by Alten-Steve
Is the Large Hadron Collider being sabotaged from the Future? Or merely by birds?
The LHC, the world’s largest particle accelerator, has been under repair for more than a year because of an electrical failure in September 2008.
Now, excitement and mysticism are building again around the $10 billion machine as the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) gears up to circulate a high-energy proton beam around the collider’s 17-mile tunnel. The event should take place this month, said Steve Myers, CERN’s Director for Accelerators and Technology.
The collider made headlines last week when a bird apparently dropped a “bit of baguette” into the accelerator, making the machine shut down. The incident was similar in effect to a standard power cut, said spokeswoman Katie Yurkewicz. Had the machine been going, there would have been no damage, but beams would have been stopped until the machine could be cooled back down to operating temperatures, she said.
—CNN, November 11, 2009
28
SEPTEMBER 21, 2012: SOUTH FLORIDA EVALUATION AND TREATMENT CENTER, MIAMI, FLORIDA
Dominique parks her roadster in the staff lot, exhausted from having barely slept. After two weeks of orientation she is finally scheduled to begin her first session with Samuel Agler, and the thought of confronting the patient the staff refers to as “the Man from Mars” is giving her much trepidation. At least it’s Friday; you have the entire weekend to recover.
She enters the facility, heading for the first-floor security checkpoint, wincing as she is greeted by Raymond Hughes.
“Good morning, Sunshine.” The barrel-chested weight-lifter with the short-cropped red hair and matching goatee flashes a yellowed smile from the other side of the steel security gate. “Guess what you’re doing this weekend?”
“I don’t have to guess. I’m spending the weekend in Sanibel Island.”
“Skip it. I’m competing this weekend at the South Beach strongman contest, and you’re my special guest.”
“Yeah, that is tempting, Ray, but—”
“What’s wrong? I’m not good enough for you?”
“Ray, I have plans, I’m seeing my parents this weekend. Maybe another time, okay?”
“I’m gonna hold you to that.” He buzzes her in, the gate unbolting. “I saw on the docket you’re working with the Man from Mars. If he gets out of hand, you just say the word, and your old pal Raymond here will arrange a midnight run.”
“What’s that?”
“Just a little after-hours lesson in civility.”
“Thanks, but I don’t believe in that sort of thing. Neither does Director Foletta.”
The yellowed teeth reappear. “Sure he doesn’t.”
The elevator deposits her on the seventh floor. Paul Jones escorts her through security and down the main corridor to the patients’ quarters.
“Remember, Dominique, this time you’re entering his turf. Don’t touch anything, don’t become distracted. I’ll be watching everything from my monitor, but if you feel threatened in any way you just double-click this device.” He hands her the transponder. “You want the whip, it’s yours. One double-click and you’ll light him up with fifty thousand volts.”
“He’s a pretty big guy. Are you sure that will be enough to stop him?”
“Put it this way, if it doesn’t, there won’t be much left in him to accost you.”
“Not quite the answer I was hoping for, Mr. Jones.” Transponder in hand, she follows the guard through a short hall, entering the middle pod of three located in the northern wing. The lounge area is empty.
Jones stops at room 714 and speaks into the hall intercom. “Resident, your new intern is here to see you. Remain seated on the floor where I can see you.” Using a magnetic key, he unlocks the door.
“Any last words of advice?”
“Just like before, don’t allow him to get too close.”
“The cell’s ten feet long. What’s your definition of close? His hands wrapped around my neck?”
She enters the cell, its dimensions matching her master bath. Daylight streams in from a three-inch sliver of plastic running vertically along one wall. The bed is iron, bolted to the floor. A desk and set of cubbies are fastened next to it. A sink and steel toilet are anchored by the wall to her right, angled to give its occupant some privacy from the steel door’s peephole.
The bed has been stripped. Samuel Agler is seated on the floor on a magazine-thin mattress and pile of bedclothes. His head is tilted down, as if he is sleeping.
Wary, Dominique remains close to the door. “Good morning, Mr. Balam. It’s nice to see you again. Am I disturbing you?”
No response, either verbally or telepathically.
She gazes at the wall above his head, dominated by a hand-drawn map of the world. Dime-size colored dots appear seemingly randomly across the globe. Framing the map are mathematical equations that continue along the other three walls like Einsteinian graffiti.
Inscribed above the bed is a second drawing—a trident, the strange icon resembling a three-pronged pitchfork.
“In case you forgot, my name is Dominique Vazquez. I’m pleased to tell you that I’ll be working with you over the next six months—”
Thought energy flows from Samuel Agler’s mind like a rippling creek, carrying with it a sorrow so deep its emptiness brings tears to her eyes. Why do you make me suffer? Free me so I may again feel the warmth of Kinich Ahau on my face. Let me breathe with the galaxy … to feel my soul mate’s touch one last time before the fifth sunlit Kinich Ahau ends and I am vanquished to Hell.
She hesitates, then focuses her response inward. Where is your soul mate?
Imprisoned somewhere in the darkness. Anchored by my transgressions in the eleventh dimension. First Mother, please—you have the power to bring us back into the light. Free me before evil stains our divided soul for all eternity. Reopen my vessel so that I may die fulfilling my destiny and not in this cage. Please, First Mother, I beg of you—
“Enough!” Her head snaps back, severing the voice. “I mean, enough silence. I’m here to help you. I can only do that if you communicate with me … you know, by talking. Out loud.”
He looks up at her with hollowed sunken eyes—black pools drowning in eleven years of sensory deprivation and a loneliness that shakes her being. And in that single moment of clarity a higher instinct welled deep within her DNA gushes to the surface, its warmth cleansing all prejudices and fears. Moving to him, she kneels by his side and wraps her arms around his head and neck, hugging him tightly to her chest.
The touch of flesh to flesh elicits a jolt of electricity as sudden and as startling as connecting a positively charged battery cable to a negatively charged pole, causing Sam’s neural synapses to snap open at the speed of light. So powerful is the electrical discharge that it momentarily short-circuits the cell’s video feed and causes Dominique’s hair to stand on end.
Like a starving child given sustenance, Samuel Agler embraces the woman from whose womb he was birthed fifty years ago—though he has yet to be conceived. Dominique’s flame reignites his psyche’s internal wick, the light emitted doubled between them. They remain locked together for several minutes, their connection flowing with energy until the generated body heat becomes too much to handle.
Samuel pulls away. For the briefest of moments his eyes radiate a turquoise hue.
Dominique never notices, her thoughts lost in the chaos of the severed connection. Who are you?
I don’t know anymore. So many voices … so many memories from past lives I cannot remember, but whose losses I feel every waking moment.
Who am I to you?
Again, I don’t know. But I’ve been anticipating your arrival, I felt your aura during the arrival of the spring equinox. Whoever you are, somehow you’ve managed to pull me up from the depths of the underworld.
It wasn’t my doing. Michael Gabriel sent me.
Michael? Eyes widening in recognition, he backs away on all fours, his mind racing
to catch up with this abrupt new clue of his ever-changing reality.
“Samuel Agler. Lauren and Sam. Laura and Sam, but not Sam. Not Sam. Who am I?” Anxiety washes over his sudden awareness like a breaking dam. “Sam and Laura … and Sophie! They have my family!” He rushes to the narrow slit of plastic and smashes his fist through the tinted shield, screaming at the daylight. “Laura! Sophie! I’m coming!” Like a crazed bull he charges the door, ramming the steel barrier over and over with his 240-pound frame until the hinges begin to buckle—
Zap!
The electrical shock courses through his body, stunning him rigid.
He shakes it off and is struck again.
Sam sways. His muscles abandon him. Saliva drips from his jabbering mouth.
Like a falling timber his knees buckle and he collapses upon the wafer-thin mattress in a twisted heap of twitching limbs and sweat-laced flesh.
29
If nature is kind to us and the lightest supersymmetric particle, or the Higgs boson, is within reach of the LHC’s current energy, the data we expect to collect by the end of 2012 will put them within our grasp.
—SERGIO BERTOLUCCI,
RESEARCH DIRECTOR, CERN
CERN PRESS RELEASE, JANUARY 31, 2011
SEPTEMBER 22, 2012 (FALL EQUINOX): SANIBEL ISLAND, FLORIDA
Dominique slows the black Pronto Spyder convertible, keeping the roadster just under fifty as she passes over the causeway to Sanibel, a residential and resort area nestled on a small island on the Gulf Coast of Florida. She drives along East Gulf Drive, winding her way west past several large hotels before entering a residential neighborhood.
Edith and Isadore Axler live in a two-story beach home situated on a half-acre corner lot facing the Gulf of Mexico. At first glance the exterior redwood slats enclosing the home give it the look of an enormous party lantern, especially at night. This layer of scrim protects the structure from hurricanes, creating, in effect, a house within a house.
The south wing of the Axler home has been renovated to accommodate a sophisticated acoustics lab, one of only three on the Gulf Coast interfaced with SOSUS, the United States Navy’s underwater Sound Surveillance System. The sixteen-billion-dollar network of undersea microphones, originally built by the federal government during the Cold War to spy on enemy submarines, is now a tool used by marine biologists to track sea life in the Gulf, especially in the wake of the BP oil rig disaster that left large segments of the waterway a dead zone.
Dominique turns left down the cul-de-sac, then right into the last driveway, comforted by the familiar sound of pebbles crunching beneath the weight of her roadster.
Edith Axler greets her as the convertible top snaps shut into place. Dominique’s foster mother is an astute, gray-haired woman in her early seventies, with brown eyes that exude a teacher’s wisdom and a warm smile that projects a parent’s unconditional love.
“Hi, doll. How was your drive?”
“Fine.” Dominique hugs the elder woman, squeezing her tight.
“Something’s wrong?” Edith pulls back, noticing the tears. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I’m just glad to be home.”
“Don’t play me for senile. It’s that patient of yours, isn’t it? What’s his name … Sam? Come on, we’ll talk before Iz knows you’re here.”
Dominique follows her to a wooden park bench facing the beach, the Gulf as serene as a lake. “I remember when I was young—whenever I had a bad day, you always used to sit with me on this bench and we’d watch the sea. You used to say, ‘How bad can things be, if you can still enjoy such a beautiful view?’”
Edie squeezes her daughter’s hand. “Tell me why you’re so upset.”
Dominique wipes away a tear. “You remember when Chicahua showed up at our door, how Iz questioned her motives?”
“I did, too. What kind of mother sends her only child to another country—convincing her she’s an orphan, only to attempt to reconnect twenty years later? This woman has a screw loose, if you ask me.”
“Or maybe she really is a seer. Edie, she knew Mick Gabriel was coming to find me, just like she knew there’d be a connection with Sam.”
“What sort of connection?”
“It’s hard to explain. It’s like we know each other from a past life.”
“Okay, so there’s a connection. Use it to help your patient get better, then move on.”
“That’s just it: the only way to help him get better is to free him.”
“Slow down. When’s Sam due to be released?”
“His evaluation’s coming up, but according to Mick, Borgia means to keep Sam incarcerated for the rest of his life. During his trial, Sam told Mick that Borgia had swapped Julius’s heart medication before the lecture—that he purposely incited Julius so he’d become overly stressed. The judge refused to allow any of that evidence to be admissible. Mick said that what should have been a case of simple assault resulted in a never-ending sentence in a mental ward.”
“Mick said? Dominique, from everything you’ve told me about Mick, I wouldn’t be so quick to trust what he says either. Secretary Borgia is one of the most powerful people in the world. Why would he risk his entire future over an archaeologist? Forget Mr. Gabriel, forget all these ridiculous Doomsday prophecies and conspiracies, and just focus on completing your internship so you can finish school and get on with your life.”
Dominique squeezes Edith’s hand. “You’re right. Between Chicahua and Mick, and this crazy patient of mine, I’ve completely lost my internal compass. Come Monday, I’m going to ask Dr. Foletta to assign me to a different patient. After spending eleven years in solitary confinement, Samuel Agler’s haunted by demons Sigmund Freud couldn’t begin to address.”
“Don’t misunderstand, I’m not telling you to give up. Sometimes we cross paths with people in need of our assistance, only we don’t know how to help them. While their immediate problem may seem important, the root cause of most situations is the absence of the light from a person’s life.”
“By light, you mean God?”
Edith nods. “By helping others reconnect to God, we’re actually removing the darkness from our own lives while helping the other person to heal the root cause of their problem.”
“Sam’s convinced he’s been sent here to save the planet.”
“We all need to do our part. Between the carbon emissions and the oil spills, Earth’s becoming a toxic wasteland.”
“No, Ead, I mean he literally thinks he’s here to save the planet from the Mayan Doomsday—you know, December 21, 2012. He told me there’d be another prelude to the end sometime today.”
“Okay, so he’s a few cards short of a full deck, who cares?” She pauses. “Do you really enjoy working in an asylum? You know, you did get into law school. It’s not too late—”
Dominique hugs her—as Isadore Axler comes running out of the house, the aging biologist frantic. “Ead? Ead!”
“I’m over here. What in God’s name—”
“Seaquake … a big one! Campeche Shelf … southwest of the Alacran Reef.” He bends over, struggling to catch his breath. “The entire sea floor just collapsed … whoosh! SOSUS is tracking a series of tsunamis that are rippling across the Gulf.” He glances at Dom. “Hey, kiddo.”
“Did you alert the Coast Guard?”
“And FEMA. And the Sanibel sheriff’s office.” He looks up as sirens blast in the distance. “Whatever you want to save, grab it fast and get in the car before we hit a major traffic jam. The first wave will reach us in twenty-three minutes. I want to be across the causeway in five.”
Chichen Itza
The ancient Mayan capital swelters beneath a cloud-covered sky, the lack of a serpent’s shadow dampening the spirits of 78,000 visitors, most of whom are gathered around the Kukulcan Pyramid.
Abandoning the esplanade, Michael Gabriel falls in line among a moving conveyor of tourists, all heading north through the jungle to see the sacred cenote. The watering hole and hundreds l
ike it are the primary source of fresh water in the Yucatan, created 65 million years ago when a seven-mile-in-diameter asteroid struck the Earth, crushing the sea floor and fracturing the Gulf’s submerged limestone basin. When the Yucatan landmass eventually rose from the sea, these fractures became the freshwater sinkholes destined to nourish the future Mesoamerican Indians.
The clearing is up ahead, the sacred cenote an enormous round chalky-white limestone pit. Mick waits his turn behind a procession of perspiring tourists, the crowd gradually moving to a vantage along the edge of the sinkhole. After ten minutes the group ahead of him parts, allowing him to stand before the pit that, according to Chilam Balam and the Mayan Popol Vuh, served as the gateway to the underworld.
The thirty-seven-year-old archaeologist stares at the cenote for what is easily the thousandth time. The pit drops sixty feet straight down to its stagnant olive-green water, its curved walls matted in thick vegetation.
A tremor causes his skin to tingle. The reverberation migrates into his bones. For a moment he assumes the rumbling is coming from the weight of the moving mass of people, the sensation similar to standing near a railroad track occupied by an approaching locomotive.
Then he notices the surface of the cenote is bubbling.
An earthquake? He looks around, confused yet excited.
Women scream. Men point.
Michael Gabriel looks down in time to see the percolating waters of the sacred cenote suddenly flush down the sinkhole as if it were a toilet.
Washington, D.C.
The maître d’ switches on his smile as the fourth-most-powerful person in the United States enters the posh French restaurant. “Bon soir, Monsieur Borgia.”
“Bonsoir, Felipe. I believe I’m expected.”
“Oui, certainement. Follow me, please.” The maître d’ leads him past candlelit tables to a private room next to the bar. He knocks twice on the outer double doors, then turns to Borgia. “Your party is waiting inside.”