“What GeNext is paying you for, Dr. Reaves, is to determine if the Anasazi had a genetic predilection toward anemia or if it was truly dietary. We need detailed physical assays of the structural and physiological damage in order to understand how to counteract it. And considering the prevalence of anemia diminished significantly within this same population over the next two hundred years as it migrated away from this canyon and into Colorado, we need to identify the mechanism by which it decreased, be it genetic or environmental. Nearly three percent of the population of the United States has converted to vegetarianism, which opens a huge market for targeted dietary supplements. Not to mention the intrinsic value of this information as it pertains to cultivating artificial plasma and blood.”
Reaves stared straight through the windshield as they rounded the mesa into a makeshift dirt lot wedged between Casa Rinconada and the canyon wall.
“While we appreciate and respect your expertise in matters anthropological, and would be thrilled if our shared venture afforded you the opportunity to advance your own theories in regard to the demise of the Anasazi, it is of secondary concern to our vested interest in your anemia research. GeNext is a biotechnology firm after all.”
Reaves killed the engine, which died with a clunk that rattled the entire frame. He turned to face Bradley and offered a sly smirk.
“Prepare to forget all about that.”
Reaves clambered out of the pickup, grabbed his backpack from behind his seat, and slammed the door.
Bradley climbed out and followed the professor up a steep dirt trail toward the ruins. It struck him as odd that this one sacred kiva would be built all the way across the canyon when there were nearly forty within the fortification walls. They scaled a crumbling mound of stones and dropped down to the level ground on the other side.
Reaves removed a long black Maglite from his backpack. He clicked it on and slung his pack over his shoulders. The beam illuminated a T-shaped opening in the tall circular wall, which framed a staircase that descended into the kiva. It reminded Bradley of a miniature coliseum with the rings of stone bleachers that encircled the main ceremonial stage. Three rectangles of flat rocks had been stacked a foot high to either side and toward the rear of the weed-riddled earth like primitive planting boxes roughly the size of graves. A mound of dirt and sandstone chunks lorded over the one directly ahead of them. The flashlight stained the pall of dust seeping from the hole.
“We found the first stair about three feet down.” Reaves nodded toward the pit and shined his light onto a stone staircase that vanished into the darkness. He hopped down into the hole and spotlighted the narrow channel. Bradley covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief to keep from breathing the dust and followed Reaves underground. “It took nearly another month to excavate the remainder of the staircase and remove the stones they had used to seal off this chamber.”
Reaves led him into what appeared to be a natural cave. The walls and ceiling were rounded and scarred by dozens of petroglyphs, all of which featured massive centipedes with enormous pincers attacking stick-figure representations of men and animals alike.
“The Anasazi considered depictions of the centipede to be taboo,” Reaves said. “They believed it to be a powerful symbol of the transition between the world of the living and the land of the dead. The mere act of drawing it on these walls would have been considered sacrilegious.”
Bradley stared at the violent images for a moment before pressing on. Cobwebs swayed overhead and hung to either side where they’d been severed. Potsherds littered the floor amid a scattering of grains and gravel. Reaves stepped to his right and directed the beam at a heap of bones at his feet. They were disarticulated, shattered, and scattered in no discernible order.
“They’re human,” Bradley said.
“This wasn’t a burial,” Reaves said. “This was a willful desecration.”
“Who would have done something like this?”
“They did it themselves. We believe it was part of a ritual designed to trap the evil spirits down here when they sealed the kiva.”
Bradley knelt and inspected the bones. There was no residual blood or tissue, and the marrow had been scraped out. He couldn’t fathom the correlation to their project.
“That’s not what I brought you here to see.” Reaves pointed the beam at the back wall, where a jumble of rocks marked a shadowed orifice. He turned the Maglite around and offered it to Bradley. “I’ll let you do the honors.”
Bradley took the heavy flashlight and started toward the opening. He had to scale the fallen stones and duck his head to enter. Fractured segments of bone guided him deeper into the tunnel, which constricted around him, forcing him to stoop.
“We found the rock barricade exactly like you saw it,” Reaves said from behind him, his voice made hollow by the acoustics. “Not neatly unstacked, but toppled. We suspect it was knocked down from this side, by something that desperately wanted to get to the meat inside the main chamber.”
“They buried live animals down here?”
“Just keep going,” Reaves said.
Bones cracked under Bradley’s tread and threw uneven shadows across the stone floor. He ran his fingertips along the wall, which had distinct ridges as though carved by sharp, thin implements. The leading edge of the beam diffused into a larger cave ahead of him. The faintest hint of the orange sunset slanted through gaps in the low ceiling. It appeared as though a rockslide had sealed a natural entrance. Motes of dust sparkled all around him.
The ground was covered with piles of bones. Entire ribcages. Cracked skulls. Shattered pelvises and femora. Both human and animal. The mounds were tangled with hair and fur. It looked like a bear’s den.
Time had leeched the stench of fresh kill, leaving the musty, mildewed smell of a crypt.
“At the back of the chamber,” Reaves whispered. “On the other side of the remains.”
Bradley had to remove the handkerchief from his face to balance on the bones. The flashlight beam swept across the desiccated figures propped against the cavern wall, casting vaguely hominid shadows onto the sandstone.
“They sealed them in here when they abandoned the pueblo,” Reaves said softly, almost reverentially. “And shortly thereafter started building high up on the sheer cliffs to the northwest.”
“There are more than enough bones here to assemble fifty skeletons,” Bradley said.
He crouched in front of the only two intact carcasses in the chamber. They were gaunt, their flesh mummified, parchment skin stretched across knobby bones, cloaked in shadows. He raised the flashlight toward their faces—
“Jesus!”
Bradley toppled backward onto the bones and scrabbled away from the bodies.
“This is why the Anasazi fled Chaco Canyon,” Reaves said. He clapped Bradley on the shoulder. “Like I said, you wouldn’t have believed me if I’d told you.”
Two
Kilinailau Trench
South Pacific Ocean
176 km East of New Ireland Island, Papua New Guinea
November 26th
11:58 a.m. PGT
Present Day
The deep sea submersible cruised over a mat of gray lava pillows the size of boulders, twenty-two hundred meters beneath the surface of the Pacific Ocean. Far off in the murky black distance rose the rugged rim of the Kilinailau Trench, formed by the subduction of the Pacific tectonic plate beneath the Bismarck microplate. Their movement resulted in a steady flow of magma and geothermal heat from the Earth’s molten core. Forty-five hundred watts of HMI lights mounted on an array of booms, enough to nearly illuminate an entire football stadium, turned the water a midnight blue. Jagged crests of mineral and ore deposits appeared at the extent of the light’s reach, where they abruptly climbed hundreds of meters back toward the sun.
After close to four hours of freefall in absolute blackness and another two skimming the bottom of the world, they had finally reached their destination.
The Basilisk Vent Fi
eld was a hotbed of geological activity. Seawater that leeched through the silt was superheated, suffused with toxic chemicals and minerals, and funneled back into the ocean at more than seven hundred degrees Fahrenheit through tall chimneys called hydrothermal vents. Seven main chimneys, nicknamed black smokers for the noxious plumes of water that poured out of them like the smoke from a tire fire, were staggered across Basilisk. It was one such formation, a more recent eruption named Medusa, that had summoned them more than a mile down to where the pressure could crumple a man in tin can fashion. Over the last twenty days, intermittent seismic activity had already toppled two of the older chimneys and increased the ambient water temperature by two degrees, which may not have seemed significant to the average man on the street, but reflected a massive expulsion of hydrothermal energy at nearly twice its previous rate. An opportunity like this might not come along again.
The submersible Corellian, named after the fictional manufacturer of the escape pod used by R2-D2 and C-3PO in Star Wars due to its striking physical resemblance, slowed to zero-point-eight knots as it closed in on the ridge. Its thirty-foot, twenty-eight ton body was primarily fabricated from fiberglass and foam attached to a titanium frame that served as housing for the rear thruster assembly, a series of lights and cameras on forward-facing booms, and the two-inch-thick titanium personnel sphere that accommodated a dedicated pilot and two scientific observers. Patterned after the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution’s Deep Submergence vehicle Alvin, which had set the standard for nearly half a century, the Corellian had cost GeNext Biosystems more than thirty millions dollars to build for its own personal use. Factor in the cost of its mobile berth, the one-hundred-and-seventy-foot Research Vessel Ernst Mayr and the salaries of the eighteen scientific researchers and twenty-eight officers and crew, and this was a two hundred million dollar private venture that amounted to little more than deep sea prospecting.
“Medusa rears her ugly head,” John Bishop said. The pilot could have passed for a beach bum with his unkempt blonde hair, deep tan, and lazy surfer drawl, but the former Navy Seaman was all business when he assumed the helm. He eased back on the throttle and watched through the foot-wide porthole as they approached the hellish eight-story behemoth. The Corellian had been equipped with a thirty-six inch LCD screen that relayed the footage from the digital video assembly mounted above the window so that the pilot no longer had to press his face against the reinforced glass to see where he was going, but Bishop was old-school. His motto was I didn’t come all the way down here to watch it on TV.
Dr. Tyler Martin shifted his lanky six-foot frame. His unruly chestnut hair fell in front of his brown eyes. He tucked his bangs behind his ears and leaned back from the port view window, where he had been watching the lava fields transform into sharp crests that came to life with scuttling crabs and shrimp, and turned to face the monitor. The digital clarity surpassed even what he could see with his own eyes.
The live feed focused on the chimney, a great branching trunk composed of anhydrite, and copper, iron, and zinc sulfide precipitates. Black smoke poured out of various openings reminiscent of the pipes on some bizarre Dr. Seuss machination and roiled toward the sky. Six-foot tube worms that looked like crimson tulips bloomed from chitinous tunnels, filtering the hydrogen sulfide from the scalding water, which fueled the chemosynthetic bacteria in their guts, the source of all life in this strange ecosystem. White Yeti crabs snapped at the worms while clouds of ghostly shrimp swirled from one toxic flume to the next. Golden mussels and pale anemones staked claim to every spare inch of space. An octopus squirmed away from their lights.
“You guys ready to get to work?” Bishop asked.
“Might as well, you know, since we’re already down here and all,” Dr. Courtney Martin said. With her long auburn hair and emerald eyes, it was nearly impossible to tell that she and Tyler were related. His little sister snuggled up to the starboard viewport, where she could use the control panel to her right to manipulate the retractable armature. The monitor above her head displayed footage from the camera affixed to its hydraulic claw.
“How close can you get us?” Tyler asked.
He dimmed the screens that displayed their GPS data and bathymetric maps to better see the monitor for his own armature.
“Close enough to count the hairs on a crab’s ass.”
Bishop smirked. He had logged more than four thousand hours in this very submersible over the last three years and took his job so seriously that he even catheterized himself prior to launch so that nothing would distract him from his duties. He maneuvered the Corellian with such fluidity that it seemed like an extension of his body, an exoskeleton of sorts.
“Take us up about thirty feet,” Courtney said. “You see where the chimney forks like a cactus? Right there by those two vents where all the smoke’s coming from. That work for you, Ty?”
“Perfectly,” he said.
He fiddled with the armature controls, flexing the elbow, testing the clamps. Satisfied, he used it to pinch the handle of his collecting device, a tubular bioreactor that looked like an industrial coffee dispenser, and drew it out of its housing beneath the sphere.
“Sonar’s registering seismic activity,” Courtney said. “Looks like a swarm of mini-quakes.”
“It’s been like that for the last three weeks,” Bishop said. “It comes and goes.”
As Bishop watched, several of the fluted pipes broke away from the chimney and tumbled toward the sea floor, dragging crabs and anemones with them. There was a flicker of light as magma oozed out of the ground and immediately cooled to a gray crust.
Courtney bumped him from behind, knocking him forward against the glass. Three of them in that diminutive metal ball was like keeping a trio of goldfish in a wine glass. With the rounded walls racked with equipment and monitors of all kinds, it barely left room for them to squat on top of each other in what amounted to an uncomfortable, padded pit. There was barely space for them to kneel. The air was damp and sweaty. Fortunately, that was one luxury they had in abundance. There was enough oxygen for forty hours, while their dive was timed for only ten. Of course, that wouldn’t matter if the sphere breached. The pressure would compress the titanium shell and the equipment, with them right there in the middle, into a metallic tomb the size of a basketball.
Three
My Son Ruins
69 km Southwest of Da Nang
Quang Nam Province, Vietnam
March 12th
9:46 a.m. ICT
Seven Years Ago
Dr. Brendan Reaves shoved through the overgrowth of fan-leafed dipterocarps, palm trees, and conifers and stepped out into a small clearing, if it indeed qualified as such. The blazing sun reached the moldering detritus in slanted columns that stained the early morning mist like penlights shined through the dense canopy. Before him stood a knoll upon which a stone linga, a symbol of the worship of Bhadresvara, the local variant of the Hindu god Shiva, had been erected. The sculpted red stone was furry with moss and shrouded by a proliferation of vines and grasses, most of which had been ripped away and lay in brown tangles at its foot. Four identical life-size faces of Shiva had been sculpted to mark the cardinal directions of the compass on the three-foot-tall pedestal. The diety’s slender face tapered to a point at his chin, where a garland of snakes encircled his neck. A crescent moon framed his braided hair, which was coiled into a conch shape on top of his head. His flat eyes, of which there were three, stared indifferently into the jungle. Excavated dirt and stones ringed a dark opening in the base of the hill.
He wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow and tried not to think about whatever was crawling on his skin beneath his damp khakis. The assault of the insects had begun the moment he stepped out of the rental Jeep at the My Son ruins, arguably the crown jewel of the Champa Empire, which ruled Central Vietnam from the fourth through fourteenth centuries. Phuong Dinh, a former student who had been with him on the Chaco dig, had been waiting at the A1 temple as she had said she would be,
leaning against what little remained after it was shelled during the war, the first rays of dawn caressing her tan skin and making her rich ebon hair glimmer with reddish highlights. She had smiled so broadly when she saw him that he couldn’t help but reciprocate. She was no longer the shy and unassuming girl she had once been, but a confident woman, now a colleague, whose dark eyes lit up when she bounded down the slope and gave him a hug. He remembered the splay of freckles dotting the bridge of her nose.
“Look at you,” Reaves had said. “All grown up.”
“I can tie my own shoes now and everything.” She smirked. “You haven’t aged a day, Dr. Reaves.”
He tried not to blush.
“It’s Brendan to you now, Dr. Dinh.” His relationship with Phuong had always been somewhat unique. She’d been closer to his age than that of her classmates, and had been driven by an inner fire that often eclipsed his own. As the daughter of an American soldier who had quite possibly died somewhere in these very hills, she had been raised in poverty by a single mother who spoke only Vietnamese, yet she had risen above her circumstances thanks to the desire to better understand the two dichotomous worlds that she felt both a part of and alienated from at the same time. It gave Reaves no small pleasure to see that she was now totally in her element. “I can’t tell you how proud I am that you’re doing exactly what you set out to do.”
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