AVP: Alien vs. Predator

by Marc Cerasini

  Of course, Dr. De Rosa had never uttered the word “Atlantis,” and he publicly objected to the simplistic characterization of his research. But the damage had already been done, and all his protestations only threw more fuel on the fire.

  Since the publication of those first erroneous reports, Dr. Sebastian De Rosa’s work had been both praised and condemned in the archaeological community—but mostly the latter. Sebastian generally ignored his critics and doggedly pressed on with his quest to find the connection between the pyramid-building civilizations of the Nile Valley and those in Central and South America. Two years ago, that quest had landed him in Mexico, where he’d been granted a rare opportunity to examine a unique and inexplicable artifact.

  In the 1960s, a peasant farmer was digging around at the base of the Temple of the Sun when he unearthed a burial chamber filled with priceless Mesoamerican artifacts. The farmer later claimed to have discovered vessels, implements of gold, and other finds his untrained mind could not recognize. Most of the stuff was sold on the black market and vanished, but one object fell into the hands of a Mexican archaeologist curious enough about its origins to pursue the matter back to the farmer himself.

  It was a metal object roughly the size and shape of a U.S. mint silver dollar. The artifact was inscribed with characters that resembled the earliest form of hieroglyphics used by the Egyptians. Potassium-argon dating techniques that accurately measure when a metallic ore was last heated to a temperature above 227 degrees Fahrenheit subsequently revealed that the artifact was made around 3000 B.C.—about the time the Egyptians first developed their pictographic writing system.

  But how, Dr. De Rosa asked himself, could such an object appear in Mesoamerica, thousands of miles across the Atlantic Ocean from the cradle of Egyptian civilization in the Nile Valley—long before any known human culture existed in the rain forests of Central America? The tenets of traditional archaeology could not answer that question, so the object was declared a forgery by the prevailing experts and locked away in a vault at the Universidad de Mexico until Dr. De Rosa received permission to study it three decades later.

  After a careful examination, Sebastian concluded that the artifact was genuine and that it represented the first physical link between Egyptian and Mesoamerican civilizations ever unearthed. But he also knew that the only way he could convince other archaeologists that the object was real was to somehow “repeat the experiment.” In other words, unearth a similar object buried at around the same time at the same site—probably over a burial chamber similar to the one the farmer discovered forty years before. So when Sebastian De Rosa learned that the Mexican government was preparing to build on the land around the Temple of the Sun, he appealed to the president of Mexico for the time and the funds to search for just such an artifact.

  For a year and a half Sebastian De Rosa and his team had been hunting and had come up empty-handed. Now their time had run out.

  “Professor! Professor!”

  Sebastian looked up, glad for the distraction. Marco, a worker hired locally, was waving a long sheet of computer paper over his head. Marco’s job was to scan the ground with a metal detector mounted on a long pole. The data collected by that device was fed to a laptop computer manned by Thomas, an archaeologist Sebastian had trained himself and a digital imaging specialist whose job it was to interpret the vague, shifting forms that appeared on his monitor.

  “Over here!” Sebastian called to Marco.

  Breathless, Marco crossed the excavation site, and, with a Cheshire cat grin, he thrust the computer printout into the archaeologist’s hand.

  “We found it!” Marco declared as Sebastian examined the image on the printout.

  “Where?”

  Around the Temple of the Sun a series of deep, long trenches had been excavated by Sebastian’s team. The main trench was close to six feet deep. Marco pointed in the direction of that main trench, and Sebastian took off in a run, legs and arms pumping.

  By the time Sebastian arrived, the diggers had already abandoned the pit and stood on the edge watching, curious to see what all the excitement was about. Only Thomas remained at the bottom of the deep trench, waiting for Dr. De Rosa to arrive. Sebastian leaped into the middle of the pit and paused to study the digital image on the computer sheet once again. The printout indicated that a solid object—round and possibly metal—was buried just beneath the earth under his feet.

  Dropping to his knees, Sebastian fingered the rich, black soil. Marco leaped into the trench to kneel next to the archaeologist. Around them, work ceased as rumors of a major find raced through the site.

  “It’s right here,” Marco said, patting the ground with the flat of his hand. “Thomas says it could be metal of some kind.”

  Sebastian looked up at Thomas. The computer expert leaned against the wall of the trench, arms folded, his open laptop perched on a wooden crate.

  “What do you think?”

  Thomas pondered the question. “It’s too small to be the chamber.”

  Sebastian waved the comment away. “Of course it’s not the chamber,” he cried. “It’s a burial offering. The Teotihuacans would bury a hundred or so gifts around the burial chamber. Obsidian blades, pyrite mirrors, shells… we must be right on top of it.”

  As Sebastian crouched over the spot where the object was buried, Thomas placed a small brush and an archaeological probe into his hands.

  “You do the honors,” Thomas said, stepping back.

  As a crowd gathered around the pit, chattering in Spanish, English and French, a tall, mustached man in a dark suit moved unnoticed to the front of the group, where he watched Dr. De Rosa.

  Sebastian began by carefully pushing the dirt aside with his bare hands. Then he positioned the archaeological probe and gently thrust its sharp tip into the soil, slowly piercing the crust until the long metal spike was nearly buried. Dr. De Rosa felt nothing on the first attempt, so he drew the probe out and tried again.

  It wasn’t until his fourth attempt that Sebastian struck pay dirt. Almost as soon as the tip disappeared in the soil, it touched something hard. The artifact was buried less than an inch below the surface. Dr. De Rosa immediately withdrew the probe and set it aside.

  “He’s found something,” someone in the crowd whispered.

  Sebastian cautiously pushed the dirt away with the brush until he could just make out the rough outline of the object. It was small, about the size of a coin. And round like a coin, too.

  “What is it?” Marco asked.

  Dr. De Rosa did not reply. Instead, he dug his fingers deep into the soil around the object until his fingers closed on the thing. Sebastian held his breath as he lifted the artifact out of the ground.

  “Professor?” Thomas whispered breathlessly.

  Finally, soil fell away and the object was revealed. Sebastian let out the breath no one knew he was holding. Eyes strained, but Dr. De Rosa still crouched over the artifact, shielding the thing he had unearthed. When he looked up, Dr. De Rosa found a host of eager, expectant faces surrounding him. He stood, still concealing the mystery in his hand.

  Finally, without fanfare, Dr. De Rosa presented the artifact to his audience.

  They saw a glint of blue, and a familiar white swirl, and some characters etched onto a circular, rusted surface. There were murmurs. Then gasps of surprise. Finally, Sebastian held the object high enough so that everyone could get a look at the only significant discovery his expedition had made during eighteen months of grueling, backbreaking work—

  A rusty metal cap from a cola bottle.

  “Vintage nineteen-fifties, I’d say,” a slightly accented voice announced.

  Sebastian looked up to see Mexico’s minister of the interior, Juan Ramirez, staring down at him.

  “Minister, I—”

  But the bureaucrat cut Sebastian off. “According to you, the Teotihuacans’ final gift to their dead king was a Pepsi?”

  “Give me one more month,” Sebastian said, still clutching the bo
ttle cap.

  Frowning, Minister Ramirez shook his head.

  “Can’t do it, Sebastian. Department of the Interior needed results six months ago. We’re putting in another team.”

  As the sun set, the Mexican afternoon grew slightly cooler, down from 107 degrees to a pleasant 99. Sebastian De Rosa was in his tent, packing, when Thomas arrived.

  “How bad?”

  “We lost half the crew,” Thomas said, frowning.

  “Bobby leave?”

  “Yeah. And Joe. And Caroline. Nick. Jerry and all of Jerry’s crew.”

  Sebastian took the news hard. He slumped down on his cot, his shoulders sagging. “Thomas, the burial chamber is here. I know it.” His fingers made a fist. “We’re going to find it—and a link to the Egyptian culture.”

  “I know it, too,” the younger man replied, pushing the blond hair from his face. “But without a crew and a new permit to dig, we’re out of business.”

  Sebastian stared at Thomas a moment, then got back on his feet. With renewed determination, he threw more things into his pack.

  “Hold the rest of the team together for two days. I’ll go to Mexico City… talk to the suits. I’ll get our dig back.”

  “I might be able to help you accomplish that, Professor.”

  The voice was a stranger’s, deep and with a precise British accent. Sebastian and Thomas turned to find a tall black man standing at the door to the tent. De Rosa estimated the man to be well over six and a half feet tall, and the perfectly tailored London business suit did little to hide his broad chest and thick-muscled arms. Despite his size the man moved with polished grace.

  “Do I know you?” Sebastian asked.

  “My name is Maxwell Stafford,” the man replied. Then he stepped forward and handed Sebastian a bone-white stationery envelope that bore the embossed monogram of Weyland Industries.

  Sebastian tore it open and stared at the piece of paper inside—a personal check from Charles Weyland made out to Dr. Sebastian De Rosa. The number on that check was followed by more zeroes than a carbon-dating estimate. Sebastian looked up at the stranger.

  “In exchange for a little of your time,” Maxwell Stafford explained.

  CHAPTER 5

  Near the Antarctic Circle,

  325 Miles Off the Cape of Good Hope

  The massive, British-built Westland Sea King helicopter designated Weyland 14 flew through a brewing storm. Outside, leaden clouds roiled and wind gusts intensified, making for a bumpy ride, but the Sea King’s shudders and sudden dips went unnoticed by one passenger.

  Alexa Woods slept soundly, sprawled inside the chopper’s main cabin. She was still clad in the cold-weather gear she’d been wearing when she’d been plucked from the Himalayas. A copy of Scientific American lay open across her chest. On the cover there was a recent photograph of the founder and CEO of Weyland Industries, and the headline read “Charles Bishop Weyland, Pioneer of Modern Robotics.”

  Standing at the window near Lex was a tall, skinny man with gangly limbs and a prominent Adam’s apple. On his nose was perched a pair of bottle-thick glasses; he gripped a digital camera in his hand. He placed the camera on a seat in an attempt to take his own photograph. On his first try, all he succeeded in doing was blinding himself. On his second, the chopper lurched and he bumped into Lex.

  “Sorry,” the man said when Lex woke. She nodded and was about to close her eyes again when he said, “But since you’re awake, would you mind?”

  He held up the camera and tried to flash Lex a seductive smile. It only made him look geeky.

  Lex took the camera and snapped the photo.

  “I’m documenting the trip for my boys so they know that their father wasn’t always boring,” the man explained. He reached into his parka and pulled out a thick wallet of photographs. He presented a picture to Lex.

  “That’s Jacob, and that’s Scotty,” the man said proudly.

  “They’re cute,” Lex said out of politeness. “Is this your wife?”

  “Ex-wife,” he replied. Then the man thrust out his hand. “Graham Miller, chemical engineering.”

  They shook.

  “Alexa Woods, environmental technician and guide.”

  “Do you work for Weyland?”

  Lex shook her head.

  “I split my time between working for a small environmental foundation and taking scientists on expeditions on the ice. One pays for the other and neither pays very well.”

  “The ice?”

  “Arctic and subarctic environments, the Himalayas, Antarctica—”

  Just then the copilot stuck his head into the cabin. “Lex, you and your friend buckle up. We’re close to the ship now, but we’re going to hit some major turbulence.”

  Lex buckled her seat belt. Miller sat down across from her and did the same.

  “Friend of yours?” he asked.

  “Of my dad’s. He trained most of the pilots down here. During the summer my sister and I tagged along.”

  “Does your sister work with you?”

  Lex nearly laughed at the notion. “No way. She hates the cold, moved to Florida. If you see her skiing, she’s being pulled by a boat.”

  The copilot, back in his seat, turned and yelled from the cockpit.

  “Just passed the PSR!”

  “Damn,” said Miller, clutching his camera. “I wanted a picture.”

  “Of what?”

  “The PSR. They should really call it out before they pass it.”

  Lex shook her head. Where’d this guy come from? “The PSR is the point of safe return,” she gently explained to him. “It means we’ve used more than half our fuel so we can’t turn back.”

  Miller visibly paled.

  “We could ditch,” Lex added to the engineer’s relief, "… but the temperature of the water would kill us in three minutes.”

  Miller grew a bit paler as the helicopter continued to shake and rattle.

  “Antarctica,” Miller said softly as he gazed out of the window.

  The 278,000-ton Icebreaker Piper Maru,

  270 Miles Off the Cape of Good Hope

  Captain Leighton stood, legs braced, on the ship’s heaving bridge and squinted through rain-soaked windows. Gray, foam-flecked waves crashed over the bow of the pitching vessel while stinging wind lashed the superstructure. At this time of year, there were long nights and short days this close to Antarctica, with a continuously twilight sky that seemed forever dominated by roiling purple clouds. The storm that battered the ship showed no sign of abating, and powerful gusts sent salt washes across the deck.

  Leighton, who’d spent close to forty years at sea, had navigated the Cape of Good Hope many times before, and he didn’t need to check the barometer to know that weather conditions were only going to get worse. The first European to circumnavigate this region in 1488, Bartholomeu Dias had christened these waters Cabo Tormentoso—“The Cape of Storms” in Portuguese. On days like this, Leighton wondered why the cape’s original name hadn’t stuck.

  “Weyland 14 to Piper Maru. We are on approach,” announced a voice through the crackling of the ship’s radio.

  Captain Leighton slipped on a hands-free communicator and spoke into the microphone. “This is Piper Maru. You’re cleared for landing, but watch yourself, Weyland 14. We have severe wind shear. It’s going to be rough.”

  He broke communications with the aircraft and faced his executive officer. “Gordon, I want you to send out a crash team, just in case. Put them on deck, but out of sight. We don’t want to spook the fly boys.”

  The bridge crew chuckled.

  A few moments later, they watched from the relative comfort of the command deck as the huge helicopter touched down on the storm-tossed icebreaker. Sailors hurried into the rain to lash down the aircraft with hooks and cables.

  After the engines powered down, the side hatch slid open, and the passengers disembarked, crossing the steel deck in the pelting rain.

  From his command position, Captain Leighton cou
nted the bodies through water-streaked windows. “Two new arrivals. I hope we have enough room.”

  Silently Max Stafford appeared at the captain’s shoulder. “This should be the last of them.”

  Down on the tossing deck, the final passenger to disembark was Lex Woods. Itchy, stiff, and tired, she’d paused at the chopper’s hatch before finally stepping onto the slick metal deck. After being plucked from her mountain perch, she’d shuffled from helicopter to private jet to helicopter again, crossing entire continents and vast oceans without benefit of clean clothes, a long bath, or adequate REM sleep. Now that she’d reached what she hoped was her final destination, Lex had little patience left. Whatever billionaire industrialist Charles Weyland had in mind for her, she certainly expected to find out sooner rather than later.

  A hot meal wouldn’t hurt either, thought Lex. The last thing she’d ingested, other than the caviar canapes and smokehouse almonds on Weyland’s private jet, had been a Ziploc bag of cold yak jerky back on Khumbu.

  After disembarking, Lex quickly caught up with her fellow traveler. Miller, the photo-happy Chem. E., was having trouble finding his sea legs.

  “Careful!” Lex cried as she deftly caught the lanky, bespectacled man before he fell. Scrambling to retrieve his suitcase, Miller accidentally kicked it. The case hydroplaned like a hockey puck across the deck’s slick surface, and Lex snatched it up before it tumbled over the side.

  “My savior! Thank you,” Miller gushed in unembarrassed gratitude. He gazed at Lex through dewy glasses thicker than the windows on a bathysphere. When Lex handed the young man his suitcase, she noticed his sneakers were already sopping wet.

  “You need to find some better shoes.”

  Miller shrugged. “I came straight from the office.”

  So did I, Lex thought.

  Fighting wind and rain, they made their way across the ship, Lex striding and Miller stumbling. Ahead, a sailor waved them forward with a red flashlight, toward metal stairs that led below deck, down into the ship’s hold.