The Mayan Resurrection

by Steve Alten

  But to feel no doubts about oneself

  is something very different: it is character.’

  —MARIE LENÉRU

  There is no security on this Earth, this is only opportunity.

  —DOUGLAS MACARTHUR

  21

  SIX YEARS LATER

  NOVEMBER 19, 2033: SATURDAY AFTERNOON,

  MABUS TECH INDUSTRY ORANGE BOWL,

  BISCAYNE BAY, MIAMI, FLORIDA

  The pelican balances on a wooden piling, struggling to preen its feathers. Like most of the other coastal scavengers, the bird no longer actively hunts for its meals. The shallows are devoid of fish, the marshes long paved over. Processed food sustains it now—all the scraps it can eat.

  The pelican’s beak opens and closes in spasms, gasping insufficient breaths of hot air thick with body lotions, perfumes and the unmistakable scent of human perspiration. Mau-Mau music—a blend of calypso and rap—blares from hundreds of speakers situated around the Teflon-coated fiberglass pier.

  A final gasp and the pelican drops from the piling, its lifeless form splashing upon the olive-colored, gasoline-tainted surf twenty-five feet below.

  Another scorching Saturday afternoon in late autumn … the inner harbor at Biscayne Bay once again transformed into a human beehive of activity.

  Moving inland from the piers is a latticework of inflatable walkways and air-supported bridges that weave in and out of hundreds of stores and eateries. Shoppers and sunbathers, families and students, locals and tourists, representing a multitude of races, religions—and colors—flock to the trendy mall-park.

  Skin color in the 2030s is now a matter of choice, the once-popular tattoo replaced with ‘body-dipping.’ Developed by dermatologists in response to the alarming rise in skin cancers caused by the continued deterioration of the ozone layer, ‘dermo-shields’ were originally designed as clear body applications featuring an SPF-50 ultraviolet skin protector designed to wear off in 90–120 days. Unfortunately, very few people under the age of sixty sought out the preventive treatments.

  Six months after its development, an enterprising group in Australia introduced color to the formula, and body-dipping became an overnight sensation.

  Clinics opened everywhere. Clients could select from a multitude of flesh-toned colors, including Caucasian, Bohemian-Tan, Chinese, African, and American Indian. Dermatology became a fashion statement, racial discrimination ultimately ‘confused.’ Even better, the four prescribed annual ‘dips’ were covered by all three levels of the FMC (Federal Medical Coverage).

  More radical applications quickly followed, designed to appeal to the sought-after age twelve-to-twenty demographic. Clinics introduced ‘rainbow-shields,’ and a new race of ‘alien-adolescents’ invaded the schools, their epidermis stained from head to toe in shades of greens, blues, violets, reds, and yellows. When this fad led to increases in gang-related violence, municipalities and states instituted laws forbidding rainbow dips to anyone under the age of eighteen.

  The Mau-Mau music slips into prerecorded ocean acoustics. A family of African-Americans, stained Bohemian-Tan, pauses along one of the catwalks to observe the activity below.

  Bonzai-boarders balance precariously on fluorescent orange-and-yellow skateboards that ride on ‘zip tracks,’ the cushions of methane microjet air allowing riders to defy gravity—at least the first four to six feet of it.

  A small crowd gathers at the guardrail, anticipating either an amazing feat or a spectacular fall. Spurred on by the applause, several of the more daring riders link arms and race along a skull-and-crossbones-painted path leading to ‘suicide hill,’ a four-storey, 360-degree vertical loop.

  The blueberry-stained teens rise in unison along the nearvertical wall and invert, the crowd’s oohs and ahhs quickly turning to gasps as gravity’s invisible fingers latch on to two of the boys closest to the center. Suspended upside down, they are yanked from their boards, the rippling disturbance sending the entire pack tumbling headfirst toward the crash mats forty feet below.

  On ultrasound proximity alert, air-bag suits inflate a milli-second before the first body strikes the tarmac.

  For a long moment the dazed adolescents lie motionless in an entanglement of purple-blue flesh and equipment, their crash collars and helmets momentarily restricting all movement. Gradually the air suits deflate, freeing bruised but intact limbs. A smattering of applause greets the daredevils, encouraging them to reorganize and attempt the impossible assault again.

  Above, the bright Miami skyline buzzes with a high-pitched whine coming from a dozen VTOLs—Vertical Takeoff and Landing vehicles. Powered by four fixed turbine ducts that provide thrust for launch, these two-man skycars whiz back and forth over Biscayne Bay like swarms of giant polyurethane wasps. Less-maneuverable one-man VFVs (Vertical Flying Vehicles) hover over the nude sunbathers along South Beach, the two-propeller craft rented by the hour.

  Below, the aqua green surface is crisscrossed by sailboats and schooners, windsurfers and super yachts, all competing for maneuvering space within the crowded marina. The occasional Luxon-glass nose cone of a two-man minisub sneaks a peek above the watery playground, the Argonauts ever fearful of the whirling blades that cut great swaths across the ceiling of their more private underwater domain.

  At the center of this entertainment Mecca is the MTI Orange Bowl—a mammoth steel-and-tinted-glass horseshoe rising sixteen storeys above the sweltering south Florida playground. Home to the University of Miami’s PCAA-champion football Hurricanes, the arena is bursting with the energy that comes from its capacity crowd of 132,233.

  Patches of orange, lavender, and teal bare-chested bodies denote the different skin-stained Miami fraternities harbored in the west bleachers. A group cheer prompts a response from the visiting Florida State student body, their own skins dipped ‘Seminole red,’ while bare-chested women from both universities pose for hovercams, showing off their ‘calypso’ tanned and augmented breasts.

  After six minutes of play, the home team trails cross-state rival FSU 3 to 0, and the Miami crowd is beyond antsy. Chants of ‘Mule, Mule, Mule’ bounce across the cushioned Teflon seats, electrifying the air as the ’Canes’ offense sprints onto the field for the first time, taking possession at their own sixteen yard line.

  There are no team huddles. All instructions are communicated from position coaches directly into the players’ helmets via encrypted microspeakers.

  The orange and white-clad Hurricanes set themselves on the artificial grass field, the roots of which are designed to give on impact. There are no human referees. A dozen infraction cameras linked to high-speed macroperceivers adorn the sidelines, analyzing the playing field, searching for infractions. There are no first-down markers. Concealed beneath the padded emerald green turf is an electronic grid linked to remote sensors embedded inside the football. Fluorescent yellow laser lines indicate precise ball placement, while digital sideline markers display both the down and the yards necessary to achieve a first down. A vertically oriented electromagnetic plane extending upward from the goal line must be broken to score a touchdown, the accomplishment instantly igniting a rainbow of laser lights and the scoring team’s unique holographic special effects celebration.

  The goalposts themselves are violet-colored holograms that activate for field goal or extra point attempts. Striking the ‘post’ causes the ball to spin wildly, the outcome always a crapshoot.

  Samuel ‘the Mule’ Agler, Miami’s twenty-year-old star sophomore tailback lines up in the backfield behind his quarterback and best friend, K. C. Renner, as the game ball is set into place by Robo-Ref—a two-foot-high mobile trash-can-shaped device.

  On the Miami sidelines, Mike Lavoie, the team’s offensive coordinator, selects a play from his Port-a-Coach. Sam listens as the annoying computerized voice chirps in his left ear.

  Sixty-three, halfback, pitch right … on two.

  Sam blocks out the crowd’s thundering crescendo and slows his pulse. His mind focuses inward, directing h
is consciousness into what his sports psychiatrist calls ‘the zone,’ a soothing pool of existence harbored somewhere deep within his brain.

  Senior lineman Jerry Tucker squats over the pigskin, the massive 378-pound center’s buttocks stretching the reinforced polyurethane-and-steel fibers in his pants to their max. As he touches the ball, all player-coach field transmissions are instantaneously severed.

  The play clock ticks backward from fifteen.

  Now Sam immerses himself fully into the zone, grimacing as the familiar ripples of queasiness magnify into waves of intense pain—

  —and time and space suddenly appear to slow to a surreal crawl. The din of noise evaporates to a dull baritone buzz. The football rises away from the turf in slow motion.

  Easy … don’t jump offside. Sam waits impatiently, the burning in his gut intensifying as the leather object momentarily disappears between Tucker’s elephantine thighs, reappearing a lifetime later within K. C. Renner’s hands. The quarterback fakes left, then pivots to his right, his planted cleat tearing away a clump of artificial grass and sand that spins as it rises, twirling in the air like an orbiting Kelly green satellite.

  Sam eyes the divot, his attention momentarily transfixed by grains of plastic dropping away like a comet’s tail.

  Enough!

  Renner pitches the football to Sam’s right. Sam plucks the floating object out of midair and secures it within the crook of his right arm. His dark eyes set upon the wall of moving bodies, his mind dissecting the fluctuating current of pads and flesh.

  Miami’s right guard and tackle are pulling, but Florida State’s all-American, Ryan Ehrensberger, is blitzing from his linebacker position, and fat Tucker is too slow to stop him. Ehrensberger shoots the gap in slow motion, his eyes widening, his face a mask of contortion and glee as he bears down on the ball carrier like a child on Christmas Day.

  Not today, pal …

  The Mule’s quadriceps fire, the capacity crowd gasping as number 23 gallops away from the Seminole’s blitzing linebacker with an almost inhuman burst of speed.

  Slipping from Ehrensberger’s lunging tackle, Sam heads for the outside corner, only to see wideout Rusty Bradford tumble in slow motion as he misses his block on FSU’s strong safety.

  The outside linebacker joins him, cutting off the corner.

  Have to do it the hard way …

  Planting his right foot, the Mule changes direction with an ankle-breaking pivot and rushes back toward the mounds of flesh now rolling in disarray along the line of scrimmage. The safety’s expression drops as he flails helplessly at a blur of orange and white that, only seconds before, had been the Miami tailback.

  A wall of bodies looms ahead. The ‘Mule’ targets Joe Mastrangelo, FSU’s 377-pound all-American, Sam’s powerful ‘stiff arm’ striking the defensive tackle’s chest like a lance, the blow knocking the bulky lineman clear off his size eighteen triple-E shoes, opening a sliver of Kelly green daylight.

  Samuel Agler slips through the hole and into the clear, leaving a half dozen would-be tacklers in his wake. Invisible flames of lactic acid singe his insides as he gallops untouched toward the end zone.

  He crosses the thirty yard line … the forty—

  Who’s out there?

  The female’s voice startles him. He nearly stumbles at midfield.

  Speak to me, cousin. Identify yourself.

  Terrified, Sam wrenches his mind free of the zone.

  The crowd noise returns.

  Sam staggers down the right hash marks, his chest heaving, his mind urging his exhausted muscles to move faster.

  ‘He’s at midfield … the forty … the thirty … the Mule’s heading for the end zone, and no one in this arena’s going to catch him—touchdown!’ Todd Hoagland, the Hurricanes’ visual color commentator, is on his feet screaming into his remote headset as waves of hysteria bombard the MTI arena.

  Samuel ‘the Mule’ Agler drops to his knees in the end zone, gasping great breaths of air as his delirious teammates rush to embrace him.

  4:17 p.m.

  Sam leans back against the carpeted cubicle in the Hurricanes’ locker room, his aching muscles in desperate need of a rubdown. The faint scent of ammonia moves through an air-conditioned current tinged with the scent of human sweat. Wearily, he raises a plastic container of tangy cold liquid to his lips and quaffs the beverage, a few drops dribbling past his chin. The high-protein drink is loaded with amino acids and biogenic fuel designed to stimulate tissue repair and help flush his system of lactic acid.

  The media converge upon him. A dozen wireless videocams are shoved toward his face, linking each telecast to computer feeds around the world.

  ‘Sam, you’ve already broken the PCAA’s rushing record for a freshman, now it looks like you’re well on your way to smashing the all-time single-season rushing record. Can we safely assume you’ll bypass your junior year and declare yourself eligible for the GFL’s draft?’

  ‘Look, we lost a tough game today. I don’t want to talk about my future. Christ, don’t you guys ever get tired of asking the same questions?’

  ‘We’ll stop asking when you start giving us answers.’ Diane Tanner leans in, the blond bombshell’s tight gray-and-red ESPN leotard revealing more than most of the toweled athletes watching in the wings. ‘For instance, can you confirm rumors you’ve negotiated a contract to play basketball with the GBA next season?’

  Sam steals a glance at K. C. Renner, who is flicking his pierced tongue at him from across the locker room. ‘I’ve been offered a dozen contracts, but I haven’t signed anything. Besides, if and when I do turn pro, it will be to play football. The Global Basketball season is way too long.’

  ‘A lot of GBA owners would be willing to sign you just for the playoffs. The London Monarchs’ owner told me last week that he’d even allow you to use his private jet.’

  ‘Enough! Ask me about today’s game, or we’re done.’

  ‘I have a question.’ Sun Sentinel beat writer Ethan McElwee pushes his video feed a little closer. ‘Miami only scored one touchdown, four below its season average. Was the FSU defense really that tough?’

  ‘They’re tops in the nation for a reason. They hit hard, as hard as any team we’ve faced.’

  CNN sportscaster Cal Kitson squeezes between McElwee and Sam, offering the football star a tantalizing view of her Indian red-tinged cleavage. ‘Mule, in two years, no one’s ever come close to tackling you behind the line of scrimmage, yet in the third quarter alone, Jesse Gordon, Florida State’s left defensive end, caught you twice. How do you explain that?’

  ‘Gordon’s quick. He made a coupla nice plays.’

  ‘And those rumors about point spreads?’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Head Coach Ted DeMaio pushes his way through the crowd. ‘Give the kid a break. Hell, he’s been averaging over two-hundred yards a game since he was a freshman, ain’t he entitled to one bad game?’

  ‘Coach DeMaio—’

  ‘I said out! Security, get these leeches outta my locker room.’

  Four taser-armed security officers push the crowd of reporters toward the exit.

  Sam hangs his head.

  Diane Tanner lingers behind, moving close enough for Sam to catch a whiff of her perfume, a new aphrodisiac offering a hint of lilac and strawberries.

  ‘Yes, Diane?’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? You promised me a private interview after the Penn State game. You blew me off.’

  ‘I, uh … sorry, I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Sports is a business, Sam. You guys get paid from revenues we help generate. The head of the network’s pissed, he wants a live studio interview by Monday or we’ll cancel global coverage of the FAU game in three weeks.’

  ‘Okay, okay. How ’bout tomorrow afternoon? I can meet you in the Press Room about three.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s good, but tonight’s better. I thought we could do it in my hotel suite.’

  Yeah, I bet you did …‘I, uh … really can�
�t.’

  Diane leans closer. Whispers into his ear. ‘Yes you can. In fact, I bet you can do it all night long.’

  She pulls away as the ’Canes’ starting offensive line assembles in front of Sam’s cubicle. The grungy, orange-stained underclassmen are wearing nothing but skimpy towels.

  K. C. Renner steps forward. ‘Hey, ESPY-ho, check out this exclusive!’

  ‘Trust me, Renner, there’s nothing you’ve got under those towels I haven’t seen already.’

  The six football players ceremoniously drop their towels, revealing pubic hair but no penises.

  Sam hides his grin as K. C. strikes a pose. ‘It was a team decision. Saves wear and tear on jockstraps and cups.’

  Ignoring Renner, she turns back to Sam. ‘Tomorrow at three. Don’t blow me off again.’ She whispers. ‘Call me later, and I’ll help you forget all about today’s game.’