THEY WERE DOWNWIND of the bull. The four of them lay in the grass just over the sloped peak of a kurgan—Dr. Aslanov on the far left, and then Vladimir, and then Anthony, and then Konstantin. Konstantin had given each of them earbuds for their right ear, and his carefully formed thoughts, picked up by the black Alexander ring he wore at his temples, came through on the earbuds in a low, robotic whisper through static.
They cannot see well. He won’t be able to make us out from there—but their senses of hearing and smell are so much better than ours that it is difficult to imagine. Especially in the low range, their hearing is unearthly. It is said they can feel the vibrations of another mammoth walking ten kilometers away. I believe this to be true. So what is most important is to remain still until you have your shot.
They had been still for what seemed like an hour, the flies of the steppe landing on their hands and faces, crawling across knuckle and cheekbone, vomiting stomach acid on them and sucking it back up to sample their flavors. Vladimir wished that when humankind had eradicated the mosquito, it had killed off whatever these biting flies were as well—injected viral DNA into their populations, too, crumpling their wings forever.
The Alexander that Konstantin was wearing was an old model, with a hand-held control that opened and closed transmission. The control looked like a ballpoint pen, with a button you clicked on the end of it, and a ridge you could slide from side to side with your thumb to control volume.
Vladimir was terrified of ever wearing one of those things himself. No matter how many times it had been explained to him that you had to concentrate to project a thought, that they didn’t really “read” your mind, he was certain it would reveal what he really thought about people, and they would never trust him again. One of the things he was terrified of—one of the many things he was terrified of—was that people would be able to understand him. So many people said they wanted to be understood. But who could really want that?
Thank God these Alexander things were one-way.
We have all the time you need. Just wait for your angle.
Beside him, Anthony’s face twitched in irritation. The barrel of the rifle drew a small circle in the bright air as he silently readjusted position.
They had been watching the bull at its watering hole for a long time now. For that entire time the bull had kept its back to them. Vladimir estimated it had been an hour, but perhaps it had been more than that, or far less—he had no reference.
He had never been so afraid of moving. He was certain he would shift, or suddenly speak for no reason at all, compelled into motion and sound by all this silence and stillness. And the bull would run away. And Anthony would hate him forever. His muscles were painfully cramped, and his body kept demanding he shift his position, but he was in terror of being the one who frightened the bull away, and so he lay even more motionless in the grass than the others.
But every few minutes the sense of wonder managed to penetrate through the pain in his limbs and the sting of the flies writhing across his knuckles, and he really saw it: the mammoth. The massive, chocolate-colored beast. The extraordinary length of the tusks, with their graceful curves flowing downward from the lips, angled slightly outward, then arcing back up.
It was a picture come to life, a childhood fantasy. It was a hole in time and in the world, swaying with its back to them, dipping its trunk into the pool and then spraying the water into its mouth. It was a resurrection. It was something that could not be—but was.
And if it shifted, if it turned this way, it would cease to be. Vladimir had spent that entire span of time willing the bull to keep its head turned away from them.
He had seen the diagrams of the two possible shots—from the side at the level of the notch in the ears, from the front directly between the eyes. He knew the moment either of those angles appeared, Anthony would destroy this animal. This wondrous, impossible animal.
A thought kept pushing its way into his mind:
If you pull that trigger, I will stop loving you.
If he were the one wearing the Alexander’s carbon-black band, he was sure Anthony would hear that thought with no static at all.
This thought was not an empty threat: it was the truth. When Anthony pulled that trigger, and that massive, hairy giant with its absurd and wonderful curves of tusk that almost dragged on the ground collapsed into death, he would stop loving Anthony.
Yes, it had been a test, bringing him here. Anthony had wanted to see if Vladimir could love all of him. He wanted to be loved completely, with all of his flaws. But this was not a flaw, a quirk, a personal glitch. This was intentional. This hunting was an act of destruction that had no purpose except … what? Vladimir could not understand it. A year of Anthony’s income. A fortune. Several fortunes, for anyone who lived in the world of real money, where it wasn’t counted in billions. Why this? Power? But where was the power in this—lying in the grass, led here by experts who found the animal for you, knowing the piece of technology in your hand gave you absolute control? This wasn’t power.
No—it was power. Power was the ability to destroy without needing to. To do it not out of necessity, but as an act of pure excess. To do something to someone else simply because you could. And this was perhaps the greatest power of all: to kill something that no one else could kill.
To have a miracle resurrected—and then destroy it.
If you pull that trigger, I will stop loving you.
The bull raised its head, but not at an angle that might allow the shot. Its trunk curled through the air. Smelling.
He senses something, the Alexander’s metallic voice said. Stay very still.
But in that moment Vladimir sensed something as well. What? An unsettling in the earth. A shifting, as if the soil shuddered.
Dr. Aslanov raised his head and turned, looking behind them. The move was sudden, and loud after the silence they had been maintaining for so long. Vladimir turned as well. When he saw them, he grabbed at Anthony’s arm.
And then the gun went off.
Vladimir had never been so close to a weapon being fired before. His ears rang, and the world’s sound dimmed. But he hardly noticed that. He hardly noticed Anthony’s cursing, either. All he could hold in his mind was the sight of the mammoths, bearing down on them. Enormous. And very close.
Run.
It was a voice in his head, but also his own thought.
Run left. To the Burlaks. Follow Dr. Aslanov. Run!
He was already running, on ground that slid and shuddered underneath him. He turned and saw Anthony behind him. Also running, his rifle over his shoulder.
Standing atop the kurgan was Konstantin. He had raised his rifle toward the herd bearing down on him.
Anthony grabbed Vladimir’s arm and pushed him forward, urging him to go faster. Behind them, they heard Konstantin’s rifle thunder.
The Alexander’s voice was drowned in static as they neared the edge of its range.
When you get to the Burlaks, you tell the drivers to go. Immediately. Do not wait for me.
The last thought Vladimir heard from Konstantin, small as the buzz of a mosquito against a background of white noise, was:
Damira.