CHAPTER 34
The second day of iron reduction was long, as it had been the first time Martin had done it, and every time, in fact. He had a better-refined technique now, but it was still going to be slow.
There was still a substantial crowd, and about as many drones flitting about. Maralina was here again.
“We’ve ashed out the curing fire,” he said. “Now we start the charcoal fire. There’s a small pile at the bottom, right where the air can reach it.”
He had enough practice that this part was easy. He pulled out a prepared stick and sockets, started sawing until he had charred dust, leaned onto it until he saw smoke, tapped the ember into tinder, blew gently, and got a flame. He lowered it quickly into the charge and pulled his hand back. There was conversation, some applause and enthusiasm about his fire by friction. It took him less than a minute. He’d seen Bob do it in under thirty seconds.
Dalton knew what to do, and started gently working his bellows. Smoke increased, Martin glanced in, and saw a nice, glowing ball in the middle of the charcoal.
“Pump it,” he said.
Dalton and Doc pumped the traditional bellows, the Captain and Raven lifted and pushed on the goatskin flap bellows. All four fed air into a manifold made of another goat hide, weighted with a rock to keep the pressure going.
A roar of heated air shimmered above the chimney, and with a nod to Sheridan, he started shoveling charcoal in with a thick section of bark. She followed his lead.
“Now we need to get it hot enough fast enough,” he explained. “The entire furnace will have to be heated sufficiently to contain the charge. Jenny is going to pass around a container with the ore. You should each take a small sample with the cups provided, and hang onto it. The ore came from downriver, and is red ochre.”
He’d made sure to get extra ore for this, though he’d used modern…futuristic…tools to get it all. Scooping dirt didn’t need any explanation.
He went back to shoveling charcoal until the chimney was full.
“This basket contains about fifteen minutes of fuel,” he said. “If it takes longer, we need to keep pumping until the fire reaches that temperature and consumption rate. Once we’re at that speed, we’ll start with ore and fuel mixed.”
Jenny came back with the bucket and he said, “The ore you have is Fe2O3, mixed with clay, silt, and whatever else is in the ground there. Take a taste and hold it,” he said, grabbing one of the small plastic cups and tipping a half spoonful into his mouth.
“Go on,” he prompted, with it on his tongue.
First a couple, then more, and finally with some shrugs, everyone, took a small taste.
A moment later someone asked, “Whar we tastn?”
He said, “There’s a slippery texture. That’s clay. You can spit that out carefully.” He did so. “Now there’s a gritty texture. That’s sand and loam. Carefully put that aside or spit it.” He spat that, too. “What’s left is the actual ore with the metallic taste. It seems to be about half, which is a very good ratio. Now I’m going to ask Dr. Twine what the actual test showed.” He spat out the rest.
From the front row, she called, “The test sample indicated fifty-four percent ore content.”
Not bad, he thought, pleased with himself.
“That will yield about ten percent mass in raw iron,” he said. “We have about one hundred kilograms. We’ll wind up with about ten kilograms of iron bloom.”
Raven raised her hand, he nodded and said, “Jenny, take over on bellows four, please.”
They swapped without missing a pump. Raven stretched her arms and back and came over to rest. Then Oglesby swapped out for Sheridan.
A few minutes later, forty-five after they’d started, he looked at the furnace level, judged it good, and said, “Okay, we have enough heat. Now we start with ore and fuel.”
He dumped in about a cup of ore, and Sheridan followed it with a bucket of fuel, a scoop at a time. The pumping continued, and the charge level visibly dropped as one watched. When it was down a couple of inches, he poured in another cup of ore.
“This is going to take a while,” he said. “I’d like some volunteers to swap off on the bellows.”
There were quite a few, and three men and a woman came up eagerly.
“Watch what they’re doing, talk if you need to, fill in when you can.”
Someone asked, “Do you have an expected time frame?”
“About ten hours,” he said. To their raised eyebrows, he replied, “Yeah. It’s going to get hot, tiresome, and dirty.” He punctuated that by adding another bucket of charcoal.
The Bykos could pump, though. They were very fit in comparison to early twenty-first-century America. He expected people to tire after fifteen minutes or so. That came and went, and the same ones were still pumping, while he added fuel and ore. They didn’t seem tired at all.
“You can slow slightly,” he advised. “Also, it’s fine to swap off in short rotations so everyone can try. One at a time, not all four at once.”
He let everyone break for food and water, and it was weird to have a drone-lifted shade that followed the arc of the sun to keep them cooler. It was also rather neat, though.
Observers left, others came. There was definite interest.
Maralina was still here, with her own drones and a tablet of some kind. She was obviously in professional capacity, guiding the flyers around, tapping and speaking notes, apparently pulling up info in front of her to edit.
About noon, he pulled out the ceramic plug at the side using a stick and peered in through a polarized screen.
“They’d have looked through slitted fingers or slitted goggles,” he said, “and done this mostly at night.”
He continued, “We have a good puddle of slag underneath, with a bloom of iron floating on it. I’m recording here, and the inside sensors will get whatever you told them to get.” There were a few chuckles. He carefully replaced the plug, wobbling the stick until he got the plug lined up, then using another stick to push it in place.
An hour later he said, “We have too much slag in the bottom. You see how the fire is choking and sputtering. The air inlet is getting clogged. I’m going to pull the bottom plug and let some slag out.”
Of course it was burning hot, and he wasn’t sure how this was handled historically. Possibly multiple ceramic plugs? That was his guess. He had three. He used the stick and pulled the one. It came loose, followed by a flow of hot glass. He gave it a few seconds to puddle and flow like lava, then shoved the second plug in. He rolled the first one aside to cool.
The fire was definitely responding better.
He ate a sandwich in bites between work and comments. They made damned good bread here. The filling was ham, cheese, mustard, veggies, mayo. Gourmet sub, delivered by robot servant. The same machine brought fruit-flavored water and something like Gatorade all day, along with occasional cookies and bites of sausage.
He drained slag again about 3 PM. About 7 PM, the last bucket of fuel and cup of ore went in. He had some ore left over, but the charcoal was done. This was it.
“Just a few moments now,” he said. “Dalton, Captain, get ready.”
They donned leather aprons and hand wrappings, oversized mittens.
“Originally I did this what I thought was a Japanese way,” he said. “It’s too specialized for what we’re doing here. This is more accurate for early reduction and most of the world.”
He deemed the fuel to be getting low enough, and grabbed the breaker. It was a sapling with a root bulb and a large protruding root.
“Fire in the hole!” he announced, and swung. The clay cracked, and he kept swinging.
The side collapsed, a huge river of molten silicate gushed out across the ground. He beat, pulled and got the entire side open.
He took two more large branching sticks, rolled out the matted, thready ball of yellow iron bloom, which cooled to orange as he teased it. Carefully, as he’d practiced, he got it on both sides, lifted the spongy mass onto the flat rock, and held it. Smoke erupted from the contact areas. Those damned drones zoomed in again.
Dalton and Elliott ran up and bashed it with large, smooth river rocks. It got less spongy, more compact, and more cohesive. He rolled it a bit, they hit it again. He rolled it…and it fell and thumped on the ground. The grass under it blackened and flared.
“That’s fine,” he said. “That’s a bloom of iron. From here, it can be chiseled with rocks, hammered with rocks, and eventually made into products.”
There was a wave of applause and cheers.
Someone asked, “Would bronze tools already exist?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But, bronze will contaminate the iron. If you’re hammering down a piece, that’s fine. If you’re trying to do any welding or casting, that will ruin it before you start. I don’t know if that was done, or if it was done this way. The technology is obviously correct, and the furnace is provably known. Other than that, I’m speculating, as were the people I learned from.”
The spectators came forward for closer looks at the remains of the furnace, the still shimmering-hot ball of iron, and the cooling, glassy puddle of slag.
They were impressed.
He was impressed.
From the glow in Maralina’s eyes, she was very impressed.
“Thank you all,” he said. “I can do an after action Q and A later, if you like, but I really need to cool down and clean up.”
There was more applause as he corralled up the others and urged them ahead.
“Let’s get clean,” he said.
He walked through the crowd, and took the waiting bus back toward “the dome,” as they called it, even though it wasn’t that shape outside. He climbed out of the vehicle in sunlight and walked in.
It was always jarring. One moment he was outside in fresh air under sun and puffy clouds, and a moment later he was inside the dome, almost as if it expanded to cover him. Maybe it did.
He turned down the perimeter track, into the lodging area, and into the Army’s space.
It was divided into almost private rooms now, which were open to the dayroom area unless closed for sleeping or privacy. The recoverees were on one side of the divider, the main element on the other. The latrine/shower/spa was to one side, and he cleaned up quickly, getting back into uniform.
In the common room, Sergeant Burnham was watching a screen that showed the post reduction process.
He turned to Martin and said, “So that’s how you did it.”
“Eh?”
“We watched the iron smelting. That’s how you did it.”
“Approximately. I did it mostly from concept the first time.”
“Yeah. We had no idea.”
“We got lucky. I barely got it right.” They seemed tense.
“When do we get home?”
“We have to go recover that other element. I’m not sure on the time frame here for doing that, versus our subjective time.” He noted they were all going to die younger than they would have, by the calendar. Or maybe not. The Byko medicine might prolong their lives.
On that subject…“How are your teeth and other healing doing?”
“They’re fine. And we’re really grateful. But we want to go home.”
“I know. We’re working on it for us, too. You should take this up with the captain.”
Caswell came out of the bathroom, hair clean and still barely damp.
She said, “Remember our debriefing took weeks. Yours will, too.”
Burnham sounded depressed and disgruntled. She could see their point of view. They hadn’t managed to maintain much of anything modern, gone full native, and not enjoyed it. It was a coping mechanism, not a proper adaptation. Her element’s arrival and stories made it clear they’d done better in comparison. Watching Martin make iron, and knowing about weaving, herding, even the hot tub, was grinding their face into the ground. The Byko society was a sci-fi utopia in comparison to that, even if it really wasn’t. They wanted to get home and forget the whole thing.
It was going to continue to be hard to interact with them. They’d had entirely different experiences.
“Why can’t we do it here?”
The captain arrived and said, “It’s not the Army way. You know how that is. We’ve been doing some of it. I’m also coordinating going back for the Germans, apparently in four days, and there’s some other complications.”
He let the captain handle it while he headed for the bathroom.
Martin tossed his clothes to the floor, knowing the system would take care of them.
“House, I need a lukewarm rinse, then increasingly hot for muscle relaxation.”
“I can do that. Alternate hot and cold would work better.”
“I’m sure it would. I prefer it my way.”
“Understood.”
“Can I get some power washing for my hands?”
“At once.”
“Thanks. Also, is there some sort of lotion for them?”
“To effect repair of the skin wear? Yes.”
“Please.”
“Do you wish any release?”
“No, thanks. It’s not a comfortable subject especially with you presenting as male.”
“I can easily adopt a female persona.”
“No. That would be worse.”
“I understand. One of your party had a discussion with a local about it. You think of me as a servant and support. To them, we’re a friend or alter conscience.”
“I can see how that would change things. However, for us, it’s a very private matter.”
“Understood. How is the water temperature?”
“Slightly hotter is just right. Then I’d like to cool it down just a little. I want to soak quietly for about five minutes and then dry. Dim lighting.”
“I will do so.”
He let his brain drift and followed the sensations of the water pouring over him, watching it swirl away through invisible drains. He was relaxed, it was dim, quiet, and he was alone, or as alone as he could be, while safely within reach of others. That was a dichotomy he dealt with a lot. And how much was related to having a wife who was present but not responsive?
Though he’d felt that way before their issues, too.
Was that why they’d gotten along well when they did? Both constantly traveling?
The water slowed and ended, the air temperature rose as humidity dropped, and in seconds he was dry, much like in Iraq, only without sand.
Cleaned up, he felt much better. There was nothing romantic about primitive life. It was filthy, even if one understood and made the attempt to stay clean. He’d never gotten this dirty in aircraft or vehicle engines. Even in field repairs in the mud. This had only been a demo and it was that filthy. It reminded him what he—what they all had dealt with, and the poor bastards of this element. They might not recover properly from that. God knew he still had nightmares.
Tomorrow with Dalton’s help he was going to forge out some rough tools. That was an easy demo, especially in comparison. Tonight, he was free, and they had their established curfew.
“Can I get some contemporary slacks and one of those Mandarin-collar shirts? Navy blue for the pants…no, white, and make the shirt blue.”
“At once. Pockets?”
“I don’t really need them here, do I? But I’m used to pockets, so yes, hip and front.”
“They will arrive in two minutes. Do you need shoes?”
“Anything comfortable and stylish is fine. Those should probably be white, too.”
The outfit arrived with fresh socks and underwear. He dressed and straightened up.
There really wasn’t a need for CQ, but it was good to keep in practice. He told House, “For record, I’m going to the Mad Laboratory. I can be reached through you as needed, and will be back by oh two hundred.”
“Noted, Martin. Do you need a tracker?”
“Just warn me if I get anywhere I shouldn’t.”
“Understood.”
At this point, their element came and went. There was a scheduled conference with some of the local experts on the trip for the second element. They did PT every morning and checked in via the patron. Otherwise, it was R&R. Though in addition to his demo they were about to load for the second recovery. He’d enjoy it while he could.
The walkways offered a beautiful view, once you acclimated to the fact that the edges were safe. Really, they were wide enough it wasn’t an issue unless you deliberately reached the edge, but those wards were strong enough to keep anyone in.
He wandered a building north, and found it closed. He took an outside balcony around, then headed east. That building was open, mostly vacant, but had a couple of late-night restaurants. People noticed he was shorter than average, but didn’t pick him out as anything special. Euros, Caucasians, and North Asians blended in easily here. South and East Asians were notable. Doc was obvious to everyone. The two scientists were visible from their overweight builds, and Raven for her obvious Amerind features.
Among the locals, one man stood out in an angular outfit of fluorescent orange and green. He carried a baton, a small pack marked with what was obviously the future version of the Red Cross, and wore a fitted cap that was probably armor. Even by local standards, he was fit and broad. Martin felt like a kid as the guy passed. He had to be 6′8″ and built like a wrestler. He was a Guardian, or some local cop, on duty. As they passed each other, the man nodded and half saluted. He obviously recognized the American.
He suspected everyone would pick up on them being outsiders in close proximity, though. None of his era had the fitness and tone of these. Their diet and exercise worked brilliantly.
The walkway south had very subtle lights coruscating in geometric art crossing and winding along it. He watched that for a few minutes. He noticed a male youth and a woman had sat down to enjoy the view from the other end, so he followed suit. She nodded, he nodded back, the kid nodded. They said nothing and followed the lights.
He realized the pattern never quite repeated. It was a slow electronic kaleidoscope. He stood and made his way south, past the other two watchers. He entered the building through one of those invisible curtains, and descended the ramp into the atrium.
Here was the Mad Lab. The façade had changed, as had the light color, and, of course, they could change things in minutes here. He wondered if that’s why there wasn’t really a cohesive style. If trends came and went in mere minutes as whims took people, then do what you want and don’t worry about perceptions. Everything old would be new again anyway.
He recognized some of the crowd from previous nights, and a couple seemed passingly familiar from his lecture. There was no live entertainment yet, but a light show swirled behind the stage area.
There was Maralina. She smiled vividly and approached.
Her tunic was a dark fall rust-orange, waisted and belted with a colorful, braided sash. She had complementary trim at the neck that framed her face perfectly, and other trim down the seams. Her boots looked like steppe riding boots, though they flexed more than historical ones. The comb in her hair sparkled with stars, and her earrings also looked like something he’d seen in Northern Asia. It had to be a deliberate look on her part.
“Martin!” she exclaimed, flowed up to him, and embraced him. He felt a kiss on each cheek, and she stepped back while his brain processed.
She smiled with a glint and said, “Your presentation was fascinating. Seeing it done in all the detail is far more informative than historical mentions.”
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “It was a lot of work. Far more efficient than my first attempt, though.”
“Oh? That’s mentioned in your documentation but not at length.” She spoke as she gestured at a couch, and took a seat. He joined her. The volume of the crowd retreated slightly, just enough to let them talk quietly.
“Ah. Well, I didn’t use fine charcoal, just lumps. I added limestone as a flux, which is necessary in a large furnace but not in these. I had two bellows and no manifold, then I shattered the hot bloom in water to get different carbon contents. It worked, but I probably got half the yield I did from this.”
“That would be significant with that many labor hours.”
“Very.”
“Still, it was incredibly informative and fascinating. I love the sophistication many early cultures had, that were forgotten as the technical skills were. They had as much specialized and research knowledge as we, just organized differently.”
“That’s it exactly.”
“Preliterate cultures make my work much harder, but so fascinating. Can I try one of your drinks?” she asked.
The sudden shift took a moment to process.
“Yes. Service, please.”
One of the tables glided over to his side and asked, “Order, please?”
“If you can simulate Elijah Craig bourbon, please do.”
“I have a flavor profile from…” Followed by silence, then, “It is the best approximation I have.”
“We’ll try it. Neat, please.”
“Do I infer you wish it straight and unmixed?”
“Correct.”
“Stand by, please.”
The surface delivered two glasses, each with a good double shot of something that looked right. He took them and handed one to her.
“Guide me,” she asked.
“First, you nose it,” he said, waving it carefully and smelling the wafting vapors. That was a close approximation at least. She did the same.
She closed her eyes in concentration, then smiled. “Strong, yet sweet and woody.”
“Yes. Then just a sip on the tongue, roll it back and it should almost vaporize on the way.”
“Oh my. Mmmmm. Strong, yet not harsh. That is fascinating, and more complex in profile than I would have expected.”
He said, “I enjoy it a lot. The Scottish even age their whisky in used bourbon barrels to capture some of the flavor.”
“I had heard that. But that didn’t happen until after bourbon barrels were regularly available.”
“Right. I don’t know much before that.”
“It was far less refined. The bourbon was an advance in flavor and chemistry.”
“Well, that makes me proud to hear, being from Kentucky.”
She laughed lightly as he smiled.
“It does go well after the long hours today. I took note of the chemical transformation through my monitors.”
“Oh? What did you see?”
She said, “Given the low temperature, your process was surprisingly efficient as far as conversion, though not quick. The completely subjective feeding and heating was far more effective than I expected.”
“Thanks. That’s good to know.”
She actually understood quite a bit of basic metallurgy, at least as much as he did. She had a fascination with the Napoleonic and Regency eras that he didn’t know much detail about. Shakespeare was still popular, with many interpretations out there. She had a fascination with the Battle of Kulikovo, which he knew of. The Rus duchies that would become the Russian Empire, versus the Golden Horde.
“I’ve seen some of the spears,” he said. “Well forged. Strong tenon and clean welded sockets.”
“Oh, yes. There was a significant find of this is restricted that…argh. Sorry. I guess we should stick to more mundane matters. I am very pleased with all the data you brought back this time.”
“Do you handle all of it?”
She said, “I am in charge of the historical contextual aspects only. Of course I have to be aware of the med, bio, climate, and other matters, but documentation such as that cave art is my focus.”
“Yeah, that cave art. It was very reminiscent of something several of us found disturbing.”
“It is probably coincidence, though there is some question as to the chemistry of the paint.”
“Oh?”
“Some of it appears to incorporate human blood.”
Oh, fuck. Once again his pulse hammered and he really wasn’t sure about a return trip.
She continued, “However, it’s not conclusive that the blood matches the local phenotype, or any nearby in that era. It’s possible it’s out of context, either a lost element or a prank.”
“I really hope it’s a prank,” he replied. Really, really. But, displaced element? That…
There was a momentary interruption of a man walking up.
“’Scuse,” he said to Martin with a smile, turned to Maralina, and bent down to kiss her.
That was a sexy kiss. This man wasn’t just a friend. Her shoulders rose and her chest heaved.
They broke, she muttered something with a smile, and then raised her voice.
“Sergeant First Class Martin Spencer, this is my prime, Diagnostician Karpos Rune.”
This was slightly awkward, as fascinated as he was by the man’s wife.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said, standing and extending his hand.
Karpos shook hands firmly. He was shorter for this group, only about 6′3″, so slightly less intimidating.
“Also you. I saw someyr presention. Well good.” The man seemed friendly enough and not put upon.
Also of note. He wasn’t part of the project involving the Americans and his dialect was less accurate.
“Thank you very much. It’s a knowledge I’m glad I had when we first were lost.”
“No doubt. Iron bettern stone.”
He turned back to Maralina.
“Busy talk?”
“Fascnatng. Also sosh.”
“Props?”
She shrugged. “Lsee. Have fun?”
“Yup, Elsati over.” He pointed at a tall, very blond woman. “Buzz her, tell later?”
“Yum. Go do.” She grinned and her eyebrows flared.
“Love you.”
“And you.”
Martin processed that in a hurry. It seemed so casual, but there were obvious nuances, rules, and implications in that exchange. Certainly “prime” implied “second,” and she’d mentioned it before. It just seemed so straightforward for them. Except, by having designations of prime and second, there were obvious rules of engagement.
Fuck, he had trouble with one relationship.
She turned back to him and said, “I do admire your willingness to get dirty for your work. It takes a lot to get some of our researches into the wild, much less into such very savage conditions.”
“It’s not fun, but necessary,” he said. “I appreciate your improved plumbing for cleanup afterward, though.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Oh, I also have a couple of sensual shower programs. One is somewhat inspired by the Roman bathhouses, and one by the Finns of just before your era. Changing temperatures, water chemistries, olive oil for the Romans, and wood and perfume scents. I added in a localized pulse frequency for the hip-level spray. It’s very popular with women, but men report favorably, too.”
He tensed for a moment.
“That’s perfectly logical and very impressive,” he said, and laughed. Damn. How did that fit into his rules?
“Thank you. I don’t know if such things existed in your era.”
“At a very simple level, I’ve heard of people using running water or flexible shower heads for stimulation.”
“Interesting. Personal pleasure is as important to people as food, warmth, and shelter. Even above companionship or sleep for many. Your own documentation from the recent trip adds to that.”
Oh, he knew that. Two years with no one to touch had been emotionally deadening.
Then after he returned, a year with almost no companionship had been even worse. He’d lost a lot of sleep.
It was very clear she was interested in him. Enough to send her prime off to see his apparent second. That was a strong hint, because the gaze between her and Karpos smoldered.
“I do have to retire soon,” he said. “We’re still planning the second excursion.”
“Of course!” she said, almost too quickly. “I’m fascinated on what we might learn from that group.”
“So am I, if they’re who they appear to be.”
She said, “If you do find yourself available to socialize, my schedule is variable. As I don’t directly interact with most of my subjects, and am paid on results, not time.”
Martin said, “Maralina, I’m very interested but my relationship is in…transition, let’s say.”
“I understand yours are often informally locked, or formally coded for life, though that can be cancelled through official action.”
“That’s mostly right, yes. My wife—my prime, as you’d say,—and I expected this to be a lifetime commitment. Apparently it’s not. But I’m stuck between wanting to do my damnedest to save it, and realizing that’s hopeless, and needing her, and needing someone, and wanting to be alone, and terrified of loneliness.”
She gave him a very understanding and compassionate smile as she said, “That sounds remarkably human. Friends of mine have had similar issues with their partnerships.”
Whew. She got it.
“So, bluntly, you’re amazingly hot and I’m very interested, but I don’t know if it’s a step I can take.”
He knew he was doing the right thing, because he was going to regret not nailing her forever. And as it was, Allison could never hear a word of it, and there wasn’t really anyone else he could discuss it with. Gina would let him talk about how hot Maralina was, and not be bothered by it. She knew quite a bit about his intimate life already. That was part of what Allison was pissed about. But he couldn’t share those details with a man, and Allison both didn’t want to hear it, and couldn’t be allowed to know some of it. He’d have to create a private account she couldn’t access, and he shouldn’t have to do that…
“I do hope to meet again soon, though, Martin. In whatever circumstances you have.”
“Thank you.” He stood, she stood.
This time, she offered a hand, he took it to his cheek. It was warm, supple, and very, very human. Before he realized, she pressed against him in a hug, held him firmly with her hips and breasts pressing him, and kissed both cheeks again. He tried to reciprocate.
Even her ears and hair were sexy, and she had some scent that wasn’t perfume but was very clean and warm.
“I’ll try,” he said, smiling and stepping back.
“Have a good evening,” she replied with a tilt of her head and a smile.
He was drunk and dizzy, and it wasn’t just the bourbon.
The air outside was cool and a bit foggy. He could enjoy it to its fullest with the transparent shield overhead. It gave him time to think.
Dan Oglesby felt like an afterthought. Once they had native translators, and Shug returned to his people, his usefulness as a translator and interpreter had gone away. He was just labor pool, in a unit with the most ridiculously high-tech support equipment possible. The last three weeks had been him offering, “Here I am,” and hoping for some kind of task.
The Bykos had debriefed him on the German language. He couldn’t offer much. They did have his notes, and some machine translation. That was it.
He’d given himself a new task, as liaison between the recoverees and the Bykos. The soldiers were getting limited rec time, and the captain had agreed for him to be along, keep eyes on them, and call House or Guardians as needed. The latter hadn’t been necessary yet, but the patron did a lot of interceding between people.
Uhiara was very popular with the ladies. House recommended, and he’d approved, limiting them in number and contact. It was fine if the man hooked up, but he recalled Uhiara was married and devoted, and didn’t need excess temptation. So far he’d been a gentleman.
Hamilton was having fun dancing and drinking, and didn’t seem likely to score.
Keisuke was actually talking to a woman who looked Japanese, though taller than he by several inches. Apparently he spoke Japanese, and they were discussing the language changes, much like English had warped and softened.
Maldonado was trying to hit on women and only being moderately successful.
The two scumbags weren’t here, and only were let out with a discreet Guardian presence. It wasn’t as if they could run far, but why give them any opportunity?
This was still pretty laid-back work, but he told himself it was important to monitor their activity and apparent mental state.
They all looked very self-conscious and he could see elation and sadness in them. Five years of savagery and filth, because there was nothing “noble” about it. This was a relief, but it was also a taunt. They’d have to leave it behind. Neither would have been relevant or known if some asshole in this time hadn’t fucked up, and created a system for other people to fuck up. He imagined this was like the nuclear tests of the 1950s, or the rocket launches. Everyone wanted to get their hand in, give it a try, and see what they could do.
From his unit, Sergeant Spencer was talking to that amazing Eurasian babe. He’d seen her at the iron furnace demo, and they seemed to be talking about something technical, but he was pretty sure the woman was interested in Spencer. She paid close attention.
Captain Elliott walked through, nodded, walked behind Spencer, smiled, and waved as he left. Commander’s random recon.
Caswell sat back in a corner with Dalton, and they seemed to be doing the same thing he was—monitoring the recoverees.
Well, shit. Apparently they were all pretty redundant.
Tomorrow he got to talk to the linguists again and help plot the evolution of the languages. They knew he had, and would, take that information back to the twenty-first century, and so far weren’t attempting to stop it. So that was good.
Dan walked through the Lab, avoiding the loosely defined dance area that changed as tables and chairs came and went, and approached the bar.
“Good evening,” the server greeted. She was a very attractive female, nude to the waist but looking aesthetic rather than sexy. Long dark hair rolled back in a pinned bun, makeup subtle but carrying down her face to her collarbones, and wearing some equivalent of spandex over slim but well-shaped hips, that blended away and came back as tabi boots.
He paid attention to her face, and damn, those eyes could pin you in place.
“I’d like a wheat beer with a hint of citrus. Do you know what I mean?”
“We’ve Belgian ales or Hefeweizen that fit that.”
“Can you recommend one? Based on my previous choices?” He guessed they had that on file.
She blinked, and appeared to be reading a one-way screen in front of her.
“I think so,” she agreed, turned around, swiped and waved, filled a stein-shaped glass under the tap, and turned back around.
She gave a professional smile as she offered it with, “Please tell me if this works.”
He took it, sipped it, and it was really good. Refreshing, lightly alcoholic, and cold. How much of these were actually brewed, and how much was fabricated from blends with alcohol added? He didn’t care. It was what he wanted.
“Thanks very much.” He nodded and stepped back. She half bowed and turned and damn, aesthetics aside that was an amazing ass.
As he sought the others he asked, “House, please tip her twenty percent for the service. She hit it exactly.”
“I have directed so.”
“Thanks.”
He approached the other two. Caswell waved to a seat. Good.
He slid in and sat down. Dalton was in his usual sleeved shirt and slacks. Caswell was in a short-sleeve blouse, and pants with cuffed ankles. That was interesting.
He held up his glass. “Last one before bed. Only one, actually.”
Dalton asked, “Are you watching our charges, too?”
“Yeah, not much else I can do.”
Caswell said, “Everyone loves automation until their job goes away.”
Dalton shrugged. “Most of them stopped bothering with worship as soon as we got here. I’m not surprised, it’s typical. But it is disheartening.”
Caswell finished her drink with a swig.
“Rich, I’ll still show up. You have uplifting sermons. I’ve always appreciated them.”
“Thanks, Jenny.” The man seemed more cheerful.
She stood. “I’ll see you back there. I’ve had enough weird lighting and random almost-English background convo.”
“Later,” he replied. Turning back to Dalton, he offered, “I’ll try to attend. We all did appreciate it, and it’s good for bonding.”
“No worries, my man. I’m more concerned with them. They had it rough and need God, especially in these fleshpots.”
“Uhiara is doing a great job of being faithful to his wife. So is Burnham.”
“Yeah, those aren’t two I’m worried about.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah, the ones who need help, or the Word, the most often won’t seek it. If they do, they’re often below rock bottom. Sooner is better.”
“You sound like Caswell talking about counseling.”
“What do you think we were talking about, dude?” the man said with a broad grin.
“Valid,” he returned. “I’ll finish this and go crash.”
“Later, my man. I’ll be a few minutes behind.”
He placed the finished stein down, offered a fist bump, and turned to head for their dorm.
Martin Spencer walked back into their quarters and rubbed at his eyes. He was going to be tense and frustrated, and he wasn’t sure about being alone, but he didn’t want to pretend to be sociable. He did need some coffee, late as it was, and maybe another shot of bourbon. Once stressed, it took him a couple of hours to unwind before sleeping.
Caswell was in the common area, sprawled on the couch with one foot up and watching a shifting seascape on the wall. She was munching carrots and celery with dip. Both scientists were reading over their notes and making additional notes. They were certainly dedicated. The board they used to track location said the captain was asleep, as was Dalton. Oglesby was just returning with the authorized recoverees. Doc was “accounted for,” and good luck to him.
He went to sit down with his bourbon and coffee at the central area.
Caswell looked up from her food.
“So who was the chick you were talking to, Sergeant Spencer? If it’s okay to ask.”
“Oktabro Maralina. She’s a temporal archivist, has read all our reports.”
“Cool. That sounds interesting. I thought I saw her at your demo.”
“Yes. She was interesting to talk to. House interrupted her twice. I guess she got out of the proper era.”
“It’s disconcerting having all that oversight. I hate having to pretend I’m in private.”
“Yeah. I was nervous enough talking to her, without people listening in.”
He was about to say Sorry, House, and realized it wouldn’t be fair to that entity to invoke it into the conversation. House was listening, but the pretense was important.
“I imagine,” Caswell said. “And damn, is she hot.”
“I noticed,” he said diplomatically.
The cat jumped up and Caswell started petting him.
She looked back and said, “Oh, you definitely did. You didn’t even see the captain walk right behind her.”
That caught him. “I didn’t?”
She half snickered. “Yeah, but who’d blame you? Even by standards here, wowza.”
Was this a feminist telling him this? She’d definitely changed. Or possibly just been tense during their displacement due to fear? Heck, she was a year older in the time frame when young adults matured fast.
He was talking to a lot of single women this trip, dammit.
“She’s apparently married but also available for a second partner.”
Nodding, she replied, “That’s something I saw, too. I even saw one couple swap off in mid-dance. They were doing a little more than just dancing.”
“Oh? Did I miss that, too?”
She said, “It didn’t go past kissing, but they were very lusty kisses.”
“Hmm.”
“I presume you’re monogamous.”
“Yeah,” he sighed.
“That doesn’t sound comfortable.”
Well, shit, he had to talk to someone, though Caswell was effectively an uptight younger sister.
“So…” he said with a slow sigh. “You know Gina and I were interested in each other.”
“I guess that’s the term for it,” she agreed. Right. She’d obviously taken the nude photo Gina had sent him from inside the women’s cabin. He wasn’t sure if Caswell knew more than that, but she knew enough.
“We’ve had some very frank, but nonsexual, discussions since we got back.”
“I assume we all have.”
“Yeah. These never crossed any lines, but there was more than once I had to pull myself back.”
“I understand.”
“Allison, my wife, found the window, and started reading.”
Caswell looked alarmed. “She didn’t find anything about the trip, did she?”
“Everything about the trip just referred to it as ‘the trip.’ We’ve been very careful to never say more than that. And ‘our hosts,’ ‘the other people’ and ‘the Italian element.’”
“Very good.” She smirked. “It makes sense the history nerds would find an easy way around.”
“Thanks. Yeah. But Ally read a very frank, monthlong exchange I had with a woman I was deployed and detained with. She gathered we weren’t detained quite as prisoners, and had plenty of chance to interact.”
“Yeah. That doesn’t sound easy.”
“She blew up. Assumes we were bunking together, even after I pointed out both females had their own quarters segregated from the rest, and that I was in a cabin with Doc.”
“I see.”
“I have no idea what to do.”
“What do you think you can do?”
He shrugged. “I do feel guilty, because Gina and I did have a couple of conversations that…”
“I know they existed. She never gave details.”
“Right. Well, we weren’t expecting to go home. And we were never in contact physically. It all stopped entirely once we were away from there. Even when we were here.”
“You’re both very honorable people,” Caswell said. “I realized when we got back how totally professional you were, and that you were keeping an eye on me for safety. I thought you had designs. I realize that was wrong. Uh…I’m sorry.”
He blushed hard.
“I got one nude shot of you once. You were bathing. I was where I had a view. I took the shot.”
“I see,” she said again. She sounded flat and unemotional this time, and he knew that was bad.
He quickly said, “I deleted it two days later. When Oglesby was acting a bit pushy.”
“Even he was being persuasive, not aggressive, but it was intimidating. And thank you.”
“I’m glad you’re not pissed.”
She shrugged. “Human nature is what it is. People make mistakes. In our case, most of us held up very well.”
She added, “You know Gina was on watch when Oglesby got blown, yes? By that Urushu girl, out in the field.”
He laughed. “Hah! I think everyone knew that.”
“Yeah, she had it on NVG and gave a commentary that was hilarious.”
“Oh, shit,” he said.
“So how are you handling it at home?” she asked.
“As well as I can,” he said. “She stopped sleeping with me. Says she has to ‘reconsider’ our status, and perhaps she can eventually trust me. My counselor offered some relationship exercises.”
“Like?”
“Careful hugging and kissing at the door when one of us gets home.”
“How’s that working?”
He grimaced. “Day one, she threw a hand up between us. No hugging.”
“What a bitch.” Caswell looked pissed.
“Eh? She wasn’t ready for it.”
“That’s why you have those exercises. Look, that’s what I studied. You know I’ve almost finished my degree, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I was deployed with you in the tensest situation possible. I saw how afraid you were of separation. You talked about her a lot. You know what I was afraid of. We both pulled through. I know how honorable and professional you are. How long have you been married?”
“Almost twenty years.”
“So she should trust you at least as much as I do. If she doesn’t, and there’s no previous issues you’re not telling me about…”
“No, never. We even used to talk about it when I met someone fascinating. But I don’t think I ever dare mention Maralina to her, even though it’s been two short, chance meetings.”
Caswell paused a moment, then said, “It seems to me she has made her choice not to trust you. I don’t think there’s anything you can do to fix that. It takes you both to make it work, but only one to ruin it, and she’s done so.”
“I don’t know…”
“I only have your POV, but I have no reason to believe you’re inaccurate. If she’s not even trying, I…I’m sorry.” She seemed genuinely sad for him.
“Yeah, so am I. I love her. I want it to work. It was great to be home, and then it wasn’t. Then it just went downhill. I remember counseling younger soldiers about this type of stuff. Then after twenty fucking years, it happens to me.”
“She should know better. I met her back in November, remember? Before everyone split in different directions.”
“Yeah. What was your impression?”
“Not favorable. Leave it at that.”
“Oh?”
Caswell sighed again. “She kept making snide comments about you while you were out of hearing. She was acting like you were a disabled vet and needed a caretaker.”
“I never heard any of that.”
“That says something.”
“Well, all this is why I left early. Maralina hits all my buttons for a hot chick, and has a brain, and was obviously interested. Seconds longer and I’d have been asking about a private spot on the roof.”
“She’d have said yes. It was obvious.”
“I’m sure she would have.”
“I’m a woman. She would have.”
“So I did the right thing, then.”
She didn’t respond. She shifted her eyes toward her water glass and paid attention to it.
“Did I?” he asked.
She replied, “You made the choice you had to with your conscience.”
“I guess I can’t ask you to make it for me. Especially as we’re in the same unit.”
“It wouldn’t be mine to make anyway. I’m happy to listen. I owe you the favor.”
“What would you say if I’d gone off with her?”
She barely shrugged, and her expression was neutral. “You didn’t, so it’s not an issue.”
“That’s not an answer. I need to know.” He knew, though. She was younger than he, but the paleolithic trip had aged and wisened them all. First Gina, now Caswell were very carefully not telling him to pack it and leave. But it was obvious what they thought. And while Gina might have romantic interests affecting her judgment, Caswell was a cross between younger sister and subordinate soldier. She had no skin in his game.
She responded with, “I wouldn’t have said anything. It’s not my place to judge the actions of someone I’m not responsible to or for. And nothing that happens on this trip is for any kind of outside consumption. Nor is it one of those things our handlers need to know about. Remember how they kept probing about what animals and people we killed?”
“Yeah, they wanted Doc to rat out the captain for those mercy killings.”
She nodded around a carrot. “I think they guessed, yes. None of us are ever going to tell them. There’s a lot of things that are just for us.”
He sighed.
“I’m very tempted for next time. And I don’t know if I should feel guilty about that or not.”
“That’s your call to make…Martin. I can’t make it for you. But I’d say Allison decided the marriage is over. Nothing you do here will fix that.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“I know,” she said. “For what it’s worth, the rabid feminist is saying you don’t owe her anything.”
Fuck. That really didn’t make it easier.
“I need to pretend to sleep,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I have to get up early to answer history questions for the Bykos. Thanks for the talk. Though I’m no closer to an answer.”