Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

The former president hobbles over to the refrigerator and grabs a bottled water. Changes his mind. Searches the liquor cabinet. Pours himself a shot of whiskey.

‘My mother’s right. Manny can’t take much more of this isolation.’

Chaney looks up as Jacob enters the kitchen. ‘I’m not the one calling the shots, kid. Not anymore.’

Jacob nods. ‘I think it’s time I started calling the shots.’

St. Augustine, Florida

It is dark by the time Dominique parks her car in front of Evelyn Strongin’s home. The drive has done little to ease her frayed nerves. What she needs now is advice.

Dominique walks up the old redbrick path to the entrance. Holds her palm to the security keypad.

Surgically implanted in Dominique’s palm is a microchip identification device, no larger than a grain of rice. Recognizing her ‘key,’ the electronic bolt unlocks.

Dominique enters the home. Sees the turned-over palm plant and magazine rack. Feels her skin tingling. ‘Evelyn?’

Evelyn’s library door is closed. Dominique creeps closer and listens. Hears the gurgling sound. Flexes her right biceps, activating the pain-cannon’s neurological trigger.

Dominique kicks the door open. ‘Evelyn! Oh my God-’

The dead woman’s face is purple, her limp, broken figure swaying from a makeshift noose tied to the overhead ceiling fan.

November 2, 2027

Miami, FL. (AP Internet Wire)

Former Secretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia was released today from a federal penitentiary in Miami after serving nearly fifteen years. Once considered a strong Republican candidate for president, Borgia was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder when he ordered the death of Michael Gabriel, the incarcerated mental patient who mysteriously died after helping prevent a nuclear holocaust back in December of 2012. ‘I’m an innocent man who served his country and was wrongly accused,’ Borgia told reporters moments after his release. ‘All I want now is to live out what few days I have in peace.’

NOVEMBER 4, 2027: MABUS MANSION, MANALAPAN, FLORIDA

4:17 p.m.

Pierre Borgia stares at his reflection in the bathroom smart glass. Prison life has trimmed forty pounds from his once stocky physique. His face is noticeably leaner, almost gaunt, his head cleanly shaven to hide the gray. The bandage over his right eye socket is new, the result of a recent inmate attack during his last month in the federal penitentiary.

‘We should get that eye looked at,’ says Lucien Mabus, the teen entering from the bedroom. ‘Once the swelling’s down, we’ll fit you with one of those new prosthetics.’

‘Waste of time and money. My life’s over.’ Borgia turns on the faucet. Washes his face.

‘Don’t say that. My father always said the party needs you.’

‘Where the hell was the party when Chaney had me carted off like a goddam animal? That nigger’s got the UN marching to the beat of his goddam drum. He’s also the one who killed your father.’

The nineteen-year-old nods. ‘Yeah. What’re we gonna do about that?’

‘I have a few ideas. Get dressed, kid, I’ll meet you downstairs.’

Borgia reaches for a sensory toothbrush. Brushes his teeth. On cue, a medical chart appears on the smart-glass mirror directly in front of him.

TEMPERATURE: 98.6

HEART RATE: 118

BLOOD PRESSURE 158/94

CHOLESTEROL 343

ELECTROLYTES NORMAL

2 CAVITIES PRESENT

GINGIVITIS IN STAGE 2

BLOOD PRESSURE AND CHOLESTEROL ARE HIGH.

ANALYSIS OF SALIVA INDICATES A BLEEDING ULCER. SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IMMEDIATELY. HAVE A NICE

DAY.

‘Damn know-it-all computers.’ Borgia dries his face, then reexamines the eye patch in the bathroom mirror.

Longboat Key, Florida 4:17 p.m.

Jacob stares wide-eyed into the bathroom’s smart-glass mirror, his reflection dissipating as his mind hitches a ride aboard another person’s wavelength.

Gaunt face.

Shaved head.

Eye patch… covering a wound created twenty-six years ago by his own father.

It’s Borgia… I’m remote-viewing Pierre Borgia!

The session ends as abruptly as it had begun.

Jacob blinks hard at the reflection of his own tan face and snow-white hair.

You’re up to something, Borgia. I can taste your anger… the restlessness of your soul.

Belle Glade, Florida 6:40 p.m.

The Orion Suburban convertible rolls to a stop in front of Quenton’s home, its batteries nearly depleted. Lilith nods good-bye to her uncle, then heads for the front door.

The reverend is waiting for her inside. He is wearing a bathrobe, boxer shorts, and black socks. ‘Why did you steal my car?’

‘A friend needed it. Besides, technically it’s my car now. Did you take care of everything at the bank?’

Quenton holds up the manila envelope. ‘Everything’s here, all signed and sealed, but you don’t get nuthin’, least not until I die.’

‘Give me the papers.’

‘No. The papers go back to my attorney’s office tomorrow morning. As long as you please me, the Last Will and Testament stays unchanged.’ Quenton’s eyes gleam. ‘I want it every night. From now on, you’re my private whore.’

A twinge of panic. The Succubus is not a whore. The Succubus is powerful. The Succubus controls ‘Take off your clothes, whore.’

Lilith looks up at Quenton, pulling him in with her smile. ‘Okay. You want a private whore, you got it. But first, let’s make sure you’re up to the task.’ She reaches into her pocket and removes the three pills. ‘Chew these up real good. These pills will help you last all night long.’

He does as told, chewing and swallowing the tablets. ‘Get undressed, ’ho. You owe me for the last seven years.’

Longboat Key, Florida 7:22 p.m.

Go on, Father, finish your story. Tell me what happened after your shuttles reached the domed city on the alien world.

A section of the dome receded, allowing us to enter, just as it had for our drone scout. Once inside, an invisible force field, perhaps a tractor beam, steadied our three pitching vessels, guiding them to a landing pad located atop one of the twelve-thousand-foot-high dwellings.

We filed out of our vessels and breathed the alien air. We were so relieved to be saved that we literally stood upon the roof of that tower and cheered. We joined hands and thanked God in prayer. And then we realized we were stuck.

Stuck?

Twelve thousand feet above ground level. The only access point we could find to enter the interior of the dome-scraper was an octagonal door, which appeared to be composed of an incredibly thin yet impenetrable nanocarbon fiber. There was no handle or keypad, no clues for entry.

The sun set, and we were still marooned on the roof. Nightfall arrived, and for the first time, we gazed upon that alien sky, it was simply breathtaking to behold. The planet’s large moon shone bright yellow, the smaller potato-shaped satellite appearing as a fast-moving violet speck. In the distance was a nebula and a bright blue star.

We spent two long days atop that dwelling, waiting impatiently for our engineers to fashion devices to rappel us down the face of the tower. A harrowing descent, and we were finally on the ground.

Neanderthal man had arrived in New Manhattan.

The urban landscape integrated tropical foliage and artificial waterways into its design. The humidity was heavy at ground level, the air cool. Close by was a stream, and I remember feeling pleased that our scientists were already busy testing its silvery-tinged waters.

To our dismay, the liquid contained microscopic traces of some exotic elements. Was the water toxic? We couldn’t be sure, but tests using our few surviving lab mice showed it as potable… at least in the short term.