The quantum displacement left Bobby disoriented, the familiar nausea and pain washing over him as his body reconstituted itself in a new time period. The silver amulet from Enheduanna burned against his chest, somehow preserved through the temporal shift. When the world stopped spinning, he found himself on the outskirts of a settlement, the technology visibly more advanced than his last displacement.
Iron weapons. Organized military formations. More permanent structures. Bobby's trained eye immediately recognized the hallmarks of the early Iron Age, approximately 1200-900 BCE. The quantum energy readings suggested this cycle might last several decades, giving him ample time to integrate into this new society.
The settlement before him was substantial—a fortified town with wooden palisades surrounded by cultivated fields. Smoke rose from multiple hearths, and the distant sounds of metalwork rang through the air. People moved with purpose, their clothing more sophisticated than previous eras, their social organization clearly more complex.
Bobby spent several days observing from a distance, learning the patterns of guards, identifying social hierarchies, and picking up the basics of their language. When he felt sufficiently prepared, he approached the main gate, presenting himself as a traveler with metalworking skills.
The guards were suspicious but not hostile. After a brief interrogation and an inspection of the small iron daggers Bobby had crafted as evidence of his abilities, they escorted him to the town's blacksmith.
The smith—a burly man with a perpetual scowl named Huram—was initially dismissive of the stranger but quickly reassessed his opinion when Bobby demonstrated techniques for purifying iron ore that produced stronger, more consistent metal.
"Where did you learn this?" Huram demanded, examining a blade Bobby had tempered using methods that wouldn't become standard for centuries.
"I traveled far to the east," Bobby replied, using his standard cover story. "Many techniques are known there that haven't reached these lands."
Huram's skepticism was obvious, but he couldn't argue with results. "You'll work under my supervision," he grunted. "We'll see if your methods hold up when forging actual weapons, not just trinkets."
Thus began Bobby's integration into the settlement of Kanesh, a trading post that would eventually become an important link between Mesopotamian and Anatolian cultures. As in previous cycles, he was careful to introduce innovations gradually, improving existing techniques rather than revolutionizing them outright.
Under Huram's grudging tutelage, Bobby learned the local variations of ironworking while subtly improving the smith's processes. Word of the exceptional weapons produced in Huram's forge soon spread, bringing attention from the settlement's ruler—a man called Tarhun who styled himself king though his domain was relatively small.
Six months after his arrival, Bobby was summoned to the king's hall—a wooden structure more grand than the surrounding buildings but modest compared to the palaces of later eras. Guards escorted him through the settlement to where Tarhun held court, surrounded by advisors and warriors.
The "king" was younger than Bobby had expected, perhaps thirty, with a neatly trimmed beard and calculating eyes. He wore iron bands around his wrists and a torc of twisted metal around his neck—symbols of status in this pre-coinage economy.
"So you're the foreign smith who makes blades that never dull," Tarhun said without preamble. "Huram says your methods are strange but effective."
Bobby bowed respectfully. "I've been fortunate to learn from many masters in my travels."
Tarhun leaned forward on his wooden throne. "These travels—they took you to the Hittite lands? The Egyptian kingdoms?"
"And beyond," Bobby confirmed, being deliberately vague. "East to lands where the sun rises from mountains that touch the heavens."
This captured the king's interest. In this era, geographic knowledge was limited and often mixed with mythology. "And the people there—they have weapons better than ours?"
Bobby recognized the real question beneath the inquiry. "Different, not necessarily better. Their methods suit their resources and enemies."
Tarhun grunted, apparently satisfied with this diplomatic answer. "I have a task for you, foreigner. My scouts report a rival settlement three days' march west has acquired new weapons—bronze mixed with something that makes it hard as iron but lighter. I want better for my warriors."
Bobby immediately understood the technological development Tarhun was describing—likely an early form of bronze alloying that incorporated trace elements to improve hardness. It was a natural development in metallurgy, but potentially destabilizing to local power dynamics.
"I would need to examine these weapons to understand their composition," Bobby said carefully.
Tarhun smiled, a predatory expression. "You shall have the opportunity. Tomorrow my warriors raid a caravan carrying such weapons. You will accompany them and examine what we capture."
Bobby realized he was being drawn into local conflicts faster than he'd anticipated. "I'm a smith, not a warrior," he objected, though his enhanced physiology made him more dangerous than anyone in the room.
"You'll remain behind the fighting line," Tarhun assured him. "I merely need your eyes and knowledge, not your sword arm." His tone made it clear this wasn't a request.
That night, as Bobby prepared for the coming raid, he was approached by a woman he'd noticed among Tarhun's advisors. She entered the small hut he'd been assigned without announcement, clearly accustomed to her authority being respected.
"You concern yourself with what cannot be avoided, smith," she said in lieu of introduction. Her voice carried the distinctive cadence of a trained priestess or seer.
Bobby set aside the pack he'd been preparing. "And you are?"
"I am Puduhepa, vessel of the goddess Hebat." She moved further into the hut, her dark eyes assessing him with uncomfortable intensity. "The divine ones speak of your arrival. They say you are old beyond reckoning, though your face is young."
The claim sent a jolt of caution through Bobby. Throughout his many displacements, he occasionally encountered individuals with unusual perceptiveness—people who sensed something of his true nature despite his careful concealment.
"The gods speak in riddles," he replied noncommittally. "I'm a simple metalworker."
Puduhepa laughed, the sound surprisingly melodic. "No simple smith knows the secrets you whisper to the forge fire. Huram speaks of how you talk to the metal as a lover, knowing its moods and desires."
Bobby remained silent, waiting for her to reveal her purpose.
"Tomorrow's raid is not what Tarhun described," she continued, lowering her voice. "Our 'king' plans to destroy a settlement, not merely raid a caravan. The weapons are an excuse. He wants the land and water rights."
This was unexpected. "Why tell me this?"
Puduhepa moved closer, the scent of temple incense clinging to her robes. "Because the gods have plans for you, stranger. And because innocent blood spilled with weapons you might create would stain your soul."
Bobby had long ago abandoned the notion that his "soul" could be further stained. The weight of his actions and inactions across millennia had immunized him to such concerns. Yet something in the woman's directness intrigued him.
"What do the gods suggest I do?" he asked, playing along.
"Observe. Learn the true nature of the man you serve before committing your skills to his ambitions." She moved toward the door but paused before leaving. "The settlement he attacks harbors no soldiers—only farmers, craftsmen, and their families. Remember that when the screaming begins."
With that ominous warning, she departed, leaving Bobby with uncomfortable questions about his position in Kanesh. Throughout his many displacements, he had attempted to remain neutral in local conflicts, using his knowledge to improve conditions without significantly altering historical trajectories.
But neutrality became more difficult with each cycle. The more deeply he integrated into these ancient societies, the more their struggles became personal to him.
Dawn brought the assembly of Tarhun's warband—forty men armed with iron weapons and leather armor, mounted on sturdy horses. Bobby was provided a mount of his own and positioned near the rear of the formation as they rode westward.
The warrior riding beside him, a scarred veteran named Keshav, was more talkative than most. "First raid?" he asked, noting Bobby's vigilant posture.
"As a smith, yes."
Keshav nodded. "Keep your head down and your eyes open. Tarhun doesn't care if you can fight, but he'll expect useful observations about their weapons."
"I understood we're raiding a caravan," Bobby said, watching the man's reaction carefully.
Something flickered in Keshav's eyes. "Plans change," he said shortly. "The king received new information last night."
They rode in silence after that, moving through rolling grasslands toward distant hills. By midday, they had entered more rugged terrain, following game trails through scrubland. Bobby heard Tarhun conferring with his lieutenants, confirming Puduhepa's warning—their target was indeed a settlement, not a caravan.
As the sun began its westward descent, they reached a ridge overlooking a small valley. Below, a settlement of perhaps thirty structures nestled alongside a stream—a peaceful agricultural community with terraced fields stepped down the gentle slopes. People moved about their evening activities, unaware of the threat gathering above them.
Tarhun signaled a halt, gathering his warriors. "We attack at dusk," he instructed. "No survivors. I want no claims to this land remaining."
Bobby felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. This wasn't a raid for resources or a show of strength—it was intended genocide, the complete eradication of a community.
Keshav must have noticed his expression. "Having second thoughts, smith?"
"This isn't a military target," Bobby said quietly.
The warrior shrugged. "It's seated on the best water source in the region and controls access to the mountain passes. Tarhun has desired this land for years."
"These are farmers," Bobby pressed.
"They're obstacles," Keshav replied matter-of-factly. "When they're gone, our people will farm this land instead."
The casual dismissal of human life sent a surge of anger through Bobby. After millions of years observing humanity's development, he still found himself shocked by the capacity for callous cruelty—the ability to dehumanize others to justify taking what they possessed.
"Does that trouble you, smith?" Keshav asked, reading his expression.
Bobby composed his features. "I was told to observe their weapons. Hard to do that if everyone is dead."
Keshav laughed. "Just examination their corpses. The dead don't complain when you take their blades."
As the warband prepared for the assault, Bobby weighed his options. He could withdraw, claiming illness or injury. He could try to warn the village, though that would expose his true capabilities. Or he could simply observe, as he had countless atrocities throughout human history, adding this small massacre to the endless catalogue of cruelties he had witnessed.
The decision was taken from him when Tarhun suddenly appeared at his side. "You'll ride with me, smith. I want you to see their weapons in action before we take them."
Trapped, Bobby nodded agreement. They descended toward the settlement as the sun touched the western hills, casting long shadows across the valley. The villagers noticed their approach when they were halfway down the slope—too late to organize any meaningful defense.
What followed sickened even Bobby's ancient sensibilities.
Tarhun's warriors fell upon the settlement with practiced brutality. Men were cut down as they tried to defend their homes. Women were dragged screaming from buildings before being slaughtered. Children were speared as they ran or hunted down in the surrounding fields.
Bobby remained mounted behind Tarhun, watching with growing horror as the settlement was systematically destroyed. The king occasionally pointed out defenders using unusual weapons—the bronze alloy blades he coveted—but seemed more interested in ensuring complete eradication than in technology.
"See how the blood just beads on that blade?" Tarhun commented as one of his warriors slaughtered a family trying to escape. "Something in the metal resists fouling."
Bobby said nothing, his ancient mind cataloguing the atrocity alongside countless others he had witnessed. But something was different this time. Perhaps it was the accumulated weight of millennia observing human cruelty. Perhaps it was his growing entanglement with these primitive societies. Whatever the cause, Bobby felt his carefully maintained neutrality cracking.
As the screams died down and flames began consuming the settlement's structures, Tarhun turned to him with blood-spattered face. "Gather the weapons for examination. We camp here tonight."
Bobby dismounted mechanically, moving among the corpses with a detachment born of necessity. He collected the unusual bronze weapons, noting their composition and craftsmanship while trying to ignore the dead eyes staring accusingly from the ground.
The warriors established camp amidst the destruction, helping themselves to food stores and celebrating their "victory" with disturbing enthusiasm. Bobby retreated to the edge of the settlement, examining the captured weapons by firelight while maintaining distance from the revelry.
Keshav approached, carrying a wineskin. "Drink," he offered. "It helps."
Bobby accepted reluctantly, taking a small sip of the sour liquid. "Does it always get easier?" he asked.
The warrior settled beside him. "No," he admitted, surprising Bobby. "But you learn to live with it. The alternative is starvation for our people. This land can support twice the population of our current territory."
"There are other solutions besides slaughter," Bobby said quietly.
Keshav shrugged. "Perhaps. But Tarhun understands only one language." He nodded toward their king, who was currently celebrating by drinking wine from a vessel taken from the settlement's shrine. "Power is his only concern. Those who have it live; those who don't, die."
Later that night, as the warriors slept off their excesses, Bobby sat alone amidst the ruins. The full horror of what he had witnessed pressed against his consciousness. He had observed countless atrocities throughout human history, from prehistoric tribal conflicts to advanced warfare. He had maintained his distance, his scientific objectivity, his determination not to interfere.
But something had changed. Perhaps it was the accumulated weight of millions of years of witnessing humanity's capacity for cruelty. Perhaps it was the contrast between the civilizations he had known—Enheduanna's intellectually rich Mesopotamia or Lana's communal society—and this naked exercise of power for its own sake.
Whatever the cause, Bobby felt a resolve hardening within him. He could not continue as a passive observer. Not anymore.
When they returned to Kanesh three days later, Bobby immediately sought out Puduhepa. He found the priestess in the small temple dedicated to the local storm deity, tending a sacred flame.
"You saw," she said without turning, sensing his presence.
"Yes."
She faced him then, her expression grave. "And now you understand the man you serve."
Bobby nodded, his decision made. "I won't forge weapons for him."
Puduhepa's eyes widened slightly. "He will not accept refusal."
"Then he will have to kill me," Bobby replied, knowing full well that Tarhun lacked the means to do so.
The priestess studied him for a long moment. "There are other options beyond simple refusal or death."
"Such as?"
"Help me remove him," she said bluntly. "The gods have shown me a better path for our people, but Tarhun stands in the way."
Bobby felt a familiar wariness. Throughout his many displacements, local political factions had occasionally attempted to recruit him, seeing his unusual knowledge as a potential advantage. He had always declined, maintaining his policy of minimal interference.
But the memory of the slaughtered village remained fresh. "What exactly do you propose?"
Puduhepa glanced toward the temple entrance, then lowered her voice. "Tarhun's brother, Kupanta, shares his blood but not his cruelty. He commands the loyalty of many warriors who are tired of endless raiding when trade would bring greater prosperity."
"You want me to help stage a coup," Bobby summarized.
"I want you to help save lives," she corrected. "How many more villages will be destroyed? How many more innovations will be turned toward slaughter instead of prosperity?"
The question struck uncomfortably close to Bobby's own thoughts. "And if I refuse?"
"Then Huram will forge inferior versions of the weapons you've shown him, and Tarhun will use them to expand his bloody empire." She stepped closer. "You cannot remain neutral, stranger. Not in this."
Bobby considered his options. Direct intervention in local politics violated his self-imposed protocols. Yet standing aside while his knowledge enabled atrocities seemed equally problematic.
"I need time to consider," he said finally.
Puduhepa nodded. "The moon wanes. When it renews itself, we must act—with or without you."
Bobby returned to the forge, where Huram was already attempting to replicate the captured bronze weapons. The smith looked up from his work, sweat dripping from his brow.
"Tarhun wants prototypes by month's end," he grunted. "Says he has more cleansing to do."
The casual reference to mass murder as "cleansing" hardened Bobby's resolve. "These alloys require special techniques," he said. "I'll need to experiment."
Huram nodded, returning to his work. "Just make sure they kill well. That's all he cares about."
Over the following days, Bobby went through the motions of weapons development while secretly meeting with Puduhepa and eventually Kupanta. The brother proved to be everything Tarhun was not—thoughtful, strategic, and concerned with sustainable prosperity rather than violent expansion.
"My brother believes strength comes from conquest," Kupanta explained during one clandestine meeting. "I believe it comes from stable alliances and trade relationships."
"Yet you've supported his campaigns until now," Bobby pointed out.
Kupanta's expression darkened. "Family loyalty has its limits. What he did to that western settlement crossed a line many of us weren't willing to acknowledge existed."
As the new moon approached, their conspiracy took shape. Kupanta had secured the loyalty of the garrison's secondary commanders and many of the veteran warriors, including Keshav, who had apparently harbored doubts about Tarhun's leadership for some time.
"The men follow him out of fear, not respect," Keshav explained. "They'll accept Kupanta if the transition is clean."
Bobby's role was carefully defined—he would lure Tarhun to the forge with promises of prototype weapons, where Kupanta and his most trusted men would confront him. If he resisted, they would kill him. If he surrendered, he would be exiled.
The plan was simple, direct, and had a reasonable chance of success. But something about it troubled Bobby deeply. Not the moral implications—he had long ago moved beyond conventional human ethics—but the pattern it represented.
Once again, he was being drawn into the violent politics of a primitive society. Once again, human beings were solving problems through bloodshed and betrayal. The methods changed, the justifications evolved, but the fundamental reality remained constant—power ultimately flowed from the capacity and willingness to inflict harm.
On the night before their planned coup, Bobby sat alone in his small dwelling, the quantum temporal energy readings suggesting he had years, possibly decades remaining in this displacement. Years potentially spent enabling a new regime that, while perhaps less openly brutal than Tarhun's, would ultimately operate on the same principles.
The realization settled over him like a physical weight. Humanity's capacity for cruelty wasn't a bug—it was a feature. An evolutionary adaptation that had helped the species survive and eventually dominate. His attempts to find enclaves of purely benevolent humans throughout history had always eventually led to disappointment.
When dawn broke, Bobby proceeded to the forge earlier than usual. He stoked the fire, prepared his materials, and sent word to Tarhun that the prototype weapons were ready for private viewing. Then he waited, his ancient mind cycling through countless similar scenarios he had witnessed throughout human history.
Tarhun arrived mid-morning, flanked by two guards rather than his usual four—a stroke of luck for the conspirators. His expression was eager as he entered the forge, eyes immediately seeking the promised weapons.
"Show me," he demanded without preamble.
Bobby gestured to a cloth-covered table. "I've made modifications to the basic design," he explained, buying time. Kupanta and his men were supposed to be in position already, but Bobby heard no movement from the anticipated direction.
Tarhun approached the table impatiently and pulled away the covering cloth, revealing several finely crafted swords. He lifted one, testing its balance with an experienced hand.
"Lighter than iron, harder than bronze," Bobby explained mechanically. "The edge will hold through sustained combat."
Tarhun smiled, his expression covetous. "With these, we could expand our territory tenfold. The southern settlements would fall easily." He swung the blade experimentally, narrowly missing Bobby. "When can you begin production?"
Before Bobby could answer, a commotion erupted outside. Shouting, the clash of metal on metal—sounds of combat rather than the ordered confrontation Kupanta had planned.
Tarhun's expression shifted instantly from pleasure to suspicion. "What treachery is this?" he demanded, raising the sword toward Bobby.
One of Tarhun's guards rushed inside. "My king! Your brother attacks with half the garrison behind him!"
Rage transformed Tarhun's features. "So that's why you lured me here," he snarled at Bobby. "Part of my weakling brother's plot."
Bobby backed away, hands raised. "This was meant to be a peaceful transition," he said, knowing the words were meaningless now.
"There is no peace in succession," Tarhun spat. "Only victory or death." He lunged forward, the prototype sword slashing toward Bobby's throat.
Millennia of experience allowed Bobby to dodge the attack, his enhanced reflexes making Tarhun's movement seem almost comically slow. But the king's guard joined the assault, forcing Bobby to evade multiple attackers in the confined space of the forge.
He could have ended it instantly. A telekinetic push would have thrown both men across the room. A focused telepathic blast would have rendered them unconscious. But Bobby still hesitated to reveal his true capabilities—a hesitation born from millions of years of cautious concealment.
That hesitation proved costly. As he maneuvered away from Tarhun's increasingly frustrated attacks, the forge door burst open. Kupanta staggered in, blood streaming from a wound in his side. Behind him, one of Tarhun's loyal captains advanced with bloodied sword.
"Brother," Kupanta gasped. "It doesn't have to end this way. Surrender your crown, and you can live out your days in comfort."
Tarhun's response was a wordless roar as he charged his wounded brother, prototype sword raised for a killing blow.
Time seemed to slow for Bobby. He saw the blade descending toward Kupanta's unprotected head. He saw the wounded man's eyes widen in the realization of imminent death. He saw the future unfold—Tarhun victorious, his power consolidated, more villages destroyed, more innocents slaughtered with weapons Bobby had helped create.
Something snapped inside him. After millions of years of restraint, of careful non-interference, of passive observation, Bobby Kestrel finally acted.
Power surged through him as he released the telepathic barriers he normally maintained. The air in the forge crackled with suddenly manifested energy. Bobby extended his hand toward Tarhun, and the king froze mid-attack, the sword halted centimeters from Kupanta's skull.
"Enough," Bobby said, his voice resonating with psionic force.
Everyone in the room stood immobilized, eyes wide with shock and dawning terror as they beheld something beyond their comprehension. Bobby rose slightly off the ground, telekinetic energy lifting him as his control continued to slip.
"I have watched your kind slaughter each other for millions of years," he said, ancient weariness and fresh rage mingling in his voice. "I have remained apart, observing, recording, never interfering. But no more."
With a casual gesture, he yanked the weapons from Tarhun and his guards, the metal implements floating before collapsing into twisted, unrecognizable shapes.
Tarhun found his voice, though he remained frozen in Bobby's telekinetic grip. "What—what manner of demon are you?"
"I am no demon," Bobby replied coldly. "Merely a traveler who has seen too much blood spilled for too little reason."
With another gesture, he forced Tarhun to his knees. The king struggled against the invisible bonds, his face contorted with rage and fear.
"Kill me then, demon," he spat. "Prove you're no better than those you judge."
The words penetrated Bobby's haze of anger. Was he truly any better? He had witnessed countless atrocities throughout human history and done nothing. His inaction had enabled suffering on a scale few could comprehend. And now, when he finally acted, it was with the same violent domination he condemned in others.
The realization didn't diminish his anger, but it provided clarity. Bobby relaxed his telekinetic hold slightly, allowing his captives to breathe more easily.
"I won't kill you," he said quietly. "But neither will you continue your reign of slaughter."
With focused precision, Bobby reached into Tarhun's mind. He could have simply destroyed the man's consciousness, but instead, he carefully altered specific memories and associations. He implanted a profound aversion to violence, a visceral revulsion toward bloodshed that would make it impossible for Tarhun to continue his militaristic ways.
When he withdrew from Tarhun's mind, the king collapsed to the floor, trembling violently. Bobby turned to the others—Kupanta, the guards, Tarhun's captain—all watching with expressions of religious terror.
"He lives," Bobby told them. "But he is changed. He will no longer seek war or conquest."
Kupanta found his voice first. "What—what have you done to him?"
"I showed him the true cost of his actions," Bobby replied. "Every life he took, every child he orphaned, every community he destroyed—he felt it all."
The implications of Bobby's power were sinking in. These Iron Age humans had no context for what they were witnessing except through the lens of divine intervention or demonic possession.
"Are you a god?" Kupanta asked, falling to his knees despite his wound.
Bobby sighed, the familiar question arising once again across the millennia. "No. But neither am I a man as you understand the term."
He gestured toward Tarhun, who was now weeping uncontrollably on the forge floor. "He will need guidance in the days ahead. The memories I showed him will haunt him, but they may also lead him toward redemption."
Bobby turned away, suddenly exhausted despite his enhanced physiology. The release of power after so long maintaining rigid control had drained him in ways he hadn't anticipated.
"What will you do now, god-who-is-not-a-god?" Kupanta asked.
Bobby moved toward the forge door. "I will leave this place. My presence brings more questions than answers."
Outside, the conflict had largely subsided as word spread of strange occurrences at the forge. Warriors from both factions stood in uneasy clusters, weapons lowered but not sheathed. They parted silently before Bobby as he walked through the settlement toward the main gate.
Puduhepa intercepted him near the temple. "The goddess spoke truly," she said, her eyes wide with wonder. "You are indeed beyond the reckoning of mortals."
Bobby paused. "Your conspiracy failed," he observed.
"And yet succeeded beyond imagining," she countered. "Tarhun lives but is broken. Kupanta will rule in all but name. And our people have witnessed the intervention of..." She hesitated.
"Not a god," Bobby supplied tiredly. "Something else."
"Something glorious and terrible," she said softly. "Will you not stay? Guide us?"
Bobby shook his head. "I have interfered too much already."
He continued toward the gate, but Puduhepa's next words stopped him. "They will make you a deity, you know. Stories of what happened today will spread and grow. Within a generation, you will be worshipped."
Bobby turned back, a weary smile touching his lips. "Then do me one service, priestess. When you tell my story, say that I abhorred needless slaughter. That I valued life above power. Perhaps that message, at least, will survive the inevitable distortions."
With that, he departed Kanesh, walking into the wilderness with no particular destination. The quantum temporal energy readings suggested he had years remaining in this displacement—years he would now spend in isolation, reflecting on the implications of his actions.
For the first time in countless millennia, Bobby Kestrel had directly intervened in human affairs. He had altered minds, demonstrated power beyond mortal comprehension, potentially changed the course of local history.
The line he had maintained throughout millions of years of observation had finally been crossed. And Bobby wasn't certain he could ever go back to being merely a witness.