The incident occurred during my first night on the trail, as our party of 14 commandeered a makeshift camp in the pines following a day of hunting lynx and fox for their pelts. Near dark, the oldest son, Aa, speared a black boar for the evening meal. Aa made a very good throw to hobble the running beast and swiftly rushed in with a long jabbing spear to deliver the coup de grace before one of his brothers could lay claim to the kill. I witnessed the entire scene from start to finish and must admit, I am not only impressed by the skill and courage Aa displayed, but also by his fine taste in pork. The pig was delicious.
I was carving a slab of loin from the charred carcass when two boys jostled me from behind so firmly I nearly tumbled into the fire. Only a quick leap and lucky landing prevented me from being severely burned. As I gathered myself, I found the birch bark plate was still in my hand. Despite my Mexican jumping bean performance, not one drop had spilled. In the old days, I might have found a place to sit down and eat, or run off to complain to someone of authority. That was the old Salvatore. Without hesitation, I marched back around the fire and jammed that wood shingle laden with steaming pork into the nearest pug’s grin. Grabbing them both by the napes of their necks before they could escape my wrath, I lined up their foreheads and smashed them together not once, but twice. The hollow cracks sounded like a pair of coconuts colliding.
Letting the clowns tumble to the ground, one unconscious and the other rocking in dazed pain, I scanned the crowd for any other takers. I gave them several minutes to work up the nerve, studied their eyes as I walked amongst them. Turning my back to collect the fallen birch plate, I carefully refilled it with bits of haunch and one of the boar’s sweet cheeks. Father did not have a word to say when I joined him by his personal fire, but I detected a satisfied smile between his measured bites of pork.
We chewed our meal in silence despite the absolute flotilla of conversation starters and questions bobbing in my brain. I was determined not to speak first, and perhaps so was Father. Or maybe it was a test to see if I was capable of remaining quiet. I admit it was not easy.
The Americans tease me about my attempts to please Father. Jones phrased it most succinctly. “Ya sure do smooch on Daddy’s ass,” he said around the stem of a weed tucked into the corner of his mouth. I did not waste breath upon a reply.
Yanks will never understand the way we Italians assign godlike status to our family patriarchs. How do I explain a lifetime of dancing for his attention, forever groveling for approval? That is not to defend Father, or to say his parenting techniques were healthy or nurturing. Far from it! These years removed from his influence have given me fresh perspective on just how colossally dysfunctional was the Bolzano family dynamic. They say old habits are hard to break. He will always be my father and I will always respect him, but I am quite determined to shed his labels of bumbling thief and fool.
More than an hour after the conclusion of the bloody, one-course meal, he broke our silence, speaking in Italian accented by Scottish burr. “I see this dangerous world has forced you to grow up. I consider that a welcome improvement indeed.”
It was as close to praise as one got from Father. I basked in the warm glow of his words. His security field was turned so low our shoulders were nearly touching as we sat leaning against the trunk of a gnarled larch, watching our fire spark and dance. The last of the hybrids was bedding down for the night. Unperturbed by the nearby howls of a wolf pack on the hunt, Ca-Ca covered himself in fallen leaves and pine needles, lay his head upon folded hands and closed his eyes.
“Are they truly my half-brothers?”
“Yes. Every damn one.”
“Tell me how you did it.”
For once, Father complied. His only stipulation was that I not interrupt with requests for clarification, or to pose additional questions, which might take him off track. Like an idiot, I agreed. Nearly every word he uttered invited clarification! How can an hourlong soliloquy leave you feeling like you know less than when it started? There was no use trying to renege on our deal, all I could do was listen.
Father is well aware that he holds the upper hand. We are starving for his revelations, to know the truth of what has happened. Sadly, I was not wearing my helmet at the time, so there are no recordings of this conversation. Perhaps that is why he was so forthcoming. No matter, I will do my best to detail the highlights.
His golden eyes came alive as he spoke of “bloodlines” and the traits he looks for in his “cows.” For the uninitiated, it would have seemed odd to hear such a young man outline a project 50 years in the making. Father appears no older than 30, younger than many of his sons, including me. But I had grown up with Giovanni Bolzano the Nanobot. His lack of aging was far less disconcerting than the gusto he showed for the topic at hand.
The more Father pontificated, the more he sounded like a breeder of Springer Spaniels. He claimed his offspring with Cro-Magnon women turn out not much different than any other Cro-Magnon children, although “perhaps a bit taller and darker than average.”
He maintained that nearly all Cro-Magnons, and not just his offspring, can be trained to high levels, but are prone to taking all of that training and wandering off never to return. Those who remain nearly always evolve into needy followers intent on worshipping Father and his special abilities. That part I absolutely believe. Sgt. Martinelli had the same problem. In defense of the Cro-Magnons, how else are they to explain his eternal life? Or the shocks, guns and ability to disappear?
Once Cro-Magnons become accustomed to his modern tools, he said, they cannot wait to show off their new champion to other clans. To rivals, they boast, “Our leader can kick the snot out of your leader!” To friends they urge, “Join us, our leader has great power!”
“It becomes far too cumbersome,” he sighed. “I tried running Cro-Mags time and again, but it never worked. Whenever I settle with Cro-Magnon for any length of time, the buggers stop thinking for themselves and want me to solve every problem, settle every dispute. Sod that!”
What fertile ground for questions. How many clans? How many women and children? Oblivious to my consternation, Father plowed right into his decades of genetic testing, his efforts to come up with offspring that meet his demanding standards. It sounded like he bedded anything that walked for about 10 years and then retraced his tracks to survey the results.
He claimed the first few years he and the crew of the Einstein IV lived in the Paleolithic were spent in South America where mankind has not yet arrived. Risking all on a failing ship, they chanced an Atlantic crossing that turned into a seven-month death cruise. Finally reaching the western shores of Ireland, the few survivors ended up settling with the first Cro-Magnon clan they encountered.
“We didn’t even know Neanderthal existed until we made our first trek south. Flat Heads had been hunted to extinction up north along the coast. Once we crossed the ice pack and dropped down into the plains of Doggerland, however, we began spying the hairy buggers all over the shop.”
Father must have started shagging the “hairy buggers” not long after he spied them, for the conversation shifted quickly to comparing the merits of a blend of Bolzano genes with Neanderthal, against those blended with hybrids. Once he picked up this thread, Father became even more animated.
“I’ve tried training pups born to me from quadroons, octoroons, you name it, and I’ll tell you, you can’t beat a straight half-and-half match. Half Hunter, half Neanderthal. They’re strong, with good teeth and stamina. On long hunts, my Sons can run for days. They fall into a trance where time and food mean nothing. And they don’t go broadcasting what I can and cannot do to every wandering clan or hunter they come in contact with.”
He paused while I excused myself to wander down to the stream to empty my bladder–a bodily function I have yet to see him bother with. Upon my return, he changed course in his lecture on Breeding 101.
“Neanderthal Sheilas are passionate lovers, and they’re keen to add new, powerful bloodlines to their clan. They come wi
llingly to bed. As long as the wenches don’t gut you with a bone knife the moment they have your seed, they produce boys that are quite capable hunters. You’d think I’d take the tallest or prettiest girls to ground, but I’m always looking for the smartest. Who wants dumb kids?”
What about the female babies? I wanted to shout. What happens to them? Evidently, the plight of his daughters did not bear mentioning.
Neanderthal men, even hybrids, he said, are a challenge to train because their first alliance is always to their mother. And Neanderthal women cannot be trusted. Their loyalty is reserved only for their children and grandchildren. He said the youngest batch of Sons was his fourth generation of hybrids, and by far his best effort.
“Once I removed mothers from the equation, my clans’ fealty became unmatched,” he said, pride seeping into his voice. “I’m the only parent these boys have ever known. They are loyal, almost to a fault. Loyal to me, at least. If I was you, Salvatore the Brawler, I would be careful whom I pick a fight with. Your brothers have long memories, and just enough low cunning to make them dangerous. Believe me, there is more going on behind those thick brows than you think. My Sons have minds of their own, which is a fair shake better than I can say for most of the natives I have invested my time and genes in.”
Only briefly did he touch upon the Einstein IV’s grounding and its crew’s eventual immersion into that area’s resident clan, the Fish Eaters. He said the sailing ship suffered mass equipment failure and was adrift in the Atlantic for months before becoming caught by the wide, powerful Gulf Stream. The current carried them northeastward for many weeks until, one morning, the sun rose over an emerald coast backed by mountains of snow and ice. Glimpsed through mists and fogs, the coast of tall pines, ferns and hanging moss grew nearer. Just as it appeared their ship would be smashed upon the rocky shore, luck prevailed in the form of a powerful tidal surge racing up a wide, deep river.
“The tide grabbed ahold of the ship and wouldn’t let go,” Father said. “The three of us still alive were up on deck, taking in the astonished faces of fishermen and women as we drifted past. It was a corking good show, I tell you! The tide carried the Einstein several kilometers upstream, and we poled it a couple more before beaching her up on a gravel bar.”
Longing to hear more, I nearly cried out in agony as he fast-forwarded to the breeding potential of the Fish Eater clan. He said he found them to be generally “shrimpy” and weak-willed.
“I like a clan with spunk,” he said. “The Eaters had been secluded and safe on their coast for too long. The ice shelf may have protected them, but it also turned them into lambs.”
How I would have loved to ask about the rest of the crew. Is Leonglauix’s claim that the other men took native wives true? Did they also arrive with their reproductive systems intact? How big of a mess are we dealing with? Who comprised the crew? Did I know any of them?
But, Father was done for the night. With a faint static charge that made the hair on my arms stand straight up, he winked from sight.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “One more sip.”
Kaikane: “If you insist.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
boss says i’ve been slacking in journal writing. pushed me into her hideout and told me to start writin.. kindofa cool place. supposed to tell all my shit but my head spins every time i focus on screen... feel like im gonna puke. maria asked if i wanted to test sal’s booze and gotta give it a thumbs up–if you like rocket fuel. holyfuckfirst time i got drunk wuz in Lahaina. 9 years old and mom’s passed out on toilet and none of us can use bathroom so we’re squatting outside in the yard using leaves to wipe our butts. nothing to eat in house. us kids ended up getting smashed on a jug of sweet mango wine she brought home. mom cried when she woke up and that jug was gone, even tried giving us kids spankings, but we ran down the street till she cooled her jets. bad morning. we was all puking sick just like her. finally, she said “let’s go” and we followed her in line all the way down to the beach. not much sand just concrete, rusting steel and crap, the shoreline ruins of lahaina. mom begged plates of baked breadfruit and guavas from an old hapa-hawaiian dude that felt sorry for us. kimo was a good guy. remember there was a south swell and mom talked him into loaning us some boards, we surfed all day while they drank and drugged and hooted every time we got a good ride. gotta go. time to hurl
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Surfer Man, up for a little spear golf?”
Kaikane: “Look who’s back in the Land of the Living.”
Duarte: “Hey Jonesey. How are you today?”
Jones: “About half. Can ya spare your old man for an hour or two? Somethin’ I wanna show ‘im.”
Duarte: “Yeah, sure, fine. I’ll keep an eye on Gray Beard. How’s the new atlatl?”
Jones: “What I’m gonna show Specialist Kaikane. He can tell ya all about it when he comes home with his tail between his legs.”
Duarte: “Not so fast, Captain Juniper Jones. As your commanding officer, I request an exhibition of this new-generation launcher before you tee off.”
Jones: “Pick something.”
Duarte: “Through the trees, hit that false tinder conk growing from the base of the ash.”
Jones: “Huh?”
Kaikane: “Fifty yards out. Orange mushroom, low on tree where Sons hang their game.”
Jones: “That one?”
Duarte: “No way! What a shot!”
Kaikane: “Let me see that thing.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
First morning in long time I don’t feel like something that dropped out of a mammoth’s ass. Know better than to get my hopes up, but think this one’s just about passed. “Depression episodes” is what Duarte’s calling ‘em now. Preferred “blue mood,” but it’s all the same fucked-up thing.
Don’t know why they put up with me. Fralista could have her pick of the Sons. They all want her. Even though I treat her bad, she stands with me. Not bad, really. Indifferent. Hate myself for it, but for the past couple weeks I barely had energy to open my eyes, let alone make small talk. People think they are being kind when they try cheering me up, jolly me through it. “You’re such a great guy,” they say. “You have so much to be thankful for.” I grind my teeth together and fight back the urge to cram a fist down their throats.
Old dude was only one who let me be. Talking’s the last thing either of us needed. Guess he’s turned a corner too. Last I saw of him, he was taking Lanio and Greemil off to find porcupine quills so we can stitch our winter gear together. Sounds like we’re headed to some cold country. Along with Gray Beard, Hunter likes traveling when the lakes and rivers are frozen into flat highways and most of the carnivores are asleep in caves.
Still don’t know what to make of the guy. Seemed like he went out of his way to question me after I made it plain I didn’t want to talk. What’s that about? Man doesn’t answer any of the shit we ask him, why should I share intel? Turned him the cold shoulder. He finally took the hint. Hasn’t said a peep to me since.
Probably shouldn’t complain. Hunter and his boys have kept us protected and supplied with game while we kick back, but something tells me these guys are gonna turn out to be bad news. One night I overheard Sal saying he thinks his old man might be shell-shocked from the jump, or gone wild from living in the Stone Age so long. I wonder if his fancy belt has gotten into his head, like Martinelli’s suit did to his. Let’s hope he’s not gone wacko.
Damn belt and guns give him big power–power to ignore Duarte, to pull Bolzano’s strings and to spit on our rights. What can we do about it? We’re badly outgunned. Belt must be a couple generations beyond our gear. When he goes invisible, we can’t detect him through our visors. No heat signature or ultraviolet, no sound, nothing. Duarte tried sneaking past him with her jumpsuit set to full stealth and he spotted her right away. No matter how good this new atlatl turns out,
it’ll never top a las-gun. Even if I beat him to the shot, doubt I can launch a bolt hard enough to pierce his armor.
He zapped the bitch to show us he meant business, what he’s capable of. Lucky he didn’t scorch Gray Beard instead. Could tell he was thinking about it. Guy’s got a temper on him. Don’t know whether he’s using his gun or the belt, but every once in a while he’ll give us a light shock to remind us we’re vulnerable. Makes me wonder what his range is, how many volts he can throw. Enough to kill a man?
I’d say ditch him, make a run for it, but we’ve tried that. With poor results. It’s no good living in swamps, always running, looking over your shoulder. I think he knew where we were the whole time. Once they flushed us from the white cliffs, he was just fucking with us, softening us up for the big reunion. Sounds paranoid, but there were more’n a couple times out in the swamp when animals spooked, whole flocks of birds took off and I was sure somebody was tracking us. We never saw him, but that don’t mean he wasn’t there.
At West Point they taught us to pick our battles. Training said if circumstances dictated there wasn’t a way to win, we should delay engagement, study our opponents for weaknesses, take action when success became possible.
“Pendulums swing both ways,” Maj. Lynch used to say. “Be patient, be diligent and your time will come.”
I bet old Maj. Jim never attacked an enemy position armed with only a spear-thrower and antler knife.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “My arms are about to fall off.”
Kaikane: “Can barely feel mine. How many skins we finished so far?”
Duarte: “Eight. But you must admit, it’s a big eight.”
Kaikane: “Roger that.”
Galway Page 10