by Alten-Steve
Julius hobbles out from behind a curtain, offering a half-wave as he manages his way to his podium.
Seated in the third row with his family, Samuel Agler stares at the wolfish leer on Pierre Borgia’s face, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
“Well, Julius, here we are, together again after our tumultuous breakup. You once taught me that the pursuit of truth remains its own cause. With that in mind, I’d like to expand my introduction just a few moments longer, before you engage the audience in your romantic theories of extraterrestrial intervention.”
A rush of anxiety; Julius feels his left arm begin to throb.
“Ladies and gentlemen, last week an independent filmmaker in Hollywood sent me this short video clip—a behind-the-scenes account of a longer reel—a reel Professor Gabriel financed and developed in order to substantiate the inane theories he’s about to feed you. Roll the footage.”
An image illuminates the big screen, revealing Julius Gabriel seated in a horseshoe-shaped chamber surrounded by recording equipment—facing a small gray-skinned alien. There is no audio, the only sound provided by the hushed tones of the crowd.
“What you are witnessing is an alleged interview that Professor Gabriel will swear took place in a subterranean location somewhere near Area 51. In fact, the footage was filmed in a small sound stage in Nevada, and the supposed ‘E.T.’ was this little guy—”
From the podium cabinet Borgia removes a five-foot puppet identical to the extraterrestrial on the screen.
Julius grips the edge of his dais, his body trembling. “You lying bastard. You set me up!”
“You set us all up, Professor. The Mayan Doomsday prophecy is nonsense, your extraterrestrial theories regarding the evolution of modern man are ridiculous, and your presence here is an embarrassment to this university.”
Unsure how to react, some members of the audience boo, others stand and toss their programs onstage. Borgia plays up to the crowd’s angst, exhorting them on.
Julius gasps for air like a fish out of water, his chest constricting, his heart squeezed behind death’s vise. He staggers away from the podium—
—Sam bounding over two rows, leaping onstage, catching him as he tumbles behind the curtain’s edge. Kneeling, he holds the elder man to his chest with one arm while his free hand searches his jacket pocket, retrieving the prescription bottle. Popping the lid with his teeth, Sam dumps the pills onto his pant leg and examines one of the small white tablets.
“What the hell? These aren’t your pills, they’re breath mints!”
Julius gazes up at him wearily. “Borgia.”
Sam turns, only Julius squeezes his hand. “My time’s up, this is as far as I go. It’s up to you now, Manny.”
“Manny?” A rush of adrenaline jolts Sam’s being like an electrical charge.
“I know who you are, I know why you are here. Our time together … a gift from the Upper Realm. Chaos is upon us, unleashing ripples of hatred and destruction. The monster who chased you from your time shall emerge as it was intended to in mine. Only One Hunahpu can save humanity. And you are not he.”
“One Hunahpu? Julius, who is he? Who am I? Tell me, please!”
“I can’t.” The old man smiles with tear-filled eyes. “These are uncharted waters, son. Mind the helm.”
The weight on his chest grows heavy as Julius Gabriel’s soul abandons its physical vessel.
Sam cradles the lifeless body for a long moment. When he looks up, his wife and daughter are hovering over him—ushering in the sound of the auditorium and the heckling jousts of Pierre Borgia.
A torrent of hot blood rushes through Samuel Agler’s being. “Wait here.”
Borgia never sees him coming. One moment he is exhorting the crowd into a feverish frenzy—the next he is writhing on his back, the craaack of his occipital bone terminating in darkness.
JFK Airport
New York
Adelina Botello-Gabriel applies a fresh coat of lipstick, purposely nudging her husband awake with her elbow.
Michael Gabriel opens his eyes. “Are we boarding?”
“Not yet, darling. Why don’t you get us each another coffee?”
“Yeah, sure.” Standing, Mick weaves his way through rows of seats crowded with passengers and their carry-on bags. Leaving gate C-47, he scans the overseas terminal for the nearest snack bar—his ears perking at the sound of his last name.
“… Professor Gabriel was pronounced dead at the scene. No word yet on the extent of the under secretary’s injury or the identity of his assailant.”
Michael Gabriel stares at the televised news report, his limbs trembling. He waits until the story changes, then dashes back to Adelina.
“My father’s dead! He died of a heart attack.”
“Michael, calm yourself—”
“I just saw it on TV. Adelina, we can’t go to Paris, we need to get to Boston.”
Her pager buzzes in her purse. She glances at the text message.
“Who is it? Is it about my father?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
“Well? What did it say?”
“It said the marriage is over. I’m sorry.” She stands, gathering her belongings. “Not that it wasn’t fun. What you lack in social skills you more than made up for in bed. I was going to tell you in Paris—”
“What are you talking about?”
“The priest was an actor, Michael. We were never married. Our meeting—this entire relationship—it was a sham. My job was to get close—”
He grabs her arm, his grip cutting off her circulation. “Who hired you?”
“I don’t know … you’re hurting me! Help! Officer!”
Two airport security men hear her pleas, approaching from the next gate. Mick pulls her in close so that their lips are nearly touching. “We’ll meet again. Until then, I’d be very afraid.”
He releases her, then grabs his carry-on bag and disappears in the crowd.
25
On September 10, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld declared war. Not on foreign terrorists, “the adversary’s closer to home. It’s the Pentagon bureaucracy.” […] Rumsfeld promised change but the next day—September 11—the world changed and in the rush to fund the war on terrorism, the war on waste seems to have been forgotten. “According to some estimates we cannot track $2.3 trillion in transactions,” Rumsfeld admitted.
—VINCE GONZALES,
CBS NEWS CORRESPONDENT
NOVEMBER 21, 2001: MIDDLESEX JAIL, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
Built in 1971, the Middlesex Jail is a maximum-security facility occupying the upper floors of the same high-rise building that holds the Cambridge Superior Courthouse. Detainees housed in these cells are awaiting trial or sentencing.
The man being held in solitary has already been pronounced guilty by Justice James Thompson, a judge who owes his appointment on the bench to Republican Congressman Robert Borgia.
The deputy escorts the VIP with the heavy bandages over his right eye through a short corridor leading to the isolation cell. A folding chair and a bottled water are situated ten feet from the iron bars. The prisoner sits on the edge of his mattress, waiting.
“Thank you, deputy. Again, the video camera has been disabled?”
“Yes, sir, just as you requested. Press the buzzer by the door when you’re ready to leave.”
Pierre Borgia waits until his police escort has left before settling himself uncomfortably in the cheap metal folding chair. “Samuel Agler. No registered fingerprints, no birth certificate, no country of origin. According to Intel, prior to 1990 you didn’t exist. And please, let’s forgo that ‘third world orphan’ story your court-appointed attorney spewed to the judge. I want to know who you really are.”
The athletic man filling out the orange jumpsuit remains emotionless, his black eyes scanning the unbandaged half of his interrogator’s face. “That looks painful. Does it bother you much not having a right eye?”
Borgia’s m
outh twitches into a forced smile. “Push my buttons all you want, my friend, but know this: I have your wife and I have your daughter.”
Samuel remains seated, his jaw muscles flexing as he grinds his teeth.
“A most amazing child. A most amazing wife. To think that Maria Rosen’s little sister was a Nordic … I mean, speaking of small worlds … or should I say, extraterrestrial worlds. I only wish Julius was still alive so I could tell him.”
“My wife is from Britain, she was raised in Spain. Whatever game you’re playing—”
“I assure you, this isn’t a game. My team is going to learn all we can from your wife and daughter while they’re still alive, then after we see how much torture they can endure we’ll carve up their remains and analyze their internal organs. You, however, won’t be so lucky. On my family’s suggestion, Judge Thompson has decided to send you to a mental asylum where you’ll spend the rest of your days in solitary confinement. Alone, you can think about all the nasty little things I’ll be doing to your family while the staff periodically amuse themselves with your wretched existence.”
Borgia stands to leave.
“You want to know who I am? You know who I am … Seven Macaw.”
Borgia freezes, his head cocked to one side. After a long moment he turns to speak, his one bloodshot eye blazing red, his voice a throaty rasp. “Chilam Balam?”
Sam stands, gripping the bars. “The prophet’s in my consciousness. He sees you hiding in that sickening bag of flesh. He smells your sulphurous essence. Only he won’t tell me who I am or why I’m here.”
The soul inhabiting Pierre Borgia’s vessel paces slowly before the cell. “You are here because I am here. With each incarnation it seems our paths must cross, as if our own unfinished business is what loops the cosmos. And yet with each intersection darkness trumps the light. Do you understand the inherent meaning behind these circumstances, prophet? It means the Creator desires the darkness to inhabit the physical realm. It means He no longer cares about His creation. His indifference fuels Satan’s resolve—before you die, you’ll bear witness to his glorious resurrection.”
Large Hadron Collider to Resume Operations at CERN
February 22, 2010
This month marks the resumption of operations at the Large Hadron Collider (LHC), the huge new experimental device operated by the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) in Switzerland. The largest and costliest apparatus ever built to conduct physical research, the LHC was shut down for repairs for a year after an accident.
The LHC is to resume low-power operation early this week (February 22–24), and is scheduled to run at half-power sometime in March. CERN engineers decided last month at a meeting in Chamonix, France, to limit the collider to half power, about 3.5 trillion electron volts (TeV) for the next 18 to 24 months.
The LHC operated for less than a month last year, from November 23 to December 20, as part of the process of recovery from the accident that occurred on September 19, 2008. A slightly misaligned magnet caused the LHC beam to vaporize six tons of liquid helium coolant, causing an explosion inside the detector.
During the experimental re-start, the two beams of the LHC were centered and stable. Each beam was operating at 900 gigaelectronvolts (GeV), or about 13% of the full energy. At these energies, the first confirmed collisions of the LHC were found.
—Bryan Dyne - wsws.org
Widespread Destruction from Japan Earthquake, Tsunamis
March 11, 2011
Japan was struck by the most powerful earthquake to hit the island nation in recorded history. The 9.0 magnitude temblor, which was centered near the east coast of Japan, killed hundreds of people and caused the formation of 30-foot walls of water that swept across rice fields, engulfed entire towns, dragged houses onto highways, and tossed cars and boats like toys. Some waves reached six miles (10 kilometers) inland in Miyagi Prefecture on Japan’s east coast.
The devastating earthquake and tsunami actually moved the island closer to the United States and shifted the planet’s axis. The quake caused a rift 15 miles below the sea floor that stretched 186 miles long and 93 miles wide. The areas closest to the epicenter of the quake jumped a full 13 feet closer to the United States, according to geophysicist Ross Stein at the United States Geological Survey. The 9.0 magnitude quake was caused when the Pacific tectonic plate dove under the North American plate, which shifted Eastern Japan towards North America by about 13 feet. The quake also shifted the earth’s axis by 6.5 inches, shortened the day by 1.6 microseconds, and sank Japan downward by about two feet. As Japan’s eastern coastline sunk, the tsunami’s waves rolled in.
Why did the quake shorten the day? The earth’s mass shifted towards the center, spurring the planet to spin a bit faster. Last year’s massive 8.8 magnitude earthquake in Chile also shortened the day, but by an even smaller fraction of a second. The 2004 Sumatra quake knocked a whopping 6.8 micro-seconds off the day.
Note: The Shinmoedake volcano, located on Japan’s southern island of Kyushu, 950 miles from the earthquake’s epicenter, erupted on January 19. It spewed ash and rocks two days after the 9.0 event.
26
ELEVEN YEARS LATER …
MARCH 21, 2012 (SPRING EQUINOX): CHICHEN ITZA, YUCATAN PENINSULA
The pilgrims have been arriving steadily throughout the day, the parking lot filled with tour buses and rental cars, the gates of the state-owned park clogged with long lines. The entering masses follow a worn earthen path—a time portal that leads them a thousand years into the past.
In Mayan, Chichen Itza translates as “mouth of the well of the water wizard,” a reference to Kukulcan and the city’s sacred cenote. Surrounded by dense tropical jungle, the ancient capital’s layout remains virtually unchanged—an oasis of flat open expanses and limestone structures interconnected by earthen-paved roads called sacbe. Chichen Itza is divided into several subsections, and its main attraction is the Great North Platform, a massive public gathering place featuring the Temple of the Warriors, the Great Ball Court, and the most magnificent structure in the Yucatan—the Kukulcan Pyramid.
The crowd gathers around the Kukulcan’s northern balustrade, the first day of spring igniting a carnival atmosphere. Drums beat to traditional music as anticipation of the approaching vernal event builds. According to legend, twice each year when the day and night are equal, Kukulcan’s spirit returns to his worshipers, the great teacher’s arrival precipitated by the appearance of the shadow of a feathered serpent along the northern balustrade. As the sun rises in the sky, the snake’s seven segments elongate, until it gradually slithers down the steps and reconnects with its disembodied head at the bottom of the pyramid.
The crowd cheers the mid-afternoon sun as the first of the creature’s triangles darkens a section of the limestone facade—the shadow created by the architecture’s precise alignment to the natural rotation of the Earth and sun.
Twenty feet below ancient stone that has borne witness to the conception and demise of an entire nation lies a second temple. Smaller and older, it remains concealed within the Kukulcan like an infant inhabiting its mother’s womb. Follow an excavated tunnel along the northern side of the larger structure and one enters a claustrophobic access sealed in block, the limestone slick and sweating. A narrow claustrophobia-inducing flight of steps leads to a small chamber guarded by a stone chacmool—a gem-laced carving of a jaguar.
Seated alone before the idol beneath 100,000 tons of pyramid is Michael Gabriel. The thirty-seven-year-old son of the late Julius and Maria Gabriel suffers an existence of loneliness, anger, and angst. He is a man chained to and isolated by a mission, his only contact with other humans defined by the acquaintances reconnoitered on his annual migrations between Nazca and Chichen Itza.
Excised from his routine are the once-frequent trips to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where his appeals regarding the sentencing and imprisonment of his yet-to-be-born biological son, Samuel Agler, have been stonewalled for years. The only spark of daylight�
��a recent disclosure that the antiquated mental asylum was closing and that all patients would be relocated to facilities located throughout the country.
Samuel Agler has been transferred to the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center in Miami, Florida.
One way or another, Michael Gabriel intends to get him out … and the clock is ticking.
With the arrival of the 2012 vernal equinox, the Doomsday Event is now a mere nine months away. Despite exhaustive field work, Mick is no closer to resolving the Mayan mystery than his parents had been. It was as if his son’s mysterious appearance had reshuffled the deck on forty years of research. Compounding the problem was the government’s refusal to discuss the disappearance of his Aunt Laura and his niece, Sophia, and the more he inquired, the closer he came to being “disappeared” himself.
That translated to a Majestic-12 threat, which meant Laura and Sophia were being held somewhere in Area 51, assuming they were still alive.
The muffled acoustics of the crowd’s cheers cause him to look up at the jaguar figure. Chilam Balam had known all the pieces of the Doomsday puzzle. Samuel Agler was convinced he was an incarnation of the Jaguar Prophet. After Sam’s eleven years in solitary confinement, Mick prays there is a lucid stream left to mine in his son’s consciousness.
He glances at his watch. The charter plane from Merida landed twenty minutes ago, the passenger having arrived from her foster parents’ home in Tampa, Florida.