Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

The first ‘heaven’ drug was BLISS, a genetically encoded cocktail designed to release serotonin and stimulate phenylethylamine, a chemical released by the human brain when one is ‘in love’ (or for some, while eating chocolate). A year later, a second line of BLISS was developed for senior citizens, this one designed to restore the dopaminergic neurons that gradually die off as we age, leading to a decline in sexual drive.

Happiness and a recharged libido-an old industry was reborn.

Designer heavens were not physically addictive, and the delayed action of these nonneurotoxic mood enhancers released a more gradual high, preventing the wild emotional swings of drugs like heroin, Ecstasy, and cocaine. When used in conjunction with a new line of virtual-reality software products, the effect was increased tenfold.

Biotechnology had created an entirely new sensation-driven world economy, virtually replacing the alcohol and nicotine industries.

Lauren steps from her moment of serenity into a hallway throbbing with technomusic. From an open dorm room she spots a bare-chested, multistained underclassman.

Second-year Middle Eastern Dialects major Kirk Peacock stares back at her through mood-evolving contact lenses, which now appear purple. The track lighting along the ceiling reflects off his hairless scalp and the Chinese symbol for love permanently tattooed just above his forehead.

‘Laur-rah-’

‘It’s Lauren.’

‘Laur-rah, Laur-ren… just a name, Laur-ren Beck-man.’

‘Beckmeyer.’

‘You’re the Mule’s tool.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘His plaything, you know, his pacifier. I need you to score me a signed pigskin. My geoprof said he’d raise my grade if I-’

‘You like new experiences, Kirk?’

‘It’s the basis for my existence.’

‘Then try attending a few lectures in person this semester.’ She examines his neck. ‘Is that a mood-leech?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Kirk giggles, pulling the edge of the flat leech-shaped object away from his birdlike neck. ‘Want a suck? Still got another twenty minutes of juice.’

The ‘mood-leech’ is a drug injection system, its two-hundred hollow microscopic needles designed to release a hybrid of illegal ‘rave narcotics’ directly into the user’s carotid artery. Combined with ‘designer heaven,’ the mood-leech created waves of ‘ wholebody hyperorgasmic euphoria,’ especially when used in a virtual-reality chamber.

Lauren shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Is your consciousness ever drug-free?’

Kirk’s grin reveals two platinum-capped teeth. ‘Consciousness blows, psychological hedonism rules. If it ain’t virtual, it ain’t reality… Laur-rah Beck-woman. What releases your endogenous opioids? Exercise? Sex? Food? Music? When I listen to music now, its stirs my soul. When I make love, my whole body quivers for hours. This morning, I had erotic alien sex in a VR chamber, and I don’t even know if it was a male or female!’

‘Yeah, well I’m not into Zombi-ism or alien gang bangs. I’ll stick with my mule, if you know what I mean.’

‘Mule sex. Ha. Ha-ha-ugh…’ The metallic smile suddenly fades as Kirk’s blue-tinged face flushes violet.

WARNING: TOXIC LEVELS OF DEXTROMETHORPHAN PRESENT. SWEAT GLANDS SHUTTING DOWN. HEAT STROKE IMMINENT. PARAMEDICS HAVE BEEN SUMMONED.

‘Shut up!’ He looks at Lauren, fighting to keep his balance, his mood swinging like a pendulum. ‘ Sheating-fud computer’s been driving me crazy all afternoon.’

Sheating-fud? Lauren frowns, her mind racing to unscramble the new slang-stringing curse. Shit-eating fuck-wad… got it. She touches his forehead. ‘You’re burning up.’

Kirk’s eyes roll up as he falls forward.

Lauren ducks, catching him over her right shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She enters his apartment, gagging at the stench as she makes her way over piles of soiled laundry and garbage.

The lights fail to activate as she enters the bathroom. ‘Computer, increase lighting.’

UNABLE TO COMPLY. FUEL CELL HAS BEEN REMOVED.

‘Emergency lighting.’

Panel strips illuminate along the ceiling and floor. The bathroom smart-mirror has been spray-painted black.

Lauren lays Kirk on the shower floor and rips the leech from his neck, revealing a series of red dots. ‘Computer, shower on, fifty degrees.’

Icy water blasts from dual nozzles, the built-in sensors targeting the unconscious teen.

Kirk moans.

‘Computer, this is Resident Assistant Beckmeyer. What is ETA of paramedics?’

SIX MINUTES.

‘Place a call to resident’s sister to meet resident at student health center.’

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Lauren looks down at Kirk. The teen’s eyes have reopened, his mood-contacts black, his flushed skin paling to blue again as his body cools off.

‘Fu… fu… fubish-’ His teeth chatter as he tries to stand.

Lauren places her foot on his chest.

‘Fuckkking… bi-itch-ssshiiit-Laureeenn!’

‘At least you got the name right.’

‘Let… m-m-me… g-g-go-’

‘Sorry, Kirk, you want to kill yourself, do it on someone else’s floor, not mine. Now sit your rainbow ass down and take it like a man

… or alien, whichever you prefer.’

The paramedics arrive five minutes later.

Eight minutes later, Lauren enters her own apartment. The interior is plush and immaculate, decorated in soothing shades of gray with violet throw pillows.

She kicks off her running shoes

GOOD EVENING, LAUREN. IT IS 7:36 P.M. YOU HAVE THREE MESSAGES.

‘In the bathroom.’ She grabs a bottle of recycled reverse-osmosis water from the fridge and heads for the bathroom.

Interior lights turn on to greet her.

She sits on the toilet and urinates.

The ‘smart-toilet’ instantly analyzes her urine, while the pulse in her thigh is computed.

NO DISEASES PRESENT. YOU ARE NOT PREGNANT.

‘Thank God. Computer, play back message one.’

The image of Lauren’s father, Mark, appears on the mirror. ‘Hi, sweetheart. Nothing important, just wanted to let you know that we’re all looking forward to seeing you and Sam next weekend. Give us a flash when you get in.’

‘Computer, erase message one. Play back message two.’

Christopher Laubin, Lauren’s volcanism professor appears on screen. ‘Good afternoon, Ms. Beckmeyer. This is just a reminder that our grant selection committee will be meeting with you Monday morning at seven-thirty in Clinton Hall, Room 213. Don’t be late.’

‘I’m never late. Computer, reply BECKMEYER ACKNOWLEDGE to message two. Play back message three.’

Sam’s face appears on-screen, her fiance calling from a cell phone. ‘Hey, babe. Sorry I’m late, but my teammates and I had to do this postgame ritual thing. I’ll be by in about twenty to fondle your breasts. Love you.’

Dammit… She stands, strips out of her neon orange body-suit, and steps into the shower, the warm water spray drenching her as the door seals shut.

IT IS TIME FOR YOUR MONTHLY MELANOMA CHECKUP.

‘So do it… damn computer-nag.’

She glances down as shower sensors scan her body. Her stomach is taut, her legs rock-hard from daily workouts at the training center. She wonders if Sam would prefer her breasts larger.

‘Increase temperature ten degrees.’

The water heats up, the shower’s pulsating heads massaging the tension from her muscles.

Should I be angry at Sam or just disappointed? Recalling his postgame interview with the ESPN woman, she decides a touch of both would be appropriate.

The two melanoma monitors embedded in the tile begin blinking. She turns slowly, allowing the device to examine her skin for cancer.

MELANOMA NOT PRESENT. DERMO-SHIELD SHOULD BE REPLACED IN TWENTY-TWO DAYS.