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?"
"Don't ask."
"I don't have to. You look all done in." He glanced at Priest's insignia. "I see you made sergeant major."
"And you've been bumped a grade or two as well. How long has it been?"
"It's been a while," said Bobby, grinning. "I haven't seen you since this morning."
They sat down to compare notes. The last time they saw each other, it had been at 0900 September 17, 2613. But that was Plus Time. Since then, Lucas had sailed with Lord Nelson, fought under General Pershing, picked up a saber scar in the Crimea and helped to kill Custer at the Little Big Horn. Now he had just clocked in from fighting in the Punic Wars and it was 1435 September 17, 2613. Lucas Priest had aged ten years. He and Johnson had been the same age five Plus Time hours ago, but now Lucas looked older. He had put in much more Minus Time. Lucas had about three days of Plus Time left to serve and Bobby had four days to go.
"It's great to see you again, Lucas," Bobby said. "I wish to hell we had time for a drink, but my code's on stand-by."
"I know," said Lucas, lifting his tags out and twirling them between two fingers. Bobby made a grab for them.
"Green 44! We've got the same departure code!"
Lucas smiled. "Well, fancy that."
"You knew!"
"Of course I knew," said Lucas. "I checked the data on you as soon as I clocked in. I told you I'd be doing it, didn't you believe me?"
"Yeah, well, everybody says that, you know? But it gets depressing, seeing all the KIAs and MIAs…"
"I know," said Lucas softly. "My list of friends keeps getting shorter."
There was an awkward pause. Bobby finally broke the silence, anxiously trying to change the subject.
"How in hell did you come up with Green 44? You had a code choice? You look okay, but-"
"I never exercised my option after I got wounded in the Crimea," Lucas said. "I decided to hold off until the time was right."
"But why did you go for a code choice instead of bonus Plus Time?"
"If you had a choice between a lousy hour of bonus time and friendship time, what would you choose?" Lucas said.
"Well, since you put it that way, I guess I'd opt for spending a hitch together with a friend. But I'd still cry about the bonus."
"So you pick up another wound."
"Thanks, but if I can, I'll pass. I've been lucky so far, knock on wood." He glanced around. "You see any wood anywhere?"
Lucas grinned. "Tap on some plastic and cross your fingers."
He turned to see his squire pulling up on a dolly with his gear all packed. He had left word where he could be found so that he wouldn't have to wait around to meet whomever it would turn out to be. It was one of the few advantages of being a non-com. You could get an enlisted man to draw your supplies. In this case, the enlisted man was part of the supplies, since he would be going along as Priest's orderly.
Lucas Priest's squire was a whipcord thin young corporal named Hooker. It came as a surprise to him that he was not expected to call Lucas "sir" or "Mr. Priest." Where they were going, the term was probably going to be "milord," but Lucas tried to avoid military protocol as much as possible. He passed Hooker a cup of coffee. The corporal cracked the seal on it and the cup began to steam. They woke up Finn Delaney. It took some doing. Delaney was a surly lifer who was built like a gorilla. He immediately got into Priest's good graces by offering him a Diehard. Lucas pulled one out and rubbed it along the side of the pack, igniting it.
"Code Green, Forty Fowar, Code Green, Forty-Fowar, report to Seven Yellow, Grid Six Hundred, Seven Yellow, Grid Six Hundred."
"Well, that's us," said Lucas, taking several quick drags on the cigarette before stubbing it out with his boot. It would probably be a long time before he had another one, assuming he made it back alive.
The chronoplate left Lucas feeling slightly vertiginous, as it always did. He had never been able to get used to it, but his reaction was less severe than Hooker's.
"Didn't anyone tell you not to eat anything within two hours of clocking out?'' he said.
Hooker looked puzzled for a moment, then got the joke. It was rare for the army to leave anyone waiting around at a departure station for much more than an hour. So long as a soldier was in Plus Time, the clock was ticking away. If a soldier was in Minus Time and had ample warning of a clock out, there might be two hours during which he could refrain from eating, but the pickup squads rarely gave anyone that much notice. They liked to cut it close.
"I think the last time I ate was a couple of thousand years ago," said Hooker, grinning weakly. "I could've saved myself the trouble. I didn't even get a chance to digest anything."
"Welcome to 12th century England, gentlemen," said the referee.
Lucas was surprised. Very surprised. It was not unusual to run across observers in the field, but what sort of hitch required the presence of a ref in Minus Time?
"Questions can wait a while, gentlemen," said the ref, a soft-spoken, professorial sort. "First things first. Mr. Hooker, you'll be pleased to know that we have third mess laid on for you and that you'll have the opportunity to digest your meal this time. If you'll follow me, please?"
Hooker and Delaney began to pick up the gear, but the ref told them to leave it. "It will be taken care of," he said. They glanced at each other, shrugged, then followed Priest and Johnson.
"We must be the last ones through," said Bobby. "Everybody else must already be at mess. With our luck, all we'll get is table scraps."
But such was not the case. They trudged a short distance to a prefabricated hut where they were served venison, kidney pie, roast pheasant, squab and potatoes cooked in an open fire so that their skin was black and crackly. They drank a truly potent ale. It was one of the best meals Lucas Priest had eaten since he had joined the service. That made him worry.
The referee sat with them, but did not eat and except for the orderlies who served them, no one else was present.
"Excuse me, sir," said Johnson, "where is everybody?"
"There is no one else, Mr. Johnson," said the ref.
"You mean that there are only four of us on this hitch?"
"Essentially."
"I don't get it, sir."
"All in good time," said the ref. "Meanwhile, don't feel that you have to stretch out your meal. There's plenty more where that came from and that goes for the ale, as well. You don't have any duties until tomorrow morning, so relax and enjoy yourselves."
He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a silver cigarette case. "Would any of you gentlemen care to smoke?"
Now Lucas knew they were in trouble.
"With your permission, sir," he said, accepting the cigarettes. "I mean no disrespect, but I've been in the service long enough to know that this sort of treatment is hardly s.o.p. This is the first time I've seen a referee clocked out to the Minus side. Somehow I have the feeling that this hitch is hardly going to be a soft assignment."