CHAPTER 12
The next day, the two latrine sides went up, and the roof went on. It wasn’t perfect, nor was it a private bathroom, but Martin Spencer felt relieved. He didn’t like shitting in public, and he was sure the women liked it less. Everyone had been discreet and polite on the matter, but the more civilized they could remain, the better. He felt creepy when he caught a glimpse of the women squatting.
They’d need a door and plank walls next. Though Barker was working on that sweat lodge and it would be done in a few days. That would be welcome, too. It had been two months since he’d felt hot water. For now the lodge was just a lashed frame of withes. Alexander was supposed to stitch pieces of goatskin to cover it when she wasn’t busy with administration, helping gather herbs, or chopping firewood. Despite snarky comments from Dalton and Oglesby, she did her share of work. They also liked sleeping in the tepee she stitched the cover for. Well, was still stitching. Some of it was still draped, but that was coming along. They got goat hides with every kill, and tendons and rawhide for stitching them together.
He knew of tepees from books. Barker had built them. With the inside liner and cover over the living area, reflected heat was keeping it quite warm for now. It was also very dark, and darker as the ponchos and plastic got replaced with stitched hide. Eventually, they’d need to scrape some lighter ones, or weave something. But he suspected they’d appreciate the heaviness in a few weeks.
Dalton and Trinidad were chopping trees. Caswell was hunting with Ortiz. Barker was cooking. Oglesby was down and in Number Eight to enjoy privacy. The rest were doing camp labor—dragging brush, cutting it into firewood, stretching leather, and shortly they’d be macheteing grass. Eventually he’d have to make a scythe. Forge first.
He dragged a pruned bough over to the woodpile and started sectioning it into sticks and small loglets.
Right then, Doc said, “Chilly this morning.”
“Yeah. Winter is coming,” Spencer agreed. They’d had frost. The leaves had started to turn yellow, except for some kind of ivy around the trees that was turning an absolutely brilliant crimson red.
“That breeze is stiff. I almost want to take cover behind the woodpile.”
He burst out laughing.
Devereaux stared at him. “Eh?”
“Old, very racist slang.”
Doc stared at the sky and thought for a moment, then said, “Oh. Ooooh. Hehehe. Good thing we’re not where I can file an EEO complaint, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, good thing my only familiarity is historical. Seriously, Armand, I’m very glad we have you. I expect to get old first. You’re going to be my savior.”
“Hopefully. I’ve got limited facilities.” Devereaux pointed at him. “How’s your guts?”
“Bone meal seems to help, as does the low carb diet.” He seemed to be okay taking a pill every other day, and had a little irritation but no pain. Still, he might be dissolving his esophagus from that, and eventually it would kill him. He or Alexander would be first from their medical issues, unless rampaging animals trod Caswell or Dalton into the mud.
“Good. I wish I had some way to scope you, but there isn’t.”
“I’m more concerned about the palisade at the moment.” His stomach would kill him slowly. The predators or intruders might be a lot quicker. They’d had a bear walk through the previous night, and crap behind Number Eight, less than twenty feet from Ortiz on watch, thirty from the tepee.
“At least we’re getting buff and fit,” Devereaux said, and flexed a bicep. He’d been wiry and lean before. He had bulked up and ripped down from the diet and exercise.
“We are. Pity there’s no one we can use it on.”
“Native women. Eventually. They’re very nice to look at, when they’re young and healthy.”
Martin said, “Yeah, but they don’t stay that way long, and you’d need to teach one hygiene, I have no idea what we do about age restrictions, and they have families who want gifts.”
“I know.” There was a long pause. “Martin, since we’re using first names for now, what do we do about the regs? How long do we try to remain U.S. Army?”
He’d thought about that often.
“I’d say as long as we can. It’s frustrating, but we need the framework for discipline. In a way, this is worse than death. It’s a lot like being a POW.”
“It is. It’s depressing. I’m worried about a couple of our people.”
“Which ones?”
Doc checked his fingers. “Well . . . Alexander is depressed, partly environmental, partly endocrinal. Caswell seems constantly hyperalert and ready to break. And the LT. He’s prone to zone out.”
There was a hollow thumping sound. Was someone fitting another pole? He thought today was chopping day.
Martin said, “I think Elliott will be okay. Alexander is a medical case, but she responds when you prod her. Caswell . . . she seems to have a lot of issues. Some of it’s being Air Force among us. Some is being female. Some is that unrealistic view she’s had of the egalitarianism of primitive societies. A lot of feminists have that, even though nothing I’ve read supports the idea. They want it really badly, but it doesn’t have much evidence on its side.”
“I wondered about that.”
The thumping came again, and he said, “Stop wondering and start running, it’s a stampede.” He turned and shouted, “Dalton! Trinidad! Stampede! Head for the stockade.”
They had plenty of time. It wasn’t quite a stampede, but it was a large movement of animals. To the west, the large, ugly antelope ran in streams among the wooly rhino, who stirred up dust and plant debris with their gallops.
Spencer shouted, “Open the gate!” as he climbed up into Number Eight, and without looking back called, “Oglesby, we have stampede,” as he climbed up into the turret.
“Uh? Oh.” The man had been sleeping.
Trinidad called back, “Why the gate?”
“Open the fucking gate!” Why couldn’t he just do as he was fucking told?
The kid did it.
“I don’t get it, either,” Elliott said as he climbed up the back.
“Half a gate. They’ll bump it and might break it. Better they run right through.”
“Logical,” Elliott agreed, then said, “Everyone aboard the vehicles.”
“Ramps up?”
“I don’t think that’s a problem, but keep a spear handy.”
The rhino weren’t numerous, but they were huge. One of them lumbered through the gate, snorting, and drove straight through the fire circle without damaging anything. He appeared to move a lot lighter than his bulk suggested, but the ground shook. He charged over the tree stumps and brush by the creek and kept going, splashing mud as he scrambled up the far bank.
Several gazelles followed, and one of the ugly saiga type beasts.
That was it. A few others had gone around the ditch, and some south of the wall. All in all, a nice livestock show.
“I wonder what set them off?” Alexander asked below him.
“Could be anything. Something disturbed one, he jogged, bumped another, pretty soon they’re charging. Everything else around them either takes it as a hint, or tries to get out of the way.”
From the roof of Number Nine, Ortiz said, “That was a small one. There’s lots of room. They don’t seem to form huge herds, just family groups.”
“Yeah. Not like zebra or buffalo.”
Barker said, “I saw a couple of those aurochs, and some wild boar. We need steak and ham.”
“Oh, yes. But I don’t think you can take them down with a rifle?”
“Brain shot will, or we build a trap. I’m not interested in being sporting. I’m interested in eating.”
The excitement over, they dispersed.
“We need that other gate ASAP,” Spencer said.
Trinidad said, “Let’s grind the pivot and get it moving.”
“I need a damned hatchet. The axes are too big, and the machetes are suboptimal.”
Dalton said, “So forge one.” He was being half derisive. Yes, it was going to take a while to get to that stage, and the kid would be less smartass then.
“I will, eventually. Several.” He hoped. First they had to find ore. He could definitely reduce it, eventually. He even knew how to carburize, which put him above anyone before the year 1000 or so.
In the meantime, the rushing animals proved they needed the barricade.
Shaping the pivots took a lot of chiseling and carving. Trinidad was murder with a machete. He used a combination of slicing chops, hacking chops, scrapes and cuts with wrist twists to turn the top point of the log into a quite smooth cone. It wasn’t as smooth as a lathe would make it, but impressive.
“We should have done this sooner,” Martin said as he watched.
The socket was a beast. It wouldn’t be done today. They hammered, chiseled, gouged with knives, filed and scraped.
Trinidad said, “I need a lump from the fire and a reed,” he said. “Just burn it deeper.”
“Not a bad idea, hold on.”
Actually . . . yes. It should work.
Trinidad ran that way, and Spencer noted the increase in the man’s muscle mass. They were all getting bigger from manual labor.
Caswell and Ortiz returned with something small and meaty looking. It might be a yearling deer. They hung it in the kitchen area.
“We got a stampede,” she said.
“Yeah, it came through here.”
“Luckily, they didn’t seem crowded. I thought a rhino was going to stomp me into the ground, but he shifted at the last minute.”
“Good. I’m not sure what we can do about that while hunting. It doesn’t seem to happen often, though.”
“Approaching party!” Barker called from the lookout.
“Oh, goddammit. Paleos?”
“Negative. Large party, numbering about three zero. Armed with bows, with dogs.”
A chill ran down him.
“Body armor, weapons. Magazines in, chambers empty for now, but be ready. I’ll do the meet and greet, the LT has the trucks.”
“I’ll meet them,” Elliott said. “You keep the trucks.”
“Understood, sir,” he said, and felt disgusted with himself for feeling relief. He really wanted to avoid fights.
So why had he started snapping orders and assuming command?
Because he didn’t trust anyone to do the right thing, and he could avoid his fears by giving orders to others. Not good.
The troops were running in and out of the tepee, quite briskly, and wearing armor and helmets. If someone wanted to get stupid with a bow . . .
“Two-forty mounted,” Barker called. “Belt in the box, top cover open.”
“Good, keep it like that for now.”
Yeah. If they got stupid . . .
Please, don’t get stupid.
Sean Elliott shrugged into his ITV and tossed on his ACH. It felt comforting, but almost unfamiliar. It had been weeks since he’d bothered.
“Oglesby with me. Dalton. Caswell. Ortiz . . . no, Trinidad.”
He was risking Trinidad, the intel expert, over the vet, and their edible plant expert, but dammit, he couldn’t leave everyone safe, and he only had nine people.
Alexander ran up with his Bluetooth. He shrugged and stuck it in.
Barker called, “Five hundred meters. I count three-two adults. I’m calling it a war party.”
That was not what he wanted to hear.
“Roger that. We’ll head out so we’re in view.” He wanted that gun covering him. Was Barker good enough to miss him if he fired?
“Go ahead and load,” he ordered. “Fingers off triggers, muzzles safe. We’re not going to start anything.”
Dalton said, “But if they do, we’ll finish it.”
He said, “Be frugal with ammo. Start with two warning shots.”
Caswell said, “Sir, they have no context for a warning shot. It’s just a loud noise. If nothing happens, it won’t have a good effect, and it means if we do shoot one later, they’ll decide the noise isn’t always deadly.”
“Okay.” That was logical. It limited his options though. “Then I guess you shoot to disable or kill. Once they’re down, stop, and Doc will try to save them.”
“Just like Hajjis,” Dalton said. “Has A-stan ever changed?”
“Here we go. Oglesby, let me know if you have anything.”
The man nodded. “Hooah, sir. It’s possible there will be some PIE. It’s even vaguely possible I’ll recognize it if they talk slow. That would be awesome.”
“I’ll take your word on it.” He’d meant to ask what PIE was last time, and hadn’t. Obviously something linguistically common. Pre-something?
The approaching element was visible, and not trying too hard to stay hidden. It could be a friendly meeting, then.
“What is PIE?” he asked.
“Oh. Proto-Indo-European. The root language for all modern Indo-European languages. Everything from Sanskrit to Greek to German and English.”
“Babel,” Dalton muttered.
He felt sorry for Dalton. His worldview had to be taking a beating. Sean was religious, believed there was a God directing everything, who didn’t interact with people very much. But the Bible had been written by people who had no grasp of modern science. How much could God explain to them in terms they could understand? Babel did seem a good metaphor for this PIE. It didn’t need to be literal to be true.
His Bluetooth said, “Can you still hear us, sir?” It was Barker.
He replied, “I can. What can you see?” as the others looked at him. Yeah, he’d want to watch that with the visitors. They might find it as heavenly or demonic, or just not grasp it at all.
Barker said, “They’re smaller than you. Five six or so. Robust looking fellas. Bearded. Spears seem optimized for throwing. So far, they’re clumped up. I’ll let you know if they try for envelopment.”
“Please do.” There wasn’t much range on the Bluetooth, but he had outside eyes. That mattered.
He could easily see them now. Despite the hummocky ground, they were perhaps a hundred meters back. They ambled over the lumpy terrain, and there were two large wolflike dogs with them.
“We’ll wait here,” he decided. The dogs were a complication. “Barker, can you shoot around us if necessary?”
“I can.”
“Are you good enough with that thing?”
“I’ve shot and hit from a moving vehicle. I can enfilade you easily.” The man sounded confident.
“Excellent. Don’t unless I say so, or I go down with a spear. That includes being wounded. Once I’m down, let them have it.”
“Roger that, sir.”
The advancing group were mostly dark haired, but there were a couple of blonds. They had shaggy but kempt beards, some of them trimmed, and their hair was obviously combed and dressed, either cut at the neck or braided. They wore goat hide in various shades, with leggings and moccasins.
The leader stepped out, raised a hand and said, “Haylaa!”
“Hello . . . to you, too,” he said slowly.
Oglesby said, “Well, that’s one, but an easy one.”
Caswell said, “Clear syllables that are easy to say and hear. It may be a widespread.”
“Shut up,” he said.
They mumbled “Hooah.”
The Stone Ager went into some lengthy introduction of himself, shaking his spear and waving, with emphatic shouts.
When he was done, Elliott asked, “Comment?”
Oglesby said, “I didn’t get anything at that pacing, though there’s probably a handful of referents I could get if he slowed down. He’s telling us how awesome he is.”
Caswell said, “How awesome he is. He’s not awesome enough to have someone do it for him. That’s likely a later concept. This is still a band society, not a kingship. But he’s the current leader, probably through prowess.”
Apparently, the discussion took too long. The group moved forward.
Elliott raised a hand. “STOP!”
The man paused for a moment then lumbered on through the hummocky weeds.
Then he realized the chief or whatever he was planned to knock him down. They weren’t going for kills, they wanted slaves.
The easiest way to end this would be to draw an M9 and shoot the chief through the face. Dead, done, behold our magic weapons. Except that might provoke mass violence, and he didn’t want to wipe out a village. Also, the Paleos were useful, the Neos probably would be, and would be more so with trade. And fuck it, they needed to help them develop. It would be better all around, there really wasn’t any other choice, and his duty was to keep his people alive now.
Well, the arrogant prick was burly and muscular, and probably knew how to roughhouse, but did he know Jiu Jitsu and Kung Fu?
He knew aggression. The man was short, but had knotty muscles, and wanted to prove his dominance. He came in fast. Elliott dodged and tried for an arm bar.
Tried. He got the wrist and elbow and shoved, but the bastard was strong enough it didn’t work. The man actually lifted him clear of the ground as he swung his arm, trying to dislodge Elliott. They were bounding across the ground, trying to keep their feet as the sky whirled. He was suddenly glad for the wrestling practice they’d had.
The other Neos fanned out into a semicircle. He saw the soldiers draw back and aim rifles. But if they could do this without shooting, it would be better. For one thing, their ammo was finite.
He let go with his left arm and tried to kidney punch the big man. That didn’t work. Then a strong slap caught him upside the right ear, under the helmet, and his vision blurred as his ears rang. He gripped as tight as he could, and a moment later became aware he was in a strong bear hug from behind, his arms at painful angles and feet dangling. The guy had reached right around the armor.
He strained for breath and took two kicks. Those were knees or shins behind him, and he drove his booted heels back in a one-two. He was rewarded with a roaring scream.
However, the chief then collapsed forward, pinning him against the ground in a heap and bending his wrist back so he convulsed in agony. He had about two inches free with which to batter his helmet back against the man’s nose, then got an arm free and added some jabs. His knuckles stung, but he was hitting cheek or eye socket, and got some groans, and stinking breath past his face.
The man shoved and stood, and Elliott rolled forward fast, catching a glimpse of a foot trying to stomp him. The other one came at him, and he grabbed, twisted and shoved. That brought the man down with a heavy thump, and Elliott rolled to his feet fast.
In a moment Elliott had a boot on the character’s neck, the man’s throat pressed into his other boot, and his right arm twisted far back with the wrist bent. He leaned on it just enough to ensure the guy couldn’t struggle. He couldn’t decide between waiting for submission, breaking the arm or giving a firm boot to the face. Instead, he kept pressure on his throat until the straining roars turned to groans, moans and the man went limp.
At this point he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to kill the man, humiliate him, take over as chief, or roar and thump chest. Hell, if he remembered right, the Zulus and a few others might have raped him.
Instead, he looked for the two largest, closest men, pointed at them, pointed at the limp form, and turned away, which had to be a sign of contempt among hunters. Hopefully, it wouldn’t trigger a thrown spear. Though Dalton and Caswell still had rifles raised and were ready to fire. He wondered if any of the primitives had figured out M4s were weapons of some kind.
Jenny Caswell was impressed. The Neo was built like a wrestler or quarterback, and the LT had ground him into the dirt. Though the armor had no doubt helped a little.
Two of them dragged their chief’s limp form back to their huddle, and they all gathered around. One of them hesitantly stepped back, a little closer to her, and she threw on her command face, shook her head once, pointed at him, pointed at the group, and took a half step toward him.
He skipped back to the group without argument.
Dalton said, “Nice job, sir.”
“Thanks,” Elliott replied through heaving breath and thundering pulse. “Let’s keep it quiet for now and assume we all know I’m a badass. Nice save, Caswell, thanks.” His helmet was askew. He straightened it. It appeared he was trying to moderate his breath, too.
Dalton said, “Hooah.”
“Thank you, sir. Does he need treatment?” she asked. “The chief?”
“Maybe. I hope I didn’t kill him.” Elliott turned to face them. He seemed a bit disturbed. “I’d rather he was alive.”
She thought about proto-pastoral cultures and hoped they were similar. “That depends on their culture. It’s possible the loss is a shame that requires death. He’ll be more dangerous. But probably he will lose status. He’ll have to make amends and gifts to the men, sacrifices to the gods, and try to recover grace with a successful hunt.”
“I hope that’s the case.”
“Without seeing their culture, I can’t say,” she admitted. “And we don’t even know when they really came from nor where. Sergeant Spencer may have a bit more information about early cultures, if we can find out. Though I find him to have a bit of a bias.”
“Everyone has a bit of a bias,” Dalton said.
“This is true,” she said, and decided to drop it. The Neos seemed unsure what to do. The soldiers didn’t have spears, but had easily bested their leader, and didn’t appear afraid.
She was actually quite afraid, but at this point, she knew her eventual fate with whatever group wound up dominant. She just had to make sure she got the best status possible. Concubines rated higher than war trophies.
Elliott said, “It concerns me they came from the west. The Urushu are that way. This is a big, well-equipped group that passed us by the river at least once.”
“I can recon, with two people for backup,” Dalton offered.
On the one hand, she’d love to have the information herself. On the other hand, that was a risk.
“Not right now,” Elliott said.
There was a whistle from the gate. She looked back to see Alexander pointing at her ear.
She looked at the LT. Crap.
“Sir, your Bluetooth.”
“Oh, shit,” he said. “I forgot it completely. Fell out in the scuffle.”
“We’ll sweep for it after they leave.”
Oglesby said, “It wasn’t in the first go round. I saw it.”
“That helps. Caswell, you’re female, do they perceive you as lower status?”
“This group? Almost certainly, sir.” At least he’d asked.
“Would you shooing them off help or hinder?”
“I honestly have no idea, but I’d be delighted to perform the experiment.” It might work on spectators, too.
“You saw him fight. Can you take one?”
“Knowing they’re coming in fast and testosteroned up, I think so.” They charged like teenage boys. Smart and strong, but not wise and not forward thinking.
“Please do.”
“Right away.” She turned, feeling more pleasure than she should in the task.
“You. Shoo. Go away!” She waggled her hands and took a step toward them.
One of them stepped toward her.
She took another step.
He hesitated a moment, then advanced a bit more.
She swung her head momentarily, said, “Do not interfere. I have to handle this. Take my rifle,” and turned back. She leaned her rifle back behind her and let it fall. Taking a step, she pointed. “Go!”
Nope. He wanted a fight. His chest was puffed out, his arms slightly spread, and he leaned slightly forward. It might be he didn’t recognize her as female, or didn’t care. Though this group was all male, which suggested solidified gender roles.
He probably wanted to wrestle. That was his strong suit. He was her height, about 5'5", but had about 40 pounds on her, with similar reach. She would rather not wrestle.
Well, she had kneepads, boots and armor. It was three paces, he likely expected some challenge, so she strode in, let him thrust his chest at her SAPI plate, and kneed him in the balls. He blocked that, and completely missed the fist she’d brought in from the side into his ribs.
He winced, bent, whuffed, and she took his shoulder, pried it up, and kicked down on the side of his knee. He squealed faintly, dropped to the weeds, and sipped for air. She raised a foot as if to kick him in the face, lowered it deliberately, pointed at him, and laughed loudly.
He almost appeared to cry.
Then she turned and walked back to the others, sighing in relief and shaking slightly.
Elliott whispered, “They may regard that as an attack on his manhood.”
Yes, they very well might, and she enjoyed it. A lot.
“Good. Either they want to fight or they don’t. Either they’ll spread the word that women can kick their asses, or they’ll keep zipped and just not come back. As it stands they’re oh for two, and either have to admit we’re tough, or make a point of ignoring us as unworthy.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“So do I, sir.”
For now, at least, the Neos decided they’d had enough. They helped their two injured tribesmen limp a few feet, until those shook off their supporters, growled and walked freely but in shame.
On the whole, she felt pretty good.
It actually felt like a good day for a steak.
Atavism was starting to have an appeal.
“Let’s find that Bluetooth,” Elliott said. “No, wait . . .”
He reached under the collar of his armor.
“Well. That’s lucky. Carry on.”
They all laughed.
She’d boosted her status slightly, and her threat level. For now, being the baddest bitch around was a useful tactic.
Martin Spencer considered the event. For an awkward Air Force chick, that had been a pretty good fight. He’d had no questions about Caswell’s technical competence with the food, and she was definitely an asset, despite her rather annoying personality, but that she could keep her cool and put up a good fight was a big plus.
“Nicely delivered,” he said, as she walked in the gate, offering a high five.
She looked him up and down, up again, and made a token slap.
Well, he’d work on it. He might never like her, but he could probably learn to deal with her.
“Well done, sir,” he offered, as the man headed for the trucks.
Elliott said, “Thanks. Almost lost this,” and pointed at his Bluetooth.
“Yeah, we figured the rumble did that.”
“So it helped marginally, but almost got lost. We’ll need to refigure that.”
“Still useful from OP to any towers and down here.”
“True. Every time we have any kind of problem, I wish we had more people and more gear. But we never will.”
“We can make some,” he said. “Gear, not people.”
“Eventually, yes.”
Conversation resumed around the fire. For now, everyone stayed in camp, especially as it was late in the day, the lowering sun burning streamers through high clouds.
Martin said, “Barker promises we’ll have the sweat lodge within the week. Then we need to see about a hot tub.”
Dalton said, “I remember you talking about that and I can’t recall the problem. What’s wrong with a leather tub? Even if it seeps a bit, it should work for getting clean.”
“Leather shrinks and stiffens with heat. It would be a one time use, no bigger than a bathtub. For a proper hot tub, we need shaped lumber. We’ll need to split boards for a base, split coops, or whatever barrelmakers call the longitudinal pieces, then either carve a wooden frame or bind well with lots of rawhide.”
“Understood. So that part might be next year.”
“Very likely. But steam by itself sounds wonderful.”
Elliott said, “Good. On with dinner, then.”
“Yeah, it’s about that time.”
Barker had skewer-roasted some kind of antelope steak Caswell and Ortiz brought in, and there were a few skinny tubers, roasted and salted. He craved a beer, or a dinner roll, or some goddamned ice cream. Or a cup of cheap-ass coffee. He missed coffee. He had no idea how Barker and Oglesby handled the lack of smokes.
The meat was chewy but it was tasty. Venisony, rich and it had salt and some other seasoning. A green that gave it a sharp taste. “Mustard greens?” he asked.
Caswell said, “Something in the carrot family. Coriander, fennel, cumin, carrot, Queen Anne’s Lace are all related. The roots are edible when young. The greens and flowers are crude herbs. They’re completely undomesticated, but there’s some kind of flavor to them. The tarter ones are turnip and mustard family.”
She tossed a piece of chewed meat down where the cat hung out. They might domesticate him yet. He was still hanging around, came out at night to lurk near the circle without approaching closely, and would accept food. He still limped slightly, but seemed to be fit enough.
Looking back to his food, he said, “It’s weird, but it’s good.” Actually, he wasn’t sure he liked the combo, but it was better than dry meat. He’d deal. She was the best they had at finding stuff other than meat, and he wanted her to be enthusiastic in her task.
Elliott said, “After action review. The apparent Neolithic people have decided we put up too much of a fight. Can you hear me up there, Ortiz?”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply.
“I can, too,” said Doc.
“Good. I expect they’ll be back, so night shift stay alert and use NVG from time to time. We’ll keep working on the wall. We’re past halfway, but the last quarter is going to be a pain, with the stream.
“Oglesby recognized a word or two. We may eventually be able to communicate with these people, after they decide we’re not someone to conquer. Until then, we’ll sic Jenny Caswell on them. Well done on her fight.”
“And on yours, sir,” she said.
After chow Martin was really ready to sleep. It had been a long day, with intrusions by people and animals, and lots of manipulation and labor. He wanted sleep. Or at least alone, away from people. Even if all he had was a sleeping bag.
He made eye contact with the LT, got a nod of assent, then headed for the tepee. The round door had seemed awkward when first built, but now he could roll right through it.
His section was marked off with his poncho on one side and Ortiz’ on the other. With a towel and a coat toward the middle of the pie section, it was quiet, dark and he could pretend he was alone.
At that, being comfortable alone meant he was adapting to this place, and accepting they weren’t going back. That pissed him off.
But there was really nothing he could do.
“Fuck, it’s cold out there,” he said, suddenly realizing that with the tent around him and fire in the middle it was still cool. He pulled off his boots and started opening his bag.
“Hey, uh, Sergeant Spencer, did you brush your teeth?”
He sighed in irritation and . . . but no, Doc was right.
“I’ll do it now, Doc.” Then he very consciously said, “Thanks for the reminder.”
He slipped on his boots, stepped outside, and brushed his teeth carefully for a full two minutes, while shivering and counting. He rinsed with water from a small bottle, spat, and went back inside.
The others were still talking.
Doc said, “We need some women to snuggle with.”
Ortiz said, “Caswell would let us freeze even if it was a medical necessity.”
“No problem. Alexander has better tits.” Doc indicated shape with his hands.
She did indeed. He even had a clandestine photo he was never going to admit to.
He said, “I honestly have no idea how she’d respond. In an emergency. For now, I expect she’d tell you to fuck yourself.”
Doc grinned. “If only I had that much meat. Or could bend that far.”
Ortiz cracked, “Going to invent Yoga?”
The difference between the women was striking. Alexander could handle banter as long as it wasn’t directed at her, occasionally rolling eyes or snapping a comment. Caswell locked up tight and sought privacy. In that regard among others, segregated quarters helped.
For Martin, though, porn was one thing. Fantasies about other troops he served with were unprofessional, dangerous, and cheating. Except Allison didn’t exist in this universe and never would.
He cried himself to sleep.