by Alten-Steve
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 Devlin 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. Rodr
iguez. 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.
Sam presses his face against the thick glass to see better.
Dominique grabs his arm. ‘Come on, we’ll be late.’
‘Wait, I want to see what’s inside.’
‘Later. Dr. Mohr’s waiting.’
The glass corridor bends to the left, another door up ahead. ‘So who’s this Dr. Mohr?’
‘The director of GOLDEN FLEECE.’
The corridor door opens. To Sam’s surprise, they are standing in a pleasant foyer—more ski lodge than space center. Teak wood lines the walls and floor. The ceiling, stretching six stories above their heads, ends in a tinted glass dome. Plush furniture in shades of violet and purples surround a control station.
Seated behind the rounded console is the East-Asian woman who had appeared in the last hologram, only this time in the flesh.
The woman stares at Sam as if seeing a ghost. ‘Remarkable …’
‘Rameeka Ellepola, this is my son.’
The dark-eyed, brown-skinned Sri Lankan stands, extending her hand. ‘This is such an incredible honor.’
He shakes her hand. ‘Guess you’re a big football fan, huh?’
‘Football?’ She shoots Dominique a quizzical look.
‘I’ll explain later,’ Dominique says. ‘Where’s Dr. Mohr?’
‘Observing the training session. He asked you to meet him in the mezzanine.’
Sam follows his mother to an awaiting turbolift, the Asian girl never taking her eyes off him. He waits until the elevator door seals. ‘Okay, what was that all about?’
Before Dominique can respond, the lift door reopens.
They step out onto a dark mezzanine. Ahead is a floor-to-ceiling glass barrier overlooking an enormous indoor arena, its interior bathed in violet light. Situated on their side of the glass wall are twelve control stations. A dozen technicians, both males and females, are seated behind wraparound head-to-toe plasma monitors. Each wears a silver-colored body leotard lined with sensory links wired to their controls. Atop the technicians’ heads—sensory visors, obscuring their faces.
Appearing from behind the monitors is a slight Caucasian man in a white lab coat. He approaches, pausing so that the beam from an overhead light reveals his face.
‘Hello, hello.’ The scientist kisses Dominique on the cheek, then turns to her son. ‘Oh, my, thank you so much for coming. I’ve waited so long to meet you.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Mohr, David Mohr. Please call me Dave. I’m in charge of this monstrosity.’
The scientist is six inches shorter than Manny, with chocolate brown hair graying slightly around the temples. His complexion is pale, the deep-set eyes brown and twinkling, absorbing everything they see.
Immanuel eyes the offered hand before shaking it. ‘Samuel Agler.’
Mohr flashes a grin. ‘Samuel Agler, oh, I love it. Come with me, Samuel Agler, there’s something I want you to see. Dominique?’
‘Go, you know I can’t stand to watch.’
‘Understood.’ Mohr leads Manny toward the glass barrier. ‘You know, Sam, your mother has told me so much about you. Ever been to the Cape?’
‘Once, when I was in high school. Wait a second, you’re not the weather-net Dr. Mohr, are you? The Nobel prize guy?’
‘That’s me. These days, I’m working on things infinitely more interesting. Let me show you.’ He points to the vast arena, its specifics still hidden in darkness.
‘What is this—a holographic suite?’
‘As a matter of fact it is. We use it as a training facility. It allows us to monitor all levels of combat.’
‘Combat?’
Mohr flashes a boyish grin. ‘You’re just in time for the morning session.’ The scientist turns to his two assistants. ‘We’re ready, ladies. Begin sequence one.’
Yellow ceiling lights illuminate the interior, revealing a replica of an ancient Mesoamerican ball court. The playing field is about 150 yards long, slightly narrower at its width, its rectangle of grass imprisoned within four walls constructed of limestone blocks. The longer eastern and western boundaries are bordered by stone embankments rising fifteen feet, each slanted wall adorned with ancient ball game reliefs. Situated atop the eastern embankment, directly across from the glass partition and control room, is a replica of Chichén Itzá’s twenty-six-foot-high Temple of the Jaguar.
Anchored to the two perpendicular walls like a giant vertical donut is a circular stone ring, its hoop twenty inches in diameter.
‘You’ve duplicated the Mayan Ball Court? Why?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘The Mayan inscription on the embankment—what does it say?’
‘This particular ball court was known to the Maya as “black hole”, indicating it stood at the entrance of the Underworld, or Xibalba. The heroes of the game were said to have descended to Xibalba to conquer death. Look, here come their challengers.’
Mohr points below and to their left.
Entering from the southern end of the arena, their faces cloaked behind Mayan death masks, are a dozen brown-skinned warriors. Too large to be of Mayan descent, the men are as tall and muscular as Ryan Beck. Each carries an object like a baseball bat, the handles shaped like a serpent’s head.
The twelve technicians work furiously at their control stations, each manipulating their designated warrior.
The Mayans line up in formation, shoulder to shoulder beneath the opposite eastern goal.
From the northern end of the field appear two men. In stark contrast to the warriors, these athletes are dressed from head to toe in modern-day Special Ops combat body armor, one in black, the other in white.
‘What are they wearing?’
‘An advanced type of exoskeleton. The outer layer consists of ballistic-resistant ceramics backed by a lightweight carbon nanotube. Fabric’s as strong as steel, as light as cotton. A mini-fuel-cell-powered thermal comfort system, worn at the hip, cools or warms each soldier. Microturbines fueled by liquid hydrogen provide the body armor with ten kilowatts of power. Those teardrop-shaped helmets have integrated communication systems and augmented reality optics with night-vision sc
reens. Strapped to their backs is a thin, pressurized water pack feeding a tube mounted inside each of the soldiers’ helmets.’
‘Sorry I asked.’
Side by side, the two modern-day warriors jog toward the western wall, playing sticks in hand, tinted face shields obscuring their identities.
Two of the brown-skinned warriors step forward, swinging their bats as if warming up for a cricket match.
A bloodcurdling bellow shatters the silence, causing the hairs on the back of Manny’s neck to stand on end.
The two men in body armor step forward, accepting the challenge.
From atop the Temple of the Jaguars appears a Mayan king. His face is concealed behind the mask of a gaping serpent’s head, a trail of green feathers running down his back. In one hand he holds an obsidian knife, in the other—a round object, dripping with blood. The king raises both arms in ceremonial fashion and begins chanting in an ancient tongue.
‘Itz’-am-na, Kit Bol-on Tun, Ah-au Cham-ah-ez …’
‘The king is invoking the gods,’ Mohr whispers.
Manny focuses on the dripping object in the Mayan’s hand, shocked to see it is the severed head of a boy.
‘Game ball,’ Mohr says, his eyes dancing. ‘Are you familiar with the game of tlachtli?’
‘More or less. They have to get the skull, er … ball through the hoop.’
‘Correct. They can use their sticks, knees, and feet, but they cannot touch it with their hands. In combat style, two players per team compete at a time. As you’ll see, anything goes.’
The king stops chanting. Gripping the gushing head by the hair, he swings his arm in great circles, then heaves the skull toward the center of the playing field.
The four combatants charge forward, the soldier in white first to the ‘ball.’ As he feints a strike, one of the masked goons bullrushes him, attempting to club him with his stick. White pirouettes gracefully to his right—and lets loose a vicious backhand fist, which catches the larger assailant square in the throat, sending him to his knees—