A Long Time Until Now - eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  In the meantime, the rushing animals proved they needed the barricade.

  Shaping the pivots took a lot of chiseling and carving. Trinidad was murder with a machete. He used a combination of slicing chops, hacking chops, scrapes and cuts with wrist twists to turn the top point of the log into a quite smooth cone. It wasn’t as smooth as a lathe would make it, but impressive.

  “We should have done this sooner,” Martin said as he watched.

  The socket was a beast. It wouldn’t be done today. They hammered, chiseled, gouged with knives, filed and scraped.

  Trinidad said, “I need a lump from the fire and a reed,” he said. “Just burn it deeper.”

  “Not a bad idea, hold on.”

  Actually . . . yes. It should work.

  Trinidad ran that way, and Spencer noted the increase in the man’s muscle mass. They were all getting bigger from manual labor.

  Caswell and Ortiz returned with something small and meaty looking. It might be a yearling deer. They hung it in the kitchen area.

  “We got a stampede,” she said.

  “Yeah, it came through here.”

  “Luckily, they didn’t seem crowded. I thought a rhino was going to stomp me into the ground, but he shifted at the last minute.”

  “Good. I’m not sure what we can do about that while hunting. It doesn’t seem to happen often, though.”

  “Approaching party!” Barker called from the lookout.

  “Oh, goddammit. Paleos?”

  “Negative. Large party, numbering about three zero. Armed with bows, with dogs.”

  A chill ran down him.

  “Body armor, weapons. Magazines in, chambers empty for now, but be ready. I’ll do the meet and greet, the LT has the trucks.”

  “I’ll meet them,” Elliott said. “You keep the trucks.”

  “Understood, sir,” he said, and felt disgusted with himself for feeling relief. He really wanted to avoid fights.

  So why had he started snapping orders and assuming command?

  Because he didn’t trust anyone to do the right thing, and he could avoid his fears by giving orders to others. Not good.

  The troops were running in and out of the tepee, quite briskly, and wearing armor and helmets. If someone wanted to get stupid with a bow . . .

  “Two-forty mounted,” Barker called. “Belt in the box, top cover open.”

  “Good, keep it like that for now.”

  Yeah. If they got stupid . . .

  Please, don’t get stupid.

  Sean Elliott shrugged into his ITV and tossed on his ACH. It felt comforting, but almost unfamiliar. It had been weeks since he’d bothered.

  “Oglesby with me. Dalton. Caswell. Ortiz . . . no, Trinidad.”

  He was risking Trinidad, the intel expert, over the vet, and their edible plant expert, but dammit, he couldn’t leave everyone safe, and he only had nine people.

  Alexander ran up with his Bluetooth. He shrugged and stuck it in.

  Barker called, “Five hundred meters. I count three-two adults. I’m calling it a war party.”

  That was not what he wanted to hear.

  “Roger that. We’ll head out so we’re in view.” He wanted that gun covering him. Was Barker good enough to miss him if he fired?

  “Go ahead and load,” he ordered. “Fingers off triggers, muzzles safe. We’re not going to start anything.”

  Dalton said, “But if they do, we’ll finish it.”

  He said, “Be frugal with ammo. Start with two warning shots.”

  Caswell said, “Sir, they have no context for a warning shot. It’s just a loud noise. If nothing happens, it won’t have a good effect, and it means if we do shoot one later, they’ll decide the noise isn’t always deadly.”

  “Okay.” That was logical. It limited his options though. “Then I guess you shoot to disable or kill. Once they’re down, stop, and Doc will try to save them.”

  “Just like Hajjis,” Dalton said. “Has A-stan ever changed?”

  “Here we go. Oglesby, let me know if you have anything.”

  The man nodded. “Hooah, sir. It’s possible there will be some PIE. It’s even vaguely possible I’ll recognize it if they talk slow. That would be awesome.”

  “I’ll take your word on it.” He’d meant to ask what PIE was last time, and hadn’t. Obviously something linguistically common. Pre-something?

  The approaching element was visible, and not trying too hard to stay hidden. It could be a friendly meeting, then.

  “What is PIE?” he asked.

  “Oh. Proto-Indo-European. The root language for all modern Indo-European languages. Everything from Sanskrit to Greek to German and English.”

  “Babel,” Dalton muttered.

  He felt sorry for Dalton. His worldview had to be taking a beating. Sean was religious, believed there was a God directing everything, who didn’t interact with people very much. But the Bible had been written by people who had no grasp of modern science. How much could God explain to them in terms they could understand? Babel did seem a good metaphor for this PIE. It didn’t need to be literal to be true.

  His Bluetooth said, “Can you still hear us, sir?” It was Barker.

  He replied, “I can. What can you see?” as the others looked at him. Yeah, he’d want to watch that with the visitors. They might find it as heavenly or demonic, or just not grasp it at all.

  Barker said, “They’re smaller than you. Five six or so. Robust looking fellas. Bearded. Spears seem optimized for throwing. So far, they’re clumped up. I’ll let you know if they try for envelopment.”

  “Please do.” There wasn’t much range on the Bluetooth, but he had outside eyes. That mattered.

  He could easily see them now. Despite the hummocky ground, they were perhaps a hundred meters back. They ambled over the lumpy terrain, and there were two large wolflike dogs with them.

  “We’ll wait here,” he decided. The dogs were a complication. “Barker, can you shoot around us if necessary?”

  “I can.”

  “Are you good enough with that thing?”

  “I’ve shot and hit from a moving vehicle. I can enfilade you easily.” The man sounded confident.

  “Excellent. Don’t unless I say so, or I go down with a spear. That includes being wounded. Once I’m down, let them have it.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  The advancing group were mostly dark haired, but there were a couple of blonds. They had shaggy but kempt beards, some of them trimmed, and their hair was obviously combed and dressed, either cut at the neck or braided. They wore goat hide in various shades, with leggings and moccasins.

  The leader stepped out, raised a hand and said, “Haylaa!”

  “Hello . . . to you, too,” he said slowly.

  Oglesby said, “Well, that’s one, but an easy one.”

  Caswell said, “Clear syllables that are easy to say and hear. It may be a widespread.”

  “Shut up,” he said.

  They mumbled “Hooah.”

  The Stone Ager went into some lengthy introduction of himself, shaking his spear and waving, with emphatic shouts.

  When he was done, Elliott asked, “Comment?”

  Oglesby said, “I didn’t get anything at that pacing, though there’s probably a handful of referents I could get if he slowed down. He’s telling us how awesome he is.”

  Caswell said, “How awesome he is. He’s not awesome enough to have someone do it for him. That’s likely a later concept. This is still a band society, not a kingship. But he’s the current leader, probably through prowess.”

  Apparently, the discussion took too long. The group moved forward.

  Elliott raised a hand. “STOP!”

  The man paused for a moment then lumbered on through the hummocky weeds.

  Then he realized the chief or whatever he was planned to knock him down. They weren’t going for kills, they wanted slaves.

  The easiest way to end this would be to draw an M9 and shoot the chief through t
he face. Dead, done, behold our magic weapons. Except that might provoke mass violence, and he didn’t want to wipe out a village. Also, the Paleos were useful, the Neos probably would be, and would be more so with trade. And fuck it, they needed to help them develop. It would be better all around, there really wasn’t any other choice, and his duty was to keep his people alive now.

  Well, the arrogant prick was burly and muscular, and probably knew how to roughhouse, but did he know Jiu Jitsu and Kung Fu?

  He knew aggression. The man was short, but had knotty muscles, and wanted to prove his dominance. He came in fast. Elliott dodged and tried for an arm bar.

  Tried. He got the wrist and elbow and shoved, but the bastard was strong enough it didn’t work. The man actually lifted him clear of the ground as he swung his arm, trying to dislodge Elliott. They were bounding across the ground, trying to keep their feet as the sky whirled. He was suddenly glad for the wrestling practice they’d had.

  The other Neos fanned out into a semicircle. He saw the soldiers draw back and aim rifles. But if they could do this without shooting, it would be better. For one thing, their ammo was finite.

  He let go with his left arm and tried to kidney punch the big man. That didn’t work. Then a strong slap caught him upside the right ear, under the helmet, and his vision blurred as his ears rang. He gripped as tight as he could, and a moment later became aware he was in a strong bear hug from behind, his arms at painful angles and feet dangling. The guy had reached right around the armor.

  He strained for breath and took two kicks. Those were knees or shins behind him, and he drove his booted heels back in a one-two. He was rewarded with a roaring scream.

  However, the chief then collapsed forward, pinning him against the ground in a heap and bending his wrist back so he convulsed in agony. He had about two inches free with which to batter his helmet back against the man’s nose, then got an arm free and added some jabs. His knuckles stung, but he was hitting cheek or eye socket, and got some groans, and stinking breath past his face.

  The man shoved and stood, and Elliott rolled forward fast, catching a glimpse of a foot trying to stomp him. The other one came at him, and he grabbed, twisted and shoved. That brought the man down with a heavy thump, and Elliott rolled to his feet fast.

  In a moment Elliott had a boot on the character’s neck, the man’s throat pressed into his other boot, and his right arm twisted far back with the wrist bent. He leaned on it just enough to ensure the guy couldn’t struggle. He couldn’t decide between waiting for submission, breaking the arm or giving a firm boot to the face. Instead, he kept pressure on his throat until the straining roars turned to groans, moans and the man went limp.

  At this point he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to kill the man, humiliate him, take over as chief, or roar and thump chest. Hell, if he remembered right, the Zulus and a few others might have raped him.

  Instead, he looked for the two largest, closest men, pointed at them, pointed at the limp form, and turned away, which had to be a sign of contempt among hunters. Hopefully, it wouldn’t trigger a thrown spear. Though Dalton and Caswell still had rifles raised and were ready to fire. He wondered if any of the primitives had figured out M4s were weapons of some kind.

  Jenny Caswell was impressed. The Neo was built like a wrestler or quarterback, and the LT had ground him into the dirt. Though the armor had no doubt helped a little.

  Two of them dragged their chief’s limp form back to their huddle, and they all gathered around. One of them hesitantly stepped back, a little closer to her, and she threw on her command face, shook her head once, pointed at him, pointed at the group, and took a half step toward him.

  He skipped back to the group without argument.

  Dalton said, “Nice job, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Elliott replied through heaving breath and thundering pulse. “Let’s keep it quiet for now and assume we all know I’m a badass. Nice save, Caswell, thanks.” His helmet was askew. He straightened it. It appeared he was trying to moderate his breath, too.

  Dalton said, “Hooah.”

  “Thank you, sir. Does he need treatment?” she asked. “The chief?”

  “Maybe. I hope I didn’t kill him.” Elliott turned to face them. He seemed a bit disturbed. “I’d rather he was alive.”

  She thought about proto-pastoral cultures and hoped they were similar. “That depends on their culture. It’s possible the loss is a shame that requires death. He’ll be more dangerous. But probably he will lose status. He’ll have to make amends and gifts to the men, sacrifices to the gods, and try to recover grace with a successful hunt.”

  “I hope that’s the case.”

  “Without seeing their culture, I can’t say,” she admitted. “And we don’t even know when they really came from nor where. Sergeant Spencer may have a bit more information about early cultures, if we can find out. Though I find him to have a bit of a bias.”

  “Everyone has a bit of a bias,” Dalton said.

  “This is true,” she said, and decided to drop it. The Neos seemed unsure what to do. The soldiers didn’t have spears, but had easily bested their leader, and didn’t appear afraid.

  She was actually quite afraid, but at this point, she knew her eventual fate with whatever group wound up dominant. She just had to make sure she got the best status possible. Concubines rated higher than war trophies.

  Elliott said, “It concerns me they came from the west. The Urushu are that way. This is a big, well-equipped group that passed us by the river at least once.”

  “I can recon, with two people for backup,” Dalton offered.

  On the one hand, she’d love to have the information herself. On the other hand, that was a risk.

  “Not right now,” Elliott said.

  There was a whistle from the gate. She looked back to see Alexander pointing at her ear.

  She looked at the LT. Crap.

  “Sir, your Bluetooth.”

  “Oh, shit,” he said. “I forgot it completely. Fell out in the scuffle.”

  “We’ll sweep for it after they leave.”

  Oglesby said, “It wasn’t in the first go round. I saw it.”

  “That helps. Caswell, you’re female, do they perceive you as lower status?”

  “This group? Almost certainly, sir.” At least he’d asked.

  “Would you shooing them off help or hinder?”

  “I honestly have no idea, but I’d be delighted to perform the experiment.” It might work on spectators, too.

  “You saw him fight. Can you take one?”

  “Knowing they’re coming in fast and testosteroned up, I think so.” They charged like teenage boys. Smart and strong, but not wise and not forward thinking.

  “Please do.”

  “Right away.” She turned, feeling more pleasure than she should in the task.

  “You. Shoo. Go away!” She waggled her hands and took a step toward them.

  One of them stepped toward her.

  She took another step.

  He hesitated a moment, then advanced a bit more.

  She swung her head momentarily, said, “Do not interfere. I have to handle this. Take my rifle,” and turned back. She leaned her rifle back behind her and let it fall. Taking a step, she pointed. “Go!”

  Nope. He wanted a fight. His chest was puffed out, his arms slightly spread, and he leaned slightly forward. It might be he didn’t recognize her as female, or didn’t care. Though this group was all male, which suggested solidified gender roles.

  He probably wanted to wrestle. That was his strong suit. He was her height, about 5'5", but had about 40 pounds on her, with similar reach. She would rather not wrestle.

  Well, she had kneepads, boots and armor. It was three paces, he likely expected some challenge, so she strode in, let him thrust his chest at her SAPI plate, and kneed him in the balls. He blocked that, and completely missed the fist she’d brought in from the side into his ribs.

  He winced, bent, whuffed, and she took
his shoulder, pried it up, and kicked down on the side of his knee. He squealed faintly, dropped to the weeds, and sipped for air. She raised a foot as if to kick him in the face, lowered it deliberately, pointed at him, and laughed loudly.

  He almost appeared to cry.

  Then she turned and walked back to the others, sighing in relief and shaking slightly.

  Elliott whispered, “They may regard that as an attack on his manhood.”

  Yes, they very well might, and she enjoyed it. A lot.

  “Good. Either they want to fight or they don’t. Either they’ll spread the word that women can kick their asses, or they’ll keep zipped and just not come back. As it stands they’re oh for two, and either have to admit we’re tough, or make a point of ignoring us as unworthy.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “So do I, sir.”

  For now, at least, the Neos decided they’d had enough. They helped their two injured tribesmen limp a few feet, until those shook off their supporters, growled and walked freely but in shame.

  On the whole, she felt pretty good.

  It actually felt like a good day for a steak.

  Atavism was starting to have an appeal.

  “Let’s find that Bluetooth,” Elliott said. “No, wait . . .”

  He reached under the collar of his armor.

  “Well. That’s lucky. Carry on.”

  They all laughed.

  She’d boosted her status slightly, and her threat level. For now, being the baddest bitch around was a useful tactic.

  Martin Spencer considered the event. For an awkward Air Force chick, that had been a pretty good fight. He’d had no questions about Caswell’s technical competence with the food, and she was definitely an asset, despite her rather annoying personality, but that she could keep her cool and put up a good fight was a big plus.

  “Nicely delivered,” he said, as she walked in the gate, offering a high five.

  She looked him up and down, up again, and made a token slap.

  Well, he’d work on it. He might never like her, but he could probably learn to deal with her.

  “Well done, sir,” he offered, as the man headed for the trucks.