by Alten-Steve
But I get ahead of myself.
Cambridge: 1969. It was from there that my two colleagues and I set out to unravel the mysteries of the Mayan prophecy. Unanimously, we decided our first stop should be the Olmec site of La Venta, for it was there, 20 years earlier, that the American archaeologist Matthew Stirling had unearthed his most startling discovery, an enormous Olmec fortification, consisting of a wall of 600 columns, each weighing in excess of two tons. Adjacent to this structure, the explorer had located a magnificent rock, covered with intricate Olmec carvings. After two days of intense labor, Stirling and his men were able to unearth the mammoth sculpture, which stood 14 feet high, seven feet wide, and nearly three feet thick. Although some of the carvings had been damaged from erosion, the image of one magnificent figure still remained: a large Caucasian male with a long head, high-bridged nose, and flowing white beard.
Imagine my fellow archaeologists’ shock at finding a 2,000-year-old relief clearly depicting a Caucasian, the artifact created 1,500 years before the first European had even set foot in the Americas! Just as perplexing was the depiction of a bearded figure among the Olmec, for it is a genetic fact that full-blooded Amer-lndians cannot grow beards. Since all forms of artistic expression must have roots somewhere, the identity of the bearded white man remained yet another enigma to be solved.
As for myself, I immediately theorized the Caucasian to be an earlier ancestor of the great Mayan teacher Kukulcán.
We don’t know much about Kukulcán, or his ancestors, although every Mesoamerican group appears to have worshiped a male deity who fits the same physical description. To the Maya, he was Kukulcán, to the Aztecs, Quetzalcoatl—a legendary bearded wise man who brought peace, prosperity, and great wisdom to the people. Records indicate that, sometime around AD 1000, Kukulcán/Quetzalcoatl was forced to abandon Chichén Itzá. Legend tells that, before leaving, the mysterious wise man promised his people that he would eventually return to rid the world of evil.
Upon Kukulcán’s departure, a demonic influence quickly spread throughout the land. Both the Maya and Aztecs turned to human sacrifice, savagely killing tens of thousands of men, women, and children, all in an effort to usher in the return of their beloved god-king and forestall the prophesied end of humanity.
It was in the year 1519 that the Spanish Conquistador, Hernan Cortez, would arrive from Europe to invade the Yucatán. Though they easily outnumbered their enemy, the Mesoamerican Indians mistook Cortez (a bearded white man) as the Second Coming of Kukulcán/Quetzalcoatl and laid down their weapons. Having conquered the savages, Cortez sent for the Spanish priests, who, upon their arrival, were horrified to learn of the human sacrifices, as well as one other shocking ritual: Mayan mothers were strapping wooden boards to their infant’s heads in an attempt to deform their newborn child’s developing skull. By elongating the skull, the Mayan would appear more godlike, a belief no doubt inspired by evidence indicating the great teacher Kukulcán had possessed a similar elongated cranium.
Quickly proclaiming the Maya practice to be an influence of the Devil, the Spanish priests ordered the shamans burned alive and the rest of the Indians converted to Christianity— under penalty of death. The superstitious fools then proceeded to torch every important Mayan codex in existence. Thousands of volumes of text were destroyed—text that no doubt referenced the doomsday prophecy, and may have contained vital instructions, left to us by Kukulcán, to save our species from annihilation.
And so it came to pass that the Church, attempting to save our souls from the Devil, most likely condemned our species to ignorance some 500 years ago.
While Borgia and I argued over the identity of the bearded one depicted on the Olmec relief, our colleague, the beautiful Maria Rosen, came upon a find that would redirect our efforts away from Central America and onto the next leg of our journey.
While excavating an Olmec dig in La Venta, Maria discovered an ancient royal burial site, and unearthed the remains of an elongated skull. Although this bizarre, inhuman-looking cranium was not the first such skull ever located in Mesoamerica, it would turn out to be the only one found in the Olmec homeland referred to as the Serpent Sanctuary.
Maria decided to donate the skull to the Museum of Anthropology in Merida. Upon speaking to their curator, we learned, quite to our surprise, that similar skulls had recently been unearthed in burial grounds located on the Nazca plateau in Peru.
Was there a link between the Maya and Inca civilizations?
The three of us found ourselves at an archaeological crossroads. Should we continue on to Chichén Itzá, an ancient Mayan city central to the doomsday prophecy, or leave Mexico and pursue our lead to Peru?
Maria’s instinct was to travel to South America, believing that the Mayan calendar was but an important piece of the doomsday puzzle. And so the three of us boarded a plane bound for Nazca, unaware of where our journey was leading us.
As we flew across the Atlantic, I found myself perplexed by something the physician in Merida had shared with me. Upon examination of the elongated cranium, the medical examiner, a man of good reputation, had stated, quite emphatically, that the massive bone deformity of this particular skull could not have been caused by any known elongation technique. To back up his claim, he arranged for a dentist to examine the dental remains, the results of which yielded something even more startling.
It is a fact that human adults possess 14 teeth in the lower jaw.
The elongated skull Mana had found possessed only 10.
—Excerpt from the Journal of Professor Julius Gabriel,
Ref. Catalogue 1969–73, pages 13–347
8
OCTOBER 9, 2012: WASHINGTON, DC
President Mark Maller enters the Oval Office from his private study and takes his place behind his desk. Seated before him are members of the White House staff.
“All right people, let’s get started. We’ll begin with the issue of nominating a new vice-presidential running mate. Kathie?”
Chief of Staff Katherine Gleason reads from her laptop. “These are the results of a public opinion poll taken last Thursday. When asked who they preferred to see share the party ticket, registered voters selected Senator Ennis Chaney to Pierre Borgia by a 53 percent to 39 percent margin. The issue of trust appears to be their key motivating factor. However, when asked to identify what they felt was the central issue going into the November election, 89 percent of the public named the escalation of the strategic arms buildup in Russia and China as being their primary concern, with only 34 percent of registered voters interested in pursuing the construction of a radio telescope on the moon. Loosely translated: Chaney gets the ticket, we focus our campaign on stabilizing relations with Russia and China, and you remain noncommittal on the radio telescope, at least until after you’re re-elected.”
“Agreed. Any new developments at NASA?”
“Yes, sir.” Sam Blumner is the president’s chief economic advisor. “I’ve reviewed NASA’s preliminary budget for building this contraption on the moon.”
“How bad?”
“Let’s me put it to you this way, Mr President. You’ve got two chances of pushing this through Congress—slim and none—and slim just left town with your former vice president.”
“I thought NASA was linking the project with the moon-base proposal that already passed through Appropriations?”
“They tried. Unfortunately, that moon base was designed to be built on the near side of the moon, close to the polar region where NASA located ice formations, and not on the dark side. You’ll excuse the pun, but in fiscal terms, we’re looking at the difference between night and day, as in solar panels are no longer an option when the Sun’s not shining.”
Kathie Gleason shakes her head in disagreement. “Sam, one of the reasons the American public is so opposed to this venture is that they perceive it as being an international project. The radio signal wasn’t broadcast to the United States, it was received by our entire planet.”
“And i
n the end, America’s still the one who’s going to foot most of the bill.”
Cal Calixte, the president’s press secretary, raises his hand. “Mr President, in my opinion, the radio telescope provides us with a means of pumping funds into Russia’s economy, especially in light of the recent cutbacks by the IMF. Perhaps you could even link it to the new START-V treaty.”
“The same thing was said about the International Space Station,” interrupts Blumner. “That giant Tinker Toy cost America a cool $20 billion, plus the billions we lent the Russians so they could afford to participate. Meanwhile, it’s the Russians who keep delaying the completion of the project.”
“Sam, stop looking at everything from a financial standpoint,” Kathie says. “This is as much a political issue as a space program. Protecting the Russian democracy is worth more than the telescope itself.”
“Democracy? What democracy?” Blumner loosens his tie. “Here’s a quick civics lesson for you, Kathie. What we’ve created is an economy of extortion, where the Russian rich get richer, the poor starve to death, and nobody seems to give a shit as long as we call it a democracy. The United States and the IMF have given the Russians billions of dollars. Where’d all the money go? From a fiscal standpoint, my three-year-old daughter is more fiscally accountable than Yeltsin or Viktor Grozny ever was.”
Blumner turns to the president, his plump face red. “Before we start appropriating billions, let’s keep in mind that this deep-space radio signal could just be a fluke. From what I understand, NASA still hasn’t found an underlying pattern that would indicate the transmission was a genuine attempt at communication. And why haven’t we heard a trace of a second signal?”
Cal shakes his head. “You miss the point. Grozny’s people are starving. Civil unrest is reaching dangerous proportions. We can’t just turn our backs on a desperate nation with a nuclear arsenal capable of destroying the world a dozen times over.”
“In my book, it’s still extortion,” Blumner says. “We’re creating a bogus project as a means of paying a faltering superpower and its corrupt leaders billions of dollars so they won’t engage us in a nuclear war they could never hope to win anyway.”
The president holds up his hand to interject. “I think Cal’s point still has merit. The IMF has already made it clear that they won’t give another dime to Russia unless the money is invested in technologies that can help jump-start their economy. Even if this radio signal turns out to be bogus, the telescope would still provide scientists with a real window to explore deep space.”
“It’d help the Russian people more if we opened up a few thousand McDonald’s and let ’em eat for free.”
Maller ignores Blumner’s remark. “The G-9 meeting’s in two weeks. I want you and Joyce to prepare a preliminary proposal that uses the radio telescope as a vehicle to channel funds into Russia. At the very worst, maybe we can diffuse some of the paranoia surrounding Asia’s upcoming joint nuclear deterrent exercises.”
The president stands. “Cal, what time is tonight’s press conference scheduled?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Good. I’ll meet with our new vice president in an hour, then I want you to brief him about the re-election. And tell him to pack a bag. I want Chaney hitting the campaign trail, starting tonight.”
Florida State University
Dominique is seated in the corridor outside her doctoral advisor’s office, squirming uncomfortably on a cushionless wooden bench. She debates whether to chance another trip to the bathroom when the office door opens.
Dr Marjorie Owen, portable phone pressed to one ear, ushers her inside with a quick gesture. Dominique enters the sanctuary of the department head’s cluttered office and takes a seat, waiting for her professor to finish her phone conversation.
Marjorie Owen has been teaching clinical psychiatry for twenty-seven years. She is unmarried and unattached, her thin, wiry 57-year-old physique kept in reasonable shape by mountain climbing. A woman of few words, she is well respected, somewhat feared by her nontenured staff, and has a reputation for being strict with her graduate students.
The last thing Dominique wants is to get on her shit list.
Dr Owen hangs up the phone, retucking her short-cropped gray hair back behind her ear. “Okay, young lady, I’ve listened to your tape and read your report on Michael Gabriel.”
“And?”
“And what? He’s exactly what Dr Foletta says he is, a paranoid schizophrenic possessing an unusually high IQ,” she smiles, “making for some delightful delusions, I might add.”
“But does that warrant keeping him locked up? He’s already served eleven hard years, and I’ve seen no evidence of criminal behavior.”
“According to the file you showed me, Dr Foletta just completed his annual evaluation, an evaluation you signed off on. If you had any objections, you should have spoken up then.”
“I realize that now. Is there anything you could recommend, anything I can do to challenge Foletta’s recommendations?”
“You want to challenge your sponsor’s evaluation? Based on what?”
Here we go … “Based on my personal belief that—well, that the patient’s claims might merit investigation.”
Dr Owen shoots Dominique her infamous “befuddled look,” a look that has shattered many a grad student’s hopes for graduating. “Young lady, are you telling me that Mr Gabriel actually has you convinced the world is coming to an end?”
Christ, I’m toast … “No, ma’am, but he did seem to know about that deep-space radio signal and—”
“No, as a matter of fact, according to the tape, he had no idea what was going to happen, only that something would happen on the equinox.”
The silent stare resumes, causing beads of sweat to break out beneath Dominique’s armpits.
“Dr Owen, my only concern is to ensure my patient is receiving the best care possible. At the same time, I’m also concerned that, well, that he may not have been justly evaluated in the first place.”
“I see. So, let me get this straight—having worked with your very first patient for nearly a month—” Owen checks her notes. “No, wait, my mistake, it’s actually been over a month. Five weeks, to be exact.” Dr Owen walks to her office door and closes it with authority. “Five full weeks on the job, and you’re not only questioning the last eleven years of the patient’s treatment, but you’re ready to challenge the director of the facility, hoping to release Mr Gabriel back into society.”
“I realize that I’m just an intern, but if I see something’s not right, don’t I have a moral and professional obligation to report it?”
“Okay, so based on your infinite experience in the field, you feel that Dr Anthony Foletta, a well-respected clinical psychiatrist, is unable to evaluate his own patient properly. Is that it?”
Don’t answer. Bite your tongue.
“Don’t just sit there and bite your tongue. Answer me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Owen sits on the edge of her desk, purposely positioning herself to tower over her graduate student. “Let me tell you what I think, young lady. I think you’ve lost your perspective. I think you’ve made the mistake of becoming emotionally involved with your patient.”
“No, ma’am, I—”
“He’s certainly a clever man. By telling his young, new, female psychiatrist that he had been sexually abused in prison, he hoped to hit a soft spot, and boy did he ever. Wake up, Dominique. Can’t you see what’s happening? You’re reaching out emotionally to your patient, based on your own childhood trauma. But Mr Gabriel wasn’t sodomized by his cousin for three years, was he? He wasn’t beaten to within an inch of his life—”
Shut up, just shut the fuck up—
“Many women who’ve gone through similar experiences like yours often deal with post-traumatic symptoms by joining women’s movements, or taking up self-defense, just as you have. Pursuing clinical psychiatry as your chosen profession was a mistake if you’re planning on using it
as an alternative means of therapy. How can you possibly hope to help your patients if you allow yourself to become emotionally involved?”
“I know what you’re saying, but—”
“—but nothing.” Owen shakes her head. “In my opinion, you’ve already lost your objectivity. For God’s sake, Dominique, this lunatic actually has you convinced that everyone in the world is going to die in ten weeks.”
Dominique wipes tears from her eyes and chokes back a laugh. It was true. Mick had her so emotionally wound up that she was no longer just humoring him as part of his therapy, she was allowing herself to be coerced by his doomsday delusions. “I feel embarrassed.”
“And so you should. By feeling sorry for Mr Gabriel, you’ve ruined the dynamics of the doctor–patient relationship. This forces me to contact Dr Foletta and intervene on behalf of Mr Gabriel.”
Oh shit. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to request that Foletta place you with another resident. Immediately.”
Miami, Florida
Mick Gabriel has been walking the yard for six hours.
Pacing on automatic pilot, he maneuvers around the mentally inept and criminally insane as his mind focuses on reshaping the pieces of the doomsday puzzle floating in his brain.
The radio signal and the descent of the plumed serpent. The dark rift and Xibalba. Don’t make the mistake of lumping everything together. Separate cause from action, death from salvation, evil from good. There are two factions at work here, two separate entities involved in the Mayan prophecy. Good and evil, evil and good. What s good? Warnings are good. The Mayan calendar is a warning, as are the Nazca drawings and the serpent’s equinoctial shadow on the Kukulcán pyramid. Each warning, left to us by a bearded Caucasian wise man, all portending the arrival of evil. But the evil is already here, it’s been here. I’ve felt it before, but never like this. Could that deep-space transmission have triggered it? Somehow strengthened it? If so, where is it?