Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  “What about Africa?”

  “Quite foggy. What happened?”

  “I don’t remember either.”

  “What makes this lapse most disconcerting is it is a first for me. I pride myself on my memory, yet most of our run is a blank.”

  Was he bullshitting me? With a snake like Hunter, what do looking and sounding sincere count for? Not much. I neither let him off the hook nor savaged him with one of the rants I had been working on.

  Paul joined us, listened to Hunter’s apology and surprised me by sticking out his hand for a shake. Men find it so much easier to forgive and forget than women.

  Hunter ended up walking the rest of the way with Gray Beard and Sal, conversing with his two sons as they kept their eyes roaming for everything from onions to sweet grubs.

  Reaching the site, we learned where Hunter had been spending his time. To his credit, he had not fouled up the project, but instead moved quite a large pile of fill and stones to the mouth of the cave. Within minutes of shedding their packs, Sal and Paul were on the hill above the mouth inspecting Hunter’s makeshift flume for guiding debris downhill. The shallow ditch utilizes gravity to move materials. The innovation certainly is more efficient than carrying everything by hand or on a travois, as we had been doing.

  The wall that will seal off the dry back half of the cave is now four feet high, about half the height we need to reach. All of our artifacts have been placed in stone compartments for long storage, including Cpl. Bolzano’s extensive collection of Neanderthal bones, tools, jewelry and ceremonial talismans. Only two empty compartments remain. One will protect this computer and the decade of scientific observations and data it contains. The other was intended to hold a hefty pouch of jewels we have collected through the years. Hunter has convinced us he can put them to better use.

  Sorry, Team leaders, but it is what you deserve. What were you thinking when you jumped us back with such inadequate training and shoddy equipment? If anything appeases my guilt for the rules we have broken, it’s the knowledge of how cavalierly you sent us here to fail.

  Before you yank our families’ benefits, I ask Team leaders to weigh our infractions against the work we accomplished. This small remnant of The Team has managed to cover a lot of ground in a wide variety of fields. While throwing such a large net prevented us from concentrating on our areas of expertise, it was impossible not to dip into other subjects such as sociology and zoology.

  We have done our level best to convey the “big picture,” as well as provide close-up insights to as many individual wonders as we are able. (We see far more “individual wonders” than we can count, let alone write reports on, but have tried to do our best.)

  If that is not good enough for you, Team leaders, then feel free to go screw yourselves. In no way is this entry intended to be used as an indictment against my fellow Team members. I take complete responsibility for any infraction committed under my command. Capt. Juniper Jones, Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano and Spc. Paul Kaikane have performed with great valor, courage and intelligence under conditions that would overwhelm all but the strongest and most resourceful soldiers. Without their support this mission would have failed days after it started. I highly recommend these three men for the highest honors.

  Having qualified this final entry as one that offers no apologies, only top accolades for my heroic crew, I’m ready to move on to the gossip and “letter home” portion.

  Let me start by saying, I am happy. For the first time in my life I know what contentment feels like. I may carry the scars of Hunter’s “long run” for the remainder of my days, but my husband and friends give me the power to overcome.

  This may be a blow to my parents and former lab mates, but I’ve never felt more loved, more included, more at home in a social dynamic than I do as a member of the Green Turtle Clan. Not including Hunter, we all love each other and always watch out for each other’s backs.

  Our eyes and ears are not glued to social media. We don’t spend our meals looking at screens or taking calls. We are the entertainment. If conversation lulls around a fire, someone will step in with a song or favorite chant. Sal loves to get us all singing in harmony. Even while gathering with Summer and Flower, there’s always a tune being hummed or rhythm being tapped on a thigh. Now I find myself doing it.

  Paul was the first to appreciate the subtle beauty of Cro-Magnon culture. Sal and I learned the languages and filed long reports on oral traditions, anatomy and toolmaking styles. Paul took in just as much if not more, by observing and copying. He reminds me of Gray Beard by how attuned he is to nature and the elements. Those two can spot a storm coming days before I even have an inkling. Though proficient hunters, they don’t kill for sport. Turtles only take what is needed. In the clan tradition, the fallen game is always given a moment of respect, a pause before butchering to say thank you for nourishing our bodies, for providing us with tools and clothing.

  Not only did Paul immerse himself in the culture and landscape before us, he was also quicker to disconnect from technology. Meager as our supply of working gadgets is, he was first to find fulfillment from nature. Whether he is studying the currents and birds, hauling in supper or intently watching every sunset he can, Paul savors life like no other person I have met.

  Following his example, I’m trying to live more a more present life. I never realized how preoccupied I was until the evening he asked what I thought about while watching a sunset. Did I concentrate on the rays and colors or the movement of the clouds?

  It was embarrassing to admit my near total lack of appreciation. Mostly, I felt anxious for the things to hurry and be over so we could move on to more productive endeavors. Many times through the years Paul has interrupted my work to say, “It’s gonna be a good one tonight. Come watch it with me.” How sad it is that I begged off a majority of the time. Even when I did join him, my attention was divided at best.

  What did I ever do to deserve a man like Paul Kaikane? In my dreams as a girl, I envisioned marrying a noted scientist. It would be better if he was a botanist, but my fantasies would accept a man from other disciplines–as long as he was brilliant.

  Now, with the perspective of a woman who has been married for nine years, I have a clearer notion of the traits and strengths that make a man a superior partner. I dated my share of scientists through the years. Not one could hold a candle to my Paul.

  There’s a lot of truth to the old saying about opposites attracting. Paul and I could not be more unalike, yet we fit together perfectly like two puzzle pieces. During our long sail home against persistent, infuriating headwinds, he convinced me to take another long-term break from technology. It turned out to be the best thing for me and for us as a couple. Not until I put aside my computer and helmet did I really start getting over my abduction by Hunter.

  Having that rascal back in our midst, sharing meals and working side by side in the cave was extremely hard at first. Now I’m back to where I was. I’m able to accept Hunter for the rude, self-centered asshole he is and to also appreciate what he brings to the table in terms of conversation and a strong back to help move what feels like half a mountainside’s worth of rubble.

  I would have refused to let him touch this computer or add his own final entry if he had asked to do so. I worry he would implant a bug or grab it and run off. That said, he has been too busy moving fill to mention it.

  He and Sal put their heads together to improve the original chute and locate an uphill scree where they could cause a mini-avalanche. Within an hour of strategizing and arguing with raised voices, the clipped Highland English of Mitch Simmons evolved into the lyrical Italian of Giovanni Bolzano. Sharing the project and their native tongue seemed to help build a bridge between father and son.

  I kept Paul and Gray Beard well clear of the debacle. A quick calculation of slope and distance showed the debris field would be moving too fast to drop onto our landing area. I tried to warn the Bolzanos. In the end, all but a few stones bounced past the cave and cras
hed into the valley abyss. At least it was exciting to watch.

  Scrambling to safety together, laughing and clapping each other on the shoulder when the avalanche finished, father and son shared a rare moment of harmony in their long, complex relationship. As stated earlier, it was a good show. And nobody got hurt, not even the wolf. The big red bugger trotted down the ridge a few minutes later, stared at us as if to say, “What the hell are you humans up to?”

  It is good to see Cpl. Bolzano right in the middle of the work, picking up the slack for those of us who are not as strong as he is. Jones is not the only one with a sore back. Gray Beard and I are suffering from all the digging, carrying and dragging.

  Sal credits his stamina to the great amount of excavating he did on the Neanderthal site, as well as the many trips he made delivering heavy loads to the cave. I almost feel like we are passing each other on our career trajectories. While I seek an even balance between work and play, our resident winemaker has decided to dedicate his life to being the best scientist possible.

  Just last week he spent three rainy days sequestered inside his tent wrapping up reports. Old Maria would take his newfound dedication as a direct challenge. Nobody outworked me. New Maria has gained the perspective to understand success by others does not diminish her own contributions.

  To be jealous of another person’s good fortune, to immediately think, “when is it going to be my turn?” is a weak human emotion dating at least as far back as today. We witness covetous behavior here in the Paleolithic, though not as much as I did back in California growing up. You’d think mankind would develop more sympathy and confidence in 32,000 years, not less.

  I need to bring this entry home. The men call to me from inside the cave. “Andiamo!” shouts Gray Beard. With each hour that passes he grows more anxious to get back to the island and his little dog. He’s worried Summer and Flower will forget their promises to help Jones guard Bello from swooping eagles, owls and gulls.

  We’re all ready to get this job over and move on. I have dragged my feet as long as I could in Italy. My friends were almost, but not quite, on to my malingering. That’s one good thing about being predictable. It’s easy to bluff folks.

  During these long round trips to the cave and back, and also on the many long foraging excursions with my new best friends, I have been gathering more than edibles. I have bags full of specimen plants. There should be more then enough cataloging and sketching to keep me occupied on the long voyage west.

  Of course, everything will have to be burned and dumped overboard long before we reach North America. I am determined to limit the invasive species we introduce to Gray Beard, Summer, Flower, Bello and five time travelers from 2232 A.D.

  That means no rats, mosquitos, flies or hitchhiking plant seeds. Paul says we’ll scour Leilani “from stem to stern” at the midway point. We also plan to give her a good smoking and scraping before we leave Europe. In terms of pest control, Bello is doing his part. So far, he’s caught three rats that had the audacity to show their ugly mugs on deck. There are more skulking around. We’ll find them.

  Complaints from the cave grow louder. The boys are killing me with their whining. “Hurry, babe!” Paul calls. He’s hoping to get back to the island before dark tomorrow. The project has stalled and they cannot continue until the computer is in place. We have tons of material to move and tamp.

  Therefore, Mom and Dad, please forgive me if this personal message to you is abbreviated. I love you and miss you. It would be impossible to say how many times I have wished I could hear your voices. Thanks for putting up with my unyielding nature as I was growing up. Having inherited my stubbornness from you, we know I come by it naturally. Pray for me at church if you insist, but what would really please me is to know you are still taking care of our garden. All my love to you both.

  While scanning the final entries submitted by Paul and Salvatore, I was inspired by their willingness to share words of encouragement for those who follow in their footsteps. As an immigrant nerd who was picked on mercilessly as a child in the supposed Land of the Free, I would like to let people in similar situations know it is possible to outlast bullies and prejudice.

  It’s not like Newton’s third law, you don’t need to have an opposite and equal reaction. Sometimes that may be your only recourse, but it is also possible to use that energy to make you stronger. The bullying I faced in grammar and intermediate school forced me to concentrate on my studies. I worked hard, had a few good breaks, and now here I am, the luckiest botanist on Earth. I’m also the only botanist on Earth, but you know what I mean. There will never be a more rich, fertile laboratory to explore in the remainder of mankind’s history.

  If I may climb upon my soapbox as this planet’s current Chief Botanist, I shall conclude by echoing statements made by my husband and friend Salvatore. No matter how damaged the atmosphere is, no matter how many species are extinct, it is never too late to try turning the environment’s demise around. Speaking for the plants, please stop the damage before it is too late.

  Those of you who choose your personal religion over science, those who dismiss warnings about the possibility of the atmosphere collapsing as “scare tactics” by the opposition, please know you do so at your own peril. Though you may make it through, at some point your grandkids or their grandkids will pay the piper.

  If you doubters could experience this world, wild and crazy as it is now, you would know I speak the truth.

  This is Dr. Maria Duarte signing off for The Team. Potential burial sites for the next computer in North America are listed in order in File No. NA-BC-101. Until our next cache, here’s wishing everyone in the future all the best from the Paleolithic.

  Dr. Maria Duarte

  Einstein III

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  64 A.D.

  Here we are 30,000 years removed from those piss-ants and their words still cut. It hurts to hear what a bloody jerk I was, how little they cared for my company. Let’s blame it on the belt and leave it at that.

  Whether they liked me or not, I remember being there to help bury all but two of them in North America. We planted the first along the banks of the Mississippi River and the last overlooking the ocean in Big Sur.

  They managed to coax more miles out of that damn sailing canoe than anyone dared think possible. Last I saw of the Leilani, she had more patches than original hull. Her sides reminded one of a quilt. Even so, many years after The Team crossed the Atlantic and set up its first North American base camp in the wilds of Manhattan, the craft was able to survive two back-to-back hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico and still round the horn to reach the Golden Gate of California.

  It would have been easy to pick a spot and settle down, but I don’t remember them staying put in one locale for more than a year at a time. Roamers ever curious to see what was over the horizon, they were born explorers. Those were good, capable people.

  That’s why it breaks my heart to keep this computer. They labored so hard, it’s a shame their notes will never be found. Having scanned their reports and read all their journal entries, I’d say each member of The Team deserves a tremendous amount of credit for a job well done. Too bad no one but me will ever know about it.

  Three days have passed since I gave my friends Tullia, Quintus and Linus the slip. I imagine the melancholy, postpartum feelings I’ve been experiencing played a role in me returning to this God-forsaken cave to see what might be done about reburying son Salvatore’s Neanderthal bones and skulls. It’s doubtful the site will ever be found without a locating beacon, but stranger things have happened. Perhaps my boy will get the credit he so desperately craved.

  I have no idea how long, or even if, my Romans will search for me. I’ve learned to be careful. Cronies who witnessed far less healing and prophesying have caused me great trouble though the years. Stories of my “abilities” tend to grow exponentially. If I have not yet begun to fly or walk on water, it’s only a matter of tim
e.

  I’ve spoken of my history and love of the Orient several times. Purposely. One must always have an escape plan. It is only logical for them to expect me to travel there overland or by way of the port in Napoli. That’s why I’ll head for Sicily, a place where residents don’t ask questions and everyone knows how to keep a secret.

  I have no idea why I keep fighting. After 30 millennia death would be welcome. Yet here I am, plotting my future, thinking about getting laid.

  EPILOGUE

  Dec. 21, 2302

  Information contained within this book was culled from a well-worn computer found in the drawer of a desk on Jump Deck 22 at The Team’s headquarters in Buffalo, N.Y. The deck is adjacent to infamous Jump Deck 23, where 34 people were killed the afternoon the Einstein IV disappeared on March 14, 2236.

  After six decades as a mystery, it is now confirmed the timeship was stolen by Dr. Mitchell Simmons. Attendees listed as missing were loaded aboard the ship by Simmons and transported back in time against their will.

  Simmons did make an effort to shield the sleeping dignitaries and senior Team members left behind by dragging them into an anteroom. Tragically, the room was not properly sealed and all were pulsed by the launch. This mysterious loss of life and ship precipitated The Team’s demise. Backers pulled out, lawsuits mounted.

  The shine of the time travel science community’s two stunning successes, the discovery of two computers from 30,000 B.C., one buried in Ventimiglia, Italy, and the other in the hills of Portugal, had already begun to fade. Most investors were disappointed by the paltry return on their investments. The ones who wagered on intellectual rights made some money while those who bet their life’s saving on artifacts, gold and precious stones took a beating.