A Long Time Until Now - eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  He wanted to be fair, because reverse engineering primitive stuff was hard, but it was an obsession that wasn’t yielding anything so far. Felix had seen various forges in Bataan. He didn’t know much beyond bellows, fire and hit metal.

  “Okay, it’s really not that complicated,” Spencer said. “We use the lathe to turn rods for a form, wrap it in clay and then fire it hard so it burns out and we have a pipe. That goes into a trench under where the fire will be. We make a bellows to fit it. We hammer some rocks to make a hearth. We use one of the large river rocks as an anvil. Once we have reliable water in the stream again, we’ll work on reducing iron.”

  “You need water for it?”

  “You cook the ore, then shovel it out into the water, which shatters it and blows some of the slag off. Then you forge.”

  While Spencer turned the sticks on the lathe, he talked to the Urushu about clay. They were all hanging about their hooch, lazing on hides and whittling crafts or doing other minor tasks while chatting with each other.

  “Greeting, Nus!opfa.”

  “Greeting, Watcher Felicsh.”

  “We need to find clay you talked of, and make a . . . hollow bone.”

  “Need you a hollow bone?”

  In Tagalog he thought, “That’s a damned good question.” “I ask.”

  He jogged down and called, “Hey, Sergeant Spencer, would a large bone work?”

  Spencer stopped, stood covered in wood chips for a second and said, “Ah, shit. Way to overanalyze it.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “That’s a ‘it should to get started at least.’ Faaahk.” He dusted off a few shavings and stepped back from the lathe.

  “I have no idea what to do with that, now.”

  It was almost amusing.

  Felix ran back and exchanged with the Urushu, who promised to bring a bison leg in a few days.

  “Eat meat and marrow first, many nom.” The word “nom” had come into creole use between them.

  “Sounds great.”

  The bellows he was able to help with, and happy to do so. He took a chunk of a straight limb, bored a hole, shaved and scraped and whittled until he had a proper mouthpiece.

  Spencer was actually a decent basket weaver. He took some soaked reeds and withes, and twisted three paddle-shaped frames.

  “So this is a two-stage bellow?”

  “Yes, you get more consistent airflow.”

  Maybe the man did know what he was doing. Felix thought he’d seen one of those back home once or twice.

  “Nice muzzle,” Spencer said. “That’s almost exactly what we need.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Okay, I’ll stitch the hide while you dig a trough to hold this bone. Are we talking aurochs, elk, bison, something like that?”

  “Bison, with meat and marrow.”

  “Nom.”

  Spencer had no idea why he laughed.

  It took a while with a pick to chip the hard earth down a foot, but he had it by lunchtime. It would need roughed out again once the bone arrived, but should work for now.

  Lunch was dried fish with some berries and greens. It was okay, but he wasn’t thrilled.

  Spencer took a while to do the complicated stitching of thick hide to the frames, and expansion joints between them. The whole thing was stitched with sinew. Spencer kept it in his mouth to soften it, pulling bits out, threading them onto a bone needle, and using the awl on his multitool to bore holes.

  Felix watched it bit by bit as he brought rocks from the dry bed for the forge construction.

  “Not those,” Spencer said. “Nothing that might soak up water. Then we need to either stack them roughly flat, or hammer and grind them into rough squares.”

  Three days later, he did have increased respect for Spencer. They’d slaked lime in a small, hot fire, added fine sand, hammered rocks into blocks, stacked them in the hearth, mortared them, lit a small fire to cure the whole mess, and started on another lean-to to cover it.

  Felix said, “I expect the Romans could have helped with this. But of course, we don’t want them inside.”

  “That, and they might wonder about our lack of experience in that area. I was able to fake it through the charcoal burn.”

  “How do we drag that fuel up here, by the way?”

  “In a hide, and drag or carry.”

  “What if it gets wet?”

  “That won’t hurt it. It dries as it goes into the fire.”

  The Urushu showed up with the promised leg of bison, along with eight women. He recognized the number and came to an immediate conclusion.

  Damn, he wanted a woman. They were tall, lean, dusky and so very, very exotic. They hadn’t fulfilled the year yet, though, and he knew what Elliott would say if the suggestion was made.

  “Tell them we must wait a full turn of the sun, which isn’t yet. Then we can talk about it.”

  Elliott looked very tense and sad about that decision every time he had to remind someone.

  They knew they weren’t going home, he’d already made the separation between then and now, and he wanted to move on with life.

  Regulations were regulations, though, until they were released.

  Richard Dalton had an odd relationship with Spencer. They’d never agree on the existence of God, Christ and all it entailed, but he did find their discussions productive. He was beginning to accept there was no way he’d ever bring the man to Christ, but he prayed for him anyway. The arguments also caused him to reassess his relationship with God, and that was a good thing.

  Rather than hunting, he was assigned to “Help Sergeant Spencer.” He ate cold sidemeat and sought the man out. He was over by the stream.

  “So what are we doing today, Sergeant?”

  “I think we’re going to cook some iron today. Bring gloves and eyepro.”

  “Really?”

  It had been a snide joke for so long. Were they really going to do it?

  Spencer held up a hide bucket full of cracked red rock. “This ugly red ochre is iron ore. It’s a pretty good grade, too. And it comes premixed with limestone.”

  “That’s good?”

  “That’ll work as a flux.”

  “Okay, so what’s next?”

  “We’re doing this the crude way for now, as proof of concept. We’re going to dig a hole, layer in the charge, fill the hole, light it and crank. We’re going to need three people for that.”

  “Okay, where do we dig?” It wasn’t that he liked digging, per se, but it was good exercise and let him meditate.

  In an hour, they had a steep cut into the bank of the creek.

  The order for gloves and eyepro wasn’t really necessary. They always had them with them. These were getting scratched, though, and he’d have to use his spare pair soon. Maybe they could devise some fine polish to restore them with?

  “I wish we could do this farther up,” he said. “It still smells like latrine.” They were about twenty feet upstream of the outhouse.

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Okay, flatten out the bottom and fill it with large stones, three inches or so, for about a foot.”

  “Got it.”

  Spencer explained as he went. “Bone pipe, which the Urushu suggested instead of trying to do pottery. I wrapped it in clay anyway, in case it helps. Then we’re going to layer charcoal and ore in about four-inch layers all the way to the top. As it slumps down, we’ll add more up top. We fill in packed dirt around it as we go.”

  “Okay.”

  In another hour, they had a tall tube of the charge, with the pipe and bellows in place, more materials at hand, and both shovels.

  “Grab a good coal from the fire.”

  He ran up with a shovel, scooped a chunk from Barker’s cooking fire, and carried it out and around, watching the heat waves roll off it even in the bright sun.

  “Okay, ladle it in there above the bone . . . and now pack dirt on it.” He did so.

  Spencer started pumping the bellows, slowly and evenly.
<
br />   In five minutes, smoke and haze rose from the top of the chimney.

  “I think you have it.”

  “Yeah, well get Oglesby, we’ll be swapping off every fifteen minutes or so.”

  He spent the day pumping and zoning. He took over, squeezing the bellows rhythmically, feeling his arms burn, mesmerized by the movement and the smoke. He prayed for success once, then twice, then realized that was silly.

  Oglesby took over, and was surprisingly strong. He looked skinny, but had lots of wiry muscle.

  Spencer resumed, and said, “Okay, toss another shovelful of coal in the top, then more ore.”

  Oglesby asked, “Ah, how long does this take, Sergeant?”

  “All day, most likely.”

  They squeezed. It got hotter, sweatier, and he found himself running upstream for water. They’d drained their Camelbaks already.

  Still another shovelful of each, and one of the Urushu women brought them lunch of berries and dried bison. That was good stuff.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Wilcahm,” she agreed with a smile.

  He knew he’d been here a long time when they started looking good, despite never having seen a razor, toothpaste or soap.

  At Spencer’s nod, he squatted down, and stepped in as Spencer stepped out, not missing a single pump on the bellows. They were getting pretty good at this.

  A few minutes later, he realized the pumping was getting harder and less effective.

  “I think we have a blockage,” he said.

  “Crap. Pull it out.”

  He did, and Spencer poked a long stick into the deep tube.

  Sparks dropped out, followed by a stream of something hot.

  “Shit!” Spencer shouted, jumping back. He rolled aside.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I will be. Keep pumping.”

  He stuck the bellows back as Spencer plunged his scorched hands into the creek.

  “Goddamn, that hurts.”

  “What was that?”

  “Slag buildup, and then a bunch of hot debris falling out.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Spencer examined his wrist. “A couple of blisters.”

  “There goes your sex life.”

  “Nah, it’s the other hand.”

  “Oh, well good.” Were they really discussing this matter-of-factly, or just making obvious jokes about an obvious subject?

  Spencer said, “You realize we completely neglected July Fourth, right?”

  “I think it was a silent mutual agreement. What the hell does it matter here? And we have fire every night, and no fireworks.”

  “Yup. I could make and waste some gunpowder, or we could burn off some tracer or a flare or grenade, but why?”

  Why, indeed. They were fitting in here, and God would guide them to new festivals, he was sure.

  Oglesby took over the bellows. In a few minutes he said, “I think it’s clogged again.”

  “Crap, well, we’re done for the day. Carefully, we’re going to break it open and shovel everything straight into the creek. Oglesby, you’re left handed, so you take this side.”

  “Hooah.”

  He stuck the shovel into the bank, and as he opened up the tube, a huge wave of heat washed back over him. He tried not to breathe the fumes, took the shovelful, and tossed it into the trickle of stream.

  “Careful, not spread out, just right here.”

  He turned his head to breathe, said, “Hooah,” and went back to it.

  The next shovelful hissed and steamed, sending bubbles through the water. Then again.

  “Keep digging,” Spence urged. “Get it all out, work down.”

  In a half hour, they had a pile of muck in the stream that didn’t look like much.

  Spencer said, “Okay, that dirt will be hot for hours, so don’t lean on it.”

  He reached down into the water, pulled something, and shook it. He held it up.

  It was an ugly chunk that looked like a muddy bird’s nest.

  “What’s that?”

  “Bloomery iron.”

  “That’s it?” It wasn’t impressive.

  Spencer said, “At this stage, yes. At a guess, we got about fifty percent conversion before it clogged. We started with maybe a hundred pounds of ore, about twenty percent iron. So we got ten pounds of bloom.”

  “Crap. Is that all?”

  “That’s pretty damned good. We’ll get about two pounds of finished iron out of this.”

  “Sheeit. That’s a lot of work.” Two pounds? Fucking seriously?

  “There’s a reason it was worth its weight in silver or gold early on. Help me find the rest. Anything that looks like that.”

  It took until dinner to comb through the dirt, crud, stone, unburnt chunks of ore, to find the spongy and sharp bits of processed ore. They were filthy despite the water running past.

  “After this, we’ll build a proper bloomery furnace, and if we can find coal, we can get a hotter fire.”

  Rich decided he’d stop with the jokes. It had been a hell of a lot of work, and had yielded results. Spencer had delivered. It wasn’t much, but that just proved how tough a task it was. No wonder civilization had taken a long time with labor like this.

  By the sweat of your brow, God had said. It was true.

  He hoped there was a lot of something for dinner. He was starving and sore.

  CHAPTER 32

  Gina Alexander sat atop Number Nine, next to the turret, spinning yarn. The ten feet of height helped a lot with speed. Ortiz was on watch. She hadn’t been in weeks, and Elliott had confided with her it was due to her slipping attention. It was frustrating, but she knew it was true. The old lady was broken, and starting to look her age. The scar tissue in her foot didn’t help, either. It was painful to walk long distances.

  She was taking a break from admin work, which seemed to take longer than it had, and she had trouble finding some of the less common functions. Brain fuzz, and fatigue. Breaks stopped her from falling asleep during the day.

  She didn’t like heights, but she did like the view. It was a lovely day, clear and bright, puffy clouds here and there, and a wafting breeze.

  And she could watch Martin pound away on the iron.

  He wore an apron of goat hide over bare skin, and his taut, lean biceps rolled with every swing of the hammer. His left hand was wrapped in leather to protect it from the heat, holding vice grips. His right hand held a ball-peen hammer from the tool kit. He pumped the bellows, grabbed the tools, pulled out the iron, placed it on the boulder, and started beating. After about twenty seconds, he’d stick it back into the fire and work the bellows again.

  “Tiring?” she called down.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s the only way to get more iron, though.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Well, first, I have to make this into a long bar, upset the ends—widen them—punch holes in those, cut a piece off as a rivet, and make them into a pair of tongs, so I can hold the rest of the metal more easily. I’ll need to learn how to use those. I mostly used long handled vise-grips.”

  “What after that?”

  “Shovels, hoes, plow bits, axes. Flat metal is easy. I know how to make an axe, but never have.”

  Would she consider being married to the village blacksmith? Maybe. That was a skilled trade.

  Why was she thinking in that context?

  Oh, yes. She was spinning yarn from goat wool, and remembering a Viking era event. Or was it Civil War? No, the drop spindle was Viking era, though the smiths were mostly the same.

  He broke for lunch, as the Urushu hunting party returned with a young antelope and took it to the kitchen area.

  “Tasty,” she called down.

  “Nom,” they replied.

  She giggled. That was still hilarious. And thank gods no one had taught them obscenities as fake useful phrases. That always pissed her off when she encountered it.

  Caswell and Barker came back from upstream. No
matter what Caswell claimed, Gina thought she was hitting it off with Barker and would pair with him. The young men would just have to take native wives.

  “Good news and possibly more good news,” Caswell announced.

  “Yes?”

  “We found nuts. Butternut type things, almonds and walnuts.”

  “I have trouble with almonds,” she said.

  “You don’t want to eat these anyway. They’ll be toxic in more than tiny servings. But they do have oil.”

  “For cooking?”

  Spencer said, “No, for the engines!”

  Barker said, “Yes, if we can grind enough, we can add some fuel. You said nut oil would work.”

  “Fantastic,” he said. “It’ll mean a lot of grinding, but yes.”

  “We can cook in the walnut and butternut oil,” she said. “They’ll also go in salads, and we can do more bacon. There are a lot of trees up there.” She pointed farther uphill to a wooded meadow that was just visible over the terrain, below a slope in the hill.

  Barker said, “This year I want to build a beehive. It would be nice to have tame bees and not have to crack hives for honey.”

  “I wish I’d studied more of these things,” she said. “All I know is textiles.”

  “Gina, I am delighted at my repaired socks, and the new pair,” he said.

  “Sure, but I need a loom eventually. That’s a lot of work.” She’d knitted them with needles homemade from twigs.

  “We’ll do it.”

  Caswell said, “Oh, I must remember to ask the Urushu to find us flax. Linen would be nice to go under the wool.”

  Indeed. Linen was also good for bandages, bedsheets, filtering wine and oils, and for bandages and sanitary necessities. Those improvised pads Caswell had to use wouldn’t last forever.

  She twitched awake from a micronap and rubbed her eyes. She really did need to rest. She was even medically authorized one, by Doc and the LT. But if everyone else ran all day, then she would, too. Then she’d sleep badly at night.

  Growling in frustration, she pulled up the spindle. It had dropped all the way down and the yarn had snarled. She knelt carefully, and started stretching it around the turret, as Ortiz watched, so she could fix that section.