A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  The Roman came over at once, sweaty and worn looking. He sniffed at the offered cup, jerked back, sniffed again, raised his eyebrows and locked eyes as he sipped.

  “Zeus pater!” he exclaimed. “Potens!”

  “Sic est.”

  Junius mimed permission to share with Vitius and Ponti.

  “Procedo.”

  “Gratias.”

  Doc had his music turned up, playing something house or techno. It was pretty good.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Psykosonik. Early nineties techno. Want some rock?”

  “Got Coldplay?”

  “I think so. After this.”

  It was as spontaneous party, and goddamn did they need it. Even Caswell was cheerful again, though still favoring that hip.

  Dalton said, “Sir, the Gadorth and Urushu have to be initiated into the order of the booze. If I may.” He reached for the bottle.

  “Go for it.”

  Dalton charged his glass, added a little ice, a mint leaf and some fruit juice, then faced one of the Gadorths.

  “Oglesby, help me out here. Klar, this is a ceremonial drink of our people. It is powerful, so you should sip it. I offer you vodka.”

  Klar sniffed it, looked around to see how the others were doing, then took a sip.

  He almost dropped the cup and started rubbing his lips and making spitting noises.

  Then he came back for more.

  With a big grin, he said something to his buddy, who nodded, took a swig and almost choked. Then he stuck his nose in the cup and just snorted fumes.

  Sean lost it, laughing. Then he tried it, and damned if it didn’t work. Logically, enough fumes could get you high.

  Barker got out the evening roast, unwrapped it from leaves, and started slicing off chunks of meat for anyone who was nearby. They didn’t bother with plates, they just took the slices and tore into them. It was salted and smoked aurochs haunch, a bit tough, but very tasty.

  They had music, meat, liquor, it was warm but not sweltering, and they had a protective wall. It was a good night.

  Klar’s friend still had his nose in the cup.

  The drinking continued after dinner.

  Martin Spencer had gotten pretty good at reducing iron. He now had a semi-permanent reduction furnace, built of rock and lined with fired clay and lime. Every few days they built a charge of layered limestone, charcoal and iron. Instead of bellows, they had a heater blower from Number Eight running into a clay pipe, powered from a line run from the Cogi’s vehicle. Charge the furnace, turn on the blower, shovel in more contents depending on flame color, and wait for molten steel to puddle in the bottom. That was raked out into the water, giving a reasonably pure carbon steel.

  At that point, he’d have had the fun job of beating it into some artifact or other, if the Cogi hadn’t had a 3D metal printer and fabricator of some sort that could be programmed to turn out an axe head, a hammer, almost anything. He wanted to produce enough steel they could make him an anvil, but first, they needed hand tools for construction.

  So he got to do the dirty, sweaty production of material, not the fun part of making tools.

  It was fine. He could stare at the flames jetting from the furnace and meditate that way, periodically shoveling in limestone or charcoal or thick red clay. Occasionally he had some bituminous coal to feed it, scavenged from an outcropping up to the east.

  He still planned to keep smithing. None of the modern or future tools would last forever. Eventually, they’d wear out. Barker’s phone had died the week before, and nothing would revive it. Gina had it stored in Number Nine just in case.

  The coal and various oily plants, including hemp, were also fed into the Cogi’s machine, to be converted into a passable grade of diesel fuel. The two of them, and their vehicle, were a boon to progress. As long as their machine held out, they could produce fuel, tools, and possibly even replacement parts for the existing gear.

  Arnet was the more social of the pair, Cryder generally spending most of his time vegging out in their tent, and occasionally doing hard calisthenics and running. Arnet actually helped here and there, moving around between work parties. Today he was at the furnace.

  “Is fascinating,” he said.

  “It is. I’ve learned to tell the metal state by color and flame height. And to think our illiterate ancestors did it by hand, having to use manual bellows.”

  “Until waterwheel.”

  “Yes, that’s about the time industry really started to develop. There’s a huge jump in production about then.”

  “Frustrating being here. Glad we have the tools we do.”

  “I’m glad as hell you guys wound up with us and not elsewhere. I really appreciate the support, Arnet. I wish we had more to share from our end.”

  “No ish. Good food, good people.”

  “Thanks. We do try.”

  They stood watching the roaring flames. The flames were a deep orange, but gradually faded to a more normal fire color. That meant it was time to add more lime. As they burned lower, more fuel was needed. When the sparkles stopped, more iron.

  Arnet raised his morphable shovel and poured in another load of charcoal lumps. They resumed watching.

  Martin said, “The fuel’s going to be useful. I’m wondering if we can eventually make more vehicles. Smaller ones.”

  “Possibly,” Arnet said. “Start with wheeled carts.”

  “Yeah, Cryder mentioned that. Good idea.”

  “Will get there. Build up slowly.”

  “How long will the medical dispensary last?”

  “Depends on chemicals,” Arnet said. “Your stomach meds pretty straight.”

  “Good,” he said with relief. Their stomach med was a field expedient, but worked well enough. He had occasional indigestion, but it was much more comfortable than the constant low-grade burn he’d had for months. They now knew to ask for anything they might need, in case the Cogi had it. Just as the Romans and Gadorth asked the Americans for regular tools. There was a tech hierarchy. Though even the Cogi’s resources were meant for short-term battlefield use. They couldn’t supply him long, and not with more complicated drugs, like those Gina needed. Still, it helped.

  He wanted to ask about Caswell’s regular visits to their camp, but there really wasn’t a way to. On the one hand, it wasn’t his business personally. On the other, he did need to know the involvements of people he was responsible for. He was pretty sure Doc had hooked up with that one chick who was here every week, and Oglesby obviously had a thing going.

  He had phone texts with Gina, which was better than not having Gina, and he didn’t want to admit he loved her, because that would mean further separation from home, which he didn’t want to think about.

  “More lime,” he said aloud, and shoveled some in.

  “Ready soon?” Arnet asked.

  “Maybe another hour.”

  “Get lunch?”

  “We should. You first.”

  Barker came back with Arnet and brought him meat rolled up in a grape leaf, with some river rice and wine.

  He took a huge bite, and said, “Goddamn, that’s good.”

  “Thanks. It’ll keep getting better.”

  “I will create a religion after you if you can get rye bread.”

  “It won’t be soon,” Barker said with a twist of his head. “But I do intend to try, if Caswell and Ortiz can get a grain cultivated. They say they can get something next year, possibly, but it would only be enough for holidays.”

  “Even that would be great. And we need new holidays.”

  “We do. I’m kinda liking Gina’s pagan ones based around solstices and full moons.”

  Martin said, “As far as holidays go, yes. Since I’m not religious, and our traditional American holidays don’t matter a damn here.”

  It was common during deployment to not worry much about holidays, other than possible down time. Here . . . he really wanted to forget the future.

  CHAPTER 41


  Elliott’s phone beeped. He answered it.

  “Elliott.”

  “Elyot, Arnet here.”

  “Yes, Arnet, what is it?”

  “Wanna show you. Come over?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  He was only too happy to get away from PowerPoint and AutoCAD. He was trying to design expansions that would give them more protected area, as secondary outlots.

  It was sunny, breezy and tall white clouds swept the sky. It was pretty much never not beautiful here, and largely safe, now that detente had been reached all around.

  Over at their vehicle, Arnet had his device out, and a screen up on the dash, too.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Arnet pointed at a graph that had intermittent spikes on it.

  “Zat’s probly tempral warbles.”

  “Temporal? Time?” Is that what it sounded like?

  Arnet said, “Yeh, some dribble of senso.”

  “Regarding time?” he repeated urgently.

  “Zact. Flutter in instro. Same as grav tingles show erdquake, wooz?”

  He took a moment to process that.

  “Uh, we haven’t successfully predicted earthquakes, but I get your meaning. So there is something going on in the time continuum? Not just aftershocks of our transit?”

  “Right. Fresh. Warbles. Means zey seek.”

  Ripples ran through his body, his brain flipped, and he took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the vehicle to avoid shaking. It felt like a panic attack, like the day they arrived.

  “How will they find us?”

  “Oh, fine dis,” he said, slapping their vehicle. “No worry, easy sense. Posbl fine yours, too.”

  “That would be even better. How will we know?”

  “Sig pop enough, we’ll know.”

  “But does that mean we can go home?”

  Arnet shrugged. “I sume so. Warbles mean senso. No reason for senso wout intent to pull back.”

  “Yeah. You realize I’m pretty excited about this, right?” Excited? He was shaking in response. His fingers tingled.

  “Wooz. We too. Home, man.”

  “How sure are you?”

  Arnet shrugged again. “Sure zey doing summa. Proble zey look. Likey zey trying.”

  “What do we need to do?”

  Cryder came around.

  “Needa contac all groups, plan for meet at transit locus.”

  “Only one? Not each of us back where we started?”

  “Dunno,” he said. “Try cent point first. If sig clarifies.”

  “Shit. First we have to make sure they all get it.”

  That gave him another mission.

  He turned and forced himself to walk. He wanted to sprint and skip. He started to shout at Alexander, then realized he should keep it quiet.

  He didn’t dare get his hopes up. He had no idea what those sensors were, what the Cogi’s motivation was, or what technology the Cogi had. Actually, they’d never even said if it was their fault, just that they had an idea what was involved.

  He forced his panicked walk slower, took another breath, and stepped onto the back of Number Nine.

  “Gina,” he said. She had several windows overlapped and the cat on her lap. Wow. He was almost domesticated.

  “Yes, sir?” she replied.

  “I need a written message to send to the Romans, assuming they’re literate, and a verbal one to go to the Gadorth. You’ve held a high clearance?”

  “Quite high, yes, sir.”

  “This is diplomatic stuff.”

  “No problem, sir. How do I draft this letter?”

  “I’ll tell you what it should say. Can you work with one of the Romans on wording?”

  “I can. Why me and not Sergeant Spencer?”

  “I’ll cover that later,” he said. Crap. He wasn’t sure. He wanted to tell everyone. He needed support. She was effectively the CQ, personnel, logistics and commo sections. She seemed logical.

  “Understood.”

  “I need to meet with representatives of both groups regarding future development. Day after tomorrow. Their safety is guaranteed. They will be treated as guests.”

  “Got it.”

  It was hard to hide anything from Felix Trinidad. He was good at intel. He respected Alexander’s ability to disappear in a crowd of two. He had that, too.

  He also knew what to look for.

  Elliott had had several frantic conversations with the Cogi. He’d sent invites to the other displacees to come here. The Cogi were excited about something, chattering to each other and in much better spirits than they had been. In fact, they were actually in spirits, not in their previous calm state, which he now deduced was an emotional holding pattern, like the soldiers had had the first few weeks, just longer.

  Someone thought there was a possibility of going home. They weren’t talking about it publicly, so it wasn’t definite.

  It was possible, though.

  As much as they’d done here, as neat as it was, he didn’t think anyone would be unhappy to go, if they could.

  Probably none would be as glad as he, though, except possibly Doc. He was the only Filipino in the world. That remained a very lonely thing.

  For now, he’d be hopeful, but cautious, and not tell anyone else.

  He’d pray, though.

  To the commander of the Roman garrison, greetings, from Tribune Sean Elliott, Army of the United States, Castrum Sub Petrum. I request an envoy of your garrison, with the appropriate authority, to discuss matters urgent to us all. The Gadorth people will also be present, and the Indian banduka contingent may wish an observer. Your envoy’s safety is guaranteed, and all lodging and food will be provided as a courtesy for this favor. This meeting is to take place the day after tomorrow.

  Caius read the missive again.

  “That is interesting,” he said, and took a sip of wine. Not bad. It was getting better.

  “Is it a trap?” Centurion Vinicius Petronius Niger asked.

  “I see no reason it should be. Their banduka are substantially more powerful than those,” he waved at the Indians’ fire tubes racked behind him. “They can shoot through trees a hundred times a minute. Their armor is reportedly stronger than our iron. If they wanted to attack, I have no doubt they could.”

  “Who are you sending, sir?”

  “I would like to go myself, but this place doesn’t do well without a firm hand. You will go on my behalf. Take a maniple. If it’s an outside threat, we will support the local communities, but the numbers involved will be my decision. If it’s about trade, use your best judgment. We want resources to come to us.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I suppose two of the Indians can go along. They can take pilum. The banduka remain here.”

  “I’ll gather materials and leave at first light. We’ll be there a day early.”

  “Well done.” He’d made a good choice with Petronius. He was a very solid individual. He’d handle it.

  Rich Dalton was up top. He was looking forward to his shift ending. Whatever was going on, it was a war council. Six Romans had arrived with two Indians, and were in that lodge.

  “Cryder, this is Tower, do you have range on the Romans?”

  “Tower, we have range. Senso guns watching.”

  Rich wasn’t sure how their weapons’ controls worked. He knew they had some sort of computer tracking, and a certain amount of autonomous action. They were oriented across the compound in front of the huts the visitors were using, so any attempt at nighttime violence would be caught in a devastating crossfire. The Cogi had been trustworthy so far. Interesting how the more advanced groups with better weapons were less interested in proving it.

  He wondered what religion they followed. They didn’t seem to care about any particular food, but then, Caswell had abandoned vegetarianism for the duration. He’d like to ask, but they weren’t very social.

  Shift end approached, and Trinidad climbed up to relieve him. He made a final
view of the perimeter in the falling dusk, and saw movement.

  “Sir, the Gadorth contingent is coming uphill. I count six.”

  “Roger,” Elliott responded. “Alexander, how many are on site now?”

  “Four, sir.”

  “Yeah, keep a good eye on them, too. That’s a notable force.”

  Trinidad said, “I heard, sir. Got it.”

  He understood why the captain was nervous. The Urushu seemed totally peaceful, but both the Romans and the Gadorth had staged attacks before. They had potential elements inside the COB now, so it was necessary to watch them, and look for any staged forces outside.

  “What do you think is up, Trinidad?” he asked as the Filipino settled in behind the M240B.

  “I don’t have enough information to speculate.”

  “Think we’re going home?” If God had arranged for them here, God could arrange to send them home.

  “I dunno.”

  Trinidad was so cool when being evasive. But after two years, Rich knew how he presented.

  “Hah. You think we are. I know there’s been rumors.”

  “In A-stan, I remember rumors of golden conex boxes full of exotic food and supplies,” the Filipino replied. “Back in the PI, there are stories around base of America, the big PX.”

  “True. And rumors are only rumors. But you’re being evasive.”

  Trinidad shrugged. “Because I don’t know. I hear rumors, too. I don’t have data to analyze, and I’d be talking to the commander if I did, dude.”

  “I understand.” He did. It was all rumor, and it would be bad to get hopes up over rumors. It could more easily be something like forming a federation like the Iroquois, or planning some large scale agriculture.

  Either way, even off watch, he was going to stay armed and keep an ear out. Even if the other groups didn’t attack, they might just start fighting each other.

  Sean Elliott paced nervously. He had to explain to two primitive groups, three including the Indians, that they might be able to go home. He had no mechanism ready. It was only a possibility.

  Arnet and Cryder sat on their vehicle, on extruded seats. He stood. It was a beautiful afternoon, and across the trickle of creek the Urushu at their embassy lolled about on logs, using flint and bone to scrap sticks into something or other and watching the later people curiously.