“Sounds like us,” Amacapane said.
“Don’t interrupt,” Lorenzo snapped.
“It continues, ‘As an example: If a Team member becomes lost or separated for an extended period of time, having exhausted other options, it may be necessary to attach to a clan to exploit its resources to survive. Every attempt must be made to minimize impact upon the native popu–”
Lorenzo once again grabbed the computer.
“Enough for that part. There is another section you must read.” He scrolled down the antique-looking screen for a while, typing in passwords three times along the way, until he found what he was searching for. He handed over the unit with his finger at the start of a sentence in the middle of a screen full of words. I cleared my throat.
“‘Of all the technology making the leap back, the jumpsuits offer perhaps the greatest opportunity to peacefully control native peoples. With their varied settings, the suits provide safety and stealthy infiltration, as well as a tool to stun or overwhelm populations. Used with the correct amount of flare and theatrics, a soldier can become a messenger from God with one turn of a button. The potential benefits of exploiting superstition and surprise cannot be overestimated.’”
The words were a far cry from anything I heard during training. “This does not sound like something generated by The Team,” I said.
“This information was kept secret. Only the top officers knew. Capt. Miller himself made me aware of it over lunch a few days before the disaster.”
This was crazy talk.
“I don’t like it. We can’t….”
The sergeant strode forward to smash a stout piece of driftwood across the crown of a boulder less than one half meter from my head. I fought the urge to flinch away as he pressed his nose to mine.
“Shut up! Shut up! You behave as an old woman does. Always nagging and whining, afraid to take bold action. Let me ask you, Salvatore, how do you propose we survive? By eating bugs and burned deer? How about you, Andre, is that what you want?”
Amacapane shrugged. “Lorenzo, you have been walking around the bush for more than an hour. Tell us your plan already.”
“Those tents, those women, the food. I want them. We are like children lost in these woods. I’ll ask you, Sal, are we to steal food and what we need for the rest of our lives? Are we to huddle off to the side, too timid to take what we need, while cavemen recline in comfort nearby? We have no spare clothes, nothing but our kayaks and what we wear on our backs. They live in leisure. You said it yourself, these are not poor people.”
“You want to join the clan?”
“Not forever. We’ll stay as long as we like. I want to hunt mammoth with them.”
“This information in the computer, is it why you revealed yourself last night?”
“Yes, to see what would happen. I knew you cowards would never do it on your own. You saw the power I gained. Instantly. I could have had anything or anybody I wanted and not one of them would have raised a hand against me. Think of all the great research a smart guy like you could perform, Sal.”
Lame as the attempt was, I let Lorenzo think his flattery sealed the deal. What choice did I have? I am ashamed to say, taking the easy way has always been my modus operandi. Why should this instance be any different?
Before I agreed, however, I attempted to negotiate a few ground rules.
“As your own computer says, Lorenzo, in this endeavor we are takers, not givers. We must ensure we make as small of an impact on these people as possible. We’ll leave them with a few ghost stories and nothing more. We cannot pass on our language, customs, beliefs, cooking styles, medicine, or technology such as our kayaks. We cannot disrupt history.”
“Sure, Sal, whatever you say.”
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Do you think it’s going to rain?”
Duarte: “Those aren’t rain clouds.”
Kaikane: “Wish it would pour hard enough to wash that lion’s head away.”
Duarte: “Obscene, isn’t it?”
Kaikane: “Where did they come up with such an idea?”
Duarte: “Sorry to say, I think I know.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
It was messed up, how much change the Italians caused. A few natives got back to day-to-day chores–hunting, cooking, cleaning, mending stuff. Most of ’em just sat in a circle around the lion’s head. They mumbled and kept looking toward the spot in the trees where Martinelli and Amacapane first showed up. The old man, Gray Beard, tried cajoling them to get up and get busy. They ignored him.
Jones has been after Duarte to let him build a bow and arrow. Says he wants to even out the odds with Martinelli and his boys. She refuses, says we have fucked enough with the natural course of events. No new technology. Jones says he’ll chuck his “new technology” in the river as soon as he has a revolver in his hand.
Duarte knew all about the new pistols. Claims she was shocked to see them used by the Italians. The revolvers are the same generation and materials as the kayaks and jumpsuit. Free of metals, they are made from polymers which resist breaking down. They were designed as part of a kit with an extended barrel for long range, bullet molds, spare shell casings and instructions on how to make gunpowder. Duarte says the manufacturer claimed the weapons were not ready for the jump.
“With the visor’s targeting system they are deadly accurate,” the doctor said. We were tucked behind a vine-covered log that gave us a clear view of the camp and the river. She started on another conspiracy rant. I didn’t mind. It just felt good to hear another human voice.
“The guns must have been the infiltrators’ secret weapon. Damn military. I have been looking at the personnel files on my computer. Captain Miller was the one who pushed for Martinelli to be placed on The Team. He said we needed international cooperation. All told, Miller and his superiors managed to ramrod 14 recruits aboard. I bet every damn one of them were setups.”
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Say we got our hands on one of those revolvers. Could we fire it?”
Duarte: “I’m not certain, but I think so. They briefed us on the guns during the bid process. It’s been a couple years. I think you need to reprogram them or wait for an uplink with the visor or something.”
Jones: “Think back to last night. Did either of ya see Bolzano or Amacapane fire a weapon?”
Kaikane: “They both carried paddles. Don’t recall pistols or rifles.”
Jones: “Me neither. Martinelli had two revolvers in the front of his suit, in these pockets here. Been wondering what the fuck they was for.”
Kaikane: “I can see the wheels turning, Jones. Mayhem on your mind?”
Jones: “What else? They’ll be back. Those boys were starving hungry.”
Duarte: “Once they see how much damage they have wrought, don’t you think they will stop?”
Jones: “Probably the opposite. Ol’ Salvatore might have a conscience, but not Lorenzo or Andre. They’re up to something. That’s my bet.”
Kaikane: “I’m with you, partner. What’s the game? Capture? Take ’em out?”
Jones: “Tough guy with his new club and spear. We got no need to hurry. They have the guns. I imagine we’ll end up popping them one at a time, when they’re off by themselves taking a shit or somethin.’”
Duarte: “Kill them?”
Jones: “Suppose so.”
Duarte: “Pretty harsh, Jones.”
Jones: “It’s between them and us.”
Kaikane: “They made it that way.”
Duarte: “I’d like to get to the bottom, understand what is going on.”
Jones: “All right, say we do capture ’em. What ya gonna do, hold a trial? Make ’em prisoners? Y’all haven’t thought this through. Either one of ya.”
Kaikane: “Bolzano loaned me 200 Norte Americanos once. He’s not so bad.”
Jones: “Maybe. Sal’s problem, he hates hard work. Ya ready to spend your life babysitti
ng those clowns, every day taking Martinelli’s and Amacapane’s crap?”
Kaikane: “Preaching to the choir, Jones. I’m with you.”
Duarte: “This is beyond my comprehension. I’m a botanist, for Pete’s sake.”
Jones: “There’ll be time to get your skull wrapped around it. Ain’t going down today.”
Kaikane: “Probably not.”
Jones: “Here’s the deal, both of ya listen up good. It makes no difference if this operation takes a week or a month, our safety is priority one. We all saw the hole in your paddle.”
Kaikane: “At more than 1,000 yards.”
Jones: “Right. We got no hospitals, no morphine, no nothing. Slow and easy. We’ll let them make the mistakes. Understood?”
Duarte: “Understood.”
Jones: “Kaikane, anything to add?”
Kaikane: “I wonder where they leave their kayaks. Must have stashed them last night. We steal their boats, it would seriously limit their range.”
Jones: “And screw with their heads. I like it.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Jones is a quiet guy. He prefers to hang in the background. Faced with a crisis, he took charge like a bird to flight. The man had thought things through way more than the doc or me. We listened and he talked. A platoon sergeant briefing his greenhorn soldiers.
Jones even ran down a checklist of each man’s strengths and weaknesses–like Amacapane’s bum left knee and Martinelli’s glass jaw. He predicted lack of discipline would be their downfall.
“We give these boys enough time, they’ll probably kill each other. Last night, they covered pretty good, moved OK. Then, boom, they split up for more’n an hour. Left Corporal Bolzano all alone.”
Somehow, Jones convinced us he should swim across the river alone. Almost before I knew what was happening, he cut me out of the action, and left me hiding behind a log with the botanist. Jones laid it out so smoothly, made such sense, I didn’t fight him hard enough.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Yeah, right, I’ll just sit over here and knit you a nice sweater.”
Jones: “I got this one.”
Kaikane: “If you go, I go.”
Jones: “Ya need to take care of the doc should anything happen.”
Duarte: “I don’t need anybody to take care of me.”
Kaikane: “See, she’s a very capable woman. We’ll both go. Things could get hairy over there. You’re seriously outgunned, Mr. Spear.”
Jones: “I’m not stupid, man. We have a lifetime to take these guys down. Just want to get close. They make a mistake, I might get lucky.”
Kaikane: “If we both go, we’ll be twice as lucky.”
Jones: “You’re not hearing me, man. Things go bad, what are we going to do, strand the doc to live the rest of her life alone? Or with those goons? I’ll be cool. You two can be my eyes. If I can figure out which way they come, I’ll look for their kayaks. You two watch the clan and guard our boats. They could have the same smart ideas we do.”
Kaikane: “You die, I’m gonna kill you.”
Jones: “Kaikane, the bird call you were doing back at the beach. The crow or owl or whatever the hell it was? Crank off a few of those if you need my attention.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
He pushed a log into the water and swam it across. The current carried him about 100 yards below the camp. We watched him scramble through the debris field and up into the cover of the trees. The doctor and I spent the next couple hours sitting in the ferns, watching the otters and ducks, trading stories of our youths. She may be wound pretty tight, but she does have a sense of humor.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “I spy with my eye a purple jockey sure to lose.”
Duarte: “What are you talking about?”
Kaikane: “I Spy, you know the game.”
Duarte: “I don’t think this a time for contests.”
Kaikane: “Sure it is. This is the perfect game for lookouts. Keeps ’em sharp. So, come on, I spy with my eye a purple jockey sure to lose.”
Duarte: “Let me see. No purple jockeys over there. Mmmmmm, I haven’t a clue.”
Kaikane: “See the purple butterfly, the one riding the turtle’s back?”
Duarte: “It’s a moth.”
Kaikane: “I thought moths came out at night.”
Duarte: “Most do. It’s a moth, I’m sure.”
Kaikane: “How can you tell?”
Duarte: “There he goes. Did you see how his antennae was shaped similar to a comb?”
Kaikane: “Sure, like two yellow feathers. They matched the color of the spots on the wings.”
Duarte: “Very good. Moth antennae are more like that while those of the butterfly are generally skinny, with knobs at the ends. Back in our time, there were only a couple species of daytime moths left on earth, brightly-colored ones at least. Both were highly toxic.”
Kaikane: “Cool. Your turn.”
Duarte: “I knew you were going to say that. OK, let’s see, I spy with my eye Solidago viraurea, a good diuretic.”
Kaikane: “You’re not supposed to point.”
Duarte: “Sorry.”
Kaikane: “Those plants with the yellow flowers?”
Duarte: “Yep. European goldenrod, a perennial herb which can be used for treating wounds.”
Kaikane: “Better than quinto-antibiotics?”
Duarte: “Not quite. Your turn.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
The doctor was pecking on her computer when a nosey little pack of hyenas picked up our scent. Moving west along the riverbank, the mangy dogs were spotted and larger than I expected. We watched from our hiding spot on the high ground as they searched us out. Snouts to the ground, unfazed by the rocks I was chucking their way, it sure looked like we were in for a fight. They were about 20 feet away when I drilled a big male with a fastball to the ribs. He jumped about eight feet straight in the air. Yipping and complaining, he led the pack away. Our hearts were pounding so fast!
It was a couple hours later, just after sunset, when the stupid Italians rounded the corner, paddling upstream. Invisible to the natives, but glowing in our visors, they stroked directly to land at the beach fronting the camp. Sgt. Martinelli covered the corporals as they dragged the boats up the bank to a tall patch of green ferns on the upriver side of camp. One by one, the boats went dark to disappear from our view.
It surprised me how easy it was to tell them apart just by shapes and mannerisms. Slender, straight-backed Martinelli led the way as round-shouldered Bolzano and short, strutting Amacapane followed up the bank and into camp.
A few dogs barked. The natives ignored them. All of the mutts were either tied up or hidden out of sight, and they had been barking all day. None ran free like before. My guess is nobody wants to risk getting another pet shot up.
The Italians stopped to stand outside the circle of 20 or so clansfolk seated around the lion head and paws. Judging by their gestures, it looked like they were talking, but all we could hear on the com lines was static. Bolzano pointed out the two leaders, counted heads. And then Martinelli’s suit glowed to life. The grand entrance drew claps and satisfied gasps. Everyone jumped to their feet.
Martinelli walked through the crowd to stand on the woven mat. Placing one foot on the lion’s head, he spread his arms like he was the Pope or something. Whoops and cheers. The crowd grew as the rest of the neighbors came running. The sergeant signaled for the people to sit down and waited for everybody to be seated and quiet. He waved them down in a way most seemed to understand. Those who didn’t were tripped or shoved to the ground by invisible Amacapane.
Martinelli powered down his suit and took off his helmet, showed his face to the stone-silent natives. Once again, he paid respect to the leaders, patting them on the heads, and bending low to magically find a shell behind t
he Tattoo leader’s ear. This drew ohs and ahs. Plucking the necklaces off three women, he juggled the jewelry then threw them one at a time to his invisible pals. The necklaces seemed to float under his control as Bolzano and Amacapane tossed them back and forth over the crowd. I noticed they finally disappeared for good into the pockets of Amacapane’s jumpsuit.
The routine included a bit more slight of hand, and a dose of opera from Bolzano, before finishing with what sounded like a prayer in Latin.
“There’s your friend Gray Beard,” Duarte said as the show wrapped up.
The old man glared from the entrance of his hut. Throwing back the door’s flap, he ducked inside and came out with a spear tipped by an antler point. Loping toward Martinelli, drawing the spear back on the run, he was ready to cast when invisible Amacapane intercepted him with a viscous slide tackle. Legs tripped out from underneath him, the old dude pinwheeled to the ground.
Martinelli turned in surprise as the spear sailed harmlessly overhead. He closed on the man in three strides to deliver a kick to the ribs which the old guy managed to roll away from. He dodged the first few kicks and made it to his feet. It looked like he was trying to work his way to his spear when Amacapane closed in.
It became a sick game. Martinelli pointed his revolver to a part of the poor man’s body and Amacapane attacked it, hammering knees, kidneys, face and solar plexus. The poor native jerked like a puppet, spouting blood as his people watched in a strange combination of abject fear and thrilled wonder. Not one fucking clan member rose to help him.
Amacapane pummeled him to the edge of the river where Martinelli ordered a stop. The hunter staggered to keep his balance as Martinelli lifted the impressive necklace from around the wavering man’s neck. Plucking the spear from where it stuck in the ground, Martinelli turned and delivered a crushing blow to the top of the man’s skull. The leader toppled facedown into the water. The current caught his body and carried it downstream.
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