Here he tells the story of a stranded time traveler who must make his way home one day at a time, starting in Göbekli Tepe ten thousand years ago.
“Damn it,” Ianna swore. “What’s she doing here?”
Ianna leaned forward and spat a mouthful of freshly chewed wheat gruel into a small stone starter bowl. She sipped from a water skin, washed out her mouth, and spat again on top of the mash.
“Mix and warm,” Martin reminded her. She sighed, rolled her eyes at him, and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She reached into the bowl and kneaded the mixture. It was, Martin knew, both disgusting and oddly satisfying, the wet and smooth texture working together, slipping over and under and through the fingers.
Ianna finished and shook her hands free. She scraped the last of the mash off her fingers, back into the bowl, then used a shaped piece of gazelle bone to scoop a handful of stones from the fire. She propped the stones next to the bowl, to keep the starter mash warm. She wiped her hands clean with a handful of fresh reeds.
“Now,” Martin asked. “What’s the problem?”
Ianna tipped her chin to the north, at the silhouette of a woman coming down the slope of the valley. From the distance, she looked like anyone coming back from a hunt. Martin stood.
The stranger just sent out a broadcast to every Traveler. She’s going to work her way through the camp, to meet everyone, one at a time, Artie told him. She’s telling them to keep it quiet, so the locals don’t notice anything.
“So,” Martin said out loud, to both of them. He glanced over at Ianna. “She’s not what she looks like.”
“No,” Ianna said.
“Details,” Martin ordered.
Artie sharpened Martin’s vision, stretched it like a pair of binoculars. A small display with translucent numbers opened in the lower right of his vision.
Ianna and the rest of the Travelers scattered through the camp were Maxyes tribal, downtiming from the University in Qart-hadast. They were relatively short compared to the native hunter-gatherer’s. Ianna was only five foot two and she was middle height for the women. She grew her dark hair long on the right side of her head, tied up in a twisted bun, and shaved her hair close on her left side. She used native ochre—yellow, red and brown—as eye and face makeup.
The stranger, even from a distance, was clearly not a Maxyes. Long hair on both sides of her face, dirty blonde and pulled back and out of the way in an interlaced rope style. Clear skin, no ochre or any other markings. And she was tall. Artie’s display said she was five foot nine. Martin turned his eyes back to normal.
“Tribe?” Martin asked Ianna. “Nation?”
“Alemanni of some kind,” Ianna said, dismissively. “You can tell by looking at her. She’s probably with their Volks Wachter. The Kehin use her sometimes, to tell us things that need to be kept private. They’re afraid to come back along the timelines, so they send her.”
She looked up at Martin.
“Who does the Chayil use? To tell you things? Is it a person… or something different?”
“Something different,” Martin said absently. He thought for a moment, then turned to Ianna.
“And you should always speak of the Kehin with respect,” Martin warned her. “What if one of the others heard you? What if I—officially—heard you?”
“The army protects its own,” Ianna said. “And I’m with you.”
Martin shook his head.
“The army protects the generals. So the priests don’t mess with the generals,” Martin said. He tapped himself on the chest. “But I’m not a general. And neither are you.”
Ianna looked frightened for a moment, then ducked her head and nodded. Martin turned back, but the messenger was down the slope and gone, lost in the flows of people and the mixed-together jumble of tents and shelters and travel lodges.
This means trouble, Artie said gloomily. Martin shrugged and turned away and sat back on his stone work bench.
“Keep your mouth shut and don’t broadcast,” Martin warned Artie in silent. “We’ll get through this.”
“I’m not going to say anything,” he assured Ianna, out loud. He smiled and remembered an old joke from his future.
“What happens in Gobekli, stays in Gobekli.”
Ianna frowned at him, confused, then shook her head, and sat down across from him. She picked up the half-finished mat she had been working on.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And Mar, don’t take this personal, but, sometimes,” she said, hesitated, then rushed forward. “You’re just weird.”
If only she knew, Artie grumbled mournfully. If only she knew….
Martin grunted and concentrated on the fist-sized piece of flint in his hand. He turned the rock from side to side. Satisfied, he leaned forward and braced it against his work anvil, a large boulder with a flat top, and carefully struck the flint along a fault line with his soft hammer. A side piece cracked off. He gently and carefully picked up the new piece and felt the slick sharp edge. It still needed a little work to fix the final shape, but that would be easy.
“Perfect,” he said, satisfied. Artie looked through his eyes.
I’m so very proud of you.
Artie did not sound proud. He sounded sarcastic, like a sick old man, crotchety and uncertain and irritated. Martin ignored him and added the new arrow head to the hide pouch on the ground at his feet.
“Until the beer is ready, we still have to eat,” Martin reminded Artie, unperturbed, in silent mode. He checked the pouch, counted. He looked up and saw Ianna walking up from the river, a pair of skin water bags in her hands. He got up and helped her carry them inside their hut. She smiled at him and sat back on her bench. He held up one of the arrow heads.
“Eabani told me yesterday that he needed to trade. He’s back fresh from a hunt. Mostly gazelle. A few aurochs. I figure I can trade three of these to get us enough meat for today and tomorrow.”
Ianna shook her head.
“Good try, but it won’t work. I ran into Eabani down at the river.”
“And?”
“He’s going on a long trip,” she said, carefully. “A long, long trip. He’ll be gone for quite a while.”
He met the woman. The messenger, Artie said on open. Ianna nodded. She held her finger to her lips, touched her head, and spoke out loud.
“Her name, here, is Tiamat,” Ianna said. “She won’t tell anyone what her name is back home.”
“Maybe she’s in trouble back there.”
“Maybe.” Ianna sounded uncertain. “Eabani couldn’t get much out of her.” She studied Martin.
“You sure you’ve never had to deal with her?”
“No,” Martin said. He dropped the arrow head back into the pouch and picked up his raw flint rock.
“Everyone deals with her,” Ianna said with certainty.
“Not me,” Martin said.
“Have I ever told you there’s something wrong with you?” Ianna asked.
“You may have mentioned that once or twice,” Martin acknowledged. “Still haven’t dealt with her.”
“Well, you’re going to get your chance,” Ianna said. She tilted her head toward the rough path that led up the hill toward the temple.
Tiamat walked along the path, toward a part of the camp where a new tribe had arrived last night. She glanced at Ianna and Martin, then at the newcomers. She held up a finger, nodded to Ianna, then picked up her pace toward the new arrivals.