by Steve Alten
‘Yes, coach.’ Offensive coordinator Mike Lavoie yells at the two squads. ‘Okay, girls, get your asses in gear!’
K. C. Renner buckles his chin strap, listening as Lavoie’s computer communicates the same play.
Sam lines up in the backfield behind fullback Doug Parrish. He focuses his mind inward, his adrenaline pumping, as he beckons the entrance to the ‘zone.’
Renner takes the snap. Fakes the handoff to Parrish.
Sam slips inside the nexus.
The field brightens, the action grinding to a slow crawl.
Sam’s quadriceps burn as he pushes through heavy waves of energy. He blocks the blitzing strong safety, pancaking him with vicious forearm to the chest, then looks up as Renner’s pass floats toward him like a balloon.
As he looks up, the sun melds into a soothing white light.
Who are you, cousin?
The female’s voice coos at him.
Slip inside the light and speak with me.
The light brightens as it widens, blotting out the football, blotting out the entire sky.
Sam leaps out of the nexus – as the ball strikes him on his helmet, and Alec Parodi crushes him with a bulldozing hit.
A whiff of ammonia snaps Sam back into consciousness. He opens his eyes, the team doctor’s face appearing fuzzy.
‘You okay, son?’
‘Dunno. My head still attached?’
‘Let’s get a quick scan of your brain.’ Dr. Meth slips the portable MRI device right over Sam’s helmet. ‘Don’t move, this’ll only take ten seconds.’
The device activates, scanning Sam’s brain.
PATIENT: SAMUEL AGLER.
DIAGNOSIS: THIRD – DEGREE CONCUSSION.
PROTOCOL C-3: ICE, ANTICONCUSSION /INFLAMMATORY
MEDS, MONITORED BED REST.
RETURN TO ACTION: THREE DAYS MINIMUM.
NONCONTACT DRILLS FOR FIVE DAYS.
‘That’s it, son, you’re done.’ Dr. Meth and his two assistants help him to his feet.
Coaches and players watch in accusing silence as Sam limps off to the locker room.
7:16 p.m.
Three hours, a shower, and seven interviews later, Samuel Agler emerges from the air-conditioned training facility into the cool dusk November air.
He motions for the guard to open the gate, then pushes through the usual postpractice crowd. He signs a dozen portopads, then sees the black government-issue limousine parked along the sidewalk.
Fubish… of all days.
The driver’s door opens, releasing a powerful African-American man.
Sam crosses the street, the crowd still enveloping him, shoving porto-pads in his face.
Ryan Beck approaches. ‘Back off!’
The crowd scurries.
‘Hey, Pep. Still have that gift of gab, I see. How you doin’?’
‘Just doin’. You look like shit.’ Beck opens the rear door.
‘Yeah, nice to see you, too.’ Sam climbs in back. The door closes behind him as he takes his place opposite his mother.
Dominique Gabriel removes her dark, wraparound sunglasses. Although she is forty-nine, most would place her age closer to thirty. The ebony hair is still long and parted in the middle, with a touch of gray sprinkled here and there. The breasts are firm, her figure still flawless, thanks to a strict diet and daily regimen of weight training and cardiovascular exercise. The only signs of aging are the crow’s-feet that litter the corners of her chocolate-brown eyes.
Sam looks her over. ‘You look good for an old broad.’
‘Is that how you greet your mother?’
He leans over and dutifully plants a kiss on her cheek. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. You know I don’t like surprises.’
‘You look tired, Manny.’
‘Sam! Call me Sam.’
‘To me, you’ll always be my Manny.’
‘Can we cut to the chase?’
‘Your brother wants to see you.’
‘Forget it. We had an agreement.’
‘Yes we did. You wanted total anonymity, we gave it to you. A new name, a new identity, surrogate parents… you got the works. But what you’re doing now is extremely dangerous. Instead of living out of the public eye, you’ve dashed back into the spotlight. Your face is on every website and public broadcast in North America. How long do you think it’ll be before some hotshot reporter sees through the tinkered files and false birth certificate and figures out who you really are?’
‘Immanuel Gabriel is dead, mother. He drowned six years ago. No one will put two and two together.’
‘Jacob thinks otherwise, and that’s why he needs to see you.’
‘Jacob’s a freak.’
The slap in the face stuns him, sending shock waves through his already bruised brain. ‘That freak, as you call him, gave you a new life. If it wasn’t for your brother, you’d still be living in the compound… or worse.’
‘How long are you going to keep this charade up, Mother? You’ve been giving in to Jacob our whole lives.’
‘I don’t give in to him.’
‘No, you’ve done worse. You’ve empowered him by believing in this whole Mayan Hero bullshit. Look at you. When are you going to get on with your own life?’
‘I have a life!’
‘Yeah, sure you do. I have a life. You work for Jacob.’ He shakes his head. ‘Just tell me how long.’
‘A few days. He says he needs to discuss things that only you would understand.’
‘God dammit, Mother, for the last time, I am NOT Hunahpu!’ He closes his eyes, fighting back tears of frustration. ‘The two of you are not part of my life anymore. You don’t know a thing about me. I’ve worked my ass off… I trained for years. I take a beating every time I step out onto that field. I am not like… him.’
‘You’re right. As cold and emotionless as Jake can be, he’s selfless. You’re driven by ego.’
‘Good-bye.’ He slides toward the door.
‘Wait!’ Dominique grabs his arm. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.’
‘Yes you did.’
‘Manny, I am really proud of you. Proud of what you’ve accomplished in school. Proud of the life you’ve been able to lead. And I like everything I’ve heard about Lauren. I think she’s good for you. Will you at least introduce us before you get married.’
‘Not a chance.’
She smiles. ‘You’re so much like me. Stubborn as a mule.’
He cracks a half smile at the mention of his nickname. Checks the digital timer sewn into his shirtsleeve. ‘I have to go. I’m having dinner at my father’s house.’
‘Surrogate father.’
‘Whatever.’
‘I’ll pick you up here tomorrow morning at nine. Pack an overnight bag.’
‘I’m supposed to spend the holidays with Lauren’s family.’
‘Get out of it. She’ll understand.’
‘No she won’t. I don’t even understand. What am I supposed to tell her?’
‘You’ll think of something.’
‘Can’t we do this another time?’
‘No, it has to be now.’
‘Why?’
‘Tomorrow morning, Immanuel. After that, I’ll be out of your hair forever.’
He exits the car without saying another word.
Jacob Gabriel had always ‘sensed’ there were enemies about, ever since the day he had learned to read the Bible Code, ever since his first remote-viewing session. But it was not until his last communication with his father that he realized how close he had allowed his true enemy to come.
He had always known Lilith was Hunahpu, his genetic cousin and equal. He had never suspected her to be the Abomination.
Jacob knew there were only two ways to stop the Hunahpu’s pursuit; either kill his one true love or convince her that he and Manny were dead.
Faking his brother’s drowning had been a simple matter. The collision on the bridge was easily choreographed, the black hair dye and contact lenses easily f
ooling the media into believing it was Manny who was the victim. Jacob’s immersion into the nexus stifled his life signs long enough to convince CNN and the randomly chosen witnesses.
His own death had been a bit trickier to choreograph.
Jacob knew that Pierre Borgia was out for revenge and that his own public appearance would flush his quarry into the open. What he didn’t know was that Ennis Chaney was the former secretary of state’s real target, or that Lilith would show up at Manny’s funeral. Fortunately, the nexus had given him a chance to intercept the bullet, his Kevlar nanofiber body armor absorbing the projectile’s impact, the explosive blood bags hidden beneath his jacket fooling everyone, even Rabbi Steinberg and the physician, who were in on the plot.
Even Lilith.
With both twins safely ‘dead,’ Jacob could pursue more advanced training with GOLDEN FLEECE while Manny disappeared into the anonymity he had always yearned for.
Rabbi Steinberg was close to a young couple from his old congregation in Philadelphia. Gene and Sylvia Agler were good people who had never been blessed with children. After several meetings, they agreed to ‘adopt’ Immanuel and adhere to the strict guidelines of the covert arrangement.
GOLDEN FLEECE arranged the falsified birth certificate and school records, their operatives creating a completely fabricated childhood, down to sports awards and home movies. Gene Agler was given a principal’s job in another state, the couple a new home.
The burden was then on Dominique. Having already lost her soul mate, Mick, she was now being asked to break apart the rest of her family.
And so she made the ultimate sacrifice so that Manny could be free.
Hollywood Beach, Florida 9:17 p.m.
Small waves lap relentlessly upon the deserted beach, tickling Samuel Agler’s bare feet. He stares out at the dark ocean, its wave tops illuminated by the reflection of the three-quarter moon.
The sound of the surf soothes his restless soul.
‘Thought I’d find you out here.’
Sam turns to face his surrogate father. Gene Agler is in his late fifties, his curly black hair graying around his ears, his six-foot frame stooping at the shoulders.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Sam pats the sand next to him.
‘You feeling okay?’
‘Guess so.’
‘Everything all right between you and Lauren?’
‘Fine.’ Sam watches a hermit crab scamper up the beach. ‘My real mother… she’s in town. She wants me to travel with her tomorrow.’
‘I know. She called me last week.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Didn’t think it was my place.’
‘It’s not right what she does, waltzing in unannounced, turning my life inside out.’
Gene picks up a fragment of shell and tosses it at an incoming wave. ‘Try to understand, it’s been very hard for her. She’s led a lonely life.’
Sam lies back on his elbows, the sound of surf deadening in his ears. ‘Dad… I’m thinking about quitting football.’
‘Well, now that is a pretty big decision. What brought this on?’
‘My teammates. They think I’m sandbagging it.’
‘Maybe you’ve spoiled them.’
‘Selfish bastards… all they care about is themselves. These guys’re supposed to be my friends.’
‘There are all sorts of friends. Some inoculate us against pain, others walk out the minute there’s trouble. It doesn’t necessarily make them bad people, it just means they were probably never really good friends to begin with.’
Sam gazes at the stars. Says nothing.
‘Are you thinking about turning pro, or are you intending on quitting football altogether?’
‘Quitting, I guess.’ The stars blur. Sam pinches away tears. ‘It’s
… complicated. I… I don’t think I can compete at the same level anymore.’
‘Because of one off game?’
‘Dad, I can’t… I just can’t do it anymore.’
‘Well, you know what? I’m glad.’
‘You are?’
‘Sure. For someone sitting on top of the world, you don’t seem very happy.’
‘They’ll label me a quitter.’
‘Who cares? As long as you know it’s not true.’
‘A lot of people will be very upset.’
‘Yes, the world will certainly be disappointed, but the sun should still rise, and the birds will still sing, so how bad can it be?’
‘I feel like I’m letting everyone down. Maybe I should just suck it up and deal with it?’
‘Maybe it’s time you asked yourself why you’re playing football?’
Sam looks up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you remember Rabbi Steinberg’s sermon on Tikkun Olam and Tikkun Midot?’
‘Not really.’ Sam grins. ‘Sorry. Guess I didn’t make a very good Jew either, huh?’
Gene ignores the remark. ‘ Tikkun Olam means to mend the outside world. Tikkun Midot deals with acts of internal healing. Tikkun Midot is a self-awareness that enables you to reach beyond the natural and instinctive, past the reflexive and knee-jerk responses, in order to refine the soul. It means we have recognized the need to turn our lives in a better direction.’
‘I thought I was going in the right direction.’
‘Success and prosperity doesn’t necessarily equate to living a good life. Something’s obviously bothering you about your future. Whether you choose to play football or not should be your decision, not your peers’. You can’t allow your friends to make their agenda yours. I think Philip Roth expressed it best when he wrote, “The human stain that touches all that we do is inescapable.” Do you understand?’
‘All but that last part.’
‘What Roth was saying is that placing great faith in human beings is not only impossible, it’s downright foolish. Everything we touch as humans is stained. Roth saw modern man falling into the same rut as Abraham-creating and serving lesser gods-false idols that neither redeem nor save us.’
‘What does any of that have to do with me?’
‘Think about it, Samuel. Look at what you’ve become. You were born the false idol, a mythical twin worshiped by the masses. You successfully escaped to a different identity, but like some insecure Hollywood actor, you still covet the spotlight. It’s like you’re afraid to let go, afraid to disappoint. None of this attention is real, son. Fame is fleeting. The only thing that counts is what’s on the inside.’
Gene looks up at the moon. ‘You know, I’ll never forget the night you and your brother were born. Such a crazy time. Sylvia and I watched the whole thing on TV. There must have been ten thousand people surrounding the hospital. Rabbi Steinberg told me the air literally seemed charged with electricity. And everyone inside-the doctors and nurses, President Chaney, all those nosey reporters and the armed guards-all were anticipating this wondrous miracle. Your poor mother, she was exhausted and in pain, but she hung in there, refusing any drugs… so afraid it might affect the birth. Anyway, the blessed event happened, and they finally showed footage of your mother holding you in her arms. I remember looking at you, so innocent, wrapped up in that tiny blanket, and I thought to myself-this is a special child, a gift from God, but from here on out, it’s downhill all the way. Because how on Earth could any child, or any adult for that matter, live up to the expectations humanity seemed to be placing on you and your brother?’
Sam sits up. ‘It always played with Jake’s head-all those crazy expectations. I think he was trying to become something everyone wanted him to be. Somewhere along the line, he just lost it mentally.’
‘And isn’t that the reason you wanted out of that life, to escape all that craziness?’
‘Yes.’
‘Looks to me like you jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Samuel “the Mule” Agler-everyone’s all-American hero. To do Tikkun Midot means to overcome our less worthy instincts, not to succumb to peer pressure.’
Gene Agler stands, brushing away the sand. ‘When I was eleven, two boys at school beat me up pretty bad, just because I was Jewish. For a long time after that I remember feeling ashamed of who I was. One afternoon my father gave me a card and inside was a poem. “Be your own soul, learn to live; And if some men hate you, take no heed. If some men curse you, take no care. Sing your song, dream your dream, hope your hope, pray your prayer.” ’
‘Whatever you decide, Samuel, do what’s best for you. Do what’s best… for your soul.’
A wisp of thought, in the consciousness of existence.
Jacob?
Are you out there, son?
If you are there, I have no way of knowing.
The Abomination has blanketed my senses, shielding your thought energy from me. While I cannot hear you, I pray you might still hear me in the hopes that my experiences on Xibalba can protect you.
At one time we spoke of love. It’s important you understand the power of the emotion, and how its absence can taint the soul.
As Michael Gabriel, I had lived an existence devoid of happiness-a lonely childhood, followed by a bitter adolescence. I was life’s victim, my later years spent in isolation in a mental asylum. Even those precious few moments spent with your mother were fleeting, the pain of her loss filling me with an angst I cannot put in words or thoughts.
Was it mere coincidence that the Guardian arranged a shared existence with the Mars colonist, Bill Raby-himself filled with an emptiness as bad, if not worse than my own? No, I no longer believe in coincidences.
But it was not just Bill Raby who experienced this heaviness of heart, nearly every colonist marooned on Xibalba shared the same unspoken feeling. It was a feeling of shame, of survivor’s guilt, magnified beyond the scope of human despair.
Nine billion people on Earth had perished so that a chosen few could survive. Many of us had ‘conspired with the Devil,’ meaning we had been selected for Mars Colony based neither by lottery nor merit, but by political affiliation, by favoritism and ethnic background. We survived because of who we knew and how much money we had so that we could manipulate the selection process.
Now, marooned on Xibalba, the immorality of our affairs was tearing us apart inside.
Not all of us, I should say. Your cousin, Lilith, and her son, Devlin, along with their ‘coven’ of friends, seemed quite content with our bizarre predicament.