The Lazarus Taxa

By Lindsey Kinsella

Sidney Starley, a world-renowned field engineer, is recruited by the mysterious technology firm "Genesis" for an expedition like no other. Sid and his team depart on the world's first venture through time. Their mission? To study the ancient world and the long-lost creatures which inhabit it, but is there an ulterior motive? Can the team trust their secretive employers?

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"Kinsella is clearly a master of paleontological knowledge with a vivid imagination to back it up," - R. M. Krogman

 

"...if you like Michael Crichton (or just dinosaurs in general), you're likely to enjoy this." - Richard Southworth

 

"A seamless blend of science-fiction and current paleontological knowledge." - Kieran Farley

 

"Action-packed thriller, mixing industrial espionage with dinosaur facts. What could be better?" -  Erin Oakley

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"This book is enthralling start to finish with twists and turns and dinosaurs to boot." - Lindsay Cameron

 

"A cleverly considered plot with some great action scenes..." - Stephen Llewelyn

 

"Dinosaurs and time travel, with a dash of corporate intrigue." - Jon F. Zeigler

 

"The Lazarus Taxa was a gripping science fiction thriller, with an intriguing premise..." - Ellie Mitchell

 

"I would recommend you dip into this if you want something new and different." - Mike Singleton

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lindsey Kinsella
• Release date: Jan 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215071496

Lindsey Kinsella

Lindsey Kinsella is a Scottish writer and author of the science fiction novel "The Lazarus Taxa". ​While a qualified and experienced naval architect and an avid classic car enthusiast, he always reserved space in his life for his deep fascination with paleontology. This drove his writing process as he aspired to write tales of the rich and complex history of life on Earth.

Book preview

Fossils have richer stories to tell - about the lub-dub of dinosaur life - than we have been willing to listen to.

-Robert T. Bakker

Prologue

Time. Each of us experiences the phenomenon every day. We measure time, we record time, we manage time; or at least we try to. The clock is forever ticking and our lives are inexorably chained to it, from the termination of an athlete’s stopwatch, to a wedding date, to a dissertation deadline. The masses are collectively slaves to the morning alarm and enthralled by the New Year’s Eve countdown. We mark the anniversary of our births and define ourselves based on this age. It would be true to say that we even fear time, knowing that, as we grow old, each of us has only a finite future. Yet despite it being such a universal experience, even the world’s greatest minds struggle to define what exactly time is. Is it merely the continued progress of existence? The unstoppable march towards the end of days? Or is it something more profound still?

Modern physics often describes time as the fourth dimension. This is, of course, in addition to the three dimensions of space: length, breadth, and height. This works under the principle that the universe exists as a four-dimensional block and that the passing of time is merely how our minds translate this extra dimension of space. This suggests that, rather than time being a linear progression, past, present, and future all exist simultaneously. We simply witness a limited series of individual moments. Under this hypothesis, the progression of time is, in effect, an illusion. And if so then, surely, free will is nothing more than a fallacy. If the future already exists, then it is predetermined; we simply can’t see it yet.

Does this make the age-old fantasy of time travel a fundamental impossibility? Surely matter cannot travel along this fourth plane of existence when each and every atom already exists in every moment that ever has been.

Many people would certainly consider this to be the case. A few others, however, would disagree...

The Test

September 2020

Mr Mansa, the capacitors are primed. Shall we continue?

Richard Mansa was well known to the outside world as one of the most successful men on the planet. As the owner of a prolific commercial empire, he boasted an immense portfolio of businesses ranging from restaurants, to mobile phone providers, to transnational airlines. He was famous, or perhaps infamous, for his lavish lifestyle, his elaborate private jets and, of course, his own island in the Caribbean. However, what the public was less aware of was his involvement in a little-known technology firm... Genesis Enterprises.

Mansa himself considered the scientific research and development company to be the jewel in his metaphorical crown. Even he had to admit that the lack of public recognition for Genesis was somewhat of an irritation, but keeping a low profile was crucial—for now, at least. Keeping their industry secrets away from prying eyes was imperative to the company’s success. How he longed to reveal their achievements to the world and rub it in the faces of his smug American competition. His time would come soon enough. It was within his grasp; he could feel it. But he needed results.

He stood tall with a relatively slim build. His sharp, hawkish, cleanly shaven face looked like that of a much younger man but his shortly cropped, paper-white hair betrayed his advancing age. An expensive and extremely well-fitting grey suit, complete with a smart burgundy tie and a crisp white shirt, wrapped his frame tightly. He carried himself well, with a near-perfectly upright posture and an effortlessly imposing aura of authority.

On this particular day, he was on hand to witness the culmination of years of hard work and investment to the tune of several billion pounds sterling. Yet he stood before a relatively unimpressive-looking contraption, which resembled little more than a large, metallic box painted in a matte-black finish. At both the roof and floor of the box, the titanium alloy walls curved gently inwards—indeed, there were no sharp edges on any of its exterior construction. What was certainly of note was the scale of the machine, as it was the size of a small ship.

The hangar within which it was constructed looked similarly uninteresting but, much like the unassuming box it contained, there was more to it that was immediately visible. It sat at the very bottom of a vast underground complex, some seventy metres beneath the English countryside. The walls contained more reinforced steel and concrete than some towns. This made the fact that its construction had remained largely unnoticed all the more remarkable. A remote location and friends in high places certainly helped to keep things under wraps.

The facility featured twenty storeys, all but one below ground level, housing a sprawling complex of laboratories and workshops. Mansa now stood within the Tether Control Room, which overlooked the enormous hangar. Between him, as well as a large team of scientists and engineers, and the contraption was an enormous pane of thick, shock-proof glass—a wise precaution in the circumstances.

Thank you, Professor Maxwell, Mr Mansa replied confidently. Yes, please proceed.

The lead physicist, Professor Maria Maxwell, attended to a bafflingly complex control panel. Maria didn’t share her boss’s affinity for expensive suits and silver watches. Quite frankly, she was too busy for that. Her own shirt was black and loose fitting while her tie, which she wore reluctantly, hung slack around her neck. She brushed her messy, dark hair from her face before inserting a key into the terminal and giving it a quarter-clockwise twist.

Test commencing in three... two... one... she announced.

As the professor’s countdown ended, an odd, creaking sound began to emanate from the machine. Enormous cables extending down from the hangar ceiling and into the roof of the device began to glow ever brighter until a blinding white light overwhelmed the surroundings. Those in the control room all raised their hands above their eyes in a synchronised attempt to block out the brightest of the rays.

Several arcs of jagged white energy burst outwards in all directions and hung in the air like bolts of lightning frozen in time. The air seemed to crunch as the bolts spread and expanded through space; a crack forming in the very substance of reality. As the cracks grew, something curious became visible within. Trees... sky... another world. This ghostly image began to shimmer lightly before vibrating with increasing intensity as though straining against some unseen tension.

A deafening explosion of sound followed, resonating around the room. A throbbing, metallic drone blasted through the air, a deep bass underlined by an unnerving, high-pitched ring. Despite the glass pane before them being immensely thick, it visibly deformed and rippled as the shockwave tore through the room.

Mansa’s eardrums felt as though they would surely explode from the pounding air pressure, something they likely would have done had he not heeded the research team’s advice to keep his mouth open. Despite his efforts to remain calm and composed, he couldn’t help but stumble backwards and trip over an ill-placed swivel chair. He reached out in vain to grab onto something before landing unceremoniously on his backside on the floor.

Were his senses not so overwhelmed he may have been embarrassed but, such was his shock this didn’t even cross his mind. His hair and clothes ruffled and flapped in the pulsating air. He covered his ears as the brilliant white light and beating sonic waves grew more intense still, reaching an overwhelming crescendo.

And then... nothing. The chaos abruptly died, giving way to a complete and consuming silence. The majority of the lights in the hangar had now gone out, with only one or two remaining unaffected at the far side. An eerie quiet permeated the room. No one uttered a word. Most barely dared to breathe. Papers which had been scattered by the shockwave slowly flitted down towards the floor as, one by one, the lights flickered back into life. With his ears still ringing sharply, Mr Mansa rose slowly to his feet to finally observe the results of his long-awaited experiment. He tentatively approached the viewing pane just as the main flood lights in the hangar brightened once more.

The machine was gone.

Professor... has it worked? he demanded.

His voice echoed inside his head as if his ears were filled with fluid. Nevertheless, he fixed his suit jacket and returned, for the most part, to his usual professional demeanour. His body may not yet have recovered from the shock, but his mind certainly had. He needed to know: had it all been for nothing?

Professor Maxwell, who had still not entirely composed herself, gazed wide-eyed at the screen in front of her. She waited for a moment, while several lines of data appeared at the top corner. A relieved, yet cautious, smile spread across her face.

It’s... it’s returning a signal, she said, unable to prevent an excited outburst of laughter. Everything seems to be within parameters... Mr Mansa, we did it!

Mansa allowed himself to smile for a moment as he stared out into the empty hangar.

Thank you, Professor. And well done... well done, everyone. Today, we have rewritten what is possible.

Virgin Peak

March 2021

Intense sunlight shimmered across the surface of the dazzlingly white snowdrift. Nothing could be seen more than a few metres away in any direction as an opaque wall of pale mist and frost whipped through the air. The slopes of Gangkhar Puensum were steep, and the increasingly vicious winds made them all the more treacherous. Gales whistled across the slopes, collecting stinging shards of ice which sliced into the skin.

Two figures, hunched over with arms held in close to conserve heat, forged a path up those hostile slopes. Their bulky snowsuits performed as well as they could, but the occupants suffered from the conditions, nonetheless. This wasn’t a place where humankind was meant to tread—but Sidney Starley wasn’t the type to retreat from any challenge.

Reaching the frozen zenith of any mountain would already be considered an achievement by many. But this was no ordinary mountain. This was the highest mountain in Bhutan and, most importantly, it was a virgin peak. As far as anyone could tell, no human soul had ever stood atop the summit. Of course, there was good reason for this. Not only was the climb incredibly dangerous, but the Bhutan government had banned all mountaineering due to the spiritual beliefs of the locals. Well, Sid wasn’t going to be kept from his goals by some ancient and frivolous superstition. This ascent was going to make him famous, or perhaps infamous. Either way, people around the world would know his name.

Sid was somewhat of a veteran when it came to treacherous excursions. In the past, his skill behind the wheel of an off-road vehicle, his mechanical knowledge, and his sheer fearlessness had made him popular with scientific expeditions. Not only could he navigate the harshest of environments, but he was able to repair almost anything with a few simple tools and basic materials. These were crucial talents in remote locales and over the years, he had mastered them. In the past few years alone, he had been to the Andes and the Gobi Desert, and he had spent a particularly harsh few months in Antarctica. He himself would admit he was somewhat addicted to the rush. Sure, mountaineering was uncharted territory for him but, honestly, how hard could it be?

Sid’s guide, an old friend and experienced mountaineer from Australia called Edward, stopped abruptly and threw his arm across Sid’s chest. The gloved hand pounding onto his heavily padded chest took Sid by surprise. After scraping the snow off his goggles, he strained to make out a cliff just a short distance ahead.

That shouldn’t be here! Edward yelled over the howling wind.

What do you mean? Sid called back.

We’re lost. We should turn back!

It’s a mountain. How can we be lost? We’re going to the top, the right direction is up!

It’s too dangerous, mate!

Fine, turn back. But I’m getting to that summit!

Sid, you’ll kill yourself up there. We can try again tomorrow when the weather calms down.

Sid gazed into the swirling white-out before him and, after some hesitation, reluctantly agreed. Tomorrow. Tomorrow wasn’t so bad. A minor delay. That was all.

After they had trudged back down the slope for several hours, the weather finally began to clear. It was still bitterly cold and the wind continued to sting, but it was certainly more hospitable. Visibility improved greatly and their base camp soon came into view. From that view, it became worryingly clear that they were no longer alone on the mountain. A black Toyota Hilux, striking against the snowy backdrop, had parked up on the lower slope. It was a bulky, shiny pickup truck—but the red and blue lights mounted on the roof were what caused Sid concern.

Waiting by the simple tents erected near the base of Gangkhar Puensum were two sharply dressed police officers. With dark-blue fatigues, matching berets, and shiny, black, high-topped boots, the police force here struck a militaristic tone. This was bad. Sid may have considered the law against climbing to be menial and superstitious, but the locals took it very seriously indeed. And not only was mountaineering banned in Bhutan, but foreigners weren’t permitted to travel within the country at all without a local guide. Sid and Edward did have a guide—it was almost impossible to enter the country without one—but they had ditched him shortly after arriving. Sid suspected this had been the man who alerted the authorities.

As he advanced towards the policemen, Sid opted for the diplomatic approach.

Good afternoon, gents, he announced confidently. We were just... uh...

The officers interrupted by immediately opting for a less diplomatic approach. They withdrew their batons and swung—which was as much as Sid could remember.

Sid awoke sometime later in what he presumed was a local police station. His cell was bare and cold, but it was at least clean, and he and Edward seemed to have it all to themselves. The wooden floor and thick iron bars reminded Sid of old Western movies. He groaned at the aching which seemed to permeate every part of his body. His heavy climbing gear had been removed and he was left in nothing but a beige T-shirt and a pair of loose, blue-tartan boxer shorts.

Eugh... I feel like I’ve been in a car crash, he grumbled as he tentatively sat up.

He immediately regretted his new sitting position as he now felt incredibly nauseated.

Yeah... well, you definitely pissed them off more than I did, replied Edward. I don’t know why you couldn’t just shut up. It would have been less painful.

Sid had no recollection of what he had said to the officers, but it surely didn’t justify the beating he had clearly received. Considering the pain he felt in his cheeks and jaw, he assumed his face must be a patchwork of purple bruising. He ran his fingers through his scruffy, brown hair and felt a sizable lump on his right temple.

Sure enough, Edward appeared to be largely unscathed. In fact, despite spending a day on a mountainside and a night in a jail cell, with a beating somewhere in between, the man looked like a damn surf-wear model. His golden hair waved down onto his shoulders, and he had the audacity to appear well-rested. Edward always seemed to ride through these situations with infuriating ease.

What’s happening? Sid croaked.

I think we’re being deported.

This news snapped Sid to life, and he immediately leapt up from the floor.

"What? No, no! Ed, I need to get up that mountain. I have a lot riding on this."

Sid had one of those ambiguous, blended accents prevalent in those who have spent much of their lives travelling the world. When he became irate, however, his original Scottish accent emerged.

Are you serious? We’re lucky not to be going to jail.

Sid stood up and cried out in frustration. We shouldn’t have turned back! he ranted accusingly. We could have made it if you’d just had some guts.

Are you serious? repeated Ed. Sid, if I hadn’t turned us around, we’d be human ice statues by now.

I could’ve made it, he retorted as he paced back and forth.

Finally, after airing his grievances, his aching body overwhelmed him, and he slumped back down onto the wooden bench beside Edward.

I needed to get up there.

"Maybe we could climb somewhere that hasn’t outlawed climbing mountains? You know, like, literally anywhere else."

But they’ve been done, man. This was the big one. To stand where no one else had ever stood.

Does that really matter?

Yes, it... I just wanted to... I don’t know... achieve something.

Dude, you’ve been to both the North and South Poles. You’ve done amazing stuff. That trip with the monkeys?

Gorillas, Sid corrected him with little enthusiasm.

Yeah, the gorillas. In the Congo. That was amazing, mate. I was jealous. Will one mountain really compare?

Yes, Ed. I wanted to be the first. I wanted people to Google that mountain and see my name.

Sounds a bit narcissistic if you ask me. Ed shrugged.

I didn’t. Sid snapped. And it’s not narcissism. It’s ambition. You should try it.

You know, even with things we usually consider healthy—fruit, veg, even water—a high enough dose can be toxic. Ambition is a bit like that, I reckon. Careful you don’t poison yourself.

"All right, sensei," retorted Sid.

I’m just saying—you gotta know when to fold ‘em, right?

I never fold.

Edward smiled and wagged his finger at Sid. "And that is why you’ve never beaten me at poker."

I guess I’d rather lose than quit.

Is this all because you can’t read?

What? No! snapped Sid defensively. "And I can read. Just... not very well."

Mr Stanley, barked one of the officers from outside the cell door.

It’s Starley, Sid replied coldly.

Whatever, the officer retorted. Phone call.

A phone call? Who the hell was phoning him in a police station in Bhutan? How did anyone even know he was here? With a cautious curiosity, Sid rose from the bench and approached the cell door, which was duly unlocked and opened. After being marched down a short hallway, he had a corded phone roughly thrust into his chest.

Two minutes, the officer instructed.

He slowly raised the phone to his ear. Uh... hello?

Mr Starley, announced a well-spoken man with a deep voice and an English accent. I gather my bail proposal was sufficient to keep you out of prison. I suppose you’ve had quite enough of that jail cell by now? I have a proposal for you.

Genesis

Sid arrived at his destination about ten minutes later than he intended, though he doubted that would matter much. It was an unassuming concrete building in a remote part of the countryside south of Swindon, which itself was about a two hour drive west of London. From the seat of his rather bland hire car (it was a Peugeot of some sort; he hadn’t cared enough to check what model), he searched for somewhere to park. There seemed to be little more than a layby and so he pulled over and stopped. Logic dictated that there must be a more official parking area somewhere. After all, he was here to meet someone and he doubted this secluded spot was serviced by public transport. Whoever was here clearly knew of a better parking spot than he did. Quite where such a place would be, however, eluded him. Besides the building itself, there was nothing but fields and hills for as far as he could see.

The day was bleak, with low-hanging clouds and a fine mist of rain suspended in the air. In that respect, the drab and isolated Genesis research facility matched its surroundings perfectly. The concrete structure was broken up by only a couple of small, square windows of frosted glass and a single heating vent high above the door. Through the gloom to his right, Sid could make out a vast reservoir harnessed by a huge dam. The sounds of water rushing through pipes and a buzzing electrical drone dominated the otherwise quiet rural setting.

As he entered the lobby through a revolving door of pristinely polished glass, he was greeted by an almost hospital-like aesthetic. The floors were made of gleaming white tiles which sharply reflected the bright tube lighting above.  The light wasn’t especially welcome as, following his concussion at the hands of a Bhutanese baton, he suffered from a lingering headache which seemed to be rather light-sensitive. A bland shade of pale blue paint coated the walls, which were otherwise entirely featureless. In fact, other than a set of double doors on the far wall, the entire room was completely bare.

After briefly stopping to look around at his clinical surroundings, Sid was greeted, somewhat by surprise, by a tall woman with black, thick-rimmed glasses. Her straight, silky black hair was tied neatly into a ponytail with two long strands hanging down either side of her face. She was similar in age to Sid, perhaps in her early thirties, with a rich, caramel skin tone and an admirable air of professionalism. Sid couldn’t help but feel woefully underdressed in comparison to the woman’s sharp black suit and pencil skirt. That being said, there were probably very few situations where a pair of jeans, ripped at the knee, and a tattered, brown leather jacket (which he was nonetheless very fond of) wouldn’t constitute being underdressed. However, given that he had flown straight from Bhutan that very morning, he hadn’t exactly given his attire any real thought.

Mr Starley, I presume? the well-spoken woman asked. She seemed to give him the once-over, certainly noticing the bruises on his face but discreetly saying nothing of them.

Do you get many other visitors here? Sid replied with a little more sarcasm than he had intended.

You’d be surprised. I’m Doctor Kiara Maxwell, she replied while extending a hand. Thank you for coming at such short notice.

Sid couldn’t quite place her accent. It was dominantly a London accent but with a subtle blend of something from the Indian subcontinent. He didn’t have much of an ear for accents, but whatever it was had been suppressed after a lifetime in England.

Well, Mr Mansa was very persuasive, he replied, slightly uncertainly, while loosely shaking Doctor Maxwell’s outstretched hand.

Now, by persuasive, what he meant was that an extremely rich man had called him directly, bailed him and Edward out of jail, paid for Ed’s plane ticket home to Sydney, and offered him an eye-watering sum of money. Given that it was in return for no more than simply attending a meeting, it didn’t seem like an offer which could reasonably be refused. Not to mention that the apparent secrecy surrounding said meeting had certainly piqued Sid’s curiosity.

I think you’ll be glad he was, Mr Starley. Please, follow me.

Doctor Maxwell turned and led the way through the sole set of double doors at the far end of the lobby. On the other side was a small corridor, every bit as clinical as the lobby, and to their right was a lone elevator. This surprised Sid as, after observing the structure from the outside, it had seemed clear to him that this was a single-storey building. Little did he know that this was far from the case.

The doctor scanned a key card over a touchpad which immediately opened the elevator doors. This revealed a large elevator, much larger than Sid had expected, which was lined with polished aluminium and a mirror along the back wall. As Sid followed her inside, he noted the number of gleaming stainless-steel buttons as Doctor Maxwell pressed the lowest, which was engraved with -20. The sheer scale of the subterranean construction was made increasingly apparent by the considerable length of time it took to reach the deepest bowels of the facility. Sid wasn’t sure exactly how long it took but, coupled with the natural social awkwardness of an elevator journey with a stranger, it felt like an age.

When they finally came to a halt rather more abruptly than Sid had expected, the doors opened to reveal a vast hangar. The area was a hive of activity and the complete antithesis to what he had seen on the topside. People in white lab coats stood to the side, seemingly in deep discussion, while others in beige cargo trousers and black T-shirts heaved massive wooden crates labelled fragile. The walls were drab, bare concrete while the ceiling was lined with corrugated steel painted navy blue. Along the far wall were two huge, sewer-like tunnels which sloped steeply upwards. The gradient seemed far too steep for anyone to use and so their ultimate purpose was a mystery to Sid.

In the centre of the hangar was what looked like a huge marine barge sitting atop a cradle of steel I-beams. In truth, it looked like little more than a huge, matte-black metal box. Thick umbilical cables and hoses rose from the sides of the metal structure towards the ceiling while a large ramp opened up along the front face, revealing an enormous loading bay within. From inside, sparks and fumes were expelled—presumably due to metalwork being ground and welded. The air was thick with the smell of burning metal.

Well, Doctor Maxwell, I’d say you have my attention, Sid said as his eyes darted around his lively surroundings. Maybe now would be a good time to tell me why I’m here.

We would like you to join our team on a scientific expedition, the woman replied casually as the pair began to walk through the bustle. That is what you do, is it not? We could use someone with your experience and technical expertise.

All this is for an expedition? Sid chuckled. If it’s not too bold to say, I reckon this is overkill. Where are you going? The moon?

Colorado.

Sid laughed for several seconds, until he realised Doctor Maxwell was, in fact, not joking.

"Wait... so, you built a secret underground