A Long Time Until Now (44 page)

CHAPTER 26

Armand Devereaux liked night watch when the sky was clear. He could use the binox to view things he’d never see from a civilized location. With careful juggling of night vision, some quite distant nebulae were visible, though monochrome. Cool nights like this, with still air, were best. The dew had condensed and there was no fog.

He had the turret. Alexander sat on the roof near the back ladder.

“Excuse me a moment,” she said, and climbed down, probably to use the can.

Shortly she came back with a bag. She watched him for a while, then said, “You know, the big telephoto on my camera is pretty good for that.”

Yes, it might be. He turned and asked, “Could I . . .”

She raised a hand with the camera, its large lens in place.

“Strap around your neck first,” she said, as she draped it over him. “Always use the strap.”

“Will do, thanks. I’ll treat it like a fourteen-inch Celestron.” He hefted it like a rifle. It was a big piece of hardware.

“I think I know what that is.”

“A Schmidt-Cassegrain reflecting telescope.”

“Okay, I know about Schmidt cameras.”

“Yup. Same guy.” He turned the camera to the sky and . . . damn.

“Wish I’d had this before,” he said. “This is awesome.”

“Good stuff?”

“Yeah, do you know where the nebula in Orion’s belt is?”

“I think so.”

“Take a look.” Reluctantly, he handed the camera back to her.

She looked, pointed the camera, adjusted it only slightly, and said, “Oh, my.”

“Yeah. We have that.”

“Hold on,” she said, and there was a click, then a few more.

“Cool,” he said.

“I looked up a few times back home, but it never looked like this.”

Then she was sobbing.

“Sorry,” he said.

“I miss my kids, and my cats, and my husband. I even think they’d be willing to join me so we could be together, but not even that is possible.” She wept, camera in her lap, face in her hands.

“And I’m out of meds,” she said. “You said eating sweetbreads might help?”

“It might.”

“Then I need to do that.”

There was nothing he could do. Instead he made a scan. A couple of wolves were way up on the ridge to south. Otherwise there were the goats, the three visiting Urushu in their hooch, and miles of pristine nothing.

He’d never see Mama again, either. Hell, she wasn’t even born yet. That was still hard to grasp.

“I’m okay,” she said. “It just hits me now and then.”

“Me, too. All of us, I think.”

Something about crying made her vulnerable, and he knew what she looked like naked. That was annoying.

“It’s getting close to shift change,” he said to change thoughts. “Dalton will be up.”

“Roger. Wish I could stick to early evening watch. This split sleep wears me out.”

“Take care,” he said, wanting to say a bit more and not sure how.

“And you,” she agreed.

Ramon Ortiz liked having the additional labor. He was good at skinning game, quite expert by now, but the Urushu had a lifetime of practice. They could peel a carcass in minutes. They knew how to salvage blood, drain and clean guts, pull out the prime organs, and even choose some of the finer cuts. After that, he did some general steak cutting before letting them peel the rest, save the sinew and crack the marrow. More importantly, he stayed cleaner.

The alliance was beneficial. The Urushu got better medical care and some useful tools, plus occasional religious bacon. The soldiers got grunt labor and some useful low tech skills, but that didn’t mean the natives weren’t sophisticated.

They knew exactly which wood was best for fire by friction, how to turn a particular fungus into tinder by putting it in a pit and urinating on it until the crystallized nitrates turned it into what was almost flash paper. They could find edible bark or grubs anywhere, though he hoped to avoid the latter; the bark did bad enough things to his colon. They had several smoking weed mixtures, from mild to stoned out of your brain. They purposed the peeled hides for various different functions. Once Barker had taught them how to fletch shafts, they’d adopted it at once. And all of them could turn a rock into a functional blade with another. None were as pretty as the ones Barker did, but they were as functional. Then there was that trick of gutting a small animal through the neck, tying it off with its own intestines, and hanging it by the fire to stew in its own skin.

He knew he was a productive member here, with his knowledge of animals and ranching, and would be more so in the future. But without Barker and the Urushu, they’d be nowhere. Add in Oglesby’s translating and Spencer’s knowledge of geography. Oh, and Caswell’s ability to find stuff other than meat, and cook it.

Still, the beehive seemed to be occupied, so starting next spring they could have honey now and then. That and berries meant more wine, and some desserts. That was progress.

Yeah, it was a team effort. He wasn’t sure about Alexander, but she’d cleaned up his phone as well, and did keep track of a lot of things. She also gathered and split wood, and had no problem lending a hand. Though she wasn’t in great shape. She’d firmed up for a while, now was getting soft again, and it wasn’t just being a desk potato. She had serious health issues.

He’d wondered why a recruiter had accepted her back in, but then, they were short of bodies and she’d had prior service. He felt it proper to let her get her twenty and retire. Which of course wasn’t happening now.

She was the only approachable female locally. Damned sure Caswell wasn’t having any, and the Urushu didn’t appeal to him yet. Though if he got an offer, he might.

He got to build a ranch from the ground up. A fascinating project. But a rancher needed a wife.

“Approaching party!” Alexander called from up top. “to the east! Large party, in metal armor. Formation is four by six or so. I think they’re Romans.”

He looked up. She had her camera with the big lens mounted. She could probably read their bloodshot eyes with that thing.

Spencer was fast for an older guy. He was up the ramp, foot on step and bounded onto the roof. He shielded his eyes and squinted.

“I will be dipped in shit, they’re Romans.”

Alexander said, “I do know what Romans look like, thank you.” She looked pissed at being doubted.

“Sorry. I’d put them at five hundred meters and closing.”

The lieutenant said, “That’s a bit close. Everyone arm up and be ready. Oglesby, tell the Urushu to stand fast in their hooch.”

“Hooah, sir.”

Ramon ran to the tepee, pulled on his body armor and ACH, and grabbed his weapon. Magazine in, unchambered.

Next to him, Dalton said, “I wonder if they want to fight.”

“I hope they want Confession,” he said.

Spencer dove through the door and threw gear on fast.

“Heh. They can confess to this.” Dalton slapped the grenade launcher under his M4.

“Sure, if the LT lets you load it.”

“Nah, don’t need it. But you know.”

Spencer asked, “Ready?” with an amused but pointed glance, and led them outside. He went straight back up top.

Elliott was ready, and shaking his head.

“Things are really fucked up,” he said. “Those are really—”

Spencer called down, “Roman legionaries, yes. And those other guys are Moghuls? I think. Indians with muskets.”

Alexander said, “Likely.”

Moghuls? East Indians?

He climbed up the ladder, rifle banging his legs, and took a look.

“There are people from all over time here.”

Elliott squinted. “Can you figure out a pattern?”

Spencer said, “Fifteen K years, eight K years, two K years, fifteen hundred AD, our present. It vaguely fits some weird asymptote.”

Yeah, Spencer was right. He said, “I wonder if someone from the future will show up—a hundred years or so would fit that.”

Elliott shrugged. “Well, let’s see what the Romans want. My Latin sucks. Spanish may help a little. How many do we want to send out?”

“Five? Loaded?” He suggested.

“Yes. Me. Dalton. Spencer. Oglesby. And one female. Caswell. Barker’s in charge here. Everyone got full mags and body armor? Good. Move.”

Ramon sunk. He’d really wanted to see this. Still, he could stay up top for a better view.

Martin Spencer assumed the selection was to have the commander present, a reenactor, some extra muscle and a translator. That made sense. Part of him was very eager to see the Roman gear up close, part wanted to hide behind the palisade. He also hated having both him and the CO exposed together.

They slipped out a small arc of the gate, and Barker shoved it closed behind them. Timber on timber sounded, and they were locked out. He swallowed hard. He wanted to adjust his helmet a bit more, but decided it would look clumsy. Romans respected precision.

He wasn’t sure if he felt romantic or fraternal toward Alexander, but was glad she wasn’t out here. But, she did have useful knowledge, when her brain was working right.

The Romans had gotten close, and her mind had been slipping on occasion. Has she nodded off or zoned out? If so, she’d have to come off watch. That would suck.

There were twenty-three Romans. They were easy to count because they stayed in formation, and were about a hundred meters out. With them, to the rear, were six Indians. They were definitely modern South Asians. The armor and garb was vaguely familiar; that wasn’t his era of study. The muskets were very nicely dressed matchlocks. One of those would be amazing in his collection . . . which he was never going to see again. There was the PTSD, over something totally stupid. He was suddenly depressed, angry, hopeless.

It was Caswell who said, “Sir, we could march, but they probably do it better.”

“Agreed. And I’d rather they underestimated us for right now. We’ll escalate as needed to make our point.”

The Romans stood in a very good formation, even better considering the uneven terrain. They didn’t look at all bothered. They seemed rather bored, in fact. So they were probably well-drilled veterans.

They wore a mix of squamata and hamata armor, so they were Republic or early Empire. They were all buttoned and tied tight, ready to fight, clutching pilum and rectangular scutae.

“Probably second century, sir, but not much later, and can’t be much earlier. One hundred BC to one hundred AD. I can tell from their armor.”

“Thanks. Let me step slightly forward. Take a knee and be ready.”

Martin said, “Sir, I believe he’s a centurion, which was a senior NCO, junior officer sort of thing, in charge of a platoon. You want to be a tribune. An officer.”

“Hooah.”

The rest stopped, went to knees and prepared to back their commander. He clicked the safety off, and checked a round was in battery. He could shoot easily from the knee, right past Elliott if he had to.

The Roman officer had a transverse crest on his helmet. He stepped forward.

Elliott spoke slowly and clearly. “Bono dia. We are duo millennia tempus futura post Roma. I am Tribunus Sean Elliott, milites United States.”

Oglesby asked, “Did you say your Latin sucks, sir?”

“Yeah, because I never took any.”

“Just checking. But I think you’re getting the point across.”

The lead Roman rattled off something in Latin. Spencer could tell it was Latin. He got nothing else.

Elliott said, “
Tardia. Voce tardia.
”

The Roman did speak more slowly, but it was still hard to define. “
Latinam loquisne, nothe? Non loquisne?
”

Oglesby said, “Sir, I think it comes down to, ‘Latin, motherfucker, do you speak it?’”

They all smiled slightly.

“Okay, they don’t sound particularly friendly.”

Martin said, “Yeah, the Romans had a definite superiority complex, and this guy is definitely in charge of this other element from fifteen hundred years later.”

The Roman centurion pointed at their palisade, then at himself.

Elliott asked, “Does he want entry or command?”

Spencer said, “Both. And I expect he’ll try to burn his way in if we refuse. Folks, if they start hurling javelins or draw swords, just start shooting, from our front left. Same formations we use, that’s where the leaders are.”