Galway

by Matthew Thayer

  Sal and Dr. Duarte shouted, but the guy sitting on the rock didn’t even flinch as the spear point shattered against an invisible shield a yard away from his belly. The flint tip penetrated the force field about an inch, hung there smoking before dropping to the ground. The storyteller had a doomed look on his face as the guy slid off the rock and pulled a pulse pistol from one of his holsters. Before we could do anything to stop him, there was an electric sizzle, a snap, and the Hunter blew the old man’s dog away. Poor bitch, she was just standing there panting, waiting for her next command, when he hit her with a full dose. Burnt toast.

  Gray Beard let out a moan and threw himself over the body of his prized dog. Most emotion I’ve seen from him. Guy was crying. Everybody else was shouting, shaking spears, trying to work up the courage to give the Hunter another go. All except Duarte, who’s yelling, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Force field be damned, me and Kaikane were about to launch our own spears. The Hunter pointed his gun to the sky and gave us a pissed-off look as he shot a long, loud blast into the trees to call in his boys.

  Smell of ozone hanging in the air reminded me of other fucked-up situations when I figured I would die. As the whoops of hybrids grew louder, the guy gave a thin smile and slipped his pistol back in its holster. “They’ll be here momentarily,” he said in perfect English. “It would be a much better show if you weren’t pointing spears my direction when they arrive. Truly, I meant no harm. This idiot forced me to react as I did. Let’s give it a new start, shall we?”

  He had a syrupy way of talking, like a butler in a movie or something.

  The hybrids filled the valley in seconds, charging down hidden trails and up both sides of the streambed. My people made me proud. Without anybody being told, we formed a defensive perimeter around Gray Beard and prepared to make our stand. Duarte had quit telling us to hold fire. Everybody was locked, loaded and ready to roll.

  “Please! Gentlemen and ladies, put your weapons to rest,” the Hunter said in native trade talk. “Come now, let’s not get yourselves killed.”

  There were too many. We had no chance, not with one of ‘em packing two guns and a force field. “Hold up,” I ordered.

  “Outstanding decision, soldier! I don’t know your name, but I do look forward to shaking your hand. Make no sudden movements until my sons have their chance to give you a sniff. They really are quite perceptive. If you harbor any more hostile intentions, please hide them deep.”

  The Sons strolled right into the middle of our standoff, about 30 of ‘em crowding around us, sniffing our hair, fucking with our gear. It was all men with dark hair and oval faces. Not near as hairy as other Neanderthal I’ve seen, or as stout through the chest. But they still looked plenty strong, with muscular legs, big hands and forearms, strong teeth.

  Their weapon of choice looked to be long, jabbing spears, but there were also some clubs and way too many light throwing spears pointed our way for my taste. After a while, just like he said they would, most of ‘em went off to do their own crap and left us alone.

  Mister Hunter tried to patch things up with Cpl. Bolzano and the doc by being all warm and friendly. Fuck that. Old man’s still shook up and I don’t blame him. That bitch was probably the best and smartest dog on this planet. She saved my life once, kept me fed through a rough patch with my broken back. I can’t ever forget that.

  Kept my butt to the valley wall and a bolt nocked in my atlatl. Fralista was right there beside me with three spears in her hand. Liked that.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “You know this guy?”

  Duarte: “I don’t care what the corporal says, the man is Doctor Mitchell Simmons. Mitch was one of the initial planners of this mission. He was on The Team long before I was recruited.”

  Kaikane: “He kill any dogs back then?”

  Duarte: “That was brutal. Poor Gray Beard.”

  Kaikane: “Fuck right, poor Gray Beard. How come I never saw this Simmons during training?”

  Duarte: “Mitch wasn’t around much. He mostly worked out of his home in Scotland. For a professor from a small university, Mitch had some swank digs.”

  Kaikane: “You went to his house?”

  Duarte: “More like a castle. He hosted several retreats for the planning staff. Claimed it would do us good to walk along the moors as we contemplated sending men and women back to 30,000 B.C.”

  Kaikane: “What’s he doing here?”

  Duarte: “I intend to find out.”

  Kaikane: “You understand what he’s jabbering at Salvatore?”

  Duarte: “Italian’s not my strong suit, but it sounds like he’s trying to cheer him up.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  There’s so much stuff to write about, but all I can think of is the food. After living on raw grubs and frogs, choking down bitter greens and fruits that gave us the squirts, tonight’s roasted pork was good as anything I’ve eaten in a long time. Better. Rolled in honey, grains and herbs, slow-cooked on spits hand turned over red-hot coals, the roasts were just right. Even with a full gut, I’m thinking about scooting down to get a slab for later. I have a feeling we’re in for a late night of report writing.

  Maria sits on the other side of the cave pecking like mad on her computer. It’s been longer than a moon since she’s had the time, or privacy, to write and there’s lots of ground to cover. I watch from a seat with a good view of her profile. It’s an old trick, but she doesn’t mind. Pretty cheeks lit by the screen’s glow, black wavy hair still damp from our bath in the creek, she’s a picture of focus and dedication. I love how she softly chews her lower lip when she stops to think, and how two tiny shakes of her head, side to side, means she’s got it figured out and is ready to start typing again.

  The Hunter assigned us this cave after booting out a handful of his Sons. I guess we’re still calling him the Hunter, though Maria thinks of him as Dr. Mitch Simmons and Bolzano calls him daddy. Not too hard to believe he and Sal are related. They look like brothers. The father and son thing is tougher to swallow. Father looks younger than son. Long time ago, back in Firenze, Sal told us his old man had the nano life extension treatments. Maybe he wasn’t shitting us after all.

  That doesn’t explain how one man can be two people at the same time–an Englishman and an Italian–or be two places at one time. Whenever Maria and Sal try to nail him down on the subject, he dodges their questions better than a rabbit with a pair of foxes on its tail. The guy was nice about it at the start, but there was getting to be some “fuck off” in his tone as the night wore on. I stayed out of it, just concentrated on eating and watching over our people. Jones had his weapons ready and was doing the same thing.

  At first, there was too much going on to process it all. Hybrids storming into camp, plates of good stuff to eat, everything was a blur. I just remember having the meteorite club in my hand and being absolutely ready to go down swinging.

  I didn’t see any fear in their eyes as they closed to within spear-throwing range. The Hunter barked orders at his boys, really barked them, and everybody slowed to a walk. A few more barks, and most headed to a stone table by the fire pit to dump their weapons. Once free of their spears, clubs and antler knives, they returned to check out our clan.

  “Be calm, they won’t hurt you,” the Hunter laughed. “They just want a smell. It has been a long chase and they have earned it. Let them have a sniff won’t you?”

  Most had their sniffs, fingered our clothes and weapons, then drifted off to tend to chores or man lookouts along the canyon rim. The bare-chested hybrids wore leather kilts and tall moccasins that looked simple but sturdy. Plenty of red cheeks, bushy eyebrows and strong necks hung with necklaces of claws and fangs. All but the youngest boys sport thick beards. Four guys hung close to the Hunter. Whether they were a security detail or just nosy, I couldn’t say. Later on, during dinner, this bunch started hassling Maria and I had to set them straight. Used a few dirty tricks, hurt t
hem more than I wanted. It’s nothing I’m proud of.

  It was the Hunter who insisted we share a meal with him and his crew. After the way he fried Gray Beard’s pooch, none of us were feeling too kindly toward the man. We tried to take a pass, told him we had a funeral to tend to, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. The Hunter told us to take as long as wanted. He would wait.

  I’ve seen Gray Beard bury a few people during our time together, including his favorite granddaughter. The funeral for his dog was as sad as any of them. The old man showed every one of his many years as he held the body in his lap and watched us use spears to loosen the ground and clam shells to clear sand and rubble. Thankfully, the valley bottom wasn’t too rocky. We worked in shifts. Before long, Tomon, Jones, the new boy Greemil and I had dug a hole plenty deep enough to lay the bitch to rest.

  Fralista and Gertie found a pair of hazel nuts in one of the dog’s packs. Using a flint point, they scooped out each of her milky white eyes and replaced them with the nuts. Gray Beard himself sewed the eyelids closed so his dog would have the gift of sight in her never-ending dreams. We were all fighting back tears–even Jones–when the storyteller carried his dog over to the hole and handed her down to his nephew Tomon. Tipping his head back, Gray Beard let go with one of the saddest chants I have ever heard. He told of her lineage and recounted some of her greatest moments. Tears poured down his face as he delivered her tribute.

  Poor Lanio. The blue-eyed girl stood over the grave bawling her head off. She was holding Tomon and Gertie’s baby, rocking him back and forth, but started shaking so hard she had to hand the kid off to muddy Tomon. Some of the Sons had drifted over to watch, and I saw a few of them dab their eyes. When he was finished, Gray Beard made sure the bitch was positioned just right, with her head pointed north and her twin carrying packs laid just so beside her. Inside the packs were a few things to help see her through eternity, including a pocketful of the dried goat meat he always kept stashed for her in his cape.

  Sal tried to sing one of his native songs as we started pitching dirt back into the hole, but didn’t get halfway through before his voice cracked. Next thing I knew, he was sobbing as hard as Lanio. That’s when Tomon and Gertie, Sal’s two best friends in the world, came up on both sides and put their arms around him. They’re not much more than half his height, but they held him up with their arms and their voices. Gertie picked up the tune and before long the rest of the choir joined in.

  The river, it flows without ever stopping to hunt or to love

  Living forever, the river does not halt for you or for me

  If only our lives and our loves could be the same

  Flowing forever without stopping

  But what is life without hunting or loving?

  The river, it flows without stopping to hunt or to love

  Never happy, never sad, the river flows without stopping

  In English it loses some of its punch. In Green Turtle, it’s really pretty.

  Nobody was in a mood for small talk, not even the Hunter when we joined him by his personal fire. Waving us to take seats on stones and log benches, he sat on a pile of wolf skins and studied us like some king on a throne. I hate to admit it, but against the night’s damp chill, the fire felt good. It was built next to a flat stone table a good 20 or 30 feet uphill from the main cooking area. The position gave us a good view of the action.

  One of the elder sons was head cook. He stalked around the fire pit area bossing a handful of younger hunters who were either eager to please or scared to mess up. The 700-pound boar had been skinned and sectioned, with its loins and two back haunches cut into roasts for skewering. Once the meat was threaded onto three long poles, the poles were laid side by side and lashed together at both ends to hold everything in place. The contraption weighed so much it took two helpers on each side to turn it by hand to keep the meat from scorching.

  As his young helpers sweated and coughed in the smoke, the chef hopped around basting the meat with a pine limb dipped in honey and seasonings. On his breaks, he brought us turtle shell bowls of shelled nuts, boar intestines, berries, honeycomb and dried seal meat. When the pork was ready, the Sons served the Hunter first, our clan second and themselves last. A few were tasked with carrying skins of steaming meat up to their brothers on guard duty before they themselves were allowed to eat. Pretty good discipline. Too bad not all of them were so well behaved.

  You’d think I’d get used to other men staring at my wife. With her high cheekbones, thick, wavy hair and nice curves, I guess you could call Maria a “looker.” Everywhere we go, she gets a lot of attention from both men and women. I tell myself to be cool. Maria’s probably the prettiest woman they have ever seen, or ever will see. Let them enjoy the view. Tonight, surrounded by 30 hybrids, every fucking one of them just about stepping on their tongues, it was really starting to tick me off.

  We were sitting down for the main course when four of the Hunter’s bodyguards got between us and started messing with her hair. I had already told this bunch to knock it off in every polite native way I knew. They ignored me, so I called them out. Like I said, it’s nothing I’m proud of, but they’ll think twice before they try touching my wife again.

  I’m sure Maria and Sal will wear themselves out writing about the Hunter and his Sons. Lucky Sal, he’s been dying to study Neanderthal. If what they say is true, now he can do that and get to know his half-brothers at the same time. Maria says it will be an “absolute outrage” if the clan really is made up of the Hunter’s kids. Talk about the potential for changing history! She tried all night to nail him down on the specifics, but he brushed her off. All I know is, these knuckleheads look a helluva lot more like the Hunter than the pureblood Neanderthals we spent months spying on in Gibraltar. Not only physically–they’re taller and rangier–but also in the way they act.

  They all treat the Hunter like a father, a father they both fear and respect. He reminds me of a master with his dogs the way he growls orders and pats them on the head to reward good work. It’s weird to see Sal wagging his tail for his dad just like the rest of them.

  For us “moderns,” at least for me, seeing the Hunter felt good–right up until he zapped the old man’s dog. The Team had sent back a rescue crew for us, and it cared enough to send someone with new-generation, advanced weapons. We’re all hoping he has enough to share. The fact that Maria and Sal know the guy makes me feel even better. There’re holes in his story big enough to drive an air-car through, and he may end up being a complete asshole, but he is one of us.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “You wish to borrow a computer?”

  Hunter: “I’d like to watch a movie, perhaps listen to opera. May I use yours?”

  Bolzano: “No.”

  Hunter: “Still a selfish brat, aren’t you?”

  Bolzano: “Not so fast. We have been carrying a spare. I will discuss your request with Doctor Duarte and the others and let you know.”

  Hunter: “Good. Do it.”

  Bolzano: “You aren’t planning on holding movie night for your Sons are you?”

  Hunter: “Perish the thought.”

  From the log of The Hunter

  (aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  What a hoot to once again compose words upon a computer. It has been such a long time. I cannot stop smiling, thinking how scandalized my former colleagues will be when they read the title I have bestowed upon myself. Ethics Specialist. It has a ring, does it not?

  Should this computer reach The Team headquarters in Buffalo 32,000 years hence–if I allow it to reach the year 2241–I am certain my former stick-up-their-ass colleagues will hold at least three meetings to discuss the merits of replacing my chosen honorific with “Pirate” or “Traitor.”

  That is, if they still have their jobs. Sorry about your timeship, boys and girls! Does it hurt to know how easy you made it for me to steal? I have had 60 years to ponder how I might justify my actio
ns to you pinheads. And, of course, I had bucket-loads of practice defending my motives to my shanghaied crew. Those sheep, their three favorite questions were, “Why? Why? Why?” If I wasn’t the only person with guns and armor, they may well have held my feet over hot coals to force an appropriate answer. In the end, they had more than 30 years to plead one out of me before the last one died of old age–Tam Tam the Jap. (His native name for himself, not mine.) I wonder, will these time travelers age and falter as quickly as my men and women did? Perhaps I should I warn them. But why? What good would it do me?

  Back in the days soon after the jump, when my crew was down in its cups, I blamed my actions on Salvatore. “I did it for my son,” I would explain. “He is coming and we must help him.”

  And now Salvatore is here and I barely remember the man. So many years have passed, so many other children come and gone, I find myself asking the same infernal question: why?

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Papa, you sound...different. This accent of yours, is it British?”

  Hunter: “Scottish, I suppose. You people certainly are curious. Questions upon questions.

  Bolzano: “But, I was–”

  Hunter” “You are aware in this day and age there must be both a give and take of information, are you not?”

  Bolzano: “I understand the native concept of quid pro quo.”

  Hunter: “Good. You may pose one more query for now, and then I have some of my own.”

  Bolzano: “Do you remember taking me to the opera? How beautiful it was?”

  Hunter: “Still testing me I see. I never took any of my children from the later marriages to the opera. I recall seeing you at La Scala once when you were a little boy. You were with your mother. Is that where this is going? This is the ground you wish to begin our reunion upon?”