The Mayan Trilogy

by Alten-Steve

  What Dr. Krawitz needed was a compound that would both cool and expand.

  Enter Dr. David Mohr and his colleague, Barry Perlman, two scientists who had spent the last twenty years working on liquid hydrogen/liquid oxygen rocket engines. Together, they had developed several variants of cryogenic nitrogen gas used to cool fuels. A chance meeting with Dr. Krawitz led them to experiment with a nitrogen-hybrid gas, which, when introduced to a lower pressure region, would expand exponentially as it cooled.

  On August 10, 2023, eight refitted Trident SSBN submarines moved to intercept Super-Cane Carol, whose 193-mile-per-hour winds were trekking west across the Atlantic toward Haiti and the southeastern seaboard of the United States. The submarine fleet rose within the eye and, maintaining course and speed, proceeded to pump MPK gas (named after the three scientists) directly at the approaching southeastern wall of the storm.

  As the hurricane continued on its northwesterly track, the passing eye wall inhaled the MPK gas, which expanded a hundredfold as it crystallized. Within minutes, the cryogenic gas disrupted the vertical convection within the cyclone’s wall clouds, thus reducing the amount of water vapor being condensed and sharply reducing the release of latent heat. Within an hour, sustained winds had dropped from 193 to 157 miles per hour at the center of the storm—a substantial reduction.

  The success of the experiment earned the three scientists Nobel prizes and rejuvenated the Navy’s antiquated fleet of nuclear submarines. A new sub force, known as ‘the weather net’ was commissioned, with refueling outposts established in the North Atlantic, North Pacific, and western North Pacific. Having been relegated to reduced duties thanks to the advent of space defense systems, the Navy was suddenly back in business as ‘Cyclone Killers.’

  Bruce Doyle stifles another yawn as he watches Super-Cane Kenneth’s powerful vortex near the Virgin Islands. Doyle is exhausted, having kept vigil on the super-cane since the tropical cyclone’s birth ninety-seven hours earlier.

  And Kenneth is becoming an absolute monster, more enormous than even Super-Cane Pamela. To make matters worse, a fire at the weather-net depot in Haiti has forced the Navy to arrange emergency shipments of MPK cryogenic nitrogen gas mix from the Port of Miami. A three-day delay in acquiring an antiquated oil tanker for transport has allowed the already dangerous Category-6 storm to intensify.

  The ESMA director checks the latest information coming in from the center’s Unmanned Cyclone Aerial Lab, known as ‘UNCLE.’ Resembling a four-foot steel dart with wings, these hurricane chasers fly back and forth through the storm, transmitting data.

  SUPER-CANE KENNETH

  0400 GMT TUESDAY

  11/22/33

  LOCATION:

  18.3N 53.7W

  MAX. WIND:

  199 MPH

  GUSTING:

  212 MPH

  MOVING:

  NW AT 14 MPH

  PRESSURE:

  941 MB

  PREDICTED U.S. LANDFALL:

  SATURDAY 11/26/33

  13:40 HRS

  DESTINATION:

  SOUTHEAST FLORIDA

  ‘Jesus …’ Bruce Doyle touches the speed dial on his cell phone. ‘Sharon, it’s me. Contact the airlines. I want you and the kids in Philly by tomorrow afternoon. Don’t argue, just plan on staying with your mother at least a week.’

  31

  NOVEMBER 22, 2033: HANGAR 13, KENNEDY SPACE

  CENTER, CAPE CANAVERAL, FLORIDA

  Tuesday Night

  Manny follows his brother through the indoor Japanese garden, his head still foggy from the physician’s mood inhibitor. Moonbeams peek through the atrium’s Plexiglas dome above their heads, lighting the gravel path and a shallow stream, which crosses beneath a small wooden bridge up ahead.

  ‘You okay?’ Jacob asks.

  ‘No. What is this place?’

  ‘I call it my refuge, it’s the only place I feel safe. This entire complex is shielded from electrostatic waves. We call it a quiet zone. It safeguards my presence from Lilith and any other Hunahpu who might be out there.’

  Up ahead is a timber-framed Japanese house.

  ‘You’re really into this oriental stuff, aren’t you?’ Immanuel asks.

  ‘The concept is called Wabi and Sabi … simple quietude—elegant simplicity. I find it spiritually liberating.’

  Just before the entrance, lying in the middle of the path is a grapefruit-sized stone, wrapped in hemp. Jacob picks it up and shows it to his brother. ‘The bound stone symbolizes entry into a different world. You are now entering mine.’

  Immanuel follows his brother over the bridge to the open formal entranceway.

  ‘You see, Manny, in the traditional Japanese home, there is no clear delineation between the exterior and the interior. Instead, there’s an intermediate structure composed of a formal entranceway, a veranda, a drawing room, and a courtyard, separated by various screening devices, all of which are designed to bring nature indoors while still shielding its inhabitants from the elements.’ Jacob pauses at the raised deck to remove his shoes. ‘Please?’

  Immanuel kicks off his sneakers, feeling ridiculous.

  There are no formal doors or walls, only an open wooden shutter. The floors inside are made of polished bamboo, covered here and there with tatami mats. A small alcove leads to a high-ceilinged, A-framed drawing room, at the center of which are four comfortable leather chairs situated around a stone coffee table. The kitchen is immaculate, the latest appliances discreetly hidden behind a wooden bar. A step down leads to the sunken dining room, its floor covered in a violet tatami, the surrounding bamboo benches lined in matching pads. The walls are made entirely of shoji—framed paper sliding doors. Through an open partition Immanuel sees another formal garden. He hears the soothing sounds of water—the stream passing beneath the floorboards to intersect the center atrium of the house.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Jacob asks.

  ‘Just tired.’

  ‘The guest room’s through here.’ Jacob pulls open a shoji, revealing a small room, at the center of which is a tatami bed. ‘Better get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

  ‘Jake, what did you mean when you said I’m the Yin to your Yang?’

  ‘Yin and Yang are the two fundamental forces that make up the Tao—a primal, mysterious energy that translates simply into “The Way” or “The One”. From The One comes “The Two”—the Yin and the Yang, two powerful polar forces, like the positive and negative poles of a battery. Neither is fully dominant, each in a constantly changing dynamic of push and pull, energizing and pacifying.

  ‘There is a saying: All things arise from the Tao, formed out of matter, shaped by their environment. Take this home for example. You are the Yin, the house itself and the earth on which it stands. Both are formed of matter. Surrounding the home is energy—the Yang—constantly in motion, unfolding the boundaries of space and time. For the last six years our home has been closed, our two energies isolated. Now the house is open, and our two energies shall interact once more, shaped by our environment, reacting to the forces at play within the universe.’

  ‘This whole Mayan Xibalba thing … you really believe it’s our destiny?’

  ‘It is the journey that we were genetically programmed to follow.’

  ‘Yeah, right. But you also said that humanity’s stuck in a time loop. And you mentioned we’ve made the journey before.’

  ‘We’ve been there, yes.’

  ‘So, if we’ve been there, why are we still stuck in this time loop?’

  Jacob sits on the edge of the tatami bed. ‘Our last effort failed. I’m not certain why, but I believe our attack was not properly … coordinated.’

  ‘By failed, I take it you mean we died?’

  ‘Don’t worry, this time everything is different. This time our father has reached out to prepare me. I’ve also spent the last six years readying battle plans in the holographic suite. I’ve re-created and analyzed every possible attack scenario. You’ll understand once your
training begins.’

  ‘I want to understand now.’

  ‘It’s late, Manny. Get some sleep, and tomorrow I’ll—’

  ‘Now, Jacob!’

  Jacob closes his eyes, debating. ‘Computer, activate guestroom screen.’

  A panel of clear smart-glass rises from a bamboo floorboard.

  ‘Computer, load last combat scenario. Commence replay five thousand frames prior to contact in the nexus.’

  A scene illuminates upon the face of the smart-glass. The landscape of the Underworld appears. Two warriors, Jacob clad in white, the computer-simulated Immanuel in black, approach the molten metallic lake and alabaster white tree.

  ‘The calabash tree is a living conduit of the nexus. The Abomination is using it to hold our father in a sort of suspended animation. The tree glows white because of his aura in the Underworld.

  ‘The warrior in black representing you is a VR drone, programmed to respond in a set pattern of combat moves. What it can’t do is think and react like a Hunahpu warrior. Keep that in mind.’

  Jacob points to the twins, who are hurrying toward the lake. ‘The Abomination can sense us while we’re in the nexus, which is why we remain in the third dimension as long as possible.’

  Immanuel stares at the lake. Ripples appear, signaling the emergence of the alien being from the silvery ooze.

  ‘The alien is a spiritual demon—a sentry, posted to guard our father. The silicon skin gives it form and substance in the physical dimension. Its most deadly feature is its claws, which release a fast-acting toxin. Our Hunahpu genetics can fight the poison in small doses, but anything more than a severe scratch would be fatal.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  A brilliant explosion of emerald green light ignites across the horizon.

  ‘Computer, pause.’

  The on-screen image freezes as the two warriors sprint toward the alabaster-goo tree.

  ‘We’ve just entered the nexus. What follows will play at less than 3 percent of its actual speed.’

  ‘Three percent? I can’t move that fast.’

  Jacob flashes a grin. ‘Not yet. Computer, resume play at nexus speed.’

  The scene continues, frame by grainy frame. The twin in white is almost flying around the lake, his feet barely touching the shoreline. He reaches the tree at the same time as the demon sentry. Drawing what appears to be a sword, Jacob lashes out at the frightening creature, keeping it at bay.

  With each stroke the blade glows a deeper shade of blue.

  ‘Lasers and guns do not work in the nexus. The sword is made of a nanofabricated alloy steel. With each movement, the macromolecular motors within the blade expand and heat the edge, threatening to cut through the demon sentry’s silicon outer skin. The blood bleeds blue without hemoglobin, because there is no oxygen on Xibalba, only CO2.’

  The warrior in white is a whirlwind of movement, slashing and parrying, stabbing and retreating, barely able to keep out of the larger sentry’s superior reach.

  Immanuel shakes his head. ‘How can you keep that up? I would have collapsed long ago.’

  ‘Training. Now watch carefully.’

  The black-clad warrior representing Immanuel has reached the tree. As he attempts to free the drone representing their father, the demon sentry suddenly lunges toward the trunk, attempting to strike the virtual-reality Immanuel with its left claw.

  But Jacob is too quick. Having clearly anticipated the move, he dives forward, slamming his now-flaming sword down and through the alien’s right arm, severing it at the elbow joint—

  —as the black-clad warrior lashes outward with his own sword, decapitating the stunned sentry with one powerful blow.

  The monstrous skull thuds against the rocky surface, its headless body following suit.

  ‘Yes!’ Manny is on his feet, barely able to catch his breath. ‘We won … right?’

  Jacob shakes his head. Points.

  The drone representing Michael Gabriel is lying against the simmering remains of the calabash tree, blue blood streaming profusely from his abdomen.

  ‘Computer, rewind six hundred frames and pause.’

  The image returns to the demon sentry’s lunge toward the tree. ‘Watch closely. His left claw is the decoy. Ignore it and focus on the right. Computer, resume at 1 percent nexus speed.’

  Immanuel watches the demon’s left arm, which is partially hidden below its lunging body. Even at greatly reduced speed the limb is just a blur as it extends toward the Michael Gabriel drone, which is morphing out from the trunk of the dripping white tree.

  Two of the sentry’s scalpel-sharp clawed fingers puncture Mick through his abdomen and out his spine before the appendage retracts in an attempt to parry Jacob’s blow.

  ‘Jesus, it … it butchered him.’

  Jacob nods. ‘We can win, but it’ll take both of us to do it. We have a long day tomorrow, try to get some sleep.’

  ‘Sleep? You honestly expect me to sleep after seeing that?’

  ‘If you can’t sleep, ask the computer for a green tea sedative.’ Jacob exits through the open shoji, then turns. ‘Tomorrow is a big day, Manny. We need to bring you back to our chosen path.’

  Immanuel Gabriel lies back on the uncomfortably hard bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Maybe it’s your chosen path, bro, but it’s not mine.

  Geology Lab, University of Miami,

  Coral Gables, Florida

  Lauren Beckmeyer is in Bill Gabeheart’s office, her bare feet propped on his desk. She has been in the lab over two hours, waiting for the lab’s computer to complete a data search to confirm information downloaded earlier from Yellowstone Park is identical to data received in the past.

  ANALYSIS COMPLETE. REPEATING DATA FOUND BETWEEN

  YELLOWSTONE CALDERA READINGS OF 16 APRIL 2030 AND

  19 NOVEMBER 2033.

  ‘Repeating data? Computer, how close in similarity are the two readings?’

  NO VARIANCE FOUND. DATA IS IDENTICAL.

  Gabeheart was right. Those Fed bastards are hiding something. She types in Gabeheart’s access code on her laptop.

  The professor’s prerecorded image flashes on screen. ‘Hi. Sorry to disappoint you but this isn’t me. Since I’m probably outside watching Old Faithful, feel free to leave me a message.’

  ‘Doc, it’s Lauren. I found something. Contact me the moment you—’

  The recorded image disappears, replaced by that of Paxton J. Walther, Bill Gabeheart’s regional coordinator at Yellowstone. ‘Ms. Beckmeyer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ What’s he doing on Gabeheart’s private comm link? ‘Sir, where’s Professor Gabeheart? I need to speak with him.’

  Paxton shakes his head sadly. ‘I’m so sorry—’

  Lauren’s muscles contract in fear.

  ‘—there’s been an accident. Bill … he died earlier this morning.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was taking temperature readings at one of the hot springs when there was a tremor and Bill fell in. By the time we got to him … the third-degree burns … he was gone.’

  ‘Oh, God … oh my God—’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I can’t … I just spoke with him the other day.’

  Paxton’s eyes come into focus. ‘Saturday?’

  Lauren feels light-headed as the blood drains from her face. ‘I, uh … I don’t know. Might have been—’

  ‘Lauren, did Bill download something to you?’

  ‘No, I mean, yes, it was midterms. I … I had to turn them in before Thanksgiving break. Have you notified Gabeheart’s family?’

  ‘Not yet. Lauren, I’m sorry to have to spring this on you like this, no pun intended. I know you and the professor were close. Where can I find you … to notify you about the funeral arrangements?’

  Don’t tell … don’t say a word … ‘I … I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘Are you going away for the holiday?’

  ‘I’m … not sure.’ Get off now, before you say too m
uch … ‘I have to go, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Lauren, wait—’

  She disconnects the comm link. Oh, God, oh my God … those bastards—they killed him! She covers her face, tears pouring from her eyes, sadness and fear taking her breath away. If they think I know something, they’ll come after me, too!

  ‘Stop! Get a grip and think. First step, erase the data trail.’ She turns to the main computer terminal. ‘Computer, erase all communication records received over the last week, with the exception of the last outgoing call.’

  ACKNOWLEDGED.

  Lauren’s hands are trembling. Okay, you can’t go home … can’t stay here … Who can I tell? Who would believe me?

  A sudden noise—outside the lab. ‘Computer, seal the outer lab doors.’

  ACKNOWLEDGED.

  A knock outside the lab door.

  She whispers, ‘Computer, who’s out there?’

  CAMPUS SECURITY.

  ‘Shh. Reduce volume 80 percent and run a background check on the guy outside the lab door. I want a name and time he’s been on the job.’

  COLLIN SHELBY. TRANSFERRED TO CAMPUS PATROL 19 NOVEMBER 2033.

  November 19 … only three days ago. Jesus, these guys move fast.

  More banging, this time insistent. ‘Hello? Whoever’s in there, could you unseal the security doors please?’

  Cold beads of sweat pour down Lauren’s face. ‘Computer, shut down and lock out all terminals, access code Beckmeyer Tango-Zulu-8659.’