Free A Long Time Until Now by Michael Z. Williamson

universal gesture, so Elliott did the same. They both smiled. The man was a little shorter, grizzled gray and wrinkled, and could be any age, just “old and worn.”
    Then the man spoke and communication fell apart.
    “I don’t understand your language.”
    Looking quizzical, the man spoke again.
    “Still don’t.”
    He was patient, but Elliott shook his head and repeated himself until the man shrugged and gestured behind him. A woman had what looked like an animal skin canteen.
    “Oglesby, any help?”
    “I can’t quite repeat the sounds right, but they’re saying ak!a, with a click. It sounds a lot like ‘aqua.’ And they’re pointing at what looks like a bag of water.”
    “Do you think that word is the same?”
    “It’s a standard word in both PIE and PIA.”
    “Does that mean yes?”
    “Sorry, sir. It means maybe. We’re a long fucking time until then, but it’s not impossible. A handful of basic words have cognates in a lot of languages. It could also be pure coincidence and a false cognate—sounds similar and similar meaning but from a different origin.”
    “Anything you can learn helps. We need a pidgin of a hundred words or so, yes?”
    “A couple hundred or a thousand is better. Smart people can make it work with a couple of dozen and gestures, but we don’t have many gestures in common.”
    “Do what you can.”
    “I can point and ask. We’ll get nouns first.”
    Their hosts were starting to look anxious. Bracing himself, Elliott accepted the bag and hefted it. It sloshed. It was the whole skin of some small animal, tied closed and treated into leather. He raised it up, watching his counterpart, who smiled and pantomimed drinking.
    It smelled half rotten and tasted earthy, rotten. It wasn’t terrible; he’d drunk sulfur and iron laden water that had been as bad, but it wasn’t pleasant.
    “Good sign,” Alexander said. Spencer and Caswell agreed.
    Caswell said, “You don’t offer hospitality to enemies, and it’s a neutral enough gesture. Water isn’t something they’re likely to consider overly valuable, this close to the river.”
    “Well, good, because it’s almost vile.” He handed it back and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. Then he pulled a sip from his Camelbak. It was a lot fresher.
    They all stood around, and the native examined them. Sean politely but firmly blocked hands from his weapon and pockets. They didn’t seem to have pockets, and the idea of a pouch on clothing delighted them. One was in his thigh pockets, and he had to dance around to dissuade them. They were amused.
    The chief still looked puzzled, and waved for them to follow. He paired back up with Oglesby, which he realized was a good choice, translator and commander. He checked the others had also paired, nodded, and walked across the village to the southwest side.

    Regina Alexander looked around. Their houses were fairly sophisticated. They had a rock wall about two feet high at the base, then arched and lashed limbs covered with hides. Some were almost longhouses, around thirty feet by ten, about the size of an old GP medium tent. Several were close to being tepees. They were painted with geometric and anthropomorphic designs in medium earth tones including an obvious fish and elk. She wanted photos of those, but wasn’t sure how they’d react to her pointing a camera. They’d probably have no idea what she was doing, but . . .
    Everyone was dirty. Mud, blood, animal guts, tree sap, dust, debris from the leaves and branches covered them in layers. Two of the dirtiest were washing in the river, down an embankment to a stony beach.
    The Paleo people looked almost Caucasian, almost East Indian, but had kinked hair, not straight. All the men had scraggly beards, which wouldn’t compare to the coarse, full beards the soldiers were getting in a hurry. Most had dreadlocks. Some women did, too, though others had cropped tresses. A few of the men had shorn patterns in their hair. They all wore