The Bone Labyrinth

  DEDICATION

  For the Warped Spacers,

  the group who was there from the very beginning . . .

  and who still make me look my best

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Notes from the Historical Record

  Notes from the Scientific Record

  Epigraph

  FIRST: Blood and Shadows Σ

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  SECOND: The Relic of Eve Σ

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  THIRD: The Lost City Σ

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  EPILOGUE: Ten Years Later Σ

  About the Author

  Author’s Note to Readers: Truth or Fiction

  Also by James Rollins

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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?

  EPIGRAPH

  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.

  Onka’s fingertip ran over those bumps as if finding hidden meaning there. The other grinned, seeming to sense the child’s understanding.

  The stranger straightened and laid a palm upon his own chest. “Teron,” he said.

  K’ruk knew this must be his name, but the stranger spoke rapidly after that, waving to one of the elders who leaned heavily upon a thick gnarled staff.

  The old man came forward and spoke in K’ruk’s people’s tongue. “Teron says the girl may join us. We are heading through a high pass that Teron knows, one that is yet free of ice, but only for another few days. If we can make it ahead of the enemy, we can break the hunters from our trail.”

  “Until those snows thaw again,” K’ruk added worriedly.

  “That won’t be for many moons. We will have vanished by then, our trail long cold.”

  A fresh howling of wolves in the distance reminded them that the trail was far from cold at the moment.

  The elder recognized this, too. “We must go now before they fall upon us.”

  “And you will take my daughter?” He pushed Onka toward Teron.

  Teron reached and gripped K’ruk by the shoulder, squeezing a promise with his strong fingers.

  “She is welcome,” the elder assured him. “We will protect her. But on this long trek, we could use your strong back and sharp spear.”

  K’ruk took a step away and gripped the shaft of his weapon more firmly. “The enemy comes too swiftly. I will use my last breaths to turn them from your trail or hold them off long enough for you and the others to reach the pass.”

  Onka’s gaze met his, already teary-eyed with understanding. “Papa . . .”

  His chest ached as he spoke. “This is your clan now, Onka. They will see you to better lands, where you will be safe and where you will grow into the strong woman I know you can be.”

  Onka broke free of Teron’s grip and leaped at K’ruk, wrapping her thin arms around his neck.

  With grief choking him as much as his daughter’s arms, he pulled Onka free and passed her to Teron, who hugged her from behind. K’ruk leaned and touched his forehead to Onka’s brow, saying good-bye, knowing he would never see his daughter again.

  He then stood, turned, and strode away from the creek, heading up the slope toward the howling of wolves—but all he heard were the plaintive cries of Onka behind him.

  Live well, my child.

  He climbed more swiftly, determined to keep her safe. Once he reached the ridgeline, he sped toward the baying of the hunters’ beasts. Their cries had grown more raucous, rising from the next valley over.

  He ran now, loping in great strides.

  He reached the next crest as the sun sank away, filling the valley below with shadows. Slowing, he descended more cautiously, warily, especially as the wolves had gone silent now. He ducked low, sliding from shadow to shadow, staying downwind of the pack, careful of each step so as not to snap a branch.

  At last he could spy the bottom of the valley, noting the stirring of darkness below. The wolves. One of the beasts shifted fully into view, revealing a shape unlike any wolf. Its mane was heavily matted. Scars marked its massive bulk. Lips rippled back to reveal long, yellowed fangs.

  Though his heart pounded in his throat, K’ruk remained crouched, waiting for the masters of those monstrous beasts to show themselves.

  Finally, taller shadows folded out of the trees. The largest stepped into view and revealed the true face of the enemy for the first time.

  K’ruk went cold at the sight, terror icing through him.

  No, it cannot be . . .

  Still, he tightened his grip on his spear and glanced over his shoulder.

  Run, Onka. Run and never stop.

  Spring 1669

  Rome, Papal States

  Nicolas Steno marched the young emissary through the depths of the museum of the Collegio Romano. The stranger was heavily cloaked, his boots muddy, all a plain testament to both his urgency and secrecy.

  The German messenger had been dispatched by Leopold I, the Holy Roman Emperor to the north. The package he carried was intended for Nicolas’s dear friend, Father Athanasius Kircher, the creator of this museum.

  The emissary ga
ped at the many curiosities of nature found here, at the Egyptian obelisks, at the mechanical wonders that ticked and hummed, all crowned overhead by soaring domes decorated with astronomical details. The young man’s gaze caught upon a boulder of amber, lit behind by candelight, revealing the preserved body of a lizard inside.

  “Don’t tarry,” Nicolas warned and drew the messenger onward.

  Nicolas knew every corner of this place, every bound volume, mostly works by the master of this museum. Nicolas had spent the better part of a year here, sent by his own benefactor, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, to study the museum’s contents in order to construct his own cabinet of curiosities back at the duke’s palazzo in Florence.

  At last he reached a tall oak door and pounded a fist on it.

  A voice responded. “Enter.”

  He hauled the door open and ushered the emissary into a small study, lit by the coals of a dying fire. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Reverend Father.”

  The German messenger immediately dropped to one knee before the wide desk, bowing his head.

  A long sigh rose from the figure bent amid the piles of books atop the desk. He held a quill in hand, the tip poised over a large parchment. “Come to rifle through my collection yet again, dear Nicolas? I should tell you that I’ve taken to numbering the books shelved here.”

  Nicolas smiled. “I promise to return my copy of Mundus Subterraneus once I’ve fully refuted many of your claims found therein.”

  “Is that so? I hear you’re putting the final flourishes upon your own work concerning the subterranean mysteries of rock and crystal.”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Indeed. But before I present it, I would humbly welcome a similar searing analysis from one such as yourself.”

  After Nicolas had arrived here a year ago, the two had spent many long nights in deep discourse concerning all manner of science, theology, and philosophy. Though Kircher was thirty-seven years his elder and deserved respect, the priest appreciated anyone willing to challenge him. In fact, upon their first meeting, the pair had argued vigorously concerning a paper Nicolas had published two years previously, declaring that glossopetrae or “tongue stones” found embedded in rocks were actually the teeth of ancient sharks. Father Kircher held a similar interest in bones and pieces of the past locked in stratified stone. They had hotly debated the origin of such mysteries. It was in such a crucible of scientific inquiry that the two had become each other’s admirers, colleagues, and most of all, friends.