by Steve Alten
I was referring to First-Mother. I don’t like lying to her.
She would have fought us if we revealed everything. She would have delayed the therapy, potentially risking One Hunahpu’s life.
I disagree.
As is your right. Computer, seal both pods. Begin preservation process.
A clear gel-like liquid flows out the bottom of each pod, lifting the two inert bodies as it rises to fill the tank. The Plexiglas frosts, then crystallizes.
The male elder enters the ship’s control room, his mind instantly updated telepathically with multiple status reports from the four Guardian elders inside.
The Balam?
Long gone. It disappeared through the wormhole hours ago.
Most distressing.
Is it possible that One Hunahpu is controlling it?
Impossible to say. The origins of the Balam remain a mystery.
Preparing to enter wormhole.
Appearing on the forward viewport is the wormhole’s glowing emerald green orifice, beckoning them in.
The mammoth oblong transport ship accelerates, entering the time-space conduit.
A moment later, Sirius-B goes supernova, the titanic explosion rattling time and space with the energy of 100 million suns.
A male voice … his screams echoing in the dank, dungeonlike basement.
Dominique’s consciousness moves through the antiquated concrete-block corridor of the Massachusetts asylum, following the guttural sounds to a row of cell doors. She stops at a cell marked SOLITARY CONFINEMENT. Tries the door.
Locked.
Remember, you’re in control.
‘Open, please.’
The bolt unlocks, the door swinging open.
Inside is an eight-foot-by-ten-foot cell, its bare cement floor and walls damp with mildew. A broken toilet and sink. A bare bulb, no windows.
Scratched into the far wall is a map of the world, a half dozen points X’d off in dried blood.
Mick is curled up on a wafer-thin mattress on the floor. He turns and gazes up at her, his ebony eyes so dark, it is difficult to tell where the irises begin.
‘Who … who are you?’
She smiles. ‘A friend.’
Mick sits up. ‘Dr. Foletta won’t let me have visitors.’
‘Dr. Foletta’s been transferred. I’m in charge now.’ She holds out her hand. ‘My name’s Dominique, and I’m here to help you.’
The transport soars through the wormhole like a pebble flowing through a garden hose, the effects of the supernova twisting and turning the currents of energy, until the massive spaceship is forcibly spit out the other side.
The blackness of space returns.
They soar toward a yellow sun and familiar star patterns. Up ahead, a bright blue world.
Home.
The asteroid-sized transport slows, establishing orbit around the watery planet.
The elder male Guardian paces the conn, his transhuman blood simmering. What happened? Every calculation was accounted for!
Apparently not every calculation. The younger male Guardian’s telepathy burns in his superior’s mind. The Balam entered the wormhole before us. Its presence apparently altered the wormhole’s trajectory.
The female, positioned within a comm link station, opens her eyes. Cartography confirms we overshot both third and fourth dimensional coordinates. She activates the viewport, the image of the blue world they are orbiting appearing below. The planet we are now orbiting is not Earth, it is Mars. Ancient Mars. The computer positively identified the planet’s moon as Deimos.
Mars has two moons, not one. Where’s Phobos?
I believe we are Phobos.
The elder male stares hard at her. How far into our past have we traveled?
She looks up at him. The time period equates to 127 million years before the time of Osiris.
And the wormhole?
Gone. We are stranded in this time period.
Warning lights and a telepathic siren blare throughout the vessel.
WARNING: TACHYON DRIVE OVERHEATING. PRIMARY AND BACKUP COOLING SYSTEMS OFF-LINE. EXPLOSION IMMINENT.
The female works her control. The ship’s engines have seized, so have our shields!
The gargantuan internal explosion violates the hull, igniting a flash fire that races through the vessel, consuming everything in its path. Sections of infrastructure melt and collapse, the Guardian crying out in agony as the intense heat bursts their hairless elongated skulls into flames, melting their eyeballs, peeling their charred skin away from their bones.
Steam fills the corridors as rows of cryogenic pods begin to melt. Glass fractures, a river of gel pouring from the shattered vessels percolating along the gridded floor.
It is over almost as quickly as it began. Within seconds, the vacuum of space inhales the ship’s air supply, dousing the flames, leaving death and destruction in its wake.
The damaged iridium-and-iron satellite continues orbiting Mars, its interior hull now lifeless—
—save for two isolated souls.
An azure lagoon, surrounded by lush tropical foliage. A cool breeze stirs the palm fronds.
Dominique lies naked on the cool pink sand, watching in delight as Mick climbs to the top of a twenty-two-foot waterfall.
‘Dom, watch!’
‘I’m watching, but you’d better hold on to your you-know-what.’
With boyish charm, Mick leaps from the rock, executing an awkward somersault.
Dominique waits until he surfaces before applauding. ‘That was really … awful.’
‘Thank you.’ He swims closer, his bronze body as naked as hers. ‘Come here.’
She enters the lagoon, wading in the shallows and into his arms.
‘Do you know how much I’ve missed you,’ he whispers.
‘Yes.’
They embrace—Adam and Eve in Eden—the only two souls in the world, oblivious and carefree in their own uninterrupted eternity of happiness—
—until that fateful day when a serpent shall again reenter their garden.
EPILOGUE
DECEMBER 27, 2033: CAMBRIDGE ARCHAEOLOGY DEPARTMENT
The American strides purposefully down the empty corridor, the sound of his footsteps picked up by the acoustic monitors, activating the holographic guard image at the security checkpoint. ‘Good evening, sir. Authorization, please?’
The American holds up his forged passport and palm. The infrared beam scans his ID tab.
Two floors up, the information is instantly sent to the Cambridge Archaeology Department. A moment later, an older gentleman’s face appears in place of the guard’s. ‘You came fast, Professor Rosen.’
‘I happened to be in the country. When were the papers found?’
‘Two days ago. Construction workers discovered the vault when they started tearing down the old library. None of the department heads remembered it being there. Must’ve been built back in the early 1940s.’
‘The papers … may I have them, please? I’m in a bit of a hurry.’
‘Who isn’t these days? Give me a few moments.’
The American watches the digital clock. Wipes perspiration from his brow.
Minutes pass like hours.
Finally, the elderly British professor appears in person, a rusted metallic lockbox in his hand. ‘Everything’s inside, Professor Rosen, just like we found it. Not sure why you’d even want it, to be honest. Gave us all a good chuckle when we read it.’
The American takes the box, stifling his excitement. He opens it, removing the dust-covered text:
THE FINAL PAPERS
OF JULIUS GABRIEL
Secured within the vault of
Cambridge University
AUGUST 21, 2001
The azure-blue eyes glisten behind the hazel contacts, the dark-haired American forcing a smile. ‘Yes, I’m sure we’ll all have a good laugh at this back in the States.’
‘What part of the States you from?’
‘Uh, Florida.’<
br />
‘Really? The missus and I are heading there next month. Just booked passage on the space plane—our first trip. Twentieth anniversary and all. Ever been up?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Took us four years just to get tickets. You ought to book as soon as you can. By the way, you can keep those papers. Nobody ’round here seems to give a bluck about them.’
Bluck? Bloody fuck … Damn British string slang.
The American waves, then turns and leaves. He exits the building and climbs in the back of a waiting cab.
The large African-American in the front seat glances up at the rearview mirror. ‘So?’
Immanuel Gabriel holds up the lockbox containing his paternal grandfather’s papers.
The bodyguard turns to his Caucasian companion. ‘Get us outta here, Salt, before the wicked witch figures out we just stole her broom.’
The cab turns into traffic, accelerating into the night.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As a writer, I have found the experience of penning the novels of the Domain [Mayan] series to be both mentally exhausting and creatively exhilarating … exhilarating in that the research often required to flesh out the story line has been as fascinating as it is frightening, exhausting in that the backdrop takes place in humanity’s past and future—an uncertain future, to be sure. One small futuristic detail can have a domino effect on dozens more, and at times, I felt as if I were consuming an iceberg from the tip down—the more I thought I had digested, the more it seemed was waiting for me below. Fortunately, I have come to know a growing circle of talented readers whose own intelligence and experience far surpass mine, and their contributions to keeping my work ‘in line’ from a scientific perspective were invaluable.
And so, my heartfelt thanks to the Resurrection [The Mayan Resurrection] team: ‘Interstellar Bill’ Parkyn (science and mythology), Dr. Lowell Krawitz (meteorology), Dr. David Mohr (rocket science), Bill McDonald of Argonaut-Grey Wolf Productions/website: www.AlienUFOart.com (paranormal science and mythology, as well as the MAJESTIC documents), Professor Barry Perlman (physics), Professor Stephen Davis (chemistry), Barbara Esmedina (research), Konstantin Leskov and Pat Weiler (science), Bill Raby (story editor), Rabbi Richard Agler, and Kevin Williams, whose afterlife studies and website (www.near-death.com) provided valuable insight into neardeath experiences and the spiritual realm.
As always, many thanks to my literary manager and editor, Ken Atchity, AEI creative executive, Brian Fagan, and the rest of the team at Atchity Editorial/Entertainment International for their hard work and perseverance, as well as Danny Baror of Baror International. Appreciation to Tom Doherty and the great people at TOR/FORGE Books, especially editors Bob Gleason and Greg Cox, as well as Heather Drucker in publicity. Special thanks to Ed Stackler at Stackler Editorial, who is always there when I need him, and copy editors Bob and Sara Schwager.
My appreciation to Matt Herrmann for his amazing original cover design and to Leisa Cotner Cobbs for the www.SteveAlten.com website, enhancing the reading experience for my fans, and for her enthusiasm and tireless efforts in the Adopt-An-Author Program (www.AdoptAnAuthor.com).
To my wife and soul mate, Kim, for all her support, and, as always, to my readers. Thank you for your correspondence and contributions. Your comments are always a welcome treat, your input means so much, and you remain this author’s greatest asset.
—Steve Alten
To personally contact the author or learn more about his novels, click on www.SteveAlten.com
Read on for an extract from the forthcoming
third book in the Mayan series:
THE
MAYAN DESTINY
Coming March 2012
One hero remains.
His fate awaits him.
1
2047 (THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AFTER THE PROPHESIED DOOMSDAY EVENT): ATLANTIC OCEAN, 107 NAUTICAL MILES SOUTHWEST OF BERMUDA (BERMUDA TRIANGLE)
April 16, 2047
Displacing 130,000 tons, the cruise ship Paradise Lost knifes through the deep blue waters of the Atlantic, its twin propellers churning a quarter-mile-long foamy trail. A thousand feet long, with a 120-foot beam that supports thirteen guest decks, the ocean liner is powered by the latest in NiCE (Nonpolluting i-Combustion Engineering) system design. Replacing the old steam-driven turbines (a gallon of fuel for every fifty feet of propulsion), the ship’s turbines draw power from the primary phase of the NiCE system—a five-megawatt solar plant. Occupying an acre of upper deck space in the stern is a water tower, surrounded by seventeen hundred rotating solar mirrors. As sunlight strikes the mirrors, the magnified heat is redirected to the tower and its built-in boiler, raising internal temperatures to a super-hot 875 degrees Fahrenheit. The generated steam is used to turn twin turbines located in the engine room, driving the ship’s propellers.
Phase two of the NiCE system kicks in once the boat is under way. Smokestacks that once belched toxic plumes of carbon dioxide have been replaced by wind turbines. As the ocean liner moves forward, these towering lightbulb-shaped blades capture the steady supply of wind, converting the kinetic energy into enough electricity to power every device on the floating hotel.
Like all cruise ships, Paradise Lost is first and foremost a pleasure boat. Inside the massive craft, virtual reality suites augment the boat’s five-star restaurants, Broadway-caliber shows and casinos. Outside, the six open-air decks are dominated by ‘hydro-leisure activities’, at the center of which are two cascading waterfalls that churn a lazy river, rapids and pit stops at open buffets.
For guests preferring something a bit more sedentary, ‘smart chairs’ are situated around the lagoon and adult-only privacy areas. Designed to levitate eight inches above a grated deck that generates a maglev (magnetic levitation) cushion, these lounge chairs are not only luxurious but also eliminate seasickness. Rollers and robotic fingers housed within the chairs’ microfiber cushions deliver everything from a soothing massage to deep-tissue shiatsu. Dial up the chair’s ‘body spritzer’ and one can cool off with a pure water mist or, for an additional fee, apply a vitamin-rich emollient (dermal dips having eliminated the need for SPF lotion applications a decade earlier).
For the 2,400 passengers aboard the Paradise Lost, the eight-day round trip cruise from Fort Lauderdale to Bermuda is paradise found.
The privacy decks surrounding Dolphin Lagoon are filled to capacity—five hundred passengers stretch out on lounge chairs, drifting in and out of consciousness while they await the next cattle call for first dinner.
Jennifer Ventrice lies on her back facing the late-afternoon sun, her assigned recliner situated between the starboard rail and the lazy river. The seventy-three-year-old Brooklyn native is awake, watching an opti-vision movie projected inside her wraparound i-glasses. Despite her sensory comforts, Jennifer is nervous. It has been fourteen years since she and her husband were forced to flee the United States, and though her passport and embedded smart chip reflect her new identity, she knows her spouse’s enemies have long tentacles and other ‘less conventional’ means of tracking them down.
Relax, Eve. You already made it through international checkpoints in London and Miami without any problem, security in Bermuda should be—
No! She clenches her eyes shut, the self-scolding inflection causing the movie to pause. It’s Jennifer, not Eve. Jennifer … Jennifer!
She powers off the movie, momentarily blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the ocean until the smart lenses adjust their tint. This was all Dave’s fault. Why couldn’t he have allowed her to use her real first name as an alias? Didn’t he realize how hard it was to think of herself as anything but Eve?
*
For the thousandth time she thinks back to the date—November 25, 2033—the day Evelyn Mohr ceased to exist, the day Lilith Mabus forced Evelyn’s husband and the rest of their entourage into exile. Only twenty years old at the time, the unleashed widow of the late billionaire Lucien Mabus had firmly entrenched herself as CEO of Mabus Tech Indust
ries and its space tourism company, Project H.O.P.E. Within months, Lilith had used her newfound influence in Washington to coerce President John Zwawa into allowing MTI to take control of Golden Fleece, a covert NASA project overseen by Evelyn’s husband, Dave.
What Lilith Mabus sought was access to zero-point energy, a warpdrive propulsion system that powered the extraterrestrial starship excavated back in 2013, which she hoped to use on her Mars Colony shuttles.
