49. Cutting-Edge Fossils

Mateo decided he was settling in. That didn’t mean he was going to forget anything smart he’d learned back home. But if he was here, he was here. Might as well make the best of it. Maybe Tineye was right, as much as Mateo wasn’t happy to admit it. He’d been right about beating people up being dumb, to Mateo’s amazement, that still seemed crazy and counter-intuitive, and maybe he was right about the 40s being the present and 2005 being the future, instead of the 40s being the past and 2005 being the present. Hey. Even stopped clocks got to be right twice, right? So for now he opted to do his best to live in what was maybe the present, and not worry about living long enough to catch up to his parents. Or himself.

So he just thanked his stars he’d washed up where he had, if he had to be in this stupid time, and kept working.

Anyhow, Nigel was convinced that something was going down. “Professor Newman is supposed to be arriving this winter.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Turing was one of his students, if that gives you any idea.”

“OH.”

“Yes.”

Nigel fidgeted. It was a tell Mateo was getting used to by now. He thought maybe Mateo knew some Relevant Future Thing, but wasn’t about to just casually drop war-determining state secrets unless he was totally sure on the front end that Mateo already knew. Like his grandfather used to say, two can keep a secret if both of them are dead. And since neither of them were dead (so far) Nigel just kept as quiet as a dead guy.

“You’ve heard of Newman?” he asked hopelessly after a while.

“No, sorry.”

“I’d like you to meet him when he arrives. Maybe you have some technical knowledge to contribute.”

“Maybe,” Mateo said cautiously. He was getting less and less convinced that he was going to/already had been some kind of Crazypants Future Help at Station X.

Maybe it didn’t matter. Fixing relays on Turing’s magic machines was already a pretty high honor right there without Affecting the Course of History or some stuff like that. Also nobody was shooting at him. And these guys seemed to have things in hand. “Always glad to meet new people.”

Nigel smiled, relieved. He seemed convinced that Mateo’s status as a future guy was a big deal, more than Mateo was. Made sense though, in his shoes he would have felt the same way. Nobody would expect a time traveler with a hobby interest in what was maybe the most important technology in the world (from your point of view, anyway) to turn out to be what Nigel would call a damp squib. He seemed to think it was just a matter of time. Or hoped that, anyway. Like God had dumped Mateo in particular through that wormhole. Mateo, a more religious type than Nigel (he was pretty sure, it would be weird to ask) was pretty skeptical. Didn’t it say right there in the Bible in a couple of places that shit just happened sometimes? Then, that was no excuse for Mateo to slack off.

“New people like Nia?” Nigel asked innocently, obviously still high on hope that Mateo would do something cool and futuristic when this Newman guy turned up.

“She’s been nice to me since day one, man. She’s not exactly new.”

“Oh, she’s nice, is she? That’s nice.”

“Yeah. It is. She knows knows more math than anyone I’ve really hung out in this t—country, and she likes hiking.”

“Oh, does she?”

Mateo rolled his eyes. “Yes. She does.” He wasn’t sure exactly if those hikes counted as dates, but the fact that she’d asked to look at his shark tooth necklace to try to figure out the species and then said not to bother taking it off, she could see it fine up close, seemed to argue for ‘date, or at least heading that way.’

“And the Debs are great, just real professionals, but ... Nia’s, you know, middle class. Like me.”

For some reason Nigel stared, looked embarrassed, then proceeded to sprain something laughing.

“This is some weird British thing, isn’t it,” Mateo said, resigned. “Go on, tell me.”

“I shouldn’t say it.” He was still snickering helplessly. Sleep deprivation was a heck of a drug.

“Yeah, you should, I need to learn this stuff.”

He sighed and wiped his eyes.

“Mateo, you’re like a brother to me, but you’re about as middle-class as Piers Ploughman.”

“Who?”

“It’s a p— never mind. My point is, you—“

He seemed too embarrassed to spill.

“Ok, let’s start easy. What’s middle-class here? Pretend I’m five.”

That looked to help.

“You know, lawyers and doctors and that sort.”

“OH. ‘Middle class’ means ‘white collar’ here.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” He looked relieved that he wouldn’t have to say anything personal.

“So skilled trades guys who aren’t rich and aren’t poor, like, you could say they’re in a class in the middle, are —“

“—working-class. Well-to-do working-class.”

Mateo rolled his eyes. “Fine, she’s blue-collar. I’ll just say that.”

Nigel laughed again. “That sounds appropriately naval, I suppose.”

Mateo didn’t elbow him, but it was only because he was standing near a stack of punchcards.

“I think you say — ‘shove off’?”

Nigel snickered.

“I’m glad you have a ... friend, though,” he added, surprisingly sincerely, all the ragging going out of his voice. “You’re due some good luck, I think.”

Mateo cracked a smile despite himself. “Thanks, man.”

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