The Mayan Resurrection

by Steve Alten

  She pushes past K. C. and heads for the exit as Sam’s teammates, laughing hysterically, untuck their male organs from between their legs.

  K. C. watches Dave Goldsborough, Miami’s 402-pound all-American left tackle struggle to free himself. ‘Yo, Moose, you oughta think about trimming that thing for real, man. Probably help you to move a lot faster.’

  As if considering it, the lineman looks down, unable to see past his massive belly.

  Sam looks up as his best friend slaps him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, K. C. Lauren would kick my ass six ways to Sunday if she caught me hangin’ with the ESPY-ho.’

  ‘No sweat. If she corners you again, send her my way, I’d love to give her what she wants.’ K. C. lowers his voice. ‘Seriously, man, what happened out there today? ’Cept for that first score, I’ve never seen you move so slow. You pull something?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? You’re not doin’ leeches, are you?’

  ‘You know me better than that.’

  ‘Sure, sure—’ The quarterback follows him back to the showers. ‘Well listen, you can pay me back by sticking around long enough for us to win at least one more PCAA championship. I don’t wanna be reading about you jumpin’ ship next week to join some rugby team in Orlando.’

  Sam wheels around, catching his friend in a playful headlock. ‘Don’t worry, pal, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.’

  7:42 p.m.

  Dusk bathes the western face of the arena in its golden haze.

  Sam emerges from the air-conditioned building, his skin tingling in the heavy south Florida humidity. He brushes his long, jet-black hair away from his forehead as his dark eyes search the sea of faces waiting for him behind the outer steel gate. Samuel Agler’s eyes are black as coal, making it impossible to tell where the irises end and the pupils begin. At times they seem to shimmer, radiating an inner strength and intellect.

  He nods to the guard to open the gate, then pushes through the crowd, struggling to avoid the computer porto-pads being shoved in his face.

  ‘Come on, Mule, one autograph—’

  Sam ignores the autograph hounds, whose only intention is to download his signature across the Internet. He pauses for a father and his eight-year-old son, forcing a smile as their porto-pad snaps his picture. He scribbles a signature—

  —looking up as a black stretch limousine slows, then passes by.

  Sam’s pulse quickens. He hands the kid back his porto-pad, his eyes searching for his ride.

  K. C. Renner beeps at him from his ‘hydro-jeep.’

  Sam jumps in the vacant passenger seat. ‘Go, man, quick!’

  The fuel cells kick in, spiriting the two of them away.

  Main Campus, University of Miami,

  Coral Gables, Florida

  Saturday Evening

  Nineteen-year-old geology major Lauren Beckmeyer jogs past rows of royal palm trees adorning the campus drive. Shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, making her tall, six-foot frame seem even more angular. The junior track and field star glides like an antelope when she runs, her loping strides and explosive power giving her a competitive advantage in the long jump, triple, and high jump.

  Lauren’s coach is pushing her to add hurdles to her events. Hurdles means more roadwork, a lot of it. Lauren hates roadwork. It wears on her lower back and knees and chews up too much time. Between going to class and studying, proctoring Dr. Gabeheart’s meteorology class and her physical training regimen, she barely has time to see her fiancé.

  Missed his game again. Sam’s going to kill me …

  A gunshot of thunder echoes across the threatening south Florida sky. She quickens her pace. Screw this. Three events is enough. Not like I’m going to the Olympics …

  Crossing the street, she cuts in front of a campus robobus, the twenty-four-hour-a day vehicle powered by the electromagnets of the induct-tracks embedded in the smart-way. Sheets of rain are pouring on her by the time she reaches the quadrangle of dorms located on the west side of campus. Wiping sweat and rainwater from her face, she holds up her hand, allowing the security camera’s scanner to ‘read’ the computer S.I.D. (security and identification) chip embedded in the flesh of her palm.

  The sensor identifies her, simultaneously scanning her for weapons.

  ENTER LAUREN BECKMEYER. HAVE A NICE DAY.

  The front doors part, the familiar gust of cold air causing goose bumps as she enters the mezzanine. She walks past a group of students, some on body cushions, others hibernating inside sensory bags, as a movie displays on the giant smart-glass screen. By day, these multipurpose windows adjust the degree of tint to keep out the sun. By night, they opaque for privacy and convert into entertainment centers.

  She waves to a friend, then locates an unoccupied turbolift and takes the high-speed transport up to the seventh floor. A holographic notice advertises a ‘Rave-Free Lunar Festival’ tonight in the dorm’s virtual-reality chamber. A federal ad displays: Immunize and say NO TO ADDICTION.

  In early 2024, the United States, Canada, and Mexico, following in the footsteps of the European Union, began mandatory infant immunizations for cannabis, cocaine, and heroin. These ‘inhibitor shots’ were designed to prevent the human brain from experiencing a ‘high,’ eliminating any possibility for a future attraction to the narcotic.

  Unfortunately, remove one illegal high and another is bound to come along. Immunization programs against fringe drugs like methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA) were proving expensive, and the population was becoming tired of ‘Big Brother’s’ heavy-handedness.

  Instead of continuing the battle, the federal government, in 2028, decided to join forces with the pharmaceutical industry, staking its own claim in the $500-billion-a-year trade of recreational agents. The aim of drug companies had always been to free the human condition from physical pain. Now they would turn their attention to eliminating psychological pain while enhancing happiness.

  The first ‘heaven’ drug was BLISS, a genetically encoded cocktail designed to release serotonin and stimulate phenylethylamine, a chemical released by the human brain when one is ‘in love’ (or for some, while eating chocolate). A year later, a second line of BLISS was developed for senior citizens, this one designed to restore the dopaminergic neurons that gradually die off as we age, leading to a decline in sexual drive.

  Happiness and a recharged libido—an old industry was reborn.

  Designer heavens were not physically addictive, and the delayed action of these nonneurotoxic mood enhancers released a more gradual high, preventing the wild emotional swings of drugs like heroin, Ecstasy, and cocaine. When used in conjunction with a new line of virtual-reality software products, the effect was increased tenfold.

  Biotechnology had created an entirely new sensation-driven world economy, virtually replacing the alcohol and nicotine industries.

  Lauren steps from her moment of serenity into a hallway throbbing with technomusic. From an open dorm room she spots a bare-chested, multistained underclassman.

  Second-year Middle Eastern Dialects major Kirk Peacock stares back at her through mood-evolving contact lenses, which now appear purple. The track lighting along the ceiling reflects off his hairless scalp and the Chinese symbol for love permanently tattooed just above his forehead.

  ‘Laur-rah—’

  ‘It’s Lauren.’

  ‘Laur-rah, Laur-ren … just a name, Laur-ren Beck-man.’

  ‘Beckmeyer.’

  ‘You’re the Mule’s tool.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘His plaything, you know, his pacifier. I need you to score me a signed pigskin. My geoprof said he’d raise my grade if I—’

  ‘You like new experiences, Kirk?’

  ‘It’s the basis for my existence.’

  ‘Then try attending a few lectures in person this semester.’ She examines his neck. ‘Is that a mood-leech?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Kirk giggles, pulling the edge of the flat lee
ch-shaped object away from his birdlike neck. ‘Want a suck? Still got another twenty minutes of juice.’

  The ‘mood-leech’ is a drug injection system, its two-hundred hollow microscopic needles designed to release a hybrid of illegal ‘rave narcotics’ directly into the user’s carotid artery. Combined with ‘designer heaven,’ the mood-leech created waves of ‘ wholebody hyperorgasmic euphoria,’ especially when used in a virtual-reality chamber.

  Lauren shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Is your consciousness ever drug-free?’

  Kirk’s grin reveals two platinum-capped teeth. ‘Consciousness blows, psychological hedonism rules. If it ain’t virtual, it ain’t reality … Laur-rah Beck-woman. What releases your endogenous opioids? Exercise? Sex? Food? Music? When I listen to music now, its stirs my soul. When I make love, my whole body quivers for hours. This morning, I had erotic alien sex in a VR chamber, and I don’t even know if it was a male or female!’

  ‘Yeah, well I’m not into Zombi-ism or alien gang bangs. I’ll stick with my mule, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Mule sex. Ha. Ha-ha—ugh …’ The metallic smile suddenly fades as Kirk’s blue-tinged face flushes violet.

  WARNING: TOXIC LEVELS OF DEXTROMETHORPHAN PRESENT. SWEAT GLANDS SHUTTING DOWN. HEAT STROKE IMMINENT. PARAMEDICS HAVE BEEN SUMMONED.

  ‘Shut up!’ He looks at Lauren, fighting to keep his balance, his mood swinging like a pendulum. ‘ Sheating-fud computer’s been driving me crazy all afternoon.’

  Sheating-fud? Lauren frowns, her mind racing to unscramble the new slang-stringing curse. Shit-eating fuck-wad … got it. She touches his forehead. ‘You’re burning up.’

  Kirk’s eyes roll up as he falls forward.

  Lauren ducks, catching him over her right shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She enters his apartment, gagging at the stench as she makes her way over piles of soiled laundry and garbage.

  The lights fail to activate as she enters the bathroom. ‘Computer, increase lighting.’

  UNABLE TO COMPLY. FUEL CELL HAS BEEN REMOVED.

  ‘Emergency lighting.’

  Panel strips illuminate along the ceiling and floor. The bathroom smart-mirror has been spray-painted black.

  Lauren lays Kirk on the shower floor and rips the leech from his neck, revealing a series of red dots. ‘Computer, shower on, fifty degrees.’

  Icy water blasts from dual nozzles, the built-in sensors targeting the unconscious teen.

  Kirk moans.

  ‘Computer, this is Resident Assistant Beckmeyer. What is ETA of paramedics?’

  SIX MINUTES.

  ‘Place a call to resident’s sister to meet resident at student health center.’

  ACKNOWLEDGED.

  Lauren looks down at Kirk. The teen’s eyes have reopened, his mood-contacts black, his flushed skin paling to blue again as his body cools off.

  ‘Fu … fu … fubish—’ His teeth chatter as he tries to stand.

  Lauren places her foot on his chest.

  ‘Fuckkking … bi-itch-ssshiiit—Laureeenn!’

  ‘At least you got the name right.’

  ‘Let … m—m-me … g-g-go—’

  ‘Sorry, Kirk, you want to kill yourself, do it on someone else’s floor, not mine. Now sit your rainbow ass down and take it like a man … or alien, whichever you prefer.’

  The paramedics arrive five minutes later.

  Eight minutes later, Lauren enters her own apartment. The interior is plush and immaculate, decorated in soothing shades of gray with violet throw pillows.

  She kicks off her running shoes

  GOOD EVENING, LAUREN. IT IS 7:36 P.M. YOU HAVE THREE MESSAGES.

  ‘In the bathroom.’ She grabs a bottle of recycled reverse-osmosis water from the fridge and heads for the bathroom.

  Interior lights turn on to greet her.

  She sits on the toilet and urinates.

  The ‘smart-toilet’ instantly analyzes her urine, while the pulse in her thigh is computed.

  NO DISEASES PRESENT. YOU ARE NOT PREGNANT.

  ‘Thank God. Computer, play back message one.’

  The image of Lauren’s father, Mark, appears on the mirror. ‘Hi, sweetheart. Nothing important, just wanted to let you know that we’re all looking forward to seeing you and Sam next weekend. Give us a flash when you get in.’

  ‘Computer, erase message one. Play back message two.’

  Christopher Laubin, Lauren’s volcanism professor appears on screen. ‘Good afternoon, Ms. Beckmeyer. This is just a reminder that our grant selection committee will be meeting with you Monday morning at seven-thirty in Clinton Hall, Room 213. Don’t be late.’

  ‘I’m never late. Computer, reply BECKMEYER ACKNOWLEDGE to message two. Play back message three.’

  Sam’s face appears on-screen, her fiancé calling from a cell phone. ‘Hey, babe. Sorry I’m late, but my teammates and I had to do this postgame ritual thing. I’ll be by in about twenty to fondle your breasts. Love you.’

  Dammit… She stands, strips out of her neon orange body-suit, and steps into the shower, the warm water spray drenching her as the door seals shut.

  IT IS TIME FOR YOUR MONTHLY MELANOMA CHECKUP.

  ‘So do it … damn computer-nag.’

  She glances down as shower sensors scan her body. Her stomach is taut, her legs rock-hard from daily workouts at the training center. She wonders if Sam would prefer her breasts larger.

  ‘Increase temperature ten degrees.’

  The water heats up, the shower’s pulsating heads massaging the tension from her muscles.

  Should I be angry at Sam or just disappointed? Recalling his postgame interview with the ESPN woman, she decides a touch of both would be appropriate.

  The two melanoma monitors embedded in the tile begin blinking. She turns slowly, allowing the device to examine her skin for cancer.

  MELANOMA NOT PRESENT. DERMO-SHIELD SHOULD BE REPLACED IN TWENTY-TWO DAYS.

  A three-dimensional commercial for a local dermo-shield clinic displays in the shower.

  The sound mutes.

  ATTENTION. YOU HAVE AN INCOMING MESSAGE FROM YELLOWSTONE PARK.

  ‘I’ll take it in the bedroom.’ Lauren steps from the shower, drying herself with a preheated towel.

  Lauren’s associate department head, Professor William Gabeheart, is on sabbatical, teaching an on-site correspondence course, Geology 434: The Effects of the Yellowstone Caldera on Geysers, Fumaroles, and Hot Springs. Lauren is Gabeheart’s graduate assistant and class coordinator.

  While Yellowstone National Park is known for its magnificent geysers, mud pots, and boiling hot springs, to scientists it represents the home of the world’s largest and most dangerous caldera. Originating deep beneath the park’s mantle is a ‘hot spot,’ one of only a few dozens on the planet. Magma and tremendous heat rise from this volcanic location, impinging on the base of the North American plate while powering the park’s geysers, hot springs, and fumaroles.

  Three of the most violent volcanic eruptions in Earth’s history have taken place at the Yellowstone hot spot, the first occurring 2.1 million years ago, the second 1.2 million years ago, the last 630,000 years ago. The eruptions have unleashed a combined six thousand cubic miles of debris, the ejection of lava causing the tops of the volcanoes to collapse, forming three massive calderas, or depressions. The calderas remain buried beneath extensive rhyolite lava flows resulting from smaller eruptions over the last 150,000 years.

  Entering the bedroom, Lauren wraps a towel around her waist and slips a UNIVERSITY OF MIAMI sweatshirt over her head. ‘Okay, computer, put the call through.’

  The monitor on her nightstand comes to life, revealing Bill Gabeheart, forty-two, his mop of brown hair tucked neatly beneath a HAVANA SHARKS baseball cap. The former Navy Intelligence officer’s hazel eyes glow blue in the porto-lab’s computer consoles.

  ‘Hey, Doc. You get the midterms I sent over?’

  ‘Never mind that. Are you behind a secured firewall?’

  The question star
tles her. ‘Uh, no—’

  ‘Get on one.’

  She leaves the bed, hurrying to her desk. ‘Computer, transfer call to PC.’

  ACKNOWLEDGED.

  The computer boots. Lauren touches the keypad, activating her secured access code. ‘Go ahead, Professor.’

  ‘Last night I received data back from the three Trimble 5000Ssi receivers we deployed at our new GPS control stations.’