A Long Time Until Now (7 page)

CHAPTER 5

Elliott was nervous. This was a contact mission, with a completely unknown group. He really had no idea how they’d act, and hoped Caswell was correct. People were people, right? They all ate, crapped, reproduced and needed shelter. There was that Hierarchy of Needs by someone.

He led the way, because he was the lieutenant, but he hoped they couldn’t see his knees shake. This was worse than anything he’d done.

Alexander had a huge telephoto lens, almost looking like a cannon, and scanned the settlement ahead.

“They seem to use rock bases with logs and thatch above. It’s a lot more advanced than I’d have expected. And painted hides. Pretty good artwork.”

Spencer said, “I think they found a settlement south of here, above Mazar-e-Sharif, that was built on rock foundations.”

Caswell said, “This could be that culture then.”

“It was about the time frame we think we have.”

Elliott twitched his mouth and sighed. There was less and less likelihood of this being some trick. Everything pointed to the Stone Age. That some of the troops even knew which culture it was scared him, though it was helpful.

Gina Alexander figured they were at the one mile mark from the settlement, more or less, when some natives came to meet them.

They made her uncomfortable. They were tall. She was average height for an American woman, her husband broke six feet, but all of these men were over six, closing on six and a half. They were almond skinned and almond eyed, with long, dark, kinky hair. And yes, several had dreadlocks. She shuddered. That was disgusting.

They held spears, and what looked like atl-atls, spearthrowers. They wore skirted loincloths and robes, of what was probably brain-tanned leather. One had a wolf fur cape. He was probably the head man here.

Barker moved toward him slowly, hands up and forward. She twisted slightly so her rifle was ready at hand, just in case.

The native said something, and it was a birdsong.

Not really, but it was very smooth, lyrical, tonal, full of clicks and nasals.

Barker said, “I don’t understand your words, but I greet you.” He pointed at himself. “I am Staff Sergeant Robert Barker, United States Army. I call myself ‘Bob.’” He pulled his goggles over his helmet lip and rolled them into his hand.

There was more music. They didn’t seem hostile, but they were definitely curious. One came toward her. He looked puzzled by the helmet, armor and ruck, then seemed to decide she was female. The lack of a beard might have helped.

He drew a long tube from under his robe. It was a bone, dead but fresh. He extended it toward her.

Next to her, Spencer said, “
Females!
Accept nothing as a gift!”

Right. Some primitive cultures might regard that as an invite to mate. She shuddered again.

The native looked puzzled, and offered it again.

Spencer extended his arm, palm up. She pointed toward it.

There was no way to read the expressions. She couldn’t tell if the man was unhappy or not, but he gave the bone over to Spencer.

Spencer took it. “Marrow in it,” he said. “I think it’s a food offering.”

Caswell said, “An offer of food is usually one of hospitality.”

“Yeah, and this is full of fat. I think that’s positive.”

He poked a finger into the broken end, pulled it out oozing blood, and sucked it.

“Thank you,” he said with a slight bow, and returned it.

The man took it with a nod that might almost be a bow in return.

“Now I need a drink,” Spencer said. He grabbed the hose of his Camelbak. That likely wasn’t something the locals would recognize, and they didn’t.

In a few moments, they were all walking toward the village, the five men chattering like birds.

“That seems easy so far,” Elliott said.

“I get the impression they’re not short of meat, fat or water,” she said. “If there’s salt around here, they’re in fine shape. They wouldn’t have a reason to fight.”

Caswell said, “Band societies tend to fight only rarely. Sometimes over borders, but rarely in large encounters. Honor challenges.”

Oglesby said, “The language. It’s very rich in phonemes. There’s a theory about that, and this seems to fit with it. Some of the African languages have two hundred phonemes, and by the time you get to South America or the Pacific, you’re down to a dozen or two. It’s as if language devolved with isolation and distance.”

Elliott said, “Well, let’s keep our distance. We’re not friends yet, just visitors.”

Gina felt better. The lieutenant had been worthless for the first couple of days, but now he was acting like a leader, and there were some good skills in this ersatz squad. They might actually survive.

One of the men whipped it out from under his loincloth and urinated, right there. She wondered if it were symbolic, but the others didn’t seem to take any particular notice and kept walking. It was just a thing to do.

There were utters of disgust from the troops.

Barker said, “That’s common among the Dene cultures, and they may be distantly related. No real modesty.”

Dalton said, “Yeah, they’ve clearly never heard the word of God.”

She rolled her eyes and replied, “Private toilets existed before Christianity. And some cultures still have public ones, even with Christian influence. Finns. Japanese.”

He didn’t have a response to that. Good.

Elliott said, “Well, he’s done, so we follow them. If anyone needs a rest break, now would be good.”

She felt a little pressure, but she wasn’t going to drop pants and squat in front of everyone. She’d find somewhere later.

“Permission to uncover, sir? Since Sergeant Barker did?” she asked.

The LT paused to think for a few moments, then said, “Yeah, I don’t see why not. Keep your helmets handy, and armor on.”

Arriving at the village was neither the huge production Sean Elliott worried it might be, nor the complete nonissue he hoped. Children came running out, shouting, then some adults. The rest waited.

Led by the hunters, they strode in. The terrain was not very defensible against animals. The huts had doors facing the central fire. There were some midden heaps and obvious workshop arrangements, but no real wall. Wolves could come right in, or bears. They didn’t seem afraid of people in this time, but perhaps the fire helped.

The kids were like kids anywhere, dancing around, reaching out hands.
Hey, mister, did you bring us anything?
He wasn’t sure what would pass as candy or treats here. He settled for smiling and holding out a hand for them to grasp and rub. Then he had to bat inquisitive fingers away from his weapon and gear. They didn’t seem to be trying to take anything, just curious. He felt hands tug at his ruck and had to turn and wave a boy away.

And they reeked of sweat and dead animals. There were flies, too. There hadn’t been many up on the ridges. There were here, at least around the guts and other animal processing.

It was apparent that the locals had visitors periodically, and were probably peaceful. They were unafraid of the soldiers, and some of them did no more than look up before returning to work.

The village had perhaps a dozen huts, ranging in size from pup tent to TEMPER tent. Around them, people beat leather on frames, yanked at animal guts, twisted rope, practiced with spears, knit some kind of net, probably for fishing, and lolled about.

It wasn’t civilization, but it was human settlement.

A group of four headed their way, shooing people aside. They were presumably some kind of leadership.

They were a good-looking people, tall and straight of stature, almond skin, dark, broad eyes and hair that was tightly curled but not quite afro. At least the men were. The women had plenty of butt, if you went in for that sort of thing, and ponderous breasts. Well, no bras, constantly nursing, that wasn’t unreasonable, just unfamiliar. They probably looked like that in modern A-stan, but they wore clothes.

The man in the lead spread his arms in a universal gesture, so Elliott did the same. They both smiled. The man was a little shorter, grizzled gray and wrinkled, and could be any age, just “old and worn.”

Then the man spoke and communication fell apart.

“I don’t understand your language.”

Looking quizzical, the man spoke again.

“Still don’t.”

He was patient, but Elliott shook his head and repeated himself until the man shrugged and gestured behind him. A woman had what looked like an animal skin canteen.

“Oglesby, any help?”

“I can’t quite repeat the sounds right, but they’re saying ak!a, with a click. It sounds a lot like ‘aqua.’ And they’re pointing at what looks like a bag of water.”

“Do you think that word is the same?”

“It’s a standard word in both PIE and PIA.”

“Does that mean yes?”

“Sorry, sir. It means maybe. We’re a long fucking time until then, but it’s not impossible. A handful of basic words have cognates in a lot of languages. It could also be pure coincidence and a false cognate—sounds similar and similar meaning but from a different origin.”

“Anything you can learn helps. We need a pidgin of a hundred words or so, yes?”

“A couple hundred or a thousand is better. Smart people can make it work with a couple of dozen and gestures, but we don’t have many gestures in common.”

“Do what you can.”

“I can point and ask. We’ll get nouns first.”

Their hosts were starting to look anxious. Bracing himself, Elliott accepted the bag and hefted it. It sloshed. It was the whole skin of some small animal, tied closed and treated into leather. He raised it up, watching his counterpart, who smiled and pantomimed drinking.

It smelled half rotten and tasted earthy, rotten. It wasn’t terrible; he’d drunk sulfur and iron laden water that had been as bad, but it wasn’t pleasant.

“Good sign,” Alexander said. Spencer and Caswell agreed.

Caswell said, “You don’t offer hospitality to enemies, and it’s a neutral enough gesture. Water isn’t something they’re likely to consider overly valuable, this close to the river.”

“Well, good, because it’s almost vile.” He handed it back and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. Then he pulled a sip from his Camelbak. It was a lot fresher.

They all stood around, and the native examined them. Sean politely but firmly blocked hands from his weapon and pockets. They didn’t seem to have pockets, and the idea of a pouch on clothing delighted them. One was in his thigh pockets, and he had to dance around to dissuade them. They were amused.

The chief still looked puzzled, and waved for them to follow. He paired back up with Oglesby, which he realized was a good choice, translator and commander. He checked the others had also paired, nodded, and walked across the village to the southwest side.

Regina Alexander looked around. Their houses were fairly sophisticated. They had a rock wall about two feet high at the base, then arched and lashed limbs covered with hides. Some were almost longhouses, around thirty feet by ten, about the size of an old GP medium tent. Several were close to being tepees. They were painted with geometric and anthropomorphic designs in medium earth tones including an obvious fish and elk. She wanted photos of those, but wasn’t sure how they’d react to her pointing a camera. They’d probably have no idea what she was doing, but . . .

Everyone was dirty. Mud, blood, animal guts, tree sap, dust, debris from the leaves and branches covered them in layers. Two of the dirtiest were washing in the river, down an embankment to a stony beach.

The Paleo people looked almost Caucasian, almost East Indian, but had kinked hair, not straight. All the men had scraggly beards, which wouldn’t compare to the coarse, full beards the soldiers were getting in a hurry. Most had dreadlocks. Some women did, too, though others had cropped tresses. A few of the men had shorn patterns in their hair. They all wore breechcloths. They didn’t have much body hair.

And they were all tall. The women were six foot, the men taller. The twelve-year-olds running around were as tall as she. Or they might be younger than twelve.

They had a lot of kids, and they nursed well into walking age. The women’s breasts sagged, and had long, chewed nipples. Most women had stretch marks and hollows or sags. She’d avoided that with plenty of exercise and a considerable amount of technology.