Holding the baby and knife on my right, I reached with my left hand for the glowing red dial and attempted to unfasten his belt. All flashing and swirling abruptly came to a halt. In place of claxons arrived a neutral, American-accented voice of a mature female. “Attempted breech detected,” she said. “Automatic override commencing in 10 seconds.”
The spherical field filled with number tens, thousands of them, until they blinked away to be replaced by a multitude of nines.
“You won’t even see me coming, you bloody wanker,” Father groaned. “Not until you’re staked out on the ground and your friends are dripping blood into your eyes.”
My backhanded swipe punctured his cheek and exited through the corner of his mouth. White teeth, gums and blood, I could discern all through the flaps of his face as the countdown reached six. An attempt to appropriate his gun earned me a powerful jolt of electricity.
“Fool,” he chortled.
“Five...,” the woman’s voice purred.
With downward thrusts, I stabbed the knife’s two-tipped end into his chest and back, until both blades were broken off inside his body. Coated with poison and aged in human feces and urine, the foreign objects will provide the nanos with a nasty challenge.
“Two...”
Turning to depart, I spied the computer on loan to Father. It was floating like the guns and I fully expected to receive another shock for my efforts, but I chanced a grab as I pressed Rhino against the wall.
“One...”
“Spalancare!”
Ears popping from the change in atmospheric pressure, Rhino and I burst from the field as if we had been shot out of a department store’s revolving, vapor-sealed door. According to the members of the clan who witnessed our departure, it was quite a close call. Trailing behind us, the end of my fox-fur scarf was caught in the closing shield and vaporized.
“Blood! Where is he hurt? What did he do to him?”
“Father’s blood. I believe Rhino is fine.”
Sobbing hysterically, Duarte wrapped us in a hug and would not let go. Kaikane joined in, muttering, “It’s all right Maria, it’s OK now, Sal’s got him.” The sisters and drummers rushed over to put their arms around us and before long the entire clan was clenched in a tight circle with Rhino and me in the middle.
Beside us, the force field slowly powered down to a battleship gray coffin. Adrenaline drained, my bloodlust spent, I proposed an immediate run for the coast. Duarte had other notions. She wanted to make sure Father was gone forever. “If we can’t get at him, we’ll carry him over to the big river and drop him in the rapids,” she said with steely conviction.
There was much discussion about how to move him, until Lucy chanced to sit atop the field and received the shock of a lifetime. The discharge singed her fingertips and toes and left a ringing in her ears that causes her pain to this day. The coffin crackled and sizzled whenever we drew within a meter. It could not be levered by spears, dented with rocks or set on fire. In fact, it seemed to like fire, fed upon the energy.
“We are wasting time,” I finally warbled. “We must quit this nonsense and flee. Now!”
That was at least a month ago. We have been on the move ever since. It has been a miserable journey filled with slushy ice, cold rainy weather, day after day of looking over our shoulders and jumping at strange sounds. Leonglauix has led us up onto the shelf for one final, northwestward crossing to the land of the Fish Eater Clan. He insists we make the acquaintance of the clan and its “Big Drum.” The storyteller refuses to divulge why, but he seems to have a plan.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “How much longer?”
Jones: “Old man says we’ll be in the trees tonight.”
Bolzano: “He said the same thing yesterday.”
Jones: “Yep.”
From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Until today, the nearest I’d come to Sequoia sempervirens was the collection of wall-sized cross-sections on display in the botany department at Stanford. I would measure their rings and dream of the past. By the time my family immigrated to California, redwoods had long since been wiped away by drought, non-native beetle infestations and man’s greed.
As far as I have been able to determine from the files in my computer, the species was never cataloged outside North America’s Pacific coast, not until we walked into this grove where I sit in the diagonal rays of the sun and listen to the gurgle of a nearby stream. Smoke drifting up from our fires gives the rays definition, and also keeps the bears away. We hope. Fresh out of hibernation, the lumbering beasts are everywhere. Thankfully, there is such bounty of salmon, spring berries and nettles available, they have no reason to try humans who toot on bone flutes and clack their spears together while moving in a pack. On average of 7.4 times a day, Gray Beard warns us not to become lackadaisical with the bears and other carnivores in this remote region. He claims they lack manners.
Back to Sequoia sempervirens. This is an important find. I have made a few rather unique discoveries during my stint in the Paleolithic, but I don’t think it is an overstatement to claim this ranks as one of the biggest breakthroughs of my career. The conical crown, drooping branches, incredibly thick bark and leaf structure all match up. Oh how I wish I had a microscope. With that level of verification, the 11,000-word report I just filed would have a more confident tone.
Confident or not, it was wonderful to get the redwood report, as well as two on tundra, completed. The data had been hanging over my head for some time. It has been months since I was able to park in front of the computer and work without interruption. So many details and mental notes were scrolling around my skull it felt like carrying an overfilled pail on my shoulders. Hard to describe how satisfying it has been to pour that pail into the computer. I was aware I was on to something important, but it wasn’t until I had the opportunity to compare my findings against the historical (future) data that I realized the import. As Paul would say, “Cowabunga!”
Of course, it always returns to the same old question. Will any of the reports I write make it through? With all my heart I hope so, but I wouldn’t change a thing if I knew they do not. It keeps my brain occupied, gives me a sense of purpose. If these findings reach The Team, the experts can decide whether the data have merit or are merely the ravings of a sun-starved lunatic.
Sunshine has never felt better on my back and shoulders as it does right now. The goose bumps on my arms are gone and my hair is nearly dry. I’d forgotten how long it takes when it’s this long. Even though I had to put my same old dirty leather clothes back on, it is nice to be clean underneath.
The sun was directly overhead when Gray Beard ordered us all to strip down and wash. Never bashful, he led by example. It had been months since the Green Turtles had a proper scrub and we all were quite ripe. We had a fire raging by the shallow pool, and Paul was preparing to try his luck at trout fishing, when the old man jumped into the frigid water and called us to join him.
If I were in advertising, I might describe the water as “refreshing.” It took your breath away and would not give it back. Getting used to it meant it was no longer unbearable, just excruciating. Rhino cried and cried when it was his turn to be scoured with gravelly sand and splashed clean.
If anybody happened along, we would have made quite a sight, nine pasty white adults and one toddler, laughing, crying and splashing, running up to warm like rotisserie chickens by the fire before returning for another attempt at full immersion. The clan has grown close through these challenging times. Fralista even helped clear the tangles in my hair today by the fire. We made a circle with Lucy and Pearl, each grooming the person in front. While we preened and clucked like hens, the men threw stones into the stream, competing to see who could hit one of the many animals and sticks floating on the current.
After such a miserable crossing of the ice, it feels wonderful to once again be clean, warm and well fed. I had “safe” in there, but deleted it. Setting aside the bears, lions, w
olves and other predators, the Hunter is never far from our minds. Gray Beard claims he will not chance a crossing now that the glacier’s surface has begun to melt to slushy rivers and lakes, but I’m not so sure.
The storyteller has been treating with the Hunter for many years and believes the man’s weakness is water. He says Mitch takes far less chances when there is a chance of drowning. That’s why Gray Beard is so quick to head for the swamplands when being pursued. If a strategy works, he sticks to it.
Paul and I are determined not to spend every day worrying. We’re tired of looking over our shoulders. Today’s communal bath with its naked whooping and laughing may have been a basic, necessary human function, but it also held symbolic value as well. I believe we’re all in better, more positive mindsets as we prepare to make our final push to the coast.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Yo, Duarte, better get over here ‘n check this out.”
Duarte: “Where are you?”
Jones: “Under the tree.”
Duarte: “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Jones: “Tall one on your right. One with me and Bolzano standing under it. See us?”
Duarte: “Whatcha got?”
Jones: “See this mark in the trunk?”
Duarte: “Is it a flying bird? Big mountains?”
Jones: “Sal thinks it’s an M.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Fralista and me had another fight today. Says I don’t listen when she talks. Took her long enough to figure that out.
We’ve moved into some pretty country, a zone of hills and dunes between the ice shelf and coast where it don’t rain all the time. There’s plenty of game and so far the wolves and other nasties have let us be. The Hunter hasn’t shown his ugly mug and each day it gets less likely he will. Gray Beard says the ice will be uncrossable, even for him, until late Fall.
Should be content, but I’m not. Felt a click in the back of my head while Fralista was ragging on me. Clouds have been forming ever since. They’re dark. Real dark. It’s gonna be a bad one.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “I’m just saying, maybe this ‘Big Drum’ is a cannon or something. Cannons make a big noise, right? Maybe it’s mounted on the deck of the Einstein IV. How cool would that be?”
Jones: “After 60 years without grease and maintenance?”
Kaikane: “Ah come on Jonesey, tell me you wouldn’t love to get a big old cannon into your hands.”
Jones: “Kaikane, I can’t.”
Kaikane: “How about a few holes of spear golf. Up for a challenge?”
Jones: “Look, I know you’re tryin’ to cheer me up, but ya gotta knock it off.”
Kaikane: “How long?”
Jones: “The fuck I know.”
Kaikane: “Just let me know when you’re ready to get your ass stomped in golf.”
Jones: “You wish.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
The executive chef of our Milano estate owned a Siamese cat that caused its own blindness. Scratching cross-eyed Cyrano’s back or rubbing his ears induced a motorboat’s purr and overwhelming desire to ram his forehead against table legs and cabinetry. The pet had not been brought home blind, but lost its sight in middle age, most probably due to its continual bashing against the furniture.
Chef and I played chess in his quarters every Thursday afternoon, and the cat was forever underfoot. The Belgian from Liege was a level three player. For the first few years, I was no match. Chef would play me one game as a gentleman, sitting and gently tapping the antique wooden game clock when his move was completed. Once the first thrashing was secured, he spent the remainder of our afternoon’s matches roaming the kitchen where our board was set, holding holo conversations with distant friends in French and prepping his dinner. Trailing was Cyrano, purring and head-butting his ankles.
For two years I never sniffed victory. Though I had a head for the game, I was too lazy to work at it. Sloth did not, however, stop me from occasionally stopping by the boards at Parco Sempione to watch the old-timers to see if they had any tricks to emulate. One afternoon I waited for chef to stretch his attention thin before opening with a gambit gleaned from one of the chess hustlers the previous day. The mercurial Belgian was making piecrust and juggling three other tasks when I found myself two moves from checkmate. Though young, I understood this dish was best served slowly and coolly. Sliding my queen to f4, I concealed my glee behind a stone face. His plight dawned slowly. Stopping to study the table in midstride, Chef disconnected his call without his usual three-pronged “au revoir, salut, bonne journee.”
Toppling his king with a respectful flick of his manicured index finger, Chef emitted a gentle laugh. “So, you finally did it. Does it feel as good as you thought it would?” From that day forward, he began taking time to point out my mistakes and help me develop an overall strategy. Chef was one of the only members of the household staff from whom I never stole or extorted. I respected him too much.
I must have been 13 or 14 when Chef discovered his cat had gone blind. Cyrano was so good at living with his disability, the Belgian could not even nail down when it happened. The cat knew the apartment like the back of his paw, and had no trouble navigating his way by memory. Chef became aware on the day he let the strictly indoor cat out onto the patio for a roll in the sunshine. The guard dogs must have been stationed outside the perimeter wall that day. When returned inside, the discombobulated cat staggered around the apartment as if he had lapped up a double martini.
Chef was already awaiting a veterinary drone to pick up the ailing kitty as Cyrano slowly regained his orientation. One round-trip flight to the animal hospital and a large bill later, it was confirmed Cyrano needed a guide dog. Not really, but that was the joke Chef told. Cyrano was a good cat. In spite of his infirmity, he never made a mess.
I made the mistake of relating Cyrano’s superior attributes to my thuggish Umbrian cousins while they were up for a visit from Perugia. We spent the afternoon roaming the property as their worthless father groveled in my father’s study begging for another loan. Looking out the window the next morning, I saw my shithead kin had somehow gotten into Chef’s apartment and absconded with his cat. They were throwing pebbles at poor Cyrano, trying to drive him under the gate where our Dobermans and shepherds silently paced.
I did not stop to put on proper clothes, or to consider how these two bullies had been subjecting me to similar treatment for as long as I had known them. As a boy who loved books, music and opera, one who did not play soccer or race hover-bikes, I was considered effeminate. Though I was taller and heavier than they were, size means zero if you are too meek to exploit it, and besides, it was always two against one.
The brothers paid my orders to stop no mind as I charged across the marble terrace in my robe and silk briefs. Sensing their sick game would soon be put to an end they increased the intensity of their barrage. Cyrano took a direct hit and was wobbling to the edge of the fence as I scooped him up and turned to shield him in my arms.
My cousins undoubtedly expected me to run away and hide, my standard modus operandi. I surprised them, however, by ignoring the stones sailing my way, turning and attacking. For the first time in my life, my temper took complete control. I cannot describe the brawl which ensued for I have no memory of it. Even later that day, when Father summoned me into his study to explain what had caused me to break the orbital bone in one cousin’s face and chip four teeth of another, I remembered nothing but a red-hot blur. The assault is not what riled Father. I think he was rather proud of my out-of-character actions, the need to have my swollen hands scanned for broken bones. No, he was angered by the fact my antics forced him to once again loan my uncle money which would never be repaid.
Here in the Paleolithic I have faced several high-stress situations that caused my mind to snap, to lose itself in
bloodlust and violence. This is what bedevils me about my assault upon Father. There was no insanity, no crazy, mindless reaction. I remember every detail, and why shouldn’t I? I planned it. I am plagued by an image of him rotting to death inside that coffin as the nanos fail to repair his butchered body. I think of his surprised face, the sneer that said he did not believe I had the balls to actually hurt him. Is that why I stabbed my father a dozen times, because he gave me a condescending look? The Romans would have me flayed with rods, sealed inside a leather sack with a live monkey, cock, dog and snake, and tossed into the Tiber River.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Tell me again.”
Bolzano: “Father mentioned this subject only in passing. Something about leaving clues for us around Europe.”
Duarte: “Try to remember his exact words.”
Bolzano: “What difference does it make? You can see for yourself.”
Duarte: “Stonehenge?”
Bolzano: “A passable representation.”
Duarte: “It’s an abomination! Why would he do such a thing?”
Bolzano: “You have no proof this is his work.”
Duarte: “Come on!”
Bolzano: “Maybe to alert us of his existence. It is a big world. He feared we would miss him.”
Duarte: “He built others?”
Bolzano: “He once joked about his ‘Pantheon’ in the Roman hills and miniature pyramids in Egypt.”
Duarte: “Motherfucker.”
Bolzano: “If you would just open the files in his computer, there may be a map marking his indiscretions.”
Duarte: “Believe me, I’m trying. He has it locked up tight.”
Bolzano: “I see the wheels turning Dottoressa. You, no doubt, have a scheme in mind.”
Duarte: “We’ll burn it down.”
Galway Page 31
