Phobos

by Steve Alten

  Assuming a strangelet were to be created by one of these massive colliders, would the feasting singularity somehow forge a molecular attraction to the unique properties and resonance found in quartz? If so, then these mineral deposits—shadowing geological fault lines—would serve as a beacon to this gradually enlarging black hole. With each pass through the planet’s crust the strangelet would grow larger; as 2012 approached these seismic events, triggered in effect by the singularity, would grow far more destructive.

  Earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis … harbingers of a far more destructive force—a force created by man—a black hole large enough to atomize and consume our entire planet.

  May the Creator shed mercy on our foolhardiness.

  J.G.

  24

  STARR AUDITORIUM, BELFER CENTER

  HARVARD UNIVERSITY

  CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

  AUGUST 24, 2001

  The sold-out crowd files into the second-floor auditorium—professors and scholars, archaeology majors and graduate students, and members of the local media—along with a bizarre cross-segment of UFOologists. Today will mark Julius Gabriel’s first public appearance in more than a decade, and word has spread among the fringe elements that the aging professor intends to unveil “shocking new evidence” that supports forty years of “forbidden archaeology.”

  The guest speaker sits alone in his dressing room before a lighted mirror, the bright bare bulbs revealing every wrinkle and stress line that defines his weathered face. A miniature Nazca plateau, his internal voice comments, the thought dispersed into the ether by the knock on his door.

  “Michael?”

  The door opens, revealing Sam, Laura, and his “niece,” Sophia.

  “Laura, where’s my son?”

  The turquoise-eyed beauty glances at her husband for support. “Julius, we talked about this three days ago. Michael and Adelina eloped. They’re scheduled to fly to Paris this morning for their honeymoon.”

  The words puncture his chest cavity like a dagger, the sudden stress causing the blood vessels leading to his heart to constrict.

  Sam catches him as he doubles over. Laura searches his jacket pocket and retrieves the pill bottle. She quickly pops open the lid and fishes out a small white tablet, placing it under Julius’s tongue.

  The melting nitroglycerin pill quickly relaxes the damaged cardiac vessels, returning color to Julius Gabriel’s face. He sits back in the canvas chair, exhaling phlegm-laced breaths.

  Laura holds a cup of water to his lips. “Sam, I can handle this. Take Sophia out of here, I’ll meet you at our seats.”

  “Come on, Sophie.” Sam leads his daughter out of the dressing room, closing the door behind them.

  “Julius, it’s not too late to cancel.”

  “Cancel? Have you any idea what’s at stake? I’m not canceling anything. Death robbed me of my soul mate, lust stole my son … who else is there to see this through? Go on, join your family, I’ll be fine.”

  She shakes her head and opens the door to leave—nearly colliding with Pierre Borgia. The deputy under secretary of defense is standing in the outer hall staring at Laura, transfixed by her eyes. “Do I know you?”

  “No, and let’s keep it that way.” She pushes past him, walking quickly down the corridor.

  “Julius, who was that?”

  “Laura Agler. Maria’s younger sister.”

  “I didn’t know Maria had a younger sister. Is it possible …”

  “What is it you want, Pierre?”

  “Just to wish you luck. And to remind you those military nondisclosure agreements remain in force.” He picks up the prescription bottle with his right hand, reading the label. “Amazing how a man-made ingredient designed to blow things up can also be used to save one’s life.”

  He returns it to Julius using his left hand, watching as the archaeologist slips the bottle into his jacket pocket. “We’re onstage in ten. You’ll enjoy my intro, it should really wet the crowd’s panties.”

  The stage is divided by the two matching daises, the backdrop a thirty-by-forty-foot projection screen.

  A female voice over the speaker system quiets the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, faculty and guests—Harvard University and the Kennedy School of Government welcomes you to another seminar of the sciences. Please welcome our host for this morning’s event, the deputy under secretary of defense and a former Harvard undergrad, Dr. Pierre Robert Borgia.”

  Pierre strides to his dais, waving to an audience no longer visible beyond the bright stage lights. “Good morning. It is an honor to have been selected to introduce today’s guest speaker. Professor Julius Gabriel and I studied together at Cambridge University nearly four decades ago, then spent the next three years together in the field with another colleague, the late Maria Rosen. Professor Gabriel’s theories regarding the influence of extraterrestrial intelligence on ancient cultures are as legendary in the field of archaeology as they are controversial. I’ve more to add, but before I do, let’s bring him out onstage, shall we? Ladies and gentlemen, Professor Julius Gabriel.”

  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 fr
om 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

  MIDDLESEX JAIL

  CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

  NOVEMBER 21, 2001

  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 mouth 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 amuses 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 electr
on 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 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.