Chapter Two

If Darkon had wanted to be inconspicuous in his new time zone he failed miserably.

His transportation through thousands of years to 1995 also took him through thousands of years of chang. The dusty, rock-strewn landscape he left was nothing like the one he encountered when he materialised.

The latitude and longitude lines crossed right in the centre of the huge swimming pool in the plush hotel complex of the Kakadu National Park, which was close to the great Australian tourist destination of Uluru.

Not only did he materialise in the pool, but he was dressed in the heavy, fur-lined clothes he had been wearing when the Z Batch had snap frozen him in the last disastrous trip to the past.

His appearance startled the people who were swimming in the pool, or lying, soaking up the sun on the side. His anger at his unfortunate arrival was fierce, and the heavy chemical taste of the chlorine dosed water didn’t please him either.

He waded slowly with as much dignity as he could muster, out of the pool. He ignored the amazed looks and the suppressed laughter of the resort guests, and marched, squelching, to the hotel complex.

The highly individual smell of chlorine did not disguise for a second the stale smell of air that seeped from the restaurant and bar area, nor of the people who were dressed in uniforms.

They, he decided, judging by the worried looks on their faces and the uncomfortable clothing they wore, were servants.

He snapped his fingers at a young man who looked at him, puzzled.

“Can I help you?” he asked politely.

“I want two things,” said Darkon. “The bank and a book shop.”

“Sure you don’t want your luggage first?” asked the man, looking askance at Darkon’s strange and dripping clothing.

“Fancy dress,” muttered Darkon. “Where is the bank?”

The man pointed to a glass-walled frontage just inside the hotel complex main entrance. “But don’t you think you should change first? Then I can get someone to return your fancy dress. What’s your room number?”

Darkon controlled his irritability remarkably, for he did not like being questioned. Instant obedience was what he demanded.

“I am not registered in your hotel yet,” he said. “And I have no other clothes until I take out money to buy some. So where is the bank?”

The rise in the tone of Darkon’s voice communicated the violence that lurked beneath his veneer of charm and the man led the mutant to the bank.

“I hope you have your cards and identification,” he said.

Cards! Darkon’s dark and bushy eyebrows rose. His hand went automatically to his waist, searching for the pouch which housed the 20th century plastic cards he had acquired on his last visit to the past. He gave a sigh of relief when he felt the bulge. The cards of identification, bank accounts, driving licenses, everything in fact that allowed him to live unhindered in the century where in the pouch around is waist, safe from ice, water and even time.

He undid the buttons that kept the layers of clothing wrapped around his body until he felt the waterproof pouch. He wrenched at it, ripping it from the belt and opened it. The cards were safe.

He thanked the man and swung open the doors of the bank. He walked to the counter. “I want to check the balance of my account,” he said, pushing the plastic card to the teller.

The teller looked with surprise at the strange figure in front of him, but he took the card and inserted it into his computer slot. “Could you put in your pin number please?” he asked. Darkon punched in the required digits and within seconds the machine was printing out the details.

“Well Mr Konrad,” said the teller, his surprise turning into respect. “Your cheque account stands at one million one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. It seems to have been inactive for the past two years and has accrued some interest.”

Darkon thought quickly. The last time he was in the 20th century the zone had been 1993.

“It’s my nest egg,” he explained. “I use it only occasionally. I wish to make a cash withdrawal. I think a round figure of four thousand of your dollars will do for the moment.”

“You can always use your charge card if you need more,” said the teller, pressing more buttons on his computer before counting the cash.

Darkon folded the notes and collected his card.

“Have a nice stay at Kakadu Mr Konrad,” said the teller.

Darkon nodded as he left.

James Thelwell Konrad was in business again - and he had a finely tuned plan to create the future world he dreamed of. But first he had to get clothing and an atlas, for without coordinates he could travel nowhere in this ancient times.

When the dust settled in the cave the Z Batch looked around in panic. The heavy rock had sealed off their exit, but the glimpse of daylight that filtered in from around the edges showed that air was getting in.

“What a bunch of clones,” said Zoltan in disgust. “Darkon must have been hiding over the top of the cave.” He moved to the rock that blocked the entrance and pushed, but it didn’t move a centimetre. “How are we going to get out of this one,” he asked gloomily.

Zac moved around the small cave, feeling the walls and sniffing the air. “It’s too clean,” he said finally. “There are no chemicals to help make an explosive, even if we had a base to mould them in.”

“The area’s too enclosed anyway,” said Zoltan. “We’d blow ourselves to pieces if we tried to blast our way out. We’ll just have to use the Trekker.”

“No.” Zara interrupted. “This gives me the chance to test my psychokinetic capabilities.”

“You think you can move that thing with your mind?” Zac pushed at the rock. “That’d be a real test.”

“That’s why I want to try,” said Zara, “Find me the centre of balance on the rock.”

Zac’s brain circuits whirled as he guesstimated the weight, the angle of leaning and balance ratio. Then he pointed to a position on the rock, just to one side and just below centre.

“Concentrate there,” he said, “and good luck.”

The boys watched sceptically as Zara faced the rock and closed her eyes. Her face bore a look of concentration, but the forehead that usually creased when she was using the powered areas of her brain were unlined, in fact she looked so relaxed she might have been asleep.

She stayed like that, unmoving, for half a minute, but then beads of sweat appeared on her upper lip and the boys knew how hard she was concentrating.

Then there was a tiny cracking sound and a trickle of dust slid down from the top of the boulder. The boys looked at each other, but stayed silent. There was more dust and a definite movement from the rock as it slipped forward and then back again. It did this several times increasing the tempo of the rocking until, with a loud rumble, it bounced away from the entrance and rolled away down a slight incline.

“That was absolutely radiant,” said a thoroughly impressed Zac. The trio shielded their eyes against the glare of the sun and stepped outside, where another shock awaited them.

They were surrounded by a group of short, dark skinned men who carried long wooden spears and truncheons.

It was a toss up who was the more surprised.

Zac spoke. “Aborigines,” he said. “They had no mechanical or technical achievements at all at this time.”

“And,” added Zoltan, “I’d guess they’ve never seen any other race than their own by the way they’re staring at us.”

Zara used the international, interstellar greeting. She smiled and held both her hands out, palms upward, and at the same time setting her legs astride.

It was a position that demonstrated peace, showing she had no armaments. There was an absence of menace in the body language, and the stance left Zara deliberately unbalanced. But it didn’t unduly impress the ancient Australian Aborigines.

They began to mutter among themselves in guttural tones and three of them stepped forward, spears held in an attacking position. The Z Batch could sense the aggression.

“Will somebody please do something,” said Zac, his heart was beating faster.

It was Zara who did. She set her sights on the three attacking spears and brought her psychokinetic capabilities into play. It didn’t take much concentration before the spears hurtled high into the air. Zara was able to keep them floating in the air for several seconds before she threw them into the distance.

At this display of magic the Aborigines, fell to their knees.

“They must think we’re some sort of religious deity,” said Zac.

“Well let’s keep then thinking that,” said Zoltan.

The man who appeared to be the leader fell onto his stomach and made his way slowly, wriggling like a snake until he was at Zara’s feet.

“Careful,” said Zoltan, stepping forward to join her.

“It’s cryo, Zoltan,” said Zara. “He’s supplicating now. All the aggression’s gone.”

The man slowly got to his feet, still writhing like a serpent. He reached out slowly to touch Zara’s face and then ran his fingers over her shoulder and arm, his eyes wide with wonder at the silkiness of Zara’s gold flecked body suit. Then he brought his face close and they could smell the strong odour of animal fat and stale sweat.

“Phew,” muttered Zac.

“Hold your breath,” said Zara, “And think of the air. At least that’s not polluted by chemicals like the 19th and 20th century. It’s as clean as it is in our own time.”

Zac had to agree.

The Aborigine then leaped back and faced his people and he began to do a strange dance. The Z Batch watched fascinated as he stamped his feet in the white sandy ground and waved his arms in a sinuous movement. His companions joined in the dance, voices undulating in a strangely melodious song without words.

Then the leader bent down and picked up a hand full of white sand and rubbed it on his face and arms, which made a strange contrast to his glistening blue black skin. The he pointed to the Z Batch and began to dance again, touching his face and arms where the chalky sand had caked in white patches.

Zara turned to Zac. “Can you, work out Darkon’s co-ordinates quickly?”

Zac nodded, his eyes flickering in calculation instantly. “Setting 95.3,” he said.

“Twentieth century again,” said Zoltan.

Zara gave him a smile and set the Time Trekker. She pressed the operational button and they quickly linked hands. The Aborigines stopped their dancing when they saw the flash and once more fell to their knees when they realised their deities had gone.

Zac’s hurried calculations had been less than perfect and so, instead of materialising in the Kakadu resort swimming pool they found themselves in a dark, cool cave.

“Where in Point Zero are we,” muttered Zoltan.

“Hush,” said Zara, pointing. “There are voices and lights down the end of that passage.”

The boys knew that Zara was seeing and hearing a lot more than they could. She set off and the boys followed, sliding their feet along the dark, sand-strewn floor of the cave.

The light proved to be floodlights that lit up a huge cave, whose walls were covered in aboriginal paintings. There was a group of people standing with their backs to the Z Batch and a man, wearing khaki coloured shorts and shirt, was standing in front of them pointing to the paintings.

“These are some of the oldest Aboriginal cave paintings ever found,” he said. “There are those who believe that the strange figures, with their light coloured skins and haloes around the head are proof that aliens from outer space had visited the earth in prehistoric days ...”

There was a titter among the audience and the Z Batch stood close at the rear of the group.

“I laughed too, but if you study them closely you’ll see that the faces of the people on these paintings are very pale and the skin of the body is made out to be a golden flecked colour. The haloes could easily be mistaken for blond hair.

“This gave rise to a rumour that they were pictures of white men who visited these shore some 30,000 years ago, which we know never happened. So the mystery continues. Personally I think the Aborigines just ran out of paint.”

Zoltan was not looking at the paintings however. He had his focus on the tall Aboriginal who stood on ceremonial guard by the entrance to the caves.

He was wearing white paint on his face and arms. Zoltan looked at the man and then at the paintings again. Then he turned to his companions a smile on his face.

“I think we could solve the mystery for them,” he murmured.

Zara and Zac suppressed giggles as they stared again at the cave paintings that were almost replicas of themselves in their body suits and at the Aboriginal in his traditional white paint, which was painted on exactly the way the man had painted himself seconds ago, 30,000 years in the past.

As the party of tourists moved on, the Z Batch stayed with them keeping close to the end of the straggle of tourists, until they emerged from the caves into a dazzling bright day and powerful heat.

Zara shaded her eyes and peered into the distance where, among the ancient rocks and stones an area of symmetrical dark ground shimmered in the heat. Gleaming chrome and brightly painted box-like objects, small and large dotted the area.

“Look,” she said.

Zoltan’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Ancient transport,” he said, “internal combustion engines - and in good condition too by the look of them.”

Zac laughed. “They should be in perfect condition, they’re all new.”

Zoltan joined in the laughter, and this caught the attention of the guide.

“Where did you blokes spring from?”

The sudden attention caught the Z Batch by surprise, and each looked at the other for help. Zara saved the situation.

“We er...missed the transportation,” she said.

The guide looked her up and down, and then did the same to the others. “Are you the new band?”

“Band?” Zara was baffled.

Zac cut in and muttered in a voice low enough not to be overheard: “It’s the clothes. He thinks we are a group of entertainers. Musicians throughout history have tended to dress in colourful clothing, just as they do today.”

Zara gave a wry smile. “That’s it.” she said. “We’re the new band. Came out on transportation and got lost.”

The guide shook his head. “I’ve never be able to understand why musos talk so weird. It’s like a different language most of the time.”

Zara smiled. “Yeah man,” she said. “You gotta stay cool.”

Zoltan and Zac stared at each other hardly able to contain laughter at Zara’s dip into her genetic memory.

“What’s cool?” asked Zoltan in a whisper..

“It means cryo” whispered Zac.

“Can you take us back to the gig man?” she asked.

“Okay, hop in and I’ll give you a lift back to the pub.”

He ushered the party of tourists into a gleaming coach and, when they were settled in their seats the Z Batch climbed on board, nostrils twitching at the new smells they were encountering. They sat together on a long seat at the rear of the bus.

“What’s a pub?” whispered Zara.

Zac flipped through his history, files. “A pub. Public House. A place where adults gathered to drink alcohol - beer, wine, spirits.

“They were popular gathering places especially for males from early history through to the 26th century AD, when the engineers discovered a natural stimulative system in the brain which could create, harmlessly, the same feeling of intoxication brought on by toxic substances.”

“And we’re going to one of those places?” asked Zara, aghast.

“Look on the bright side,” said Zoltan. “We know Darkon is partial to alcohol, so maybe that’s where we’ll find him, in this pub place.”