Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  Martinelli: “There’s a lot of things we didn’t know about each other, about the equipment, and about this mission. Leonard’s computer is proving to be full of useful information.

  Bolzano: “I would appreciate an opportunity to read these things for myself.”

  Martinelli: “Keep your hands off, thief. The same rules for the pistols apply for Leonard’s computer. They are mine and mine alone. However, I will share a few things you may find interesting.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  At once, Martinelli blazed to life as if his jumpsuit had become a sun. The pulsing glow quickly faded to a flat black, and then back to the stealth setting we had come to consider standard.

  “How’d you do that?” Andre exclaimed.

  “With my mind!” Lorenzo said, pointing a gloved finger toward his temple. “Just imagine clearly what it is you want to see and the helmet will show you. Temperature controls, sound levels and other assorted functions are all there. You can also control the stealth settings of your kayak and backpack. By thought!”

  The moment I made the conscious decision to activate the helmet, its visor’s interior blazed to life with data readouts and control settings. I did not need a machine to tell me there was no wind, so I inquired about my health. While most vitals were within normal levels, I noted that my weight had dropped to 104 kilos and my blood sugar levels were dangerously low.

  “Why didn’t they tell us about this?” Amacapane asked, anger in his voice.

  “The scientific elitists told us as little as they could,” Lorenzo replied with equal heat. “They sought to control us, keep us under their thumbs. Leonard and the new captain knew this and were prepared to negotiate a more balanced approach. The waves beat them to the punch. God’s will.”

  We experimented with our suits for a while, then Lorenzo reached for his paddle from where it was wedged within the limbs of the hazelnut tree.

  “Are you two coming?”

  The trip took less than a half hour. We stashed the kayaks downstream, then cut inland to enter the circular Cro-Magnon camp from its southern, uphill edge. We slipped through the forest, and a cluster of leather-covered huts, to stand invisible along the periphery of a grand celebration. More than 50 hominids circled clockwise around a roaring campfire, twirling and whooping to a frenetic, musical mash of bone flutes, drums, gourd shakers, shell castanets, barking dogs and human voices.

  Wielding sticks and leathery palms, five sweat-coated drummers pounded out a steady rhythm from their place at the edge of the circle. “Tock! Tock!” on a hollow log laid flat. “Boom! Boom!” from a skin stretched over a wooden hoop two meters in diameter. The men played without pause, staring vacantly forward while chanting a high-pitched, keening howl reminiscent of American Indian pow-wows.

  Most dancers carried a flute or percussion instrument–sticks, shells or bones–which they tooted or banged to match the drummers’ basic five-beat cadence, step-step-step-shuffle-stop, step-step-step-shuffle-stop. Powerful. Primal rhythms fueling primal urges.

  Unfortunately, many participants were tin-ear soloists intent on wild tangents. Tone-deaf flute players blasted single notes as whirling dervishes careened through groups of shuffling elders. I found it all very entertaining. The steamy chaos induced more than a few couples to wander off, hand-in-hand, to fornicate in the dirt, not quite out of range of the firelight. Cpl. Amacapane found that particularly entertaining.

  Most elders enjoyed the show from the sidelines, ready to dodge to safety should one of the occasional brawls spill their way. Also keeping to the shadows were at least three Neanderthal females and five hybrid males. Sitting together on animal skins, eating handfuls of food while scanning the scene with wary eyes. Their actions said though they may have been invited guests, this was Cro-Magnon’s gala.

  The Neanderthals appear to have a trade or living arrangement with the Cro-Magnons. How humble and to what capacity their interactions are, I do not know. Yet!

  Oddly, I jumped back 32,000 years intent on Neanderthal, but on this night I could not take my eyes off Cro-Magnon, particularly the women, who had gone to great lengths to costume themselves for the celebration. Necklaces and earrings, pearls and ivory. These are not poor people. Bright feathers, tattoos, carved ivory bracelets and necklaces of teeth, and claws. Venus fertility statuettes form the centerpiece of most women’s necklaces. Even wrinkled old crones, dark raisins with white teeth and yellowed eyes, have Venuses dangling between their forlorn breasts.

  Apart from the naked drummers, all males and females were clothed in the chill night air. Their attire ranged from simple skin wraps to well-stitched leather tunics, rude fiber mantles to brilliant feather capes worn by persons of highest rank.

  There was so much to drink in, my head swam as if inebriated. The spectacle was far richer, more grandiose, than I ever allowed myself to hope while wrestling with the decision of whether or not to take this trip through time.

  Like sneak thieves, we kept to the sides, blending seamlessly into the background, waiting for the crowd to be distracted by a brawl or screaming dancer. At opportune moments, chuckling like schoolboys, we filled turtle shell bowls with food from the cook fires, then scurried back to the darkness of the trees where we flipped up our visors and gobbled warm, beet-like tubers and tender hunks of pork like rabid dogs.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “These cavemen, they’re very healthy.”

  Bolzano: “Abundant food supply, plenty of water, highly-developed social system. Medical services. Somebody’s stitching wounds and setting broken bones.”

  Amacapane: “Plenty of jewelry, too.”

  Martinelli: “Yes, I noticed also. They all wear something. I thought I spied a flash of gold on the old man’s blue cape. By the neck, did you see it?”

  Amacapane: “No, I’ll look when we go back. This meat is good. Salty, tender. Hey Sal, why can’t you fucking cook like this?”

  Bolzano: “These natives are obviously well attuned to this environment. We could learn a lot by observing them while they’re still here.”

  Martinelli: “They going somewhere?”

  Bolzano: “Probably. I am almost certain of it. This is not a permanent camp, at least not for the entire group. It could not sustain so many people. I bet this is an area where they stop each year while following the herds north. If they abandon the camp, perhaps we could settle in and take over for a while. Get our feet on the ground.”

  Martinelli: “How soon will they go?”

  Bolzano: “No way to tell, but at least one group is already packed. Did you see the skin bags piled up by the trees? I would be quite surprised if this was just one big clan. More likely, there are as many as three or four traveling bands gathered here.”

  Amacapane: “Where does he come up with this stuff?”

  Bolzano: “What?”

  Amacapane: “We’ve been here less than 45 minutes, and most of that time he’s been back here stuffing his face. How can he possibly know those things? What gives, Sal, you a mind reader?”

  Bolzano: “My powers of observation are legendary. Also, it helps if you look at more than the young women’s breasts and behinds.”

  Amacapane: “Maybe you are a mind reader.”

  Martinelli: “What makes you think there are multiple groups?”

  Bolzano: “Clothing style, designs of facial paint and tattoos, how their weapons are decorated. Feathers. The way they behave toward each other. Many things.”

  Amacapane: “You’re making it all up.”

  Bolzano: “I most certainly am not. Come, I will show you.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  All was proceeding according to plan, and more or less within Team guidelines, when Sgt. Martinelli began to improvise. Amacapane, the spineless bastard, egged him on. To say I had no part in
the violations which ensued would be a lie. Sadly, I may have been the architect of the whole debacle.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “See the brown and yellow whorls painted on some of the men and women’s faces? Roughly half of the dancers and all of the main drummers have the same whorls. They match designs etched into the leather tent coverings. You can see the markings when the light hits the sides properly. See there? And there? Most likely, this is their camp, and they are the hosts of this soiree. We’ll call this group the ‘Paints.’”

  Martinelli: “That’s good, Sal. What else?”

  Bolzano: “The other very obvious group is marked not only by their facial tattoos, but also by their generally foul dispositions and aggressive natures. See them standing off to the riverside, scowling together as a pack. We’ll call them the “Tattoo Clan.” The Tattoos and the Paints wear different style clothes and jewelry. Can you see it?”

  Amacapane: “Maybe you are on to something after all.”

  Bolzano: “Of course I am. The third group seems to be a blend of what’s left, including the Neanderthal and hybrids. This group leans toward fiber mantles, and exhibits a more basic grade of carving for their jewelry.”

  Martinelli: “Hybrids?”

  Bolzano: “Crossbreeds, between Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal. Right over there, the pair under the pine. You can tell the difference by the shape of their heads, less slope than Neanderthal. And they are taller, with a more narrow rib cage.”

  Amacapane: “You mean these monkeys are fucking each other?”

  Bolzano: “Yes, indeed. It is quite a discovery. I can’t wait to write my reports on it.

  Martinelli: “It is an abomination.”

  Bolzano: “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. In the long run, things don’t work out too well for Neanderthal or their offspring. See those three men sitting on the reed mat? The gentlemen with capes and the big tattoo man? I suspect they are the leaders of the three Cro-Magnon clans. Their clothes and the deferential treatment they receive identifies them as such. If you were looking to do business in this territory, these would be the gentlemen to know.”

  Martinelli: “Fantastic, Sal. You really have a knack for this stuff. I want you to keep it up, see what else you can figure out. Andre and I are going to do a reconnaissance, look for more tools to steal. Stay here, OK?”

  Bolzano: “Sure, sergeant.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  I watched him pick up a stone adze and disappear into the trees, passing one woman so closely, she shivered as if she had crossed paths with a ghost. Something about Lorenzo’s departure left me anxious. Was it because he was actually cordial to me? That he said he appreciated my work? It was enough to put anybody on guard.

  Alas, if I had only been more diligent, I may have been able to halt this mess before it started. Instead, I gorged my eyes and ears on the scene unfolding before me. Tapping my toes to the rhythm, taking mental notes, I planned how to present the observations in my reports. I was lost in a daydream of how those reports would win me posthumous accolades when everything turned to merda.

  Shouts and screams broke my reverie. I looked up to see Martinelli staggering under the weight of the lion’s head, carrying it steadily up the beach toward the dancers. He held it with both hands out in front of his chest. His exertions made it leap and dance while amplified growls and gasps emanated through his helmet’s speakers. Amacapane followed along behind, floating four bloody paws through the air.

  Viewed through my visor, Lorenzo and Andre shimmered, their jumpsuits full of size and shape. To the natives, they were invisible. Roars from the floating head stunned the crowd to silence. Barking dogs provided the only other sounds as the head and paws jerked to a stop in front of the woven mat. The three leaders sat rigidly, trying to appear unafraid. Only one of them was able to pull it off, the oldest of the three, a man with gray hair on his face.

  Martinelli dropped the lion’s head at the leaders’ feet. Panting, he then instructed Amacapane to place one paw in each corner of the mat. I admit, I was dumbstruck. I should have spoken up, but instead, said nothing. At this point, I guess I may have thought it was just a prank, a lark for the boys as they blew off steam. What harm was done really? Then Sgt. Martinelli powered down his jumpsuit and flipped up his visor.

  My mouth dropped wide as he took a knee before the three leaders and mumbled something. He placed his hand on their heads one at a time as if he was administering a benediction. Giving the tattoo leader a final pat on the shoulder, he turned to face the silent crowd. As he did so, two of the growling dogs launched themselves at his chest. The beasts barely cleared the ground before the sergeant’s pistols thundered, gouts of flame erupting from their barrels. The dogs dropped dead at his feet. The people let out an “ahhhhhh” as the sergeant flipped down his visor and took aim at another mutt loping for the trees. He waited for the dog to reach the edge of the pines before he sent it tumbling to the dust with a single shot to the head.

  Shocked silence in the echoes of lightning and thunder. Removing the silencers had been a powerful touch. Martinelli turned slowly to study the crowd before flaring into a bright sun. Raising his arms, he powered back down to stealth mode.

  Finally, I found my voice. “Lorenzo, enough,” I shouted over the com line. “Desist immediately. Let us return to camp.”

  I turned to lead the way back to the kayaks and, thankfully, they didn’t call my bluff. Laughing like hooligans, they fell in behind me.

  I must find a way to control them, but what can I do? Outranked and outnumbered, they dismiss my concerns as mere nagging. Where are the stupid Americans? If they live, I wonder, do they too have pistols?

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “We have our tools and rope, let us leave this area and never come back.”

  Martinelli: “Never come back? Are you a fool?”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  The shockwaves of the Italians’ visit reverberated throughout the camp. It started with an eruption of chatter. Everyone seemed to shout and talk at once. Older folks gathered around their leaders to seek interpretations. The man Kaikane called Gray Beard moved about the crowd, gesturing with wide arms. He looked to be dismissing the great powers. Youngsters leaped and jumped in the air to mimic Martinelli’s antics. The bodies of the dogs were examined closely, then shunned as if they bore evil spirits.

  The dynamic of the entire camp darkened quickly from celebration to spooked superstition. They stoked up the fires as if they were now afraid of the dark. Several people knelt before the lion’s head as Martinelli had done. Soon a dozen or more Cro-Magnons joined the kneelers. Neanderthal were nowhere to be seen.

  Our mission is being turned upside down. It feels like a punch in the stomach. Where did he get those damn pistols?

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “Did you see the looks on their faces? Classic.”

  Amacapane: “The way you were grunting, I didn’t know if you sounded like a lion or a cow taking a dump. Ha ha! Either way, you sure got everybody’s attention.”

  Martinelli: “The head, it was so heavy, I nearly dropped it.”

  Bolzano: “Idiots. Both of you. Did you listen to anything they taught us during training?”

  Martinelli: “Don’t be such a killjoy. You must admit, it was funny.”

  Bolzano: “I admit no such thing.”

  Amacapane: “What a baby.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  I sit by the fire examining our purloined tools, amazed by their simple beauty and ultimate functionality. As modern men using modern methods, we would be hard-pressed to match the quality and craftsmanship. In this environment, sans power equipment, I don’t know if I could ever construct an adze or flint knife near their equal.

  Such morb
id thoughts force me to consider Lorenzo’s ill-advised plans. He is pushing hard for the three of us to integrate ourselves into the clan. “It will be great hunting,” he insists.

  Halfway through his argument, I realized it was too complex, too free-thinking to have sprung from his plum-sized brain. When I pointed this out (not in exactly those words), he freely admitted the concept was gleaned from the files of Master Sgt. Leonard’s computer. “Show me,” I said. For once, he complied.

  As a superior officer, Leonard was privy to a wide range of information not shared with lowly troops such as ourselves. Amid the maps and rules and personnel files were several intriguing folders, including one titled “Contingency Plans.”

  In the folder was a laundry list of catastrophes and possible solutions. Although “Tidal Waves Destroy Ship and Crew” was not listed, there were several sections which dealt with situations similar to ours–lost and alone in a cold cruel world. In extreme cases, it said, a crewmember may need to align himself with native man to survive.

  “That’s good, but it’s not the one I want you to read,” Martinelli said as he snatched the computer away and shielded it so I could not see the menus he used to call up the next brief. This one was titled “Infiltration of Native Tribes.”

  Pointing to a particular paragraph, he said, “Read this part. Read it aloud so Amacapane can hear.”

  Never shy about performing in public, I applied the baritone of my best stentorian voice.

  “Reading from Chapter Five, subsection 2B-6F: ‘Given time, The Team will have cultivated a great understanding of the ways of native man, including his language, tools, dress, hunting styles and most other matters of daily life. To gain further understanding, as outlined in Chapter Four, section 3G-3V, it may be necessary to embed researchers into clan life so they might more completely experience and report upon its social structure, beliefs, ceremonies and myriad of other activities.

  ‘In extreme instances, members of The Team may be also forced to use these techniques to ensure their own survival. This action is to be taken only in the most dire circumstances.’”