A Long Time Until Now - eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Dalton said, “Thanks, Sergeant.” He balanced the knife and checked the edge the wrong way—with his fingers. Most people did that.

  “Mm.” He decided not to lecture on blade safety.

  Dalton stared at him and said, “You don’t seem happy.”

  “Being reminded that my family won’t be born for fifteen thousand years, so I can’t even really mourn them being dead, because they don’t actually exist? No, not really happy.”

  He hadn’t meant to let that out, but there it was.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “No, I am,” Dalton replied. “I’m still learning that everyone’s different.”

  “Yeah. It was okay. I just wish it wasn’t necessary, you know?”

  “Right.” Dalton let it hang, seeming embarrassed. But he’d apologized, so there wasn’t really anything else to do.

  “Thanks for sharpening it.”

  Martin said, “Not at all.”

  Dalton crouch-walked back to his slice of the tent.

  “Gina,” he asked, and she pulled the poncho aside again.

  “Yes?”

  “Want me to reshape the grip on this RAT Seven? It’s a bit square. I can round the grip some with a file.”

  “Yes. Please.” She seemed enthusiastic, then after swapping glances, went back to her movie. It looked like Pirates of the Caribbean.

  He decided he’d have three mugs of sour, bitter, sedimenty wine and hope it numbed his brain.

  CHAPTER 24

  Gina Alexander was glad when it warmed up slightly around New Years. It was still in the 20-40 Fahrenheit range, but that meant she could work the chargers in daylight, update calendars and sheets, charge batteries, chart wood consumption and food. It was also nice to be out of the tent. She stood in the truck and spun some more yarn between tapping keys, and that was warmer than sitting as well. In between each, she put gloves on or warmed her hands on the kitchen fire.

  She had several balls of yarn at this point, enough to start crocheting blankets, which they’d need next year if not as soon as she got them done. Winter should be over by March, and actually seemed to be fairly short. Spencer recalled the era being “warmer and moister.” Hopefully he was correct.

  They were using ammo faster than they anticipated. Granted, some of that was to stock food for winter, but they really needed to get more animal pens and herding built up. Could they get on good enough terms with the Neoliths to buy some dogs in a couple of years? Then train them for herding?

  They’d shot ninety seven rounds hunting, eighty two in the firefights, and a sixteen-round burst of 7.62mm. It wasn’t much for a convoy, but there was no resupply. Continuing like this would run them out of ammo in under ten years.

  Food was okay, they had a couple of week’s worth handy, and would certainly hunt more in the meantime, or they could make an emergency march to the Urushu for help. It was great to have one set of nice neighbors. Firewood was lower than they should have. There wasn’t much margin.

  She sighed. It would be easy to sit here spinning all day, but they needed help with firewood. She stepped out, pulled up her hood, and headed for the bridge. Over the stream and through the gate, to the decimated woods we go, she thought.

  Cal appeared from behind the tent. He’d killed something small and furry, and delivered it to the usual spot. She’d have to move that before it stunk or got squashed into the dirt.

  It was reassuring to have wall all the way around. She’d spent too much time on COBs to be comfortable in open terrain. She’d joked about Hescoing her house when she got home. This was close.

  What would her kids do when she didn’t come home? Would they be reported dead or MIA? Would she be a heroic figure for them? Would Blake manage without her? How long would it take for her to be replaced? What would they do when they grew up? Did Aislinn still want to be a chemist? What would Dylan choose to do? The thoughts were cold and bitter.

  Spencer and Trinidad were chopping up mid-sized limbs and brush with a hatchet and machete.

  “Put me to work,” she said.

  “Okay. Haul while we cut?”

  “Sure. But I need to chop something.”

  “Go ahead, then,” he said, and handed her the hatchet.

  She started swinging at the base of a branch on a limb. It shifted, the hatchet slipped off. She grabbed it and chopped again, changing her grip until it stopped bouncing, pinned to the ground under her boot. Chips started flying and bounced into her clothes, her hair, off her cheeks. She chopped until she realized her wrist was aching from gripping too tight. She’d made a mess, sending chips in cascades all around. She’d hacked through three limbs and felt her lungs rasping.

  “Feeling better?” Trinidad asked.

  “No.”

  “Yeah.” It wasn’t hard for him to figure out her distress.

  She flayed the limb to splinters and chunks, then gathered up an armful and carried it to the arc around the tent.

  Crossing the bridge, she remembered she needed the latrine. The water underneath had frozen solid, and there was a pile of turds on it, oozing and freezing and looking disgusting. If it didn’t melt soon, Barker said he was going to start a fire upstream to sink the ice and flush it. She took care of business without looking down, and wiped with her hygiene rag. That would have to be washed as soon as they had running cold water. It stank as well, of sweat and residue and urine.

  She was cold now. SOP was to go inside and warm up, so she did. Inside was dark, dank but several degrees warmer. Ortiz, Oglesby and Barker were inside. It made sense for Barker to stay here when not hauling fuel and food.

  She realized how numb her toes were, and her fingers even with gloves. She’d need to pull them and her boots and warm extremities near the fire.

  As she did, a waft of stink hit her nostrils.

  “What the hell are you burning?” she asked.

  Snickers turned to outright howls of laughter.

  “Fine, but whatever it is, it smells like burning shit.”

  That set them off into paroxysms.

  Really?

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Hey, it was cold,” Oglesby said. “I was much more comfortable in here.”

  “Grow up.”

  What if that caught on? Nevermind the smell, it was a sanitation issue, and heated germs in the atmosphere weren’t a good idea.

  “Seriously. Do that again and I’ll give you something to regret for the next five years.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Permanent tower watch.”

  “Yeah? How? You’re not in charge.”

  “I draw the schedule and the LT approves it. You understand HHC? The LT and I are HHC. I’ll make it happen and he’ll agree with me.”

  “You’re . . . ”

  Whether Oglesby was going to call her a liar or a loon, or a bitch, he thought better of it.

  Bored young troops cramped in a tent.

  And Martin Spencer snored. Like a B52 on takeoff.

  Winter just needed to be over.

  CHAPTER 25

  Spring was a tease, Martin Spencer thought. January warmed toward the end. February was a plateau that plunged them back into the tent for two days, The ground was mucky and soft, but with Urushu help, they finished graveling from the tent to the latrine, and started on a road to the bridge. That had to wait until after the thaw sent torrents of water down the small stream. It didn’t undercut the banks; Elliott had done a good job with the design. They did wind up with a lake all the way to the latrine, and a whirlpool under the culvert. They all took turns watching it in trepidation, fearing the wall would fail at any moment. Three times for a couple of days each the water swirled and gurgled, brown and nasty looking with floating debris and scum, but the wall held. The stream seemed to have dug itself a bit deeper, which meant it would flow easier, but was also a wider gap for intruders. Once through the culvert, it shot like a hose and ate away the banks lower down, too. They’d have another sha
llow spot there.

  Then they took the sledgehammers and chunks of slate, large cobbles and various limestone pieces and beat on them. Swing, crack against the side of the rock Martin wanted as an anvil.

  “Just the side,” he said.

  “This is like golf. So, are we gonna gravel the whole COB, just like back home?” Dalton asked.

  “It’s not a bad idea. We need to keep the weeds down,” Spencer told him, pointing at some hardy stalks sprouting tall already. “However, once we have all the paths, I think we’ll be fine. And there’s no rush. As long as you don’t mind walking in muck, we can wait.”

  “Funny.”

  “Ain’t I?”

  Swing, crack. They had more aches and blisters before it was done.

  But by March, daytime temperatures were in the 50s and 60s, nights not much below freezing, and things started to green up. Dandelions came out.

  Caswell said, “Good, those are edible, and don’t taste too bad.”

  He noted that she and he had different definitions of “Don’t taste too bad.” To him, everything green here tasted like some variation of grass. None of them were interesting, and he ate them because they contained nutrients. The end. That and bone meal, which did seem to keep his stomach to a dull ache. It was perpetually irritated, but not in stabbing pain as it had been when he first developed GERD.

  The Urushu were back, a few at a time. It seemed they had about four rotations, and the hunters who ran escort were mostly high status. The injuries were everything from children with broken fingers or ripped nails, to more female problems among the mothers, to hunting wounds. Though one case of frostbite required a toe amputation that had been loud and ugly.

  They resumed formation around the fire every evening, though rain sometimes forced them into the tent. It would drive right through the bough covers. They’d need to shingle or skin the roofs there, too.

  The night right after the graveling was finished, they had skewered roast yearling venison. That was dark, rich, but very lean. Martin was starting to dream of ribeye with lots of marbling. Still, he licked the skewer twig until all he tasted was wood. Their Urushu embassy had brought the deer, and kept the rear haunches and liver for themselves. He was fine with that.

  From his chair at the front, Elliott said, “We made a good start in the fall. We made it through winter fed, warm, and only slightly pissed off at each other.”

  Alexander said, “Slightly.”

  “I want to work on a bunch of projects for the spring. If we can split wood, I want a better outhouse with a shingled roof. I want to roof the lean-tos to keep us dry. I think it’s beneficial to be outside.”

  Martin sighed. A lieutenant would think that. He’d rather build a cabin.

  Elliott continued, “I want to build a log cabin right next to the trucks. We may have to move them, then move them back. It’ll give us a three-sided inner defense if necessary, and we can put a door in the back to get to them. Stone fireplace and chimney, which may take some learning on how to do.”

  Trinidad said, “I’ve helped build one. I remember a bit about it.”

  “Oh. Excellent. Then I’d like to upgrade the females’ lodging with hard sides and a shingle roof, too. Then if we can, some way to split and hollow logs, and have running water down into the camp so we don’t have to keep dipping in the stream. It can splash into a pit near the kitchen, and run out. We’ll tile that with stones and let moss seal it. Comments?”

  Martin figured he’d offer support.

  “If we cook some lime in the fire, we can possibly make a crude cement. It won’t be as good as modern concrete, but it should toughen up the runoff, and it’ll help seal chinks in the cabin.”

  Trinidad said, “Filipino, not chink. And you’re not sealing me in.”

  They all laughed.

  Ortiz said, “We need to get more goats for the pen. Water and feed them, too, then work on a proper tannery, unless we can trade for smoked hides with our neighbors. Though the tepee hides are pretty set at this point.”

  They all glanced to look. It really was odd, in a mishmash of tans, browns and creams. But the smooth sides had gotten well smoked over the winter and had dried up tight. They’d added spare hides at the bottom, and those were starting to rot at ground level.

  Barker said, “If it’s going to be hide, I really want to recover it with better tanned skin. If it’s going to be fabric . . . I dunno, how fast can Gina spin that much yarn?”

  “Alone?” she said. “Years. If everyone works at it, a few weeks. But we still need a loom to do weaving.”

  Ortiz said, “It’ll have to be hides for a while. I can help tan them.”

  “So can I,” Caswell put in. “It stinks, a lot. We’ll want to do that outside the wall.”

  Barker said, “I also want to work on getting a tub built in the sweat lodge. A hot bath every couple of weeks would be awesome.”

  Elliott said, “I know something of fitting lumber. That’s a pretty tall job.”

  “Yeah, we’ll need planks, notch them as a half barrel, strap them with taut hide rope, and need either a drain plug or some way to bail.”

  Elliott said, “Right. Let’s save that until summer. We don’t need it until winter.”

  Martin wasn’t sure of that. Hot water would help the aches he felt every morning. Not everyone found the stream refreshing. He found it barely tolerable.

  Devereaux said, “We need an ongoing search for more edible, nutritious and useful plants. Stuff we can felt into absorbent bandages.”

  “We’ll talk to the Urushu, but yes. Technical skills are as important as material goods. What about your bows, Barker?”

  Barker said, “I’ve got the bows. I can shave more. I’m going to gut string them this year and recover the dental floss. Eventually I’d like to use hemp or flax. Arrows are easy, take me about thirty minutes each with bone or horn points. Dalton and I have experience. But what are the Neo people going to think if they see us hunting with the same stuff they have, not our magic weapons? Or the Urushu, for that matter. Can we believably blame it on the rules of our gods? We don’t want them thinking we might run out of ammo.”

  Oglesby said, “I can convince the Urushu. Spirits are very real to them, and change at whim. That’s how they explain weather. I don’t know about the Neoliths.”

  Elliott asked, “By the way, do we have a name for them?”

  “No demonym as yet, no.”

  Spencer thought, and said, “I don’t think they were able to attach the significant of the magic brass pieces to the rifles. Worst case, we make a show of sticking some into a magazine. They won’t have any idea about combustion. Black powder might give it away, but smokeless won’t.”

  Barker said, “Reasonable.”

  “Okay,” Elliott concluded. “Plan on working every day except Sunday, and one person on watch, two at night remains. I don’t want our Urushu guests in the vehicles, but if they’d like to do perimeter patrol, that’s fine with me.”

  All in all, it wasn’t far from what Martin had planned. And he wasn’t the officer. He trusted Elliott and had to keep trusting him, so he’d go along with the program as laid out. He needed to remember to keep his own ego under control.

  Alexander said, “Quiet,” in a loud whisper. He swung that way, ready to react to something.

  The cat was on her lap, and she had her arms wrapped around him. He purred in a loud buzz, and looked unsure about the attention, but writhed against her and didn’t try to break free. Her lips trembled and he could see she was crying as she scratched his chest and behind his ears.

  Their mascot was now a pet.

  CHAPTER 26

  Armand Devereaux liked night watch when the sky was clear. He could use the binox to view things he’d never see from a civilized location. With careful juggling of night vision, some quite distant nebulae were visible, though monochrome. Cool nights like this, with still air, were best. The dew had condensed and there was no fog.

  H
e had the turret. Alexander sat on the roof near the back ladder.

  “Excuse me a moment,” she said, and climbed down, probably to use the can.

  Shortly she came back with a bag. She watched him for a while, then said, “You know, the big telephoto on my camera is pretty good for that.”

  Yes, it might be. He turned and asked, “Could I . . . ”

  She raised a hand with the camera, its large lens in place.

  “Strap around your neck first,” she said, as she draped it over him. “Always use the strap.”

  “Will do, thanks. I’ll treat it like a fourteen-inch Celestron.” He hefted it like a rifle. It was a big piece of hardware.

  “I think I know what that is.”

  “A Schmidt-Cassegrain reflecting telescope.”

  “Okay, I know about Schmidt cameras.”

  “Yup. Same guy.” He turned the camera to the sky and . . . damn.

  “Wish I’d had this before,” he said. “This is awesome.”

  “Good stuff?”

  “Yeah, do you know where the nebula in Orion’s belt is?”

  “I think so.”

  “Take a look.” Reluctantly, he handed the camera back to her.

  She looked, pointed the camera, adjusted it only slightly, and said, “Oh, my.”

  “Yeah. We have that.”

  “Hold on,” she said, and there was a click, then a few more.

  “Cool,” he said.

  “I looked up a few times back home, but it never looked like this.”

  Then she was sobbing.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “I miss my kids, and my cats, and my husband. I even think they’d be willing to join me so we could be together, but not even that is possible.” She wept, camera in her lap, face in her hands.

  “And I’m out of meds,” she said. “You said eating sweetbreads might help?”