Safari World

SAFARI WORLD

Smashwords Edition

PUBLISHED BY:

Brennan Haley on Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Brennan Haley

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Chapter One

Timeless and never ending, the morning sun rose above the Africa continent and painted the grassy lowlands of Casamance in lustrous spring green, a nearby river in sparkling deep cobalt blue. A sable antelope drank from the water, majestic curled horns spiraling up from it's exotically striped slender head. The barrel chested animal was oddly out of place this far west, the species inhabiting strictly South Africa, yet here it existed. Grass five feet tall bent away from the antelope, revealing the wind`s direction.

An African male lion crouched downwind in the swaying grass only scant yards away, it's powerful muscles coiled with explosive energy waiting for release. Such a enigmatic animal hadn't been alive in any corner of the planet in many years, but yet here too, it existed. The lion erupted into action. It charged and cornered the surprised deer in a flawless display of centuries old killing instincts, clobbering it to the ground. The cat's powerful jaws bit into the sable's throat, cutting it's air supply. Obscured by the grass, the deer was ripped apart.

Crouched on one knee, a man watched through binoculars, adjusting the focal length to better see the slaughter. The man lowered the glasses to reveal the tanned, ruggedly handsome features of John Patrick Glendweir. With the twinkle of lively spirit and good humour in his eyes, the seventy five year old man could pass for fifty with ease. But Glendweir`s smile revealed a contrasting side of his personality that was calculating and utterly dangerous as he crept closer, careful not to make any noise.

The lion was now close enough that John didn't need his binoculars. He gestured for his weapons bearer Loupa to join him, the slender coal skinned man visibly reluctant to do so. John traded Loupa the binoculars for a classic Remington over and under hunting rifle, checking that it was loaded. Despite the blazing sun above, neither John nor Loupa were sweating.

John sighted in on the feasting lion. The tall grass shifted direction and swayed back to the river, placing the men upwind. The lion's attention was immediate. The animal looked up and over directly at John, instantly charging. Loupa tensed as their impending doom approached rapidly. You shoot now?

John watched calmly as the lion's appearance grew larger in the gun's sights. Not yet.

The lion closed with frightening speed, disappearing and reappearing within the thick grass. It's hoarse breathing filled the air with the animal's soon to be satiated hunger. Loupa gasped and asked again with little hope. You shoot now?

No.

Loupa whined a little, then begged. Please?

Here, you want this? John handed the rifle to Loupa, who immediately refused it.

No no no no no no no!!!

John reshouldered the weapon and calmly took aim, the lion almost on top of them. Loupa assessed the survivability of their situation and voiced his concern.

AAAAAAA!!!!

CRACK!! The rifle's large bore round took the jungle cat fully in the chest, stopping it in a dead heap.

Loupa hyperventilated, slowly recovering from his panic. But John was surprisingly blase about the four hundred pounds of perished lion resting at his feet. Loupa smiled tentatively, still shocked to be alive. This is your greatest trophy yet, John Glendweir. Are you not satisfied?

It's not the same. John grumbled. He pulled an electronic remote control from his hunting vest and fired it at the dead lion. The animal's body shimmered and distorted, disappearing completely.

Loupa reasoned with his employer. All animals now are either extinct or endangered and all living creatures are protected by law, John Glendweir. That was a fact and a regret John had long lived with, even if so many animals had not. I know.

John fired the remote control at Loupa, who distorted and disappeared. John turned to regard his surroundings with regret and longing. The world he'd once remembered was gone forever, replaced with one of immense tragedy and miraculous discovery that defied the imagination. John Patrick Glendweir lived in Earth's future, but he would always be and only ever at home in it's past. But it's not the same.

Using his remote control, the entire African savannah disappeared, leaving John standing alone in ... a small room of white walls. A Frisbee sized robotic holograph projector hovered nearby, it's electronic voice chirped. This ends your session. Do you wish to save game?

Holograph imagers were meant to be unobtrusive, typically designed as part of the room's walls, it's projecting lenses didn't need to be seen to work. If a travelling hologram was desired, a drone was then required. Even then for most users, they used their holographic projector to render itself invisible in order to remain discreet and hide the fact that a holograph was being used. Automated voices also hadn`t sounded robotic since the 1980`s, a very long time ago. But a lot of people wanted robots to sound like robots and it was a currently fashionable retro trend that John had always responded to, pretty much seeing himself as retro as well. Plus he didn't trust a robot he couldn't see. Don't bother.

A holographic image appeared of several leaflets flying through the air into a garbage can as the program was erased, another unnecessary effort purposely designed to make the device seem charmingly old fashioned to people remembering computing from a different age. John entered a corridor connecting several holo-courts. From another room he was joined by Lawrence Dennys, a handsome, vigorous man of twenty swinging a squash racquet. Jonathan, how did your safari go?

Version Two's no where near as good as the box made it to be. John said, glaring at the young man. Shut off your projector, would you? I hate that.

Lawrence clicked his own remote and his features disappeared to reveal a balding, dumpy old man in a track suit. Self holographing was common enough and John understood why it was a popular addition to people`s sex lives. But the bedroom was where he thought it belonged. In public people should settle for being themselves. There was far too much blurring of reality in this modern life as John saw it and he hated how many people created and embraced so much surrealness. The future had left Glendweir behind and he regretted a great deal about having to live in it. To have been born a hundred years ago would`ve been just fine by him. Maybe even two hundred years ago. But John Patrick Glendweir was here now.

Now was a time when the African Lion had been declared extinct for over twenty years despite the Simba Clone Project and now only existed as a caricature on t-shirts, NetTV commercials and bottles of Nutrimins. Now was a time when whatever happened in the world was instantly known to anyone with a lobe jack and a subscription to CNN-XinZeera global news cast, which basically meant over six out of the world's ten billion people. Now was a time when John looked like a man half his age, specifically helped by his very expensive prescription for WrinkleEz. Lawrence, on the other hand, liked being anything different than who he was stuck as. To him, the future was bright and shiny and full of escape. My wife likes it.

I can see why.

Lawrence's face soured and John punched him good naturedly on the shoulder. Let's get something to eat. I'm buying.

The holo courts were a recent edition to the West Ashmore Gentleman`s Retreat, a prestigious men`s club that otherwise was a model of retro fashion, patterning itself after similar establishments of centuries ago. In fact if it wasn`t for the robotic servants bearing cigars and liquor while tending to the dozen or so elderly men rested comfortably in leather recliners, a visitor would`ve sworn they`d travelled back in time to just such an era. The varnished oak walls were covered with stuffed animal heads and pelts, dusty memories of animals that no longer existed and were only vaguely remembered.

John collapsed into a cushioned leather chair, loosening his belt to accommodate dinner, wheezing a touch. Beside him, two silver haired men traded observations over glasses of scotch. Despite the availability of synthetic alcohol that could be made to perfectly mimic any vintage as well as having far less sugar content and much easier to make, the exclusive club`s members insisted on consuming the almost prohibitively expensive original distilled grain whiskey with it`s inherent imperfections. Now they're bitching that our premade Glozone layer causes rabies in kids. For Christ sakes, people can finally go outside for a change and it's still not enough.

They're bitching because the government finally found a way to tax the air.

The two men shared a laugh at that, neither paying much in the way of taxes anyways. Glozone had been hailed as the silver bullet solution to the ever widening holes in the planet`s ozone layer, a complex chemical that was seeded into the atmosphere and restored vital protection from deathly ultra violet rays. Finally it was safe to be in the sun, melanoma wouldn`t be the world`s most prevalent killer anymore and global warming would be rolled back enough so that possibly there might be a North Pole again and the coast of the Eastern Seaboard could maybe re-emerge up out of the ocean.

The only thing holding up the process was the appearance of rabies in a percentage of afflicted infants during the test phase. But there was far too much money to be made and people wanted desperately to believe technology could fix mistakes of the past instead of people having to use restraint in their wasteful behaviour. So a 237spf suntan lotion of dubious effectiveness was marketed and Glozone now knitted together the planet`s tenuous atmosphere while civilization happily continued in consuming resources.

Lawrence leaned over to them, waving his watch's pristine holographic display screen. Dow Jones Index says William Gates Junior is down three and a quarter points, J.F. Clinton Lewinsky is up a point, and Bobby Gretzky went up eight points after game two in the Cup. John had no interest in hearing about personality stock trades, about to nod off in his chair instead.

John?

John blinked, looking around. Mmmmn?

Lawrence continued shaking John's knee. I said, why don't you tell us again about Tigrero?

The other men turned in their chairs, eager for a story from their most youthful member. A business man named Sherman Tsurides who'd made his pile of money from buying cheap land around the Okefenokee Wildlife refuge and watching it turn into highly valuable beach front property when Florida became a sandbar, spoke up. Yes, do tell, John. It's refreshing to hear that one of us old geezers hasn't calcified in his chair.

There were many wheezy chuckles and toasts of scotch to that.

John rubbed the bit of sleep from his eyes. He'd grown up in the waning years of sport hunting where so many animal species had been disappearing from the planet that the overwhelming guilt felt worldwide by masses of registered voters had caused election hungry American politicians to finally start listening to WWF and Greenpeace, enacting protective legislation forbidding the killing of any non-domesticated animal with real consequences and legal enforcement. The NRA would normally have lead the fight to stop such legislation, but the FBI and the Justice Dept had already gutted that organization's ranks in the wake of it's chairman being linked as a financial sponsor to Presidential assassin Clovis Butterfield. The Alcohol Tobacco Firearms bureau added a P to their agenda and then started prosecuting animal poaching in North America with a vengeance.

Not wanting to be alone in their new ethical stance on animal preservation, America used it's economic and political weight to press upon all other nations to follow suit in it's fight against the criminal hunting of animals. It used to be that China could've stood up to the benevolent bully that America tended to be, but that nation's newly developed role as world super power had changed quickly and drastically long ago. America still set the tone for world behaviour, and these days it was in the business of being green.

John was no poacher, he was far too ethical for that. But reconciling his love of hunting during a time when all hunters were being persecuted had driven him to practice his sport in some of the most obscure and dangerous corners of the world where the law had been slow to catch up. Back then, it was South America, during a time when it was still it's own continent and full of danger and adventure.

Well. As you know, 'Tigrero' means one who hunts Jaguars with spear. I was thirty at the time, more balls than brains.

There were assorted knowing laughs around the room. I flew down to South America to a little village called ...

John's expression went blank as he tried to remember. Had it been that long? He did the math and realizing it'd been forty five some years ago, he had to admit it really was a lifetime ago. What was the name of that village?

Tsurides laughed roughly, well into his cups already. His incredibly expensive cholesterol balancing treatments had given his heart another twenty years of tolerance for scotch and red meat which the businessman was milking for all it was worth. I don't know, you've only told the story a couple hundred times.

Lawrence interrupted. No matter, John. Just tell us about the jaguar.

Glendweir frowned, staring at the spots on the back of his hands, not remembering there ever being quite so many. WrinkleEz was supposed to stop that. He rubbed his forehead, concentrating fiercely. I just about died in that village. Why can't I remember the name?

There was the awkward silence of a group of men witnessing the frailty of one of their own. They came to this club to escape uncomfortable realities and nobody was particularly appreciative of this wakeup call. John screwed up his face in concentration and came up empty. His memory had always been sharp as a knife, he was good with faces, names, numbers, all of it. This was bullshit and the uncertainty was pissing him off.

Nowadays, people digitally recorded their memories so they would always have them to pass along to their children. John was far too old fashioned to indulge in something as incredibly bizarre like that. He was old school and wasn't ready to start mistrusting his own brain. But the harder John struggled, the easier that previously vivid memory of his life remained a mystery, lost in time.

Damn.

Lawrence and the others turned away in disappointment, falling into their usual conversations. John stared blankly at his drink glass, swirling the tiny bit of liquid left.

Sometime later, John Glendweir stepped out of the men's club, yawning and stretching. His chauffeur Franklin stood beside the open passenger door of a steel blue, vintage 37 Rolls Royce Electric Conversion limousine. Being that automated vehicles dominated all personal ground transportation,