The Longest
an excerpt

Stephenson wasn’t sure he liked 15th Century Italy anymore. He had liked the impression of freedom the first minutes he had arrived in this time period, but now the blue sky felt oppressive to him. The Sun had risen fully in the sky, and Stephenson was glancing at it so much, he was getting dark spots in his vision. And the smell of dirt and rotten meat was so pervasive inside the Contact’s home, that Stephenson found himself breathing through his mouth.

The Contact kept him in-doors for what felt like a good hour, explaining to him how the previous Blue Warrior Traveler had become agitated in his last days in Florence. Stephenson kept nodding as if this was all new information to him, but he had read the reports as part of his preparation for this mission. When the Contact finally explained that the Traveler had returned to the Blue Warrior, Stephenson failed to mention that he hadn’t. As a matter of fact, the poor guy was probably rotting in a ditch near Florence.

Still, although he knew all that, Stephenson felt a growing unease at the Contact’s description of the poor sap’s growing illness. This was classical Time Sickness, and Stephenson was so scared it might happen to him as well, that he found himself light-headed at the Contact’s graphic description. When the Contact described how the Traveler had tried to gouge out his own eyeballs, Stephenson leaned forward on his chair, and placed his head between his legs.

“Are you alright?” asked the Contact.

“Yeah,” lied Stephenson. “I’ve been sitting in this armor all this time, and the weather is hot. It’s getting to me, that’s all."

The Contact nodded, then seemed about to pursue the list of Time Sickness symptoms.

“You know what, why don’t we talk about his findings instead. I don’t really give a shit if the poor guy caught some venereal disease screwing one of the locals, ok?” He tried not to glance at the man’s daughter, but the Contact somehow read his mind, and his eyes flared with anger.

“Have you no manners in that Blue Warrior of yours?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Nope. None. You don’t teach soldiers to have manners. You teach us to win wars. Guess what happened to the last nation that was big on manners?”

“They got exterminated by those who waged war, I guess.”

“Not exactly. They – or should I say, you - evolved over time – into us.”

The nausea had passed, but Stephenson wasn’t feeling any better. He kept staring at the anger constricted in the Contact’s face, because this was the only way to avoid glancing at the immense blue ceiling outside.