She reached into the old straw bag between her legs and pulled out a leather sack. She emptied the contents into the cloth of her skirt that was stretched wide between her legs and looked at the four pieces of bone that lay there. She picked one up and turned it, staring at the marks etched into the white material. The bone was from the hip of some animal, perhaps a deer, triangular in shape, with two long flat sides.
“What are those?” Ki asked.
What did they teach young people at the university? Che Lu wondered. Of course, Ki was a geology major, not archaeology. Most of the students she usually worked with had preferred to remain in Beijing, prepared to participate in whatever happened in the upcoming weeks. That there would be another event like the Tiananmen Square massacre Che Lu had no doubt. She had lived through too many purges and bloodlettings in seventy-eight years to be optimistic that this turmoil would end peacefully. The key issue was would everyone behave like sheep and go back to the status quo after the blood had flowed, like they had in 1989? Che Lu, from listening to her students who politely but firmly declined to come with her, felt this time it would be different.
“They are oracle bones,” she answered.
Ki raised an eyebrow, inviting more information. At least he was curious, she would give him that. “They were used in ancient times by diviners to communicate with ancestors.” She felt the smooth bone under her wrinkled fingers. “In the beginning was not the city, but the word,” she murmured.
“Excuse me?” Ki politely asked.
Che Lu looked up. “Every other developing civilization on Earth was based on the growth of the city. In China, our civilization is based on the written word. In fact, our word for civilization, wenha, means ‘the transforming influence of writing.’” She held one of the bones closer so he could see the marks on it. “The interesting thing about these bones is that no one can read the writing. Most curious. After all, we had writing long before the rest of the world. But this writing, it predates even our own language.”
“Perhaps it is just some form of drawing, Mother-Professor,” Ki ventured. “No, it is writing,” Che Lu said.
“Where did you get those?” Ki asked.
“From an old friend.”
“And are they important?”
Che Lu nodded but didn’t say anything. She didn’t trust anyone else yet, although she knew that there was a call she was going to have to make. She wanted to be clear of the monitored phones in Xi’an, though, before doing that.
“Do they relate to Qian-Ling?” Ki asked.
“They were found near the tomb,” Che Lu acknowledged. She saw a small town approaching. Tracking the single telephone line to a small store, she indicated for Ki to stop there.
She walked inside and greeted the proprietor. She held out a wad of cash, and asked to use the phone to make a most important call. The cash was more than the proprietor saw in a month, and the old man was most happy to oblige this strange woman.
Che Lu dialed on the old rotary device, getting the local operator. Slowly she worked her way through until she had an international operator in Hong Kong who could make the final connection.
Che Lu stood still in the dilapidated store, watching her young charges buy food for the journey, as she listened to the faint echo of a phone ring on the other side of the world. Finally there was a click, and a distant voice spoke in English.
“This is Peter Nabinger. I’m away from my office, but I do check my machine daily. Please leave your name, number, and a short message and I’ll get back to you as quickly as possible.”
There was a beep and Che Lu spoke in hushed English. “My name is Professor Che Lu. I am the head archaeologist with the Imperial Museum in Beijing. I understand you can read the high rune language. I have oracle bones in my possession that I believe are inscribed in that language. They were found near the Imperial Tomb of Gao-zang at Qian-Ling. I am going into that tomb. I believe the tomb may be connected with the Airlia somehow. If you wish to find me, I will be there.”
She put the phone down and turned to her students. “Let us continue on our way.”
CHAPTER 7
It had analyzed the data, received a little over three days ago, quickly, in less than four seconds. The various courses of action, though, were more difficult to determine. More data had been needed. Power had been allocated to sensors, and the wealth of transmitted electronic material that flowed out of Earth’s atmosphere had been the target. That took time, and when it was done, there was no clear-cut answer, only probabilities.
The probabilities were weighed and the machine made a decision. A message had been sent to Earth in reply, then the master program was activated. It would take time for the program to run its course.
Waiting didn’t bother it. First, because it wasn’t alive and second because it had spent millennia waiting to activate the master program. A few more days would not matter.
CHAPTER 8
Lisa Duncan handed a file folder with a red top-secret cover to Mike Turcotte, then took the seat across from him. They had the entire forward section of the specially modified Air Force 707 to themselves. Behind them the bulk of the aircraft was filled with communications equipment and the military personnel who manned it.
Turcotte picked up the folder and thumbed through. He glanced up as he read the first sheet. “When did you find out there was a transmission to the guardian?”
“Just now,” Duncan said. “I’ve been so busy reporting our find to UNAOC and getting us this flight back to Easter Island that it was my first chance to catch up on things.”
The plane was currently somewhere over the Indian Ocean and flying east. They’d left UN Forces securely holding the Terra-Lei compound and UNAOC scientists cautiously puzzling over the strange ruby sphere.
“It just got released worldwide,” Duncan added.
“Great,” Turcotte said. “Sometimes I think we’d get better intelligence if we just watched CNN.”
Turcotte looked at the second page and read the block letters of the message from Mars.
GREETINGS
WE ARE OF PEACE
ASPASIA
END
“What the hell does this mean?” Turcotte asked.
“That’s the part of the message that was in binary and obviously meant for us,” Duncan said.
“Aspasia?” Turcotte read out loud. “He’s long gone.”
“Maybe the computer on Mars doesn’t know that. Maybe it’s just reacting to the message the guardian sent out and playing back a recording. The important thing, though, is that we now have communication with the computers.”
Turcotte turned the page and looked at the photo of the Face on Mars. The next page had a summary of information about the Cydonia region.
“This is some weird stuff,” he said.
“Certainly not what anyone expected,” Duncan said. “Another guardian computer on Mars?”
“Besides the one we know about under Easter Island,” Turcotte said, “there was one from Temiltepec that got destroyed in Dulce. Who knows how many of these things there are? Why did we have to wait to get this?” Turcotte asked.
“Why didn’t we get informed before UNAOC made it public?”
“UNAOC didn’t want any leaks.”
“So they don’t trust us.”
“You keep talking as if you weren’t part of UNAOC,” Duncan said, leaning back in the swivel chair bolted to the thinly carpeted cabin floor.
“I’m a soldier in the United States Army and I’ve been ordered by my chain of command to do this. I’m not happy about it, but there wasn’t a happiness clause in my enlistment contract.” He looked at her. “You had a seat on Majestic-12. Were you a part of that?”