A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Who’s cooking?”

  “Barker and Caswell.”

  “I think I love them. In a fraternal fashion.”

  They were both thinking a lot more than fraternally about Caswell, and she was a problem.

  Martin helped the man out the doorway, and he walked gingerly but steadily. It wasn’t a crippling gash, but fairly deep, and he’d better keep it clean. He reeked of sweat, but seemed fairly kempt otherwise. His hair was tied back in a ponytail and had obviously been brushed.

  Devereaux said, “Oglesby, tell him we need to take the sutures out in a week, and to change the bandage for a clean one twice a day. Stress it has to be well rinsed and dried between uses. The bandage, I mean.”

  “Got it.”

  He wandered to the outside fire, where, judging by the smell, Barker and Caswell had herbs and salt and something else and meat.

  “Hey, Devereaux would like a snack.”

  “Of course,” Barker said, and peeled off a thin piece of tough but juicy looking steak. “But you keep your hands off until dinner.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Caswell was lashing together two quite comfortable-looking chairs, or at least the frames. They’d need leather or woven seat sections. She was working on another, using straight sections of branch, leather thong and a knife.

  “Those look good.”

  “They’ll look better with footstools and woven seats. And I may be able to make a rocker.”

  “Oh, hell yes.”

  They were doing it. They were building stuff from the 1800s. They’d never get home, but they would manage to survive comfortably.

  “How goes the garden?”

  She waved at the tilled spot she’d scraped out with the E-tool.

  “Well, I’ve planted everything I can identify, and it’s real late in the season. It’s mostly to get practice. I’ll plant more rows of each next year. The LT and Sergeant Barker think we can put in field tile and irrigation on the other side. So each year we’ll have tenderer, sweeter fruit and veggies, and eventually a few nut and apple trees. But, sir, understand that’s a project that will take decades or centuries. We’ll never see it.”

  She’d said, “sir.” She’d slipped into Air Force lingo.

  He said, “It’s a start for us. The next generation will carry on.”

  “Which next generation is that?”

  “Yeah, I realize it’s not going to be ours. Probably adopted.”

  She said, “That’s an entirely different level of diplomacy, sir. It may not work.”

  “Well, we’re going to try. It’s all we can do.”

  He watched her lashing a T joint, which seemed to be socketed as well. It was likely she could bore a hole afterward and set in a pin. It was amazing how fast that skill had gone from an historical hypothetical to something they did easily. Bore a hole, hammer in a twig as a dowel.

  “I do wonder,” he said, “if we’ve affected some timeline and the vehicles will get excavated at some point in the future. Or if they’ll remain hidden somewhere for a long time. Or destroyed. Or maybe we’re in an alternate timeline.”

  Between yanks on the leather thong, she shrugged.

  “No way to know, sir. It’s all possible, I guess.”

  She was a problem. She was skilled, yes. She was a useful shot, yes. Practical enough. Her vegetarianism got dumped in a moment once they were in trouble. But she had an abrasive personality, and that very strong liberal arts streak that was at odds with both her practicality and often with reality. She didn’t like reality, and wanted it not to be.

  She was quite good looking, which meant pretty damned hot by deployment standards, which meant the hottest piece of ass in this particular universe. It was obvious to Martin she wasn’t interested, and he didn’t blame her, but damn, she looked good bent over in the stream. Gina Alexander was nice enough, and looked a lot younger than she actually was, but Caswell, damn. And if he felt it, then the young bucks felt it. If she hinted at availability, they’d fight. Then there were the Paleos . . .

  They really did need some liaison with the native women, except that required another layer of diplomacy, safety, birth control, and delicate negotiations. And then they’d likely expect kids. In fact, they’d been begging for them.

  Not this year. That needed to be understood.

  “Important formation tonight, spread the word.”

  “Roger. And make sure no one shows anything modern around the Paleos.”

  “Oh, crap, you’re right.”

  Yeah. Nonfunctional stuff was just stuff. A lit iPod or flashlight was magic.

  The word got spread and the balance of the hunting party came back with more meat. They jabbered and groped at each other, then most of them left, leaving three caretakers for whatever the injured guy’s name was. Elliott had conceded on that when they worked so industriously.

  The steak was very chewy, but it was steak, Regina decided. Now she knew what aurochs tasted like. It tasted like chewy, stringy, under-aged steak. Still, it wasn’t goat.

  She was glad she and Caswell had their own hut. The tepee was going to be snug with four extra bodies. She’d also need to tell the watch to make sure the Paleos didn’t go exploring. She was not interested in being seduced.

  Home was gone, this was home now, like a permanent military barracks crossed with a college dorm, until the kids grew up.

  Caswell was not a great hoochmate. She had all these theories, some of which Gina agreed with. But she took everything to a logical conclusion that came down to blaming white males, or white people in general, without regard to the fact that she herself was about the whitest person here.

  Elliott stood, stepped into the firelight and said, “Keep eating, but I’m going to cover a few things. This is for us, Oglesby, so don’t translate.”

  “Got it. They’ve started to grasp a handful of words. Nouns, affirmatives, negatives.”

  “Roger that. Okay, the palisade is coming along, and we’ll thank our friends for that in a bit. We’re getting more variety of food. We’re working on individual shelters though I’m leery of spreading out too much, or of concentrating in one tent. There really isn’t a good answer. Sergeant Caswell has made two really nice chairs this week, and I’m hoping she’ll make more. Then we can use leather for some stools. It’s nice not to sit on the ground or rocks.

  “Wear whatever is appropriate for the weather and work. There’s no Uniform of the Day. If PTs work for you, wear them, just keep in mind they’re not as durable. Part of me would prefer you not mix uniforms, but if it’s necessary, I won’t complain.

  “We have enough power for devices at present, but only two flashlights can be recharged, so the rest of you will have to rely on phones to get around at night, and not in front of our neighbors, yet. We do have rechargeable batteries we can use in another light.

  “We have a lot of work ahead of us, but be proud of what we’ve done so far. We’re making good progress on everything, and it’ll get easier as we continue to acclimate, and learn as we go.

  “The important thing for tonight is a social issue. I know some of you are interested in closer relations with the locals, for both extra labor, and social interaction, including the women.”

  There were chuckles and a hoot, and she said, “I’m not interested in the women.”

  That got laughs and a “Boo!”

  “I’m glad you can joke about it,” Elliott said. “I’m sure eventually we’re going to have closer involvement. But Sergeant Spencer and I have decided we’re postponing that for a year.” He paused to let that sink in.

  That made sense. Though it would keep stress on them here. She didn’t see any better option, though. The men were going to be rutting idiots.

  “After we have our own village, tools, and know what we can do, and what we need, then we’ll see about allowing others in, slowly, and making sure they acclimate to us and don’t try to displace us. We have a huge tech advantage, but we’re only ten. They’re h
undreds, thousands, tens of thousands. The best way to avoid trouble is just to avoid them, at least until we feel each other out and learn how to interact without offense. They apparently thought us rather rude at first for not swapping partners and not giving enough of our stuff. Keep that in mind.”

  Dalton said, “To be clear, we’ll reconsider this in a year, not that all bets are off, right, sir?”

  “Exactly. Don’t ask me about it until next year. Then we’ll discuss the issue. You all get input, but I’m the CO, just as if we were POWs. We’re soldiers in a lost, detached element, until we get things organized. Then and only then will we consider how to adapt things. I’m not saying this is how we’ll do it, but we might go by expiration time of service, adjusted to the current calendar. Or by age. Or some other way. But you’re still under orders until we have that discussion. Hooah?”

  “Hooah.” The men generally did not look pleased. Caswell was hard to judge. She seemed to be weighing the matter.

  “Okay, make sure you take care of hygiene including teeth. No lights while we have guests. Now we’ll thank them. Oglesby, bring them up.”

  Oglesby grabbed a small package of hide from Barker. He unwrapped it and held something glittery up in the light.

  “These are small arrowheads that Bob Barker chipped out of a beer bottle someone left in Number Eight. They’re really shiny, and sharp.” He carefully handed a pair of them to each of the three hunters, and two more to the lead man. “Give these to Oglan.”

  The locals ooed and aahed appropriately, seeming delighted with these acquisitions.

  Spencer said, “I’m not worried about the bottle glass. It’s just glass, and if someone does a detailed analysis in fifteen thousand years, they’re less unlikely than two MRAPs.”

  There were nervous laughs.

  The locals cheered, and kept scraping the arrowheads against their nails. They were impressed, and that was positive. Dalton and Barker kept them penned on that side of the fire, so they couldn’t mingle.

  It would be a long time, though, before she’d consider living with them, or anything more. A long time. The men were quite attractive, well built, and friendly, but the culture was too foreign, and she still liked soap and shampoo. And her toothbrush. That box of sundries was worth more than its weight in gold. If only it had toilet paper and beer.

  She found her way to the latrine in near pitch black, shivered in nervousness astride the seat, then made her way back past the fire to her hooch. It was definitely fall, and she was glad of warmth of the bag, as much as she hated the enclosing shape. Caswell’s presence next to her was reassuring, even if they’d never be close friends. She laid her rifle on the platform next to her, and zipped up to sleep.

  “Night,” she said.

  “Night,” Caswell replied. “I really wish the LT had told them to fuck themselves raw with the locals.”

  “I know,” she said. “The Army’s the Army. It is what it is.”

  “Until we get all the manliness to deal with.”

  “It’ll be fine for a year,” she said.

  “I doubt it.”

  Gina wasn’t sure. There were reasons that was a complex matter for her, and she wasn’t going to discuss them here.

  She lay there listening to the frame creak and walls shift in the breeze. It wasn’t much of a hooch at all, but at least she didn’t have to bed down with all the men. That was okay if there was lots of discipline, but here, different story.

  Shortly, there was a spattering sound of raindrops, then more. It turned into a steady splash, and then she felt large drops falling onto her bag from a leak in the roof.

  That was going to suck.

  There wasn’t any way to avoid it, she doubted the tepee was any drier, and Doc and Oglesby were sleeping in the trucks. She could run for a cab and sleep sitting up, or she could stay here and wake up in a puddle.

  It was just too damned much effort to get up. She felt the water leak through and start soaking her.

  Her phone was charged, she had headphones, and Evanescence at least kept her brain warm as she itched to sleep in the wet. At least her ass had stopped burning.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next morning, Bob Barker unbanked the fire. There were still coals despite the rain, and he used his Ka-Bar to peel shavings from a stick to get smoky flames going, then added bigger fuel. Breakfast was going to be late. His hands were raw, dirty and numb by the time he was done, and he warmed them over the growing flames. His eyes were used to the acrid smoke by now. It would blow, he’d squint, and that was it. He could even smell it in his moustache.

  It was overcast, with deep, heavy clouds that predicted more rain. He really wanted to put up another overhead to protect the food and fire. For now, there was a spare fire in the tepee, but they’d have to build up a platform for it. It was half puddle. That fire still burned too, but barely.

  It had been cramped in the tent, with the four Paleos. They slept quietly, but took up a lot of room, and smelled. They probably didn’t smell worse than the soldiers, although Bob was still using deodorant every two to three days. But they did smell different. It was noticeable. They were musky, earthy, sharp and pungent.

  Devereaux examined Oglan and pronounced him fit to travel. He gave instructions to walk steadily, not flex his right arm, and not hunt for a month. He should do light exercise in the meantime, and he demonstrated some isotonic techniques.

  “And tell him to rest and eat well. He could use some fat and starch, as much as they have.”

  Bob was sorry to see them go. He’d learned quite a bit about their skillsets and tools. But if they liked his archaic points made from a beer bottle, they’d be back. Of course, his supply of glass was very limited. Though he could do the same with good quality chert or flint, and teach them archery.

  The others gathered around the fire one by one. They didn’t really bother with reveille. Everyone was up shortly after the sun anyway. Most of them wore gore-tex and sat on the rocks and logs. Elliott stayed standing.

  “So how much information do we want to give them, sir?” he asked while chewing on some steak cooked until it was almost jerky, that tasted almost like leather. It would have to do.

  Elliott said, “Well, they can’t understand where we came from. I don’t want to show them anything modern in use, meaning weapons, electronics or vehicles. Axes and knives are okay. They don’t need to know about night vision. As far as primitive skills, I really don’t see how upgrading their weapons is a problem, done slowly. They can’t do much to us. When did bows come about?”

  Spencer had joined them, and the two men swapped glances.

  Spencer said, “If I recall, there is some possible indication of fletched arrows thirty K years before our time. But we’re not seeing that here.”

  The LT nodded. “Right. Make bows for us, so we can save ammo. Keep them out of sight as long as possible, then teach that, too. A little bit at a time will minimize the shock to them, and give us trade advantage. They’ll want to be friendly to see what we do next.”

  “I would like permission to use a roll of the dental floss for bowstrings. Dacron is a lot stronger than sinew or rawhide, and a lot easier than gut.”

  Elliott screwed up his face. “I hate to waste it.”

  “It really is better. Once we can replace it, it’s still usable as floss, barring a little fraying.”

  “Okay,” Elliott agreed. “Do it.”

  “Roger.” Yeah. He had no idea how gut string would work. Only theory. As in, he knew it could be done.

  “You really are good with that stuff, Bob,” Spencer said. “You knock out points faster than they do. I’m glad you’re here. Well, actually, I wish you were home, but if you are here . . .”

  He said, “I gotcha. Thanks.”

  “Do you have a native name?”

  He grinned. He loved this part.

  “My Indian name is Bob.”

  There were laughs all around.

  Spencer said, “Bob is
our man. As to the bows, sounds good, sir. And now it’s time to chop more trees.”

  Chopping was hell on his back, but Spencer was right. The ditch was almost denuded, having only scrub left. Even all the deadwood and crud had been removed and stacked as fuel, doubling as a low wall along the north. The east had the creek, gradually losing trees along this bank along the frontage. The palisade was about long enough on the west, and they’d hopefully start along the south today. But until they had a solid wall, he wouldn’t be entirely relaxed.

  It was also bath day. Hopefully it would get into the low 70s midday, and he could splash in the creek and get clean. Trying to sponge bathe with a washcloth and an ammo can of water was not as effective, though it was much more comfortable.

  Sean Elliott felt better. Good relations with the neighbors and some diplomacy meant potential resources for them. They’d already agreed to bring more salt, and knew a place to get it. Eventually, they’d want to seek out other groups, too. As soon as they had a solid camp. And better food sources and enough fuel.

  He understood why even in the nineteenth century some people never made it outside their own county.

  He was going to do some chopping today, and he felt guilty about not doing it earlier when it had been hotter. It was quite mild today, with a soft breeze and just enough haze to cut the glare.

  He was pondering that when Alexander came up.

  “Sir, are you busy?”

  “Always, but I need a break and I’m here for you. What do you need?”

  “Operations proposal, sir.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m not as physical as the others, but I hope to do a bit more with the solar power, and with the laptops.”

  “Long-term, yes. Is everyone keeping their phones charged?”

  She said, “Now they are. I had to institute a schedule.”

  “Okay. Well, I do want lots of photos for documentation. If we ever do get back, that proves our legitimacy, and I’m sure the scientists will be all over it.”