Bordeaux Read online

  30,000 B.C.

  CHRONICLES

  BORDEAUX

  First In A Series By

  MATTHEW THAYER

  30,000 B.C. CHRONICLES

  BORDEAUX

  By Matthew Thayer

  U.S. Copyright: Matthew Thayer, Feb. 26, 2012

  Published as ebook, Feb. 29, 2012

  ISBN – 978-0-9883879-0-4

  Cover art and chapter sketches by Darko Tomic

  30000bc.com

  [email protected]

  Copyright © 2012 by Matthew Thayer

  Table of Contents

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Editors Notes

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  The shipment from 30,000 B.C. announced itself with a faint radioactive chime in the hillside above Ventimiglia, Italy, on June 6, 2234. Nearly two years later, archeologists breached the wall of a vaulted chamber supported by three columns of carefully stacked rocks. Buried in the sandy floor they found one flat, white personal computer and a small pile of Neanderthal skulls and bones.

  The doctors shared the bones with the Italians and secreted the computer back to The Team headquarters in Buffalo. Despite its 64,000-year roundtrip journey, the device arrived looking much the same as when it was stowed within the holds of the Einstein III sailing ship and launched back in time on January 8, 2233.

  The computer disgorged text documents and simple drawings with no complaint. Retrieval of audio files has been sketchy. Visual, holographic and scent files appear nonexistent.

  Poring through the initial transcripts and listening to the first barely audible voice transmissions, Team leaders realized they were fortunate to have received any data at all. The scientific explorers had faced great hardship from the beginning.

  This book is a compilation of the travelers’ journal entries and recorded voice transmissions. Six members of The Team emerge to tell the tale, each in their own voice. The quotes are unaltered and true.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Cpl. Amacapane: “What do we write?”

  Master Sgt. Leonard: “Ah hell, you should know. They want your observations, your thoughts, anything else worthy of mention.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Riding the wind currents with nary a flap of their long, v-shaped wings, a trio of frigate birds keeps pace with the ship as I recline alone on the top deck, agonizing over what to include in this inaugural missive from the Pleistocene. Let me see. The sun is warm and bright. The sea is clear. Two planets and a star shine faintly in the blue sky above.

  “They want more than the weather and how homesick you pukes are.” That was all the literary advice the Master Sergeant had to offer as he distributed a crate full of new, industrial-grade computing devices to the men and women of my unit. He arrived while we were ensconced in the cramped recreation room, grousing over our plight as the working class, killing time as we waited for the next duty shift to start.

  “Three hours a week. That’s your minimum journal requirement on this equipment,” he reminded each of us as we signed a receipt by pressing thumbs to the touchpad of his clipboard.

  “The captain expects to make landfall in two days,” he said in a distracted tone. “I imagine that’s more of a guess than a sure thing. Either way, y’all done enough bellyaching. You boys and girls spread out, find good places to hunker down and log on. And, if I was y’all, just to be safe, I’d copy all your personal stuff from your old computers onto these here.”

  I think that is what he said. These Americans speak such a poor grade of English. Nearly every utterance includes a “Y’all this” or “I reckon that.” I had no idea I would be surrounded by such backwoods boors. Although my rightful place is with the science community, those of the lofty elite treat me as if I do not exist. What would a rude Italian firefighter know about anthropology and archeology? The answer, of course, is quite a bit.

  For now, I bide my time and wait for an opportunity to prove myself. It is inevitable, my brilliance will be recognized. That keeps me going for now. I remind myself daily, hourly, by the minute. Be patient.

  Time would pass more pleasantly if my fellow countrymen shared my refined tastes in music, art or even games of chance. Alas, these two paisans, a former soccer player and a mountaineer, are as foul-mouthed and flatulent as the rest. Neither would know the difference between “Rigoletto” and “La Traviata” if you hit them over the head with the sheet music.

  Cpl. Amacapane, who played attacker for Bologna, reminds me of a schoolboy with his petty insults and quick temper. He is a handsome kid who has more athletic skill than brains or personality. The other Italian, Sgt. Lorenzo Martinelli, is not so transparent. He behaves as a cat does. Aloof, hard to read. I sense there is much undercurrent below the surface of this man from Pistoia. He certainly spends enough time in conference with the new captain to merit watching.

  I assume there will be many reports filed about The Team’s four most senior officers dying in transit, but not one official word concerning the cause of their demise has filtered down to the crew. That leaves plenty of room for speculation, though my co-workers have long grown weary of the topic. Thus far, the new captain and his staff have given us no reason to doubt their skills or competency. Perhaps I see intrigue where there is none. It is hard not to on this cursed ship.

  Following the officers’ gloomy burial at sea, we have settled into a rhythm of work, rest and sleep. Our strength is returning, and the Einstein III is pointed in the direction of the rising sun, churning daily toward the coast of Europe. We hope. Each day, we pass more birds, whales, dolphins, sharks, turtles, manta rays and other creatures than we ever thought possible. The cooks outdo themselves with fresh seafood and fowl.

  Despite these reasons for optimism, I sense an increasing tension amongst the senior officers. They emerge from closed-door meetings with sour faces. Gone is the small talk. The scientists scurry about in twos and threes, refusing invitations for conversation, or even eye contact, as they inspect their instruments and take samples from the crystal-clear sea.

  In the 10 days since we splashed down, landed, appeared, or whatever we are calling it now, I have taken every opportunity to sit on deck and do as little as possible. I listen to opera through my ear peas and watch the world through half-closed eyes. Something is afoot, and it is killing me not to know what.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Lyons: “All seven kayaks on shore now. Man, I wish that was me. History.”

  Shin: “Like Armstrong landing on the moon.”

  Lyons: “One small step for The Team, a giant leap for Teamkind.”

  Duarte: “It’s being recorded. They must know it. Do you think they planned something prophetic to say?”

  Shin: “I can just hear Dr. Gomez now. ‘It’s great to be back in the Rainbow Room. You over there, the Neanderthal in the leather thong, smoking hot tonight.’”

  Duarte: “Look at all the gulls take off. Even if they can’t see the patrol, the flocks sense something.”

  Lyons: “Pulling the kayaks up to the top of the beach, shaking hands now, patting each other on the back.”

  Shin: “What’s next, hand jobs?”

  Duarte: “You should watch what you say. They’re not the only ones being recorded.”

  Shin: “What do you mean?”

  Duarte: “You’re wearing one of the new helmets, your words are being capture
d. As are those of all the people around you.”

  Lyons: “Dave’s recording us?”

  Duarte: “Oh yes, everything said within about 10 feet of the helmet is picked up clearly. Less so as distance and ambient noise are increased. Or so the manufacturers claim. Wait until you get to know these new suits. They truly are amazing.”

  Lyons: “Can you turn the record feature off?”

  Duarte: “I don’t think so. It stores up to a week’s worth of dialog, then automatically links with your new computer to download data for long storage. Our colleagues back in Buffalo may listen to your little jokes in 32,000 years and find them inappropriate.”

  Shin: “How do you know this?”

  Lyons: “Two hundred Norte Americanos says Duarte read the directions.”

  Shin: “No bet. Of course she did.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  We’ve done it. The Team made landfall today.

  Anticipation pulses through the ship as we wait out the night, anchored in the mouth of a wide bay. We arrived off the European continent in late afternoon. The new captain reckons we are off the coast of what will be called the Aquitaine Region of France. The land of grapes and wines of Bordeaux. Someday.

  The ship was halted too late to allow extensive patrols to disembark. Chief Science Officer Gomez took a skeleton crew ashore for a quick reconnaissance. DePalma from Anthropology and Hackett from Zoology were included. I was passed over. Again. Oh well, my time will come tomorrow.

  They launched in the cool, gray afternoon. Each of us division heads helped them cast off, shamelessly jockeying to be part of history. So many of us lined the rail, the ship leaned shoreward as they paddled away in kayaks. Hushed commentary filled the decks as we tracked their progress through magnifiers, watching steadfastly until they returned.

  Paddling back to the ship, Hackett and DePalma were trailed by four rather stunned-looking soldiers. To a man, the scientists were too excited to speak clearly. “You won’t believe it until you see it,” seemed to be the consensus.

  Later, in the wood-paneled dining salon, Gomez narrated holographic clips shot by Hackett. The images showed a verdant land rich in plants and animals of every sort. Although no hominids were spotted, a pair of deer carcasses found near shore appeared to have been butchered with flint tools.

  I have never seen dour Dr. Gomez so happy. During one gap in the conversation, he raised his glass of filtered water and proposed a toast.

  “To us!” he said with a manic edge to his voice. “To accomplishing what our detractors said could never be done. Thirty-two thousand years is quite a trip! We will study a world unspoiled by the hand of mankind. I’ve seen it and I can tell you, it is pristine!”

  He waited for us to have a sip of water before addressing Dr. Hackett.

  “Francis, why don’t you give them the rest of the good news?”

  There has been little enough of that lately.

  Hackett unfolded himself from behind the table, kept his head bent low to prevent it from hitting the ceiling.

  “You know we have been taking regular sea and air temperature readings,” Hackett said as he slowly scanned the room. “I am pleased to report that Thorson’s Interstadial projections appear to be spot on. Judging by today’s patrol, he has placed us in a particularly warm and moist period. Just as he said he would. I know several of you also had a hand in helping him predict this break in the ice age. Shimokawa and Duarte, please stand. Well done.”

  We each gave little waves, then dove for our seats as Hackett continued. “This climate is nicely temperate. At this latitude we’re sure to see ice and snow in winter. Storms? Sure. But when you consider the possibilities we trained for, we are very lucky indeed.”

  He fumbled for his glass and raised it.

  “To not freezing our asses off!”

  Gomez waited for the catcalls and mild applause to die down before he rose and spread his arms for silence.

  “As you all know, I believe we make our own luck. Due to hard work and overwhelming commitment, each of you stands on the brink of scientific legend. College buildings may one day be named in your honor. The Team offers hope for discovery and understanding unparalleled in the modern world. All we need to do is survive. I bid you all long and productive lives.”

  We cheered and pounded on the table. This golden glow of success was welcome respite from the worries which have dominated conversation at recent gatherings. Gomez must have had similar thoughts, for his face slowly melted back to its usual serious countenance.

  “As you know, persistent mechanical problems continue to threaten our expedition just as it starts,” he said. “The ship and most of our equipment continue to degrade, perhaps at an accelerating rate.”

  Dr. Singh raised her hand. “How much longer will this vessel function?”

  “This new captain seems to think he can stop the decline, continue making repairs. I’m not holding out hope for that. Captain Miller may turn out to have more confidence than actual skill. At current rates, I estimate we may have six months before the ship is no longer navigable. The hulls are sound.

  “Most unfortunately, Miller refuses to fully apprise his crew of the situation. He leans heavily on a select few, and ignores entreaties by all others. We may need to replace him.”

  He paused to let the thought sink in. My frustrations over balky microscopes turned out to be small potatoes. Professor Hew cut in.

  “You throw that out there in a rather cavalier manner, Pedro. An overthrow? Do we have the authority to make such a move?”

  Gomez gave a sideways look that said he did not appreciate the man’s tone.

  “Certainly. We can call for a vote of confidence. Science has the majority. We have the votes to force him to step down.”

  “To be replaced by whom?” Hew asked.

  “I have some ideas,” Gomez replied. “After all, this ship is staffed with the ‘best of the best.’ Each of you will be paired with potential candidates tomorrow and in the days to come. I expect reports on your observations. Do not, however, let the chore distract you from the mission at hand.

  “Our difficulties with the ship and equipment mean we must hit the ground running,” Gomez said, slowly turning his head to study our faces. “Obviously, priorities have changed. Survival, learning to live in this wild environment, trumps all academic pursuits. We’ll be documenting foodstuffs, natural resources, weather patterns and looking for appropriate locations to site our base camps.

  “We must not surrender this initiative to the military. They will have their own ideas on how to do things, of course, but our footprint on this land must be minimal. No interaction with native man. No influence on events. No ripples in the natural course of history. If we leave it up to those clods, who knows what will happen?

  “Together, we are the guardians of this voyage. We will spend the rest of our lives here, and hopefully, when our 23rd-century counterparts unseal this ship’s titanium vault, they will find it loaded with data cubes full of our research.”

  He paused for the chatter to quiet down, waited for complete silence.

  “More important to me, by far, is when the last of us takes his or her final breath on this ancient earth, we will have left no other trace of our time here.

  “Think about that tomorrow when you set foot in the Pleistocene.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “I would like to sign out a spare holographer, sir. Mine is not working.”

  Hackett: “What’s wrong with it?”

  Duarte: “At first, the lens was sticking, and then it stopped altogether.”

  Hackett: “Is it charged?”

  Duarte: “Yes, sir. I signed it in to be repaired.”

  Hackett: “You and everybody else. There is no photographic equipment to be had.”

  Duarte: “That’s disappointing.”

  Hackett: “Take good notes, Maria. Technicians will have your recorder repaired as soon as they
are able.”

  Duarte: “Yes, sir.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Maybe there is a God.

  When two of my shipmates’ computers winked out within minutes of each other this morning, I determined it was well past time to heed the Master Sergeant’s advice and transfer my personal data to this clunky appliance. Procrastination is such an insidious character flaw. I must redouble my efforts to overcome it. A life confined to this ship’s catalog of opera would surely spell the death of me.

  There I sat, halfway through the transfer, when the screen on my computer, a green, palm-sized unit issued on my first day of training, began to waver. It represented my entire inventory of music, photos, movies, recordings, books and notes. More than two minutes to go, and I was not sure if any or all of the data was making it through.

  Team leaders would soil their diapers if they knew this, but I said a silent prayer watching the screen fade in and out. Dredging up the old incantations, naming saints as the red transfer bar slid silently forward. At the exact moment it showed “complete,” the old computer quit for good. A cold sweat crossed my brow. I was afraid to look. When I opened up the folders, there they were. Everything.

  To celebrate, I slipped in my ear peas and turned up the volume for the Perugia Symphony’s classic 2089 performance of Rossini’s “Il Barbiere di Siviglia.” Heaven. Or, as close to heaven this confirmed sinner will ever be.

  There is much gossip to share, but no time to tell it. I have shore duty this morning and must pack my gear. Already they are calling for me. In brief, the ship is falling apart. That is the rumor at least. More later.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Sgt. Barnes: “Corporal Dago, where did you get this backpack?”

  Bolzano: “Stowed inside the front compartment of the kayak the supply officer issued to me this morning, sir. She says it links with the jumpsuits.”