In the spirit of other ancient finds, such as the Lucy skeleton, they had dubbed her Bella. The cranium was large, as big as homo erectus. But the dimensions of pelvis and torso suggested a female under four foot six, more in line with homo habilis. Bella also had a hyoid bone, the adaptation that facilitates modern speech. No one had ever found a hyoid bone in a primate skeleton older than a million years.
A small part of her wanted to believe that she'd discovered a new species. The potential for this kind of discovery had inspired her to specialize in the archeology of early man, even though she knew the odds were long. The find suggested something new, but she hadn't allowed herself to hope too much. She prepared to load the DNA results onto her computer.
The use of DNA to help identify archaeological remains was relatively new. Few samples existed for comparison, so scientists did not yet have reliable baselines for the early hominids. Institutions generally shared their data, but interpreting results remained as much an art as a science.
Fortunately, Joe Balaga, a grad student in Riccio's program at Northern University, had in the past three months developed a computer program which showed tremendous promise in identifying distinct species. Humans share over 99% of their DNA with both homo erectus and homo habilis. In the 1990's, as DNA techniques progressed to the point where they could be used to evaluate these ancestors, most researchers studied a section of mitochondrial DNA called the D-Loop. The D-Loop is very susceptible to mutations, and thus more likely to show differences between similar but not identical species. Unlike the more complex nuclear DNA, mitochondrial DNA is easier and faster to work with.
One of the key limitations of most work with either type of DNA is that researchers all start with modern humans as a baseline and compare that to one or more other species. By looking at gene mutations shared between samples, they can determine whether the species was a human ancestor.
When comparing two ancient species against each other, rather than a human with one ancient species, the sample sizes are so small that definitive conclusions become difficult. For instance, we now know that Neanderthal man—the caveman of popular imagination—was not a human ancestor after all, but shared a common human ancestor. While this ancestor was likely homo erectus, the science cannot say for certain.
Balaga had begun to address this problem. He took every available scan of DNA from ancient samples and plugged them into a computer program. He also plugged in all known information relating to the standard carbon-14 dating of these samples, including some of the underlying calibration curves. Carbon dating involves measuring the amount of carbon-14 in organic materials, since it decays at a predictable rate. The less there is, the older the material. Part of accurately using this technique involves “calibrating” the results to account for the periods in time when the atmosphere contained greater or lesser amounts of carbon.
After gathering all this information, Balaga developed a program that used statistical analysis to figure out what variables contributed to the differences between five of the main human ancestors. He specifically left human DNA out of his model, wanting a different and better result than the other researchers using modern man as a starting point. He developed models that could identify a species with 95% confidence, using generally accepted statistical concepts. From what Riccio had seen, his models were accurate.
Not yet peer-reviewed, the program would not yield results that could garner general acceptance. But Riccio believed in its accuracy, and she now rushed to load the memory stick with the DNA scan. The process didn't take long, easily handled by a basic laptop. In about five minutes, the screen displayed a technical garble meaningless to anyone without knowledge of the system. Sometimes that was the price of doing something no one else could do—you had to learn a whole new way of communicating about it.
After less than a minute of looking at the results, she turned away from the screen and opened a worn green folder on her desk. She needed make sure she understood all this. Her heart beat faster, and she confirmed her initial interpretation. The sample in question was not homo erectus, which she'd already assumed from its small size.
This skeleton was closer to homo habilis. Some of the mutations previously seen in that species alone were present in Bella. However, the program also found some mutations not documented in any previous find. Not unusual, but the program concluded that this was not homo habilis. She had found a new species.
As the reality hit home, she jumped into the air and pumped her fist. On regaining the earth, she looked around with a sheepish grin, seeing no one to poke fun at her excitement. This was it, the kind of find that could make a career.
No one would accept it initially, but she relished the upcoming fight. So-called experts would pontificate that this simply represented individual variation. Balaga would also enjoy the challenge, as his model came under more scrutiny than silicone implants. It would hold up, she was sure of that. She'd already decided on the name for her book: Bella.
Her thoughts turned to the specifics of these bones. That brain was massive. And unlike Neanderthal, who had a huge brain but was selected for a physically demanding life as well, this specimen had developed the brain while remaining frail. Plus, she had almost forgotten that they could probably talk, or at least they had the physiological ability to do so. She wondered about that, but came up with no answer. What could possibly have happened to eliminate a species with those advantages?
FLASHBACK: 1.4 million years ago
The female always stayed hidden. Too many others had been killed straying into the open. Only about four feet tall, the females couldn't risk a confrontation, either with another primate species or with one of the several carnivores that roamed the area.
Fortunately, she and some of her sisters possessed other advantages. They could sense the presence and emotions of all other primates within a few hundred yards. With the large enemies so intent on capturing females, this proved a critical survival skill. Still, she stayed inside the labyrinth of caves most of the time.
The earth shook as she lay on a blanket of fur inside the cave. She closed her eyes and squeezed her arms across her ribs. Even though she knew that these tremors had come and gone for many moon cycles, she remained afraid. The loneliness didn't help, her mate often gone for days at a time. The company of the children and other females did not lessen her discomfort.
She knew that her group of primates was unique. They could figure things out that the big ones couldn't, but their physical safety was only assured by constant vigilance. Their insight could not provide them peace. As the night grew deeper, she worried more.
The roof of the cave rumbled again. Several generations had expanded an existing fissure in the stone into a multi-room dwelling with seven-foot ceilings, ventilation, and two exits. She'd been told that these rumblings didn't threaten the structure, but she didn't understand how anyone could be sure of that.
All at once, she sensed it. A group of males approached the cave entrance. She could feel the dark currents of their minds touching her like a flame. These were the large ones, not her mate and his returning brothers. With her own kind, she could read their feelings and thoughts, and know if they were happy or sad, lustful or angry. But with the others, she could only sense a heavy curtain of something she could only think of as a burning in the brain. She figured that this had to do with the fact that these creatures could not speak in anything beyond grunts and whistles.
The dwelling shook again, but this time not from a natural tremor. She sat up in fear, and saw the rock of the entrance crumbling. They were coming after her. Never before had they dared this, invading the home. She'd once asked her mate why this was so. He'd replied that the large ones knew they'd suffer terrible retribution if they breached the cave.
She leaped out of bed, moving to wake the rest of her clan one by one. As she made her way to the rearmost room, she heard a loud crash and the unmistakable grunts of the enemy.
Panic overrode her concern for th
e others, and she dove into a small nook at the back of the cave. She tucked her narrow shoulders into the space, wedged so tightly that she could hardly breathe. She closed her eyes, unable to do anything except make herself as small as possible.
Over the next hour, screams filled the air. Worse than the sound was her ability to sense the anguish of her sisters. Yet she could do nothing. Mere screams couldn't compare to the waves of emotional pain she felt from all directions. She expected at any moment to be ripped from her sanctuary, forced to submit, and taken away.
After an eternity, the noise disappeared. A minute later, so did the pain. It took a while before she fully grasped the reason. She slowly moved her head out of the crevice, fear still gripping her.
She saw no one.
The furs and rough clothing of her people lay strewn across the room, some smeared with blood. She exhaled in a gasp and stumbled through the rest of the dwelling, finding the same destruction everywhere.
She reached out with her mind and felt no presence. Never in her life had she been completely alone, so this proved almost worse than the violence of the previous hour. Why had this happened? Her species had no concept of the divine, but they did possess enough self-awareness to question the order of things.
She didn't have an answer. For the rest of the long night, she lay huddled against a wall. At some point, sleep came, but it was filled with dreams of violence and anguish. These images did not disappear with the morning light. Terrified, but left with no choice, she poked her head out of the rear entrance to the cave.
Some time later, she found herself lying in the dirt, a few feet from the rough stone opening in the rock. At first, she couldn't remember what had happened. She'd stepped out and seen—oh no, could it be? Sitting up now, she turned her head. The bodies of her mate and five others were stacked like felled trees next to the rear entrance. Instead of passing out again, she retched, soiling the furs wrapped around her thin body.
All dead. There truly was no one left. She dragged herself back inside and allowed a wail to escape her lips.
Almost without thinking, she went into the space reserved for their leader, a man who had seen nearly forty wet seasons. Now his corpse lay third from the top in the pile of flesh outside. She felt at once apprehensive and exhilarated as she reached for the tiny pieces of crystal. She had never before touched them, only watched as the leader handled them with reverence. They were special, although she didn't know why.
She knew that in their presence, her constant worry had always subsided. If she'd ever needed such an effect, she needed it now. Her fingers wrapped around the crystals and her mind slowed down. She breathed easier, and discovered a determination she would have thought impossible only seconds earlier. She would survive. She would find more of her kind and start again. Still kneeling, she clutched the crystals against her breast, closed her eyes, and smiled.
CHAPTER TWO
June 21, 2012: Washington D.C.
Dennis Braxton barely noticed the Secret Service agent checking his credentials at the main gate of the White House. His mind remained fixed on the report he needed to deliver. More specifically, he worried about the fact that he had identified a major threat to U.S. security yet possessed very little information about how to counter it. Although Director of the CIA, he didn't carry the weight of his predecessors before 9/11. The National Intelligence Czar, Nelson Blanfield, was the top dog now.
Everyone would expect him to have answers that he didn't have. Blanfield would shake his head and feign understanding, all the while slipping in subtle remarks designed to throw doubt on Braxton's competence. His glee would barely be disguised. Jan Powell, the National Security Advisor, wouldn't be much better, but at least she would get sidetracked on a predictable diatribe about the need for another preemptive war. Bill Keane at State was a good man, and he would be focused on solutions, not blame. The real wild card was the President herself. She might be understanding, or she might roast his balls over an open flame. Slowly. He shuddered and reminded himself to avoid such disturbing metaphors, even in his thoughts.
As the limousine moved up the driveway, Braxton turned to his companion, Jaime Cortez, an analyst in the Agency's Central American Bureau. The man had forgotten more about the family of Mayan languages than any other American knew. A small figure with dark skin, his weathered face never lost its humor. His eyes were black, yet somehow managed to impart humor rather than darkness. They conveyed the message that whatever you had to say could not possibly be as bad as you thought.
Cortez had been watching Braxton and spoke in a voice laden with sarcasm. “Nice of you to rejoin us, Dennis. Let me guess, you're dreading Blanfield, but you're even more worried about the Ice Queen tearing you a new one.”
Braxton cringed, imagining Cortez using that term to the President's face. The vision ended with his own career trajectory resembling an incoming missile, with a conclusion nearly as spectacular. “Dear God, Jim, don't say that when we're inside the gates. And yeah, you're right. This meeting will not end well.”
Cortez chuckled. “Relax, boss, just tell 'em the truth. The folks at the NSA and Defense couldn't have translated that intercept. My mother's family has lived in Guatemala for centuries, and not even they could understand that variation of Ch'olan.”
Even today, there are more than twenty-five recognized Mayan languages. They all developed from an original language over four thousand years ago, which now has more branches than an evergreen. Cortez was one of few on the planet who could translate the Ch'olan language that thrived around 500 B.C.E.
Braxton shook his head. “The truth. If only it were that simple. Tell you what, stop tryin' to reassure me. It ain't workin'.”
The northern Louisiana accent of his childhood crept into Braxton's voice more when he used slang or when he felt tense. He reached into his pocket, extracted a small pill bottle and dry-swallowed two white pills designed to protect his heart. The grin disappeared from Cortez' face.
“Okay, Dennis, seriously, just don't let 'em get to you. They'll all play their little games, and at the end of the day, you'll have told 'em something they didn't know. Something they couldn't have known without you. Or without me for that matter. Aside from that nut job Powell, they're not stupid. And no one's gonna wanna' take the lead on this, given how little we know. So it'll stay with us, which is how we want it.”
Braxton nodded and took a deep breath, his expansive belly jiggling beneath his starched shirt as he exhaled. He patted Cortez' shoulder. “Thanks, Jim, I appreciate the support.”
The car stopped, and the two men got out, shadowed by Secret Service agents clad in dark blue jackets. Braxton assumed that they must be hot as hell in the D.C. humidity, but their impassive faces showed no sign of it. After going through the metal detectors, they followed a White House aide whose sole purpose seemed to be leading guests to the appropriate room. They reached a small room not far from the oval office, and sat down to wait for the President.
They didn't wait long. Part of Braxton's anxiety was due to the fact that he had told the Chief of Staff the matter demanded immediate attention. As he walked into the most famous not-quite-circular room in the world, he reminded himself that this was not an exaggeration.
“So, gentlemen, what's so urgent that you had to drag us out of bed?” President Richards left no doubt about her displeasure. She stood up, her five foot ten inches dominating the space.
Braxton cleared his throat. “Madam, we have a, um, nuclear issue.”
Heads turned, and he sensed that he had their complete attention.
“Continue.”
He nodded at Richards. “We intercepted a communication between Guatemala and the Republic of Georgia. On the Guatemalan side, it was someone in intelligence from the Ministry of the Interior, and in Georgia, it was a top army officer, General Surgulvilli, who was recently relieved of command for corruption.”
“What kind of corruption?” This from Keane at State.
“Um,
apparently, he was providing escorts for visiting dignitaries, and then videotaping the, uh, interactions and blackmailing them.”
Jan Powell snorted. “Serves 'em right. If they can't keep it in their pants, they should expect to get screwed.”
Richards said, “If we could stay focused, please. Dennis, the nuclear issue?”
“Yes, the very fact that any communication occurred between a domestic Guatemalan agency and a disgraced military leader from Georgia was worth further examination. They were talking about some sort of sale, from the General to Guatemala. It seemed neither government had sanctioned the arrangement.
“So we started looking at other intercepts from the Guatemalan source. One in particular proved intriguing, a phone call between the source and a man named Yum Cimil. Cimil is the sole owner of the largest corporation in Guatemala, an international contractor sort of like Halliburton. Cracking the encryption on the call was no problem, but they spoke in an obscure dialect of an ancient Mayan language, Ch'olan.”
He paused and looked around the room. Five pairs of eyes focused solely on him. He gestured to Cortez. “The intercept ended up with our resident expert in Mayan languages, Jaime Cortez here. The translation was disturbing, to say the least. Apparently, Yum Cimil wants a nuclear weapon.”
Blanfield spoke for the first time. “Yes, Yum Cimil, we've been keeping an eye on him for the past few years. He's a bit of a nationalist, although we believe he sold arms to both sides during the civil war in the 1990's. Mostly legit, and he doesn't seem to have any designs outside of making money and keeping his countrymen well-armed.”
His words sounded genuine enough, but at the same time, they almost dared Braxton to prove that Cimil was an actual threat. Braxton considered pointing out that nuclear weapons qualified as a bit more than “well-armed,” but the President interrupted his thoughts, her eyes boring down on Blanfield.
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