floating around. Clocking out made most people very sick. Eventually, most soldiers got used to it enough so that they could hang on to their food at least some of the time, but most people still barfed upon transition. It was yet another glamorous aspect of time travel in the army. Occasionally, people would get lost coming through and would become stranded in the limbo of the dead zone. No one ever talked about it. There was at least one good thing that Lucas could say about the army. The booze was cheap and it was excellent. It was possible to order literally anything. He had once been a vodka drinker, but he had developed a preference for mulled ale, a taste he had picked up in the Middle Ages.
Jesse drank unblended scotch.
An army bar was never very noisy. There was an undertone of conversation, but there was never any music and rarely any shouting, no matter how drunk anyone became. Soldiers were never together for very long and chances were that when they separated, to go their different ways, they would never see each other again. Lucas and Jesse sat in their tiny booth, holding hands across the table. There wasn't anything romantic in it. Physical contact of some sort was important to soldiers. When, in the next few minutes, they could be called away to ancient Rome or to the Six Day War in the 20th century, it seemed important to reach out and touch someone, to be reassured of their reality.
'Do you ever wish that you could figure it all out?' said Jesse. She was already slightly drunk. 'I mean, I'm getting tired of being just a button for the refs to push. Hell, I've never even seen a ref. Back there in Russia, in the middle of the goddam battle, would you believe it, I started thinking: if I live through this, just how does that affect the point spread? How does it really work? Why am I doing this? I would've thought that just trying to stay alive would have been enough to occupy all my attention.'
Lucas had nodded, understanding completely. Jesse was still green and it was all new to her.
'Believe it or not,' he told her, 'you'll get used to it. There will come a time when you stop thinking about it altogether. It won't make any difference whether or not your part in the action has any effect on the resolution of some trade agreement or international incident a thousand years away. I like to think it makes a difference, that what I'm doing really counts for something, but I don't dwell on it. Sometimes it's best just to go on automatic pilot. Try to stay alive. Nothing else matters very much. It's strange, the sort of things that can go through your mind in the middle of a battle. You can't really control it. The best thing to do is try and put everything out of your mind. Just be empty. Don't think about the outcome. Otherwise…' He let it hang.
'Yeah,' said Jesse, staring into her drink. 'Ours is not to reason why, is that it?'
'Don't try to work it out, Jesse. It'll make you drop your guard.'
'Thanks. I'll remember that.' She sipped her scotch. 'They tell you where you're clocking out to?'
'The Punic Wars.'
'Oh. That could be pretty rough.'
Lucas shrugged. 'I'm about due for it, I guess. Knocking off Custer's 7th Cavalry was a piece of cake. The Sioux had a wild celebration afterward, in honor of Yellowhair's demise. It was an easy hitch. I figure I'm due for a tough one.'
'I hate the waiting,' Jesse said.
There wasn't much that he could say to that. It was something that all soldiers felt at one time or another. Not the waiting to clock out, but the waiting for that one unlucky moment that turns out to be your last.
There were soldiers all around them, some in the disposable transit fatigues, others already in uniform as Hessians, Huns, Centurions, Green Berets and Vikings. Nothing about the year 2613 seemed very real. They belonged to it, but it didn't feel like home, more like a part of some alcoholic dream. They spent another five minutes together before Lucas heard his code called over the P.A. They looked at each other, probably for the last time, and he left her sitting there, staring into her scotch and swirling the ice cubes around so that they tinkled against the glass.
Scipio sent his archers forward, regrouped his forces and they struck again. As he had advised Jesse, Lucas went on automatic pilot, phasing out his brain and fighting like an automaton. He was drained of everything. Drained of energy, drained of spirit, drained even of fear. When he finally came out of it, he was astonished to discover that he was still alive. Scipio had won.
When the pickup squad made contact, he was still in a daze. He heard the tone inside his head-as they signaled him via his implant from somewhere close by-and he slipped away at the earliest opportunity. They tracked him and he was picked up by three men in Roman garb. He clocked back to the present, battered, weak and exhausted. He felt empty. He was back in the year 2613 and none of it felt right. The soldiers were sitting around in the departure station, waiting for their codes to be called. They were all in various modes of dress, a cross section of history on parade. Dollies shuttled around, carrying all manner of weapons and equipment. Men and women were loading up on cigarettes and coffee. Drugs were prohibited, but easily available. There was that same metronomical voice announcing codes and grid designations over the P.A. He had arrived, by chance, right back where he had started from, the Quantico Departure Station.
The snap-back hit. The old 'it's-like-you-never-left' feeling. He felt vaguely disoriented with a heavy touch of deja vu. He had some time left before he was due to pick up his new tags with a new code designation or to apply for a furlough. Some time. It seemed ironic. He was now eligible for a furlough, but most soldiers never took them. What was the point? The army gave credit only for time spent on active duty and time was precious. What he wanted, just that minute, was a drink.
He crossed the giant plaza and headed for a bar. It looked familiar and well it should have; it was where he had met Jesse Fain. Feeling a bit nostalgic for the present past, he headed for a certain table in a certain booth. The same booth he had shared with Jesse. It was unoccupied, but they hadn't had time to clean it off yet. On the table was an empty ale tankard and a single glass of scotch.
The ice was almost melted.
He checked the time. It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes since she'd left. And he had been away six months. He sat down wearily and ordered an ale and a computer terminal. Both were brought to his table almost immediately. He plugged into the line and voiced his request. There were one or two people he wanted to check up on. At the same time, he almost didn't want to know. He took a gulp of ale, then gave their names and serial numbers.
The data was quick in coming. Johnson, Robert Benjamin, serial number 777334-29-181-999-285-60…CS (current status) active duty Napoleonic Wars-
That was all he wanted to know. At least Bobby was still alive. So far. Some of the others weren't so lucky. Deacon Bailey was MIA, Liz Carmody was KIA, Josh McKenzie was KIA and Jesse Fain never even made it to wherever she was going. She was lost in transit, somewhere in the dead zone. Her waiting was over. He didn't have the heart to continue. He was about to turn off the terminal and have it taken away when an update flashed across the screen.
Bobby Johnson had just clocked back in.
1
Master Sergeant Robert Benjamin Johnson sat on his duffel bag, a longbow resting across his lap. The plastic duffel, which had just been drawn from supply, made slight crackling noises as he shifted his weight upon it. Beside him was Finn Delaney, Pfc, dressed in the garb of a Saxon peasant and fast asleep on the plastic bench. Johnson heard someone call out his name and looked up to see a non-com dressed in transit fatigues threading his way through the crowd toward the bank of vending machines near which they waited. It took him a moment to recognize the man; Lucas Priest had aged.
'Lucas! Jesus Christ, you're still alive!'
'Only just barely,' Priest said. They clapped their arms around each other in an awkward bear hug. 'God, it's good to see you,' Lucas said. 'I wasn't sure I'd make it back from that last one. Nothing like a four week long forced march to prime you for facing Hannibal and his damn elephants. If it wasn't for the historical preservation regs, I'd have murdered that bastard, Scipio.'
'That rough, huh?'
