A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Okay. If you want to, I’ll back you up.”

  She meant it, and didn’t realize her complete mushiness was worthless.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you need to sit here some more?”

  “No, let’s get back out. They already think we’re lesbians.”

  “No they don’t.”

  She really was clueless.

  Jenny stepped back through the leather flap into sunlight. Oglesby and Spencer were gathered near the kitchen. Spencer gave a slight wave of his fingers, and she walked over, really not wanting to have whatever conversation they had planned.

  No one else was around, they were all at tasks, including Barker.

  She stepped up.

  “Yes, si . . . Sergeant?”

  Both men looked at Oglesby; he finally met her eyes.

  “Sergeant Caswell, I’m sorry. My brain stopped thinking. It won’t happen again.”

  Until next time, she thought.

  “Make sure it doesn’t,” she said.

  He looked genuinely embarrassed, turned and walked off.

  Spencer said, “Can you think of anyone else who’s a potential threat?”

  “Every male here, Sergeant.” She didn’t say, especially you.

  He nodded slightly and frowned. “Well, I’ll be having some one-on-one talks. I can’t stop them looking. But I expect them to be disciplined. I don’t know what the answer is long term. But I figured that was going to come up sooner or later, and he was very eager to go with you. It was in his body language.”

  “I didn’t see it,” she admitted.

  “Yeah, obvious to me. There’s lust, and then there’s hunger. He was hungry.”

  “Thank you,” she said, seriously.

  “Let me or the LT know, or Alexander if she can help.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  He left.

  Either she’d really misjudged him, or he was playing the friendly protector game for later, or possibly he’d even set Oglesby up to fail so the first scenario would be stronger.

  Or was she being paranoid?

  She’d avoid them both and see if she could team more with Alexander. They’d probably end up hating each other, and she’d want to kill the sarcastic bitch, but at least they wouldn’t sexually assault each other.

  She still felt cold, and it wasn’t from the river.

  Dan Oglesby burned. He wanted to get away from people for a while, so he stopped by the office and told Alexander, “I’ll be chopping wood.”

  One of the Urushu, Og!sa, asked about helping. He declined. “Ni, Og!sa, Mah se they.” I find it. I’ll do it. “Find” was everything from find to make to perform to produce.

  Yes, he’d been trying to be nice to Caswell. He figured she could use some help with the cramp, and a little friendly human contact wouldn’t hurt. No, he wasn’t ready to attack her, with that explosion of hairy bush around stained panties, on the muddy banks of a river reeking of fish. She really needed to lighten up.

  He felt guilty about those pictures he had of her for “reference,” as he called it. But dammit, a man had to do something, and until Elliott cleared them to date the locals, some human contact and interaction with anyone would still be nice. He’d made sure to behave since that one early encounter, though he suspected Doc had managed to nail one of the visiting female guards.

  He wondered about Caswell. It was a bad cliché about feminists being lesbians, but she ran straight for Alexander every time she had a problem, even if Doc or Spencer would be a better choice for resolving it. Alexander didn’t seem to be interested in anyone, but she had a pile of medical problems and was old. Caswell seemed to love hanging out with her, though. It wasn’t companionship; there was no reciprocation.

  Eventually they’d have to court local women, teach them some modern sanitation like toothbrushing, and form partnerships with them. In the meantime, they could at least be sociable with each other, and that’s all it was—being sociable.

  He had been excoriated for trying to be friendly. He hadn’t been trying to rape her.

  Right?

  And was she, or Alexander, going to match up with local men? Or become old hags?

  Either way, he’d just avoid her from now on.

  CHAPTER 29

  Martin Spencer had issues. They came out at night.

  Late night watch with Ortiz came around about once a week. Ortiz was a good man, and probably the least bothersome.

  Alexander was showing health problems, as expected. But hell, so was he. That dull ache in his gut was never going to go away. Eating bone meal for the calcium helped a little. But he was dying, slowly and painfully. And of course, the black magic drink didn’t help. It was raw on his guts, but it did keep him awake. The others had tried it and didn’t care for it at all, so it was all his.

  Elliott would be stressed for life, unless they dissolved this command and all went native, which was still a possibility.

  Barker was smoking more of the local weed. On the one hand, that was weak. On the other hand, Martin wanted real coffee and sat here in the dark trembling in fear. He hated being out in this unforgiving dark, he hated separating any distance from the group, because he dreaded some reversal.

  He had no idea what was up with Caswell. She walked around as if every man was ready to drag her off and rape her. He wondered if she had been, and needed help, but there was no way to ask that question, no help he could give, and he didn’t think anyone had had opportunity.

  Oglesby probably had been trying seduction, not rape, and clumsy about it, but that shit couldn’t be allowed. The kid had lucked out with that local chick in the field, and that was it unless and until they organized something with the Urushu, who were starting to look acceptable. This was still effectively a combat deployment, and that meant no fraternization. Hell, they’d been in combat here, with the Romans, the Neolithics, wolves and a bear.

  Doc stayed busy, but was definitely sexually frustrated from handling all these naked women and having no way to socialize. Though he wasn’t a social type either.

  At least he wasn’t a social type here. Coming here had fucked them all up.

  Trinidad obviously felt left behind. There was no intel work, he was backup for the goat herding, and grunt labor otherwise, which was unfortunate, because he was pretty good at the grass and stick hut lifestyle. Possibly that was part of it. It was like being back in the rural PI for him, which Martin got the impression was somewhere he’d never planned to go again.

  Dalton prayed a lot, and Martin wasn’t sure if that was normal for him or not. He didn’t get religion, at all. Dalton roomed with Oglesby, and they didn’t seem to interact much, just crawl in, sleep, come out, go to work.

  Probably the winter had stressed them all on personal interaction. He really was getting burned out on the idea, and Elliott kept trying for conversations so they could bond. He didn’t want to bond with these people. He wanted to keep them alive as well as possible, have them near enough for reassurance, and try to come up with a working forge.

  As far as those candid shots he’d snuck of Caswell, he was going to delete those in the morning. They were very pleasant, but it wasn’t fair to her, and he couldn’t choke the young bucks down if he was violating the same rule himself. It was wrong and he knew it.

  Ortiz took a scan with NVG and said, “Movement.”

  He whispered back, “Animal or people?”

  “People. They snuck up the creek and just came out of the trees.”

  “That’s interesting.” He grabbed his own goggles.

  “Romans. Scale armor, cloaks, shaved faces, short hair.”

  “How many?”

  “Eight or so. I think it’s definitely some sort of infiltration. Do we want to sound alert?”

  “Not yet. They obviously have no idea we can see them. Just keep your voice quiet. The gun is live, yes?”

  Ortiz carefully popped the top cover.

  “Yes. Are we going to shoot?”
<
br />   “That depends on them. On the one hand, we want to avoid violence. On the other hand, it looks like they may want to start some.”

  “Shouldn’t you wake Elliott?”

  “Depends. If they’re just lurking, then yes. But if they actually act hostile, we won’t have much time. I want to actively discourage them from skulking around. If they keep sneaking back, we keep having trouble.”

  “Warning shot?”

  Ortiz was so civilized.

  “No, Ramon, if they do something stupid, you shoot to kill. Are you okay with that?”

  “If they’re hostile and you say so, yes, Sergeant.” The man raised his eyebrows and looked serious.

  “What do you see?”

  “They’re squatted down. All I can get is faint lines, of course. They’re . . . striking flint.”

  That wasn’t to see by. That would be an incendiary.

  He flipped on the image intensifier on his carbine and squinted. Through literal slits in the piles, he could see almost nothing. “I can’t see from this angle. I do see things that look like helmets and weapons. Definitely pilum. They’re donning the rest of it.” He caught a little flash. “Yeah, I see sparks. If they get flame, shoot them.”

  “Through the timbers?”

  “Absolutely through the timbers.” A flame flickered and wavered as the Roman blew it bright. “And there we go. Fire!”

  Ortiz leaned forward, squeezed the trigger, and rattled off a burst about two seconds long.

  Shouts came all around, and screams from the Romans.

  Spencer shouted, “Hostiles contained! Threat contained. With caution, folks.”

  “What the hell did you shoot at?” Elliott demanded as he tumbled out of his hooch, barefoot in PTs waving a 9mm.

  “Sir, eight Romans lighting an incendiary.”

  “And you didn’t challenge them verbally?”

  “No, sir, I did not. I decided they needed active dissuasion, so they don’t try this every week.”

  The LT looked furious. All he said was, “Devereaux, take Barker. Administer treatment. Oglesby, go talk to the Urushu.”

  The Urushu were out of their hut and jabbering, dancing around with spears, looking frightened.

  Elliott wasn’t happy, and Martin didn’t care. These fuckers all needed an object lesson to stop them from attacking the U.S. Army. Since they believed in gods, let them believe the Soldiers were gods, or at least had technology and powers from the gods.

  Armand Devereaux wished he’d swapped for a pistol, because the carbine was bulky and in the way for this. Barker pulled open the back gate; he cleared it first and downslope, Barker had upslope. The goats were fussing around at what they thought was thunder.

  Barker followed. Inside, Ortiz said, “Following,” and ran to join them. They splashed their weapon lights ahead of them, along the weed- and gravel-strewn base of the palisade. It looked pretty imposing up close, and the ditch was damp and squishy.

  The upright Romans shielded their eyes and looked awed and confused at the artificial lights, brighter than anything they’d have had in their time.

  Three were down, another three had stayed with their buddies. He had to give them points for balls and discipline. The other two had split.

  He used his phone.

  “I’ve got three casualties, three buddies in proximity. If there were two more, they left, possibly for backup. I only saw two.”

  “Roger. Keep reporting.”

  “One dead, one through the thigh. Major muscle trauma, but he’ll likely recover a lot of motion. The other has a cracked hip and an ugly crease across his chest. He must have turned to run.”

  The dead one had been hit low in the guts, spilled out the back, and taken a second round high in the upper right thorax. A puddle of bloodsoaked grass and dirt lay under him.

  The thigh wound was ugly. The 7.62mm bullet had probably tumbled on its way through the log. A sizeable chunk of tissue was missing. The man made no noise, but he was sweating and taut-faced.

  “Ortiz, can you TK him for now? I’ll have to try to suture the artery and line up the muscles as best I can.”

  “Hooah.”

  The hip wound was potentially a killer. The man would have to be immobilized while the bone knit, and hopefully it hadn’t cracked down into the femoral ball. The hole was far enough out he might recover. The crease had ripped iron from his armor and torn skin, muscle and a few chips of fibrous bone.

  Ortiz spilled out water from a Camelbak; he soaped his hands, counted thirty, and then rinsed. The guy with the hip seemed to grasp cleanliness, and nodded faintly.

  “Medicus,” he said. He turned to Ortiz. “How do you say ‘pain’?”

  “Dolor,” Ortiz said.

  “I can’t spare anesthetic, so let that tourniquet numb things for a bit. Bleeding contained?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to scrub that chest wound and make sure that hip is clean.” He held up a cloth made from an old T shirt. The man nodded again.

  “How do we get the armor off?”

  From the phone, Spencer said, “It’s called lorica segmentata, or at least we call it that. He should understand that word. It fastens down the middle.”

  “I see it.” He unfastened it, loosened the sword belt across it, and they eased it over his head. He grunted considerably, cringing and sweating, teeth bared.

  The other three sat back and let him work, offering invocations to some Roman gods or other. Did he hear Mars and Pluto in there? Maybe. Aesculapius. That one he knew.

  The man whined and whimpered and shook as Armand debrided the wound channel. It would heal, it would just leave an impressive scar. He shifted his headlight in several directions to get a clear view of it. Shadows emphasized it more than it was.

  Then it was back to the hip. He said, “Cautious? Circumspect? Dolor.” He wanted the man to expect it to hurt.

  “Intelligo,” the man replied, and clutched at the stick Barker held for him. His previous whine turned to a high keen as Armand probed the wound with a cloth-wrapped finger.

  “We’ll cauterize if it looks infected. Could we use that damaged screwdriver as an iron?”

  “Yeah. You’re not going to now?”

  “If it’s clean and oozing, I’d rather leave it. Poking anything in might make it worse. We might also try maggots, but they might be nasty and might get loose in the cavity.”

  “Roger.”

  Then it was on to the bad one. He wasn’t sure he could do anything for a flesh wound that severe.

  “Ortiz, I need more light. I’m going to have to figure out how to suture that arteriole.” The wound was an ugly pit of ground meat, trickling fresh, bright blood. The femoral artery was probably bruised to hell, but seemed to be intact or he’d be dead.

  Ortiz said, “I’ve done those on calves. Baby cows, I mean.”

  “Can you do it?”

  With a nod, the man said, “Yeah. They’re going to have to hold him down. I want to carefully turn him feet downhill, then elevate the good one.”

  “Do you need to turn him?”

  “If he hasn’t already, the pain is going to make him piss and shit himself.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll support the leg.”

  Ortiz said, “Rotare? Girare? Circum?” and indicated.

  The three came over carefully, shying away from the helmet lights. Barker moved back to keep them covered.

  Gingerly they turned the man about, and used the empty armor and a blanket one of them had to prop his legs in position.

  “How are we going to remove the sutures later?” Armand asked.

  “Yeah, that’s a good question. I don’t know.”

  He got on the phone. “This is a serious question. Does one of the females have a pair of silk panties? We need thread for sutures.”

  He heard it relayed, and the response was, “Sorry, no.”

  “Roger.” He thought for a moment. “Okay, we’re going to get it closely inline and arteriogenesis
will restore perfusion over time. Not as effective, but easier. Can you get the vessels probed into place, and I’ll see what I can do with the muscle? And I want to go ahead and flush it out with boiled water from the Camelbak. I’m trying to decide between some of our alcohol, or vehicle antifreeze.”

  He looked up at a flashlight from the wall, blinking past them.

  The phone sounded again, “Also, some Gadorth are coming. We’re signaling them with a light.”

  Ah, that’s what that was. Barker acknowledged for them, and said, “I’ll keep an eye out while you work.”

  “Thanks.”

  The Romans had some grasp of surgery. One stuck a leather thong in the patient’s mouth, though he was barely conscious. The other two each sat on an arm. That left Armand to wrap himself around the good leg, as Ortiz took a gentle but solid grip on the right leg below the injury, and lean in.

  The man grunted and hissed through his teeth, and his legs trembled as Ortiz poked and probed with a dental pick. The man flushed and sweated, and heat emanated from him in waves. Two of them spoke to him in reassuring tones. “Aesculapius” and “medice” were in there again.

  Ortiz said, “Okay, that’s done, but this muscle is a mess.”

  “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “Okay, you’re up.”

  “This is going to hurt more.”

  “Mucho dolor. Multe? Multo?”

  “Intelligo,” one of them replied, and spoke to his comrade.

  Armand flushed the wound clean with water, keeping the pressure low so as not to dislodge the arteriole, the two veins and the mass of hemorrhaged capillaries. The tissue was terribly bruised from the supersonic bullet ripping through.

  “Did this go straight through?” he asked Barker.

  From downhill, Barker said, “Given six inches of wood, it probably tumbled sideways. I’m going to track the Gadorth in, so I’m busy.”

  “Got it. And that’s what I thought on the bullet. But still hellaciously fast.”

  He turned to Ortiz.

  “Hand me the alcohol. I’m going to use a little. It won’t last forever anyway.”

  “Roger. This bottle?”