Phobos

by Steve Alten

  33

  We are born with the schizophrenia of good and evil within us, so that each generation must persevere in self-recognition and in self-control. In ceding to the automatic reassurance of our logic, we have abandoned once more those powers of recognition and of control. Darkness seems scarcely different from light, with the web of structure and logic woven thick across both. We must therefore cut away these layers of false protection if we wish to regain control of our common sense and morality.

  —JOHN RALSTON SAUL VOLTAIRE’S BASTARDS, 1992

  “I am great. My place is now higher than that of the human work, the human design. I am their sun and I am their light, and I am also their months. So be it: my light is great. I am the walkway and I am the foothold of the people … I am the vanquisher.”

  Seven Macaw dances before Chilam Balam and his followers in the shadow of the great temple, the evil one’s eyes red and serpentlike, his fanged teeth stained blue. Every inch of his skin is tattooed, his fingertips ending in sharp clawed nails.

  The scent of burundanga powder is heavy in Chilam Balam’s nose. He can feel the toxin moving through his bloodstream, delivering its icy wave of paralyzing rigidity to his muscles. Terror turns to panic as he loses the capacity to breathe, the air wheezing from his mouth like a downed deer succumbing to the arrow.

  I am Chilam Balam who led you across frigid wasteland and shoreline blackened with death. I am the Jaguar Prophet who guided you to this fertile land. Will no one come to my aid?

  A warm light, soothing in its brilliance, appears above his head. The voice of Viracocha reaches out to him from the void: You gave them everything, and still it was not enough. Greed has led them to the dark side, where chaos abounds. And yet they could have had it all—happiness and eternal fulfillment beyond any riches.

  How, Lord? How could they have had it all?

  Simply by understanding the true test of existence—that we were created to love one another, that our own fulfillment comes when we treat others with dignity.

  And what of Seven Macaw?

  Evil is the necessary test that determines whether your nation is worthy of the gift of immortality. This generation is not. The people are laden with selfishness and want, the seed of evil passed on to their children. Their hands are stained by the blood of their enemies, their altars soiled from human sacrifices. Do you believe this is what the Creator desires? Do you believe the Holy One seeded man so that He could watch his children destroy one another through the self-validation of hatred and intolerance? Prayer is nothing more than a burden when the assembly tramples flowers in the Creator’s garden. Justice washes clean the soul only when the oppressed are aided, the powerful rebuked, the fatherless cared for.

  Chilam Balam’s heart goes silent, the air still, save for Seven Macaw’s blade severing his head from his neck.

  His body slips away, the warm light catching his soul, embracing it. He gazes upon his decapitated vessel and his fallen nation—the people crying out in horror as their holiest of temples buckles with their dead prophet, the pyramid’s base collapsing beneath an avalanche of greed and negativity, envy and hatred.

  —try to open your eyes.

  The female voice startles him into action. He struggles against an immovable weight until he realizes he has no arms.

  Fight your way out. Create pain.

  He stands amid blackness and feels for the wall, bloodying the cold stone with his face. Over and over he strikes the dungeonlike enclosure until he finds his hands tingling somewhere in the abyss. Encouraged, he bashes the pit’s rounded walls harder, all the while opening and closing his long-lost appendages, the pain giving birth to arms. His fingers walk up his broken upper torso to the diseased flesh he has bashed into pulp and claw at the amber sealing his eyes until he unveils the light—

  —a narrow slit of geography teasing him from above—a torturous crevice of rock situated between daylight and the rat-infested hovel he now occupies. He looks around, his mind, fighting to awaken from its forced hibernation, still too numb to comprehend his surroundings.

  He reaches high along the cracked ceiling into the crevice, managing a precarious grip of rock. Pressing his bare feet along the ceiling for leverage, he pulls himself into the fissure and begins climbing, working his way up the narrow shaft. Shards of limestone slice apart his flesh, tree roots force him into binding contortions that pin him so tightly to the earth he can barely draw a breath.

  Finally he emerges to daylight, his effort rewarded with a rush of briny air.

  His perch resides at the summit of a mountain. A fine white mist conceals the sea to the west—he can hear the waves as they batter the rocky shoreline below. Looking down, he can make out a symbol, glistening with sun-doused moisture on the mountain’s western face—a massive trident, carved deep into the rock.

  Then he sees the man.

  Tall and pale as the mist, with matching silky-white hair and beard and piercing Mayan-blue eyes, he is standing by the summit’s edge, waiting.

  “Are you my guide? The one who will take me to Hunab K’u?”

  “You have not earned the right to see the Creator.”

  “Who are you to speak to me in this manner? I am Chilam Balam, the greatest prophet in history.”

  “If you were such a great prophet, Chilam Balam, then how were you defeated in battle? You should have foreseen the evil of Seven Macaw and struck him down. Instead, you continued to feed upon the tree of knowledge until it satiated your ego and blinded you to your quest.”

  “Quest? What quest?”

  “You were tasked with advancing the evolution of the Hunahpu. Your desire to bathe in the light of Hunab K’u for yourself alone has brought darkness to your people.”

  The mist clears to the east, unveiling a city situated in a mountain valley. Once-fertile land has dried to near-desert conditions, the surrounding hillsides plundered for their minerals.

  A bloodred pyramid towers above the city, its surface sparkling with encrusted gemstones. Thousands of worshipers have gathered below. A dozen wait to be sacrificed.

  Seven Macaw emerges atop the summit platform, his voice booming across the city’s decimated remains: “I am great. My place is now higher than that of the human work, the human design. I am their sun and I am their light, and I am also their months. So be it: my light is great. I am the walkway and I am the foothold of the people … I am the vanquisher. Bring forth the soul mate of Chilam Balam.”

  A woman, naked and painted blue, is led up the temple steps, her presence ushering the onlookers to silence. Four priests escort her to an idol where she is laid faceup over the convex stone, her arms and legs held in place, the men’s eyes wandering.

  Seven Macaw stares lustfully at Blood Woman, then, with a bonechilling screech, he plunges the ebony blade of the obsidian dagger just below the woman’s left breast. Quickly reaching inside the wound, the nacom priest withdraws the victim’s still-beating heart from her gushing chest cavity and passes it to one of the four clerics, who smears the blood onto the stone idol.

  Returning to the butchered corpse, Seven Macaw kicks the remains of Blood Woman down the steep pyramid steps, the lifeless body cracking and twisting and contorting its way to the bottom where it is collected by lower-ranking priests. The barbarians quickly skin the remains, leaving the hands and feet attached to the human hide.

  Seven Macaw’s son, Earthquake, is presented the flayed suit of flesh. Securing it to his own limbs, he dances among the solemn spectators, reanimating the dead woman.

  “Search the mountains and coast. Bring me Hunaphu and Xbalanque. The sons of Chilam Balam shall honor my greatness with their blood before the next full moon.”

  The mist returns, once more cloaking the valley.

  Chilam Balam kneels, tears blurring his vision. “Am I dead?”

  The pale warrior with the white hair and beard turns to face him. “Chilam Balam is dead, but the spirit that commands you shall be reborn. Are you ready to continue
your journey?”

  “And my soul mate?”

  “She too shall be reborn.”

  “Will our paths cross again?”

  “If you are so deserving.”

  “Then take me to her, but first, tell me your name.”

  “My name is Jacob. I am your brother.”

  Languishing in a feverish delirium, Immanuel Gabriel opens his eyes, his heart beating rapidly in his chest, a tube down his throat, incubating his chest. Through a slit of vision blurred with hot tears he sees a man resembling a youthful Mitchell Kurtz hovering over him, hurriedly connecting an intravenous bag to his veins.

  Drips of soothing warm relief drift slowly into his bloodstream, thawing the ice, pushing his mind toward blessed unconsciousness.

  34

  God places the heaviest burden on those who can carry its weight.

  —REGGIE WHITE,

  NFL HALL OF FAME DEFENSIVE LINEMAN

  AND ORDAINED MINISTER

  And so it is with a heavy heart but unwavering confidence that I relinquish the office of the presidency to Vice President Ennis William Chaney. May God bless our new president, his family, administration, and the people of the United States of America.”

  The plastic case containing a Ted Williams autographed baseball smashes the fifty-two-inch HD television with such force it knocks the flat screen off its stand, sending it crashing onto the marble floor.

  Pierre Borgia searches his desk top for something else to throw. He reaches for the near-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s, drains the remains of the copper-colored whiskey, then heaves the object at a framed black and white Ansel Adams photograph of Yosemite National Park, denting the wall instead.

  The cell phone rings again. Borgia glances at the number. Groans, then answers it. “What?”

  “This changes nothing, son. Trust me.”

  “Trust you, Uncle Joe? Marion Rallo’s been tapped for VP, Chaney’s already asked for my resignation. As for the war—expect him to announce the complete withdrawal of troops in January’s State of the Union speech.”

  “It’ll be handled. The bigger problem is all the loose ends from your little bugaboo in Miami.”

  “There are no loose ends. Whoever drove off with Agler probably dumped his corpse in the Everglades. As for the girl, there’s a massive manhunt going on across the state, though she’s most likely dead, too.”

  “And the security guard?”

  “The sheriff’s office is blaming Raymond’s death on Agler. I made a statement … what else do you want from me?”

  “You still haven’t watched the tape, have you?”

  “What tape?”

  “Pierre, don’t you get my phone messages and e-mail? I sent you an excerpt pulled from the first-floor surveillance camera.”

  “I saw the original footage, Uncle Joe. There was nothing to see.”

  “There was a blur that appeared on tape a second after the elevator door opened. That blur, slowed down frame by frame, was Samuel Agler.”

  Pierre sobers. “My guy swears he injected Agler with the cardiac inhibitor, there’s no way—”

  “His eyes were Nordic blue; he was moving through a higher plane of existence when he struck that moron, Raymond. Your guard didn’t just die of internal bleeding, Pierre; his organs burst.”

  “Assuming Agler’s still alive, he’ll try to find his wife and daughter.”

  “Agreed. I want you back here at Groom Lake. There’s a private jet waiting for you at Dulles.”

  “I can’t just up and leave. If something’s going to happen with Chaney, I need to be available.”

  “Wrong, for two reasons. First, in your present state of mind I don’t want you anywhere near the television cameras. Two, Agler doesn’t know where his wife and kid are. That means he’ll be coming after you.”

  NAZCA, PERU

  “Ahhhhhh!”

  Immanuel Gabriel shoots up in bed to a roar in his ears and a stabbing pain coming from the left side of his chest cavity.

  Mitchell Kurtz yanks the spent hypodermic needle from his heart. “Sorry, pal. My orders were to wake you. A shot of Adrenalin seemed like the best option.”

  Manny gasps air, the clamor in his ears reduced to an annoying siren. His extremities are tingling, his throat too parched to speak.

  As if reading his mind, Kurtz places a bottle of water to his lips.

  He drinks, chokes, and drinks some more—his eyes widening as a youthful Ryan Beck enters the room.

  “Man, you ain’t gonna believe the shit that’s happening. He’s awake?”

  “He’s still coming out of it. Where’s Dom and Mick?”

  “On their way.”

  “Get him on his feet. See if you can help him find his legs.” Kurtz turns to Manny. “Someone hired a trained assassin to kill you. He injected you with a very fast-acting agent designed to stop the heart. You’ve been in a coma for four weeks; by all logic, you should be dead. Somehow you were able to slow your heart down to the point that the poison stagnated in your femoral artery. Lucky for you, Mick called me, I’m familiar with the drug that was used and was able to advise the ER physician how to treat you. We got you out of Dodge two hours later. You’re in Nazca, Peru. This morning all hell started breaking loose, and we decided to take a chance and wake you.”

  “What day … is it?”

  “Friday.”

  “He means the date,” says Beck, who is shouldering Manny, helping him to his feet. “Today’s December 21. By the way, I’m Beck; he’s Kurtz. We work for President Chaney.”

  “I know who you are. I’ve known the two of you since the day I hope to be born.”

  Kurtz makes the crazy sign to Beck behind Manny’s back.

  “Salt and Pepper, that’s what my brother and I used to call you. Mitch, the last time I saw you, your hair was the color of salt and you were telling women you were a movie producer just to get laid. Pep here was a grandfather, still a big man at sixty-five.”

  The two bodyguards look at one another, unsure.

  The front door of the Gabriel home bursts open; the entering Mick and Dominique find themselves confronted by the barrels of the two bodyguards’ assault weapons.

  “Whoa, easy, fellas.”

  Kurtz holsters his gun. “I gave you a knock, Mick. You either use it or get shot; it’s your choice.”

  “He’s awake?” Dominique rushes over to Manny, looking into his eyes. “They’re black again. Last time I saw them they were Mayan blue. Sam, can you remember anything?”

  “I’m not Sam. Sam was never my name, just an alias I used when I was a teen … when I refused to accept who I really am. My name is Immanuel Gabriel. You and Michael are my parents.”

  Dominique stares at him, her lower lip quivering. “Mick told me, I didn’t want to believe it.”

  Kurtz shakes his head. “I’m living in an episode of The Twilight Zone.”

  “We don’t have time to rehash this,” Mick says. “Manny, today’s the last day of the fifth cycle. The Yellowstone caldera exploded an hour ago. Volcanoes are erupting everywhere.”

  “The same thing happened in 2047. The strangelet’s making its final pass through the Earth’s core.”

  “Please tell me you know how to stop this thing.”

  “No, but I know who does.”

  An ominous brown haze has spread quickly across the distant northern sky by the time the hot air balloon lands on the Nazca plateau. Beck and Kurtz secure the basket to the ground, Mick and Dominique escorting Immanuel to the center of the Nazca Spiral.

  “Manny, you sure my father said only One Hunahpu can stop the strangelet?”

  “They were Julius’s last words.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dominique says. “Who is One Hunahpu?”

  “It’s best I don’t say.”

  Brown ash falls from the heavens like snow flurries as they reach the center of the Spiral.

  Mick pulls his T-shirt over his mouth to speak, his eyes searching the darkening
heavens. “You know, Manny, my whole life Julius was in my head, preparing me for this day. I have to confess, I didn’t fully believe it could happen until I saw the video records aboard your shuttle. Even then … But now that it’s here—this is seriously bad.”

  “My brother, Jacob, was on me the same way. ‘Gotta train harder, Manny, the Underlords want us dead.’ He drove me crazy. Then the day arrived and the Balam appeared out of the heavens and suddenly it was time to go. And I refused. All I wanted was to play pro ball and live in a big mansion and be a star. Instead, I spent the next fourteen years in hiding.”

  Dominique rubs his back. “Edie used to tell me, ‘God only gives us the burdens He knows we can handle.’”

  “No offense to God, but I think our family’s had more than our share.” Manny’s eyes widen. “Dominique, are your foster parents still living in your high-rise?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a tsunami headed their way. A big one—higher than your building.”

  “Oh my God.” She powers on her cell phone to text Edie, no longer worried about the FBI tracing her location.

  Mick’s eyes catch movement overhead—a glimmer of metal descending from the volcanic ash clouds. “Dom, we need to go.”

  “I’m not done texting—”

  “Text back in the balloon, our friends have arrived.” He turns to Manny. “Julius was right, there are no coincidences. Whatever happens, I’m glad we had a chance to meet.”

  Manny pinches away tears. “Me, too.”

  Father and son embrace, then Michael Gabriel takes Dominique by her hand and the two of them make a hasty retreat back to the balloon—as a white light bathes Manny in its soothing brilliance, the twinkling aura of energy levitating him away from the Nazca pampa into the awaiting aperture of the bulbous-shaped extraterrestrial ship.