The Mayan Resurrection

by Steve Alten

  Long before we arrived, the world we had named Xibalba had been a planet influenced by two distinctly different cultures. The first was the transhuman race responsible for constructing the floating city. The dwellings, the landscaping, the agricultural pods and environmental controls—all were designed for these beings. Little was known of their origin, but it was obvious they had cultivated their domain over thousands, perhaps millions of years. They were space travelers, masters of genetics, and were far superior to us in every way.

  At some point in Xibalban history, a fantastic scientific discovery was made that allowed these ever-curious transhumans to transcend their third-dimensional physical world and enter the realm of the spiritual. The decision to pursue or ban this science would split the Xibalban race in two. The group that rebelled against the discovery would leave the planet, traveling to God-knows-where, while the other group remained behind, intent on evolving beyond their physical forms to walk in God’s shadow.

  Self-programming, immortal, and unlimited in power—the group that remained behind would evolve into the posthumans. The beings held within the cryogenic pods were their physical remains.

  It is the traces of posthuman DNA, Jacob, that makes us Hunahpu.

  Professor Ian Bobinac was the most accomplished geneticist in the colony. On Earth, he had pioneered the use of ‘Vee-Gees,’ vaccine genes—genetically engineered cells used to produce antibacterial, antivirus, and anticancer substances directly into the human body. On Mars, his work in genetic manipulation would have been applied to alter reproduction schedules among cloned livestock.

  Bobinac was a genius even before his brain had been affected by transhuman metamorphosis. Having ‘evolved,’ he now spent most of his time living inside his own brilliant head. What finally brought him out of his self-evolving ‘funk’ was the mystery surrounding the alien lines and glyphs flashing along the exterior of the great posthuman hall.

  Bobinac soon discovered a communication emanating from the structure—an audible communication—translated at a refresh rate of 267,000 cycles per second. By comparison, the spoken word is transmitted at a mere 16–20 cycles.

  What Professor Bobinac had discovered was a posthuman language, composed of 212 distinct graphemes (English uses only forty-six phonemes). Most bizarre, the posthumans’ collective mind was still dispersing their communication across the planet.

  But to whom?

  The moment I heard of his discovery, I asked to be transferred to Bobinac’s team. As marine geneticist Bill Raby, I immediately recognized the 267,000 harmonic cycle as one shared by a sea creature back on Earth—

  —whales.

  While the effects of our genetic metamorphosis were universal, our newfound powers affected each of us differently, magnifying our own unique personality traits.

  Lilith Mabus and her son, Devlin, craved power. As time passed, the olive-skinned Adonis grew increasingly belligerent, his sociopathic tendencies, combined with his mother’s influence, driving him to lead the life of a modern-day Caligula.

  Whiffs of wild tales spread through our small community. Some told of private gatherings hosted by Devlin in a transhuman dwelling he had taken over, referring to it as the ‘president’s mansion.’ There were rumors of lurid orgies and Satanic rituals led by the bewitching Lilith, though nothing could be substantiated.

  In truth, most of us were too involved with our adjustment as ‘superior beings’ to take the time necessary to investigate these tales. But as the fourth anniversary of our arrival on Xibalba grew near, there was a growing movement to oust the planet’s self-appointed leader and his wicked parent.

  Devlin and Lilith had other plans.

  Prior to abandoning the planet to hunt the Xibalban transport in Earth-space, the Guardian had taken DNA samples from posthuman subjects. Ten thousand years in our past, they had introduced dilutions of this super-elixir into Homo sapiens, genetically altering our species, driving us up the evolutionary ladder.

  Unbeknownst to the rest of the colonists, both of Devlin’s biological parents had possessed Hunahpu DNA. Cold and calculating as a human, Devlin’s evolution as a transhuman gave him the extraordinary ability to decipher and manipulate polygenic traits within his own DNA.

  In short, Devlin Mabus could self-evolve.

  Evolution can be traced back to the first bacteria that took life from Earth’s primordial soup. Housed within our DNA is a record of every phase of our evolution, from ocean dwellers to reptiles, from the first insectivorous mammals to our primate cousins.

  Remaining in isolation for weeks, Devlin had tapped into his genetic code, manipulating a master gene that would help him reengineer his entire being.

  On the morning of our fourth anniversary, New Eden’s colonists gathered in our adopted public square.

  It was Lilith who stepped out of the shadows of the president’s box to address the crowd.

  ‘Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts, who has reached across the cosmos to save His Chosen Ones from death. He has led us to the New World and Blessed us with its wonders. He has given us a taste of His wisdom, and transformed each of us into something better than what we were. And now, He has heard the cries of His children.

  ‘Who among you has sinned? Who among you suffers inside? Which of you are consumed in guilt? Raise your hands and be made accountable!’

  In unison, we raised our hands, many of us weeping at the memories of the deceased loved ones we had abandoned back on Earth.

  ‘Do you seek salvation? Speak the words aloud.’

  For such a small crowd, our shouts were deafening.

  ‘We are here today because of a miracle. Long ago, my son, Devlin, was given a vision. In this vision, he saw the incubator Earth cast out humankind. Like a modern-day Noah, he was instructed to build a fleet of spaceships—cosmic arks—in which he would lead the chosen few to salvation. Look around you and tell me this is not so. It was Devlin’s vision that led to our rebirth. It was because our true creator touched him that we are here today.

  ‘And now another miracle has occurred. In your prayers for salvation, the one true creator has sent us his archangel. Behold my son, Devlin, the Seraph!’

  Jude and I held hands, our breath taken away as Devlin stepped out of the shadows of the president’s box and into the light. A hush grew over the crowd as we ogled the creator’s handiwork.

  He was completely nude, standing before us like some fifteenth-century sculpture of David come alive. Protruding from his genetically altered muscular back and spinal column were massive flesh-toned wings, the appendages spanning no less than twenty feet from wingtip to wingtip.

  Devlin had used his Hunaphu awareness and transhuman powers to tap into the master gene cluster responsible for the development and evolution of mammalian flight. He had become Chimera—a genetically altered creature of incongruous parts.

  He was Seraph.

  As we watched, his wings animated, catching a column of air rising from a hidden ventilation shaft. Like a condor’s, Devlin’s wings spread as he rose, awkwardly at first, then more majestically, like a great bird of prey.

  What a spectacle it was to behold. Colonists fell to their knees, tears streaming from their eyes, while God’s ‘appointed angel’ flew above our heads and ‘blessed’ us with his urine stream.

  And how could we not have fallen in worship? Like the ancient Hebrews before us, we had considered ourselves the ‘Chosen Ones,’ selected by God to survive. Each day for us on Xibalba was a miracle. On the brink of extinction, our Savior had blessed us with the gift of transhumanism. We had overcome the ravages of age and disease, we had transcended the human condition. We were believers, as impassioned as the Children of Israel must have been after Moses had parted the Red Sea.

  The scientists among us, myself included, were not so easily convinced.

  Jude, a devout Christian, argued endlessly with me about this, swearing that it was divine intervention that rescued us from oblivion.

  But Devl
in Mabus … an angel? The Devil incarnate, more like it.

  Flexing his newfound political muscle, Devlin ‘ordained’ that personal time each day would henceforth be dedicated solely to worship. One religious order—the ‘Church of Mabus’ was proclaimed, and it was mandated that all colonists attend services.

  Those of us who doubted the self-appointed deity sensed democracy and freedom fading fast—replaced by a new theocracy, with its own brand of Inquisition soon to follow.

  Something had to be done.

  Carefully, and very discreetly, I began recruiting members of the scientific elite who I knew harbored similar misgivings toward Mabus and his mother. Over the months our flock grew to include several dozen engineers and astronomers, rocket scientists and mathematicians, all seeking freedom from a society we suspected would soon turn to ‘divine’ persecution.

  Thus was born the brotherhood of the Guardian.

  Ours was a secret sect, for to be caught opposing Devlin and Lilith meant dismemberment by their followers. Because our thoughts could be telepathically ‘tapped,’ each member of the brotherhood would only be addressed by his or her alias.

  We decided upon historical names. As Guardian founder, I dubbed myself: Osiris.

  Michael Gabriel’s identity surely must have screamed at me from the abyss of Bill Raby’s mind.

  What our newfound Guardian brotherhood desired was a safe haven from Devlin and his growing flock. We had two choices; either relocate to another part of New Eden or inhabit one of the planet’s two moons.

  Remaining on New Eden was only a temporary solution at best. Targeting the larger of the two moons, we made plans to steal a shuttle.

  A former NASA rocket scientist, known to us only as Kukulcán, was convinced he could salvage enough fuel to get us to our destination. Another scientist devised headgear that would scramble our brain’s electromagnetic waves enough to prevent other colonists from eavesdropping. While this assured us at least some semblance of privacy while we prepared our escape, Devlin’s new religious decree meant we would have to work during our ‘sleeping’ shifts.

  The three shuttles that had carried us into New Eden had remained abandoned atop one of the transhuman dome-scrapers for years. While the Guardian scientist, Kukulcán, worked on preparing one of the shuttles for spaceflight, the rest of us reconfigured the ships’ environmental suits for our elongated skulls. Agricultural pods were stocked, medical supplies secreted on board.

  As the day of our departure crew near, we felt prepared for anything—

  —never suspecting there was a Judas in our midst … .

  27

  NOVEMBER 22, 2033: KENNEDY SPACE CENTER, CAPE

  CANAVERAL, FLORIDA

  10:03 a.m.

  The black limousine follows the NASA Parkway east, leaving Merritt Island and crossing the Banana River land bridge to Cape Canaveral.

  Mitchell Kurtz instructs the vehicle to stop at a security checkpoint. A flashing sign orders everyone to step out of the car.

  Immanuel Gabriel, a.k.a. Samuel Agler, his mother, and the two bodyguards climb out of the limo, allowing two heavily armed guards to check their credentials. A robot sensor sweeps the exterior of the motorcar.

  Dominique places her palm against the portable DNA scanner, her false identity tag appearing on screen.

  SUBJECT IDENTIFIED: YOLANDA RODRIGUEZ.

  SUBJECT HAS GOLDEN FLEECE CLEARANCE.

  HAVE A NICE DAY.

  Kurtz submits to a weapons scan. An alarm sounds, piercing the humid night air, causing both NASA guards to aim their weapons. ‘Hands high and wide! Move!’

  Kurtz looks at Pepper, who rolls his eyes. ‘Rookies.’

  A lieutenant exits from the station, stun gun held high. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘He’s packing a high-energy taser, sir.’

  The lieutenant recognizes the limo and its passengers.

  ‘Watkins, did you bother to check his clearance?’ The guard looks down at his computer pad. ‘Fubishit, he’s MAJESTIC-12.’

  ‘Which means I can march into the goddam White House with any weapon short of a neutron bomb,’ Kurtz says. ‘Now get that toy out of my face before I vaporize you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  The other guard approaches Sam with the portable DNA scanner. ‘Place your palm against the scanner, please.’

  ‘Wrong.’ Beck steps in between them. ‘The kid’s exempt from DNA protocol.’

  ‘Sorry, big fella,’ the lieutenant says. ‘Nobody’s exempt from DNA protocol, not even President Zwawa.’

  ‘Check your orders again, Lieutenant.’ The imposing African-American moves closer, eyeballing the overmatched officer.

  ‘There’s nothing in my orders about a DNA exemption.’ The lieutenant nervously fingers his stun gun, not sure what setting short of DEATH could stop the bear-sized man.

  Dominique sees the expression on Kurtz’s face and knows he is seconds away from activating his taser. ‘Salt, wait! Lieutenant, contact Dr. David Mohr in Hangar 13. He’ll verify everything.’

  The lieutenant hesitates, then touches the comm link on his forearm. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Mohr, but I have four guests at the gate, a Yolanda Rodriguez, two bodyguards, and a male adolescent who refuses to submit to a DNA scan.’

  Mohr’s face appears on the tiny screen. ‘Let them through, Lieutenant.’

  ‘But sir—’

  ‘Immediately, Lieutenant. Mohr out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Hangar 13, referred to by NASA personnel as ‘the fortress,’ is a twenty-two-storey steel-and-concrete structure situated on the southernmost tip of Cape Canaveral. As wide and as long as three football fields, the building contains two monstrous bay doors, each 297 feet high. Within the complex (the third largest structure in the world), are thirty-one cranes, two 227-metric-ton bridge cranes, and twenty-three of the latest hover-lifts. Cooled by nineteen thousand metric tons of air-conditioning, the facility has its own power plant, cafeteria, and security force. The exterior is surrounded by a series of electromagnetic and electrostatic dampeners, making it the largest Faraday chamber in the world. The site is also protected by an electrically charged forty-foot-high perimeter fence, with gun towers positioned along each corner, two more by the adjacent beach, one more along the shoreline of the Banana River.

  No one gets in or out of Hangar 13 unless authorized.

  The limo follows a two-lane bridge to the island complex, then turns left into a parking lot. Three more armed guards appear, escorting Dominique’s entourage from the limousine into the windowless front entrance. Salt and Pepper head off to the eatery while Sam and his mother are led down a plush magenta-carpeted hallway, past another checkpoint, then to a large alcove, dead-ending at an immense titanium vault door.

  A holographic security guard appears. ‘Good evening, Ms. Rodriguez. You may enter the facility when ready.’

  Warning lights illuminate the forward steel bulkhead. The impregnable vault door swings open, allowing them entry into a long, brightly lit tunnel.

  Sam follows his mother through the naked corridor, registering the change in air pressure as the vault door is sealed from behind. ‘Okay, Ma, what’s this all about? Where the hell are you taking me?’

  ‘Shh. Save your questions until we’re inside.’

  ‘Inside? You mean this isn’t inside? What is this place?’

  ‘Be quiet and be patient.’

  They follow the soundproof concrete and drywall passage to a set of steel double doors. The door seal parts as they approach and they enter a sterile white chamber, the walls circular, the ceiling domed. There are no windows or doors.

  A hologram of an East-Asian secretary appears in the center of the room.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs. Gabriel. Please proceed to Habitat-2. Dr. Mohr will meet you there.’

  ‘Thank you, Rameeka.’

  The camouflage of white wall disappears, revealing a steel door and keypad. Dominique presses her palm to the
scanner.

  Another passage opens before them. Dominique turns to her son. ‘Deeper into the rabbit hole, eh, Manny?’

  ‘Cute.’

  They exit the holographic security chamber and enter a tight corridor, the rounded walls and ceiling composed of clear Luxon glass, a new diamond-based polycarbonate.

  ‘I feel like a goddam hamster. Whoa—’ Sam rounds the corner and stops, the floor below having dropped away beneath the glass.

  They are six storeys above the ground floor of a subterranean hangar. A slow-moving hover-lift glides below, its enormous flatbed transporting an intricate piece of equipment, possibly a rocket engine subassembly. Ahead, a pair of Statue of Liberty-sized 150-foot-high double doors begin to part.