31. Theories of Progress

The difficulty of gleaning future information was now clear to them all. Everything Smith-Ramirez could describe was either already known, impressive technological advancements with a great many underpinnings that were impossible to quickly roll out, or both.

“I guess that’s the problem, sir,” Smith-Ramirez had admitted. He could tell them about jet engines and binary code and the horse-collar, for all he cared, or he could tell them about the intricate insides of his miniature computers, and neither accounts did them any good for opposite reasons.

He outstripped them so far in computing and military technology, let alone the storage of information, that decades would be needed to bridge the gap before his explanations would even be sensible to them, despite his self-education and interest in the sciences.

And yet he came bearing few advances that could be summed up in a single sentence and instantly applied — along the lines of “wash your hands before attending on childbirth”, or “rotate your crops,” or “mix charcoal, saltpeter and sulphur for an exciting time.” Or rather, he did, but few were immediately applicable to gaining an advantage in desperate total war. “Stop using asbestos, it kills more people than it saves” and other things of that nature were no doubt wise and valuable insights from a (in some ways) sadder but wiser future, but not ones that would win a war.

In some ways, he was behind them in this type of one-sentence one-idea advance. He had shown (more or less accidentally, as detainees so often leaked information all unknowing) that in his time the old myth of torture-as-truth-serum was alive and well. Not unknown in the present day to even his own countrymen — the fools at the London Cage were a fine example — but hearing it was a national security policy in the wars of future democracies had been akin to hearing that eye of newt and toe of frog were regularly obtained at the chemists’ in far-off 2005.

He’d been tempted to acerbically ask why such a brilliant and infallible idea wasn’t more generally applied, but he knew the answer already. It was more about emotions running high than any considered professionalism, and Smith-Ramirez, a heater repairman from a small village, was hardly a useful target to berate. Interestingly, the idea of torture, even without any danger to himself, seemed to cause him some distress and distaste — hardly surprising, as he seemed an amiable man, and in his own civilian way, not devoid of courage.

And if Smith-Ramirez seemed to think that he had refrained from laying hands on him, or half-drowning him, or allowing others to do so out of some soft-hearted amiability of his own rather than the cold mathematics of wartime, let him think so. If he considered that sort of behavior a default, then he would consider himself and Short and Goodacre and Bowyer all the more honorable allies for refraining. Interestingly, he didn’t seem to consider them complete fools for that reason. Perhaps being on the inside of an at first successful hands-off interrogation (before the fool from the War Office had torn it) had taught him something.

His collection of songs, thus far, had not returned the educational favor. No helpful historical ballads, and vaguely technological ones such as “Space Oddity” were hardly detailed blueprints. Nonetheless, he and his subordinates took some time to discuss them. Smith-Ramirez was present as a resource, but was mostly talked over unless they had a specific question.

No one had asked him if they were going to win the war. What good would it have done? It might be his past, set in stone and irrevocable, but to them it was an open future and despair or overconfidence alike could poison their efforts.

They did take note of any hints thrown their way, even if none would admit it to any of the others. An old English folk song, Scarborough Fair, sung in a round with a song about a foolish and empty war attracted more attention than it probably really warranted. It suggested that Britain was not associated with a defeat and a grinding occupation, but with another sort of war entirely. They were quite keen to confirm the date.

“In the ‘Seventies, was it?” Goodacre asked musingly, paging through the sheaf.

“Yes, sir,” said Corporal Bowyer quickly, eager to be of service. “Or the ‘Eighties. This Paul Simon fellow had rather a long career.”

“It’s the Simon of Simon and Garfunkel?” Goodacre asked. “I thought the voice seemed similar.”

“The band split up,” Stephens said. “And then re-formed, and then split again, and so on. To be expected from a shifty people. Smith-Ramirez, could you hazard a guess at a date on this song?”

“Maybe mid-70s. And Americans aren’t all that sneaky, sir,” he added reprovingly. “You probably just hear about the crooks. Most all of us just want honest pay for honest work.”

“I meant Jews, not Americans.”

Smith-Ramirez’s head snapped up. He stared like he’d seen someone do something unspeakably shocking. ”What did you say?”

Stephens ignored him. “Captain Goodacre, it seems to me that this song offers us little adv—“

“Hey,” he sputtered. “That’s just wrong. Plus they’re having enough trouble right now in your stupid time witho—”

“Don’t interrupt! Now, Capta—“

Mateo’s chin went up.

“Bite me, three-eyes.”

Absolute silence fell over the room. Every eye swung to Smith-Ramirez like a compass needle suddenly exposed to an industrial magnet.

“I don’t believe I’m familiar with all your quaint American expressions,” Stephens said into that silence, drily. “Would you care to clarify?”

Smith-Ramirez tilted his chin. “I think you say ... ‘get bent?’”

After, subjectively, about a hundred years, Stephens actually laughed. Such nerve, he would grant him that. “Then for the sake of saving time, we will set aside discussion of these musicians.” A few smothered disbelieving noises — his subordinates hadn’t been expecting a concession, even such a minor one. Smith-Ramirez, head still cocked in sharp challenge, settled back in his chair, still looking shocked and a bit combative.

***

“Sorry,” said Nigel when they were alone in the lab later that morning. “I didn’t realize they were your lads.” He sounded much less shocked than Mateo, but wanting to smooth things over.

“They’re not. Dad’s side is Swede and German and Mom’s side is Guatemalan, mostly Mayan. Maybe somebody back in there somewhere, but nobody I know of. So?”

Nigel hesitated, like he wasn’t sure what to say. Obviously there was some cultural difference here that Mateo couldn’t really parse. “Well, if it helps, Tineye doesn’t really like anyone. Except the English. And the Nepalese. And I suppose he gets along with Ethiopians. He says, uh—“ a little humor came into his eyes “—Icelanders are thick as two short planks, Belgians are weepy and maudlin, Italians are short and act tougher than they are, the French are corrupt, and so on.”

“Geez, what a charmer. And you say he’s married?”

“Not to an Icelander or a Belgian. And being a charmer is Captain Short’s job, not Tineye’s. He also says you can’t bank on how any people acts in the aggregate, though, you’ve got to treat every spy individually.”

“How freakin’ nice of him,” Mateo said, still ruffled. “Can’t believe he doesn’t beat people up.”

“I don’t think he holds off because he’s a nice person,” Nigel said cautiously, hiding his expression behind the microscope he had his eye to. “He does want to win, and he won’t let his temper get in the way of that. You didn’t hear any of this from me, by the way.”

“Lips are sealed.”

“Even from that crowd?” Nigel was teasing him, trying to lighten things up.

“Ok, I’m just hoping they won’t ask!”

Nigel laughed. “You’re a good sort, Mateo.”

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