A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  She shrugged. “It’s one more disappointment of many.”

  “I want to send that escort. You, Oglesby, and Dalton. Oglesby because he’s the translator. Dalton because he has combat experience. You because you have the sociological knowledge. You’ll be in charge.”

  She didn’t smile, but did seem to brighten.

  “Yes, sir. Should we prep now?”

  “Tell Dalton. If he can’t go, we’ll find someone else.”

  “Roger.”

  “What do you think of Oglesby?”

  She said, “He’s very good at translating. He may not handle being around the natives well without help.”

  “I already talked to him about that.”

  “I understand, sir.” She gave a sideways glance that he read.

  “So it’s dealt with, and not for sharing.”

  “Of course. It was inevitable, really.” That was exactly what he’d said. He’d expected her to be more bothered, but she almost seemed relieved. Perhaps she’d been getting attention or too many stares from Oglesby?

  “Yes, but I’d like to limit it. I may be overly hopeful.”

  “You’re doing alright, sir. We’re limited on resources.”

  “Especially people.”

  “Especially people, yes.”

  “So take a day, two at most, make nice, come back all in one piece, and don’t shoot anything you don’t absolutely have to.”

  “Got it. What information do you want?”

  “Anything they have on the Neolithics. Agreements to talk more about food and local materials and cures. Coal, salt, plants, iron ore, anything.”

  “Will do.”

  Sean went back to camp, and had Alexander take over making sure they had ammo, water, some food, batteries and lights, sleeping gear and sundries. Yes, there was a reason units had a headquarters section. She was suited for it, and it freed him up to focus on the wall.

  “I have it,” he told Barker and Spencer.

  [“What, sir?” Spencer asked.

  “We’ll drop two really big logs at each side of the wall, and dig them in about six inches over the water. No one can easily get under that. We’ll reinforce, as Bob suggested, with rock and timber, make our own little box culverts, with reinforcement around the log ends. The palisade goes over it, and we may even be able to socket it in, if we burn and bore holes. A little gapping won’t hurt, because we can’t stand on that anyway. It’ll keep out their weapons, but a good marksman can still shoot through. We’ll buttress at angles.”

  Spencer said, “That sounds like a lot of grunt lifting, but very sturdy.”

  “Yeah, it’ll take lifting. I’m going to get the Urushu to help in exchange for Bob’s knowledge of bows.”

  “In the meantime?”

  “I’d like running water to us and the goats, but that not being feasible, another ten feet of wall will make me happy.”

  Barker said, “Sure, but I need to find something to cook about fourteen hundred.”

  “Noted.”

  Oglesby. He knew Barker had a pool going on who’d get laid first. The bets had been on Doc first due to his exotic looks, or Sean as chief. Oglesby had been second to last before Caswell.

  It was going to get a lot more complicated.

  There was a momentary interruption as two of the Urushu hunters came over. They’d been uphill along the stream in the scrub, and were carrying a small, coarse, stringy looking pig. This they laid down in front of Sean, and made the arms open gesture.

  He did the same in return.

  “Oglesby, thank them very much for me.”

  It was a wiry, tough pig, but it might roast tender given enough time in the oven.

  “Hey, Bob!” he called.

  Jenny Caswell led the two men alongside the Urushu pilgrimage. The contrast was interesting. The Urushu were barefoot, wore skirts and capes without shoes. A few had leggings. Several had animal skins with water, but they seemed comfortable this close to the river to not worry about logistics.

  It was in the 50s, leaves down, and they were barefoot. That was fascinating, and frightening. There were several issues that could cause circulation problems and lead to dead toes at this and below. She hoped they’d have footwear of some kind once they reached their other village.

  Each of them had a small leather pouch tied at neck or waist, that contained a handful of shiny stuff. The one she’d seen open had quartz, lapis, ochre and a fossil shell. Most of them had a short flint knife scarfed and bound to a stick. The eight men had spears and two had Bob’s style throwing darts they’d presumably made themselves.

  The girls among them scooped up the occasional bug and ate it. Now and again they’d grab a plaintain or onion stalk. Dandelions and other growth disappeared as they went, too. Several of the women should have had children, but only a half dozen did. They clung to the kids and used strips of hide above the breasts for the larger ones to hang onto. The smaller ones, under six months, were slung in carriers made of hide. The kids were quiet, either suckling or clutching and staring over mothers’ shoulders. When someone needed to relieve themselves, they stepped out of line and did so, then caught back up.

  It wasn’t just people who did that. She stepped around a pile of deer droppings, and previously had just avoided a plop of aurochs crap.

  The march was angling up a valley again, whatever one called those little side valleys. It was tiring, and hurt her ankles.

  “Doing okay, Caswell?” Dalton asked.

  No, but she wasn’t going to say so to him.

  “It’s unusual terrain. I’ll be fine.”

  “Hooah.”

  She let her feet trudge, made sure to lift them, and let her thoughts roll back.

  In comparison to the Urushu, the troops had Multicam, body armor, helmets, NVG, eyepro, rifles, knives, spears, tablets to use as recording media, plus Oglesby’s written notes, dried meat and fruit, full Camelbaks, bivvy bags, spare socks and APECS. Well, she had APECS, the soldiers had gore-tex cold-weather whatever they were called. Actually, she couldn’t remember what APECS stood for at the moment.

  The difference in definitions of “roughing it” was profound, even when they were cut off from their time.

  Eventually, she’d be wearing leather and homespun, though better designed. They’d never be down to the Paleolithic level. But, they had modern tools to work back from. Working forward from this . . . no wonder it took fifteen thousand years.

  “I guess they don’t take breaks,” Oglesby said.

  “They seem to do that pacing thing,” Dalton replied. “Move fast, slow down, repeat.”

  “It works. Of course, they’re not carrying all this crap, either.”

  “You’ll be glad for that crap when we get there.”

  “Or meet a bear,” she said. Adrenaline rippled. That was a huge fucking bear, in a clump of trees just north.

  Oglesby shouted to one of the spearmen and pointed. The man nodded, and pointed. Two others moved over to that side of the trail. The women bunched up closer.

  Either the numbers or the spears convinced the bear she wasn’t interested. She padded around but made no aggressive moves. She was huge, brown ticked, and rolly.

  “I wonder if rifles are better than spears against those.”

  “What, M Fours?” Dalton asked. “You’re just gonna piss a bear off unless you get it through the eyes. I’m not even sure this would punch through the skull. I think it would reach the vitals, but it’s about like someone sticking a needle into you. It won’t be fast.”

  “The spears have to get close.”

  “Yeah. Bows actually work better for this.”

  “Than spears?”

  “Yes. You don’t have to get that close, and a good, sharp hunting point causes hemorrhage. You just have to hope they bleed out before eating you.”

  As beautiful as the bear was, she shivered. “I see why the LT wants that wall finished.” She remembered they’d h
ad bears and lions pad through camp already.

  Dalton said, “Oh, yeah. It may be a bit overbuilt, but that’s better than the alternative.”

  Five miles could be done on good terrain in an hour, ninety minutes tops. On this scrubby, undulating mess, it took four hours, and she was panting by the end of it. Ahead, though, was a riverside village in the woods. It had tents and huts but also an overhanging cliff-cave with brush all around.

  Messengers had obviously been ahead, and this village and the one downstream were certainly related. Other women and few men swarmed out to greet them, hugging and touching. Some of the young women would clasp each other’s breasts.

  Oglesby muttered, “Nothin’ wrong with that.” He probably thought she couldn’t hear.

  Dalton replied, “Amen, brother.”

  Neither of them would get it. It was almost certainly a nonsexual compliment to one’s breeding or suckling potential. Or possibly had been and evolved into a social gesture.

  The older women’s breasts hung low and flat from suckling child after child. Primitive life put a beating on people.

  Shortly they were in the camp, which had a low piled stone wall. The rocks had come from the bluff and the river, it seemed.

  She knew what was coming next, but goddammit, it was hot. She unsnapped her helmet and rolled it off her head, shook her hair to get air through the sweat.

  At once, five men headed her way, bearing whatever gifts they had, and cooing what was obviously, “Hey, pretty lady.” It got tiresome.

  “Dalton, could you—”

  “Ayup,” he said, and came alongside. He put a hand on her shoulder, and held the other palm up about forty-five degrees. They took that as a bar, without it being a challenge.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “They don’t mean any harm,” he said.

  “I’m well aware of that,” she said. “Different countries, different customs.” It still was tiresome.

  She recognized several of the Urushu men here. Either they’d come here directly, or by a roundabout way. The soldiers had no information on whatever tribal networks existed.

  “It’s a bit galling they took off and left the women.”

  “I thought you were about equality.”

  “That’s bullshit. A woman with a child isn’t able to run. The whole point of society is to protect them.”

  “We agree,” he said. “I dunno. Maybe it was a tactical decision? Leave, come back to get them? Maybe it was panic because they’re not really violent and didn’t understand it? Or maybe they’re just pussies.”

  Sigh, that. “My genitalia should not be an epithet.”

  He said, “Well, in our culture, the military, that term or one like it has been in use for centuries. So you should get used to it.”

  She wasn’t going to respond to that. She just turned and got busy with . . . children. They found her fascinating. They found her clothes fascinating. She detached hands, and got them to move back a bit.

  The youngest responded to peekaboo, and the older ones joined in. One girl about ten reached out to stroke her hair.

  “Yes, it’s red,” she said. “Like an autumn leaf or some mineral or other. I guess it doesn’t matter what I say because you don’t understand me.”

  The children weren’t judgmental.

  Then she heard, “Oh, holy crap!”

  She rose smoothly to avoid scaring the kids, turned with her finger near the trigger and thumb near the safety.

  Dalton was munching something that looked like a cookie.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I think it’s a rice and acorn cake.”

  “Rice?” She jogged over, gear clattering and swinging, and took one he held toward her.

  She bit down. It was crisp but flexible, hot off a rock griddle, and yes, rice, acorn, possibly some salt and onion, and a bit of some kind of antelope suet.

  “Oh, my God, that’s good,” she murfled. It was almost orgasmic. Bread, starch. She felt it convert to sugar from salivary amylase, and if she recalled, studies said these people had less of that gene, and why was she thinking about biology while eating the first bread in three months?

  “Oglesby, get the recipe,” she said. “That is an order, one of few I plan to issue.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a joking salute. But it seemed respectful. Who cared?

  “Okay, we’ll stay overnight definitely. Maybe two. I wonder what they have for breakfast?”

  CHAPTER 18

  Martin Spencer looked over in satisfaction. It was afternoon. The wall on the east was well started. Eventually they’d want a goat pen inside. That, and running water.

  One step at a time. Fortification this year, water and private lodging next year. Or not so private, if Alexander would consider pairing up.

  After that . . . cattle or antelope ranch? Work on growing some kind of crop and an orchard? He’d never had any interest in farming. He wanted to be a machinist and build race cars. That, however, wasn’t going to happen.

  “Break for a bit, regular chores next,” he told Doc and Trinidad.

  He walked over to Number Nine.

  “Time to run up the engine,” he said.

  Alexander glanced up from spreadsheets. “It’s only been three weeks.”

  He brushed past her, trying hard not to make a point of touching her, the back of his hand just brushing her butt. Damn. Human touch.

  He said, “As it gets colder, we need to shorten it slightly. And if we can find some kind of vegetable oil, or render down some animal fat, we can keep them running for years.”

  “To haul salt?”

  “That would be one thing, yes. Or coal. Or we fab a tiller and rip up some ground to farm.” He squeezed into the driver’s seat and fired it up.

  It took about ten seconds, but it did start. The solar trickle charger was a godsend.

  “Did you come through the back just to squeeze past me?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I guess I’d rather squeeze past you than the LT, if that’s okay.”

  “I’m flattered,” she said with obvious sarcasm.

  They bantered like that more and more, and he knew there was reciprocal interest. So eventually he’d ask her. It was going to be a long year.

  Lacking a road test, he wanted to give it thirty minutes of idle with intermittent revs and some gear shifting to keep the fluid moving. He settled for five minutes. He ran through the gear range with the wheels chocked and brakes engaged, then let it idle down, and killed it.

  “Okay, enough goofing off. I have more wood to chop.”

  “I’m actually done for the day,” she said. “I’ll help Barker with food, and I’ll haul firewood.”

  Above them, Ortiz shouted, “Approaching party! Big one!”

  He ran out the back, turned to Number Eight, jumped on step, ladder and up onto the roof. He squinted into the setting sun.

  That wasn’t a diplomatic mission.

  “War band!” he said. “Hostiles! Gear up and fall back here.”

  Ortiz and Alexander looked at him and didn’t move. They were frozen and confused.

  “Attacking hostiles, lock the gate!” he called.

  They moved.

  Barker and Trinidad had the gate closed, and were shoving timbers in to block it.

  Elliott scrambled up next to him. He was carrying Spencer’s helmet, armor and rifle.

  “Do you have it, sir?” he asked, taking the gear and shoving the brain bucket on first.

  “Yes, but watch out for me, I’m late. What do we have?” Elliott took the offered binox, raised them, shielded them from the sun with his left hand, and looked.

  “Looks like about seventy men with spears, some with bows, a dozen dogs. They’re obviously not happy.”

  “And we have seven.” The LT scanned around.

  The LT said, “Close up the backs of the trucks. Lock the doors. Alexander, watch the gate. Barker and Trinidad, watch the west corners. The rest of us are cove
ring the east and the north-south.”

  He pointed as he spoke, and sounded firm. Good. A commander who was decisive under fire was much better than the alternative.

  How could they have missed . . .

  “It occurs to me, sir, that wall makes dandy cover and concealment for them to sneak around.” He fastened the armor, feeling it snug and not quite familiar, but becoming so fast.

  “Yeah. I wonder why they didn’t already, or why they didn’t swing along the river and up.”

  “Probably a tribal challenge. They may have some tactics, but it’s probably scream and throw spears.”

  Without looking over, Elliott asked, “You think so?”

  “It’s still common some places in our time, and they can’t have a lengthy military history to work from.” He kept his eyes peeled, too. There was definite movement all around the outside.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  The group started shouting, waving spears and making gestures that were probably supposed to be rude, if they had a common language.

  “And our translator’s gone,” he said.

  “Yeah. Other than the fact there’s apparently a few dozen words that are close if you know the subject, we got nothing.”

  Everyone was armored up.

  “Gloves and shades,” he said. “Flint is hard but brittle.” He kept his glasses with him, and gloves were in his pants left cargo pocket.

  Alexander tightened her helmet strap and shrugged her hands, no gloves with her. She had eyepro. Doc was fully covered. The others mostly were, but Trinidad didn’t have glasses.

  Elliott said, “Don’t fire unless I order it, but if you get attacked directly, you can engage in self-defense. Hooah?”

  “Hooah, sir.” “Hooah.” “Roger that.”

  Devereaux came up the ladder fast.

  He said, “Doc, hop over to Nine and help Alexander. Ortiz, can you dismount the gun and remount on Number Nine? You’ll have better coverage of the gap.”

  “Easier if I have a hand,” Ortiz said, as he opened the cover and yanked the charging handle. “Gun is disarmed, someone grab it.”

  Martin said, “I got it.” It wasn’t hard to move, but stepping over the three-foot gap between the truck tops took care. As he straddled it, he looked down at the weeds. Those were ugly. It might be an idea to either move the vehicles, or throw some coals back there to kill that crap.