The Eden Project (Peter Zachary Adventure)

  The Eden Project

  by John Bolin

  Whatever you do, don’t drink the water.

  Copyright 2010 John Bolin

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For information address John Bolin, 290 Doral Way, Colorado Springs, CO 80921.

  WWW.JOlINBOlIN.NET info@johnbolin.net

  Designed by Jeremy Kennedy | www.kenedik.com

  Advancements in Genetic Science: A Brief History

  The early twenty-first century brought with it remarkable breakthroughs in science and technology. Advances in genetics, nanotechnology, and biotechnology were among the most impressive.

  Begun formally in 1990, the U.S. Human Genome Project was a thirteen-year effort coordinated by the U.S. Department of Energy and the National Institutes of Health to map the 30,000 genes of the human DNA strand. The project originally was planned to last fifteen years, but rapid technological advances and funding from undisclosed sources accelerated the completion date to 2003.

  The Human Genome Project successfully mapped all 30,000 human genes but found that there were more than they’d previously known. Indeed, scientists acknowledged that the total number of human genes was unknown but potentially numbered more than 75,000. Following the release of the Human Genome Project papers, a decision by the newly formed World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO) formalized the process by which individuals, corporations, and countries could patent the genetic solutions and processes they produced.

  With nearly endless medical, industrial, and military applications, the implications of the Human Genome Project are staggering. These range from the ability to determine the color of a child’s eyes before he is born to the possibility of identifying a gene to extend life. Researcher Dr. Thomas Perls, a geriatrician at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston, began looking for a genetic catalyst for longevity and, in the spring of 2004, announced that he had narrowed the search down to one of two hundred possible genes.

  The Methuselah Mouse Prize is a growing $1.5 million prize started in 2003 to accelerate research into slowing and eventually reversing the aging process in humans. Methuselah was a patriarch in the Bible said to have reached 969 years of age. The foundation awards prizes to researchers who extend the lifespan of a mouse to unprecedented lengths. It has been covered in many news sources, including The New York Times.

  The prize, modeled after the highly successful Ansari X prize for private space travel, is administrated by the Methuselah Foundation. It consists of two prizes: the first for extending total lifespan and the second focusing on rejuvenation therapy begun on an older mouse.

  The famous and eccentric Cambridge biogerontologist Aubrey de Grey is founder and chief scientist for the project. From his biogerontology work, de Grey believes there are seven root causes of cellular aging or, as de Grey puts it, “the set of accumulated side effects from metabolism that eventually kills us,” all of which he believes are reversible. Among others, they include cell atrophy, cell death, and unwanted mutations.

  Alongside the advances in biomedicines and longevity have come significant advances in the science of nanotechnology. In 1995, a report of nanotechnology (the science of developing technology at the molecular level) reported major breakthroughs in medical and military applications. Soon after, evidence of the development of microscopic nano-robots (nanobots), which could be injected into a patient’s bloodstream to attack disease and rebuild human tissue, began to surface at several research institutes around the world, including laboratories in Tokyo, North Korea, and France.

  According to a WIPO memo dated March 9, 1999, in 1998 there were more than 120,000 new patents filed with WIPO. Leading the explosive growth in new ideas were the United States, Japan, North Korea, Germany, and France.

  * * *

  Of the patents filed in 1998, few had the potential impact as file number 154776-0098.

  This file, which was nearly three hundred pages long and filled with dozens of pages of DNA code, was signed by geneticist Dr. Michael Khang. Earlier that same year, scientists working in a top-secret laboratory in Los Alamos, New Mexico, purportedly made a “significant breakthrough” in the field of nanotechnology. The lead scientist of record on the project was this Dr. Khang. Patent 154776-0098 was filed within three months of the report. Three months later, on a humanitarian trip to the Amazon jungle, Dr. Khang disappeared.

  PROLOGUE

  Amazon Jungle

  Six months ago

  There was no escape from this fear.

  No amount of music or comfort could coax it away. It had wrapped itself around her heart, squeezing until it was all she could feel. She was only twelve, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever laughed or played a moment in her life. She would never be young again.

  Tima tried to see over the men in front of her, to see where they were taking her.

  The walls of the underground tunnel were cold and wet, and she tried not to touch them. It smelled bad, too, like death. She stood at the back of a line of people.

  Except for the occasional guard, the others here were like her, people of the Amazon. They’d been told they were being taken to a special place for a cleansing ceremony. She was afraid but knew it didn’t matter.

  She had no choice here.

  This was the White Shaman’s village. She didn’t know how many others were there, but she knew her tribe wasn’t the only one. The darkness of the cave brightened as they emerged into a larger space. Tima saw that the walls and ceiling opened slightly, then more until she found herself standing with the others in a large underground cavern. It was still cold, but the open space made her feel safer.

  Men set torches along the edges of the cavern. She saw that the center of it was dominated by a lake. Torchlight danced on the water in front of her and the ceiling high above her. A path on stilts stretched from the shore where she and five others stood to an island in the center of the lake. There were things on the island that looked like big cocoons, or like the boxes that city people buried their dead in. Her heart started beating faster. The White Shaman and his tribe, the Rauga, the white ghosts, were waiting on the island. Waiting for her.

  Haunted music echoed through the cave. It reminded Tima of the sounds she’d heard once from the music box of one of the outsiders to their village. She wished she were back there.

  Here, the air was stale and earthy except for an occasional burst of wind that rushed into the cave from somewhere behind her. She turned to look. In the orange glow she could see a hole in the wall directly behind her, a narrow shaft leading further under the mountain. Perhaps it was one of the forbidden holes where the Rauga dug with their axes and head torches. With the wind pulsing in, Tima couldn’t help but think of all the stories she’d heard of the underworld. Her shaman had told her about portals to the place of spirits. She shuddered.

  She shifted uncomfortably as someone pushed her forward, away from the hole, toward the island. Guards led them along the rocky beach to the bridge that led to the island. Tima carefully padded across the bridge, following the others to the middle.

  Over the sounds of the water and footsteps on wood, she could hear the music; now it was deeper and louder. Tima’s heartbeat quickened as one of the Rauga, a white ghost with bleached skin and a bloody scar on his cheek, grabbed her by the a
rm and led her to a strange chamber. It looked like a cocoon, but it was made of the hard material the outsiders used. It had a place for a person to stand and was covered in white vines and little lights, like stars. The man shoved Tima into the cocoon and tied her in with white straps. They were too tight. She cried and told the man in her language, but he only laughed.

  The Rauga man pulled out one of the white vines and attached a sharp needle to the end of it. This he plunged into the muscle of her left shoulder. It hurt. Tima watched blood dribble down her arm.

  She began to feel dizzy and strange. Her knees started to weaken. Everything was getting blurry. The man attached more vines to her arms and legs, each time smiling. He pushed the small lights, and strange sounds began.

  The music grew louder as Tima watched the Rauga man lock the other five in place in the cocoons. They were also from her family, her tribe. Tima breathed hard and her heart pounded. She watched as the man walked from the island back across the bridge to the shore, where he came to stand beside the White Shaman.

  The White Shaman lifted his hands toward the island. Everything quieted, except for the cicada noise. A light flashed, as if lightning had struck inside the cave.

  Another light flashed.

  And another.

  Soon, the light was continuous. It lit up Tima’s entire chamber, white and hot, burning her eyes. It was too much. Fear tightened around her heart. She was standing, pressed into the cocoon, squeezing her eyes shut. The buzzing sound was louder now.

  She’d been told that she would see the White Shaman’s magic here, but Tima didn’t care. She wanted to be back in her village, back in the jungle. Fear crashed through her body, pressing against her eyes from the inside. She wanted it all to go away.

  Above the din, another noise echoed in the cave, this one like the sound of a thousand fish jumping out of the water. The others around her shouted and screamed. She opened her eyes slightly and caught a glimpse of something in the lake.

  A creature. A demon. Black and huge and writhing in the water with many limbs. It came toward her. She shut her eyes tight. Fear threatened to choke her to death right then.

  It was evil. She knew it. Could the others feel it, too? It was as if the White Shaman and his creature were controlling their very thoughts.

  An instant later, searing pain pulsed through her where the needles entered her arms and legs. And then, something else. A foul smell filled her nostrils, and she had the sense that something was close to her. She writhed, pulling at the straps. She couldn’t escape.

  And then it was on her. She gagged as she felt the creature pressing against her, probing her mouth, her ears, her nose. Her legs wouldn’t hold her anymore. She slumped over in the cocoon. Everything went black.

  PART ONE

  MISSING THINGS

  Chapter 1

  Where are you?

  Peter Zachary peered into the absolute blackness of the Peruvian jungle. Green shapes moved between the trees through his night-vision goggles. He was looking for any sign of the missing team.

  Or his true quarry.

  So he stood in the inky jungle, eyes focused, ears keen, breathing controlled. Insects chirped and buzzed around him. The scent of humidity and decay was strong. The humidity was near 100 percent, and he wiped away the moisture building on his forehead. He crept forward, the turf spongy beneath his boots. His hands clutched a Benelli assault rifle. He could feel a warm breeze coming from the Amazon River itself, fifty yards to his left. He stopped, alert to every movement.

  Come on, men. Where are you?

  He stood like that for ten more minutes, then turned toward camp.

  The camp had been set up last night in a small clearing close to the river. A cluster of five yellow expedition tents emblazoned with the Discovery Channel logo were arranged in a perfect semicircle. Behind them, closer to the woods, half a dozen hammocks had been hung haphazardly between the twisted trees.

  Flickering tongues of light danced on the tents. Around the perimeter of the camp, his team had staked tall torches into the ground. Each was topped with tightly wrapped strips of fabric that had been soaked in kerosene. The torches were set at ten-foot increments, just enough for the light from the flames to leave no gap between them. They had tied vines between the torches, like a primitive laser grid.

  Beyond the torches, it was totally dark. Not like midnight without a moon, but an inky black that settled between the branches as if thick pitch had been poured over the canopy itself. At night, no light penetrated through the trees. Even in this clearing, the forest canopy arched over them, choking away the clouded sky.

  In front of the tents, an array of outdoor equipment was neatly set—backpacks, spent parachutes, and paddling gear. Several boxes labeled video equipment were stacked together nearby.

  Everything was in order; he’d been sure of that.

  On top of the boxes, a small arsenal of weapons was arranged in a line, loaded and ready to use. Peter had specifically asked for two CZ 75 nine-millimeter handguns and a pair of Benelli rifles. They’d been hard to find, but Peter trusted them—and if something wasn’t reliable, it was worthless. Next to the guns, there was enough ammunition to level a small army. Maybe overkill, but he’d learned to be prepared for anything.

  The smoke from the cooking fire curled up and back in toward the camp, trapped by the canopy above, making the camp reek of smoke and sweat and spent kerosene.

  In the center of the camp, a few Indians, most of them unashamedly naked, crouched around a fire, spitting tobacco and smiling through stained teeth. They were half of the hunting party that had been hired for the trip. The other half, armed with one of the rifles, was still somewhere in the jungle, looking for food.

  Skins, Peter’s nickname for one of two Peruvian brothers in the group, sat staring into the fire with the Indians. Skins, a tall skinny kid, was the group’s English-to- Quechua translator. His younger brother, Afanzo, was their guide. He was with the missing hunting party.

  Three other men sat with the Indians around the fire—Peter’s team.

  It had all started out with a phone call from an old high-school friend, Lincoln Murdoch, who worked as a cameraman for the Discovery Channel. Peter remembered the call.

  “Hey, Pete.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Don’t do that to me, Pete. You know who this is.”

  “Help me.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Silence.

  “Missoula High 1995. I was the most popular guy in school. Okay, so I wasn’t the most popular, but I was your lab partner. I’m the guy who let the rats free.”

  “Oh, yeah. Okay. Lincoln Murdoch. I remember you. Bad hair.”

  “I was trying to grow an afro.”

  “You’re white.”

  “Well, it really depends on how you—”

  “Linc. What do you want?”

  Short pause.

  “I just read an article about you. My mom cut it out and sent it to me. You’re a big deal back home, Pete. Let’s see, local kid graduates top of his class at West Point, then goes on to be a hotshot in the Army. Says you studied physics in college and now you’re out of the military, trying to get a job as some kind of scientist.”

  Linc took a breath.

  “So?” Peter said.

  “So, did you get a job yet?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve got a job for you.”

  “You’ve got a job for me?”

  “Well, not exactly a job, per se. I have an idea.”

  Take a team of brains and brawn on the road to prove or dispel some of the world’s most controversial legends. The Burmuda Triangle, the Chernobyl Effect, Polar Shift, and Yeti of the Amazon. Indiana Jones meets MythBusters. Call it Legends. According to Linc, the Discovery Channel had loved the idea.

  And here they were.

  The distinct sound of a harmonica added to the chorus of insects. It was some sort of bluesy number. Had to be L
inc.

  Lincoln Murdoch was a pole of a man. With two weeks’ of growth on his face and his scraggly hair pulled back in a green bandana, he could be the poster child for an indie rock band.

  The harmonica actually sounded good, like home.

  Apparently not everyone agreed.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Gator said, carefully turning over one of the snake steaks. “Not that thing again. What is that, some country song?”

  Gator was built like a bodybuilder and as bald as a cue ball. He had military tattoos on both arms and some orante-looking tribal scrolling and images on his back. His real name was Tobias Brasseaux. He was big, black, and about as Cajun as they came. He told everyone he’d gotten his nickname wrestling an alligator as a kid. Half his right ear was missing from the fight, along with half his hearing. Whatever he lost in his hearing, he more than made up for in brawn. When he and Peter were stationed at Fort Carson in Colorado, he won the U.S. Amateur Mixed Martial Arts Championship, twice.