The Time Capsule

They finally did it. The team of scientists, perhaps the last of their kind, unearthed the artifact from 20 meters below the cracked desert surface. A steel cylinder, shiny once, sand-caked now. It resembled a giant, filthy suppository. But the sight filled the scientists with joy. Understandable, considering the energy they’d expended digging it out. No machine tools, metal detectors, sonar. Not in this century. Just hand tools and hands. And methodology. A grid laid down, a process of elimination, square by square. Their painstaking excavation yielded nothing but heat stroke for weeks. Working before dawn whenever possible, but often working into the day like fools. Without result. Reasonable hypothesis: We’re risking our lives digging giant holes in a dry lake bed. But a patch of metal finally gleamed in the sand. Yes. Yes! The artifact was here. The ancient paper map had been accurate, if unclear. Reasonable hypothesis: We have it now. Our years of search have ended! Now all the scientists had to do was get it out. Their work accelerated to a careful frenzy. Their dug until their fingers bled, but didn’t notice. They whisked, picked, dug, uncovered, and exposed the object to the sun after centuries. The artifact! The time capsule, yes, go ahead and say it, empirical validation be damned. What else could it be? The scientists cheered—until arrows silenced them. They didn’t even have time to dust the damn thing off.

A band of ugly, skin-damaged white guys circled the excavation site. They atop the ten-foot ridge above the old lakebed. Looked down at the grid of string, all the holes, the corpses. Laughing, joking, proud of bushwhacking a handful of starving old men.

“Time capsule” …? We ken that too. Thanks for updigging, weaklings!

After they’d had a good laugh, they walked down the ramp. Walked quickly. No time to waste, ken? Cruelsun spearpoint stabbing eastways.

“Hardmen of Pureblood” was what they called themselves. (Strictly speaking, “Purebloodhardmen.”) In our time, we’d call them “Neo-Nazis.” Before that, just “Nazis.” They dressed in a motley of field grey fabric and ancient military garb, all stitched up with swastikas, skulls and SS emblems. Their idea of Nazi uniforms, based on old vids.

Once they reached the dead lakebed, the Hardmen stomped through the grid and stopped at the hole containing the capsule. Kicked a few dead scientists out of the way. Then studied the capsule. Big metal thing, sandydustydirty. Not much to look at, but Highman said it was important, so they roared approval. Then had their cringing, castrated Slaves load it on the cart the scientists had helpfully provided, and roll it up the ramp. Ordinarily, they’d desecrate the scientists’ bodies, but time was really a factor.

Starting a little after dawn, it took the Slaves most of the day to drag the damn thing fifteen miles or so to the Purebloodhardmenwarcamp, a cliffrock city of Redsubmen once, but not anymore. A few Slaves drop, get a boot to the head, always hilarious. They finally made it home. Rolling the capsule in, triumphal procession. Hardmen all excited, cheering. The big show’s tonight, right? Right.

Highman’s in his holdfast. But he’s coming out! He’s going to make a speech tonight! Yay!

Night fell and Highman spoke. (He was actually kind of short, but he was wearing a genuine Nazi helmet, so you knew he was in charge.) He stood on a rock above a crackling fire. His Hardmen were crouched in front of the fire looking up at him. LowSlobs got the cheap seats; Women in the sexhole; Slaves in the place of torment, etc. Such was the natural order of things.

Highman had memorized his speech, of course. Reading was for slaves. But he was great at public speaking.

He started out by saying nothing. Stretched out the silence, making ‘em sweat.

Crowd on the edge of their rocks.

Highman finally cleared his throat and hollered. His Hardmen shouted back at him. A call-and-response ensued in that charming, pseudo-Germanic gibberish the Hard Men of Pure Blood were famous for.

“Speak I now of pastpain purging. All here know of firefeeding. Suchlike us made world of will! Hail to Fathers, Hardmen all!”

“Hail to Fathers, Hardmen all!”

“Fathers freed the fire of fury! World of weakness, burned with glory. Hail to Fathers, Hardmen all!”

“Hail to Fathers, Hardmen all!”

Highman did a Nazi salute. Never gets old, huh? Then he made his big point.

“World of weakness, Fathers hated. Menlikewomen, softweak all. Kenning strong these weaklings wielded. Burning weak would burn such kenning. Fathers knew, yet fire freed they. Kenning hid in suchlike wielding. Hid for us in Fathers’ foresight. Fathers’ gift ye now behold!”

Translation. Our ancestors were weak sisters, but they knew some deep shit. The old-time Nazis started a global atomic war to wipe out the weaklings, but made sure to hide the scientific data for the Nazis of the future. That’s us! Hey, take a look at the time capsule.

Highman points to the thing, just sitting on the cart, a safe distance from the fire, and now all shined up to a fare-thee-well by those helpful slaves. Work makes freedom, huh?

“Time Capsule” called, where secrets hid. Hardmen hands do hold it now!”

And the crowd goes wild.

“Hail!”

“Hail!”

“Hail to Fathers! Hail to Hard Men!”

“Hail to Fathers! Hail to Hard Men!”

Highman looked up at the stars, flames dancing on his rabid face. Clutched arms to chest, Hitler-style. He’d studied the few old vidclips back at the holdfast. Then he sawed his arms back and forth and brought it home.

“Fathers freed the fire cleansing. Fire purged the Weakmen screaming. Fire fed on Hardmen willing. For we, their Children, Fathers died!”

“For we their Children, Fathers died!”

“Kneel we now to Fathers’ fury! Gift to Children shall be opened. Open now the gift of kenning. Hail our Fathers! Hail say all!”

“Hail say all!”

Now that the speech was out of the way, it was time for the boffo finish. Highman climbed down off the rock and walked up to that shiny time capsule. Because now he was going to open it. Oh yeah. (Such honor was not for slaves!) Yet a Slave had showed him a diagram. Something called a “wrench.” Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey. Thus the Slave had spoken before his agonizing death. Highman trembled with excitement. Wrench in hand he held now! Now it was time! And, without further ado, Highman got to work on the Fathers’ shiny, unopened gift.

Buried for countless centuries. Hidden from the sun. Untouched by UV light. The markings were still clear and bloody, bloody red.

A cryptic rune like a circular throwing blade.

And bright red letters …

DANGER! RADIOACTIVE MATERIAL!

Once you got the dust off, the warning was clear. If you could read.

Bolt by bolt, Highman cranked. And cranked.

This was going to take a long time.

Acknowledgement to the Germanic patois of Poul Anderson’s "Uncleftish Beholding." I am indebted to his brain wave.

(c) Marty Fugate, 2019. All rights reserved.