Smith

by Wade Adrian

  “Good. I don’t sit still very well.”

  “Clearly.”

  “And I still have some finishing to do before I’d call the bows done.”

  Bishop smiled. “You strike me as the kind of man that won’t be done with a project until it’s taken away.”

  “I’d probably agree, but you don’t want these to be half-assed.”

  “Fair enough. You’ll undoubtedly have time anyway.” Bishop lowered his voice as he sat down beside him. “There is something we’d like to discuss, if you’re willing.”

  “We?”

  “Rawlins, the medic, and myself.”

  “I don’t think I’m sick.”

  “Excellent. That has nothing to do with it, though. Just an… interview of sorts. It won’t change anything. You’re already part of the community.”

  Smith shrugged. He didn’t want to seem rude, they were already going out of their way for him. “Alright.” He tilted his head a bit. “You keep saying ‘medic’ instead of doctor.”

  “Oh, he insists.” Bishop nodded. “Rawlins was a medic in the marines, but he didn’t work in medicine when he got home. At least, not people medicine. Still, he knows a lot more than the rest of us. Kept us patched up since we got rolling.”

  “Well, I’ll be glad to not take up much of his time.”

  “He’ll be glad to hear it. We’ll head over after supper.”

  “Great.”

  Just great.

  Miles hopped up as swiftly as a man with a limp can. Stevens helped a bit. “That mean we’re relieved? Think I’d like to rest up a bit.”

  Bishop nodded. “Of course. You weren’t supposed to be out today anyway.”

  “Meh.” Miles shrugged. “Needed some exercise. Wanted to see my bow.”

  “Your bow?”

  “Smith said I could have one.”

  Smith chuckled a bit. “There’s material for several more. He’ll probably use one in his line of work, but it might not be one of those two.”

  Miles sighed. “Dang.”

  Bishop rolled his eyes a bit. “Give the man some time.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Story of my life.” He waved. “Have fun at the clinic.” Smith frowned a bit as he stood up. “Yeah, sounds fun. Good times.”

  Bishop chuckled. “Really, nothing to worry about. Stop antagonizing him, Miles.”

  More people waved as they left. It was still weird. He hoped they were waving at Bishop, but he didn’t really believe it.

  The medic’s clinic was nicer than Smith had expected. It was the lower floor of one of the buildings on the far side of the place from his shop. Over by the ranch area with the animals. Because that was sterile.

  It was neat and tidy inside, though. Even had a waiting room lined with benches. The place seemed more or less closed. There was a window where someone could see into the waiting room, but it was empty. Bishop lead Smith to the door beside the window.

  “He should be back here somewhere.”

  The room beyond was something of an organized mess. Shelves lined the back wall, while cots lined either side. A few metal tables were set up in the center. Potentially for operations, though at the moment they had books and tools laid out.

  A man with short cropped gray hair sat on a stool at one of the tables, pouring over a book. He glanced up when they came in. “Bishop.” He nodded. “And Mr. Smith, I presume.”

  “Mr. Smith indeed.” Bishop wandered over.

  Smith followed. “You can drop the mister. Smith is fine.”

  “Mmm.” The stool creaked as Rawlins sat up straight. “Not much use for formalities outside, huh?”

  “None at all.”

  Bishop pulled up a stool of his own from one of the other tables. “Don’t badger him, he’s gotten enough of that.”

  Rawlins waved Smith over. “Very well. So, Smith, how are you finding our village?”

  “Crowded.” Smith didn’t bother to sit. He tucked his hands into the large pockets over his overalls.

  “You think? Because I asked you here to talk about precisely that.”

  Smith tilted his head. “Okay…”

  Rawlins tapped on the book. “Genetics, Smith. Genetics.”

  Bishop shrugged a bit. “Rawlins here was a dog breeder after his time in the military. He’s been harping this particular tune since we started.”

  “And it’s only getting more important.” Rawlins flipped through a few pages. “This is the ledger where I keep track of the population. Future generations will need this information to ensure we continue to have a viable gene pool. Marriages and children are tracked to ensure there is no unnecessary overlap.”

  Smith raised an eyebrow. “You’re… telling people who they need to pair up with?”

  “No.” Rawlins shook his head. “But if the need arises in the future, we retain the right to…”

  Bishop shrugged. “Decline permission. It hasn’t come up yet. And it may never, but it’s something we need to keep tabs on to ensure people don’t die off for preventable reasons.”

  Smith crossed his arms. “Huh.”

  “Which is where you come in, Smith. You’re new. I doubt you’ve got any genetic ties to anyone here. Leastwise, not any close enough that you’re even aware of them.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You… want me to have kids.”

  Bishop chuckled. “Rawlins is a bit straight forward. What he means is, if you choose to, it would be a boon for our little society. A new family tree.”

  Rawlins nodded. “Widening the gene pool. Reducing the chance of inbreeding in the future resulting in genetic deficiencies and avoidable diseases.”

  Smith frowned a bit. “Uh-huh.”

  There wouldn’t be much of a choice then, depending on how close they were to those problems. “And how is this little project of yours doing?”

  “Not bad, not bad.” Rawlins flipped through the ledger, back to the last page. “There were sixty four residents before you arrived. Sixty five now. Eighty would be ideal, but some have held that anything over fifty should be enough. Keep in mind we’re still in the first generation.”

  Bishop rolled his eyes. “And it may never be a concern at all, if trade and peace talks with other villages improve.”

  “But if they don’t.” Rawlings tapped on the ledger. “We need to be prepared.”

  Smith pulled another stool up. He needed to sit down for this. “Thought you were a marine, not a boy scout.”

  “One does not preclude the other. In fact, one often precedes the other.” Rawlins rubbed at his chin. “There are presently more women in town than men. This isn’t unusual. Any population, given time, tends to end up slightly in favor of women. Genetic makeup and all. Technically every viable embryo is female first, then can change. Hence male nipples.”

  Bishop sighed. “You’re really not getting any smoother at this talk, Rawlins.”

  “I don’t get much opportunity to work on it.” He shrugged. “I’ll slack up a bit when we hit eighty.”

  Smith frowned at the ledger. “Your number is wrong. Some people here are already related. You have first and second generation added together.”

  Rawlins nodded. “Hence the ledger. All things considered some are outside the gene pool, you’re right. Mothers with daughters of age are probably already removed, or on the cusp. Fathers can produce offspring more or less indefinitely, though the chance of birth defects rises. Still better than the alternative. That’s why someone like you showing up is so helpful.”

  Smith chuckled. “Here I thought I was let in for knife making.”

  Bishop made an annoyed face at Rawlins. “You were. But this is… something of a standing long term issue, if you’ll forgive the bluntness.”

  “I guess I understand.” He shrugged. “What’s the timetable on this?”

  Bishop shrugged right back.

  Rawlins glanced over the book. “Sooner is better, of course. You’re already… what… thirty? There aren’t any females that are precisely
that age, but some younger. Younger is better, after all.”

  Smith shook his head. “Somehow making this into a math problem is making it weird.”

  Rawlins gave him a level look. “It is a math problem. And if humanity is to grow, thrive, and recover it’s math that we can’t afford to get wrong.”

  Bishop shook his head. “Now, now. No need to be dire. But it is a fall back point.” He turned to Smith. “We do have our scouts and hunters observe those they find outside, and they are free to approach and discuss with other settlements. So far, there hasn’t been much of that. A lot of it has gone nowhere. A few have been openly hostile. But we hold out hope.”

  Smith nodded. “I get it. Hope for the best…”

  “Plan for the worst.”

  Rawlins turned the ledger and slid it across the table to rest in front of Smith.

  Smith lay awake staring at the ceiling for some time. His room in the common house had been cleaned but otherwise left alone. His clothes had been returned, as promised.

  The young lady that had walked in on his bath that morning was one of those on the list as unmarried. Well, that wasn’t quite right. Rawlins wasn’t big on ceremony. She was listed as “unpaired.” She had known about all this, and it was possible she had been going out of her way to meet him. Her shift didn’t usually start until noon, apparently.

  They had mentioned others as well, but he hadn’t run into them.

  Well, except for Mary.

  Apparently her lack of speech wasn’t genetic or something she had been dealing with her entire life, but something that had happened when things changed. No one could explain it, as there was noting physically wrong with her.

  She was the oldest of her siblings, and the only one left unmarried. A few men had expressed interest, most notably Cooper, but she had either refused them or the suitors had given up.

  Supposedly, despite not being able to speak, she could be pretty mouthy and didn’t have a lot of trouble getting her opinions across.

  Her blatantly ignoring Cooper the first day made more sense now. She was giving him the cold shoulder. By all accounts they had been friends early on but that soured at some point.

  Cooper and Miles were the only two unpaired males in town before Smith had arrived. Neither seemed to be going out of his way to change that either. Of course, both of them were younger than Smith, so they had more room to be picky. There were seven unpaired females. All younger than Smith.

  Just great. More pressure. It was bad enough he essentially had to MacGyver weapons and tools up from piles of junk, but this schoolyard bullshit was really too much.

  Suddenly the outside didn’t seem so terrible… well sometimes. Occasionally. Alright, it was still pretty bad… but at least it was quiet.

  He’d never been much for long term relationships. His had always tended to peter out around the six month mark.

  Of course, Rawlins hadn’t said anything about long term. He was only concerned with offspring fitting into his flow chart.

  Smith sighed at the shadows overhead. The little window let in just enough light from outside to draw on the ceiling. He didn’t know how long the lights would be on out there. Maybe all night. The gate guards would always have light at least, and he could probably see the gate from his window.

  Problems for some other day. There would be work to do tomorrow.

  16

  Smith found it a little weird to not have an escort as he wandered into the lobby of the common house. He’d gotten to used to having a tail.

  The old man behind the counter barely looked up. The young redhead was nowhere to be found. Smith must not have made much of an impression.

  He could smell the breakfast food well underway in the kitchens as soon as he stepped outside. The sun was still half buried behind the horizon, difficult to see for the trees inside and beyond the walls. Mostly it was the lit up leaves that gave it away, with a few shafts of light breaking through as the canopy moved in the wind.

  Smith had gone with a mixture of attire. His normal pants fit a lot better and allowed him to wear his knife and holster properly, but he kept the heavy denim work shirt.

  He wandered on past the square and the kitchens. The racket from the kitchen’s open doors followed him halfway to his shop.

  It was empty. Birds chirped amongst the trees outside the fences, and a few more flitted about on the roof.

  Ugh. The roof. He had failed to consider the roof. It was likely to be a problem in the long run, even if it was good now. He’d have to think of something to replace the metal sheets up there. No one was making them anymore.

  Clay tiles were an option. They would hold up well. Wooden shingles would probably be easier, but weaker. He’d seen some ancient buildings back in his renaissance faire days, built just to show how people used to live. It might be handy information to have now. He wished he had studied them more thoroughly. At the time he had only had eyes for the forge.

  Hard to be angry at his younger self… who could have really seen this world coming? Well, a few crazies must have gotten it right on accident.

  He opened the large doors up on two sides and set about cleaning up his messes from the last two days. Barrels and anvils right in the middle of the floor, tools laid out, bows and strings all over the place. Bits of sawed off PVC and wood lying about… he didn’t toss any of it, of course. You never know what you might need later.

  Without a proper means to measure everything, Smith set to counting how many of his feet things were. The length and width of the building primarily. He started scribbling shapes in the dirt.

  He wanted the forge in the corner between the two sets of doors. Heat would be a factor, so the doors would be opened sometimes to let the wind through. Nice to have the option. He’d puked a few times from heatstroke before. Not something he looked forward to doing again.

  So the anvil, hopefully anvils with an S, would be laid out at a 45 degree angle from the forge in the corner so he could get at them from either side. Quench tanks beside the anvil. It was unlikely he’d get an oil barrel for metals that did better with an oil quench… but blacksmiths got by for years with water. Well, and brine, supposedly. Maybe he could get some salt.

  He’d known one guy that swore by a tank filled with flat soda. The smell had been… interesting to say the least. He’d never noticed a quality increase. The guy might have just been a quack.

  His diagram on the floor didn’t really incorporate much of the rest of the place. Shelves, for certain. Some pegboard for the tools would be great, but it was unlikely. He’d just have to be a bit more old school with things.

  “Figured.”

  Smith looked up from his calculations.

  Bishop was leaning on the door jamb, a bowl covered with a plate in his hands. “Breakfast, since the kitchen staff said you hadn’t been seen today.”

  He wasn’t hungry, but he nodded a bit anyway. Didn’t want to be rude. “Thanks.”

  “Take it we’re planning up a storm here?”

  Smith shrugged one shoulder. “Forge in the corner. Anvil beside it. Simple stuff.”

  “Well, given you’re planning to reside here don’t forget about things like a wash room, or a bit of a kitchen since you seem to be allergic to ours.”

  “Sorry.”

  Bishop was right. He hadn’t thought much about the quarters beyond needing a place to sleep and wanting to safeguard his tools.

  Hell, how was he even going to light this place? It was a big open shed at the moment, which was bad enough. But then they were going to throw in walls to block what little light there would be.

  He tugged on his beard. “You’ve got a point.” Smith glanced back at his diagram. “Guess the second floor will do for kitchen and sleeping, but probably want the washroom downstairs since I’ll be down here more. Hmm. Where does the water come from, anyway?”

  “There are three wells on the property. One in the common house, one in the kitchens, and one out by the farm. Typically we
use those, though there is a creek that runs outside the walls. We’ve discussed fencing some of it in before, but it brings up security issues. Fish would be nice, though. And we keep rain barrels, but that water is more for crops and animals.”

  Irrigation was a problem for another day. “Wells, huh? Any testing done as to their depth?”

  “It was a concern at first, but at this point we’re pretty sure we’re not hurting the water level, or it’s filling in again despite our efforts. Might just be an underground river. Still, we do attempt to conserve it. Minimal use of soap and the like, and no water is returned to the well for fear of contaminating it.”

  That hardly seemed sustainable… but Smith kept the notion to himself. They already knew. They’d work something else up in time. He’d probably be consulted. Grates could be used to keep the creek flowing through town and yet keep the riffraff out. Large fish would be cut off from the rest of the stream, though.

  Bishop chuckled.

  Smith glanced up. “Eh?”

  “I can almost see gears turning in your head while you ponder things. It’s amusing. Most people just slapdash things together, but you’re over there putting every tiny gear in its place and making sure it spins.”

  “Mmm.” Smith nodded. “Only way I know how to work.”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining. By all means, continue.”

  Smith tilted his head a bit. “There’s a drain in the common house wash room. Where does that go, if not back into the wells?”

  “It’s a six inch wide pipe that goes down a bout a foot then bends and deposits the waste water outside the walls. One of the hunters happened upon it when he was checking the fences in the early days. It was simple enough to confirm. Makes a puddle, but it dries out before long.”

  “Chemicals in the water might still be a concern.”

  “True, but the outlet is on the far end of the village. The flow of the creek and theoretically what’s underneath hits us, then that spot. We have since rigged up a bit more with a wooden channel under it that takes it out a few hundred yards. As much as we could manage.”