A Long Time Until Now - eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “It might.”

  “Then I need to do that.”

  There was nothing he could do. Instead he made a scan. A couple of wolves were way up on the ridge to south. Otherwise there were the goats, the three visiting Urushu in their hooch, and miles of pristine nothing.

  He’d never see Mama again, either. Hell, she wasn’t even born yet. That was still hard to grasp.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “It just hits me now and then.”

  “Me, too. All of us, I think.”

  Something about crying made her vulnerable, and he knew what she looked like naked. That was annoying.

  “It’s getting close to shift change,” he said to change thoughts. “Dalton will be up.”

  “Roger. Wish I could stick to early evening watch. This split sleep wears me out.”

  “Take care,” he said, wanting to say a bit more and not sure how.

  “And you,” she agreed.

  Ramon Ortiz liked having the additional labor. He was good at skinning game, quite expert by now, but the Urushu had a lifetime of practice. They could peel a carcass in minutes. They knew how to salvage blood, drain and clean guts, pull out the prime organs, and even choose some of the finer cuts. After that, he did some general steak cutting before letting them peel the rest, save the sinew and crack the marrow. More importantly, he stayed cleaner.

  The alliance was beneficial. The Urushu got better medical care and some useful tools, plus occasional religious bacon. The soldiers got grunt labor and some useful low tech skills, but that didn’t mean the natives weren’t sophisticated.

  They knew exactly which wood was best for fire by friction, how to turn a particular fungus into tinder by putting it in a pit and urinating on it until the crystallized nitrates turned it into what was almost flash paper. They could find edible bark or grubs anywhere, though he hoped to avoid the latter; the bark did bad enough things to his colon. They had several smoking weed mixtures, from mild to stoned out of your brain. They purposed the peeled hides for various different functions. Once Barker had taught them how to fletch shafts, they’d adopted it at once. And all of them could turn a rock into a functional blade with another. None were as pretty as the ones Barker did, but they were as functional. Then there was that trick of gutting a small animal through the neck, tying it off with its own intestines, and hanging it by the fire to stew in its own skin.

  He knew he was a productive member here, with his knowledge of animals and ranching, and would be more so in the future. But without Barker and the Urushu, they’d be nowhere. Add in Oglesby’s translating and Spencer’s knowledge of geography. Oh, and Caswell’s ability to find stuff other than meat, and cook it.

  Still, the beehive seemed to be occupied, so starting next spring they could have honey now and then. That and berries meant more wine, and some desserts. That was progress.

  Yeah, it was a team effort. He wasn’t sure about Alexander, but she’d cleaned up his phone as well, and did keep track of a lot of things. She also gathered and split wood, and had no problem lending a hand. Though she wasn’t in great shape. She’d firmed up for a while, now was getting soft again, and it wasn’t just being a desk potato. She had serious health issues.

  He’d wondered why a recruiter had accepted her back in, but then, they were short of bodies and she’d had prior service. He felt it proper to let her get her twenty and retire. Which of course wasn’t happening now.

  She was the only approachable female locally. Damned sure Caswell wasn’t having any, and the Urushu didn’t appeal to him yet. Though if he got an offer, he might.

  He got to build a ranch from the ground up. A fascinating project. But a rancher needed a wife.

  “Approaching party!” Alexander called from up top. “to the east! Large party, in metal armor. Formation is four by six or so. I think they’re Romans.”

  He looked up. She had her camera with the big lens mounted. She could probably read their bloodshot eyes with that thing.

  Spencer was fast for an older guy. He was up the ramp, foot on step and bounded onto the roof. He shielded his eyes and squinted.

  “I will be dipped in shit, they’re Romans.”

  Alexander said, “I do know what Romans look like, thank you.” She looked pissed at being doubted.

  “Sorry. I’d put them at five hundred meters and closing.”

  The lieutenant said, “That’s a bit close. Everyone arm up and be ready. Oglesby, tell the Urushu to stand fast in their hooch.”

  “Hooah, sir.”

  Ramon ran to the tepee, pulled on his body armor and ACH, and grabbed his weapon. Magazine in, unchambered.

  Next to him, Dalton said, “I wonder if they want to fight.”

  “I hope they want Confession,” he said.

  Spencer dove through the door and threw gear on fast.

  “Heh. They can confess to this.” Dalton slapped the grenade launcher under his M4.

  “Sure, if the LT lets you load it.”

  “Nah, don’t need it. But you know.”

  Spencer asked, “Ready?” with an amused but pointed glance, and led them outside. He went straight back up top.

  Elliott was ready, and shaking his head.

  “Things are really fucked up,” he said. “Those are really—”

  Spencer called down, “Roman legionaries, yes. And those other guys are Moghuls? I think. Indians with muskets.”

  Alexander said, “Likely.”

  Moghuls? East Indians?

  He climbed up the ladder, rifle banging his legs, and took a look.

  “There are people from all over time here.”

  Elliott squinted. “Can you figure out a pattern?”

  Spencer said, “Fifteen K years, eight K years, two K years, fifteen hundred AD, our present. It vaguely fits some weird asymptote.”

  Yeah, Spencer was right. He said, “I wonder if someone from the future will show up—a hundred years or so would fit that.”

  Elliott shrugged. “Well, let’s see what the Romans want. My Latin sucks. Spanish may help a little. How many do we want to send out?”

  “Five? Loaded?” He suggested.

  “Yes. Me. Dalton. Spencer. Oglesby. And one female. Caswell. Barker’s in charge here. Everyone got full mags and body armor? Good. Move.”

  Ramon sunk. He’d really wanted to see this. Still, he could stay up top for a better view.

  Martin Spencer assumed the selection was to have the commander present, a reenactor, some extra muscle and a translator. That made sense. Part of him was very eager to see the Roman gear up close, part wanted to hide behind the palisade. He also hated having both him and the CO exposed together.

  They slipped out a small arc of the gate, and Barker shoved it closed behind them. Timber on timber sounded, and they were locked out. He swallowed hard. He wanted to adjust his helmet a bit more, but decided it would look clumsy. Romans respected precision.

  He wasn’t sure if he felt romantic or fraternal toward Alexander, but was glad she wasn’t out here. But, she did have useful knowledge, when her brain was working right.

  The Romans had gotten close, and her mind had been slipping on occasion. Has she nodded off or zoned out? If so, she’d have to come off watch. That would suck.

  There were twenty-three Romans. They were easy to count because they stayed in formation, and were about a hundred meters out. With them, to the rear, were six Indians. They were definitely modern South Asians. The armor and garb was vaguely familiar; that wasn’t his era of study. The muskets were very nicely dressed matchlocks. One of those would be amazing in his collection . . . which he was never going to see again. There was the PTSD, over something totally stupid. He was suddenly depressed, angry, hopeless.

  It was Caswell who said, “Sir, we could march, but they probably do it better.”

  “Agreed. And I’d rather they underestimated us for right now. We’ll escalate as needed to make our point.”

  The Romans stood in a very good formation, even
better considering the uneven terrain. They didn’t look at all bothered. They seemed rather bored, in fact. So they were probably well-drilled veterans.

  They wore a mix of squamata and hamata armor, so they were Republic or early Empire. They were all buttoned and tied tight, ready to fight, clutching pilum and rectangular scutae.

  “Probably second century, sir, but not much later, and can’t be much earlier. One hundred BC to one hundred AD. I can tell from their armor.”

  “Thanks. Let me step slightly forward. Take a knee and be ready.”

  Martin said, “Sir, I believe he’s a centurion, which was a senior NCO, junior officer sort of thing, in charge of a platoon. You want to be a tribune. An officer.”

  “Hooah.”

  The rest stopped, went to knees and prepared to back their commander. He clicked the safety off, and clacked a round into battery. He could shoot easily from the knee, right past Elliott if he had to.

  The Roman officer had a transverse crest on his helmet. He stepped forward.

  Elliott spoke slowly and clearly. “Bono dia. We are duo millennia tempus futura post Roma. I am Tribunus Sean Elliott, milites United States.”

  Oglesby asked, “Did you say your Latin sucks, sir?”

  “Yeah, because I never took any.”

  “Just checking. But I think you’re getting the point across.”

  The lead Roman rattled off something in Latin. Spencer could tell it was Latin. He got nothing else.

  Elliott said, “Tardia. Voce tardia.”

  The Roman did speak more slowly, but it was still hard to define. “Latinam loquisne, nothe? Non loquisne?”

  Oglesby said, “Sir, I think it comes down to, “Latin, motherfucker, do you speak it?”

  They all smiled slightly.

  “Okay, they don’t sound particularly friendly.”

  Martin said, “Yeah, the Romans had a definite superiority complex, and this guy is definitely in charge of this other element from fifteen hundred years later.”

  The Roman centurion pointed at their palisade, then at himself.

  Elliott asked, “Does he want entry or command?”

  Spencer said, “Both. And I expect he’ll try to burn his way in if we refuse. Folks, if they start hurling javelins or draw swords, just start shooting, from our front left. Same formations we use, that’s where the leaders are.”

  “Hooah.”

  Elliott said, “There won’t be time for any orders, so follow Sergeant Spencer’s lead. But I was hoping for a peaceful meeting of minds.”

  “Yeah, I doubt this guy’s met anyone he couldn’t intimidate or kill.”

  The Roman seemed to recognize armor for what it was, but kept squinting. He knew there was cloth outside, and he couldn’t know what was inside. Did he suspect leather? Metal? Horn or hide?

  After a bit more gesturing, with Elliott making an honest attempt to communicate, the Roman gave an almost Gallic shrug, turned and said something.

  The Romans shifted formation, and there was some kind of order given. Three of the Indian musketeers stood to. There was obvious tinder and lighting of matches, waving for embers, charging pans on long, beautifully wrought and stocked matchlocks.

  Martin muttered, “Fucking seriously?”

  Caswell giggled, then the others found the mirth. It was entirely amusing to watch those men work so hard at impressing their neighbors.

  Within a couple of minutes, the three stood abreast, chose a goat fifty yards to the south as a target, and fired.

  The volley sounded with a dull boom, and smoke spurted into blowing clouds. The goat fell over and thrashed, squealing.

  Martin said, “Challenge accepted.”

  Everyone stifled laughs.

  Elliot spoke softly.

  “Caswell,” he said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I want you to respond because you’re female. Put that poor beast out of its misery, pick two others and give them your best. Double their range at least. Then give us a burst.”

  “Yes, sir. Three rounds?”

  “That’s a burst, isn’t it?”

  “Air Force weapon, sir,” she said, jiggling it. “We have a happy switch.”

  “Oh. Then by all means make it six.”

  “Got it. You’re not worried about them finding bullets?”

  Elliott said, “No. Cases yes, bullets no.”

  “Roger that, sir. Stand by.” She slid the leather brass catcher into place.

  Martin softly said, “Challenge engaged.”

  She raised her carbine, pointed and shot. Her weapon cracked loudly, as did the supersonic bullet. That smashed through the head of the mostly-dead goat, giving it a humane finish.

  Her second bullet was two seconds later. It took another goat at a hundred yards, headshot. It simply dropped where it stood. The third shot rang out, and at about two hundred yards, another animal erupted blood from its skull, then thrashed around in convulsions for a moment.

  Then she picked an outcropping and fired a burst. He counted eight rounds. Fair enough. They chipped the stone and ricocheted.

  She lowered the weapon, and stared over it at the Roman officer.

  The Roman looked thoroughly shocked. His ace had just been trumped. That it was a female who’d done it seemed just to add to the effect.

  There was an immediate huddle with him and two Indians who appeared to be officers. They had flashier dress and fancier swords. Tulwar if he recalled correctly.

  Martin said, “Challenge concluded.”

  Now the Roman was willing to negotiate. He smiled and spread arms.

  “I’m not trusting his sword, sir.”

  “Yeah,” Elliott agreed. He pointed, “Gladius remove.”

  The centurion chewed his lip, but nodded, drew his sword and handed it to a subordinate.

  Elliott stepped back and handed his carbine to Spencer.

  “If he tries to kill me or capture me, shoot him dead and we’ll deal with the second in command.”

  “Yes, sir. Caswell, Dalton, keep the LT under watch.”

  “Hooah, Sergeant.” “Got you covered, sir.”

  “Oglesby, can you assist?”

  “Possibly. I know some grammatical and tense stuff. Ortiz would have been better, I think.”

  Spencer said, “Sir, I’ll listen in. I may have some input, if that’s okay.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The Roman really did slow his words down, and Spencer could overhear quite a bit. “Loci,” “Tempus,” “Deites,” and other words. So, the Romans had some idea how they’d wound up among “ferus saeva barbare.”

  Elliott had good body language. He was a commander dealing with a foreign element who was less well equipped, and smaller by several inches. He looked down at the Roman and spoke.

  “As I said, Roma futura duo millennia.” He indicated himself and the others. “Roma conquista . . . Spencer, who did they conquer?”

  Martin spoke clearly. “Roma conquista Galli, Belgi, Germani, Allemani, Helveti, Brittania, Caledonia, Hibernia, Drurotriges, Iceni, and terra trans mare Atlantia.”

  Elliott nodded, and indicated himself. “Futura Roma trans mare Atlantia. Milites Tribunus. Sean Elliott.”

  The Centurion appeared to be a mix of surprised, pleased, and disgruntled. He’d been in charge. Now he was back to being an NCO, though for a greater Rome than he’d left.

  Elliott did a good job, Martin thought. The Roman got told, not asked, what Elliott expected. He expected the Romans to depart, they could send a team of quinto to negotiate, arms would be checked at the gate, and he expected them to behave among all the groups. He was a tribune and the centurion would do well to abide by him. The Rome Elliott came from was much more advanced, and respected the great contributions of its earlier men, but had new and improved ways of doing things.

  Phrased like that, the centurion nodded in acquiescence, saluted with an open hand, turned and gave orders to his men.

  They watched the Romans trom
p away, then walked back to the gate and through, and goddamn did it feel good to have a palisade.

  “You heard that?” Elliott asked, sagging from restrained stress.

  “Well done, sir,” he said.

  “Yeah. But I’d really like to trail those bastards and find out where they’re living. I assume they have camp followers, likely slaves, and I assume they’ve been tracking us. But I’d need two volunteers, unarmed, nothing we care about losing, and even if I had volunteers,” he looked at Dalton’s half-raised hand, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. We’ll gather intel other ways.”

  “And they think we’re Romans?” Dalton asked. “I can see it.”

  Spencer said, “There are historians who argue that we are, by way of Britain, since that was the last stronghold of the Empire, and we still use Latin for science, medicine and law.”

  Elliott said, “I want to find out where all these groups are coming from. We know when. Where might help with why or how.”

  Caswell asked, “Did Rome ever get this far east? I know the Macedonians did.”

  Martin said, “I don’t think Rome made it past the Red Sea. Possibly into Persia. Definitely not here.”

  “And those were Indians, correct?” she asked.

  “Dot not feather. Yes. Matchlocks place them before seventeen hundred, after fifteen hundred, as best I recall.”

  Oglesby said, “They speak Hindi. I know a few phrases.”

  “Good. We’re going to need to have discussions on all this.”

  Doc asked, “They came from the west. What did they do to the Neoliths?”

  “Probably already claimed their town and slaughtered anyone who gave them lip.”

  Devereaux flared his eyes and said, “The Neoliths needed taking down a peg, but that’s not cool.”

  “No, it isn’t. And any women are probably Roman slave girls now.”

  He realized he was hyperventilating and choked down on it. Was it PTSD again? Or fear? He really didn’t want to die here, much as he didn’t like living here. The Romans were creative about it.

  His eyes blurred and sweat burst out, then he got it under control, mostly, but started shaking. He wondered about some medicinal wine. Or some of the weed. That wouldn’t upset his stomach the way wine would.