01-01-00

by R. J. Pineiro

  “You forget that almost five hundred years passed since this place was built to the time when the first Spaniards set foot in Yucatán. That’s a long time. Much can happen in that many years.”

  “Never thought about it that way,” Susan said, peering down the dark staircase. “I didn’t realize how deep this place is,” she added, walking beside him, her hazel eyes gleaming in the dim light, a hand tucked in one of the pockets of the khaki vest Cameron had given her a few days ago.

  “Let’s see, thirty-three steps is about thirty feet below the level of the anteroom. This temple is taller below ground than above ground, built this way to keep it hidden from outsiders. They probably used all of the limestone they dug up to build the structure above ground, as well as the pyramid, the small palace, and the courtyard.”

  “I feel a breeze,” Susan said.

  Cameron nodded. “That’s what I was hoping for. Like in Palenque, the architects who designed and built this place have included ventilation tubes from the outside to help control the moisture buildup.”

  “Boy, do I feel lucky,” she commented, bracing herself.

  “You should. That means we won’t be asphyxiating anytime soon.”

  “No, but we’ll probably die from hypothermia.”

  “Are you cold?”

  She nodded.

  “Show you a trick,” he said, reaching for the left sleeve of his own vest, tugging on a zipper partially covered by fabric. “Do like I do.” He unzipped a bag of folded material beneath the sleeve. He pulled on the fabric and it turned the short sleeve into a long sleeve of thin nylon lined with cotton. He did the same to his right sleeve.

  She smiled and also quickly turned her vest into a light jacket. “Clever. Thanks. That feels better.”

  “And that’s not all.” He approached her, unbuckling the four straps of her vest, turning them inside out, and revealing a long zipper running from her waist up to her neckline. He zipped it up and then moved to the collar, Where another zipper released a hood, which he put over her head, securing it with straps.

  “That’s the thing about my job. One moment you’re in the scorching heat, and the next you’re walking in some cave in subzero temperatures. These vests are great to make those environmental changes a little more bearable.”

  They moved down the corridor, past long tables packed with offerings, shells full of pearls, jade beads, dozens of pottery dishes, gold arrowheads, and several jade figurines. “Just like in Palenque,” Cameron commented, explaining how Ruz had found similar offerings beneath the Temple of the Inscriptions, as he neared Pacal’s crypt.

  They reached the end of the corridor, finding yet a third slab blocking the way. Another wall of mosaics covered the wall next to the limestone slab. Once again, the scientists went to work.

  “The pattern is the same, but always with a slight change,” she offered.

  Cameron smiled. It was not often that he encountered a woman who was not only beautiful and smart, but also someone with whom he could connect. “Do you want to do the honors this time?”

  Susan readily accepted, pressing the harmonic numbers, starting with the lower right quadrant and continuing clockwise. The first rock-grating sound came from above, echoing down the stairs they had just taken.

  “The floor,” Cameron said. “It’s lifting back up.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Relax,” he said, setting the lantern by his feet and hugging her. She hugged him back, hard, conveying a mix of affection and fear. “Remember the first rule in archaeological exploration,” he whispered in her ear. “You’re never trapped as long as you can keep moving forward. Besides, whether there is one slab blocking our way back, or a thousand slabs, the end product is the same, you can’t go back that way unless we find something ahead that can reset the stones, or show us another way out.”

  Just then the slab in front of them disappeared in the wall, its rumbling amplified by the enclosing stone, ending in a hissing sound as air escaped out of the next chamber, momentarily swirling their hair while the relative air pressures equalized. His ears popped.

  Cameron went in and froze. In front of him stood a replica of the burial chamber, roughly thirty feet square, found by Alberto Ruz Lhullier in Palenque, down to the large sarcophagus lid depicting Pacal at the controls of a spaceship headed toward the stars. During his lifetime of archaeological work, Cameron had literally memorized many works of Mesoamerican art. One such masterpiece was the carving on Pacal’s sarcophagus, a five-ton block of limestone eight feet in width by twelve in length and almost a foot in thickness. It included the glyphs running along the border, surrounding the main relief, which told the primary mission of the Mayan chief.

  Cameron walked all around the sarcophagus, inspecting the glyphs, verifying their similarity to the ones he’d committed to memory long ago.

  “What do they say?” Susan asked.

  “Pacal Votan, galactic agent 13 66 56 0, was ordered by those above him to leave his homeland by the Hunab Ku and go to the Yucatán, the land of the Maya on Earth, traveling through the Kuxan Suum. He arrived to a place by the Usumacinta River, near the site that became Palenque, which he then founded. Pacal built the Temple of the Inscriptions, designed for his return trip to the Hunab Ku, where he was to report that the terrestrial Maya were ready to receive the harmonic synchronization during its passage through the 5129 years of the Great Cycle ending at the completion of the thirteenth baktun, or zero one, zero one, zero zero.”

  Susan frowned, her expression telling Cameron she was not certain what to make of the explanation. She pointed to a hole roughly ten inches in diameter on the far side of the chamber. It appeared to go up, toward the surface. “What’s this?”

  “Amazing,” Cameron said. “They even built what archaeologists have termed a psychoduct, or a speaking tube, just like the one in Palenque, connecting the crypt to the temple above us.”

  “A speaking tube…” she asked, almost to herself. “Where does it go?”

  “To the … hmm,” he said, rubbing his chin.

  “Do you think it still works?”

  “Only one way to find out.” He pointed to the opening. “Be my guest.”

  2

  Jackie Nakamura heard it first, a faint cry emanating from the terrace, amplified by the incredible acoustics of the ancient edifices.

  “Up there,” she said, pointing to a dark hole on the left side of the temple, where they had returned a few minutes ago after spending the last twenty setting up their equipment for tonight’s event.

  Ishiguro, who had been inspecting the mosaics, walked over to his wife, standing at the far left corner of the shadowy porch, where the carvings of two shamans showed them with their heads turned toward the foot-square hole, as if listening to it.

  “That’s Susan,” Jackie said.

  3

  While Susan shouted for help, Cameron continued to inspect the interior of the crypt, looking for differences between this place and Palenque, finding one on the left wall, a painting of the cosmos, depicting the southern constellation Centaur in the center, surrounded by other galaxies.

  “Cameron,” Susan said, waving him over, pointing at the speaking tube. “Listen.”

  “… you all right? We can hear you clearly.”

  “We are fine,” Susan replied to Jackie, whose voice came through the hole with amazing clarity, as if she were talking from the next room. “Can you use the same combination of numbers to reopen the entrance?”

  “Can’t. The four numbers are still depressed. The returning slab did not reset them.”

  In the twilight of the room, Cameron saw Susan frown. That probably also meant that the mosaics controlling the moving floor in the anteroom were also depressed.

  “We’ll figure a way out of here,” he said, a hand on her shoulder, pressing gently. “Trust me. I’ve been in tight spots before. If I know the Maya, there is something in this chamber that either resets the previous doors so that others can use
them, or maybe it reopens them. The trick is figuring out what it is while avoiding activating decoys, traps meant for those who do not belong in here.”

  “Like us?”

  “We’ll be all right, Susan.”

  “Do you really have any idea how to get out of here?”

  Cameron nodded. “I have my suspicions, but it’s too early to tell.”

  “That means you have no idea.”

  “This map of the sky, for example,” he said, shooting her a look. “Notice how there are fine cracks containing clusters of stars. One such cluster corresponds to the Hunab Ku. That’s one possibility. Another one’s over there.” He swung the lantern to the section of wall flanking the entrance to the chamber, where a number of wall indents followed a hairline crack in the shape of a square. “Those look like finger grips. They could be for a drawer built into the wall, perhaps housing more offerings for Pacal to take with him in the afterlife. And over here, these reliefs depict the body of Pacal being lowered into his new resting home. Also notice the fine cracks around the shield of Lord Pacal.” He pointed to a mosaic six inches square. “Problem is, unless I’m quite sure, I can’t just start pressing and pulling.”

  She nodded. “Because they could be traps.”

  “Right.”

  Susan braced herself, inhaling deeply. “All right, Cameron. I believe you.”

  “That’s a relief,” he said, grinning.

  She opened her mouth to reply but Jackie’s voice filled the crypt.

  “We’re going to try to lower a couple of water bottles,” Jackie said.

  “Thanks,” Susan replied. “We can certainly use them.”

  “You got it. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. In case we don’t make it out before tonight’s event, there’s some gear that I need you to get ready. Do you have pencil and paper?”

  “In a moment.”

  While Cameron continued to inspect the burial chamber, Susan provided the astrophysicists with step-by-step instructions on how to operate her equipment, the required access passwords, which programs to bring up on her laptop, and how to set it up in receiving mode in preparation for the upcoming event. She had already made the necessary changes for the selected frequency range in the morning, following a night of discussions with the Japanese team. Ishiguro and Joao were able to lower a canteen and a pack of plastic-wrapped beef jerky—which Susan and Cameron consumed quickly, neither of them having had any breakfast and just a light dinner the night before. While they ate, Ishiguro had informed them of the help on the way, including a medical helicopter for the unconscious shaman and other wounded natives, plus two dozen SEALs for protection. It was then that Susan had learned that Troy Reid was also coming, along with a half-dozen members of her team plus more computer gear.

  Now they sat on the stone floor, tired, cold. Cameron had further dimmed the lantern to nothing more than a vague glow, enough to break the total darkness that would otherwise engulf them. He could barely make out the carvings on the opposite wall of the chamber.

  “Hold me,” Susan said in the near darkness, scooting over, resting her head on his chest. He hugged her, closing his eyes, her nearness making him forget about computer viruses and ancient temples. Cameron savored her touch, her arms reaching behind him, pressing him against her, close, very close, the intimacy amplified by their surroundings. They were alone, isolated, a hundred tons of stone shielding them from the outside world.

  Cameron Slater, eminent archaeologist, field expert, distinguished college professor, realized that for the very first time in his busy life he had developed strong feelings for someone else—despite his best efforts to use past relationships to force such alien emotions aside. He didn’t have the time, the desire, the need to get involved like this, with something that went so far beyond anything he had experienced before, that he felt exposed, sailing in uncharted waters, trekking through unfamiliar jungle.

  But primal feelings had already begun their slow outward motion, released from the deepest corner of his soul, slowly turning, radiating outward, gaining control of his senses, of his mind. His logic told him to let go of this, to walk away, to seek comfort elsewhere. But Susan Garnett had already burst into his life, awakening feelings he didn’t know existed, making him long for a life much different from the one he had lived. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that drew him in with a power far stronger than the Brazilian dancer, or the Peruvian beauty. Susan Garnett was beautiful, but so were so many others, and some even more gorgeous and exotic. Perhaps it was her smile, or the way in which she focused those hazel eyes on him, honest, profound, conveying comforts beyond those of the flesh, offering friendship, companionship, love.

  Susan’s breathing grew steady, serene, peaceful. She curled up like a baby, head on his chest, legs tucked over his thighs. He kissed the top of her head and also fell asleep.

  4

  The electromagnetic meters on both the SETI gear and Susan’s jumped to life at the frequency of 1.42 GHz, peaking at an amplitude of 30 dBs, providing Ishiguro and Jackie with a clear representation of the EM energy bombarding the area.

  Troy Reid, the bald and overweight official from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, stood behind them, swabbing his forehead with a handkerchief inside one of the dozen tents that the Americans had pitched in the courtyard following their arrival in the middle of the afternoon. Close to thirty people roamed the site now, including a small army of Navy SEALs, deployed quite efficiently around the site. A medical helicopter had also flown to the nearby village. Word from Joao was that the local Maya had refused to let the strangers take away their surviving high priest and had forced them to tend to him on site. The last update he’d gotten from the Mayan chief was that the medics had stabilized the priest but weren’t certain when he would regain consciousness. Reid had spent a long time chatting with Susan through the speaking tube, which the SEALs now used as a ventilation duct, to force air into the burial chamber. In the tent next door, the Americans had set up three HP workstations, fed by the generators, and networked back to Washington via dedicated satellite links.

  The puttering from a pair of portable electric generators echoed to the rhythm of the tent’s canvas flapping in the evening breeze. Ishiguro kept his eyes glued not just on the meter on the screen, but also on the bar next to it, which indicated the number of megabytes of hard drive being consumed as the analog-to-digital translators converted the waveforms into binary code.

  At the same time, Jackie used their undamaged SETI gear, which included a portable ten-foot-diameter radio telescope, to gather additional information on the event by searching the microwave range, snapping radio images of the southern constellation Centaur. This part was really a long shot, because if their 350-foot radio telescope back at Cerro Tolo could pick up nothing but a faint violet haze surrounding the distant star, the ten-footer outside the tent stood little chance of capturing much beyond terrestrial EM noise.

  The event lasted twelve seconds, and Ishiguro shut down the sensors.

  “That was it,” he said, turning to Jackie, her china-doll features washed with amber light. “Just over forty-two megabytes. Like Susan predicted. Did you snap any pictures?”

  Jackie nodded. “I’m not sure what we’ll get with this little telescope. I’ve captured two images, both aimed at the expected origin of the source, based on its location for the past few days, as it follows an elliptical orbit around HR4390A. Each file’s around 150 megabytes in size. It’s going to be a little while before our portable system can convert them to images.”

  “Let’s look at the EM conversion first,” said Reid, sitting next to Jackie and beginning to work the keyboard of Susan’s computer, pulling up the binary data dump. “Then we’ll turn the HPs loose on your radio telescope images.”

  He went to the bottom.

  “The same date,” Reid said.

  Ishiguro nodded. “Zero one, zero one, zero zero.”

  “But the general pattern is much different f
rom previous dates,” said Reid. “Much more defined.”

  “I think we’re now listening at the precise frequency,” Ishiguro offered.

  “Let’s see what it yields,” Reid said, forwarding the binary file onto the HP workstations.

  5

  Susan Garnett had her eyes closed, but she was not sleeping. Her mind was in a faraway place, in another time, when the night’s cool air had filled her lungs with peace and comfort, bringing with it the sweet memories of Rebecca, of Tom, of a life that would never be again, a life that she now found herself remembering with affection, but no longer with obsession, also realizing that hope once again filled her.

  Susan had felt alone then, but she didn’t feel alone now, in the quiet and murky chamber, in the arms of Cameron Slater. Her body had belonged only to her husband, but he was gone, had been gone for a very long time, leaving her alone.

  Alone.

  Susan hated being alone. She had longed for the touch of a man, for the embrace of that stranger who had so suddenly come into her life, for the man who understood her pain and was willing to lend more than a helping hand during her worst moment of need.

  Susan opened her eyes and turned in the direction of Cameron, who smiled.

  A decent man.

  “Hey, I thought you were—”

  She put a finger to his lips and slowly shook her head as she sat over his thighs, facing him, her knees pressing against his sides, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders. Cameron closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her touch.

  Leaning down, she kissed him, enjoying his taste, his lips, soft, unlike the rest of him, hardened by years of fieldwork. He cupped her face and returned the kiss, passionately, but with the gentleness of a partner, of a husband.

  “Thank you,” she said, a hand on his cheek.

  “No. Thank you,” he replied. “I’m enjoying this as much as—”

  “Sue? Dr. Slater? You guys down there?”

  They looked up, toward the speaking tube.