by Steve Alten
Sam presses his face against the thick glass to see better.
Dominique grabs his arm. ‘Come on, we’ll be late.’
‘Wait, I want to see what’s inside.’
‘Later. Dr. Mohr’s waiting.’
The glass corridor bends to the left, another door up ahead. ‘So who’s this Dr. Mohr?’
‘The director of GOLDEN FLEECE.’
The corridor door opens. To Sam’s surprise, they are standing in a pleasant foyer—more ski lodge than space center. Teak wood lines the walls and floor. The ceiling, stretching six stories above their heads, ends in a tinted glass dome. Plush furniture in shades of violet and purples surround a control station.
Seated behind the rounded console is the East-Asian woman who had appeared in the last hologram, only this time in the flesh.
The woman stares at Sam as if seeing a ghost. ‘Remarkable …’
‘Rameeka Ellepola, this is my son.’
The dark-eyed, brown-skinned Sri Lankan stands, extending her hand. ‘This is such an incredible honor.’
He shakes her hand. ‘Guess you’re a big football fan, huh?’
‘Football?’ She shoots Dominique a quizzical look.
‘I’ll explain later,’ Dominique says. ‘Where’s Dr. Mohr?’
‘Observing the training session. He asked you to meet him in the mezzanine.’
Sam follows his mother to an awaiting turbolift, the Asian girl never taking her eyes off him. He waits until the elevator door seals. ‘Okay, what was that all about?’
Before Dominique can respond, the lift door reopens.
They step out onto a dark mezzanine. Ahead is a floor-to-ceiling glass barrier overlooking an enormous indoor arena, its interior bathed in violet light. Situated on their side of the glass wall are twelve control stations. A dozen technicians, both males and females, are seated behind wraparound head-to-toe plasma monitors. Each wears a silver-colored body leotard lined with sensory links wired to their controls. Atop the technicians’ heads—sensory visors, obscuring their faces.
Appearing from behind the monitors is a slight Caucasian man in a white lab coat. He approaches, pausing so that the beam from an overhead light reveals his face.
‘Hello, hello.’ The scientist kisses Dominique on the cheek, then turns to her son. ‘Oh, my, thank you so much for coming. I’ve waited so long to meet you.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Mohr, David Mohr. Please call me Dave. I’m in charge of this monstrosity.’
The scientist is six inches shorter than Manny, with chocolate brown hair graying slightly around the temples. His complexion is pale, the deep-set eyes brown and twinkling, absorbing everything they see.
Immanuel eyes the offered hand before shaking it. ‘Samuel Agler.’
Mohr flashes a grin. ‘Samuel Agler, oh, I love it. Come with me, Samuel Agler, there’s something I want you to see. Dominique?’
‘Go, you know I can’t stand to watch.’
‘Understood.’ Mohr leads Manny toward the glass barrier. ‘You know, Sam, your mother has told me so much about you. Ever been to the Cape?’
‘Once, when I was in high school. Wait a second, you’re not the weather-net Dr. Mohr, are you? The Nobel prize guy?’
‘That’s me. These days, I’m working on things infinitely more interesting. Let me show you.’ He points to the vast arena, its specifics still hidden in darkness.
‘What is this—a holographic suite?’
‘As a matter of fact it is. We use it as a training facility. It allows us to monitor all levels of combat.’
‘Combat?’
Mohr flashes a boyish grin. ‘You’re just in time for the morning session.’ The scientist turns to his two assistants. ‘We’re ready, ladies. Begin sequence one.’
Yellow ceiling lights illuminate the interior, revealing a replica of an ancient Mesoamerican ball court. The playing field is about 150 yards long, slightly narrower at its width, its rectangle of grass imprisoned within four walls constructed of limestone blocks. The longer eastern and western boundaries are bordered by stone embankments rising fifteen feet, each slanted wall adorned with ancient ball game reliefs. Situated atop the eastern embankment, directly across from the glass partition and control room, is a replica of Chichén Itzá’s twenty-six-foot-high Temple of the Jaguar.
Anchored to the two perpendicular walls like a giant vertical donut is a circular stone ring, its hoop twenty inches in diameter.
‘You’ve duplicated the Mayan Ball Court? Why?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘The Mayan inscription on the embankment—what does it say?’
‘This particular ball court was known to the Maya as “black hole”, indicating it stood at the entrance of the Underworld, or Xibalba. The heroes of the game were said to have descended to Xibalba to conquer death. Look, here come their challengers.’
Mohr points below and to their left.
Entering from the southern end of the arena, their faces cloaked behind Mayan death masks, are a dozen brown-skinned warriors. Too large to be of Mayan descent, the men are as tall and muscular as Ryan Beck. Each carries an object like a baseball bat, the handles shaped like a serpent’s head.
The twelve technicians work furiously at their control stations, each manipulating their designated warrior.
The Mayans line up in formation, shoulder to shoulder beneath the opposite eastern goal.
From the northern end of the field appear two men. In stark contrast to the warriors, these athletes are dressed from head to toe in modern-day Special Ops combat body armor, one in black, the other in white.
‘What are they wearing?’
‘An advanced type of exoskeleton. The outer layer consists of ballistic-resistant ceramics backed by a lightweight carbon nanotube. Fabric’s as strong as steel, as light as cotton. A mini-fuel-cell-powered thermal comfort system, worn at the hip, cools or warms each soldier. Microturbines fueled by liquid hydrogen provide the body armor with ten kilowatts of power. Those teardrop-shaped helmets have integrated communication systems and augmented reality optics with night-vision screens. Strapped to their backs is a thin, pressurized water pack feeding a tube mounted inside each of the soldiers’ helmets.’
‘Sorry I asked.’
Side by side, the two modern-day warriors jog toward the western wall, playing sticks in hand, tinted face shields obscuring their identities.
Two of the brown-skinned warriors step forward, swinging their bats as if warming up for a cricket match.
A bloodcurdling bellow shatters the silence, causing the hairs on the back of Manny’s neck to stand on end.
The two men in body armor step forward, accepting the challenge.
From atop the Temple of the Jaguars appears a Mayan king. His face is concealed behind the mask of a gaping serpent’s head, a trail of green feathers running down his back. In one hand he holds an obsidian knife, in the other—a round object, dripping with blood. The king raises both arms in ceremonial fashion and begins chanting in an ancient tongue.
‘Itz’-am-na, Kit Bol-on Tun, Ah-au Cham-ah-ez …’
‘The king is invoking the gods,’ Mohr whispers.
Manny focuses on the dripping object in the Mayan’s hand, shocked to see it is the severed head of a boy.
‘Game ball,’ Mohr says, his eyes dancing. ‘Are you familiar with the game of tlachtli?’
‘More or less. They have to get the skull, er … ball through the hoop.’
‘Correct. They can use their sticks, knees, and feet, but they cannot touch it with their hands. In combat style, two players per team compete at a time. As you’ll see, anything goes.’
The king stops chanting. Gripping the gushing head by the hair, he swings his arm in great circles, then heaves the skull toward the center of the playing field.
The four combatants charge forward, the soldier in white first to the ‘ball.’ As he feints a strike, one of the masked goons bullrushes him, attempting
to club him with his stick. White pirouettes gracefully to his right—and lets loose a vicious backhand fist, which catches the larger assailant square in the throat, sending him to his knees—
—as a second warrior raises his club, intent on stabbing the soldier in the back with its sharpened end.
But the man in white is too skilled and far too quick. With out so much as a glance over his shoulder he launches a thrusting rear kick that shatters the warrior’s mask, snapping his neck in two.
The would-be killer collapses, dead before he hits the ground.
Immanuel feels nauseous as he watches the man in white step over his dead assailants, kicking the skull-ball back to his ebony-clad teammate.
Dr. Mohr points as two more warriors step out of line to greet their opponents, now quickly advancing the skull-ball toward the eastern goal. ‘This is not quite how the Mayans played, but it’s how the Under Lords of Xibalba challenged the Hero Twins.’
The blood rushes from Manny’s face.
White clubs the object to Black. The skull-ball takes a wild hop over the soldier’s foot. Turning to retrieve it, Black is barreled over by one of the replacement players, a 260-pound brute masked in a crimson demon’s mask. Leaping over the man in black, the brown-skinned warrior kicks the skull-ball to his teammate, who races barefoot across the field toward the western ring … and the goal mounted below the observation window.
White, by far the most skilled athlete on the field, overtakes the Mayan and trips him from behind—just as the warrior strikes the ball.
Manny and Dr. Mohr instinctively duck as the airborne head smashes against the glass with a dull thud, the battered face leaving a bloodied imprint on the partition.
White rebounds the wild bank shot and heads back the other way, controlling the wobbling skull with his feet and stick. Evading another assailant’s knife, he angles for the eastern wall and its stone hoop.
Two more linebacker-sized warriors abandon the line to cut him off, each man’s club brandishing a two-foot-long obsidian spike.
Manny squeezes his fists, measuring speed and distance. This is it … there’s no way he can escape this double-team.
In an incredible move combining soccer, kung fu, and gymnastics, White casually flips the skull-ball over the advancing warriors’ heads, then leaps off the ground and executes a stunning airborne double side kick from a full split, the heel-to-face impact a double deathblow that shatters the shocked combatants’ temporal bones into brain-slicing fragments.
‘Jesus …’
White lands, takes three strides forward, and in one continuous motion kicks the skull-ball, sending it end over end toward the stone ring.
With a sickening thwack, the severed head banks high off the eastern wall and passes through the hoop—
—instantly transforming the arena into something entirely different.
Gone is the Mayan Ball Court. In its place—the valley of a hellish underworld, its mountainous horizon bathed in vermilion twilight cast from a subterranean roof of volcanic coal. Whiffs of brown smoke roll beneath the emberlike ceiling, creating shadows of movement throughout the terrain.
Manny’s limbs turn to Jell-O. He leans against the glass for support.
At the heart of the valley is an enormous crater lake, its molten silvery surface simmering. Rising along the far bank is a great alabaster tree, its entanglement of ivory-colored roots knotted and thick, its sequoia-sized trunk dripping a white ooze.
The bare limbs of the monstrous tree stretch outward in every direction, twisting in the hot wind as if animated with life.
Suspended from one centrally located knot along the trunk is an object—
—a human skull.
Dr. Mohr points. Coming into view—the two soldiers, still clad in their respective white and black body armor. They are double-timing it, approaching the crater lake from the east, the man in white now wielding a double-edged sword.
The center of the lake begins bubbling as they approach.
Immanuel grips the cool iron guardrail in his sweaty palms, unable to move … unable to breathe.
Something large is rising from the depths of the lake. Thick globs of silvery ooze drip away … revealing a tall alien biped.
Lead gray silicon-like skin. Two arms and legs, heavily segmented, as if adorned in body armor. The anvil-shaped skull is disproportionately large, like that of a monstrous fire ant. Instead of being positioned above its three-humped shoulder, the skull extends horizontally in front of the chest like a turtle’s neck, giving the creature an upright yet squat appearance. There are no facial features other than a slit of a mouth and two pupilless eyes, which blaze a burned yellow against the dark skin covering.
The eight-and-a-half-foot being continues to rise out of the silvery lake, its tall, grotesque, angular body devoid of hair or clothing. The thorax is V-shaped and powerful, the abdomen slender, connecting to a pair of squat legs—humanoid in design—except they are twice as thick below the knee as above.
The upper arms are dense and powerful, and hang stiffly from the wide shoulder girdle. The elbows are ball joint in design, allowing the heavy forearms to rotate 360 degrees.
Most frightening of all are the being’s hands. Huge and clawlike in appearance, they support four slender, scalpel-sharp fingers. The digits are three times as long as the palm and spaced wide, giving each hand an almost spiderlike appearance.
Fully exposed, the being walk-glides across the lake’s mirrorlike surface, sloshing toward the eastern shore.
The two soldiers race to reach the alabaster tree before the alien.
Ten seconds until Nexus. The computerized voice startles Manny.
Nine … eight … seven …
Dr. Mohr moves closer to the glass, his expression suddenly all business. ‘Come on, come on, you can do it this time.’
The alien approaches the thickly rooted tree, reaching for the skull.
Three … two … one—
Twin streaks of ice-blue lightning … a blinding flash of crimson … then nothingness.
The violet lights return.
The lake is gone, as is the alien, the tree, and the entire hellish underworld. In its place—the sterile gray emptiness of an immense holographic suite.
Down on one knee, holding his cloaked head in his hands, is the warrior in white. His companion in black is gone.
Dr. Mohr waits a moment, then touches the comm link on his shirt collar. ‘Are you all right?’
The soldier nods weakly.
‘Success?’
The man in white shakes his head—no.
Mohr pinches his brow, obviously disappointed. ‘Dominique is here. She brought her son.’
The man in white stands. Limps toward the glass wall and looks up. Reaches for the hidden latches of his body armor. Slowly removes his hood.
Immanuel presses his face to the glass.
The white hair is longer, the eyes still piercing azure blue, cold and calculating.
Jake …
28
NOVEMBER 22, 2033: THE WHITE HOUSE,
WASHINGTON, DC
11:34 a.m.
It is the most prestigious and powerful address in the world, a political village heavy with history, situated on eighteen acres. First occupied by President John Adams on November 1, 1800, it nearly burned to the ground fourteen years later at the hands of British troops. The home would be rebuilt and refurbished, with colonnades and office space added to both its east and west wings. While a vast subterranean control center would later be excavated beneath the dwelling, the 132-room mansion itself has remained virtually unchanged for over two centuries.
The White House: America’s hub of democracy and the seat of world power. Within its 233-year-old walls are routinely discussed the future … and fate of humanity.
Lilith Robinson-Mabus, newly crowned queen of Mabus Tech Industries, saunters past the big Victorian fireplace of the State Dining Room, pausing to read the inscription set upon the mantel.
‘I PRAY HEAVEN TO BESTOW THE BEST OF BLESSINGS ON
THIS HOUSE AND ON ALL THAT SHALL HEREAFTER
INHABIT IT. MAY NONE BUT HONEST AND WISE MEN
EVER RULE UNDER THIS ROOF.’
—PRESIDENT JOHN ADAMS
Lilith scoffs. ‘Male chauvinist fool. If women had been in charge around here, the world would be a lot less screwed up.’
