A Long Time Until Now (11 page)

“How many?”

The visitor repeated his hands.

“Four tens and five?” He repeated it back. That was also silly. She was a young woman, her face was smooth, her shape was juicy.

“Yes.”

“You mean seasons, not turns.”

“No, four tens and five turns.”

“She can’t be that old. Perhaps two tens five?”

“No, four tens and five.”

“She also has no mate?”

“She has mate. Home.”

“Home is very far?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She can mate here also.”

“No. None mate here.”

They were very upsetting. Fit men, unusual women, nice-nice items, but they refused to share anything, only offer simple work.

He couldn’t make them trade and swap. That would be rude. But they were rude.

Kotlra asked, “When will you move on?” Good. Yes. If they didn’t want to trade they should go away.

“Two-three days. Four?” he waved his hands flat, which seemed to indicate that was the longest.

Well, they could tolerate these strange people for four days.

He said, “Other visitors here four days. Less strange.”

Kotlra said, “I will talk to Jenny Who Leads Fighting myself.”

Sean Elliott was trying to track everything going on around him.

Oglesby said, “Sir, did you get that?”

He said, “I think so. He wants to flirt with Caswell.” That had the potential to be bad.

“I think he means more than flirting, but I don’t think he will be violent.”

“Hopefully. Caswell!” he called. She was in front of their lodge, with children watching her from a distance.

“Sir?” she turned and looked, and saw Kotlra heading her way.

“He wants to proposition you. Please be gentle with him.”

“Understood, sir. He doesn’t know better.”

“Very gentle. We need a couple more days.” He wasn’t sure how to diplomatically ask her not to clobber the poor savage, when she had a right to by her standards, and was vocal about it.

“I’ll try, sir, but there are lines I am not going to cross.” She sounded firm, bordering on angry.

“Of course. I don’t want you to violate your rules, just don’t hurt him if you can avoid it, and keep it minimal.”

“Will do, sir.”

Kotlra had reached her, and was smiling, hands open. He stepped closer, and she turned slightly, to use her shoulder as a block.

Oglesby said, “Ah, Caswell, they, uh, do it from behind.” He sounded embarrassed even mentioning it.

She nodded, and faced back, just as Kotlra reached out and caressed her. All he got was body armor, but she visibly tensed.

He stepped back.

But he resumed, with cooing sounds, and reached out again.

She deflected his hand and said, “Nooo!” as if to a child.

He looked dejected, shrugged, and walked away.

Hopefully that was the end of that. But there were a lot of apparently single men, or mated men with open slots for more women.

Oglesby said, “I told them four days tops, sir.”

“Yeah, let’s keep that promise.”

“He mentioned some other visitors here for four days. It seems to be a good amount of time. Enough to rest, hunt, resupply, and move on.”

“Makes sense. We’ll stick to that, too.”

Alexander had her camera out. It wasn’t bothering the natives, probably because they had no idea at all what it was. He agreed with her idea. The more information they had, the better. Another local male approached her.

She was bent in a half squat, and she had a pretty good shape from that side, for an older woman, muscular and rounded. The local saw it, too, and had his hands free for action. And these people liked to touch and grope even in friendship.

Elliot was about to open his mouth, but the hand was already extended.

It never touched her. She shifted aside, turned, caught his wrist, said, “No!” sharply and shoved it aside hard enough he staggered a step. Whatever martial art she knew, she was decent.

Well, at least the locals were picking up that word, which wasn’t dissimilar from their “
Ni
.”

Off in the distance were shouts, and the hunting party appeared through the woods. They carried large chunks of something dead.

“Antelope!” Ortiz shouted. “A big one.” He fairly staggered under a rack of ribs, and the others carried . . . good God.

Watching them process the chunked animal was impressive, and revolting. They squeezed out the guts, leaving a pile of shit near the water’s edge. Then one of them shoved a hand inside, grabbed, pulled, and started turning them inside out.

“Sausage casings and water bags,” Barker said behind him. “Possibly gut rope as well.”

“It smells like blood and shit, and . . . rotten meat.”

“Yeah, that it does. We’ll be doing that for sausage casings and bowstrings. They like Ortiz. He sectioned it pretty thoroughly.”

“I’ve seen this animal before,” Elliot said. He kept tight control of his stomach and watched only the parts he could handle. It was unnerving to see so many guts laid out.

Barker said, “Saiga, I think.”

“How do they taste?”

Barker shrugged. “Like cow or venison, I guess.”

Ortiz knew how to help the cooks, who used a chunk of mostly clean rawhide as a prep area. Barker joined them, and Caswell and Alexander showed up with some wild onions.

Caswell said, “We’ll need to stay in touch to find edible plants, sir,” she said. “But these are good.”

They looked like tiny onions with big scallions on top, and likely were, but had a bit of garlic scent.

“Oh, shit, they have salt!” Spencer shouted. “God, yes, we need salt, eating, preparing hides, industrial use. We need that info. And it’s possible they’ll have coal.”

Trinidad asked, “Heating for winter?”

“No, I’m going to build a forge.”

“Hah. Do you know how?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Oh . . . excellent.”

That was good news, Sean thought cheerfully. A forge? Iron tools would make this a lot easier. The trucks only had a few.

The carcass bits got salted and herbed and cooked into an orgy of meat. Some was roasted, some grilled right on the coals, some on hot rocks, some in a depression in a hide, as a stew heated with rocks. That contained the blood, marrow bones and some of the organs. It looked revolting and didn’t smell much better. Elliott hoped to avoid that and eat the steaklike bits.

Other parts were completely wrapped in salt-filled leaves, probably for preservation.

Barker brought over a twig skewer of juicy meat, about medium, hot, and handed it over.

“Thank you,” Elliott said. He took it, blew on it, and cautiously bit.

That did not suck.

It was steak. It was tough and chewy, but it was definitely steak, and a decent cut. The blood, salt, fat and bits of herb made it into something quite enjoyable, even if it was a chore to chew.

Spencer had an MRE package discreetly open. One of the side items, not an entrée.

“Ah, shit,” he said.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah.” He held up the package.

In the dim light, Elliott could make out, PATRIOTIC SUGAR COOKIES. Yeah, those things, shaped like little Statues of Liberty, flags and other stuff. The last thing anyone needed to see right now.

“Should I share them? I like sugar, but goddamn.”

“Uh, is it safe?”

“Small amount of sugar and starch. They’ll like it a lot. Shouldn’t cause any problems in small quantities.”

“Go ahead.” He wanted the packet himself, but understood Spencer needed to get rid of it, and this would help with diplomacy.

Spencer said, “Hey!” and motioned the chief. He pantomimed food to mouth and handed one over.

The chief took it, nibbled, and got wide eyed. Then he made “mmm” sounds.

In a few minutes, each of the main hunters, several senior females and the shaman had one each. He broke the rest into pieces and made sure each child got a nibble.

“Now they won’t leave me alone,” he said. “All gone.” He shook the empty package, wadded it up, and stuffed it in a case on his armor.

There was no formal fireside chat this night. The locals weren’t hostile, but were cool and uninterested. Apparently, romps with passersby and gifts of stuff were how their culture worked.

“Oh, yuck,” Ortiz said.

He looked over. A woman with a toddler looked like she was kissing the child. She was. Open mouthed. He was about to utter something himself when she pulled back.

Caswell said, “Pre-chewed food.”

“Uh, I guess that makes sense, but is that common?”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of it in our time, but I’ve heard of it.”

Wow. That was messed up.

Caswell echoed his earlier thoughts. “I mentioned exogamy, and trading gifts is a staple in most cultures that have anything. You notice they don’t really seem to have a concept of personal property, beyond which hut they choose and a favorite spear or bag. They share tools, the fire, each other.”

“It sounds very socialist.”

“It is, but not in a bad way. The problem comes when someone decides to stake out more material for themselves, and justify it.”

Spencer said, “As they will. I notice the chief has access to most of the women, even as trade goods.”

“They’re not property,” she argued. “They’re willing, because they’re not seen as property. It doesn’t last, but it needs to.”

“Not our problem.”

Barker said, “LT, I have an idea on an offering.”

“Go ahead?”

“If we can get a bird, I can fletch some darts for them. They have spear throwers, but not bows. Their darts have a bit of fluff at the back for stability, but that also slows them down. Feathered darts won’t be much of an advantage, but will be an improvement.”

He thought about it. Hospitality, yes. But giving them a new technology seemed risky.

“I’m worried about affects to the timeline that might make our odds of getting back even worse.”

“I agree,” Spencer said.

Devereaux said, “I worry about staying alive now.”

“Yeah, really, how do we hide two MRAPs in the layers?” Alexander asked. “Do we slowly scrape the metal down with rocks?”

Trinidad said, “What about guns? Do we never use them to hunt? Do we take native women? Or spend the next fifty years squatting in a cave like hermits and jacking off?”

Everyone was scared, and so was he, and he understood it.

“Okay, Barker, do it.”

The voices continued.

“At Ease!” he snapped. “I said ‘At Ease’!”

They quieted down.

“Our hosts are staring at us. Oglesby, say something polite, we’re going to bed. You can all sit in the dark and meditate on this.”

Spencer said, “Oh, I got the MagLight back. Batteries dead. They’re uninterested anymore. I think they’re also disappointed. So, Barker, definitely do those darts.”

A sudden stabbing pain caught Sean low in the guts, overlaid with a punching sensation.

“And here come the shits,” he said, as he ran for the wall, pulling at his belt.

Oh, god, it hurt. He could feel it percolating, boiling in his belly. Sweat burst out as he pulled at his pants and twisted to get his ass over the wall.

The eruption was hot, sulfurous liquid that burned like acid. It splashed off the rocks, onto his pants, shirt, balls and thighs.

He had only a moment to wince at how disgusting it was before round two spewed out. Then he realized he was sitting on a wall used by God knew how many other people, and pissed on, and . . .

Devereaux was standing a few feet away. He didn’t need a fucking audience.

The third bout caused his stomach to flop, but he felt mostly empty, wrapped in cool darkness. He gasped, panted, and clutched at his belly. He felt nauseated, pained, dizzy. He wanted it to stop.

Devereaux handed over something white.

“Bleach wipe, sir.” He sounded completely calm and professional, and Sean appreciated it.

“Yeah. I need regular paper first. A lot of it.”

“Here.” The medic handed him a roll. He tried to be frugal, but his hands were smeared with liquid shit in short order, and he used a third of a roll, then the bleach wipe on his balls and hands.

Devereaux asked, “Do you have spare clothes?”

“One uniform. Glad I did.” He’d have to wash this one, and clean his hands again, and bathe.

“Okay. Can you walk?”

“Yes. I’ll change in the tent.”

He eased forward and upright, and waddled toward their lodge.

He did not feel particularly welcome to the Stone Age.

Jenny Caswell was scared.

It wasn’t being in the Stone Age, but that was scary enough.

She was suddenly the prize woman in the world. The natives hadn’t seen anyone like her, and her hair set them off. To the Americans, she was young, female, and that was enough, even if she wasn’t as well developed as Alexander, and she was at risk, too. The local men wanted an exotic mate, her teammates wanted someone clean and familiar. There were eight men, and a lot of men, and only two women with the exotic looks, and Alexander just seemed to disappear into the crowd. Looks had nothing to do with it. Presence was all it took. She was present.

At some point, she expected to be raped, possibly gang raped. Not within a week, but after a month or more, one of these men, or a pair, were going to decide she was their property. The LT might stop them. Spencer wouldn’t. She knew that look when she saw it.

She couldn’t live alone, and there was no way to partner up with any one of the men; that would just lead to fights and stupid male dominance shit. It was a patriarchy in microcosm.

Alexander would be second, but either way, both of them were going to be sexually assaulted, and spend a lifetime as effective sex slaves.

The only other option was to find some native man and move into this village, or another. And while they were well-built, no way. They stank, they were uninteresting socially or intellectually. She might study them as a thesis. She would not involve with any of them.

And there was no birth control. She’d be pregnant, and delivering Stone Age babies. She hadn’t ruled out childbirth, but it was definitely a “later” thing. Now it was a “now” thing.

She sat back to the fire, hunched in on herself. She’d taken first watch because she wasn’t able to sleep.