by Alten-Steve
Situated within this sphere, harnessed amidst a myriad of alien conduits, is a 300-foot-long life-support pod. Mick focuses on the abominable object, recognizing it immediately.
Tezcatilpoca’s chamber …
And then a deep chill washes over Mick’s consciousness, as his mind’s eye struggles to grasp the alien being emerging from within the vortex of the still-swirling maelstrom.
It is a serpent, but like none he has ever seen. The viperous face is more devil than beast, its pupils vertical slits of gold surrounded by incandescent crimson corneas, more cybernetic than organic. The skull is as large as the mixer on a cement truck, the creature’s girth as long as four city buses aligned bumper to bumper.
Mick’s vantage changes as the serpent approaches the Nephilim complex. The jowls of the great beast open, revealing rows of ebony, scalpel-sharp teeth.
Stepping out from the serpent’s jaws—a humanoid.
A shadow of death seems to pass over Mick’s soul. He cannot see the man’s face, the head and body being cloaked in a black shroud, but he knows he is gazing upon pure evil. The humanoid moves toward the life-support chamber, then extends an arm, pointing. Glowing within the man’s hand is a jade object, about the size of a football.
The vermilion eyes of the serpent glitter, the golden pupils disappearing. The blinded creature, mesmerized by the small object, follows the cloaked being as if under a spell.
The beast enters the enormous life-support pod.
His mind’s eye moves beyond the alien sphere and approaches the planet’s surface. There are no traces of tropical jungles, no waterfalls, no Eden. Instead there are bodies—children’s bodies, immersed in a solid layer of lead-gray tar. A deep moan rises from his soul. The Nephilim young are alive, yet somehow not alive.
Mick’s consciousness moves closer. He looks down upon the face of a young male child.
Jaundiced eyes flash open, staring back at him in haunting agony.
Mick’s mind shuts down.
Once more, he finds himself orbiting Xibalba, his soul trembling as he observes an object rising from the planet’s surface.
The sphere …
From the moon base appears another vessel, a sleek, gold star cruiser.
The Nephilim survivors race after their enemy, disappearing within the sphere’s celestial tail.
Raven Rock Underground Command Center, Maryland 2:27 a.m.
Pierre Borgia is standing in a pool of blood, pieces of President Maller’s brain tissue and skull splattered across his sleeve.
General Xiliang’s face has turned deathly pale. The Chinese leader turns to his second-in-command. “Engage autodestruct.”
Borgia turns to Viktor Grozny. “America’s missiles have self-destructed. General Xiliang is complying. You only have four minutes left—”
Grozny’s face is serene. “It is better to die in battle than suffer in misery. What will be gained by aborting the attack? The threat of nuclear annihilation grows stronger as our country grows weaker. The finality of war has a cleansing effect, and both our nations need to be cleansed.”
The screen powers off.
A visibly shaken Dick Pryzstas enters the war room. “The Chinese missiles have self-destructed.”
“What about Grozny’s missiles?”
“Not a one, and we can’t reach the vice president,” Pryzstas says to Borgia. “Which means you’re in charge. You’ve got three and a half minutes before several hundred nuclear warheads reach our coastlines.”
“Damn that Russian bastard!” Borgia paces, the words of Pete Mabus echoing in his ears. What this country needs now is strong leadership, not another dove like Chaney as second-in-command.
“Contact Strategic Command. Order our forces to launch every last ICBM, SLBM, and nuclear-tipped TLAM in our arsenal. I want that goddam motherfucker blown to hell.”
Within the Guardian’s sarcophagus
Mick opens his eyes, startled to find himself standing on a hillside overlooking a magnificent green tropical setting, a cascading silvery waterfall creating a rainbow, off in the distance.
A presence appears beside him. He is not afraid.
Mick looks up to face the large Caucasian. The man’s long hair and beard are silky white, the eyes dazzling, an unearthly deep blue and penetrating, yet somehow kind.
Guardian … am I dead?
There is no death, there are only varying states of consciousness. Your mind is looking through a window to a higher dimension.
Those humanoids—
The Nephilim. Like your own species, we began as children of the third dimension, cosmic travelers, whose journeys led us to Xibalba. But the intoxications of this planet were a ruse, the world—a fourth-dimensional purgatory of wicked souls, its inhabitants’ intentions—to use the Nephilim as a means of escape.
I don’t understand. The Nephilim, those children. Are they—
The minds of the Nephilim are held in stasis, their bodies ensued by the souls of the condemned to complete their task—to send Tezcatilpoca through a fourth-dimensional passage into your solar system, to open a porthole leading to another third-dimensional world.
A porthole directly to Earth?
Not at first. The conditions on your world were not suitable. Having been exiled to Xibalba, the wicked ones can no longer exist in an oxygen environment. Their intended target was Venus. The brotherhood of the Guardian followed Tezcatilpoca through the fourth-dimensional corridor, causing its transport to crash-land on Earth. The life-support pod survived, Tezcatilpoca held in protective stasis. The Guardian remained behind to aid the ascension of your species and engineer the arrival of the Hunahpu.
Who are the Hunahpu?
The Hunahpu are messiah, genetically implanted among your species by the Guardian. Only a Hunahpu can enter the cosmic porthole and prevent the evil ones from contaminating your world. Only One Hunahpu possesses the strength to make the journey through time and space to free the souls of our ancestors.
The corridor, I can feel it opening.
The corridor appears once every precessional cycle. Only a Hunahpu can sense its arrival.
Wait—are you saying that I’m a Hunahpu?
Only a Hunahpu could have accessed the Guardian starship.
My God … Mick stares at the lush tropical surroundings splayed out before him, his exhausted mind fighting to comprehend the information being whispered into his consciousness.
Guardian, Tezcatilpoca’s arrival—that impact occurred over sixty-five million years ago. How is it possible—
Time is not consistent nor relevant across all dimensions. The brotherhood of the Guardian were the surviving leaders of the Nephilim—Osiris and Merlin, Viracocha and Vishnu, Kukulcán and Quetzalcoatl—all remained in stasis. This starship remained in orbit above your world, its array programmed to jam the enemy’s signal. It was only during this last cycle that your species’ evolution was sufficient to accept our seed. As such, we shut down the array, allowing the Xibalban radio signal to awaken Tezcatilpoca.
You allowed it to awaken Tezcatilpoca? Why? Why let this— this thing …
Tezcatilpoca harbors the porthole into the fourth-dimensional corridor. Once opened, the corridor can be used as a means to travel back into the Nephilim’s past. Only One Hunahpu possesses the strength to make the journey and save the souls of our ancestors.
Has any Hunahpu ever attempted this journey?
Only one. It was at the time of the last precessional cycle, before the Great Flood. The brethren of the Guardian awoke from stasis and prepared one of your ancestors to access the Tezcatilpoca’s cosmic porthole. As the portal opened, two of the Death God’s Under Lords entered the corridor from Xibalba. They used trickery and deceit to defeat this first Hunahpu, but his bravery enabled the Guardian to acquire the transport vessel the wicked ones had used to travel through the Black Road, the fourth-dimensional corridor of time and space you are now suspended within.
This sarcophagus is a vessel?
<
br /> Yes.
You said the first Hunahpu was defeated. What happened to the two Under Lords who escaped Xibalba?
The Guardian were able to reseal the portal before the Death God and his legion could make the journey through Xibalba Be, but the damage to your world was done. Evil became rooted within your garden.
What does that mean?
The two Under Lords remained on Earth, taking refuge within Tezcatilpoca’s vessel. Although they remain within the fourth dimension, they have continued to exert their influence upon the minds of the weak, their strength increasing as four Ahau, three Kankin approaches.
My God … You exposed humanity to the Devil—
It was necessary. There is more at stake than you can comprehend. One Hunaphu must make the journey through the Black Road to undo the damage that has been done. A greater destiny awaits us all.
Why should I believe you?
You have seen Tezcatilpoca, and it has seen you. There is no escape. It must be destroyed.
How? When will this One Hunahpu arrive?
Perhaps soon. Perhaps never. His destiny has not yet been chosen.
What the hell does that mean? Where is this Messiah of yours? What happens if he doesn’t show up? And what about the Hero Twins, Hunahpu and Xbalanque? If the creation myth is true, then maybe they’re the Ones. According to the Popol Vuh—
No! The legend of the Twins is a Nephilim prophecy that may never come to pass. The birth and destiny of the Twins relies solely on One Hunahpu making the journey to Xibalba.
And if he never shows up?
Then your people will perish, as will ours.
I don’t understand—
It is not for you to understand. The destiny of your species is still being written. The portal is opening, the Death God and his legion preparing to make the journey across time and space. Tezcatilpoca continues the process of acclimating your world, while the two evil ones harbored within his vessel exert their influence upon your people. They must be stopped. Even now, weapons of mass destruction have been unleashed upon your world, brother threatening brother.
What can I do?
You are Hunaphu. You have the ability to access Guardian’s array. This will forestall the end, but only the destruction of Tezcatilpoca and the Black Road—Xibalba Be—can prevent the wicked ones from passing through to your world.
The Black Road—where will its entrance materialize?
The porthole to Xibalba Be will ascend on four Ahau, three Kankin. Only a Hunahpu can enter. Only a Hunahpu can expel the evil from your garden and save your species from annihilation.
You’re speaking in riddles. Where is this porthole? Is it aboard that spaceship in the Gulf? Am I supposed to go back inside? And how am I supposed to destroy it?
The porthole will come to you. Use the array to destroy Tezcatilpoca, then enter the porthole. The two evil ones will come forward to challenge you. They will attempt to prevent you from sealing the portal before He arrives.
And if I seal the portal?
Then the two Under Lords shall be vanquished from your world, allowing your species to evolve. Succeed—and two destinies shall await you. Fail—and both our people will perish.
What do you mean, two destinies await me?
Should the time come, then you will know.
What about Dominique? Is she Hunahpu?
She is part of a greater destiny, but she is not Hunahpu. Do not allow her to enter Xibalba Be, or she will destroy you both.
Dominique is seated on the floor of the chamber, her back to the alien marble tub, her head in her hands. She is scared and alone, her exhausted mind engaged in a nonstop tug-of-war between reality and denial.
This isn’t real. None of this is happening. It’s all part of some schizophrenic delusion …
“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
She jumps to her feet. “Accept the fact that you’re here and do something about it. Find a way out—” She walks out of the chamber, then returns, frantic. “No, Mick needs me. I have to wait here.”
She bangs on the side of the open sarcophagus again, uncertain of whether Mick is alive or has been vaporized by the neon blue light.
“Mick, can you hear me? God dammit, Mick, answer me!”
Her tears flow, her heart aching. Selfish bitch, you never told him you loved him. You could have given him that. Just because you’ve denied yourself, doesn’t mean …
“My God …” She leans back against the granite tomb at the sudden revelation. I love him. I really do love him.
She kicks the side of the granite tub again. “Mick! Can you hear me—”
The sudden burst from an invisible force field knocks her sideways, as a brilliant blue light brightens the entire onion-shaped chamber.
From the tub rises the dark silhouette of a figure. It stands, rising out of the open sarcophagus as if floating, its features enveloped within the alien light.
It is Mick.
Mick is ascending within a sea of energy, moving toward the source of the light. He can feel every muscle, every cell within his body tingling with electricity as he is drawn upward, his soul bathed in intense waves of warmth and love.
The image of Guardian’s hand reaches out to him.
Mick extends his arm, his hand embracing the offered palm.
Dominique shields her eyes, forcing herself to stare at the light. She sees the outline of Mick’s arm extend upward as if he is reaching for something.
Zap! The invisible wall of energy slams into her like a tidal wave, lifting her up and off of her feet as it sends ripples of electric currents sizzling through her brain. She drops to the floor, her eyes widening as she attempts to focus on the angelic figure.
Mick is now suspended above the floor, his right hand extended.
A roar of hydraulics, as the myriad of high-tech machinery reveals itself all around her. The walls and ceiling are humming, glowing brightly, as the starship’s generators power up. Beneath her feet, she sees a labyrinth of computer circuitry glittering beyond the dark, glass-like floor.
A deep thrumming sound builds, the vibration tickling her ears—and then a heavenly wave of blue energy ripples outward from the walls to the domed ceiling, and then straight up into the central chimney-like orifice.
The colossal electromagnetic wave of energy pulsates upward through the central wall of the Kukulcán pyramid, continuing through the roof of the temple via an alien antenna before dispersing outward in every direction at the speed of light.
Racing west, the surge saturates the ancient city of Teotihuacán, powering on an extraterrestrial relay station buried half a mile beneath the enormous Pyramid of the Sun. Continuing its journey across the Pacific Ocean, the charged wave reaches Cambodia, igniting an identical transmitting device hidden deep below the Temple of Angkor Wat.
To the east, the beacon has reached the Andes Mountains. Passing through the geology, it reflects off a long-dormant antenna buried beneath the ancient celestial observatory known as the Kalasasaya, redirected to the south, racing toward the ice-laden continent of Antarctica. Buried beneath tons of snow is another alien relay antenna, the instrument erected during a time when the polar terrain had been void of ice.
Meanwhile, the northeastern-bound ripple of the electromagnetic tsunami crosses the Atlantic to England, the force of the signal causing the mighty sarsens of Stonehenge to tremble. Concealed deep within this rolling hillside of Salisbury is yet another alien antenna.
Having encircled the planet in seconds, the highly charged energy field converges from all directions upon the oldest of the Guardian’s relay stations—the Great Pyramid of Giza.
Waves of energy penetrate the limestone block, passing through the King’s Chamber and the hollowed-out brown block of granite identical to the sarcophagus within the Kukulkán pyramid. Moving deeper, the beacon activates an alien apparatus hidden well below the Egyptian superstructure, a place where no human has ever been.
In a blink of a nan
osecond, the global array is complete, the planet’s atmosphere saturated, sealed within a powerful alien energy grid.
Mick drops to the ground, unconscious.
North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD), Colorado
One hundred and seven frightened technicians stare at the large overhead computerized map of northern America, which depicts the real-time trajectories of more than fifteen hundred Russian nuclear and biological missiles. Most personnel weep openly as they huddle in prayer groups, grasping pictures of their loved ones, who, unknowingly, are just minutes away from death. Others, too numb to stand, lie on the floor beneath their workstations and wait for the unimaginable to happen.
Commander-in-Chief General Andre Moreau wipes back tears, struggling to refrain from calling his son and daughter living in Los Angeles. What could I tell them? What could I possibly say? That I love them? That I’m sorry …?
Ninety Seconds to Impact:
A wail rises from the command center, the sound of the computerized female voice causing General Moreau’s legs to fail him. He collapses into the seat of his chair.
And then, as if by magic, the missiles suddenly disappear from the giant screen.
Incoming Missiles Destroyed—Incoming Missiles Destroyed—
Screams and cheers. Moreau looks up. Giddy technicians are pointing, yelling, hugging, weeping, as a wave of euphoria spreads throughout the facility.
Moreau struggles to his feet, tears pouring from his eyes, his voice a strained rasp as he calls for a systems analysis.
Two exuberant operators and a senior commander compete for his attention.
“Systems are all online!”
“What happened to the missiles?”
“According to our data, they simply self-destructed.”
“I want confirmation.”
“We’re attempting to confirm with our bases in Florida and San Diego, but a dense wave of electromagnetic interference is jamming all communications.”