A Long Time Until Now (65 page)
Read A Long Time Until Now Online
Authors: Michael Z Williamson
Tags: #fiction, #science fiction, #time travel, #General, #Action & Adventure
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 that, 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’?”
“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!”
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.