Gina Alexander closed her eyes, then opened them. She didn’t feel sleepy at all.
House said, “Are you awake?”
“Yes.” She was, quite comfortably, with no aches, no fatigue. Whatever they’d dosed her with had worked.
“I will have breakfast ready shortly.”
“What time is it?”
“Oh eight oh-two, by your clock.”
“I was asleep?”
“You were asleep, and had three full REM cycles. Do you feel poorly?”
“No, I feel fantastic. It’s the best sleep I’ve had in years.” Oh, yes, that had been good. She felt wonderful . . . healthy.
She started weeping.
“May I help?”
She rattled off, as she had so many times in the last decade, “I don’t sleep well. It’s my thyroid, my brain chemistry, and various feedback loops. I never sleep a full night. I’m always tired, cranky, have trouble tracking.” She paused for a deep breath. “This is the first time in a decade or more. And I know it can’t last after I leave.”
“I will relay the information to our medical staff. I cannot speak for them, but I will inform them.”
“Thanks. Can you open the door so I can get breakfast?”
“Yes. I have cleaned and duplicated your PT uniforms, if you’d like to change. The others have done so.”
“Yes, thank you.”
She always felt self conscious in PTs, because she wasn’t nearly as lean and buff as the others. Some of that was age, some thyroid, some joints. But her face was youthful and she was constantly mistaken for a thirty-year-old, only her body was clearly a damaged forty-four. She stood out and was shy about it.
But, PTs were a lot more comfortable than ACUs, and she wanted food.
The walls shimmered and disappeared, and she saw the table, piled with bacon, pancakes, fruit and breads. The smell was amazing. And she wanted pancakes so much, but even without the months of an enforced paleo diet, she knew she shouldn’t. Watching Martin near puke had been scary.
One pancake. And definitely scrambled eggs.
“Morning, Alexander,” Spencer said.
“Good morning, Sergeant. Sorry I’m last.”
“By a whole two minutes. No problem.”
“Any news?”
Elliott said, “Nothing from our hosts, but we’re going to do some exercise in a while, and they say they want to debrief us. I’ve already told them we will only discuss incidents in the past, not our own time. I figure you understand protocols on how to talk.”
“I’ve done public affairs and intel, so yes, I know what I shouldn’t say.” And she was still hanging onto the phone and memory sticks, in her clothes. Could she get those home intact? Were they going home?
Bacon first, ask questions later. And a pancake with maple syrup that tasted real.
The future was tragic in its utopia.
Of course, Cryder and Arnet were soldiers too, so there was a military in the future, which implied other militaries or lots of unrest. So it wasn’t utopia.
Though anyone from the Paleolithic would gladly have moved to Rome, Viking Scandinavia, or twenty-first century America and had no complaints.
The pancake was delicious. She felt a buzz from it and the real maple syrup. She craved more, a whole stack, because she hadn’t had any wheat at all in two years. She also knew it would make her horribly sick, with Martin’s example of yesterday, and that it would wreck her metabolism and her weight.
She stuck to bacon, ham, and fluffy scrambled eggs, with a large mug of dark, bittersweet, very rich and savory chocolate.
“Alexander, are you with us?” she heard, and snapped to.
“Uh, yes, sir,” she said. “I zoned for a moment.”
She blushed and realized it had been several minutes, staring into the mug, eating her food, while the others had been talking. She recalled voices, but not what was said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I missed it.”
Elliott said, “I said we should stay together, not get out of sight of each other for any debriefing or interrogation and not discuss anything we’re unsure of. Check with me first.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Please paraphrase it back.”
She blushed again. “Stay in sight of each other, don’t discuss anything questionable without asking you.”
“Correct.”
He continued without comment.
“Okay, so until we know what else is going on, we stay here, together. Prepare to be bored if necessary.”
Martin said, “What about House? He may have entertainment options.”
House said, “I can show you any surviving entertainment from before your era, or landscapes. There are also reconstructed boardgames available.”
Before anyone could respond, House spoke again.
“There are visitors outside. Are you amenable to receiving guests?”
They looked around at each other.
“Yes.”
“Very well, please stand by.”
Sean Elliott looked around. There was no sign of a door, but three people appeared within the wall and walked toward them.
Alexander said, “Oh, that’s fantastic.”
He assumed she meant the androgynous . . . woman? wearing feathers, because he was looking at the naked chick.
She was easily 6'4", and allowing for hips to match the height, she was absolutely stunning. She had dark, lustrous green hair, in a comb held up by static, perhaps. She had eyebrows but not a single other hair below them. High cheeks, green eyes, fantastic muscle tone, and no, nothing resembling a bra, unless it was invisible. Her tits were defying gravity. And the rest of her . . .
Okay, she wasn’t totally naked. She was wearing shoes, if you could call those pads under her feet shoes. They were like bootliners, in a green to match her eyes and hair. And she had geometric paint on her belly, around her nipples, around her throat, also in shades of blue, green and yellow.
He looked away, throat tight, and realized Alexander was looking at the feathers. Yes, they looked real, and to be skin mounted, but at least they covered most of the person’s figure. And did they have a gender? It was impossible to tell. Either a slender man or a fairly buff woman.
Alexander asked, “Are the feathers real?”
Everyone had gathered around now, a polite, respectful distance away. And now he noticed the man. He wore shorts, and had muscles like an Olympic swimmer. He was hairless except for eyebrows and a bizarre haircut that made him look like he was wearing a cap.
The person in feathers said, “They are real, but they are not grown from me. They are grown on flesh in a lab and are held on with a mucilage.”
“Does a device do the dressing?”
The person paused. Hell, he was going with “her.”
“Yes, my servant mod assembled them for me. It doesn’t take long.”
Then the naked woman said, “I apologize. It is clear my presentation is surprising. Stand by.”
A moment later she shimmered and turned blue to the neck, appearing to wear a skintight suit that then softened slightly around her groin and nipples. She was almost as dressed as a stripper now.
She said, “Should we take seats?”
The house produced three more seats, and everyone chose a place and sat. Chairs materialized under them again. It was disturbing how fast they’d gotten used to that. If they did go home, he half expected to sit and fall because he’d forget to grab a chair physically.
“I am Researcher Twine. This is Researcher Ruj and Assistant Zep,” she said, pointing at the man and the woman in feathers. “I have all your names, and I am glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Do we call you Researcher, or Ms, or something else?”
She said, “My chosen name is Alexian. Lex or Twine is fine.” Her expression . . . yes, she was a scientist, and they were her subjects. She was placid and aloof.
Mr. Ruj said, “Please call me Ed.”
Th
e last said, “I am Larilee. Lar informally. Glad to meet.”
He wanted to clear the rules up front.
“Can we ask you questions?” he asked Twine.
“You can certainly ask, but we are limited in what we can answer.”
“I assume little about this time? That we can ask?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s a policy, it doesn’t have to make sense.”
“I would assume you’re worried about changing the time stream.”
She shrugged, shoulders rolling and breasts shifting. “That would make sense, except your recent excursion doesn’t seem to have affected anything. And the speculative literature of your era explored most of the things we have now. So without detailed knowledge, it won’t matter. Can those Romans duplicate your vehicle’s ignition? Or even its engine?”
Ed Ruj said, “We don’t believe any temporal matrix is at risk.”
“Can you tell us what year this is?” He hid behind a glass of juice for a moment. Strawberry juice. It was sweet and delicious.
Lar Zep said, “It is not terribly far. We are all from within a general timeframe in history.”
“Within a thousand years or so, then?” He realy wanted to know.
“That will suffice for comfort, and we cannot confirm.”
Moving on, he asked, “What do you research?”
Ed Ruj said, “In this context, yourselves. The opportunity to talk first hand to people from before . . . from the past is thrilling.”
“Before what?”
“Many things, that we can’t discuss.” He shifted nervously.
Trindidad asked, “Is everyone in your society Caucasian?”
They looked at each other for a moment, and their expressions suggested they were reading screens in front of their eyes.
“Yes. However, we do not consider skin color a differentiator, and in fact, people often choose any number of . . . natural or artificial shades.”
“Well, what can we answer for you?” he prompted.
“We desire, and need, information about yourselves. This will aid in returning you properly to your time.”
“What specifically?”
“We would like to start with your full identities, including names, any culturally relevant identification codes, your dates of . . . birth, and family histories.”
That was a lot of information. He didn’t like it.
“That’s more than we are comfortable sharing.”
Spencer said, “Yeah, I’d rather not. If you’ve read our speculative fiction, you know information like that can determine how important it is to keep someone alive. We’d prefer to assume we’re all essential.”
Twine said, “I understand. Our culture is different from yours in terms of what is considered private. Much from your era is archived, but there are of course gaps.”
Should they continue to consider themselves POWs? He swapped glances with Spencer, and wondered about a conference to discuss it. But he had to make the call, and he assumed anything they muttered or wrote would be noted anyway.
“Is giving this information a condition of our return?” he asked.
Twine shook her head.
“I don’t want to phrase it like that. You are under no compulsion to offer anything, and may stay as long as you wish. We will attempt to return you home if you wish, and encourage it. The more information we have, the easier that will be. Certain human elements of the discussion would like background information toward that. We are strictly researchers, we don’t set policy but can advise.”
If he was drawing the lines, the scientists were fine with it, and the military wanted to make sure they weren’t ancestors to any assassins. Or perhaps that they were, so as not to disrupt things.
He looked around.
“Soldiers, I can’t order you to reveal personal information. I think it might be best to offer what you can.”
He turned back to Lar, who was closest. “Is our return all at once? Or can some choose to travel later?”
She leaned forward on the couch. Her feathered brow wrinkled as she said, “We don’t know. It would be best to send you all at once. Additional trips may not be possible for technical or policy reasons.”
“Thanks.” If anyone wanted to remain, he’d have to remain with them and send Spencer as NCOIC. He couldn’t, as commander, leave anyone behind.
He wanted to discuss it in private, but it seemed impossible they wouldn’t spy on anything he said. He would, if he were them.
He looked around and reiterated, “So, we’re displaced, not POWs. I don’t have any evidence these people are hostile. They’re not signed allies. They seem to fit a neutral status. I’ll share information if it will help. Please consult me if you’re unsure.”
The Cogi were obviously paying attention and studying the exchange between commander and troops, status being of note between all parties.
Lar said, “If you prefer, we can speak to you individually as well.”
He asked, “Are you able to speak to us privately while we remain within view of each other?” It was a psychological matter. “We’re displaced . . . ”
He stopped talking. They were displaced, scared, cut off from their own people. They’d had only each other for two years. He had a serious phobia about not being in close proximity to them at a time like this.
Ed said, “Certainly we can do this thing.”
“Then I’ll go first. What shall we talk about?”
Suddenly he couldn’t hear anything from the others. No movement, no mutters. He looked over and Spencer gave him a thumbs up. So there was an audio privacy screen, but they were still in proximity.
“Everything is of interest,” Lex Twine said. “Your experiences in the past, back home, your interactions. We can analyze everything later. First, we want to know how you feel.”
So he talked. He summarized his training, education, career. He spoke of his parents and brother, and Lacy, and would he see her again? They’d been dating three months when he deployed. How would all this affect his personality and what about the deployment itself?
It felt like a debrief and a psychoanalysis at the same time.
Lar was genial, and her very neutral form made her easy to talk to. She didn’t appear to judge anything, nor to write nor record, though he was sure she was recording. He asked.
“The system will remember, and my memory is what you would call photogramic.”
“Photographic.”
“Thank you, I will remember that word. I would like to ask some other questions.”
“Okay.”
“This will be a collective inquiry. I’m going to have some pineapple juice. Would you like something?”
“That sounds good, thank you.” The pineapple here was sweeter, tangier, but less acidic. He wondered how far agriculture had come. He wondered what year it was. Given human development, it might be a hundred years from their time, or a thousand.
He sipped juice, and felt the ongoing conflict of being physically very comfortable and emotionally wired. After the permanent bivouac of the Stone Age, this place was a sybaritic paradise. But he wanted to go home.
Lar said, “We need to talk about major events in your timeframe, to help narrow down our window. We don’t want to discuss anything traumatic, but more detail helps.”
“Are you familiar with the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York City, September Eleventh, two thousand and one?”
She said, “Searching. May we show an image?”
“Yes.”
In the air appeared a video of the plane smashing into Tower 2.
“That’s it.”
“Interesting. We are aware of that event.”
“It was that significant?”
“We understand it was for you. Our condolences for the loss of your people.”
He wondered again about their accents, and what time it was. “You sound American, but there’s obviously some enhancement to your voice. Which nation are you now
?”
She almost shook her head. “That distinction isn’t germane. We associate ourselves differently from geography.”
“Is English your primary language?”
Lar said, “Yes, but as you are aware, it has softened over time. How far after that date do you place yourself?”
“Eleven years, assuming the earth’s revolution hasn’t been changed.”
Ed said, “That’s an astute inquiry. I can inform you that it has not.”
Lar said, “We will look for other major events. Our timeline may have errors. It is a paradox that the more information we have, the harder certain details are to confirm.”
He suspected they were fishing, but they might be telling the truth. Certainly too many eyewitnesses complicated things.
“The geographic area we were in we called Afghanistan.”
“Yes, we have a map of it at that time.”
The image floated in the air, and he reached out tentatively.
“Right about there, if you can zoom.” He spread his fingers, and it did zoom, just like a phone. He brought it in until he found about where the base was.
“We built military facilities in increasing number in that timeframe.”
“Is this closer?” The image updated.
“Closer, but not there yet.”
“This?” It rippled again.
“Just about. So we disappeared . . . ” he zoomed in twice more. “Right there.”
“We have the date, but need further imagery or events to localize it. You say this layout of that military field facility is appropriate?”
“It’s probably a bit earlier than we were. There was an American national election. A flood on the American east coast. If you go a couple of years earlier, there was a large earthquake in Japan.”
Lar said, “We have the earthquake. That was significant.”
Ed looked at something in his hand and said, “And now we have the smaller events.”
“Is dating them a problem?”
Lar said, “Dating them numerically is not a problem. Placing them against the temporal background we have available is largely hypothetical. You have probably deduced this is a new, little-tested field.”