by Greg Bear
“This looks like a terrorist base, Eileen. How do you conceal the heat signature?” he asked half-seriously.
“It's going to terrorize North American anthropology,” Eileen said. “That's for sure.”
“Now you're scaring me,” Mitch said. “Do I have to sign an NDA or something?”
“I trust you,” Eileen said. She rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Show me now, Eileen, or just let me go home.”
“Where is home?” she asked.
“My truck,” Mitch said.
“That heap?”
Mitch mockingly implored forgiveness with his broad-fingered hands.
Eileen asked, “Do you believe in providence?”
“No,” Mitch said. “I believe in what I see with my eyes.”
“That may take a while. We're into high-tech survey for now. We haven't actually pulled up the specimens. We have a benefactor. He's spending lots of money to help us. I think you've heard of him. Here's his point man now.”
Mitch saw a tent flap open about fifty feet away. A lean, red-headed figure poked out, stood, and brushed dust from his hands. He shaded his eyes and looked around, then spotted the pair on the bluff and lifted his chin in greeting. Eileen waved.
Oliver Merton jogged toward them across the pale, rugged ground.
Merton was the science journalist who had dogged Kaye's career and footsteps during the SHEVA discoveries. Mitch had never been sure whether to look on Merton as a friend or an opportunist or just a damned fine journalist. He was probably all three.
“Mitch!” Merton called. “How grand to see you again!”
Merton stuck out his hand. Mitch shook it firmly. The writer's hand was warm and dry and confident. “My god, all Eileen told me was she was going to fetch someone with experience. How absolutely, bloody appropriate. Mr. Daney will be delighted.”
“You always seem to get there ahead of me,” Mitch said.
Merton shaded his eyes against the sun. “They're having a kind of mid-afternoon powwow, if that's the right word, back in the tents. Bit of a knockdown, really. Eileen, I think they're going to decide to uncover one of the girls and take a direct look. You have perfect timing, Mitch. I've had to wait days to see anything but videos.”
“It's a committee decision?” Mitch asked, turning to Eileen.
“I couldn't stand having all of this on my shoulders,” Eileen confessed. “We have a fine team. Very argumentative. And Daney's money works wonders. Good beer at night.”
“Is Daney here?” Mitch asked Merton.
“Not yet,” Merton said. “He's shy and he hates discomfort.” They hunkered their shoulders against a gritty swirl blowing up the gully. Merton wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “Not his kind of place at all.”
The wide, bush-studded net flapped in the afternoon breeze, dropping bits of dry branch and leaf on them as they stooped to enter the pit. The excavation stretched about forty feet north, then branched east to form an L. Mottled sunlight filtered through the net. They descended four meters on a metal ladder to the floor of the pit.
Aluminum beams crossed the pit at two-meter intervals. Rises in the pit, like little mesas, were topped with wire grids. Over the mesas, some of the beams supported white boxes with lenses and other apparatus jutting from the bottoms. As Mitch watched, the closest box slowly railed right a few centimeters and resumed humming.
“Side scanner?” he asked.
Eileen nodded. “We've scraped off most of the mud and we're peeking through the final layer of tephra. We can see about sixty centimeters into the hard pack.” She walked ahead.
The Quonset structure—arched wooden beams covered by sheets of stamped, ribbed steel and a few milky sheets of fiberglass—sheltered the long stroke of the L. Sunlight poured through the fiberglass sheeting. They walked over flat, hard dirt and haphazard cobbles of river rock between the high, irregular walls. Eileen let Mitch go first, ascending a dirt staircase to the left of a flat-topped rise being surveyed by two more white boxes.
“I don't dare walk under these damned things,” Eileen said. “I have enough skin blotches as is.”
Mitch knelt beside the mesa to look at alternating layers of mud and tephra, capped by sand and silt. He saw an ash fall—tephra—followed by a lahar, a fast-moving slurry of hot mud made of ash, dirt, and glacier melt. The sand and silt had arrived over time. At the bottom of the mesa, he saw more alternating layers of ash, mud, and river deposits: A deep book going back far longer than recorded history.
“Computers do some really big math and show us a picture of what's down there,” Eileen said. “We actually debated whether to dig any deeper or just cover it over again and submit the videos and sensor readings. But I guess the committee is going for a traditional invasion.”
Mitch moved his hand in a sweeping motion. “Ash came down for several days,” he said. “Then a lahar swept down the river basin. Up here, it slopped over but didn't carry off the bodies.”
“Very good,” Merton said, genuinely impressed.
“Want to see our etchings?” Eileen asked.
Eileen unrolled a display sheet in the conference tent and tuned it to her wrist computer. “Still getting used to all this tech,” she murmured. “It's wonderful, when it works.”
Merton watched over Mitch's shoulder. Two women in their thirties, dressed in jeans and short-sleeved khaki shirts, stood at the rear of the long, narrow tent, debating in soft but angry voices. Eileen did not see fit to introduce them, which clued Mitch that she was not the only high-powered anthropologist working the dig.
The screen glowed faintly in the tent's half-light. Eileen told the computer to run a slide show.
“These are from yesterday,” she said. “We've done around twenty-seven complete scans. Redundancy upon redundancy, just to be sure we're not making it up. Oliver says he's never seen a more frightened bunch of scientists.”
“I haven't,” Merton affirmed.
The first image showed the pale ghost of a skeleton curled in fetal position, surrounded by what looked like sheets of grass matting, a few stones, and a cloud of pebbles. “Our first. We're calling her Charlene. As you can see, she's fairly modern Homo sap. Prominent chin, relatively high forehead. But here's the tomographic reconstruction from our multiple sweeps.” A second image came up and showed a dolichocephalic, or long-headed, skull. Eileen told the computer to rotate this image.
Mitch scowled. “Looks Australian,” he said.
“She probably is,” Eileen said. “About twenty years of age. Trapped and asphyxiated by hot mud. There are five other skeletons, one close to Charlene, the others clustered about four meters away. All are female. No infants. And no sign of males. The grass matting has decayed, of course. Just molds remain. We have a shadow mold around Charlene, a cast of fine silt from seepage through the mud and ash showing the outlines of her body. Here's a tomographic image of what that cast would look like, if we could manage to pry it loose from the tephra and the rest of the overburden.”
A distorted ghost of a head, neck, and shoulders appeared and rotated smoothly on the display sheet. Mitch felt odd, standing in a tent that would have been familiar to Roy Chapman Andrews or even to Darwin himself, while staring down at the rolled-out sheet of the computer display.
He asked Eileen to rotate the image of Charlene again.
As the image swung around and around, he began to discern facial features, a closed eye, a blob of ear, hair matted and curled, a hint of cooked and distorted flesh slumped from the back of the skull.
“Pretty awful,” Merton said.
“They suffocated before the heat got to them,” Eileen said. “I hope they did, anyway.”
“Early-stage Tierra del Fuegan?” Mitch asked.
“That's what most of us think. From the Australian migration out of South and Central America.”
Such migrations had been charted more and more often in the last fifteen years; Australian skeletons and associated artifacts found near
the tip of South America had been dated to older than thirty thousand years BP, before the present.
The two other women walked around them to reach the exit, as serious and unsocial as porcupines. A plump, red-faced woman a few years younger than Eileen held the flap open for them then stepped in and stood before Mitch. “Is this the famous Mitch Rafelson?” she asked Eileen.
“Mitch, meet Connie Fitz. I told her I'd bring you here.”
“Delighted to meet you, after all these years.” Fitz wiped her hands on a dusty towel hanging from her belt before shaking hands. “Have you showed him the good stuff?”
“We're getting there.”
“Best picture of Gertie is on sweep 21,” Fitz advised.
“I know,” Eileen said testily. “It's my show.”
“Sorry. I'm the mother hen,” Fitz said. “The others are still arguing.”
“Spare me,” Eileen said. Another image cast their faces in a pale greenish light.
“Say hello to Gertie,” Merton said. He glanced up at Mitch, waiting to see his reaction.
Mitch poked the surface of the screen, making the light pool under his finger. He looked up, on the edge of anger. “You're kidding me. This is a joke.”
“No joke,” Merton said.
Eileen magnified the image. Then, clearing his throat, Mitch asked, “Fraud?”
“What do you think?” Eileen asked.
“They're in close association? Not in different layers?”
Eileen nodded. “They were buddies, probably traveling together. No infants, but as you can see, Gertie was maybe fifteen or sixteen, and she was probably gravid when the ash covered her.”
“Either that or she ate babies,” Merton said. Another twitch of the lip from Eileen.
“Oliver's on borrowed time,” Fitz said.
“Matriarchy,” Merton accused, deadpan.
The tent suddenly seemed very stuffy. Mitch would have sat down had there been a convenient chair. “She looks early. Different from Charlene. Is she a hybrid?” he asked.
“No one's willing to say,” Eileen replied. “You'll like our late-night debates. A few weeks back, when I wanted you to join us, everyone shouted me down. Now, we're all at each other's throats, and Oliver, I'm told, convinced Daney it was time.”
“I did,” Merton said.
“Personally, I'm glad you're here,” Eileen added.
“I'm not,” Fitz said. “If the feds find out about you, if there's any publicity at all, we're NAGPRA toast.”
“Tell me more, Mitch,” Eileen suggested.
Mitch massaged the back of his neck and for the ninth time watched the image of the skull grow and rotate. “Skull seems compressed. She's long-headed, more even than the Australian. There's a flint implement near her hand, and she's carrying some sort of grass bag over her shoulder, if I'm not mistaken.”
“You're not.”
“Filled with what looks like bush or small tree roots.”
“Desperation diet,” Fitz said.
“Maybe that was just her assignment, gathering roots for the stone soup.”
Merton looked puzzled. Eileen explained stone soup.
“How colonial,” Merton said.
“Ever the B-movie Brit, aren't you?” Fitz said.
“Please, children,” Eileen warned.
“Relatively tall, taller than Charlene, maybe, and pretty robust, heavy boned,” Mitch continued, trying to talk himself out of what he was seeing. “Sloping forehead, mid-sized to small brain case, but the face is fairly flat. Impressive supraorbital torus. A bit of a sagittal keel, even an occipital torus. I'd love to get a better look at the incisors.”
“Shovel-shaped,” Eileen said.
Mitch rubbed his limp hand to still the tingling and looked at the others as if all of them might be crazy. “Gertie is much too early. She looks like Broken Hill 1. She's Homo erectus.”
“Obviously,” Fitz said with a sniff.
“They've been extinct for more than three hundred thousand years,” Mitch said.
“Apparently not,” Eileen said.
Mitch laughed and stood back with a snap as if he had been leaning over a wasp that had suddenly taken flight. “Jesus.”
“Is that it?” Eileen asked. “Is that the most you can say?” She was kidding, but her tone had an edge.
“You've had longer to get used to it,” Mitch said.
“Who says we're used to it?” Eileen asked.
“What about the fetus?”
“Too early and too little detail,” Fitz said. “It's probably a lost cause.”
“I'm thinking we should drive a tube, take a thin core sample, and PCR mitochondrial DNA from the remaining integuments,” Merton said.
“Dreamer,” Fitz said. “They're twenty thousand years old. Besides, the lahar cooked them.”
“Not to mush,” Merton countered.
“Think like a scientist, not a journalist.”
“Shh,” Eileen said in deference to Mitch, who was still staring at the rolled-out screen, mesmerized. “Here's what we have on the central group,” she said, and paged through another set of ghostly images. “Gertie and Charlene are outliers. These four are Hildegard, Natasha, Sonya, and Penelope. Hildegard was probably the oldest, in her late thirties and already racked with arthritis.”
Hildegard, Natasha, and Sonya were clearly Homo sapiens. Penelope was another Homo erectus. They lay entwined as if they had died hugging each other, a mandala of bones, elegant in their sad way.
“Some of the hardliners are calling this a flood deposition of unassociated remains,” Fitz said.
“How would you answer them?” Eileen challenged Mitch, reverting to his teacher of old.
Mitch was still trying to remember to breathe. “They're fully articulated,” he said. “They have their arms around each other. They don't lie at odd angles, tossed together. This is in no way a flood deposit.”
Mitch was startled to watch Fitz and Eileen hug each other. “These women knew each other,” Eileen agreed, tears of relief dripping down her cheeks. “They worked together, traveled together. A nomadic band, caught in camp by a burp from Mount Hood. I can feel it.”
“Are you with us?” Fitz asked, her eyes bright and suspicious.
“Homo erectus. North America. Twenty thousand years ago,” Mitch said. Then, frowning, he asked, “Where are the males?”
“To hell with that,” Fitz fumed. “Are you with us?”
“Yeah,” Mitch said, sensing the tension and Eileen's discomfort at his hesitation. “I'm with you.” Mitch put his good arm around Eileen's shoulders, sharing the emotion.
Oliver Merton clasped his hands like a boy anticipating Christmas. “You realize that this could be a political bombshell,” he said.
“For the Indians?” Fitz asked.
“For us all.”
“How so?”
Merton grinned like a fiend. “Two different species, living together. It's as if someone's teaching us a lesson.”
23
NEW MEXICO
Dicken showed his pass at the Pathogenics main gate. The three young, burly guards there—machine pistols slung over their shoulders—waved him through. He drove the cart to the valet area and presented the pass for his car.
“Going for a drink,” he told the serious-faced middle-aged woman as she inspected his release.
“Did I ask?” She gave him a seasoned, challenging smile.
“No,” he admitted.
“Don't tell us anything,” she advised. “We have to report every little thing. Vodka, white wine, or local beer?”
Dicken must have looked flustered.
“I'm joking,” she said. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”
She returned driving his leased Malibu, adapted for handicapped drivers.
“Nice setup, all the stuff on the wheel,” she said. “Took me a bit to figure it out.”
He accepted the inspection pass, made sure it was completely filled out—there had been some tr
ouble with such things yesterday—and slipped it into a special holder in the visor. The sun was lingering over the rocky gray-and-brown hills beyond the main Pathogenics complex. “Thanks,” he said.
“Enjoy,” the valet said.
He took the main road out of the complex and drove through rush hour traffic, following the familiar track into Albuquerque, then pulled into the parking lot of the Marriott. Crickets were starting up and the air was tolerable. The hotel rose over the parking lot in one graceless pillar, tan and white against the dark blue night sky, proudly illuminated by big floodlights set around stretches of deep green lawn. Dicken walked into a low-slung restaurant wing, visited the men's room, then came out and turned left to enter the bar.
The bar was just starting to crowd. Two regulars sat at the bar—a woman in her late thirties, looking as if life and her partners had ridden her hard, and a sympathetic elderly man with a long nose and close-set eyes. The worn-down woman was laughing at something the long-nosed man had just said.
Dicken sat on a tall stool by a high, tiny table beside a fake plant in an adobe pot. He ordered a Michelob when the waitress got around to him, then sat watching the people come and go, nursing his beer and feeling miserably out of place. Nobody was smoking, but the air smelled cold and stale, with a tang of beer and liquor.
Dicken reached into his pocket and withdrew his hand, then, under the table, unfolded a red serviette. He palmed the serviette over the damp napkin on the table, also red, and left it there.
At eight, after an hour and a half, his beer almost gone and the waitress starting to look predatory, he pushed off the stool, disgusted.
Someone touched his shoulder and Dicken jumped.
“How does James Bond do it?” asked a jovial fellow in a green sport jacket and beige slacks. With his balding pate, round, red Santa nose, lime green golf shirt bulging at the belly, and belt tightened severely to reclaim some girth, the middle-aged man looked like a tourist with a snootful. He smelled like one, too.
“Do what?” Dicken asked.
“Get the babes when they all know they're just going to die.” The balding man surveyed Dicken with a jaundiced, watery eye. “I can't figure it.”