CHAPTER 9
The third day took care of final issue of gear for the redeployment to the past.
In their lodging, Arnet showed up leading a powered dolly with a box. It held US Army MultiCam uniforms.
The man said, “These uniforms are made of our textile, modified to appear as yours. Again, these will stop small arms and any native impact weapons. You have three each, patterned from your own. That helps minimize mass while allowing plenty of wear. They can be washed in water, air dried, and reused. The boots are also sturdier than your own.”
Sean Elliott said, “Sounds good. We’ll want to try everything on to see how it fits and feels.”
“Please do. The patron can assist if anything needs adjusted.”
“When do we head back in time?”
Arnet said, “In a little over two days.”
“Is there more training we can do?”
Headshake. “None is necessary. You can do whatever you feel you need to. There is recreation time.” His presentation was relaxed, but so different from their own that it took a moment to process that.
Dalton piped up enthusiastically. “That sounds good. Predeparture pass. What do you think, sir?”
Sean said, “I will consider it carefully, discuss it with Sergeant Spencer, and let you all know. Sergeant Spencer, with me, please.”
“Right away, sir.” The NCO hurried over.
Then he said, “House, private for us, please.”
“At once,” the system replied, and the air shimmered as everything got quiet.
“I plan to say ‘yes.’” Sean grinned. “I just want to double-check with you.”
Spencer noted, “They’ve done good work this week, sir, both home and here. We’re ready to go. I also think as much as we can see, especially in a relaxed state, is good for…social connectivity.”
Sean decided Spencer meant it was good intel gathering, and wasn’t going to say that where it could be heard, which was anywhere.
“Very good. We’ll set a curfew?”
“Yes, how about a late formation of ten hundred tomorrow morning, and a return time of oh three hundred local?”
“That works. If anyone needs to be out longer they can let me know. House, we’re done.”
The air shimmered and he relayed the orders.
Doc said, “To confirm, we’re free until oh three hundred, formation at ten hundred, variations can be approved by you.”
“Correct. This also applies to civilians under my control.”
“As expected,” Sheridan agreed. Raven just nodded.
Doc replied, “Right. Then my standard safety briefing is going to be nonstandard.”
“Go ahead.”
“Be careful what you eat or drink, make sure to ask about any intoxicants. I gather they have a lot. Don’t overeat. Ask House for advice. If you plan to hook up with any locals, double-check with House and one of our advisors first.”
Dalton smiled and said, “That’s certainly the loosest pass restrictions I’ve ever encountered.”
Sean chuckled. “Don’t make me regret it.”
The man was dead serious but still smiling as he replied, “Absolutely not, sir.”
Right then, Researchers Twine and Larilee Zep arrived through the door.
“Hello!” Twine called as a courtesy. She wore something like a pantsuit, but it flared at ankles, wrists, and throat into not-quite ruffles. Zep wore the almost-lab-coat and slacks that were pretty much standard daywear here.
“Hi, Doc,” Spencer replied.
“I understand you have a schedule gap before you depart,” she said.
“We do.”
Twine was very tall by twenty-first-century standards. She looked down almost imperiously as she said, “Excellent. There is a party this evening you are welcome to attend. A friend of mine is hosting it, and the patron can guide you there and act as a social interpreter.”
Sean said, “That certainly sounds interesting. Does House know where?”
“I do now,” the intelligence replied.
Spencer asked, “Who is hosting the party and why? What theme?”
Twine said, “Hamota Fedori. She’s one of the regional personalities.”
“Personalities? Like TV, movies, media?”
She nodded. “All of that.”
“What does she primarily do?”
“Host parties and promote herself.”
Sean wrinkled his brow and asked, “So this person is just famous for being famous?”
Zep replied, “Yes. Why else would someone be famous?”
“For their accomplishments.”
With a friendly grin, Zep said, “That’s what fame is.”
It seemed to be a cultural incongruency. Had social media had that much effect on society? Entirely possible.
Twine raised her voice a fraction and said, “You are all invited. The party will open about nineteen hundred hours your time.”
“When do you suggest we arrive?”
Twine said, “I suggest about twenty-one hundred. By twenty-three hundred it will be crowded and near max. Earlier and it will be quiet, but those present will be discussing business.”
Caswell asked, “So it’s a business first, play later event?”
Her eyes twinkled and she almost sighed as she said, “No, it’s just that those who arrive early always want to discuss business.”
“Ah, that.”
Larilee Zep said, “Doctors Raven and Sheridan, if you have some time, can we discuss the nature of your research?”
“If we’re free for now, yes,” Sheridan agreed.
“Go right ahead,” Sean said.
The soldiers messed about discussing what to do and if they could get civilian clothes. Zep came closer and a forcewall solidified around them.
Kate watched the soldiers chatter about. She turned back to Larilee Zep.
“What can we tell you?” she asked.
Zep said, “I must apologize for being a hindrance.”
“Not at all. Go ahead.”
The woman still looked flustered as she said, “We weren’t expecting your presence. While your curiosity and purpose are understandable, there are limits on the information it is…safe for you to have.”
Raven glared suspiciously and asked, “Safe for whom?”
“For your future, our past. We still don’t fully understand how the Temporality works, so the less interference, the better. This specifically and unfortunately includes knowledge.”
Kate replied, “What we seek is to help our understanding of the past, and of how various diseases evolved, with particular attention to certain genotypes and ethnotypes.”
Zep nodded. “Yes, that should be safe. We will need to examine your documentation to be sure and, of course, we will also find that of interest. We will even furnish sensors you can use for the purpose.”
Kate understood that readily enough.
She noted, “That will allow you to dictate only the info you want us to keep.”
Zep nodded. She seemed very uncomfortable bearing this bad news, but she pushed through.
“Unfortunately yes. I was able to get even that approved only by pointing out the advantage to us of the data. I had to be persuasive that scientists from your time would have the capabilities and training for it.”
Raven sounded insulted as she said, “Obtaining and documenting samples is absolutely within our capabilities, or even that of several of the regular soldiers.”
“I know,” Zep agreed, looking embarrassed and a bit flushed. “Keep in mind I’ve made some study of your era. Many of the council responsible for this have not, and had only vague notions of your actual scientific methods.”
Kate replied, “I guess that’s not unreasonable, given that much of our process was only developed in the last couple of hundred years. Given the gap between then and now…”
Zep moved into that opening. “That, but more of a cultural…I think you would say provincial attitude that preceding cultures couldn’t approach our sophistication.”
“We’ve had that in our own time and with earlier,” Kate agreed.
Zep hadn’t taken the bait, nor given a single hint of when this was. Damn. Hopefully Raven’s surveys would yield something, if they were allowed to keep the data. And it was obvious that was an issue.
The woman noted, “Also understand that we can’t validate anything on a first examination.”
Kate didn’t get the meaning of that. “I don’t follow.”
Zep elaborated, “Meaning there are minor irregularities and inconsistencies through temporality. We’re not positive of what side effects happen from these transitions, on anything around you. There is also inevitably to be some bacterial and other contamination from it. Both together make it very important not to be tempted to examine more than the minimum. Anything you encounter as part of the operation is a valid subject. Deliberate investigations beyond that should be limited.”
Raven replied, “On the one hand, we understand that. On the other hand, thirst for knowledge. You as a scientist should know that.” She was trying to be persuasive, but it was obvious she was angry.
“I understand that, but you must avoid certain lines of research. That isn’t from me, but from the council.” She bit her lip, and continued. “There are ways to adjust your memory. They are repugnant to us, but to protect our society and information… It’s unfortunate we find ourselves in a position we would have advised against.”
Kate took that in. If the Cogi found certain of the data she was seeking a potential hazard, they’d wipe her memory. There was an implication that it couldn’t be done perfectly and would cause some other amnesia.
Suddenly, spying wasn’t sexy anymore.
Raven replied, “You’ll understand if we don’t thank you for this discussion, and I for one will not be socializing with you.”
Zep sighed. “I do, and I’m very sorry we find ourselves in this position. I’d greatly enjoy a lengthy discussion of your background.”
Amalie’s voice was sharp glass as she said, “Ordinarily I’d be sorry to disappoint you.”
“Yes. Thank you for your understanding, as disappointing as circumstances are.”
Kate said, “You are professionally welcome.”
She wasn’t feeling very friendly, either.
Zep resumed. “There’s another factor that hasn’t been covered. You’re new to the algorithms, as far as transition.”
“Meaning?” she asked.
“Meaning you’re a new variable. The others’ characteristics are on file from our previous interaction, and this arrival. Yours are a single panel of data. We’ll need to do a full scan of you before transition.”
Kate thought she got it. “So you think it will affect the transition to have us along.”
Zep spread her hands. “We don’t know. This is new territory. But the temporalists say you both created a complication.”
Raven’s voice was soft, but sarcastic. “Then they better fix it quickly.”
Zep left awkwardly. As the door solidified, Raven looked over, her dark eyes burning.
“Their open society is rather insular, I find.”
Kate said, “Yeah. I don’t want to blame them because I don’t know the context. But I’m certainly pissed about them dictating our research. Especially as they plan to keep whatever they feel like, but only let us keep what they decide.”
Armand was definitely interested in the party. He wanted to try what local culture he could—the food, drink, music. Here he was in a foreign country, a foreign time, and he knew nothing about them other than that they were tall, white, spoke some variation of English with a dusky accent, and had better technology, but not how much better. He wanted to meet people.
He was about to head for the shower when he heard Twine call from the seating area.
“Armand, can we talk a bit more?”
He really wanted to look around the facility, but if a smoking hot science babe wanted to talk…
“Sure, about what?” he asked.
“Nothing in particular. We are both off duty.”
“Okay,” he agreed, walked over and took a seat. She was educated and beautiful, and he had nothing pressing. Her ruffled blouse was cut very low between those large, well-mounted breasts.
“How was your return?” she asked.
“To our time? Well, we obviously managed to make them believe us. Eventually. The transmogrifying tool helped, as did the ancient hides.”
Twine did look relieved. “Good. As a social scientist, one of my concerns was how you’d be received.”
“Yeah, eventually they accepted it, made it secret, and brought in scientists.” He indicated the fuzzy shadows of the two women talking to Zep inside a force field. “I don’t know how long it can remain secret.”
“We have very few secrets here,” Twine said. “Privacy is a cultural construct we maintain, and simply not talking about a subject makes it less present for people to even ask about.”
“Yeah, obscurity. In our case, few would believe it anyway.” He paused to give a thumbs-up to Spencer and Dalton as they walked out of the dorm.
She replied, “That seems logical. We maintain a semblance of privacy because the patrons aren’t supposed to assist in violating personal privacy without cause, though some have been manipulated.”
“What is the nature of their intelligence?” he asked.
She shook her head a fraction. “I still can’t discuss that. They are legally human, with rights. Think of it as a job, not a state.”
“It makes me think there’s someone with their brain wired into a network of data and microphones.”
She did meet his eyes as she said, “That’s a reasonably passable definition of the concept.”
He sighed. “I wish I could learn more.”
She smiled. “You will, just not from us. But you’ll see more than you did before.”
It didn’t seem condescending, but it still had a feel of Wait until you’re older.
“Yeah, looking forward to it.”
“Do you drink beer?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied at once.
She nodded and called, “Serve, tu ambeweet.”
Two amber wheat. That hadn’t changed much, but those were very simple syllables that wouldn’t shift much with time. Not the way “American” had morphed into “Merghan.”
The beer popped up at his elbow in a glass that felt like glass, but he was sure was plastic. It was almost bottle shaped, enough to minimize spilling.
She raised hers in a salute, not a toast, he did the same. He took a cautious sip…not bad at all. It was richer and heavier than he expected, but tasted like beer, and was nicely chilled.
He realized the scientists had finished talking to Zep and were over by the fire with Shug. Everyone else had left.
Twine finished a swallow of her beer and asked, “How has everyone dealt with it? I understand Regina did not want to return.”
She said she was off duty? This certainly sounded professional. On the other hand, it could just be human interest since she’d worked with them for weeks.
“Uh, how long has it been here since we left?” he asked.
“About a year,” she replied.
“Huh, same for us.”
She explained, “We wanted a time frame that gave you the opportunity to de-stress, while still having your familiarity fresh. Our research into the discontinuity took about the same time.”
“That makes sense. Yeah, Gina apparently didn’t like it after the fact. She’s retired, resting. Her metabolism is having some issues. I gather she made a strong bond with Sergeant Spencer, even though nothing happened between them that I know of. Both families are really stressed.”
“Unfortunate but not unexpected,” she said. “How was it all overall for you?”
He was pretty sure they’d covered this. “Overall? Well, it was terrifying to be lost, then to know where we were lost, since I had enough astronomy training to date it. Then there was the fascination of all of it, the frustration of not having the gear I needed to save people I know I could save. It was a privilege to save several people I could, and make their lives better. Then we gradually adapted. Then when the Cogi showed up, it got fascinating all over again.”
“‘Cogi’?” she asked, looking puzzled.
“Is that your demonym? Or is it specific to their group?”
“Cryder referred to themselves as ‘Cogi’?” she asked with more intensity.
“Yes.”
“I see,” she said, looking rather serious and a bit annoyed.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
She almost blushed, and did frown.
She said, “The word is not exactly correct. But it’s very apparent he was twisting another word into a reverse epithet.”
“Oh?”
Very flatly, she said, “The actual word is ‘cogni.’”
“From…cognizant?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s a colloquialism that means the person is very aware of goings-on. Events. Activities. Cause and effect.”
“So he was calling them the smart people.”
Now she did blush. “Yes. I apologize that he did that.” That came out quickly. She looked distressed and uncomfortable.
He shrugged and took a sip of beer. “Well, it’s not your place to apologize for him, but thank you.” He considered for a moment.
Then he said, “And I guess that’s fair return, because we had troops who’d do the same with local villagers and workers.”
“Refer to yourselves as the smart ones?”
“Not exactly.”
It was his turn to be embarrassed.
“I remember two incidents. The first was a bunch of local kids shouting, ‘Give me candy, please.’ But someone had thought it was clever to tell them the English phrase was ‘Please give me cock.’”
She looked appalled.
“Why would you do that?”
He blurted, “I didn’t, and I warned people not to, and we had regular briefings that it wasn’t clever or helpful.”
“I would say so,” she replied with a shake of her head, hair flowing as she did.
“There’s always one troop who’s got to try to be clever.”
She sighed. “Some things never change.”
“Very true. Do you want to hear the other example?”
Her headshake was vigorous. “No, I comprehend enough. I appreciate that you don’t support it. So what happened after you debriefed?” she asked, changing the subject quickly.
He was grateful to get back to that. “I went back to school, graduated, and am doing residency work. That’s frustrating, because I keep being treated like a regular civilian who doesn’t know anything other than books. I’ve performed lifesaving surgery in the Stone Age, dammit.”
“I imagine that’s frustrating,” she said.
“Very,” he agreed.
She stood.
“Well, it’s good to see you again. Do you mind if I meet you at the party this evening?”
“I’d like that,” he said carefully, trying to sound interested without gushing. Are you kidding? he thought. Any time you want to spend with me is good. She was smart, educated, expressive, and smoking hot. He’d hang out all she wanted.
“I’ll be there about…twenty-one hundred,” she said. “I’ll change out of work clothes.”
These were her work clothes…She’d worn some striking outfits last time.
“I look forward to it,” he said.
Amalie Raven was very unhappy with the local restrictions. “Livid” would be a better term. Certainly she expected oversight from the Cogi, Bykos, whatever they were called. Absolutely she expected to share data. As far as what that data would show, it would reveal the number of generations in question, which she knew, the divergence from the root population, which she had a very good estimate of, and the presence of any significant vectors and viral populations. That wouldn’t affect anything as far as the “temporality” went. It might assist in developing treatments for various diseases. So unless there was a major plague pending, nothing about it should be a problem.
What she could not even hint at was the other data she hoped to acquire. While it wasn’t impossible the future twits had anticipated that, this could be a blanket protection against any such findings, inadvertent or covert.
Right then, Sheridan said, “I’m very eager to compare genetic lines between the three time frames, and—”
Raven cut in with, “Of course, we can’t do that, but it will be fascinating to learn what we can about any potential microbes and viruses.”
She gave the other woman a careful look and thought, Shut up, very clearly.
Sheridan took the hint. “Yes. Whatever we can learn will be useful and fascinating, but I’d love to spend a year here.”
That was hopefully an effective cover for the slip.
She replied, “We’ve got a few weeks. But it will all be useful for our health and history. We need to check over some of the gear, make sure it’s still calibrated.”
“Oh, yes. We should,” Sheridan agreed, hardly hiding the fact that they were hiding things.
Amalie sighed. She could have handled this just fine with a lab assistant, possibly Marisa or Elna. Sheridan was a terrible choice for anything regarding discretion.
She needed a drink. Possibly some of the other people here were less intrusive. Or she could just ignore them. She was stuck in that state of needing to be alone, but really wanting to look around.
Sigh.
“Jenny,” she called to Caswell, who hadn’t quite left yet. The younger woman turned.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“‘Amalie’ is fine. Are you heading for that party? May I join you?”
“Yes, and sure. I told the guys I’d catch up there.”
“Okay. House, can you ensure Shug is kept entertained? Pictures, interaction, any staff on call if necessary?”
“All that is possible. I will do so.”
“Great.” She hated leaving the poor kid alone. He was older than her own, but she recognized the loneliness. A futuristic rave would probably freak him out, certainly confuse him, and lead to more stories they wanted him to avoid spreading.
At least he’d be home soon, hopefully.
Sheridan said, “I’ll check this over, see what I can do for Shug, and come later.”
“Okay.”
She caught up with Caswell at the door and they headed out.
They’d already seen from the air how small and isolated the facility was. There was one long, lonely, narrow road entering from the east. The airfield was in regular use. It was possible there was an underground train or other entrance. Possibly they got regular heavy air supply and support flights in between. It really was a remote site in the woods.
The architecture, though, was stunning. For a remote “village,” it resembled Disneyworld.
The raised walkways and slideways led in long arcs, though there were also others that were direct between buildings. The ground had marked roads, in addition to walkways for pedestrians and bikelike conveyances. Flowers, bushes, and trees exploded from islands in the pavement, and filled marked gardens in a more orderly fashion. Those other things…those were buildings, with plants growing in and through them, like cybernetic treehouses.
The building they walked toward had no definable shape. It was oblong, oblate, and asymmetric, with multicolored crystal polygons on the surface.
Caswell said, “Damn. I don’t even know what I’m looking at.”
Raven said, “It’s gorgeous, though.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Then they were striding downward and into it, across a threshold of colored mists.
Inside was like something out of sci-fi, which made sense. The stairway swooped and curved, with arches and buttresses.
“God, that’s amazing,” Caswell muttered, sounding awed.
It was. It was pure style. It didn’t present as an attempt to be anything or show anything, just “this is pretty.” And it was.
“There’s the guide,” she commented, watching the blue beacon process along the ground.
There were some more stares here, though the variety of people were enough that the Americans didn’t stand out particularly.
Though, she thought, they wouldn’t move like the locals, and most of them likely knew most others on sight at least. Nor did her body type blend in at all. Short, broad, differently colored. Everyone had to know by word of mouth who she was.
Martin Spencer suddenly realized they were on an escalator. Or, more accurately, a sliding walkway, except they seemed to stand vertically, and it appeared to slope upward in front of them. He took a quick glance to the side and realized it was snaking under them to maintain a flat surface as it rose. Then he looked back quickly, because that was disorienting.
There was a sign, and he could just puzzle out their letters. It said PRIVT REZS. Private Residences. These were apartments, then.
Every door was personalized—size, shape, color. The guide led them down and around to the right, back toward the side they’d came in.
“I’m glad of that dot, because I’m completely turned around right now,” he admitted.
“Tell me about it,” Elliott replied.
Martin pointed at the lighted arch ahead. “That appears to be our party.” There was a sign in several languages, including the sort-of English alphabet, naming it the MAD LABORATORY.
The door opened as the guide approached it, and light and sound emanated from inside.
Elliott stepped in front and led his people in.
Martin followed him, and his senses were almost immediately overwhelmed.
It was like every other party, and yet not.
There was music, and he could feel the tempo, but damn, it was complicated, and few of the instruments were recognizable, even as synths. The sounds were entirely different.
Lights flashed. The colors were in broad shades. It was hard to distinguish purple from pink from red until suddenly they overlapped. Some seemed to be in time with the music, some doing their own thing in multiple sequences that interacted, sometimes in phase, sometimes cancelling each other out.
The music had phase cancellations, too.
Two of the musicians were completely nude, a man and a woman, and they danced and writhed through what seemed to be triggers for some sort of theremin, because the music shifted constantly with their movements. It was a form of performance art he’d never be able to properly appreciate, though they were both buff and the chick was definitely hot. She wore an enthusiastic smile of someone enjoying her work and the feedback, which from the crowd seemed to be a mix of artistic appreciation, lust, and interest in the beat.
He’d go insane if he tried to figure out any kind of pattern.
That was a bar. He’d go there and hope they had something recognizable.
On the way, he smelled perfumes, inhalants, vapor.
Those were a couple, apparently male. And another. That was a male/female couple, and several more. Good. Gays didn’t bother him, but he wasn’t sure how he’d feel in an entire party full.
The bartender was stripped to the waist, male, very fit, and had cuffs and a collar, almost like a stripper. He was wearing pants, though. His hair was darker than most, with high cheeks.
“You are one of the American guests!” he said in carefully enunciated English. “It’s excellent to meet you.”
“Thank you very much. I’m Martin Spencer. My rank is Sergeant First Class.” They liked titles here.
“I am Rec Chem Conard Medyva, in your sequence.”
Got it. His first name was Conard.
Martin greeted back, “Good to meet you, too. Is there a specialty beverage or all to order?”
Conard waved across the bar that contained bottles, decanters, tubes, garnishes…“Anything you like, we can mix or fabricate. The human touch is always better than a machine. But if you’ll allow me a moment.”
“Okay,” Martin agreed and waited while Conard stared at him.
In a few seconds the man said, “Yes. I have something you may like.” He turned, reached, grabbed three bottles in quick succession, splashed from each into a small glass, and waved it over a lighted, rippling surface. Then he turned back.
He presented the glass in a move that was almost formal, almost a dance.
Martin accepted it, said, “Thank you,” and nosed it. He had no idea what was in it, and wanted to ask, but figured he could trust the patron to warn him of anything.
It was smoky sweet and slightly pungent in scent, but not sharp like liquor.
It seemed safe enough. He took a sip.
The flavor was rich, and very, very smoky. It wasn’t Scotch, nor bourbon, and not quite rum. If he had to guess, it was made from sweetened grain, or made to fake it, since it had come from three bottles. It was smooth, tingly on his tongue, with fruit notes in the finish.
And it packed a kick.
“Wow. What is that?” he asked.
“The active ingredient is ethanol, high proof, with a buffer. The rest are added flavorings.”
“It’s like a combination of three of our drinks, which I’d never think would work together, but damn, do they, at least the way you did it.”
With a bow that was almost a nod, Conard replied, “Thank you. I’m glad you liked it.”
Martin looked around, but didn’t see any sign of a tip jar or of tipping. And he had no way to pay or tip anyway.
“How do I compensate you?”
Conard smiled cordially.
“The host is paying for the service, but you have credit on file as a contractor from another natcor.”
“Oh. Good. I’ll ask the patron, thanks.”
House spoke in his ears. “You can choose to offer a small gratuity from your account. As all your functional needs are taken care of professionally, you have plenty of allowable credit against Bykop.”
“House, can I be screened for a moment?”
“Certainly. Can you move toward the wall?”
“Yes.” He didn’t want to block traffic. There were fuzzy outlines against the wall and near the window that might be other people. Or even couples.
He stepped over to a corner of the bar that was against the window, in an acute angle that shouldn’t be in anyone’s way. The air shimmered and everything got quieter.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’d like to offer him a standard tip plus a little for the thoughtful attention.”
“Done.”
“Thank you. Can you tell me our geographic location? Or the origin of Bykop?”
“I am not authorized to discuss that, sorry.”
“Because I have a theory based on our displacement in the past, our latitude now, and certain terminology.”
“I am not authorized to discuss that. I’m sorry. You may speak as you wish, but I cannot respond further in that line.”
“Understood. Well, we’ll see how it plays out.”
“Thank you for accepting that. In the meantime, it appears Armand may need some minor assistance.”
“Oh?” he asked, as the air cleared.
He turned and scanned the room, then stepped out of the corner to view the rest. Over there. It was still odd to think of a 6′1″ man as short, but in this culture, they all were.
He saw the problem. The women positively flowed toward Devereaux, like moths to a light. His expression was a combination of thrilled and terrified.
“House,” he said, “I do think Devereaux could use a bit of breathing room. Maybe two people at a time?”
“I see and will assist,” the voice responded.
Some of the women paused in stride, listened to their avatars, and changed course. The three closest to him took turns introducing themselves and offering hands. Doc seemed cheerful and pleased, and Martin figured three was manageable, but nine would probably have scared the young man.
He stepped to the bar, asked Conard for another of the smoke shots, and took it with him. His head already had a smooth rush to it, a pre-buzz. That was from one shot of the stuff. Even if it was pure grain alcohol it shouldn’t hit like that.
The song playing was vaguely familiar. He listened and wondered, as it taunted him. He knew this song. Something.
“Beat It.” Michael Jackson, 1980s. Only, it was played in some orchestral synth-metal jazz combination that was utterly weird.
He stood in that protective corner watching people, trying to gauge activity. He liked watching people. He liked interacting with people. He wanted to know how, first. Being a displacee with no commonality didn’t make it easy to just jump into a conversation of strangers.
It seemed basically familiar. People greeted one another, gathered in groups and around tables, drank, chatted, joked. The music was present without being overwhelming, and there were certainly acoustic effects in place to keep the volume over the dance floor. It was fairly quiet here. In fact, he was sure the conversations were also muted for comfort and discretion. They might not have much real privacy, but their social contract was organized around it.
“Greetings,” he heard a woman say.
He turned to his right. She wasn’t overly close, but he hadn’t heard her approach, and the arc of the window meant she’d been slightly past his field of view.
Damn. She was amazing. Mid-thirties to look at her. She obviously wasn’t wearing a bra under that gown and didn’t need to. She had a rock-muscled chest. He took in the rest of her figure with a glance. Oval hips, long legs, supple skin where it showed. Looking back up almost immediately, her face was high-cheeked, with very faint epicanthic eyes. She was far northern Caucasian or Eurasian in ancestry. Her skin had a gorgeous light olive tone. Her eyes were walnut brown pools. Her lips had a faint bit of pout outside of perfect teeth, and her hair was a unique coil of brown with a bare red tinge, almost like streaked rosewood, that flowed over her right temple, down her shoulder, and between her breasts. He saw another wave of it down her back.
“Greetings,” he replied.
“You are one of the Merghans?” she asked, stepping fractionally closer.
“Americans, yes.” He remembered they liked titles, and gave his. “I am Sergeant First Class Martin Spencer.”
That seemed to be consent for her to step even closer. The music dulled slightly as the air thickened, though it remained transparent.
“I am Temporal Archivist Oktabro Maralina. Maralina is my personal styling.”
That was a good opening. That meant he could ask questions and keep looking at her. “What do you do as a temporal archivist?”
She explained, “I log any and all data we acquire from the past, and scale it to known or documented information. I weight reliability of source, and then it is forwarded to Data Comparators who attempt to correct our knowledge to the best quality and source.”
“Fascinating. I could have used you when we were lost.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? How so?”
“I know a bit of prehistory and our early history. Much of what I thought I had right was off by years or even centuries.”
“Ah, but without my files, I wouldn’t be able to help.”
“Yes, but I had no references at all. Just what was in here.” He tapped his temple.
She looked quizzical. “I understood you had credible density for information storage.”
“We do,” he agreed, and pulled the necklace with the memory stick out. “I didn’t have it with me, and our ability to read these was largely improvised from devices on hand. It wasn’t issued equipment.”
“That’s…impressive,” she said, eyes flaring slightly. “Did you study that time frame in school?”
“No, it was just a hobby. My knowledge is mostly theoretical. My business partner knows how to knap flint and work hides. I was able to make an iron reduction furnace and forge, though.”
“I saw reference to that. You made it from memory of secondary sources only?” Her eyes widened and she sounded impressed.
Well, honestly, he had done admirable work, given it was all theoretical, from memory. He now knew several important additions to the process that would have made it work better. But he’d made iron from ore, and worked it.
“Yes,” he said.
An amazingly gorgeous Eurasian history buff, obviously interested, and I’m married…and I shouldn’t be regretting it, dammit.
“Is something wrong?” she asked gently. Damn, did he want a hug, and he was pretty sure she’d agree, and then…no.
“No, just a memory.”
“I gather the experience was traumatic, with no knowledge of the cause.”
That was a good cover. “Very. I kept being afraid everything would reset, and I’d be separate from the rest and lost forever.”
She shivered very slightly in sympathy, and even that looked sexy.
She said, “I’m glad we were able to recover you. The process was entirely misunderstood at first, and not even—”
“THIS CONVERSATION IS RESTRICTED.” Right in the middle, House had blocked the words.
House continued, “I apologize to both of you, but that reference is outside the permitted scope.”
“I understand and I am very sorry,” Maralina replied.
Martin said, “No problem. I’m sure there will be more. I know my knowledge of history is incomplete. You have more of it to deal with.”
“Can I offer you a drink, Sergeant Spencer? And may I ask about your family relationship?”
“You can call me Martin. I would like a drink, thank you. I’m not sure what details you want.” Yeah, another drink would be a good idea, but he should probably stop after that.
The woman rapid-fired something to her patron, who apparently informed Conard, who responded by walking down the bar, reaching over, and delivering a glass with a different flourish.
“This is a sweet wine,” she offered. “I hold the design on the flavor profile.”
“Oh, well, thank you,” he replied, accepting the glass.
He raised it and took a sip.
It was warm and chill in ripples. Certainly sweet, but without being cloying. There was a musty bite under that, and an explosion of dark fruit. Plums? Blackberries? Both?
“That’s delicious,” he agreed.
“Thank you. I was inspired by tales of northern fruit wines of the higher latitude barbarians.”
“Vikings and similar?”
“Yes.”
“It certainly reminds me of that with the heaviness and cool texture, but I don’t think they had anything as sweet.”
“I would think not,” she agreed. “This is my modern interpretation.”
“I would say you captured the spirit, and it has a rich, almost dense profile.”
“I’m glad you like it,” she said with a smile that melted his brain. He noticed she wore earrings, complicated pieces that looked like futuristic tribal designs. Were they possibly Siberian in origin? Maybe. He didn’t know much about that area other than the Andronovans.
Damn, her poise and posture was sexy.
To distract himself, he asked, “Are these beverages available to my patron?”
House suddenly said, “Yes, they are. I can reproduce them on demand, and Ms. Oktabro receives a small royalty each time.”
What was that like? Where you could treat your friends and the machines made sure you got your cut as well, at effectively no cost to them?
This was even more fascinating than the Paleolithic, and a lot friendlier.
“I will do that. Thank you, Ms. Oktabro.”
“Please do call me Maralina.”
“Certainly. I go by Martin.”
“Martin, then.” She smiled and continued. “What is your current relationship?”
“Ah. Married once, for twenty years now. Two children, both adults starting to leave the nest.”
“I deduce that is a monogamous commitment.”
“It is.” He had to be honest, problems or not. Hell, obvious failure or not. He just wanted to look at her.
She said, “I applaud your determination and durability. I understand a lot of marriages in your era did not last so well?”
Yeah, he wanted out of this line of discussion at once.
“Many don’t, many do. It entirely depends on the people.”
“Certainly,” she agreed. “I am paired, prime to another researcher, though he is not at this facility at present. I have no second at present. I wouldn’t try to involve with a third.”
“I’m afraid to wonder how complicated that is,” he admitted honestly. “I know a couple it works for. A trio, I guess. I know others who tried it and had it fail dismally.”
She smiled. “It has become more common and workable with anthropological study of relationships.”
He blurted out, “I expect so. Maralina?”
“Yes?”
“My relationship is…an awkward subject in public. Can we talk about something else?”
She tossed her head a fraction. “Certainly. Shall we sit over there?”
She indicated a couch that looked as futuristic and comfortable as everything else, even more so than the ones in their lodge.
“Lead the way,” he agreed.
She did, and he had a perfect view of her from behind. Those hips rolled like a dancer’s, her shoulders were square, taut, and shifted gracefully. She turned and sat and her dress flowed for just a moment.
No underwear. He didn’t think that was a deliberate come-on. From their last trip and some other attendees, he gathered a lot of them were casual about nudity, using clothing only for decoration.
He might be making a lot of use of that accessorized shower.
Keeping his eyes on her face, not that phenomenal chest, he asked, “How did you get into this work? I assume it’s new since time travel seems to be for your culture.”
Her eyes looked fascinated, and fascinating, as she replied, “It is. When I got my first professional credentials, twenty-three years ago…”
He about choked.
“Wait, how old are you?” he asked.
“Fifty-three.”
Holy shit.
“You don’t look a day over thirty. Seriously. I wouldn’t even assume that old.”
She smiled very warmly. “I look fairly typical for our culture. Do I recall there were significant strides in diet and exercise in your era?”
“Yes, and still ongoing.”
“Then you are almost there.”
“That’s all? Lifestyle, not medicine?”
“Both are the same,” she said with a quizzical furrow of her brow.
“Good,” he replied. “I may be lucky then. Uh, what credentials?”
“History, specializing in the Industrial Era, including yours.”
“Okay. Then?”
She discreetly said, “Other eras, some I can’t mention. I love technology, then music. I never really cared for sports or most visual arts.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
“What about your training?” she asked.
“Me? I enlisted in the Army at eighteen. I started out as a helicopter flight engineer and door gunner.”
“‘Door gunner.’ Shooting from the craft in flight? Without automated systems?” She looked fascinating again, but a bit put off.
“Yes. I never did any in combat. Some craft have computerized weapons.”
“How did that work out? Considering all the conflicts?”
He shrugged, and tried to be reassuring. “Oh, most of them are low-scale conflicts. We haven’t involved the whole Army in anything since World War Two. That would be 1941 to 1945, our dates and involvement. We have lots of little conflicts, but units rotate through.”
“I see.”
“After age caught up with me a bit I switched to being a vehicle mechanic.”
“Those are what you called trades.”
“Yes. Hands on, not theoretical.”
“Your knowledge exceeds that.”
That was valid. “Certainly. I like studying. Our element had a huge spread of skills. Better than average, and it served us well.”
“I learned about a lot of the development of trades,” she said. “Starting with the medieval guilds. Do you know the…fourteenth century?”
He thought back about what he’d read. “Not well, but passingly. That’s when the guilds started defining the skills and training.”
“Yes,” she said. “You did iron reduction. I’ve always wanted to see that in historical scale. We use electrical consolidation…Hey, the protocols let me say that. You must know of it, then.”
“If you mean electrical melting and stratification, I can guess,” he said. “My way was much messier and cruder.”
“That’s what makes it fascinating,” she nodded. “Starting with raw ore and a heat source, it was early in that era that puddled iron came into being, and eventually the blast furnace.”
The conversation drifted from there to mechanical shaping, paint schemes. She knew about hot rods, though not in detail. He had a few pictures on his phone, including a supercharged Dodge called the “Blow Dart.”
She was fascinated more by his phone. Then they got on to clothing, and talked about textiles.
“Gina in our group set up spinning and then crochet and knitting, eventually weaving. Bob knew how to tan hides. We made it workable.”
She said, “I would be very excited to see demonstrations. We all would.”
“I can ask our commander about it,” he said. Sure. Whatever she wanted to see, and it would be less stressful here.
“Oh, please, do,” she said, with a flash of perfect teeth behind dark lips, and heave of her chest.
He would do his best.
They talked about history, and she was absolutely rapt. So was he, but less for the history, he admitted.
He needed to get out of here. He was overloaded on people, except for her, and with the booze thrown in, he needed to leave.
Sighing inside, he said, “Maralina, it’s been wonderful talking, and I hope to again, but we have tasks in the morning and I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“I have work also,” she said.
She offered her hand, and he offered his in return. She clasped it in hers, raised it to her cheek, and pressed warmly against it.
“Thank you for talking to me, Martin. I hope to see you again. I can always be paged through the patrons.” She lowered his hand but kept light hold.
If you drag me off I can say I didn’t ask.
“I would enjoy that. The conversation is fascinating and…I must say you look spectacular.” He buzzed with endorphins.
She glowed and grinned, with sparkling eyes. “Thank you very much. Have a good evening, and safe travels. I’ll enjoy documenting anything you bring back.”
He wanted to document every inch of her body.
Jenny Caswell understood the tribal origins of the dancers, and the artistic relevance of being nude. It was suggestive, but not sexual per se. It certainly said this culture wasn’t very inhibited.
Next to her, Dr. Raven muttered, “Flanging…frequency oscillation. That’s a round wave with gated release. Am I hearing a phase inversion on a rising attack?”
The woman was analyzing the technicalities of the music. Nerd, she thought, in a friendly fashion. The two scientists seemed very, very competent.
Katherine Sheridan had just arrived, had a glass of wine, was all eyes on the nude male, but responded to Raven with, “I think it’s all controlled from that corner. The sensor field seems to be a flux that feeds back on itself, but roughly x horizontal, y vertical, and z depth. Its own envelope adjusts the level of sensitivity.”
Still watching, Raven replied, “It’s just too damned cool, and I bet they have to be naked for cleanest signal. You could mess with it by wearing lace or chiffon or some sort of mesh and it would fuzz the edges, but probably not quite distortion.”
Sheridan said, “No, probably a comb-filter effect. That would be neat.”
Sure enough, the woman waved a scarf through the matrix, the texture changed, and again as she wrapped it around her leg and ground into it.
Jenny didn’t grasp most of the discussion, but apparently the scientists understood electronics, or optics, or something. But after hearing that, it did seem that one corner was the focus.
The dance wasn’t quite ballet, not quite bossa nova, not quite tango. It also seemed likely the two were a pair. They moved very well, limbs sliding past each other, ducking and twisting, and walking over each other forward and back, feet, hands, arch, and back upright.
She said, “I’m going to sit by the bar.”
Raven replied, “Sure.”
As she sat on an open chair, House said, “Jenny, there are two different men asking if they can introduce themselves.”
That was interesting. And courteous. She replied, “I’d like to say yes, but we’re about to travel, and I haven’t actually seen anything yet. Can you thank them for the courtesy and interest and tell them I’m really too busy to socialize that much—I mean, in person?”
“I will relay that.”
“Thanks.”
The bartender was named Conard, who looked every bit a stripper, but friendly and polite. He got her a golden ale, and she decided the one would be enough, but it was tasty.
Doc was surrounded by women, which was partly amusing, and partly informative. He was literally the only black person anywhere here. They’d asked about that last time and no one wanted to answer. But the attention was positive.
Way in the corner, Dalton was talking to some guy with a beard, and it was a serious conversation.
Sergeant Spencer was sitting with a striking-looking woman.
The captain was watching it all. Good. He really was a competent officer, and she liked serving with him. He’d kept them all in order in their own displacement.
Sean Elliott leaned back on one of several couches in a conversation area, where he could watch the exits and his own people while sipping a beer. In between he watched the crowd.
The soldiers seemed to be doing okay. Doc was sitting between one woman who was tall, lithe, and willowy, and one with a body solidly packed with muscle. They were focused on him. He seemed distracted by both.
Spencer was talking to a woman who was stunning even for here. She looked Siberian.
Caswell and both scientists were watching the dancers. Well, that was certainly an anthropological thing. The female dancer was seriously smoking hot, but the music just sounded wrong to him and he couldn’t be nearby. Though he could probably get House to mute or change it.
Oglesby was sort of dancing with a woman. Dalton was talking to some guy at a table near the wall, very animated and intense. Probably religion. Good luck to him with that here.
Dr. Twine appeared near the door, waved and smiled, and approached. She was in a gown so black light seemed to disappear into it, with openings at midriff, shoulders, all down her back, and up the thighs. Wow. He stood up.
Her manners were perfect as she offered her hand, shook, stepped back a foot, and said, “Captain Sean Elliott, allow me to introduce my friend and tonight’s host. This is Hamota Fedori.”
The woman was slim for her height, and slightly shorter than average, only about six foot. Hamota was older, apparently late sixties. Here she might be a lot older than that. She could certainly be a mix of Japanese and Russian. That was perfectly reasonable geographically, and while not local to the area, certainly made sense in Asia. She bent her head just fractionally.
“Thank you for hosting us,” he said as he made the same token bow back to her.
Hamota stood back. Her gown was half dress, half robe, in layers of black, blue, and purple that flowed in beautiful waves as she moved. It was tasteful and striking.
“You’re welcome,” she replied. “I’m pleased to bring you here. I always have the most interesting guests and travelers, and you’ve traveled more than any.”
That was completely true. They’d travelled entire millennia.
“I hadn’t even considered that. Do you want us to talk about it?”
She shook her head and smiled. “No need as a group. You can talk as you wish with other guests. Just having you here enhances my own aura. Whatever refreshments you all wish are complimentary, of course.”
“That’s gracious, thank you, ma’am.”
Her smile was amazing, even as an elder. It put him perfectly at ease. If he guessed correctly, that was part of her function.
She assured him, “Just ‘Fedori’ is fine. I have my own lengthy titles, but this is a social function.”
“Are you a researcher yourself?”
A bigger smile. “I was. I’m now an interlocutor between them and the genpop.”
That sounded like…“Public affairs?”
The woman nodded. “That is probably accurate enough. I explain things, elaborate, promote, promulgate, and present for benefit and investment.”
“I’m told you’re famous for it.”
She smiled. “I have a lot of experience and a trained mind. I am well received in many places.”
There was a moment’s pause, and she added, “I would like to ask a couple of questions when time permits, but I must greet some others. Please excuse me. A pleasure to meet you, Captain.”
She’d even managed to prevent an awkward silence. Well done.
“Good evening to you, Fedori.”
Rich Dalton sat at a tall bar table near the wall. He definitely liked the scenery. The women ranged from pretty to smoky and mysterious, to blatantly stunning like peacocks, to sheer exotic beauties unlike any he’d seen.
As much as he liked female company, he didn’t like hookups. He found them unsatisfying, frustrating, and demeaning. One had control of one’s baser instincts. That was the point of a healthy relationship with God. The three extended relationships he’d been in were all based on finding a suitable wife. That wasn’t going to happen here, so he’d enjoy the view and philosophize, while learning what he could about their culture.
The dancer was interesting, but strippers never did anything for him. He thought she could do just as well clothed, and he didn’t really care to have the naked guy dancing around.
Much like people anywhere, this was a gathering to meet, greet, socialize, network, swap contacts, and seek relationships. The similarities were obvious, but the differences were fascinating. He thought he could see five classes of people, including political types, ranking researchers, technical workers, support staff, and artsy types.
As they passed him, quite a few clearly recognized him as an outsider, and some as to which group he was with. Several gave slow nods, almost bows, which he returned politely.
Their dress and demeanor told who they were. The men’s dress was more elaborate than he was used to. There were pants, shorts, kilts, and garments he’d call skirts and dresses, but the cut made them obviously male. They still made him a bit uncomfortable. The women also went for pants quite a bit, mostly very shapely over their asses, and flared lower down in some current style. Those who wore dresses…well, those were more like gowns and very elaborate, even when made of what looked like a single wrapped piece, like the Greek chiton or Roman toga. Actually, some looked quite a bit like that.
Most of them were European or Eurasian, with some definitely more Asian. A handful appeared to be Pacific. No Africans. There were certainly demographic distinctions here.
One gentleman who looked quite a bit Middle Eastern approached, made eye contact, and raised a hand.
“Hello,” Rich greeted.
“Hello. I believe I recognize you. Do you mind talking?”
“Not at all. I’m Rich Dalton.”
He nodded. “Yes, you are one of the American solders.”
“Soldiers, yes.”
The man said, in introduction, “I am Alakri Mommed. I am a medical doctor.”
“Pleased to meet you. I presume Mommed is from our time’s Mohammed.”
Alakri grinned. “Yes, there are still many variations.”
“Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” The man sat across the table from him, on a chair that moved into place for him. “I recognize you from your presentation on Christianity.”
Rich felt a frisson of appreciation. “Oh, you saw that?”
“I did. Your presentation was inspiring.”
He smiled as he said, “Well, that’s good to hear. The active audience didn’t seem to get much from it.”
Mommed shrugged slightly. “Religion has changed. It is more philosophical now.”
Rich nodded. “That’s exactly what I noticed. To me, it’s very real.”
“It showed, and it carried, and it was exciting to see,” the man assured him.
Rich remembered the Parable of the Sower. This one seed had at least made it to ground.
“Thank you. That’s always what I hope for.”
“I am also religious more than philosophical. I did some reading from your time. Radical changes taking place, that I probably shouldn’t discuss in modern context.”
He agreed, “Yeah, that’s frustrating. We’d love to know more about your era.”
“Will you share a drink, Rich?”
“Depending on what it is, certainly.”
Mommed spoke to the server. “Two sekanjabin, please.”
“That’s fine,” Rich agreed. He’d had that here and there, though it was more Persian than Arabian.
Tall glasses with iced liquid were presented momentarily, garnished with beautifully cut mint leaves. He raised it in toast and took a sip.
“This is alcoholic!” It wasn’t supposed to be. What was in it, vodka?
Alakri raised his eyebrows and looked concerned. “Yes. I’m sorry, would you prefer it without?”
“No, this is…tasty.” It was. Very. “I wasn’t expecting that. I presumed you were Muslim. They generally don’t drink.”
Mommed nodded. “Ah, yes. I know a very few who still follow that stricture. Though technically, the liquor is made with neither grape nor grain. But now it’s not something most worry about.”
Rich wasn’t sure how to feel about that. In a perfect world, everyone would convert to the salvation of Christ. He did respect many of the Muslims he’d known, but for them to lose their discipline in this matter disappointed him slightly. Were all beliefs in God fading?
“I do feel a bit…out of my depth in a world where faith is declined.”
“I can see that perspective,” Mommed replied, “though rather, you may want to consider that faith has served its purpose and receded to the background. We still have political strife and unrest, but less than you did. We feed poor you tried very hard to. Our civilization generally is very happy. Sectarian violence has largely disappeared.”
It did sound almost too idyllic. “All good. And I’ve noted people clutch at faith when they most need it, but it’s something that should be maintained, so it doesn’t have to rediscovered.”
It was a truly enlightening discussion, and he thanked God for the encounter. His words had been seen and received, had touched others, and in return, he was learning new things about himself and the world.
With a delicious drink, a fascinating point of view, and gorgeous women in the background, it was a good evening.
Amalie and Sheridan came back early, before 2300 local. They had equipment to check, and she wanted to confirm her portable sensors were working. Besides, she’d had too much people overload, and her counterpart looked pretty wired, too. Neither of them handled crowds or long contact well. Another strike against getting to Mars.
Shug was napping by the fire, but woke up as they approached.
“Hello,” he said, and grinned.
“What did you and Shug do, House?”
“I offered him several exotic fruits, some carbonated water, a single beer, and he watched a variety of animals hunting and rushing, from a close point of view.”
“Excellent. Glad he’s occupied.” She had been looking at the ceiling even though there was no reason to. She looked down. “Shug, we’re going to work on our tools. Can you help by holding things?”
House helped translate into pidgin, and the boy said, “Yes!” and clapped his hands once.
“Over here,” she indicated.
Their gear was in crates near the bathroom area. Once the first rolling box had its doors open, she had Shug hold a meter stick out from one side. They made a point of bringing things by so they could measure them. She wanted him to feel useful, and Sheridan followed her lead. Then she had him apply voltmeter probes to various batteries to check levels, which actually was important. She showed him where the terminals were, he’d place them and wait for the readout, she’d confirm and say, “Okay.”
He seemed absolutely giddy to be helping the shamans, as he called the two of them and Doc.
They did check the equipment over, puttering around, taking longer than necessary. That was cover for the real research she was doing. The longer she could justify on the schedule, the more time she had for the actual work she was here for.
“You know I don’t socialize,” she said to Sheridan.
Sheridan agreed, “Yeah, me neither. I don’t know how to act.”
“I just don’t like people,” Amalie said. That was understating it. Though this group of soldiers wasn’t bad. Bright enough overall that they didn’t bore her to death.
She continued, “But I think tomorrow we should see what we can show Shug, just so he’s not left alone so much.”
The boy twitched hopefully at his name, then sighed and resumed his huddle on the couch. He’d learned to pet Cal, but it was apparent he wasn’t from a culture that did much with cats.
“We could go back out after this,” Sheridan suggested.
“This is going to take at least another hour, remember?” she chided.
Sheridan smoothly said, “Yeah, but…oh, I see. The time.”
Good. She was learning.
Amalie raised her voice slightly. “House, are you listening?”
House said, “I am always listening, but I do not always pay heed. Should I review your recent conversation for content?”
“No need,” she replied. It was good to know the snoop was a recorder, but not necessarily an observer. “I’d like to find out what rules there are for showing Shug around tomorrow.”
“I will inquire with project leadership.”
“Thank you. In the meantime, is there a ball or something he can play with? He’s been shut out of everything, and I can’t create more makework.”
“That is within parameters.”
“And a wall surface over here.”
“At once.”
The wall slid up first, and damn, that was a useful resource.
Momentarily, the delivery surface provided a geometrically dyed ball, much like any back home. Really, it wasn’t as if the technology of inflatable rubber would have changed.
Amalie grabbed it, said, “Shug, watch.”
He looked up, she threw the ball to Sheridan. The other woman fumbled slightly but got hold of it, threw it back. Amalie caught it, showed him how it bounced against the wall, and then bounced it to him. He caught it, squeezed it, bounced it, and chased it as it went awry.
Once he recovered it, he looked much more enthused, smiled and said, “Tank u.”
“You’re welcome.”
He started bouncing it and chasing and laughing. The caracal suddenly appeared from the furniture, and disappeared behind something else.
Amalie sighed. It was the right thing to do, but that bouncing noise was going to…wait.
“House, can you quiet the bounce so I don’t hear it?”
“Of course. I take that is a request?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Damn, this place wasn’t bad at all.
She was aware that Caswell had just returned, and the woman immediately grasped the issue and went to help Shug bounce the ball around. She made a good big sister.
Good. As a female in STEM, multiply so, she found Caswell tolerable, but the woman was awfully opinionated for someone young and definitely not in STEM. Her social ideas were half correct, half sheer liberal idiocy. Which, she noted, was better than average for that generation.
A bit after midnight, they concluded. Her tests and models seemed sound, and more important, neither House nor any of the locals had intruded.
It was about then that Devereaux came back.
“How are you doing, Doc?” she asked.
“Daaamn,” the man said with a huge grin. He looked slightly buzzed and very distracted.
“Oh?”
He detailed, “All the chicks wanted to dance, but I wound up talking to Alexian Twine.”
“Ah, yes. She’s one I don’t despise. Sorry, that’s not a good way to phrase it,” she realized, as she saw his expression. “I’m very asocial, but she’s okay. Interesting conversation?”
“Almost too interesting.”
“Then why are you back here?” she bantered.
“I have to set an example, and I prefer privacy.” The poor man was blushing purple under his dark skin.
“I can see that,” she said. “Well, hopefully you can meet up again. We’re prepping gear and entertaining Shug.”
“Oh, I can throw some ball. Do we have a hoop, or a goal, or something?”
Sheridan offered, “How about the Aztec style, just without the traditional executions?”
“Funny,” he replied. “But I can spare a few minutes.”