by Steve Alten
She stops smiling.
Lauren Beckmeyer has known Samuel Agler since they were in ninth grade. In all that time, she has never seen anything like the expression now etched on her boyfriend’s face.
Fear.
23
NOVEMBER 20, 2033: MANALAPAN, FLORIDA
Sunday Afternoon
The palatial south Florida mansion of billionaire Lucien J. Mabus and his wife Lilith, stretches eight hundred feet along a private pristine coastline in Manalapan, a small island town just north of Boynton Beach. The thirty-one-room, three-storey home, originally built for $21.3 million back in 1997, features a seaside swimming pool complete with waterfall and swim-up bar, two tennis courts, a fitness center, a twelve-hundred-square-foot grand salon illuminated by a six-thousand-pound crystal chandelier imported from a nineteenth-century French chateau, an observatory dome, and an eight-car garage, its floors paved in Saturnia marble. Each of the six bedroom suites has its own balcony facing the Atlantic. All of the home’s windows are self-cleaning, made with a thin metal oxide coating electrified to help rainwater to wash away loose particles.
The mansion’s staff includes two housekeepers, a chef, a licensed pilot who doubles as a chauffeur, six heavily armed security guards, and a mechanic. Robotic mowers and trimmers perpetually manicure the lawns and shrubs to incessant perfection. Every computer and control station in the home is wired to a backup fuel-cell power station located on the northern side of the property. There are three satellite dishes on the roof.
All this—for only two adults and the occasional visiting business associate.
Twenty-six-year-old Lucien Mabus, son of the late Peter Mabus, opens his mouse brown, red-rimmed eyes and gazes at himself in the ceiling mirror. His face is ashen gray, his lips—alabaster white. His eyes are sunken, surrounded by dark circles.
‘It’s just the flu,’ his personal physician has assured him. ‘You’re far too young and rich to leave us now, Lucien.’
That was sixteen days and thirty pounds ago. His personal physician had wanted him to undergo tests in a hospital, but Lilith refused. ‘Those hospitals will kill you, darling. I’m sure it’s just a bad case of food poisoning. I keep warning you about eating so much shellfish. I’ve sent the cooks home. From now on, I’ll personally be bringing you your meals, at least until you feel better.’
Lucien glances to the nightstand on his right. Prescription medicines, tissues, and a plastic beach bucket, in case he has to vomit again. A half-eaten bowl of chicken soup sits on a tray. The sight of it makes him queasy. Chicken soup … can’t she cook anything but chicken soup?
The billionaire rolls over, pulling the blanket over his shoulder. What’s all the money in the world if I’m too sick to enjoy it?
Chills fade into a hot flash, bringing with it the dreaded queasiness.
Lucien grabs the bucket and retches.
His pulse throbs in his head. His throat burns, his stomach convulsing in spasms. Flopping onto the floor, he holds his head in his hands, praying for the pain to stop.
God … what is it you want from me? Charity work? Another wing at some third-world hospital? Just tell me and end this misery.
Gathering his strength, he drags himself to his feet, the vertigo causing the bedroom to spin. Staggering forward, he heads to the bathroom—then stops, staring at his bare feet.
His toes are numb.
‘Oh, God … what’s happening to me? Lilith? Lilith!’
He stumbles out of the master bedroom and into the hallway.
‘Lilith?’
No wife. No servants. Where the hell is everyone?
He fumbles his way down the hall, the numbness spreading to his feet and ankles. He pauses at the open door to one of the guest suites, hearing voices. ‘Lilith? Lilith … you in here?’
Lucien staggers into the bedroom.
Stretched out across the king-size water bed, staring at her reflection in the ceiling mirror, is his young bride.
‘Lilith, help—’ Lucien falls to his knees, the sharp pain in his gut overwhelming. Numbness rises past his ankles to his hips. ‘Call Gill. Get me to a hospital, I think it’s my heart!’
‘No need to worry, sweetie, it’s not your heart.’
‘How … how do you know?’
‘Darling, it’s just the poison I’ve been feeding you.’
Lucien’s blood runs cold.
‘Now die like a good little rich boy, and don’t stain the carpet.’
Lucien collapses facefirst onto the plush beige rug, the numbness rising past his chest, the ringing in his ears insufficient to mute the cackle of laughter coming from his murderous wife’s voluptuous lips.
University of Miami
The Jerome Brown Memorial Athletic Center is located on the north side of the University of Miami campus, adjacent to the MTI basketball arena. In addition to its indoor track, pool, weight room, and conditioning equipment, the JBC is equipped with a press room and media center, complete with global uplink capabilities. At the heart of the facility is a circular broadcast chamber, its tinted smart-glass walls designed to conceal a myriad of cameras and lights, microphones, special effects boards, and technicians.
Diane Tanner enters the interview chamber, wearing her standard skintight designer ESPN body leotard. The voluptuous blonde takes her place opposite Samuel in an identical crushed velvet chair and adjusts her cleavage. ‘Nervous?’
‘Should I be?’
‘This is a live interview.’
‘Won’t be my first.’
‘I make you nervous, don’t I?’
‘Do you always come on to the athletes you interview?’
She smiles. ‘Only the cute ones.’
‘Stand by, Diane.’ The voice, coming from a hidden microphone. ‘Five … four … three—’
Diane switches to a more professional smile. ‘Welcome to This Week in Sports. I’m your host, Diane Tanner, and with me today is University of Miami’s star tailback, Samuel “the Mule” Agler. Sam, thanks for taking time to be with me.’ She winks.
‘My, uh … pleasure.’
‘Sam, pro scouts have already anointed you the most prolific running back ever to play in the professional collegiate ranks. Before we talk about your accomplishments on the field, I thought we’d take a quick peek into your private life. You were born in Chads Ford, Pennsylvania, is that right?’
‘According to the birth certificate.’
‘Your mother died when you were three. What happened?’
‘Drunk driver. This was before the new safety protocols.’
‘Of course. So your father, Gene, moved the two of you to Hollywood Beach, Florida, to start life over. Why Florida?’
‘Job transfer. He took over as principal at Pompano High.’
‘How old were you when you started playing football?’
‘Five or six.’
‘And the rest, as they say, is history. Star tailback your freshman year in high school. Led the nation in scoring and total yardage for four straight years. The most recruited PCAA athlete in history. Scored a perfect sixteen hundred on your entrance exams. With your scores and grades, you could have accepted an academic scholarship at Harvard.’
‘I suppose. But I wanted to stay close to home.’
‘Because you fell in love with your high-school sweetheart. How romantic.’ Diane allows the sarcasm to drip.
‘She keeps me in line.’
‘I bet she does. You don’t drink or Bliss. You donate your time to anti-drug messages. Jesus, Mule, you’re every American mother’s wet dream.’
‘Some of us were raised the right way.’
‘Hmm, now how does that old song go … “ only the good die young ?” Anyway, let’s talk football. Tell us what it’s like to step out on the playing field and have 120,000 crazed fans screaming your nickname? How does it feel?’
Sam offers a half grin. ‘Feels kind of good.’
‘Good? I’d think it must feel incredible, unbelievable.
When you scored that touchdown against FSU—what a rush, huh?’
‘Yeah. That one felt great.’
‘Did it?’ Diane sits back, the fly now snug in her web. ‘Let’s take a look.’
The lights dim, the smart glass becoming a circular hall of projection screens, Sam’s image on every panel.
Sam takes the pitch from his quarterback—
Cuts to his right—
Pivots back toward the line, evading tacklers … punching his way to daylight—
The cameras zoom in from a dozen different angles—
—focusing on his facial expression as he sprints down the sideline.
The image freezes. The lights come back on.
‘Sam, that certainly doesn’t look like delight on your face to me. It looks like, well … like fear. Were you afraid of something?’
‘I, uh …’
‘You seem kind of worried, like you might have just screwed up royally. How could you have screwed up by scoring a touchdown?’
‘I was just winded—’
‘You must’ve had trouble regaining your wind, you only gained sixty-two yards on the ground the rest of the game.’
‘It happens. FSU had nine defenders in the box. There were no holes.’
She smiles coyly. ‘Since when does the Mule need a hole?’
‘What’s your point?’
‘This was the biggest game of the year. Billions of dollars had been wagered in the federal government’s weekly football pool. The ’Canes were a six-point favorite. The final score was FSU 16, Miami 10. The game was a “push,” generating a cool 2.3 billion for our friends in Washington, DC.’
‘Are you accusing me of throwing the game?’
‘Of course not, not you, Mr. Perfect. But hypothetically speaking, how much would someone, say, Florida’s governor Ryan Wismer, have to pay you to pull up lame?’
‘You lousy fushcubitch! ’ Samuel stands.
The cameras keep rolling, Tanner far from finished. ‘Any truth to the rumors the PCAA is launching its own investigation?’
‘That’s it, we’re done. Shut it down.’ He searches in vain for an exit.
‘Sammy, darling, before you dash off, explain to my viewers why you ran out of bounds in that third quarter drive. Samuel “the Mule” Agler never runs out of bounds.’
Sam targets a mirrored panel. He jumps off the stage, pivots in midair, and executes a devastating side kick, his right heel striking the smart-glass like a sledgehammer, shattering it into a thousand smoking shards.
Diane ducks, unable to avoid the shrapnel. ‘I’m, uh, Diane Tanner, and that’s This Week in Sports!’
Sam hurtles past the stunned technicians and out the door.
UNIVERSITY OF MIAMI MAIN CAMPUS, CORAL
GABLES, FLORIDA
November 21, 2033 7:18 a.m.
Lauren Beckmeyer stands at the dais, rechecking her notes and display disks for the third time. Seated before her are four of the five committee members assigned to the university’s research grant council. English Lit., Asian Studies, Physics, and History … everyone here but my Geology guy …
Professor Christopher Laubin, the fifth member of the council, hurries down the aisle.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ The Chair of the Geology Department nods to the other members of the committee, situates himself in one of the gold-cushioned high-backed chairs, then turns his attention to Lauren. ‘Are you ready to proceed, Ms. Beckmeyer?’
Been ready, you old … ‘Yes, sir.’
She inserts a disk, activating the first series of images—a sequence of moving photos of the Mount St. Helens eruption.
‘On May 18, 1980, at 8:32 A.M., a magnitude 5.1 earthquake shook Mount St. Helens. Within fifteen to twenty seconds, the volcano’s bulge and summit slid away in a huge landslide. This landslide depressurized the volcano’s magma system, triggering powerful explosions that ripped through the sliding debris. Rocks, volcanic gas, ash, and steam were blasted upward at speeds exceeding 300 miles per hour. The blast cloud traveled 17 miles north, its lateral blast producing a column of ash and gas that rose more than 15 miles into the atmosphere in less than fifteen minutes. Over the course of the day, prevailing winds blew 520 million tons of ash eastward across the United States and caused complete darkness in Spokane, Washington, 250 miles from the site.’
A slide of the devastation appears.
‘Volcanic eruptions are not unusual. Even fifty years ago, scientists were able to predict Mount St. Helens eruption in plenty of time to warn the population.’ She pauses to make eye contact with the committee. ‘Now imagine a volcano whose eruption is not predictable, packing ten thousand times the force of Mount St. Helens. Imagine a blast spewing enough ash to cover half the United States in a few frightening minutes. In short, imagine an explosion comparable to an asteroid strike, one that could plunge Earth into millions of years of unending winter.’
The image changes, the committee now looking at a satellite view of a crater, its surface boiling azure greens and blues.
‘The nightmare I’ve just described is called a super volcano. Unlike a volcano, it possesses no cone. Essentially, it exists as a massive subterranean magma pocket, or caldera. A caldera is a depression, formed by the collapse of the ground following a volcanic explosion of a large body of stored magma. What you’re looking at is a thermal photograph of Yellowstone National Park’s youngest of three calderas. This monster lurks five miles below the surface. It is 112 miles across and 48 miles wide, encompassing nearly the entire park.’
Lauren glances up, pleased to see shocked expressions on four of the committee members. They should be shocked, we’re only talking the end of civilization …
Lauren changes the photo to an overhead shot of an island situated in a large crater lake.
‘Modern man has never witnessed the eruption of a super volcano, but we know of their devastation. This is Lake Toba, located in North Sumatra, Indonesia. The lake was formed by a super volcano that erupted 74,000 years ago. Keep in mind Lake Toba’s caldera is smaller in comparison to Yellowstone’s magma pocket, but evidence from its last explosion should give you an idea of the kind of devastation we’re talking about.’
The lake shot is replaced by a slide of microscopic organisms.
‘To understand how the history of Lake Toba affected humanity, we turn to Homo sapiens DNA. While most of our species’ DNA is stored in the nuclei of our cells, a small portion can also be found in the mitochondria—the rod-shaped cells responsible for energy production. What’s unique about the mitochondria is that its DNA is passed only from mother to child. This feature allows geneticists to trace the natural lineage and diversity of our population by focusing on mutations present in our genome. By analyzing the rate and distributions of these mutations, scientists are able to detect patterns in the history of humanity’s population growth.
‘With 7 billion people on the planet, scientists expected to find a wide range of genetic diversity. Instead, what they found was something totally unexpected—a bottleneck, or sudden drop in population.’
The African-American Chair of the Physics Department raises a hand. ‘You’re referring to a major catastrophe?’
‘Yes, sir. Something in the history of Homo sapiens decimated our entire species, reducing the number of human beings left on our entire planet to, incredible as it seems, a mere few thousand. The simple and frightening fact is, the DNA of every man, woman, and child living today can be traced back to these few thousand survivors. Now, because mutations in human DNA take place with clock-like regularity, scientists were able to approximate a date when this sudden change occurred.’ She pauses for effect. ‘The bottleneck occurred 74,000 years ago, right after the explosion that formed Lake Toba.’
The representative of English Literature looks pale. ‘Are you saying this … this super volcano wiped out nearly every human being on the planet?’
‘Yes, ma’am. And keep in mind, Lake Toba’s caldera was nowhere near as large a
s Yellowstone’s monster.’
‘Is Yellowstone dormant? Has it ever erupted before?’
Lauren clicks over to the next image—a fossil embedded in soil and ash.
‘The geological record shows that Yellowstone’s hot spot has been responsible for three major eruptions. The first happened 2.1 million years ago, the second 1.3 million years ago, the most recent 630,000 years ago. Scientists agree that this periodicity of eruptions is likely to continue, meaning the next explosion could occur 100,000 years from now … or, as some geologists fear’—she ignores Professor Laubin’s roll of the eyes—‘very soon.’
