Bending to assist Fa to his feet, Paul was helpful right up to the moment Fa tried to counterattack. At the first sign of resistance, Paul pinched a pressure point in Fa’s neck that caused him to lose control of his bladder. Adjusting how hard he pinched, he forced Fa to alternate back and forth between limp as a string and stiff as a spear.
To our shouts of alarm, Paul turned to see Fa’s half-brother Ha-Ha sprinting his way. Letting his puppet topple like a felled tree, Paul pirouetted to catch Ha-Ha in a bear hug around the waist. Lifting the hybrid as if he had springs in his legs, using the man’s momentum to help fuel their launch, Paul arched his back and twisted in the air to pile-drive the man’s left shoulder straight down into the dirt. With a sickening snap, Ha-Ha’s collarbone shattered like a tree branch.
Seeing their brothers demolished in less than 30 seconds, the other two characters stood back for a murmured conference. With up-turned hands, Paul waved them forward. Shaping a pair of V’s with his fingers, he shouted in native trade dialect, “Two at once.” The pair spread wide. Feinting forward and back, they harried Paul, kept him turning to see which way the attack would come. On one feint, the eldest son in the fight, Da, traveled an inch too close. Paul shot low to wrap his arms around the man’s legs and tumble him backwards. Grabbing one ankle tightly with both hands as he stood, Paul turned it up and over his own head so the screaming man abruptly had his foot pressed against his own ear. Da’s femur dislocated from the hip socket with a sickening pop.
The final combatant rushed in to deliver a kick to Paul’s ribs that never landed. Shielding himself with Da, Paul let the older hybrid absorb the full force of the kick, while he grabbed the attacker’s ankle. Rolling Da up brother Ga’s leg, Paul bent the kick upon itself, crumpling the man’s knee. If anyone in this valley learns how to perform MCL and ACL surgery, he might walk again.
Paul did his damnedest to act like he wasn’t winded as he walked straight up to the Hunter and told him to keep his people in check. Paul’s no speechmaker, so it surprised me when he turned to the crowd and raised his voice to issue a warning in trade dialect. He said anyone with the balls to molest a woman of the Green Turtle Clan would have his throat cut.
“I am the runt of Leonglauix’s litter, and now you have seen what I can do,” he said while pointing to his two modern comrades, both well-armed and primed to join the fray. “Tall Bolzano and mighty Jones are bigger and stronger than me. We have power! Know this, the Green Turtle Clan will defend its people with its life. To the last man and last woman, WE FIGHT! We are the sons and daughters of Leonglauix, the greatest storyteller of all time! Back up! Move away! Give us room to mourn! We have lost a valued member of our clan this day.”
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “He’s late.”
Bolzano: “So it would seem.”
From the log of The Hunter
(aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)
Ethics Specialist
I had forgotten how utterly mesmerizing a good movie can be. And what memories it conjures! Although more than 300 years have elapsed since my first wife and I attended the grand opening of Papa Panache in Paris Stadium Theater, I remember the film as if the screening were last week. Such bleak sadness, Barbara and I left the theater in silence–along with everyone else. There was nothing to say. I think we were already mourning poor Paris. That was in 2116, two years before the world changed forever, before the French capital and eight other great cities were vaporized by nuclear bombs.
Peering out the narrow entryway of my secret den, I see the sun has set. I am late for a meeting. It has been many moons since I was part of a democracy, and I can’t say I am enjoying it all that much. These worms, they have no concept of what I have seen and what I have done. Why should I fill them in? To slip the noose around my future self’s neck?
The fact that I stole the timeship and hijacked an unwitting crew, this is already indisputable. That egg cannot be uncracked. But my son and his friends want to know much more. They ask how I found my way onto The Team. How I was able to live a double life, one of those lives free of the monitoring and taxation levied upon nanobeings? Spill those beans, and word gets back to The Team, there may be enough clues for the authorities to figure out whom Mitchell Simmons really is.
I give my son credit. From what I am able to surmise from the bits and pieces he transferred to this spare computer, he has maintained his cover story. Salvatore always was a stand-up thief and liar. Speaking of my new computer, I did agree to attend tonight’s meeting in exchange for its use. It would be a shame if they attempted to take it back, or heaven forbid, try to read what I have written. I might have to kill someone.
TRANSMISSION:
Hunter: “Truly, you can make wine?”
Bolzano: “The process is not hard.”
Hunter: “I didn’t inquire if it was difficult, Twit! I asked if you could do it!”
Bolzano: “Yes, Father, with the proper tools and ingredients, I can ferment a decent grappa. “
Hunter: “Well, what’s stopping you?”
Bolzano: “First, let me ask, how do you feel about headaches?”
Hunter: “Headaches?”
Bolzano: “I’ll make the grappa, you make the aspirin.”
Hunter: “Such a smart ass.”
Bolzano: “Make no claims I did not warn you.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
The set of Father’s jaw told me our meeting would be brief. He arrived several hours late, strolling unannounced from the dark with a mink cape draped across his shoulders against the night’s foggy chill.
“I see you did not wait supper for me,” he said with a sniff. “Such poor manners.”
“What part of ‘dinner at sunset’ did you fail to comprehend?” Duarte’s snide retort drew a glare so venomous it forced her to backtrack, at least momentarily. Placing her hands in her lap, she visibly regained her composure before starting anew. “Excuse us, Mitch. We waited for more than an hour. The boys turned the camp upside down looking for you. I finally decided you weren’t coming. There is leftover fish if you would like some.”
Despite being overcooked, the salmon was tasty enough to induce yours truly into indulging in several extra portions. Hawaiian waterman Kaikane does have a way with seafood. Our fisherman yanked at least a dozen, arm-long whoppers from a two-meter-wide stream in less than an hour, while I reclined on the bank napping. He gifted most of the fish to the Sons. As you can imagine, the hybrids, who are not such crafty anglers, were quite happy to receive them. Big-hearted Kaikane has taken particular interest in a quartet of ruffians he dealt with rather severely on our first day in camp, taking on four men at once and leaving three crippled, perhaps for life.
Their disabilities have made them social pariahs, first ridiculed and mocked, now shunned by their own clan. Like weak chicks pecked from a nest, the wounded men were forcibly cast out by their siblings. From what I have been told–I have no interest in visiting the buffoons–the men now fend for themselves while residing in a dank cave nearly two kilometers away. Kaikane and Duarte have made it their pet project to see the broken men have enough food and water to stand a chance at recovery. I was pondering the ramifications of such philanthropic endeavors when my attention was snapped back to the here and now by the rising pitch of Dr. Duarte’s voice.
“Then give me back the goddamn computer!”
“Don’t you dare use that tone with me, Duarte. I’m the one who got you on the damn Travel Team to begin with!”
With that, Father turned on the heel of a leather moccasin and stormed back into the dark.
The interplay was about what I expected. I had endured enough of Father’s three-minute operas to recognize the cadence. They generally went something like this: Want to fight, pick a fight, fight dirty, become indignant, exit with the last word. The last word was important. We all learned to give it to him. For Mother,
that involved such fierce biting of her tongue, it is wonder she did not cleave the appendage in half.
Father had a low tolerance for backtalk, and could be quite vindictive toward those who showed him disrespect. He not only held a firm grip on the family purse strings, he also knew every sordid detail of every person’s most secret secret. Even mine.
I warned Duarte. “Take it slow at the beginning,” I said. “Let him ask a few questions first.” At least she let him have the final say. We can all be thankful for that.
For every one of Mother’s digs, her verbal direct hits to his pride and self-esteem, Father made sure to get a pound of flesh in return. Even if it took him weeks or years to settle the score, the hurt was returned with interest–and usually in full view of those who witnessed the initial “infraction.” Mother was a proud woman with Austrian blood in her veins. I do not doubt some of the fights were incited only because she was bored and wanted his attention.
Father was all about Father. In his defense, he had lived long enough and done enough to earn our respect. Papa would never reveal exactly how he and his sister came to be two of only 36 nano-treated humans worldwide to survive the purges of the Great Singularity Wars of the 2120s and 30s. Every child who has read a book or watched a movie knows about the struggle with machines, how entire data systems and even hard-wired cities were wiped out by the Zealots. Somehow, Father made it through. Having an old man who had stopped aging and could well live 300 years would have been something for a child to brag about. If we had been allowed to speak of such things.
Born in 2078, a survivor of drought, famine and nuclear holocaust, Giovanni Bolzano was 134 years old and had already buried the two loves of his life when I was calved from his third bride in 2202. I was the fourth child of that marriage and his 22nd offspring overall. Population restrictions meant nothing to Father. He had the water, money and influence to sire as many children as he wished.
Though we of “the brood” seldom knew where Father was–unless roaming the property or locked in his study–Italy and the world government were keenly aware of his location at all times. As part of his amnesty as a “nanobot,” Father agreed to keep a low profile, stay out of politics, pay exorbitant taxes, and carry a locating device locked deep within his abdomen. The officials claimed it was for his safety, which may have been partially true. There were still many anti-techno Zealots roaming the globe–fervent in the belief it was their duty to their God to destroy every remnant of the unions between machines and man.
Dr. Duarte’s claims that Father passed himself off as a Scottish fellow living on the northern moors does not jibe with one unarguable fact. Giovanni Bolzano was confined to the European continent. Just as America had banned nano-human technology on its shores, so had the United Kingdom. Father would not have been allowed anywhere near Scotland.
CHAPTER THREE
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “I know, I know. You tried to warn me.”
Bolzano: “It was unavoidable really, not your fault. Father was spoiling for an argument. If you had not given him cause, he would have found a pretense to start one.”
Duarte: “Why?”
Bolzano: “I believe he is worried about something.”
Duarte: “Worried? Worried about what?”
Bolzano: “Us.”
From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
We finally spent a few hours alone with Dr. Mitch Simmons today. Paul and I were sharing a breakfast of berries and muesli with Gray Beard when the Hunter arrived in his wide belt and twin pistol holsters to invite us for a hike.
Before extending the invitation, he took the time to respectfully kneel by the burial mound of the storyteller’s dog and recite a native prayer to the Great Mother. Upon completion of the three-verse chant, he turned to the old man and offered an apology in native trade dialect.
“Your female dog’s death is sad making. Good dog. Loyal dog. I will help you find a new dog. Leonglauix, named for the red otter, son of Spotted Horse the healer, a curious boy who has grown into a famous storyteller and worthy clan leader, your pain is my pain. Your loss is my loss.”
As far as I was able to discern, he never did say he was sorry for executing the bitch, but the courtesy call did seem to cheer Gray Beard. He has not left the grave, except to tend to bodily functions, since the burial. The man who always keeps busy tending to handicrafts, mending gear and doing chores, now sits and mopes with a vacant stare. He’s afraid to leave the site lest someone or something sneak in to dig up the dog and steal her bones (a legitimate concern).
Daughter Fralista, Jones, nephew Tomon and wife Gertie rarely leave his side. The rest of us take turns standing guard and sharing in the mourning. Gertie and Tomon’s sweet, unnamed baby boy is too young to understand all this glumness. He provides plenty of lighthearted moments and entertainment that punctuate the sadness. The boy certainly does not lack for attention. The whole clan dotes upon him. I swear he knows Gray Beard is hurting. He crawls up into the old man’s lap and plays with his beard, tries vainly to coax smiles from the craggy face. Poor Leonglauix, the loss of his dog has cut him to the core.
The execution was only one of many subjects I avoided as Mitch led Salvatore, Jones, Paul and me along a meandering path up through the pines to the area’s highest point. Kites and falcons floated nearly close enough to touch as we caught our breath at the summit. The hike up had become an endurance test, with none of us willing to show weakness by crying mercy.
Following the distant sounds of wood cracking far below, we turned to watch a herd of woolly mammoth tear into a stand of fruit-bearing trees. The shale bluff afforded sweeping views of the intersecting valleys where two mighty rivers, the Thames and Doggerland, briefly merge before making a sweeping, right-hand turn to join the massive Rhine for a 450-mile journey to the Atlantic Ocean. Tracing the muddy Thames with his index finger to point out a series of low hills far to the west, Mitch said it was where the mega-city of London will one day be home to 79 million people, most of them living in sprawling tunnels underground.
A mix of forest, bog and meadow stretched to the horizon in every direction. The sea of yellow-green was dotted with shimmering lakes and bisected by numerous rivers of various size, all tributaries of the Thames, Doggerland and Rhine. Fifteen miles wide at its mouth and Amazonian in the strength of its powerful outflow, we were calling the Rhine the “Big River” until Gray Beard pointed to it one day and shared its native name. “Not Big River,” he scolded, “Rhine.”
Mitch let us drink in the views and get our breathing back to normal, then waved us to follow him over the crest and down a hidden trail. The going was quite steep for about 50 feet and then leveled off at a natural shelf jutting about two feet from the face of the cliff. After a short sideways shuffle along the narrow path, bellies pressed to the wall, we reached a dead end where thick, thorny brush had grown across the trail. Going to his knees, Mitch lifted the limb of a fat thistle bush and disappeared as he crawled underneath. Jones muttered “Just fucking wait here,” then dropped to follow on his elbows and toes as they taught him at West Point.
It was not long before his bass voice floated through the tangle. “All clear. Bring it in.”
We emerged from a 13-foot-long tunnel through pine branches and thorny gorse to a flat spot sheltered from the wind. The back of the lair was a tall shallow cave, about 12 feet high and 10 feet in depth. The shale amphitheater sported two fire pits and a round pebble floor about 17 feet in diameter.
Motioning toward bundles suspended by ropes, Mitch said, “I have blankets and jackets which you may use if you are cold. I do not build fires here during the day. Now that I think of it, you are the first guests I have welcomed to the Cliff House of Ipswich. A modern man does need a place to be alone, does he not?”
Following Cpl. Bolzano’s suggestion, I had kept my end of the conversation light during the hike. It was hard, but not impossible. I’ve been practicing. For instance, f
or the past months I have been attempting to hold all unsolicited opinions to myself. If I am ever to be accepted into female society in this day and age, I must learn to follow the protocols. Even though I get sick of beating around the bush, waiting hours, maybe forever, to get straight answers out of these people, I’m learning to be patient.
Nodding, I waited for Mitch to elaborate. It didn’t take long.
“I have at least two dozen spots like this, from the northern ice pack to the tip of Greece. They are special places where I go to decompress. It’s not easy being the boss of a native clan.”
I had a few things to say about that, but thankfully, Salvatore decided to break the ice first. He is far more tactful than I.
“Father, we sense your reticence to expand upon certain subjects and ask that you forgive our curiosity. Just as we were coming to terms with being shipwrecked for the rest of our lives, we now learn there was a rescue crew, one that had arrived four decades early–”
“Six decades. And instead of a rescue crew, you found me. Ha! Or, to be more exact, I found you. Oh, you led a merry chase, I’ll give you credit for that. I reckon it was more Leonglauix’s doing than yours. He can be quite the trickster.
“I was less than a week behind you numbskulls when Martinelli held his Christmas Eve service in Nice. I’m sorry to have missed that. History. Word on the trail was the old storyteller disappeared immediately afterward with his beautiful protégé. Lorenzo’s people were searching the coastlines in both directions for hundreds of kilometers. I figured you headed for Spain. Subsequently, my boys and I wasted 10 soggy months looking for you there. I still don’t know how you did it,” he said, looking up to catch me staring. “Where did you go?”
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