A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  She had to do it, though.

  In another twenty minutes they had it surrounded, along with several of its peers. Slowly they moved in, tightening the circle. She fumbled with the javelins, and hoped her throws would match her rifle skill. She’d had little practice. Helmet and armor made her even clunkier.

  They were about a hundred meters out, when the Gadorth, whose names she’d not bothered with, stood and hurled, with a yell. In a moment, the Romans stood, cocked back and threw in perfect unison. Elliott raised his hand back and down behind him, and heaved. Doc threw his flat and fast. The three Urushu chucked their lighter darts from long practice, and she brought up the rear. Her first one was short. Most of the others hit and the beast made an almost trump sound in pain. The second volley hissed through the air as the other animals panicked and ran. She was late on that, too, but thought she hit.

  One of the rhinos thundered toward her, bent on goring or running her down. She dropped into a high crouch, ready to spring from its path and try curling into a ball. She felt the ground shake, saw others mill about and more javelins fly at the target, then the beast lowered its head and she bounded to the left and rolled, clutching the weapons in an outreached arm, then pulling them in.

  Nothing happened, so she glanced up and saw she’d evaded the charge. The target animal, though, was now staggering toward her, sharp sticks protruding from back, flanks and rear legs.

  She wasn’t sure why, but she found herself setting the spear butt into the ground and leaning into it. She’d have to dive again if it kept going.

  Then it lowered its head, presented its horn, and dug in its feet. She stretched out, and when it seemed to rise over her, she dropped the spear and rolled again.

  This time she wasn’t fast enough. A leg kicked her hip painfully, and she bounced off a rough, leathery knee, then landed flailing and flat, the helmet wrenching her neck. The air whuffed out of her.

  Above that she heard the rhino utter a sound like a bellow, moo and trumpet all at once. It had collided with her spear. The shaft snapped off, but only after momentum drove it clear into the shoulder joint. The creature was on three legs now, limping in a circle.

  Elliott ran in and rammed his spear into one flank. It screamed in response, thrashed, and staggered back up.

  Then it charged.

  One of the Gadorth didn’t shift in time, and got thrown under the beast. After it passed, he crawled away, apparently intact.

  She rose painfully to her feet, limping as fire shot through her hip, and looked at her hand to make sure she still held the stabbing spear. She didn’t. She had a javelin. She’d used the stabbing spear. Right.

  Shaking her head of fuzz, she hung back.

  Two more stabs in the hamstrings forced the poor animal to remain on the ground, dragging those legs behind. It still had a front leg to crawl with, one injured one to swing at humans, and the horn and teeth.

  She felt ill, and it wasn’t just nausea from the impact. This was vile. They were killing it because they could, not because they needed to. It fulfilled some cultural demand to prove machismo.

  One of the Romans stabbed it in the neck, causing enough damage its head drooped. It bellowed, the sound tapering to a howl of agony.

  Sobbing in pain and loathing, she moved in, wanting to put it out of its misery. She limp-jogged toward it, chose a spot behind the ear and inboard, took the javelin, and threw her weight into it.

  The shaft bent, then straightened, as the steel cut through the hide. She’d picked the right spot, directly along the spine, and the tip slid deep into the rhino’s skull. She stirred the shaft in a circle.

  In response, the animal’s eyes fluttered and rolled, it gargled out what was almost a laugh, and its entire body twitched, then went limp.

  She turned away and vomited.

  She saw Elliott’s boots in front of the greasy puddle of puke.

  “Should I leave you alone?” he said, barely above a whisper.

  She nodded.

  His boots stepped back and he started exclaiming loudly to the group. Doc’s boots came into view, then moved away, too.

  She wouldn’t join this hunt next summer.

  The Gadorth scattered about the area, bringing back gnarled sticks, dried dung, and dried grass of two kinds. One unwrapped a bundle of leaves to reveal a coal, which he applied to tinder. Momentarily, a fire flared up, hot and with dirty yellow smoke. He fed it with twigs, dung balls and heavier sticks.

  She watched as a scarab wiggled out of a smoldering dung ball. One of the Urushu snatched it, peeled open the shell, and sucked the guts out as if it were a tiny crayfish.

  She couldn’t throw up again. The first one was excusable as a battle reflex. Not now.

  She focused on analyzing the ritual as her guts roiled.

  However they’d developed it, or it evolved, the pungent smoke kept other animals at bay. Meanwhile, the others caressed the carcass almost as if it were a departed pet, then used heavy flint knives to hack through the hide, sectioning it. Parts of the muscle underneath still twitched, dead but with remaining lactic acid and nerve impulses.

  She actually couldn’t throw up. There was nothing left. She choked back bile.

  Men pulled out chunks of flesh, and nibbled some, even raw. More was jabbed on javelin tips then held over the fire for a quick roast. The eater would hold the speared meat to his mouth, bite it, slice off next to his lips with a flint cutter, then stick the rest back into the fire for more cooking while he chewed the fresh meat thoughtfully.

  Their reverence while chewing, and the creepy caressing of the corpse, plus the additional fires being built at cardinal points—the first had been due west—showed how important this was to them.

  Two men sawed off the two-foot-long front horn. Their task was complicated by the presence of two others bashing in the skull with a hammerstone.

  Doc joined them with a hatchet, and several brisk swings threw gobbets of bloody bone and flesh around. Then the bone split.

  She couldn’t decide if that were some kind of spirit release, or . . .

  Zhu!yi dug his hands in, pulled out a jellylike mound of pinkish gray brains, and took a bite. He offered some to each of the crew gathered around the head, including Doc, then came back.

  He offered them to her, and she gravely nodded and scooped up a spoonful’s worth on her fingers. The texture was revolting, and she forced herself not to cringe and scream.

  Someone else had a door cut in the side of the carcass and was pulling out liver.

  This was worse than the hunt. She decided her hip was injured enough for Doc’s attention.

  “Doc, can you look at my hip?” she asked, sitting down. Lowering her voice, she said, “And help me make this disgusting goo disappear.”

  With her pants at half mast, he probed gently and said, “Bruised, possibly deep bone bruising, but I don’t find any signs of fracture. It’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch, though.”

  “Yeah. I can live through it.” In fact, it felt slightly better sitting, and the pain helped her ignore the butchery and carnism going on a few yards away, with guts being drawn out for divining, and bones being sawn for dice or some other purpose. The Romans laughed loudly at something.

  She’d visit Arnet later for whatever medication he could provide, and perhaps spend thirty minutes with his neural stimulator. He liked to look and didn’t touch. She was sure the not touching had to do with her being more primitive than they, and she’d be offended if she didn’t understand it.

  And his neural stimulator was very good. It wouldn’t stop the pain, but she wouldn’t care.

  Suddenly woozy with fatigue, she let Doc help her fasten her pants and lie back with her ruck as a pillow. She felt herself pass out.

  Armand Devereaux knew Caswell had a battle with herself over the hunt. She was a vegetarian, killing and eating from necessity, and a woman who needed to prove her status. She’d done that. It had to be tough, though.

  After all th
at, she shook off his attention, too.

  “I can walk,” she said. “I’m bruised, in pain, but not injured.”

  “I hope you’re correct,” he said. If she had any serious trauma, it wasn’t going to get better.

  After all that, they had a backpack full of rhino filet, the tail, a large marrow bone and a souvenir section of hide to paint on. Most of the huge carcass had been left there. Each group took a few chunks, and the rest had been left for the wolves, after an appropriate Gadorth ceremony, which was pretty damned boring. He had a few photos on his phone for Trinidad to scope over.

  They’d not recovered most of the spears, nor tried to. The Romans did take their iron points back, cutting them out with daggers as needed. He didn’t blame them. Iron here was more precious than gold. If only they could dismantle an MRAP they’d have steel for a century. But the big chunks weren’t salvageable.

  After that, each spear haft had been anointed with blood, and each of the hunters had a stained right hand. He wasn’t sure what it was supposed to represent, but it was sticky and he wanted to wash as soon as they were home.

  The captain said, “I’ve invited them to sauna and tub with us.”

  “Makes sense. That’ll also take off some of the aches and pains. We can alternate with some ice.”

  “Yeah, we’ll give them our ritual, complete to wine. How are you doing, Caswell?”

  She looked rather stern as she said, “Sir, Doc, I’m fit enough to make it back. Please stop being solicitous. I’ll let you know if I need help.”

  “Roger, sorry.”

  His Camelbak was dry. It was near dark. It had been a long, long day, and his nose was filled with the scent of rhino meat rapidly assuming ambient temperature. That stank bad. He wasn’t at all sure about eating any. His feet ached, and his knees, and his shoulders were tender even from light carrying, after tossing spears around. He’d thrown hard, and possibly overextended his right shoulder.

  The wolves started baying.

  Elliott said, “I want custodes on duo lateral. Oculare con lupus.” He pointed where he meant, and at his eyes.

  It wasn’t great Latin, but it was passable. He was understood. The irony was that Armand’s medical Latin covered terms the Romans didn’t really know about.

  They were met outside the gates by shouts and hails, and he gratefully left his ruck with Barker.

  “I’ll need to wash it,” he said.

  Barker took a whiff and said, “I got it. Goddamn, this stuff stinks.”

  “Yeah. Probably tough as fuck from adrenaline, too. I expect it tastes nasty. It did at lunch.”

  “Marrow bone and tail? We can definitely do soup out of that. I wish we had tomatoes.”

  Twenty minutes later, he entered the sweat lodge. Two Urushu women were in attendance with a tray of towels, real soap, and some kind of sweetened tea. He undressed and lowered his aching body into a warm tub that got warmer as the Cogi’s heater cycled the water through.

  “Oh, that feels good,” he said.

  Caswell was naked across from him, and she looked good even bruised up. That hip was going to be pretty colors of contusion for a couple of weeks. There was definitely a bone bruise.

  “I’m going to check range of motion,” he said. “This is professional.”

  “Go ahead,” she agreed, as he took her leg and moved it carefully in several directions.

  “Any popping or binding?” he asked.

  “Only muscles,” she said. “I’ll be sleeping on my side for a while.”

  It was a nice leg, and he was done with medicine, so he let it go and moved back.

  The Romans came in, and undressed quite casually. Everyone was more relaxed about it than the soldiers, even after two years.

  The Romans climbed right in, plunged their heads under, sat up and spat. One was on either side of Caswell.

  A few moments later, Caswell slid around and sat touching him. She obviously wasn’t comfortable between them.

  Elliott came in, and she said, “We saved you a spot next to me, sir.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be right in.” Elliott slipped off his uniform, which was caked with dust, sweat and dirt. He had a bundle of clean PTs to don afterward.

  Armand wasn’t sure if they’d groped her or if it was just presence. Either way, she was welcome next to him, and he’d be a gentleman, as much as he wanted some contact himself.

  “I’ll get out,” she said. “I’m clean, it’ll make room for someone else.”

  She stood, and her hand swept over him, brushing the throbbing erection he had. He forced himself not to twitch, she said nothing, and in a moment she was up on the floor wrapping a towel around herself.

  It had been an accident, and neither was going to mention it, and goddamn he wanted more of that. He might have to arrange another sly meeting with one of the Urushu, who were quite willing, if a little confused by the attention.

  He needed a permanent housemate, and Spencer wasn’t it.

  Once he felt clean and calm, he dressed and stepped outside.

  He had to be careful to be discreet. Anyone with NVG would be able to see him easily. He walked west, then slipped around behind the smoke hut and back past the lodge. Through the hide, he could hear the others still splashing, and the faint hum of the Cogi pump.

  He went past their vehicle carefully, though they typically buttoned it up to sleep and didn’t react to anyone who didn’t actually knock. They might see him, but they wouldn’t say anything.

  The Urushu had set more stepping stones across to their lodge.

  Despite his own warnings, he’d been involved with three women. They seemed delighted with his dark skin, and that was flattering, but also a bit off-putting. They saw him as an exotic plaything and potential genes. Of course, they also appreciated the medical care. But race very much entered into it.

  He was in luck. Olshi was here, and she smiled as soon as she saw him.

  CHAPTER 40

  Sean Elliott sat sipping wine in front of the kitchen, waiting for dinner. They actually had a little down time most days now.

  The Romans traded wine for Spencer’s steeled iron and Barker’s bacon. Their stuff was dry, but he’d gotten used to it.

  The well upgrades were working . . . well, well. Sean shook his head. English was a fucked up language. Additional digging and lining put it deeper into the water table and let them draw clearer water. Those digging tools the Cogi had were amazing.

  They still had ice, and it was lasting well enough they could have the luxury of a cold drink. Barker came up with a mix of wild fruit wine, fruit brandy, more fruit, water, honey and a sprinkle of salt and herbs that was very refreshing. It wasn’t sweet tea, and it wasn’t Coke, but it was what they had, and no one back home would ever taste this, either.

  Spencer said, “You know, Captain, we can work on a still with some tubing from the trucks. With a fire and the ice house, we should be able to turn out better brandy. We just need to get the Romans to make some amphorae.”

  “I like the idea, but I still hope to keep the trucks functional.”

  “One as a parts source for the other. Actually, I wonder if the Cogi can make glass here. Arnet? Hey, Arnet!”

  The tall man came over in a long, lanky stride.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you guys make glass bottles with your fabrication gear?”

  “No prisely glass. Sorra polycermic.”

  “It would work as a sealed container for liquor, though, yes?”

  “Sure. You need liquor? We’ve vodk.”

  “. . . you have vodka?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you haven’t been sharing?”

  Arnet shrugged. “Production limited, need for med use, too. Warn’t sure you cared.”

  “Sir, if you can spare some, we will certainly be grateful.”

  “Okay. Ll tell Cryder.”

  Barker stuck his head out of the kitchen.

  “Did he say ‘vodka’?”

&nbs
p; “Yes.”

  “Well, I prefer bourbon, but I ain’t picky.”

  Sean was eager, too. He had to keep sober, but a stiff shot of something would take so many stress edges off it would be legitimate medicine.

  Five minutes later, Arnet came back with a flask similar to a water bottle.

  “Here,” he said, and flipped the top with his thumb.

  The iced juice was mostly gone. Sean held up his canteen cup and Arnet poured two heavy glugs into it.

  “Thank you very much.”

  He took a whiff, then a sip, and felt the burn. It was vodka, and it was clean, but he hadn’t had anything high proof in over two years. It stung his throat and seared his sinuses.

  “Goddamn, that’s strong. What proof?”

  “Dunno proof.”

  “What percentage?”

  “Sixy-eight.”

  Almost 140 proof. No wonder it packed a wallop.

  “Yeah, everyone can have a solid two ounces of it if they wish, and if you can spare it.”

  “Sure. Zis bottle yours.” He handed it over.

  Spencer had his cup out already, Barker was right behind.

  Caswell said, “Sir, I request a medicinal dose.”

  Yeah, she’d had a rough time on the hunt. He poured a triple for her, doubles for the others.They all seemed to have heard the rumor transmission, even Ortiz and Dalton, who were outside the wall at the time.

  “Damn, sir. Well scored!”

  “You’re all welcome. I wish we’d asked sooner. Save some for Alexander.” She had watch.

  He took another sip, and felt his brain start to soften as he got warm and fuzzy inside. He added a splash more wine and a scoop of ice, and it was a decent cocktail.

  Barker said, “That’s everyone, sir. Do we want to serve any guests?”

  “Boy, I’d like to, but it was gifted to us and I don’t know how much they can spare. Oh, fuck, it, sure. Start with the Romans and work back. Junius!” he called. “Potio!”