly man thought a moment, considering the options and short time allotted. He walked to Filt, who smirked as if to expect some sort of action beyond kind words. The elder snatched the pick-axe with ease and shot a look to all the men, again, suggesting anything but a kind word. Not an utterance was made among any of them, and still they all physically felt the embodiment of the tension. The elderly man swung roughly ten times into the frozen ground, each ‘thwack’ moving slowly closer to the prize below.
Filt turned to the twins, Garrett and Barrett, without blinking and slightly under his breath, said in the voice only achievable from a lifelong motherless soldier, “I think the geezer could take you… I think he could take the both of you boys… with ease.” Filt shot a masterfully placed wink of his right eye before joining the elderly man by scooping away the chipped frozen earth swing after swing. Garrett and Barrett both gleaned a nearly perfectly synced smile between the two of them, both exhaling a lazily placed nasally laugh. Taluus, by far the largest of the group snickered and added, “He could take us all,” he half-laughed, but also felt there was something odd and unsettling to this elderly stranger, as if he was able to read their minds.
“Let’s move…” Taluus said with a mouth full of harvested tobacco, spitting at the feet of the others. As if by divine intervention, the twins realized they’d been the butt of yet another nonexistent inside joke, the gang moved together and began to help with the dig. With the six men together working to dislodge and dig into the frozen earth, they made progress rather quickly. In a matter of an hour, they managed to clear away a hole roughly 5 feet deep and 3 feet across. Still, nothing other than roots, broken glass, bones of several species of animal, and the occasional emptied pistol bullet shell. One after another the twins managed to call claim to the empty shells, it’d been quite sometime since any of the men had seen bullets or shells. There were few within the confines of Detroit United who were privileged enough to possess firearms. Deeper and deeper the crew had made the hole. The elderly man began to question his recollection.
Taluus found roughly 5 more shells and after collecting them in one hand, threw them all at the twins, even before they called out as their owners. Garrett hit his brother in belly creating an audible gasp from the depths of Barrett’s broad cavernous chest. The twins engaged in a sudden roughhouse, a lifelong sibling rivalry resulting in no coherent outcome of who or which of the twins was the victor. The elderly man continued to dig with steady determination, the others took a break to encourage the familiar sight between the twins.
With one final thwack of the pickaxe, the elderly man struck something important. Everyone heard the rare sound of the pickaxe hitting a buckypaper/graphene hybrid material. Most in the operation didn’t know that sound at first, this material hadn’t been produced since a time before these men were born. Filt grabbed the twins by their respective collars and shook the fight out of them as if the two were merely kittens at play. “We’ve got something here,” Filt said while shoving Garrett and Barrett in opposite directions. Malar the Mute added a shove and grunt to both for good measure.
All were back in on the dig, frantically searching for and finding the edges of the 43″ x 24″ x 25″ container, weighing in over 120 pounds when empty. This was no ordinary travel chest. And it was far from empty. The crew dragged the chest up as the first rays of the morning sun shot through the trees, illuminating the natural surroundings and filled the area with a smell of fresh early spring moss. This particular trunk hadn’t seen the light of day in over 5 decades. It seemed to be simply a black box, no openings, no noticeable creases where one might pry a pickaxe into it, just a mysterious black box covered in earth for the last 50-odd years.
The crew fastened the black box to a makeshift sled, attached it to the horses, and began the journey back to Renaissance Capital. There were few words spoken on the trek back other than the unnecessary grunts and squabbles between the tired men. The elderly man was behind them all in the procession, keeping a longing, close eye on the box and still not fully trusting the men he was with. Filt dropped back and continued the journey alongside the old man.
“What’ya know in the box, man?” asked Filt, quietly with a sense of bewilderment not typical of these parts, and as to relay the notion that he’d keep it a secret from the others, if need be. The old man took a moment to consider, “You’d not believe it if I told you, and if Mr. Pingree wishes you to know, I’m sure he’ll tell you.”
“You don’t even know what’s in the box, you flipass fool!” Filt spit fire with a newly developed sense of superiority.
“Perhaps…you believe you’re right young Filt” the old man replied with neutral wisdom. “But I’m certain you’re not, best to keep your eyes ahead, at least until we get back beneath GAL’s protection?”
The old man took stock of his changing temperament, and the increase of adrenaline as the the feeling of killing every man within a certain radius crept into his awareness. And he could’ve destroyed these men easily if need be. Filt too knew he’d get his ass whooped if he pressed. He chose wisely not to press the elderly man. Filt knew it, and he shook his head a bit and simply didn’t feel comfortable any longer, so close to the old man. The old man took a moment to again gain control over his mind and body.
“I’s hoping we’d get the chance to kill you, geezer!” Filt shouted at an oddly audible level while proceeding back to his original space in the caravan back to the protection of GAL and Renaissance Capital. “There may still be a chance for that!” he added, once a comfortable distance ahead of the old man. Taluus knuckled the back of Filt’s head as he passed, then shot a unconvincing smile back at the old man, hoping to possibly laugh it off. No laughs were had. But also, no war was waged. By the time the crew had gotten back to Renaissance Capital, the sounds of evening drums could be heard. It was late Thursday evening.
The elderly man knew exactly what would be found in the trunk, he knew exactly how to get into the mysterious box too. For it was he, fifty-odd years ago who placed the specific contents in the box. It was he who had the chest specially made for just the occasion, equipped with booby traps sufficient to blow the entire area skyhigh should there be an attempt to open it by force. It was he, so many decades ago who rode out to the then forest battleground and along with another dug the deep hole to which he buried this mysterious box. It was he who camped there for several months, keeping watch on the mound, in hopes that the grass and Michigan nature would reclaim the once excavated ground, leaving no trace. And reclaimed it was, nature in Michigan wastes no time with recovering from man’s follies. Especially in the summer months.
Indeed, the old man knew the exact details of the trunk and its contents, the key to opening the trunk was inseparably matched to his specific biometrics. At the time of its creation, this was a necessary technological step for top line security systems. It was he who wept in the moments in between. He knew. He knew it well. That summer night in June, when the ground was soft and fertile, when the hole was dug, and the past was buried.
Had the men accompanying him known of his past, they might have attempted to kill him simply based on the fact that he was indeed a danger to them, unbeknownst, of course. He was the last of his kind, the last of the data prisoners. Still, he was no ordinary criminal, no ordinary data prisoner, no ordinary escaped convict. The elderly man held great knowledge of the times gone by, a time before most of his current company was even born into the world. It was a much different place before the Great Intelligence Crash some 57 years earlier. He and the world were much, much different then.