The Bone Labyrinth
Read The Bone Labyrinth Online
Authors: James Rollins
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Thriller & Suspense, #War & Military, #United States, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Military, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary Fiction, #Thrillers
For the Warped Spacers,
the group who was there from the very beginning . . .
and who still make me look my best
CONTENTS
Notes from the Historical Record
Notes from the Scientific Record
Author’s Note to Readers: Truth or Fiction
So many folks have their fingerprints all over this book. I appreciate all their help, criticism, and encouragement. First, I must thank my first readers, my first editors, and some of my best friends: Sally Anne Barnes, Chris Crowe, Lee Garrett, Jane O’Riva, Denny Grayson, Leonard Little, Scott Smith, Judy Prey, Caroline Williams, Christian Riley, Tod Todd, Chris Smith, and Amy Rogers. And as always, a special thanks to Steve Prey for the great maps . . . and to Cherei McCarter for all the cool tidbits that pop in my e-mail box! To David Sylvian for accomplishing everything and anything asked of him and for making sure I put my best digital foot forward at all times! To everyone at HarperCollins for always having my back, especially Michael Morrison, Liate Stehlik, Danielle Bartlett, Kaitlyn Kennedy, Josh Marwell, Lynn Grady, Richard Aquan, Tom Egner, Shawn Nicholls, and Ana Maria Allessi. Last, of course, a special acknowledgment to the people instrumental to all levels of production: my editor, Lyssa Keusch, and her colleague Rebecca Lucash; and my agents, Russ Galen and Danny Baror (along with his daughter Heather Baror). And as always, I must stress that any and all errors of fact or detail in this book fall squarely on my own shoulders; hopefully there are not too many.
NOTES FROM THE HISTORICAL RECORD
Two historical figures play prominent roles in this book: a pair of priests who lived centuries apart but who were tied together by fate.
During the seventeenth century, Father Athanasius Kircher was known as the Leonardo da Vinci of the Jesuit Order. Like his namesake, the priest was a master of a hundred disciplines. He studied medicine, geology, and Egyptology, and engineered intricate automatons, including a magnetic clock (a reconstruction of which can be found at the Green Library in Stanford University). This Renaissance man and his work would eventually influence figures throughout the ages, from Descartes to Newton, from Jules Verne to Edgar Allan Poe.
But also one other.
Father Carlos Crespi was born centuries later in 1891. Inspired by Kircher’s work, Crespi became a monk of many talents himself. He was a botanist, an anthropologist, a historian, and a musician. He eventually settled as a missionary in a small town in Ecuador, where he served for fifty years. It was there that a vast cache of ancient gold artifacts came into his possession, delivered to him by the Shuar natives of the region. Stories claimed the objects came from a cavern system that spanned the breadth of South America, one rumored to hold a lost library of ancient metal plates and crystal books. The relics bore strange depictions and were inscribed with indecipherable hieroglyphics.
Some archaeologists believed these artifacts were fakes; others came to trust the priest’s story of the objects’ origins. Either way, in 1962, a mysterious fire destroyed the museum that housed most of these artifacts, and the Ecuadorian government locked away the few that remained.
So how much of Father Crespi’s story was true and how much was pure fabrication? No one knows. Still, no one questions that this devout monk
believed
his story, or that the vast cache
existed
.
In fact, in 1976, a British military and scientific team sought to find this lost subterranean library, only to end up in the wrong cavern system. Oddly, this expedition was headed by an American—none other than Neil Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon.
What drew out such this solitary and reclusive American hero, one who seldom gave interviews? The answer connects to an even greater mystery, one that threatens the very foundation of our place in this world.
NOTES FROM THE SCIENTIFIC RECORD
A fundamental mystery tied to our origins—to what makes us
human
—can be summarized by a single question:
Why are we so smart?
The evolution of human intelligence still puzzles scientists and philosophers. Yes, it’s possible to trace the growth of our brains from earlier hominins through the emergence of
Homo sapiens
some 200,000 years ago. But what remains unknown is
why
our species suddenly and inexplicably had a burst of intelligence 50,000 years ago.
Anthropologists refer to this moment in time as the Great Leap Forward. It appears in the fossil record as a sudden explosion of art, music, even advancements in weaponry. Anatomically, nothing had changed in the sizes of our brains to explain this leap of ingenuity, yet something fundamental must have occurred to cause that abrupt spike in intelligence and consciousness. Theories abound, attributing this event to climate change, to genetic mutations, even to alterations in diet and nutrition.
Even more disconcerting is that for the past 10,000 years our brains have been
shrinking
in size—by a full 15 percent as of today. What does this new change mean? What does it portend for our future? The answer may lie in solving the mystery of that Great Leap Forward. But as of yet, no firm conclusion has come to the forefront to explain this pivotal development in human history.
Until now.
And with the revelations found within these pages, a more disturbing question arises: Are we at the cusp of a second Great Leap Forward? Or are we doomed to fall backward once again?
Intelligence
is an accident of evolution, and not necessarily an advantage.
—
ISAAC ASIMOV
The measure of
intelligence
is the ability to change.
—
ALBERT EINSTEIN
Autumn, 38,000 B.C.
Southern Alps
“Run, child!”
Fires lit the woods behind them. For the past day, the flames had chased K’ruk and his daughter higher into the snowy mountains. But it was not the choking smoke or searing heat that K’ruk feared most. He searched behind him, seeking to catch a glimpse of the hunters, those who had set the forest afire in pursuit of the pair, but he saw no sign of the enemy.
Still, he heard the howling of wolves in the distance, great beasts that bowed to the will of those hunters. The pack sounded closer now, only a valley away.
He glanced worriedly toward the sun as it sat near the horizon. The ruddy glow in the sky reminded him of the promise of warmth that lay in that direction, of their home caves tunneled under green hills and black rock, where water still flowed and the deer and bison roamed thickly in the woods of the lower slopes.
He imagined those home fires blazing bright, spitted meat dripping fat into the sizzling flames, the clan gathering together before settling in for the night. He longed for that old life, but he knew that path was no longer open to him—and especially not for his daughter.
A sharp cry of pain drew his attention forward. Onka had slipped on a moss-slick rock and fallen hard. She was normally surefooted, but they had been in flight for three long days.
He hurried to her and pulled her up, her young face shining with fear and sweat. He stopped long enough to cup her cheek. In her small features, he saw whispers of her mother, a clan healer who had died shortly after Onka was born. He curled a finger in his daughter’s fiery hair.
So like your mother’s . . .
But he also saw more in Onka’s features, those aspects that branded her as different. Her nose was thinner than any of K’ruk’s clan, even for a girl of only nine winters. Her brow was also straighter, less heavy. He stared into her blue eyes, as bright as a summer sky. That shine and those features marked her as a blended spirit, someone who walked halfway between K’ruk’s people and those who had come recently from the south with their thinner limbs and quicker tongues.
Such special children were said to be omens, proving by their births how the two tribes—new and old—could live together in peace. Perhaps not in the same caves, but they could at least share the same hunting grounds. And as the two tribes grew closer, more were born like Onka. These children were revered. They looked at the world with different eyes, becoming great shamans, healers, or hunters.
Then two days ago, a clansman from a neighboring valley had arrived. He had been wounded unto death, but he still had enough breath to warn of a mighty enemy, a blight spreading across the mountains. This mysterious clan came in large numbers, hunting for such special ones as Onka. No tribes were allowed to harbor such children. Those that did were slaughtered.
Upon hearing of this, K’ruk knew he could not jeopardize his clan, nor would he allow Onka to be taken. So he had fled with his daughter, but someone must have alerted the enemy about their flight.
About Onka.
I will not let them have you.
He took her hand and set a harder pace, but before long, Onka was stumbling more than walking, limping on her injured ankle. He picked her up as they crested a ridge and stared down into the forest below. A creek cut along the bottom, promising a place to drink.
“We can rest there,” he said, pointing. “But only for a short—”
A branch snapped off to the left. Dropping into a wary crouch, he lowered Onka and raised his stone-tipped spear. A slender shape appeared from behind a deadfall, cloaked and booted in reindeer leather. Their gazes met. Even without a word spoken, K’ruk knew this other was like Onka, one born of mixed spirits. But from his clothing and from the way he tied his shaggy hair with a leather cord, it was clear he was not of K’ruk’s clan but from those slender-limbed tribes who came later to these mountains.
Another howl rose behind them, sounding even closer.
The stranger cocked his ear, listening; then a hand rose and beckoned. Words were spoken, but K’ruk did not understand them. Finally, the stranger simply waved his arm, pointed toward the creek, and set off down the wooded slope.
K’ruk considered whether to follow, but another baying of the enemy’s wolves set him off after the stranger. He fled, carrying Onka to keep up with the man’s agile passage. Reaching the creek, they discovered others waiting for them there, a group of ten or twelve, some younger than Onka, others hunchbacked elders. They bore markings from several clans.
Still, the group shared one common feature.
They were all of mixed spirits.
The stranger came forward and dropped to a knee before Onka. A finger touched her brow and ran along her cheekbone, plainly recognizing Onka as one of a similar kind.
His daughter in turn reached and touched a marking on the stranger’s forehead: a pebbling of scars in a strange pointed shape.
