Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to Tolkien's work.
Chapter 1: Exact Match
When one gets pulled unexpectedly off duty by superiors, it's generally not a good thing. I wondered what I did this time, and whether they'd demote me for it. Was my military career over for some vague reason I'll never understand?
At the colonel's door I took a deep breath, let it out, and rapped sharply.
"Come in."
I opened the door, closed it behind me, and saluted. "Colonel."
"As you were, van der Zee," Col. Green replied, barely glancing up at me with piercing brown eyes, "and sit down." He gestured to the chairs in front of his paper-covered desk.
The leather creaked as I cautiously seated myself.
"I take it you've heard about the tomb complex found in New Mexico?" Col. Green asked, turning his attention suddenly onto me.
"Yes, sir." Who hadn't by now? It was 175 million years old and had complete human skeletons in perfect condition. The news wouldn't shut up about it.
"Including the second room?" Col. Green asked.
I paused a moment. "Not really. The news seems to be going on rumors, so I haven't put much stock in them," I explained.
Col. Green let out a gusty sigh and rubbed his eyes. "I won't hide it from you, I think it's bonkers, but I've been instructed to send you to Albuquerque. They didn't tell me why, just that it has to do with this second room. You're to leave this evening," he told me bluntly.
It was almost like I lost feeling in my face, with how fast the blood left me. "What? I don't know the first thing about archaeology!" I protested, "And I've got a birth coming up that I'm supposed to attend, her husband's been giving us info we can't lose."
My concerns were waved off with one hand while he wrote with the other. "She'll be brought into the hospital or someone else can go." Irritably, Col. Green then barked that, "I told them you don't know a damn thing about archaeology, but they want you specifically. You have to be on the next chopper out of here." With his eyes, he dared me to ask any further questions that he couldn't answer.
I kept my mouth shut.
"Dismissed, Corporal. I'll see you when they send you back," Col. Green told me.
While I packed my bag, I fielded the few questions that I could from my mates. Yes, I'm being sent back to the good old US of A. Yes, I can mail these drawings to your family. No, I don't know why I'm being sent home.
"Good luck," Murphy said, probably my best friend here. If for no other reason than that we were tied for the shortest member of the force on base.
"Don't die!" Martin told me cheerfully, the shifty bastard.
I waved to Murphy and gave Martin the finger on the way to the helicopter that waited.
From Kabul to Istanbul to New York to Albuquerque, I could only wonder what was going on. The implication that the strangest archaeological discoveries in a century had turned military sent a mystified tingle down my spine. But why on earth would I be requested? There are better people for any need I could think of them having in New Mexico.
That implication prevented me from contacting my sisters and brother like I itched to. I very nearly called my aunt, a former colonel in the air force, to see if she had any idea.
At the Albuquerque airport I was greeted by a short middle aged woman holding up a piece of neon pink poster board advertising for, "Cassandra van der Zee." When I approached, she greeted me with a bright, dimple-cheeked smile. "Professor Lourdes Sandoval of the University of New Mexico archaeology department."
A bit awkwardly I gave a pointed look to her sign. "Clearly you know who I am, but anyways, I'm Corporal Cassandra van der Zee," I returned and shook her calloused hand.
"Pleasure to meet you. If you don't mind, I'll take you to your hotel to drop off your bags and so you can freshen up before we hit the lab." Her offer sounded heavenly; after that long series of flights, I desperately needed a shower.
On the way to the parking garage we went through all the pleasantries, only getting to the point after climbing into Prof. Sandoval's dinky little hatchback. "Sorry about the mess," she said, clearing out several fast food bags from the passenger seat, "I have a team of burger addicts out there."
I shrugged and tossed my bag into the back. "No problem." Whether it was blown off limbs or my team's foul smelling clothing scattered everywhere, I saw worse all the time.
"Right, so you're probably wondering why you were brought the whole way here from the Middle East," Prof. Sandoval began, exiting the garage.
At the sheer understatement, I muffled a scoff.
"Sorry about the secrecy, but we can't have this leak until we're absolutely sure. It's just too bonkers, heads will roll if we're wrong," Prof. Sandoval explained, gesturing wildly with the hand not on the steering wheel, "Every single one of our careers will be over if this isn't done right."
My stomach churned anxiously but I kept my face politely curious. "And this involves me, how?" I asked, rather patiently in my opinion.
"When we get to the lab, I need a DNA sample. Don't worry, it'll just involve swabbing the inside of your cheek and if you don't mind, I'd like a couple of hairs for additional material," Prof. Sandoval said conversationally, like that was any kind of an answer.
"What does my DNA have to do with 175 million year old tombs, here of all places?" I questioned incredulously.
At that point we pulled into the driveway of a decent but inexpensive airport hotel and I was admittedly distracted by the lure of a shower. Once squeaky clean and in fresh clothing, I was more than happy to continue to the university campus. Especially after I was promised dinner, on the archaeologists' budget.
In the lab I was introduced to the team geneticist, Dr Fiala, who wielded a rather intimidating swab in his large hand. He was exceedingly gentle though, not nearly as bad as I expected. Just some scratching against the inside of my cheek before he declared cheerfully, "All done!" as he capped the specimen.
Before anyone else could bother, I seized a couple stray hairs above my forehead and yanked them out. They were accepted with minimal brow furrowing but additional samples were then taken properly from the back of my head.
Only afterward did Prof. Sandoval take me to a small conference room, where I quite happily tucked into the first pizza I've had in months. A projector screen was unrolled and I got the idea that I was going to finally receive answers.
First Prof. Sandoval talked me through the initial catacombs found, then the first sealed chamber with the three sarcophagi. Hearing about what may be a newly discovered species of proto-humans in the small people was utterly fascinating, especially their poison tolerance. "Thoughts so far?" she asked after about an hour.
"Being able to handle that kind of poison would have been so useful as a teenager," I commented regretfully. Don't get me wrong, I love my sisters, but none of them can cook for love or money, and I'm no chef either.
Prof. Sandoval laughed and continued on about the second sealed chamber. All the while she had been showing me pictures of the sarcophagi, the decor, and even the skeletons recovered. Then she put up a picture of a sarcophagus that was… different from the others.
"I don't know why, but I swear I recognize her face from somewhere," I said, squinting at the photo in vain, "I guess she looks kinda like my mom, when my mom wore a wig back in the eighties." That had been a great big curly monstrosity that I hate to admit my own resemblance to on bad hair days.
"This is the only female sarcophagus that we've found in the complex, and the only female skeleton within it," Prof. Sandoval told me, "These are some of the grave goods we found inside."
The next picture was of the head of a halberd and a war hammer, a short but broad sword, and the remains of a shield. I was so busy studying the weapons that I barely noticed the fragile, tiny, colored vials on the edge of the photo. "Is there any smell left in those bottles?" I asked.
"There are traces of flower oils that are cousins to gardenias and frangipani. When we opened the casket, the scents…" Prof. Sandoval blinked rapidly and shook her head. "We also found these pieces of jewelry." She changed the picture to one of a pair of opal earrings, a ring with red stones shaped like a rose, a silver ring with a star decoration, and in the middle, a wonderful woodland themed tiara.
The moment I laid my eyes on the ring with the star, it felt like I had been hit in the gut. "That's my ring," I whispered. It couldn't be, but looked exactly like mine.
Like she didn't hear me, Prof. Sandoval continued, noting that only the star ring was made of silver; the rest were titanium with rose gold accents. The weapons within were accented with titanium in dizzying detail.
"The part that's really stumped everyone though, are the bones. Especially the teeth," Prof. Sandoval told me, carefully gauging my reaction, "The back lower left and right molars have porcelain crowns and the left has a modern style root canal." She then listed out three fillings, showing pictures of everything that she described.
With each one, my stomach tightened up a little more. I set my sixth slice of pizza down when she showed a picture of an off-white filling that covered the top and the side of the molar inside the mouth.
In a picture of the top half of the skeleton, she pointed out healed gauges of various sizes. Tiny pieces of metal lingered in the sternum and two ribs. One rib was only half there, the break smooth, which Prof. Sandoval explained as meaning that she survived an operation to remove the other half.
That was quite enough for me; blood draining from my face and ready to be sick, I demanded, "What the hell is going on here?! Are you describing a dead person, or reading my medical records?!"
Quite calmly in the face of someone who was upset and could easily break her in half, Prof. Sandoval asked, "What happened to you?"
I stopped dead and for a long moment my ears rang with the aftershock of a blast. "On my last tour, my team hunkered down for the night in an old Soviet bunker. Somebody threw two grenades in. I was the only one who noticed them and there wasn't time to throw them back out, so I did the only thing I could to save my team: I grabbed the nearest bag, held it to my chest, and jumped on the grenades."
Beyond that action I don't remember much for the next couple of minutes. Up was down and down was up; my ears were ringing and I was in terrible pain all over. "They said I hit the ceiling and then the floor so hard that I broke most of my ribs and one stabbed me in the liver. They had to remove that half of the rib and that part of my liver to save me. Didn't manage to get all the metal out of me, just the important parts." And I was seeing an exact mirror of that in this long dead woman.
When Prof. Sandoval nodded, there was something satisfied about it. "What about any other broken bones? Perhaps your ankle?" she asked pointedly.
"Jumped out of a tree when I was eight and broke the right one," I confirmed past the lump in my throat.
The picture changed again and Dr Sandoval pointed out various healed fractures in the skull. At least half corresponded to my litany of troublemaking: left cheekbone, both eye sockets, left side of my jaw, and two incidents that left me with concussions if not a fractured skull. Seeing somebody who's been that far through the wringer made me feel a bit better about myself, honestly.
Abruptly, Prof. Sandoval changed the picture on screen.
I was staring at my own face, but not. The same perky nose and round shape, the same slightly large front teeth and canines I liked to joke as being my vampire teeth. Her eyes were the same shape and her lips were upturned at the corners like mine naturally do until I frown.
Which I was, very much. Because the only differences I saw between her and my own reflection were her coloring, lack of freckles, and lack of some of the scars on my face. Notably she didn't have the same scarred snarl or chipped nostril that the grenade fragments had left me with. But those wouldn't show up on a skeleton, would they?
"This is a model that we were able to make of the deceased woman's face from her bones. DNA provided us with the not-quite accurate information that her eyes and hair were brown, we need to correct that on the next model," Prof. Sandoval said, referencing my amber colored eyes and reddish brown mop of curls.
Dumbly, I nodded along.
"That's how we came across you," Prof. Sandoval explained apologetically, "We were able to sequence her DNA, and it came up in the national database as an exact match for yours."
I barely heard her talk about the samples they just took and confirmation, her previous words were too busy beating around in my skull. "But how can that be?" I croaked, not even caring about how out of sorts I sounded, "She's millions of years old and I'm right here."
Plaintively I added, "This is my first time in New Mexico."
Prof. Sandoval didn't have answers for me. All she could say was, "That's what we're all wondering."
Possibly in an effort to cheer me up, or maybe to throw me for another loop, she pointed out bone-deep scars that I didn't have. A broken arm and wrist, defensive wounds on the hands, and even more healed fractures on her skull than I've managed to wrack up. Plus according to her pelvis she had given birth at least once, which I most assuredly haven't managed yet.
Finally I was allowed to look at the wide, barbed arrowhead that was found in the upper rib area: the arrow that had likely killed her. "It would make sense, when combined with the passage on the wall," I murmured, gradually calming as the differences between myself and the deceased were shown, "Now is it murder, or self-sacrifice, do you think?"
It was a question beyond Prof. Sandoval's ability to answer.
The next several days were filled with all kinds of tests. They wanted casts of my teeth for comparison and a trip through the CAT scan to compare the princess's bones to mine.
That's what I started calling her over that time, the princess. With her grave goods and where she was buried, how could anyone doubt? A few of the technicians followed the lead until suddenly everyone started calling her Princess Sandra, an uncomfortable reference to my sharing her DNA.
Upon running the tests again with the fresh samples they got from me and the bones, it was announced that the original matching was correct. It hadn't been a mistake that led to a DNA match, no matter how many people screamed that there was an error due to the age of the bones. Grudgingly I accepted after that that yes, I somehow got a carbon copy of a dead princess's DNA.
And her dental work. And at least half the scars on her bones. Those were a bit more difficult to digest; they come from living rather than a lottery based on who our parents were, and everyone lives differently. Especially across this amount of time.
According to the excited Prof. Sandoval, the absurd situation gave her and the other researchers opportunities that they otherwise never would have had. Princess's bones have more muscle warping than mine, meaning that she had more muscle strength than I do, and if I gave my consent then the physiology professor could train me up to that standard. That way they could see what exactly she would have been capable of, including with the wonderful weapons found in her tomb.
Of course I said yes. Don't get me wrong, I wanted dearly to go back to Afghanistan and my normal life, whatever that might be now. But it's not every day one gets to help bring an ancient person back to life, in a way.
My first question was, "Can I tell my family I'm back in the States?" It had been nearly a month by that point since I talked to any of them and I missed them terribly.
Prof. Sandoval gave me an amazed look and answered instantly, "Well, yes. Of course. I thought you called them the minute you went back to the hotel the first night." I was immediately shooed away to buy myself a cheap prepaid, since I leave my mobile at home during deployments.
First on the list was the twins, but they were also on tour so I settled for emails and text messages. (I never was very good at world time zones.) My youngest sister was next on the list, since I remembered that she just got back from training last month and didn't ship out for another one. Over the course of a day between various medical tests and meetings with academics who I could barely understand a word from, I went down the list of relatives from most to least well liked, my brother third on the list and mom dead last.
When someone finally got back to me, it was my sister nearest in age of the six of them, Dezzie. She texted back almost right away, "Wat r u doin in NM".
My eye twitched uncomfortably. "Research at the uni. Can't say exactly why, but they've put me through every machine on the face of the planet," I replied.
"O that sux" was the compelling response.
That terribly interesting conversation continued, covering that Dezzie was doing nothing. She did make sure to tell me all about how great her boyfriend, who I despise, is in bed. I very quickly told her that I needed to go.
Almost at the same second, a call came from Cressie, who was the oldest of us. For a long moment I stared at the screen, contemplating letting it ring out. I could always tell her I was in the shower or asleep.
Reluctantly, I picked up. "Lo?" I drawled into the speaker.
"You said you're helping the University of New Mexico with research, right?" she rushed out. In the background I could hear Frozen being played for what must have been the millionth time.
I stood up to pace around my small hotel room, looking around for anything I forgot to pack; the following day I was being moved to student housing. "Yep. Why do you ask?" I replied.
"They're sending you to Los Alamos, aren't they?" Oh no, this is exactly why I didn't want to pick up… Less than thirty seconds in and she was already rambling panickedly about my being used in secret government radiation experiments.
I very loudly smacked my own forehead and dragged the hand down my face. "No, they're not sending me to Los Alamos," I groaned. "Or Roswell," I added upon realizing that I left that option open.
"Then why'd they drag you the whole way back from Afghanistan?" she asked pointedly.
"Not allowed to answer that yet, I can only really say that it's specific to me. Honestly the whole thing will probably show up on the news sooner than later," I tried to explain. It had been a request from Prof. Sandoval that I generally keep quiet about what I was doing here and not tell anyone the specifics yet. Not until they were absolutely sure.
"What kind of awful things are they doing to you?" Cressie nearly whispered, voice tight with emotion.
"Dude. This is a university, not Guantanamo Bay. They ran me through a CAT scan and took some x-rays of my teeth, and tomorrow I'm working out with the PE teacher," I told her bluntly, "This is the cushiest assignment I've ever had. Everyone here is very polite. Very competent. And yes, I did read the fine print before I signed anything." It took me four hours and a lot of pestering about what some bits meant, but at least I knew I wasn't consenting to be vivisected or anything.
A pause. "That's the same place those tombs were found, right?" Cressie asked shrewdly.
"Mhm," I hummed in answer, since that was public knowledge.
"But why would the military be involved with some old graves? Unless there's something we're not being told…" she mused. Already I could hear her brilliant but broken mind spinning up.
I shook my head at my reflection and tried to figure out what to tell her. The more I found out, the more it looked like she might be right for once. Sort of. Maybe. "Whoa, there. Let's get back to real life," I cautioned with a laugh that I didn't really feel. "How's Rosie? Can I talk to my favorite niece for a minute or two?"
My wheedling worked and for a few precious minutes I got a break from my most intense, intensely broken sister in the form of her adorable daughter. She talked about her dad and brothers (Cressie's fiance and his sons who I'm not quite sure about) and school and all the things a young girl finds important in her life. Near the end of the call she asked, "When are you going to move close? I miss you."
The cracking feeling in my chest was one I knew far too well. "I don't know yet. I'll see you when I come home, okay?" I offered, despite that she lived a two hour plane ride from my dinky little apartment in Seattle.
"Oh yeah, the re-you-yun is coming up!" Rosie exclaimed.
For a moment my mind blanked on what she could mean. Then it struck me between the eyes: I was going to come home in a month anyways, I'd requested it last year for the reunion around Nan's 101st birthday. "That's right!" I said cheerfully, before Rosie had to say goodbye.
"You are coming to the family reunion, right?" Cressie demanded, "Even Aunt Libby is coming the whole way from Indonesia."
Hold it, what? "What's she doing in Indonesia?" I asked incredulously. Wasn't she banned from Indonesia after the soft serve incident ten years ago? Or was that Polynesia?
"For some reason she decided she needs to wander the earth to become the best carpenter she can be," Cressie scoffed.
I shrugged at nobody. "Fair enough, I guess. They do make some fantastic woodwork over there," I reasoned, remembering some pictures I had seen of traditional Balinese furniture.
"But you're coming to the reunion, right?" There was something vulnerable and hesitant in her voice now.
A wave of relief washed through me, even though I knew I needed to hang up ASAP. Otherwise something will come up that will lead to at least two hours of her sobbing and me wondering with weary bewilderment how it always came to this. "Yeah, I'll be there come hell or high water. But I gotta go, early start tomorrow. Night." I hung up quickly and let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding.
At the same time I noticed a message from Brise, asking, "Lol what are you doing there?" Nope, I wasn't getting into that can of worms tonight.
I really do love my sisters. But most of the kind, I can't stand half of them.
Good thing I only need to deal with them all for one weekend this year, right?