1492

The ship creaked softly around him as it adjusted to a current change. It has been months since leaving port. He sighs and picks up his pen.

Captains log, Day 63

Still no end in sight. Noon sightings inconclusive.
We have been off the charts now for 23 days. The men are getting restless with nothing to do but sail on. A deputation, lead by the chief mate, approached me today and asked how much longer we shall continue. What could I tell him. We cannot turn back, the currents will not allow it. We must sail on.

Walking the deck. Hear the mutters of the men - they are not happy. They never are. Landlubbers, the lot of them. They don't understand the need to keep going, following the currents to see what is there. Assholes. They do not understand what is at stake. They do not know. Besides, what is there to go back to? A dying culture, wracked by disease and strange illnesses. Better to die on the clean sea.

Captains log, Day 68
For the first time in three months, we saw a bird today. Land cannot be too far away. Even the men look more cheerful. It seems for the first time in ages I heard them singing songs of hope, not despair.

"Land Ho!"

Mad scramble into the rigging by all hands, even the off duty ones.

This is the time of danger. All his training, all the family history, all the hours of digging through rotten records in a forgotten language - they have all led to now.

"Bay, 9 points to starboard!" sings out the lookout.

"Helm, 9 points to starboard and steady as she goes. Mr Mate - call the depth." His voice now confident, with an edge of triumph.

As they round the headland, a huge mound of metal heaves into view. Just as in the old tales, the fabled El Dorado. As the crew dissolve into cheers, he says "Mr Mate, anchor in the middle of the bay. We will take the jolly boats ashore."

No hesitation or resentment from the crew now. Visions of riches beyond their wildest dreams fill their thoughts as they man the boats. In a matter of an hour, they stand on the shore. As one, the men stop. This is the Captain's moment. He approaches the citadel alone.

Striding up the metal ramp to the entrance. The fabled entrance that others have sought. Blackened, twisted skeletons on the ramp show the failures. How many in the last 400 years? It looks to be a multitude.

He reaches the entrance. No monsters await, just a bank of holes and a grill like the one in the confessional. He leans forward, puts his hand in the slot at the bottom of the grill, and repeats the spell. The spell that has been handed down, father to son, since the plague years.

Silence. Then a buzzing.

"Welcome Captain Agdamag." The voice is mellow, speaking the old language. "Starship El Dorado, awaiting instructions."

Captians Log, Day 70.

On this day, 12th of August, 1492 After Landing, we reclaimed our lost inheritance. We are going home.