The two round trips I made to secure firewood and cook stones set me back another hour and 21 minutes from taking off the suit, but I had a fire going and rotated several rounds of red hot rocks into and out of the cook bag by the time my vital signs had reached allowable levels to strip down and free myself from the machinery. During the cool-down, I scrounged for edibles to add to my chowder. There were quite a few nutritious things growing on the terrace and cliff face, including morels, fern shoots, berries and green algae that tasted like kale.
Post-suit tingles stayed with me through the moonrise and late into the night. Restless and disconnected, I didn’t feel like working on my computer, reading, listening to music or anything else that involved the use of modern technology. I just sat with my legs dangling over the side of the cliff, eating chowder with my hands and watching cloud shadows sweep silently across the moonlit savannah. The food intended to stretch through tomorrow’s breakfast and maybe lunch was polished off by midnight. My famished body could not absorb enough fuel.
I finally wound down enough to curl up and sleep. Blessedly, my slumber was void of Hunter’s tumultuous, murderous dreams. Tucked into the shade of the mountain, I dozed long into the morning. His jumbled memories of worldwide slaughter and petty family squabbles have been wearing on me. It lifted a great weight to be free of his odd personal glimpses of the 2000s–wheeled cars, paper books, food sealed in wax paper and packaged in cardboard boxes. I did not dream I was cheating on his ex-wives or selling arms to warlords and organ transplant cartels.
No, I dreamed about Paul for the first time on this trip. I dreamt he held me in his arms and told me he loved me. I didn’t reply and I didn’t hug him back. I wonder what that means. Why am I not running north at this minute to be by my husband’s side?
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Hunger was about to drive me into the suit when a trio of unlucky wood ducks granted a reprieve. I heard the rustle of their feathers pass overhead and watched them splash down into my pool.
Their surprise arrival caught me napping in the shade of a bushwillow shrub. Resting 11 feet away atop my folded jumpsuit, the pulser seemed a continent from my reach.
Averting my eyes from the ducks to keep from spooking them, I rose and walked nonchalantly to my gear. Gray Beard says animals can judge intentions, that they learn the signs that say they are being hunted. Squatting with my back to the ducks, I slipped on my helmet and activated the pulser. Using thought controls to set a wide beam, I calmly turned and painted a blast wave down over the birds, scrambling their brains before they could erupt from the pool.
Fetching the bobbing bodies, I was heartened to find collateral casualties of several dozen shrimp and crawfish. The growls in my stomach asked, why didn’t you try that earlier?
Once the ducks were plucked and gutted, I buried them in the hot coals and heaped what was left of my wood overtop. Though I would have loved to make another chowder with the shrimp and crawfish, there were no additional ingredients besides water. I’d already eaten all the berries and fern shoots within reach, and harvested the algae bed down to the roots. I settled on kabobs, alternating the ducks’ hearts, livers and kidneys with the shellfish. The kabobs could have benefited from sea salt and herbs or a coating of one of Sal’s spicy glazes, but all in all, were damn good.
What was Hunter thinking when he packed my pack? There are no seasonings, no medicine kit, no rope or jerky, just Paul’s jumpsuit, a set of Cro-Magnon clothes for each of us, the cook bag and a soft leather tarp I’ve been using for shade in the afternoon and ground cover at night.
Once I’d inhaled the kabobs, I pulled out my computer to write a pair of rather lengthy botanical reports outlining my general observations of East Asian and African plants.
Compared to the pine-covered hills of Afghanistan, or anywhere else I have explored, the Fertile Crescent boasts an unparalleled biodiversity. Mesopotamia is a jungle swamp on steroids. From what I’ve seen of the Nile Valley it too is an overgrown tangle. Even this semi-arid zone between the Nile and Red Sea is botanically rich. Though it probably receives well under 20 inches of rain per year and will someday wither into a windswept desert of sand and barren, rocky bluffs, the ecosystem works.
Fog catcher trees comb moisture from the air to harvest water for the land. Tree ferns, mosses and lichen survive on the drips. In turn, they help protect the trees from fire. One day man, either the Egyptians or a race that comes before them, will clear cut the trees to make homes, ships and scaffolding for the palaces and tombs that will be erected nearby.
Once the fog catchers that anchor this precarious ecosystem are removed, the scrub and grassland will disappear. Every part of the savannah must cooperate, must play its individual role, for the fragile environment to overcome poor soil, lack of rain and stresses caused by overgrazing.
From the log of Hunter
(aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)
Ethics Specialist
Watching her jog through the waving grassland felt a bit like launching a probe into space. Good luck, my little Sputnik!
Pre-programmed where to go and when to meet me “by chance” along the eastern banks of the Nile, Duarte was still in the thrall of the simulation as she disappeared over the horizon. I must say, the sim worked better than expected. I don’t know what scenario her subconscious cooked up, but she was in REM sleep for nearly 14 hours, long enough for my son’s clan to not only pitch camp nearby, but also to eat, sleep and leave in the morning. We had a nice visit.
What a dandy little cock-up that simulation was! I should have studied my belt’s imprisonment systems before I ran Salvatore to Doggerland. It wouldn’t have been so bloody easy for him to hoodwink me if I’d sussed out the controls as I should have.
For the most part, I’ve enjoyed my sojourn with the botanist. Her pedantic ways sometimes grow wearisome, as does her insistence on remaining faithful to her husband, but we’ve had a rather lovely run. For now, I must travel solo for a few days to visit several other, less warlike, family members.
It won’t be long before Duarte and I are back together, or long before she jumps my bones. I’d bet on it.
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Dear Paul,
Five days removed from the jumpsuit and I’ve finally regained control of my mind and senses. At least, I think I have.
I’m certain how much I miss you, my love. My heart breaks to think of how long we’ve been apart. I physically ache with yearning and sorrow. Three months! Three months that we have abandoned you and Gray Beard to toil alone in the tar pits. Oh, how I wish I could be by your side right now.
I was a fool to complain about the odors and color of the water! You planned and tried so hard, why didn’t I support you? If I could take back only one thing in my life, it would be the fight we had. I said such hurtful things, questioned your decision-making and skills. I hope you can find room in your heart to forgive me.
I love you so much, Paul. You’re such a patient, understanding man. I don’t know why you put up with me. Even when I’m being a bitch or continue pecking at issues long after you want to let them go, you show me the respect of listening. Well after everybody else has tuned me out, you let me have my say. Rather than playing devil’s advocate, you offer support and advice when you think I need it.
I’ve been thinking about the size and strength of your hands, how safe I feel when they hold me tight. I would give anything to see your wide smile and beautiful brown eyes right now. You’d know how to climb down this cliff without putting the suit back on.
It shames me to think how selfish I’ve been. Please do not take this the wrong way (though I can’t blame you if you do), but until today, I have hardly thought about you except in vague terms. In the fog of the jumpsuit I know I love you and know I want to continue to remain faithful, but it feels as if you have been partially erased.
That’s why I must ret
urn to your side as quickly as possible. Life without you is no life at all. The dilemma is there is no way off this cliff without the damn suit. It probably sounds paranoid, but I’m afraid that once the armor gets ahold of me again it will not let go.
The last bits of duck were polished off yesterday morning. Stomach rumbling, I sit with my computer on my lap, facing north to draw strength from you. If I were to fall and break a leg or hip, I’d be done. I thought about jumping into the pools–the biggest drop is about 65 feet–but they aren’t deep enough.
I’m stalling as long as I can, hoping to retain enough free will to tear the jumpsuit off the moment my feet touch solid ground. Wait for me, darling. I’m coming to you as fast as I can.
With all of my love,
Maria
TRANSMISSION:
Hunter: “Did you miss me Maria?”
From the log of Hunter
(aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)
Ethics Specialist
Duarte arrived like a Swiss train pulling into Milano Centrale, precisely on time. Silent and shielded in her suit, she moved with the fluid grace of a leopardess as she followed a hippo trail through the bulrushes down to the banks of the wide, lazy Nile. Head constantly moving, scanning for threats and opportunities, she did not see me out in the open, standing on a chunk of limestone less than 10 meters away.
The loose fit of her suit told me she had not been eating well. I resolved to pump some food into her once we were across the river. I don’t know why, but I felt hurried. Something was pulling me west. Duarte must have felt it as well.
Her head snapped to the south toward a group of about a dozen male Cro-Magnons putting the finishing touches on a rude raft. I’d been watching them putter since I arrived. In a flash, Duarte set off as if pursuing an eland. “This will be interesting,” I thought, expecting her to silently hitch a ride or maybe even steal the boat right out from under them.
Instead, without warning or provocation, Duarte used karate chops to kill the first two men she encountered. Chop chop, they were dead dead.
“Stop this bloody instant!” My words meant nothing to the tornado descending upon the helpless men. The rest were working on the raft and had yet to note their friends’ demise. She had her right arm flexed to strike when I switched off autopilot and reclaimed control. The last thing Duarte needs is another massacre on her conscience.
“Maria, you naughty girl, come over here and join me. We’ll have a seat on this big stone and chat. You can tell me how you’ve enjoyed your time alone.”
“I must hurry.”
“Yes, I feel it too.”
“The raft.”
“Yes, the raft is our ticket across, but we have options. Shall we steal it while they bury those lads? We’d have to paddle ourselves across. Or shall we wait and let them do the paddling? They took the time and effort to build the boat after all.”
“Steal it.”
“You are a naughty girl.”
TRANSMISSION:
Hunter: “I believe it’s time you shed your armor.”
Duarte: “We’re close.”
Hunter: “Yes, we’re close. I recognize things without remembering them. See that hill shaped like a notched elephant ear? We go that way.”
Duarte: “Without armor I will slow you down.”
Hunter: “One of us must be free to remember.”
Duarte: “Why not you?”
Hunter: “It can’t be me.”
Duarte: “Yes, you’re right.”
Hunter: “Come on then, hurry it up. Strip down.”
Duarte: “Food.”
Hunter: “We’ll eat soon. First, get cracking with the suit.”
Duarte: “Where’s Paul?”
Hunter: “As long as you’re a good girl, we’ll be seeing him soon enough.”
Duarte: “My boobs have shrunk.”
Hunter: “My, my, so they have, Maria. You’ve lost more weight.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Though free of the suit for two full days, the fogginess in my head persists. I just spent an hour skimming the most current reports and journal entries in my computer. Very little makes sense. It seems I’ve lost the last eight days. I have no memory of them.
My final entry details fear of putting the suit on and a strong desire to return north to Paul. Why don’t I yearn for him now? Why is it the west and not the north that’s pulling me like a needle to a magnet?
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “You’re back.”
Hunter: “How observant of you.”
Duarte: “Don’t need to be a prick about it. I’ve been waiting a long time. Where have you been?”
Hunter: “Ready?”
Duarte: “I was begin–”
Hunter: “Are you ready?”
Duarte: “Yes, I’m ready.”
Hunter: “Put your helmet on and let’s go.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Every photo or hologram I’ve ever viewed of Egypt’s Valley of the Kings shows the great tombs and Royal Necropolis set in a mountainous wasteland of red stone and blowing sand. Pre-blast images were easy to tell from post-blast. Beggars and tourists weren’t wearing radiation suits.
These days the valley is as green and full of wildlife as any we’ve seen in Paleolithic Italy. Monkeys and birds chatter in the tree canopy while eagles and snakes plot to take them down. On terra firma, tigers and panthers do their bit to control the ungulate population.
Batting away spider webs and firing warning shocks toward any predator with the audacity to turn my way, Hunter led me along the banks of a tumbling brook about six feet wide. Due to a combination of seasonal washouts and lack of sunlight penetrating the canopy, groundcover in the valley bottom was limited to mostly ferns and mosses.
Strolling through the cool shade, me walking barefoot to preserve what’s left of my rude sandals, we kept to the stream as it gently gained elevation and curved to the south. Wooded valley walls grew narrow and steep in places, then opened into grand stone amphitheaters. We had to work our way over a few tricky spots, several waterfalls had to be climbed, but only once did Hunter need to stop to help me through a vertical section too difficult to scale on my own.
While spying on the Denisovans, Hunter assumed the role of tour guide and lecturer. He shared what he had learned about their culture, tools and beliefs. There was no small talk in the Valley of the Kings. Withdrawing further into himself with every step, he reminded me of Lorenzo Martinelli when that madman was deep in jumpsuit psychosis–far more machine than man. It makes me wonder what I’ve been up to in my suit.
I was silently debating whether the pulser tucked into my belt would hurt him when he stopped and held out his hand. I feigned ignorance. “What?” He didn’t respond, just studied me with soulless eyes until I placed the weapon in his palm. Slipping the gun into its holster, he turned and continued marching without another word.
To entertain myself, I began baiting him with puns and outrageous lies. Did he know his hat was on fire? What on a man grows longer and shorter depending on the time of the day? His shadow! No response. I may as well been hiking with a security drone.
While he became quieter and more determined, each of my steps brought additional clarity from the jumpsuit. I began to question what the hell I was doing. This was not the way to Paul! In fact, it was the opposite direction!
Again, Hunter stopped. We had arrived at the edge of a wide, sun-drenched meadow where elephants and gazelles grazed listlessly in the wavering heat. Eagles and crows floated high in the sky, while wrens and martins darted for bugs down low.
Pointing across the meadow to the tallest mountain in the chain, he started to speak, then stopped as if he had forgotten what he was going to say. Finally, in a vacant monotone, he said, “al-Qurn.”
The mountain was almost a perfect, green triangle. Only one type of tree grew on its flanks, a
conifer with medium-length needles and round seed cones. Like the mountain, the trees were also perfect triangles, though thinner and pointier.
“Al-Qurn,” Hunter groaned. “The peak.”
Sunlight shining through the trees at the summit made them glow like a jewel. Activating my visor to zoom in and see what caused the light to behave so, I received quite a shock. It wasn’t trees, but a triangular shaped emerald big as a building.
“Al-Qurn,” Hunter murmured as he strode into the meadow and began firing shock blasts to clear my safe passage through the herds.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Hunter? What are you doing? Get away from that thing!”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Scaling to the summit destroyed my sandals, and was on the way to doing the same to my good leather moccasins before I took them off to finish the climb barefoot. I barely felt the stones and nettles. I was too dumbstruck to register anything but confusion and wonder.
Rome Page 36
