Author's Note: If you like time traveling as much as our pet caveman, then you're warmly invited to check out the Phil of the Future group here at FanFiction. Right next door to 2149, our characters originally hale from 2121 - my, how things did change. Don't bother to make a reservation, Time Traveler - we already know when you're coming.
Equipoise
by CraftyNotepad
Commander Taylor should have been happy with the latest radio message. Four days out from the settlement, the first harvest of iron stalks were ready to begin their journey to Terra Nova. The move was laying claim to considerable resources: personnel reassigned as harvesters, security pulled off the security of Terra Nova, and every vehicle they could adapt - which was every vehicle running - to haul the precious stalks back to the settlement. It was a high-stakes gamble, and so its payoff had to be worth it. Damn Sixers and "their" asteroid. Terra Nova needed metal.
Up in the 22nd Century, pilgrims were considered lucky refugees - getting out while the getting was good - and some kept that mindset for a short time after their arrival. That is until they realized that this was now home; next came the understanding that they were alone to build their future, the future. Call Terra Nova an outpost, a settlement, or a second chance, it came down to it being an island unto itself, a seed tossed down the time tunnel which could germinate, sprout, and flourish, or sadly whither and die. Metal would make the difference.
Sixers had limited ammo, but unlimited access to the sky metal. The "true" colonists weren't so lucky. Early mining of the asteroidial mineral, primarily industrial age iron, was promising. The third pilgrimage started the search for the metal; the fourth literally stumbled across it, and the fifth had set up a decent-sized smelter at the source. Production was low, but decent quality. It was the first thing the Sixers stole, smelter and all. Damn, Terra Nova required metal.
Metal wasn't needed to build a house, transact business or cook in. It was needed if Terra Nova was going to be more than a century-long camping trip. Taylor knew that all this wonderful future technology was only going to be used as long as the batteries lasted. If this whole damn expedition was going to matter, it would have to become self-sufficient fast. Pilgrims kept coming. Specialists in their own fields: scientists, engineers, farmers, ... and all these talented people required tools to transform this primordial world into the future of mankind, and tools? Tools required metal. Resources, it always came down to limited resources, whether in 2149 or 85 million years earlier. Mass. There was a limit on how much mass could be transported down from the future. Every rifle sent stood in for a plow that could not, which represented empty stomachs come harvest time. He knew that each motorcycle denied a pilgrim passage, six families refused passage for every truck he requisitioned, and that for all the power that computers provided, they were useless without skilled operators knowing how to use them. Terra Nova was all about saving humanity's future and people its most precious resource, so they were at the top of Taylor's must have list.
Iron stalks were a serendipitous discovery. The field team had been assigned to assess if the "local" swamp produced sufficient methane to make it a viable energy source as the colony thrived and its demands grew ever more. Planning like this was second nature to Commander Nathaniel Taylor. Wars were won by logistics and support, by the food that could be delivered to the soldier aiming his rifle even more so than the extra ammunition being delivered. The commander had to deal with daily security, dinosaurs, deranged Sixers, piss that passed for coffee, and this, the establishment of the infrastructure Terra Nova needed to survive and prosper long after he was gone. With every problem his people had faced so far, ten years' experience had taught him an irritating truth: every year it was harder to support Terra Nova. As the colony grew, there were more mouths to feed, more hands and not enough saws and axes, and shoes? People wore through them five times faster here. No cows for leather, either. One brachiosaurus could clothe and shoe every man, woman, and child in Terra Nova, but everything would have to be shut down to process the hide before the stench attracted every predator with two nostrils, and the cadaver would stink anyway, achieving the same unwanted result. As a result, for the security of the colony, leather acquisition was restricted to scavenging from carcasses of previously gorged dinosaurs. It was just a matter of doing the best with what they had.
Ignited, the swamp gas proved to be viable; however, the colonists just didn't have the resources to spare to begin a natural gas refinery, not with the Sixers scanning for new targets to swipe from the colony. This iron stalk harvest was going out on a limb as it was. An old-fashioned convoy, armed, would make a run from the bog all the way back to the compound gate. Burn logs and you're left with ashes and charred wood. Set iron stalks alight and when you're left with in its ash, an ash high in iron content. The biologists learned that it wasn't the stalks themselves which harvested the mineral, but their microbes with a high affinity for iron. These little critters lived inside the plants' structures and when the micro tenants expired, their iron laden bodies remained. Run a magnet through the ashes and metal harvesting was done.
Sounded easy when the scientists proposed it as an alternative to bargaining with the Sixers, for ore. Taylor mentally kicked himself for giving the green light to the idea after being shown some table top lab experiments. It appeared like such an easy way to upset the Sixers' hold over the colony. That was all before he realized the enormity of this operation and exposing so many people and their vehicles to Sixer attacks. Four days travel, six days of harvesting under armed guard, and six, maybe seven days for the heavily laden convoy to make it back to Terra Nova alive. Dangerous for everyone going and just as dangerous for those left behind. The Sixers could easily decided to hit the colony gate with reinforcements days away. Taylor hoped he'd win this gamble
A knock at the communication room's doorway, it was a messenger with a single name for the commander: McIntyre. Teeth clenched.
Across the compound in a rarely visited hut paced one agitated Nigel McIntyre. Taylor had assigned him to the structure, giving him and it disinteresting titles to conceal their true purpose. Yes, people, experts, they were all his to allocate how he saw fit and resources, human or otherwise, were always in short supply, yet Taylor had permitted himself this possibly indiscretion. McIntyre's work produced nothing to eat or wear. Nothing to trade. In this world populated by average citizens - average being the earners of two or more PhDs - McIntyre was the only cosmologist slash physicist slash botanist - and his work area was completely devoid of plants. Instead, the room was occupied by computers screens and notes written on the walls.
"McIntyre," Commander Taylor acknowledge the single occupant in the room before entering. It was a name rarely uttered about Terra Nova, and even less by Taylor.
"No, no, no," muttered McIntyre, not aware that he was no longer alone.
"McIntyre!"
"This is all wrong."