Praise for Edward G. Talbot
“Talbot is a rising star worth following.”
—JEREMY ROBINSON, author of Instinct and Threshold
The Mayan Legacy
Originally published as 2012: The Fifth World
PART ONE: Altercation
PROLOGUE
The Yucatan Peninsula
Mayan Long Count: 10.10.10.10.10, Tzolkin 1 Oc, Haab 13 Pax
(September, 1037 A.D.)
Balaam wasn't expecting his world to fall apart that day. However, an apocalypse can put a dent in the best of plans.
As he passed under the sacred arch leading to the temple, the smell of carrion reached his nostrils. He wiped his face, as if to dispel the odor, and his hands came away covered with grime and sweat. His legs felt heavy moving up the weathered stone steps, and he knew it wasn't all due to fatigue from his twelve hour journey. The stench increased, his heart started beating faster, and he wondered if they were dead already. As he gazed into the central courtyard from the top step, he stopped wondering.
The bodies adorned the grassy space as if arranged with a purpose. Some were seated, some lay on their backs in a pose resembling sleep. But this was no siesta. Even from where he stood, he could tell they were dead. The signs of the great sickness were on them, the dried skin and shriveled flesh.
Balaam dropped to his knees, and his moan shattered the humid silence. The birds on the arch took to the sky. His head sank to the cold stone, arms outstretched in supplication. As an assistant to the priests, he had seen his share of sacrifice, and even offered his own blood as part of the ceremony. He'd never understood how jamming thorns in his flesh pleased the gods, but he wasn't foolish enough to question it aloud. Questioners found themselves at the top of the pyramid with their hearts ripped out.
Even though he'd known the end could be coming, he couldn't accept that they were all gone. After a long minute, he dared to breathe again and rose to his feet. Balaam did not consider himself brave, but the news he carried was even more terrible than the carnage that lay before him. He had to see if anyone was left alive.
He examined the first body he came to, seated in a high-backed reed chair. He could barely recognize the man. The mysterious disease that had ravaged the land in recent years struck down mostly priests, hideously disfiguring its victims in the process. It took their hair first. Then it consumed them from within, the flesh just disappearing from their bodies over time. No one knew what caused it, but clearly the gods were angry.
Before he had left to consult the seers at the retreat near Tulum, the priests here had found an herb that appeared to alleviate the symptoms. By drinking the herb in a strong tea, they lived many moons longer. Obviously it had stopped working. Still struggling to control his grief and fear, Balaam muttered a single word. “Itzamna.”
Only Itzamna, creator of all things, could be responsible. In an odd way, this gave him comfort, as if confirming the omnipresent role of the divine. Avoiding the lifeless bodies as much as possible, he crossed the courtyard, focusing on his feet as they compressed the wet ground. He passed under a rounded doorway into the darkness of the main temple.
As always, he felt in the blackness of the hallway something akin to the security of a swaddled baby. His hands moved to trail along the walls with familiarity born of countless repetition. Despite the familiar space, his mind struggled to explain what he had discovered in the courtyard. All at once he felt oppressed by the cave-like building; he began to run. He burst out of the hall to face the altar, no longer able to hold his tongue.
“In the name of Itzamna, is anyone alive? Chelte, are you here?”
He received no reply. Throwing his frail body to the ground, he knelt in front of the altar with a moan. It seemed only the pale light of the torches bore witness to his grief. For long minutes, all he heard were the ragged gasps of his own breathing.
“Balaam, is that you?” A weak and raspy voice pierced the stillness. Balaam raised his head and looked left, eyes wide with surprise. He could just make out a figure slumped against the wall, and he jumped to his feet. He found Chelte, the oldest of the priests, sitting in a pool of blood.
No one knew Chelte's age. He was the Ah Kin Mai, translated as the “Highest One of the Sun.” The leading priest. None of the dozens who called the jungle retreat their home could remember a time when he wasn't ancient, wasn't the living heart of their small community. When he coughed now, a clear fluid dripped from the side of his mouth. His hands reached for Balaam's tunic. He pulled the younger man close, their faces inches apart.
“We are lost, my son. I know not what great displeasure we must have given, but it scarcely matters. I have seen the great Hurakan smite them all, wise men and fools alike. In truth, the wise men seem the greater fools.”
The effort of speaking forced the older man's eyes to close. Balaam's heart filled with terror at the apparent loss of faith by this, the most devout of men. He had rarely heard Chelte mention Hurakan, the ancient God of Fire who caused the Great Flood that wiped out the second divine attempt to create humankind.
Balaam steeled himself against the fear and opened his mouth. He had to deliver his news.
“Chelte, you have been the water of life for all of us. I beg you, do not abandon mighty Itzamna in the moment when you need him most. I bring news, both terrifying and wonderful. I need your guidance.”
For several seconds, he heard no reply. Had the old man died? The answer came as a gnarled fist wrapped around his upper arm. The voice was gentle now.
“Balaam, Balaam, you always were a good boy.” The voice fell silent again.
Balaam said, “What happened to the others? And how did you escape?”
A harsh laugh reached his ears. “Escape? Is that what you call this?” Chelte gestured to his frail body, a shadow of his former self.
“The herb disappeared. The two harvesting spots were destroyed in mud-slides shortly after you left. And then, we started dying. Most went into the courtyard to die, to leave a warning to anyone who might come. I have been here, asking Itzamna for guidance. He does not answer.
“I am glad you returned. I know not what has happened to the priests in the other temples, but I fear that we may be the last.”
Balaam's eyes filled with tears, and he nodded. “That is so. Only two priests were left at Tulum. I told them about the herb, but it was too late for them. Everywhere I went, the priests were already gone.”
Chelte said, “You asked how I escaped. I need to tell you the secret of the priests. Something we are sworn to share with none outside ourselves. You see, we know why this has happened to us.”
The old man shifted his body, and winced at the effort. “A long time ago, the Ancient Ones came. They were human and yet, not human. They brought tales of a great wave overtaking their home and forcing them out to sea. They came here, and soon they were worshiped almost as gods. It was as if they had the ability to see into our minds.
“For a long time, the Ancient Ones kept themselves separate. Generations were born and died. I don't know how it started, but at some point, they mixed their bloodlines with the priests. Eventually, being of mixed blood became a requirement for a priest, a secret requirement passed on but never written down.
“This was two centuries ago, and everything was fine until I was a young man. Then the first signs of the sickness arrived. For too long, we ignored what is obvious now, that almost all of the dead and dying were priests. The mixed blood killed us.
“The reason I am the last is yet another secret, one my mother told me before the illness took her. My father was not her iicham, he was one of the nobles
in Sayil. She never told anyone else. My blood has less of the sickness in it. But sickness it has nonetheless.”
Balaam stared at Chelte, trying to understand what he'd heard. “Who were these Ancient Ones?”
Chelte shook his head. “I don't know. I know only what my father told me and what his father told him. Perhaps the Ancient Ones came from the gods, but if they did then so did the sickness.
“There's one more thing you must do. You must get away from the cities. You know that the sickness exists there as well. In the cities, there are some of the mixed blood who did not become priests. Go back to the villages and keep away from anyone with the sickness. With the disappearance of the priests, the nobles will tear apart the cities. It is the way of nature and men. Retreat, and your distant children will inherit the Fifth World.”
Balaam's voice became emotional. “The Fifth World! Yes, that is what I must tell you about.”
Chelte coughed again. “My body is filled with pain. Give me your news quickly. I will be seeing Itzamna before I ever see the sun rise again.”
Balaam began. “We were all wrong. Before they died, the priests near Tulum said the heavens have been tricking us. The fourth world will not disappear at the end of the Long Count. The stars are telling us that nothing is foretold such that the proper actions of men cannot change it. But we must change our ways.”
The significance of this hit Balaam like a blow to the stomach. Of course, the sickness must be part of it! Before he could say anything, Chelte spoke with something resembling a low chuckle.
“Improper action. Mixed blood. Oh, we are lost.” He coughed again, and the dripping fluid was tainted with blood. “Did the wise ones at Tulum have any idea what the proper action would be?”
Balaam nodded, and his breathing increased with the anticipation of the telling. Without warning, Chelte's head fell to the side. The momentum pulled his entire body onto the floor. Balaam leaned over and put his head on the old man's chest, his tears stinging his eyes. He heard no heartbeat.
He could no longer hold the pain and fatigue at bay, and his body sagged on top of Chelte. He might have stayed there for a long time, might even have been content to give up and die as the scavengers feasted outside. But he could not forget Chelte's command to return to the villages.
He lifted his head and stared at the shadows cast by the dim light of the torches. He rushed towards the hallway, banging his head on the cobbled stone wall. He could now see the outside light, but instead of calming him, it felt harsh and alien. He burst into the courtyard, his retinas burning from the shock. He knew he needed to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to take another step. He sagged to his knees. Before he slipped into unconsciousness, he had one final thought. Illumination was far more terrifying than darkness ever had been.
December 12, 2012: Washington D.C.
“OK, Madame President, I have hidden nuclear devices in several U.S. cities. Now we're going to play a little guessing game. You pick a city. If it doesn't have a nuke, you lose a city that does. For each minute you delay, you lose a member of Congress.”
President Susan Richards, the first woman to hold that most distinguished office, stared into the cold brown eyes of her captor. She responded with the combination of directness and humor that had helped propel her to a role as Speaker of the House and then the Presidency.
“Do I get to choose which member?”
The words were barely out of her mouth when the blow landed, blood rushing to her left cheek and ear. She shook her head in pain, but kept her expression neutral. “You'd do well to consider the ramifications of beating the leader of the free world.”
At this, his brown eyes sparkled with amusement. His laugh was the low growl of a predator, throaty and sustained. “My dear lady. I have kidnapped you from the protection of the tightest security on the planet. As we speak, the legislative branch of the American government is watching, powerless to stop me. Can you possibly imagine that I'm concerned by a bruise or two on that lovely face? By the way, my compliments to your plastic surgeon.”
The video images, which news organizations around the world had now picked up, switched to a room that most Americans would have recognized: senators and representatives in the House Chamber, awaiting the arrival of the President of the United States to address a joint session of Congress. This spectacle, however, was unlike any the building had seen in the two centuries since the British had abandoned their last attempt at wresting back control of the colonies.
The gathered notables had just witnessed a captured president slapped in the face. The huge monitors spread throughout the room were a recent addition, and despite some grumbling about tradition at the time of their installation, all the Members now focused on them. House Speaker Reynolds Winthrop IV banged the gavel as if it was an extension of his arm, but nothing could subdue the outrage and panic at seeing this attack on the very bedrock of the Republic.
The video switched back to the man standing next to the President. He grinned and faced the camera that had carried the improbable scene to the horrified legislators, long dark locks flowing behind him. “Ladies and Gentleman, please settle down.”
The mayhem in the Capitol building continued unabated, his words having little effect. Panic and anger had taken center stage. Then the huge speakers under the screen registered the sound of a firing gun, and all eyes turned to it.
“I trust I have your attention.” The man now held a gun pointed at the President's head. “As it happens, I'm using blanks. But rest assured, what I'm about to unleash on your nation will be real. For those of you who favor smaller government, you're in luck. Very soon, there will be one fewer federal employee. And please, no one try to leave the building. You don't want to miss what comes next.”
“Just in case you think the Secret Service will save your president, consider this. I've had her in my custody for over an hour and this is the first you've heard of it. I do believe they focused too much on the ‘secret’ part of their name while scrambling to do damage control.”
The screens flickered for a few seconds, and the room once again erupted with a cacophony of shouts. The senior senator from Florida stepped to one of the microphones, his voice shaking. “This is unacceptable! Are we going to just sit here and take this? Get the head of the Secret Service in the room and—”
His remaining words were drowned out as two Representatives followed his lead and moved to other microphones in the room.
“Who the hell is this guy?”
“Someone call the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and get our military options!”
More calls for action bounced off the domed ceiling, the empty demands of men and women far too accustomed to power, incapable of rational thought in the face of an actual threat. A few wiser souls held their tongues: those with military experience along with the few left wingers who practiced what they preached. The rest of the room descended into chaos.
Without warning, the screen showed another setting. A large suburban home, with numerous outside lights piercing the darkness. Most heads in the room turned to watch, voices falling silent. A few recognized the house, and someone groaned, “Oh, no!”
An explosion rocked the house. Flames shot out of the windows and doors. Within thirty seconds, orange tongues of flame engulfed the collapsing structure. In the House Chamber, no one spoke in more than a whisper, but word soon spread. One of their own was dead.
“Sorry about that brief loss of contact, just some technical difficulties on this end. I regret that I had to sacrifice the senior senator from Montana, but your fearless leader simply was unwilling to choose a city. Plus, I've seen better behavior from a class of five year-olds. It's a shame that Senator Rawlins couldn't be with you today, though I understand the prognosis for his tumor was excellent. All of you who were hoping the cancer wouldn't kill him got your wish. Please pay attention now, unless you want yet another reduction in the government payroll.”
One reporter, Tom Wilson, opened his cell
phone. Trying to avoid drawing attention to himself, he made a call to his editor.
“Bob, it's me. Shut the hell up and listen. I don't want to stay on the phone, but I assume you're watching this. Call the Secret Service and tell 'em you think the President is on an airplane somewhere. I gotta go.”
He hung up and returned his gaze to the screen. The voice from the monitors carried the chill of Arctic winter.
“But enough distractions. Madame President, which city will it be?”
CHAPTER ONE
June 21, 2012: Basque Region, Spain
Gabriella Riccio wiped the dust and sweat off her forehead and onto her faded jeans. The lights in her makeshift laboratory were on the fritz, again, so she turned on a flashlight to combat the darkness. Then she picked up the manila envelope, hands trembling in anticipation as she opened it.
Outside the window, the dig site buzzed with activity. They'd discovered the remains of a human ancestor here, remains well over a million years old. With luck, the envelope in Riccio's hands would give them the identity of the ancestor.
The DNA lab at the university could have given her some clue over the phone. They could have emailed the findings instead of sending her a memory stick via snail mail. But they couldn't be bothered. If only they had known what they might be testing. The carbon-14 dating had confirmed an approximate age of 1.5 million years, but the DNA would give her the final clue as to which of the “homo” species the skeleton represented.
One and a half million years ago, the homo genus was almost exclusively represented by homo erectus. As large as modern humans, their brains weren't a lot bigger than their predecessor, homo habilis. However, the small change in brain size made a large difference. Homo erectus eventually left Africa, beginning the journey that led to modern humans populating the globe.
She glanced over at the box containing the skull, only a strip of white visible beneath its rim. Her team had unearthed the skull, pelvis, and much of the torso and neck, but most of it stayed packed in crates for protection. She allowed herself the indulgence of keeping the skull nearby, and she never tired of looking at it.
The Mayan Legacy (A Simon Gray Thriller Book 1) Page 1