by Alten-Steve
Mick makes his way down the slippery limestone steps, then out the excavated tunnel’s sealed door into daylight.
Beginning at the two serpent heads located at the base of the Kukulcan Pyramid, the sacbe runs north through the dense jungle for nearly a mile before ending at the sacred cenote. The elevated earthen walkway is lined with Mayan men and women selling their wares, the “authentic” pottery and blankets, statues and obsidian daggers all supplied by the same Mexican manufacturer.
The feisty Mayan woman is in her sixties, her turquoise-blue eyes accentuated by her high cheekbones. She is seated in a canvas folding chair, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, shaking her head at an American couple bartering over a figure of a Mayan warrior shooting an arrow into the air.
Mick waits until they leave before approaching the old woman, dropping a thick wad of twenty-dollar bills onto her lap.
Chicahua Aurelia glances up at the tall, dark American, his eyes concealed behind sunglasses. “What do you wish to buy?”
“A conversation. With your niece.”
“My niece?”
“Dominique Vazquez. She arrived on the commuter flight from Merida. I need to speak with her about something important.”
“My niece speaks her own mind. She does not need an old woman to barter her conversations.”
“She refuses to speak with me. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“What is it you need to discuss?”
“Dominique was recently awarded an internship to work in a mental asylum in Florida. My connections inform me she was selected for a particular patient. The patient is a relative of mine … an older half brother. I need to get word to him … to communicate with him.”
“Why not simply arrange a visit?”
“He’s been denied all visitation rights. Eleven years ago he attacked a very powerful man … a dark soul. As my brother suffers, humanity suffers.”
“How so?”
“My older brother possesses knowledge that could prevent the calendar’s prophecy—”
“You again? I don’t believe it.” The thirty-one-year-old Guatemalan beauty with the high cheekbones and waist-length, jet-black hair approaches Mick like an angry tiger. Before he can expel a word, she drives her right leg into a vicious front thrust kick, the martial-arts expert’s sandaled foot striking the archaeologist in his sternum, launching him backward into the jungle thicket.
“Dominique!”
“Chicahua, this man’s been stalking me for three weeks.” Dominique grabs an obsidian dagger from the old woman’s display table.
Mick quickly springs to his feet, taking refuge behind an Acai tree. “I’m not stalking you! I just need to talk—”
Wielding the blade like an expert, she slices the air in tight figure eights, carving up an entanglement of leaves.
“Dominique, put that knife away. Now!”
She hesitates, then backs away, tossing the blade back on the table.
The old woman turns to Mick. “What is your name?”
“Michael Gabriel. I’m an archaeologist, not a stalker.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Enough.” Chicahua waves for him to come closer. “Give me your hand.”
Mick allows the old woman to examine his right palm. Chicahua closes her eyes, her fingers palpating his life line and pulse.
Her eyes reopen. For a long uncomfortable moment she simply stares into Mick’s black irises, then, tearing a piece of paper from her receipt book, she scrawls something in pen.
The old woman hands him the information, returning his money. “This is my address in Pisté. You will join us tonight for dinner. Arrive at eight o’clock.”
“Thank you.” He nods to Dominique, then leaves.
The dark-haired beauty shakes her head. “Why?”
Chicahua Aurelia kisses her daughter’s hand. “When I reconnected with you three years ago, you asked me the same question. You may not like the answer, nor will you understand it, but the reason I sent you away, only to reunite twenty years later, is so your journey would cross paths with that man.”
The White House
Washington, D.C.
Secretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia stares at his reflection in the washroom mirror. He adjusts the patch over his right eye socket, then pats down the short graying tufts of hair along both sides of his otherwise balding head. The black suit and matching tie are immaculate as always.
Borgia exits the executive washroom and turns right, nodding to staff members as he makes his way down the corridor to the Oval Office.
Patsy Goodman looks up from her keyboard. “Go on in. He’s waiting.”
Mark Maller’s gaunt, pale face shows the wear of having served as president for nearly four years. The jet-black hair has grayed around the temples, the eyes, piercing blue, are now more wrinkled around the edges. The former intercollegiate basketball player’s physique, noticeably thinner, is still taut.
Borgia tells him he looks like he’s lost weight.
Maller grimaces. “It’s called stress. It’s over between Heidi and me. Fortunately, she’s agreed to keep everything quiet until after the November election.”
“Sorry to hear that. I would have guessed Viktor Grozny.”
“Yes, well, the Russian president has certainly contributed to my bleeding ulcer. Selling the Iranians those SS-27 mobile ICBMs was a deft move entering next week’s G-20 summit.”
“Sir, you can’t shut down HAARP. There’s only innuendo, no proof—”
“Pierre, I didn’t call you in to discuss covert missile shields. Joe’s decided to step down as vice president. Don’t ask. Call it personal reasons. I’ve already held an unofficial meeting with the powers that be. It’s between you and Ennis Chaney.”
Borgia’s heart skips a beat. “Have you spoken with him yet?”
“No. I wanted to brief you first.”
“Senator Chaney is divisive to the party. He publicly challenges our presence in Afghanistan, he’s been outspoken against Big Oil—”
“As have most Americans.”
“Sir, we both know Chaney can’t hold a candle to me when it comes to foreign affairs. And my family still wields plenty of influence—”
“Not as much as you think. Look, if it were strictly up to me, your name would be on the ticket, but the election’s going to be tight. Chaney would give us a much needed toehold in both Pennsylvania and the South. Relax, Pierre. No decision’s going to be made for at least another two weeks. But I need to know, are there any skeletons in your closet we need to be concerned with? Something the media will run with?”
“I’m clean.”
“What about the incident back in 2001?”
“I was the victim, Mark. I lost an eye, for God’s sake.”
“You know how things will get spun. I’m only asking because my sources tell me your assailant is due for his annual medical evaluation, only this time he’s in an institution that actually will evaluate his mental state. In other words, I wouldn’t want him appearing on talk shows or attack ads come November.”
“Mr. President, trust me—the lunatic who did this to me will never see the light of day.”
Pisté, Yucatan
Pisté is a small Yucatec town located a mile from Chichen Itza on Mexico’s Route 180, its brightly painted stucco stores shelved with Mayan memorabilia. Beyond a block of shops sandwiched around a local inn lies a sleepy residential area, its indigenous populace entrenched in a simple life that rarely exceeds the city limits.
Day has stretched into dusk by the time Michael Gabriel maneuvers his motor scooter off the main drag through dirt streets inhabited by brown-skinned natives, barefoot children, and stray dogs. Locating the address, Mick parks his ride close to the sitting porch of the one-story stucco dwelling and knocks on the screen. The interior door is open, releasing the scent of homemade cornbread. Dominique greets him, wearing a one-piece ivory-colored frock and an attitude of indifference.
“For you.”
He hands her the bouquet of wildflowers.
“Whose garden did you steal these from?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Though my chest is bruised from your last greeting. Where’d you learn to kick like that?”
“You’re the one doing the snooping, you tell me.”
“I’m guessing cheerleader camp?”
He’s rewarded with a quick flash of a smile that accentuates her cheekbones, lightening his heart. “You can come in, Mr. Gabriel, just keep in mind I know six different ways to kill a man.”
“Hopefully cooking’s not one of them.” He follows her past a small sitting room to a kitchen where Chicahua is portioning food onto three colorful serving dishes.
“Come in, Mr. Gabriel. Doesn’t my niece look beautiful this evening?”
“She does.”
The old woman motions for him to sit at the dining room table. “I made some inquiries about you since our last meeting. Your father was Julius Gabriel, your mother was Maria Rosen. You spent many winters of your childhood living in this area while your parents continued their research. Your family has many allies among my people. What you don’t have, Mr. Gabriel, is an older brother.”
Mick’s eyes water as beads of perspiration trickle down his armpit. “He’s more of a half brother, I told you. Julius apparently sowed his wild oats before meeting my mother. Kind of embarrassing.”
“Your mother’s ancestry hails from South America?”
“Peru. But only on her maternal side.”
“Dominique’s maternal lineage traces back to the Itza. My great-grandmother claimed our family tree was rooted by Kukulcan himself.”
“That’s … impressive.”
“I noticed you staring at my eyes earlier in the park. The shade is unusual, yes?”
“Mayan blue.”
“You’ve seen this color before? Perhaps your half brother?”
“My aunt. My mother’s younger sister.”
“And where is your aunt now?”
Mick fights not to look away, wondering if the old woman can read his mind. “She’s gone. She and her daughter went missing eleven years ago.”
“And this older half brother of yours—the one locked up in the asylum—he may know where they are?”
“It’s possible, yes. But he may also know what’s going to happen in nine months.”
“Nothing’s going to happen in nine months,” Dominique snaps. “This whole 2012 thing is just mythological non-sense—a morbid interpretation of the end of the calendar’s natural cycle. A new cycle will begin the day after the winter solstice and life will go on.”
Mick smirks. “Spoken by the woman whose bloodline traces back to the tall Caucasian whose knowledge of the cosmos caused a serpent’s shadow to appear this afternoon on his pyramid.”
“I wasn’t raised in a Third World country like my aunt.”
“You mean your mother, don’t you? Or your biological father, a slave runner named Don Rafelo.”
Chicahua’s startled expression matches the girl’s. “Who revealed this information?”
“Like you said, my family was close to your people, including members of the Sh’Tol brethren. The sacred society knows everything that goes on in their land.”
Dominique turns to Chicahua. “You told me my father died long ago.”
“He did. The day he turned to the dark side for his sorcery.”
“Yet you chose to be with him? Why?”
“This is not for Mr. Gabriel’s ears.”
“You invited him into your home, let him hear it. Unless he already knows. Do you?”
“You invited him into your home, let him hear it. Unless he already knows. Do you?”
Mick hesitates, feeling the old woman’s eyes upon him. “Your father’s bloodline belonged to Quetzalcoatl. I suspect he wanted to cross-pollinate the two lines.”
“Cross-pollinate? What am I, a bee?”
“Actually, you’d be the flower.”
“Shut up. In fact, I think it’s time you left.”
“I’ll leave, but know this: before he died, my father spent decades investigating the origins of a superior race of humans whose Rh negative blood type traces back to the great teachers. I’m Rh negative, so are you, so is the man in the Miami asylum you’ll be assigned to when you begin your graduate internship this summer. Is this man my brother? Not exactly. But if I told you any more, you’d probably cancel your internship, and then …” Mick pinches tears from his eyes, shaking his head as he chokes out a laugh. “God, this is crazy. Or maybe I’m the one who’s crazy. I’ve been chasing ghosts for so long I don’t know anymore.”
“As a soon-to-be psychologist, I can probably get you committed.”
The two of them share a laugh.
The old woman smiles.
Dinner is served.
Majestic-12 (S-66) Subterranean Facility 15 miles south of Groom Lake Air Force Base (Area 51) North Las Vegas, Nevada
As the late Julius Gabriel often said, there are basically two ways to boil a frog. The hard way was to toss him in a pot of boiling water and battle him until he croaked. The easier way was to leave him in a pot of cool water and gradually increase the temperature until he comfortably cooked to death.
It had taken Project Blue Eyes for Dr. Dave Mohr to realize that Majestic-12 had slowly cooked his morality in their crock pot of cynicism and greed. And though he was program director, he had also been around long enough to know titles at the S-66 facility were window dressing—that the real power came from an unseen board of directors whose objectives were based on profit, not science.
Mohr’s assistant, Marvin Teperman, had finally forced the rocket scientist to “cowboy up” when the Canadian exobiologist and his staff flatly refused to subject Laura Agler and her daughter to any more medical procedures. Mohr’s subsequent meeting with Joseph Randolph resolved the matter when the scientist convinced the MJ-12 supervisor that Laura’s Hunahpu DNA had not yet “evolved.” As such it was better to wait until after she had acquired her powers before beginning any invasive procedures.
For years the results from Laura Agler’s bloodwork had remained stable. Then, six months ago, the thirty-nine-year-old’s white cell count began rising steadily, driving her bone marrow to release higher numbers of stem cells into her blood vessels. At first Mohr suspected an infection, but further testing indicated the stem cells were targeting the woman’s brain, causing the number of her neural synapses to increase.
Within weeks, Laura’s sudden “evolution” progressed to her muscles and tendons, the fibers increasing in density, making her stronger, faster, and more flexible—all of which were very discreetly noted, lest MJ-12 be alerted. Easier to disguise were the magnification and acuity of Laura’s senses—especially her olfactory cells.
Laura Rosen Agler was evolving into a post-human, forcing Dave Mohr and Marvin Teperman into a decision: report the test results and condemn their subject to death, or risk their lives by altering the data and pray no one noticed.
For the two scientists, there was no debating the choice. Both had watched the Gray’s life signs flatline on August 24, 2001—the E.T.’s death coinciding precisely with Julius Gabriel’s own final breath. The experience had been devastating, compounded by sixteen months of postmortem work, after which the two men were debriefed on Project Blue Eyes.
By then, Laura and Sophia had been properly “indoctrinated” to their new existence in their Bio-2 habitat. Mohr and Teperman were incensed: to keep a mother and daughter locked up because they were suspected of possessing extraterrestrial DNA was barbaric, reminding Marvin of the Nazi reels he had seen of Joseph Mengele completing his gruesome experiments on Jewish children during the Holocaust. In the end the two scientists had agreed to run Blue Eyes for one reason—had they not, Joseph Randolph would have appointed two hardened military commanders to do the job, condemning the Agler women to quick lobotomies.
December 21, 2003—the day Dr. Dave Mohr had effectively climbed into his
own pot of cold water.
Laura Agler’s blood is simmering, her sweat-soaked body trembling as she stalks the common area of her “habitat.” Eleven years have passed since Borgia’s men stole her and Sophie from the real world—eleven years of mental anguish, of not knowing whether her husband, Sam, is alive or dead … or worse. Like a caged tigress she fought her captors and guarded her cub until she was finally felled by exhaustion—only her daughter’s wry wit has kept her sane over the years. Having given in, her brainwaves gradually shifted from her aroused low-amplitude, faster Beta phase into the higher-frequency, far slower Delta waves.
And that’s when she discovered the Nexus.
She had slipped inside the corridor one night just before dozing off, the sensation similar to an out-of-body experience. Entering this alternate realm of existence soothed her frayed nerves and brought a sense of warmth and calm, and with practice and patience she eventually learned to control the sessions. So as not to arouse her keepers, who kept her under round-the-clock observation, she requested a yoga DVD and used it as an excuse to meditate for hours at a time, pushing her mind deeper within her new cerebral domain.
Two days ago, she had heard the voice.
It happened on the vernal equinox, and instinctively she knew the nonsensical rants were coming from Sam. Was he dead? Or was he like her, able to enter the higher corridor of consciousness? She called out to him in the void, and the reply made her shudder.
“I am not Sam! Now leave me alone, witch. Disturb me again and I shall cast your Sam into the depths of Xibalba where the Underlords shall feast upon his eyes.”
“If you are not my husband, then who are you?”
“Deceiver! Is it not enough that you have vanquished me to darkness and endless suffering? Must you toss your excrement at me? Shine a spotlight on my nakedness? Why has my existence attracted your wrath? No, witch, I shall perform for you no further. I am satiated with pain, your threats of torture are laughable. Go ahead! Bleed me until my wretched vessel drains, I don’t care anymore. I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!”