Children of Terra

~7 April 1999~ ~Ancient ruins of Umlias~ ~Armenian Highlands, north of Iran~ ~Jin Hanabi, Site Coordinator~       There were no lands like it in the Japanese archipelago.  Sand Deserts.  Eroded soft stones, sandstone, sedimentary, tectonic shifts recorded in the earth.  Antiquity.  Jin felt the pressure in his very being; this land was ancient just from the feel of it.  He knew it even before being appointed as the head coordinator of the excavation.  A new spot revealed due to the widespread shaking caused by multiple nuclear exchanges, while destroying some old.  The leaning tower of Pisa no more.  The historian-at-heart tried not to aggrieve too much at the thought, for he was about to unearth something else entirely.  Was that not a cause for joy in any occasion?  What in the stead is to be found here?        Suffice it to say, anecdotes were never much to go off of.  While the similarities between cultures was a fascinating table discussion, none more was treated with seriousness for a reason.  For, what is the proof?  This was why the discovery at Lake Urmia was out of left field.  Countless geomapping scans, radiation sniffers, overhead observation planes, people on the ground.  Not one in decades and decades caught the signs.        Jin was appointed some scant weeks ago, and he still needed extra water to compensate for the dry throat.  Currently shifting over a ridge, he looked out over the vast valley of civilization, along the stones and rocks that gave no clue what they knew.  Heat mirages played the surface of the sands, and he cracked the seal on a hip flask to bring the sweet relief in tow.  This was the cradle of humanity, once.  Our ancestors were pushed back to this one spot, or so we ourselves say.        He sucked dry air through his sinus, the rasp sting making him wince for else times, before slide-walking down a foot path to the base of a rock butte, where the excavation proper was located.  Great canvas tents were drawn along the site perimeter, casting most of the crew in shade, with light stands set in place for nightfall.  As was proper, any worker passing by Jin stopped to firmly bow before heading on.  He would smile back, thanking them while thinking, 'You'd be flogged for such disrespect.  Ach, no matter.'        A mesh-seal door separated a corridor between the outside desert and work site within.  To begin a rotation process, a sequence code is entered on an adjacent wall pad, running a pressurization cycle in the corridor.  Once inside, the usual battery of UV and Antizin are sprayed, before allowing passage to the now-sealed project underground.  Jin cleared his parch-cracked throat as he stepped in, eyes adjusting to the softer glow of artificial light.  The next crew should be ready soon, which meant an updated report for him in the command module on the eastern perimeter of the site.        He took off the over-garb, relishing the way it held the heat in its fabric, his skin cooling as soon as air separated between.  He hugged the perimeter wall on the right, guards snapping to attention at his passage, eyes glanced leftward at the stones being unveiled.  The stone work itself was ancient, predating most cultures by hundreds of years -- and, if the carbon dating is to be believed -- among the oldest stone works in the world.  That in itself was not the surprising part.  The surprise was the complexity of the culture within.  Pseudo-hieroglyphs, some suggesting bold interpretations.  Jin shook his head.  Impossible.  Simple as.  We need more confidence in the translations.         A small staircase elevated the mobile command module off the ground, Jin clambering up and closing the door behind him to seal in the air conditioned interior.  With a full gasp in, he let the condensed, cool air cold flush him back to sanity, before setting his over-garb on a rack hanger and stepping over to the long command table.  He picked up a fresh stack of paper reports, thumbing through before reading them in order.  Such a capable secretary.  I'll have to make sure to put a good word in.     ~Walking over to take a seat~ ~In a plush chair~ ~Air conditioned room~ ~Jin Hanabi, Site Coordinator~       The first stack detailed supply schedules, guard rotations, crew switches, and timetables.  Supplies are carried in by helicopter, advanced nuclear-powered kind.  One of many prototypical examples of the times now.  Wouldn't be possible without Rad-Away either.  As for the guards, they were arranged in flutes radiating out of the campsite to prevent the usual, on top of the dangers of HV-infected and else these days.  The paper on crew labor made Jin lean forward to reread through.  Unexplained deaths?  Superstition?  Ugh, curse of the Pharaohs again?  He clicked his teeth.  It was a high death rate for something so mundane.  Timetables looked good, but Jin went back to the previous report.        In a time like this, Jin's thoughts went immediately to dormant viruses.  With all the other shit in the world, he would be damning his bloodline if his excavation released another apocalypse.  He rolled the chair over to the comm terminal, putting in an encrypted request for virologists and classified personnel to be on-site.  The line went by cable to outside satellite dish, updating the PDAs of the guards at the site in time.  "O-kay."  Jin stretched his back, cracked his knuckles, before scooting back to the stack of reports.        Next were the progress reports on translations of the hieroglyph-scripts.  They -- again, according to carbon dating -- seemed to either be a contemporary or predecessor to Sumerian, Elamite, or Hattian scripts.  The concerning part was the age in regards to Egyptian.  It would make this previously unknown culture as old or older than Mesopotamia.  Which leads to the dilemma at hand: every archaeologist here wants to be the 'one' to have discovered such a land mark of ancient history.  Confirmation bias is then the most dangerous thing to account for.  Making up bullshit in this day would see Arasaka kill them all for bringing such dishonor.        The pressure got to the previous site coordinator.        And so young Jin, picked for having a more lackadaisical personality, is now the head of the dig site.  Which really meant he was the public face, as the expertise at hand just about kept things going autonomously.  He was more of an interpersonal diplomat than anything, just to keep hot heads from clashing too often.  And with the potential at hand here . . .        Jin put the stack down, stretching his legs and readying to survey the site in person.  He pulled within his suit vest a fat stogie and clipped the end off, walking out into the controlled environs of the underground dig, lighting off under sanitized light.  The site itself was akin to a mountain tomb not unusual for these parts, hewn straight into the rock.  Soft surveys showed a great tunnel network rivaling the Valley of the Kings, which alone was empirical fact and thus a great cause of fervor.  Which left two questions, Jin dragging the cigar in thought as he stooped to walk within the stone walls.        How could such a vast site remain hidden?  No records of such a thing exist in any other cultural history, but it should.  It would be like just stumbling on the actual Hanging Gardens of Babylon in a random cave somewhere.        And more pertinently, how could such a culture able to produce this remain unknown for so long?  The script on the walls, proto-hieroglyphs, and masonry did not fit into any other mark of the area.  It was unique.  Granted, such things happen, but the problem was scale.  This was not some tablet in a cave, or a stele fallen in a ditch.  An entire complex, carved in scope that rivaled the marvels of the Gizan Pyramids.  It was a tomb of a king.  None else could commission such a thing, at least.  Jin stopped in front of pillars carved as slaves holding the ceiling up.  A rather typical style of the early conqueror cultures.  He took another drag, burning cigar lighting up the deep quaff, before heading further inside; to the latest clearing areas.        Stale, cool air slapped his cheeks as he ventured farther.  The hum of ventilation kept the claustrophobia from hitting, along the constant stream of workers here and there.  Ancillary side tunnels fed Jin to a central heart chamber, a goodly beast of ancient stonework that promised quite a time for the likely slaves that once did it.  Along the walls were alcoves determined to be demarcated slaves, certainly the eunuch masters.  The ground turned up a concerning find: the foundation work was actually comprised of the ground bone dust (and implied flesh) of the lesser castes.  It gave Jin a sour thought as he walked toward the centerpiece.        The largest tunnel from the heart wound to a memorial stele of whomever this grand structure was designed for.  It was ringed in cuneiform and glyphs unknown, albeit early translations already worked on against similar Egyptian and Sumerian iconography.  A breakthrough would be nice, perhaps if there was a Rosetta Stone somewhere in here?  Jin circled the stone stele, looking over the brushed markings carved about the surface.  At least it was intact, for what can be discerned.  A complete message or tale within.        Jin bore his gaze into the shadows within, all along the squiggles up and down.  If you squinted to the point of haziness, the shadows . . . they almost seemed to writhe.  He was glad he wasn't much of a spiritualist then.  What horrors do these stones bear?          He turned away, heading for the scholars' staging table, where the wake ones gather for discussion.  Located within view backward in the large tunnel, a lively discourse on the latest thoughts was occurring, as it always does.  Jin padded his steps softly, walking as discreetly as he could to a pair hunched over the flat metal table.        An elderly woman, with her hands flat on the table, retorted to an unheard question.  "No, then it doesn't make any sense here, here, here, or here!  I'm telling you, we have all the vowels sorted.  The consonants are what we should be focusing on."        A younger woman, mid 30's, shook her head with a huff.  "Phonics are not the main problem here!  Who cares how it should be pronounced?!  We need to get complete word meanings."        "Without a translation somewhere?  How do we do that, imbibe ayahuasca, peyote, opium?"        The younger woman visibly bristled, ready to shout, when Jin stepped to the table, dragging deeply enough for the ember to drop off, fresh cherry bright for a moment.  "If it sounds good enough, not too bad an idea."  He winked to the younger.        The elder nose-huffed, before gathering pertinent notes and walking to the stele in a manner that suggested follow.  Jin blew smoke from his nostrils, as the younger shrugged to follow.  Smiling to himself, he closed his eyes a moment before strolling in tune.  Glad things are going smooth.  Even I tire of tirades.        Both scholars waited for Jin before apprising him of the latest consensus.  He followed as each pointed to certain scripts, highlighting the thoughts behind them, and nodding in thought.  Fuck.  Saburo-sama won't be happy if this is all we have.  He chewed the end of the cigar in consternation.  Turning back to the command module once the report was done, he waved in passing.  "Leave copies of the latest reports on my desk.  Don't think we don't know about your secret drive.  I trust you know what happens to those that oppose Saburo-sama."  He didn't bother turning around.        The walk back was calming, somehow.  Jin decided it was the harmonics of the stone, as though the original designers had an ear for that.  Each step echo almost dragged the eyes to the stonework pillars, carved faces in anguish at their labor of keeping everything upright.  But that would be reading too much into cultural advancements.  He shook his head at the final puff of his cigar, chewing the bud as he reentered the heart chamber.        He should run the opiate idea by some advisors, maybe it wasn't a bad idea . . . Audentes Fortuna Iuvat and all.  Flicking the cigar to a trash can, he sat at the comms terminal, thinking about the report of reports.  He sighed.       ~Months later~ ~More details found~ ~And implications deeper~ ~Jin Hanabi, Site Coordinator~     Dimethyltryptamine is considered the most popular among the businessman's choice in expedient vacation.  And after the shit these last few months, he was surprised there weren't overdoses yet.  As it stands now, multiple chambers of thousands of slaves had been unearthed, the scale like the terra cotta tombs of the eastern emperors.  Then the nightmares.  He didn't believe the superstitions, until the dreams reported by the crew matched his.  To the letter.  Group hallucinations is a known concept in psychology, and he had requisitioned a while ago some Clinical Psychologists among other experts.  The more he reported, the more funding from Arasaka grew.  Jin sat upright on his cot within the command module, now disheveled.  DMT was a fucking stupid choice.        Many of the psychologists were . . . catatonic, in a pedantic sense.  Their council had gone useless a while ago with the shit they rambled about now.        He splashed cold water on his face, throwing the bottle across the room, thinking over the latest translations and what it meant in greater Archaeology.       ~Words at the Umlias dig~ ~Dated nearly 4000 BC~     Hark.  I was born on the shores of Urumia.  I was there to see the King of Waset and his folly.  I traveled the Gardens of the Sumerians.  I sailed the seas of the Canaanites.  The Shuites, Shiites, Hittites, Eblaites, Elamites, Hattics, Aramaics, Urartians, I watched for a time these people.  Then, it was my tribe that took the sword to them.  And it was their blood which made me what I am.        Hearken my works.  Kneel, king of kings, men of men.  Around you is my kingdom.  Supplicate.  I demand blood.  I am the ruin of Commagene.  Of Khabur.  Of Sidon.  Gebel, and Tyre.  Arpad is my vassal.  Israel, Babylon, and Damascus are my triumphs.        Hearken my name.  I am Ba'al.  Son of Hammon.  Son of Da'in.  Son of R'ah.  I mastered the demons in life, and am King among them in death.  I shall not be forgotten.        Last night's discussion was whether or not Hammon and R'ah were the same as Amun-Ra.  It wasn't worth the thought.  Jin knelt over the bed, head pulsing.  None of it was worth thinking about.         He unwillingly thought of the rest of the words, and gasped out in pants.        None of it.