Traveller Manifesto
15. Mississippi - 11th Century

Mississippi – 11th Century.

The trees were the same. The weather was familiar and even the sound of his team quietly negotiating their way through the vegetation was exactly as when they had endlessly trained together in modern US national parks.

But the village, and the local natives standing at the clear space leading into the village, certainly weren’t familiar.

Indians? Can you call them Indians? What can you call them, really? Leishman mentally shrugged as he approached the group. None of the Travellers wished to be culturally inappropriate, but most of the warriors they approached stood like the Indians in a classic Cowboy and Indian movie. They stood almost at attention as they gathered around their head guy who stood proudly, resplendent in a shining red and blue feather cloak that looked to have been crafted from myriads of bluebird and hummingbird feathers.

After considerable discussion about calling the locals Aboriginal Americans or First Nation Peoples, the team eventually opted to call them Locals or, despite the academics’ advice, the politically incorrect Indians. It all became too much of a mouthful if you didn’t watch out. Besides, they were the guys on the ground. Nobody really cared what they called them as long as they weren’t downright rude.

Leishman led his squad of a dozen Special Forces soldiers carefully selected from various elite groups throughout the US military. All were experienced veterans of conflict zones around the globe and were known for their ability to operate calmly under duress. They were a racially mixed bag, with Whites, Blacks, First Nation, and Hispanics making a team that knew their craft well. The only members of the team who were not of the Special Forces were the academics; Professor Cowen and Professor Hughes. Professor Cowen of Traveller Corp had fought for and organised the mission which he had joined in an advisory capacity. Professor Hughes was the real expert on the peoples of the area. He was a dark-haired, good looking fellow who was part First Nation. Leishman thought he might be Chickasaw, though he identified with the Cherokee. What really mattered was he was a highly qualified specialist of the location and time.

“Roger Alpha, the Locals don’t have any sign of hostile backup. You can proceed as planned,” advised Colonel Jamieson who watched their progress via the video feed from the three drones that hovered far above. Each of the team wore cameras and mikes that allowed Command to monitor events as they unfolded.

The local welcoming committee watched fearfully, for Leishman knew he and his team looked like nothing these people had ever seen. Camo fatigues, armour and helmets were complimented with the smaller Camo MK18 carbines, all of materials never before experienced by the peoples who lived on the North American continent in the early years of the 11th Century.

Nor, it seemed, had they seen blonde hair, for as they approached, Leishman removed his glasses and helmet to smile and identify himself as friendly. Their reaction was of visceral shock as together they cried out and reared back. Some warriors dropped to their knees while their leader, or Chief, covered his face and wept.

With Leishman, Professor Cowen and Professor Hughes also stood bareheaded. By them stood Motega, who was not only First Nation but was also a Green Beret. They slowly crossed that perilous distance while the rest of their team stood ready. The Chief stepped forward. Tears ran down his painted, seamed face. He spoke words of welcome and gestured as he did so.

Motega, their erstwhile translator, glanced to Leishman and gave a small shake of his head. He had warned them that communication could be an issue. He had no idea what was said.

A reply was required, so Professor Hughes stepped forward, smiled and nodded. “Thank you, we’re happy to be here,” he exclaimed in English.

This was not going to be as easy as they hoped.