by Steve Alten
An aide enters the room, one of President John Zwawa’s personal assistants. ‘Mrs. Mabus, on behalf of the entire White House staff, let me extend my deepest condolences—’
‘Don’t bother. What time is my meeting?’
‘The president says he can see you immediately. If you’ll follow me.’
Lilith Eve Robinson’s descent into the Mexican cave had exposed her schizophrenic brain to an extremely powerful low-frequency electrical field. Like an electrostatic tuning fork, the effect served to rephase the girl’s already imbalanced brain waves.
Thought is analogous to energy. Firing at microseconds, it possesses no boundaries, not even the limits of time and space. In a manner transcending the principles of radio wave propagation theory, thought energy can be sensed by remote viewers who are highly tuned to these psychic phenomenon.
The phenomenon of reliving a previously seen or experienced event (memory) is an example of present-thought energy interacting with one’s past. Though the encounter is usually brief, the mental interplay, or déjà vu, is quite real.
Exposure to the cave’s electromagnetic amplification enabled Lilith’s pathological mind access into the psychic realm. Shortly after her descent, she began hearing another voice, one far different than those of her self-created companions.
‘I can hear whispers,’ she had told Don Rafelo. ‘The voice speaks to me as I fall asleep.’
‘It is telepathy. The communication is meant to guide you.’
‘But who is it? How do they know me?’
‘The whispers originate from both the near future and distant past.’
‘Why do you speak in riddles? Just tell me who is speaking to me.’
The old man grinned. ‘You are in communication with … yourself.’
Three years after her ‘descent’ into the Mayan Underworld, the seventeen-year-old beauty, now traveling under the name Lilith Aurelia, had arrived at the 2030 World Entrepreneurs Association Meeting in Miami in search of a mate. To bait her hook, she wore a strapless cocoa ‘flesh-hugger’ evening gown that matched her skin and barely contained her breasts. Long, wavy ebony hair fell past her tantalizing cleavage clear down to her taut, exposed stomach and gold belly button ring.
The barely legal man-eater sipped her martini as she casually scanned the ballroom crowd. Nothing but pawns, and a few gray-haired bishops. The Queen of the Succubi is here, now where is my king?
She watched as her escort, NRA activist Ben Merchant, worked the room. The middle-aged defender of the Second Amendment, dressed in a white Armani tux, wore a black rose tucked in his lapel buttonhole and a Beretta in his ankle holster. Lilith liked the homosexual, whom she had met a year earlier in Mexico City. He was shallow and greedy—easy to read, with the type of weaknesses she enjoyed exploiting. The constant name-dropping was annoying, but nonetheless, he was loyal and seemed to get things done.
‘Excuse me, have we met?’
She turned to her right, glancing down at the slight Hispanic man in his late fifties. ‘And you are?’
‘Deputy Mayor Raul Hernandez, at your service. Are you a … um … local girl, or—’
‘Deputy Mayor? Is that something one volunteers for, or do you get season tickets to the theater with the title?’
‘Excuse me?’
Her azure eyes blazed violet as her temper rose. ‘Go away, little man, before I eat you.’
Hernandez blushed, choked on his retort, then, seeing the almost maniacal look in the girl’s eye, decided it was best just to leave.
Ben Merchant approached, snorting a quick hit of cocainelaced BLISS from a designer thimble. ‘Well, darlin’, what do you think?’
‘Pimps and pawns. There’s no one here who could fill our bill. I need a real power broker, someone with some backbone, someone I don’t have to constantly manipulate like a marionette. Powerful and rich, Benjamin. Filthy rich.’
Merchant grinned. ‘I know just the man.’
The handsome jet-setter with the oily black ponytail took his time licking the olive from the redhead’s size 47-D cleavage, allowing his right hand to grope beneath the woman’s miniskirt.
At only twenty-three, Lucien Mabus, son of the late billionaire, Peter Mabus Jr. was already wealthier and more feared than his deceased father. He had more money than he could spend in three lifetimes and met more women than he could possibly bed … and now he was bored.
What Lucien Mabus yearned for was a challenge.
The adrenaline junkie’s eyes followed Ben Merchant as he approached from across the room. On the gun lobbyist’s arm was the most captivating woman he had ever laid eyes upon.
‘Lucien, dear boy, imagine running into you here.’
Lucien retracted his hand from beneath the redhead’s skirt. ‘Cut the bullshit, Merchant. My yacht’s been docked here all week. Introduce me to the lady.’
‘I’m sorry … Lucien Mabus, this is Lilith Aurelia. Lilith, Lucien Mabus, president and CEO of Mabus Tech Industries.’
Lucien extended his hand.
Lilith shook it, then inhaled its scent. ‘Be careful, your date’s ovulating.’
Lucien’s laugh carried across the crowded bar. Turning to the embarrassed redhead, he shoved a hundred-dollar bill in her cleavage, and yelled, ‘Go the hell away!’
The redhead stormed off.
Lucien flashed Lilith a coy smile. ‘I like you. Ever been aboard a yacht?’
‘No.’
‘Join me for a drink. Merchant won’t mind, will you?’
‘Not at all. Got a full day tomorrow anyway. Watch out for this guy, Lilith, he’s a handful.’
‘Mmm … I hope so.’
Oval Office, The White House 11:43 a.m.
John Zwawa, the forty-seventh president of the United States, has made sacrifices to attain the highest office in the land. Entering the political arena after years as a human rights activist and heavy metal rocker has forced him to shorten his once shoulder-length blond hair, which now runs mostly gray. The thinly shaven goatee is gone too, as are the sideburns. The only remaining physical evidence of the president’s years as a musician are his tattoos. On his right bicep is an image of a leaping lion holding two drumsticks, on his left—a large Polish falcon grasping a banner inscribed with his children’s names.
The president enters the Oval Office to find Lilith Mabus hovering next to Alyssa Popov, the new director of the United States Geological Survey-Earthquakes Hazard Program.
‘Lilith, so sorry about Lucien.’
‘Thank you, John. Lucien was young, but drugs had taken their toll on his heart long ago.’ She tilts her head, accepting the formal peck on the cheek from a man she has slept with more than a dozen times, on two occasions with her late husband.
‘And Ms. Popov. I hear you’ve been busy at Yellowstone Park.’
‘You could say that, sir.’
‘I gather you two ladies know each other?’
‘Intimately.’ Lilith winks, enjoying the president’s blush.
‘So? What’s this meeting about? Next year’s midterm elections?’
‘No, John, it’s about the end of the world and the survival of humanity.’
Zwawa’s grin remains frozen on his face. ‘Lilith, I don’t have time for these—’
‘Show him, Alyssa.’
‘Computer, play program Popov-One.’
Along the far wall, the holographic image of the bookcase and fireplace reverts to a large floor-to-ceiling smart-screen.
For the next thirty minutes, the president of the United States is absorbed in the details of a Top-Secret UMBRA report.
‘Computer, end program. Shred Popov-One and all minutes of this meeting.’
A stunned John Zwawa sits head in hands at his desk, the weight of the world upon his shoulders. He whispers, ‘How could this be happening? Why wasn’t I told?’
Alyssa shook her head. ‘With everything civilization’s been through in the last three decades, Yellowstone’s never been more than a pa
ssing interest. It’s only because of recent breakthroughs measuring geothermal changes that we learned of an impending eruption.’
‘How soon?’
‘A decade or two, tops.’
The president loosens his collar. ‘I … I can’t breathe—’
‘Take it slowly, John.’
‘How bad will it be?’
‘Worse than you can possibly imagine,’ Alyssa says. ‘The explosion will release ten thousand times more debris than the Mount St. Helens explosion, instantly killing the surrounding population. The Midwestern states will become ground zero, wiping out our crops. Within a few days, the atmospheric debris will blot out the sun.’
‘And that, John,’ Lilith coos, ‘is when the shit really hits the fan. We’re looking at a volcanic winter, with global temperatures plunging as much as a hundred degrees. Power grids will fail, populations become isolated, the economy lurching to a standstill. Millions will perish during the first few weeks just from the cold. Roads will be impassable. Within a month or two, those who haven’t frozen to death will starve.’
‘Unfortunately, Lilith’s correct, sir. We’re talking major ice age here, make no mistake about it. This is the end of civilization on this world, at least for a very long time.’
‘And you say this can happen in a decade or two?’
‘Maybe less. When it does happen, we’ll have little to no warning.’
‘There must be something our scientists can do?’
‘We have teams working on it, sir. So far, nothing looks promising. You’re talking about a major volcanic hot spot. The last time one of these calderas erupted, it wiped out nearly every human being on the planet.’
‘Who else knows about this?’
‘Lilith’s people, a handful of scientists, that’s all for now.’
‘And that’s the way we want to keep it,’ Lilith says, her azure eyes staring through him. ‘We have one shot at saving our species, John, and only if we act now. Secrecy must be maintained at all costs, or all of us will die.’
President Zwawa reaches into his bottom drawer. Removes a flask and paper cup, his hands shaking as he pours himself a drink. ‘You’re talking about Mars Colony.’
‘Yes, sir. Mars has water, and water means life.’
‘Yes, but what kind of life? What future do we have on such a desolate planet?’
‘Sir, Project HOPE and our own scientists have put together an extensive plan for Mars colonization. As we speak, NASA’s geologists are working with HOPE to design a machine called an AGM, or Automated Greenhouse Machine. Powered by nuclear reactors, these mobile factories will produce vast quantities of perfluorocarbons—simple compounds of carbon and fluorine. In the right combination, these molecules are a thousand times more effective at trapping heat than carbon dioxide. Just a few parts per million of perfluorocarbons in the Martian air will produce enough warming to release vast amounts of CO2 from the Martian polar caps and soil. The thickening of the atmosphere will trap more heat, releasing even more gas. By raising the planet’s temperatures a mere twenty to thirty degrees Celsius, you start a runaway greenhouse effect.’
‘You’re going to terraform Mars?’ The president sits back, light-headed. ‘How soon?’
Alyssa Popov shrugs. ‘With HOPE’s resources, we can have the first of these AGMs pumping within three years. In a decade, we’ll have hundreds, enough to produce the gases necessary for a Martian atmosphere. Some of the colony’s materials can be mined from the planet’s two moons—our probes have detected usable concentrations of iridium and aluminum just beneath the surface of the Mars moon, Phobos. If all goes well, by 2070, the inhabitants of our colony might even be able to breathe Martian air without the use of pressurized suits.’
Zwawa stands. Paces. ‘How many? How many lives can we save before the doomsday event takes place?’
Alyssa looks at Lilith, then back at the president. ‘With the discovery of a second Mars aquifer, the colony can support as many as ten thousand people.’
‘Ten thousand? Ten thousand out of seven billion? And who decides who goes? You, Ms. Popov? You, Lilith?’
‘Actually, yes.’ Lilith’s azure eyes sparkle violet in the light.
‘This is barbaric.’
‘It is what it is. Face facts, John. This planet’s been overpopulated for decades. In a sense, an ice age is Earth’s way of cleansing itself. If history has taught us anything, it’s that those who can adapt survive, while the weak among us perish. It’s nature’s way.’
‘How can you be so cold-hearted?’
‘Sir, those chosen will be contributing members of New Earth. Scientists and high-tech farmers, engineers, physicians, and skilled laborers. We’ll start humanity over again using the best of the best—’
‘—and the wealthiest, of course,’ Lilith chimes in. ‘To pull this off requires vast sums of money—money that cannot be allocated through Congress, unless you want planetwide anarchy. I’ve already started dialogue with CEOs of the Fortune 100s and a dozen private bankers, all of whom are dying—excuse the pun—to invest in HOPE’s Mars Colony.’
Zwawa sits back in his chair, the blood draining from his face. ‘If you don’t need federal funding, then why are you even coming to me?’
‘First,’ Alyssa says, ‘because we need your support in shutting down the handful of government and private agencies who might accidentally stumble across the truth. Yellowstone must be shut down to all nonessential personnel. We have a few emergency scenarios in mind, toxic sulfur leak, that sort of thing.’
‘Second,’ Lilith says, ‘because HOPE requires information and access that only you can provide.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Sir, to build Mars colony will take hundreds of supply missions. At present, it still takes NASA six full months and a helluva a lot of fuel to reach Mars. But if we could harness a different source of fuel, say … zero-point energy—’
‘—then,’ finishes Lilith, ‘we could cut the costs and travel time by a huge margin.’
‘Zero-point energy? Don’t know anything about that—’
‘Of course you do, Mr. Former Vice President.’ Lilith slips behind his desk and rubs his temples, registering the cold sweat dampening the man’s hairline. ‘What I need from you is complete access and control over Project GOLDEN FLEECE, and John … I want it now.’
29
NOVEMBER 22, 2033: HANGAR 13, KENNEDY SPACE
CENTER, CAPE CANAVERAL, FLORIDA
1:14 p.m.
They are seated on a second-floor balcony overlooking a Japanese garden—Dr. Mohr, Immanuel Gabriel, his mother, and the twin he has not seen in six years.
Jacob’s surreal blue eyes stare at him, unblinking.
‘Jesus Christ, would you stop staring at me?’
‘I missed you.’
‘You mean you missed manipulating me.’
‘You’re my twin. We belong together.’
‘Get over it. You can’t just drag me back into your delusions after all these years. I’m Samuel Agler now. I have a life!’
Dr. Mohr interjects. ‘Let’s everybody just stay calm. No one’s forcing anyone to do anything. Manny, er … Sam, we brought you here because your brother’s worried about you.’
‘You’ve been tapping into the nexus,’ Jacob says, ‘using it to enhance your performance on the athletic field.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s dangerous, Manny. There are others like us out there, others who share this Hunahpu gene. Every time you enter the nexus, you make your presence known to them.’
‘How many others?’
‘I don’t know, one … a hundred … a thousand.’
‘A thousand more freaks like you running around? I doubt it.’
Jacob ignores the remark. ‘Eleven thousand years ago, the Guardian began an interbreeding program with ancient man. The Guardian is mankind’s missing link. In the process of mixing their DNA with ours, they created a s
ort of genetic time bomb, hoping that one of these Hunahpu would find his or her way to their starship in the year 2012. The Hunahpu would be able to use their genetic calling card to access the vessel and its weapons system, knowing the human race would need it on 4 Ahau, 3 Kankin, a date forecast in the Mayan calendar, equating to the winter solstice in 2012. Our biological father, Michael Gabriel, was Hunahpu. He wasn’t the only “chosen one,” he just happened to be the poor sap who managed to cross the finish line first.’
