Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

What a spectacle it was to behold. Colonists fell to their knees, tears streaming from their eyes, while God’s ‘appointed angel’ flew above our heads and ‘blessed’ us with his urine stream.

And how could we not have fallen in worship? Like the ancient Hebrews before us, we had considered ourselves the ‘Chosen Ones,’ selected by God to survive. Each day for us on Xibalba was a miracle. On the brink of extinction, our Savior had blessed us with the gift of transhumanism. We had overcome the ravages of age and disease, we had transcended the human condition. We were believers, as impassioned as the Children of Israel must have been after Moses had parted the Red Sea.

The scientists among us, myself included, were not so easily convinced.

Jude, a devout Christian, argued endlessly with me about this, swearing that it was divine intervention that rescued us from oblivion.

But Devlin Mabus… an angel? The Devil incarnate, more like it.

Flexing his newfound political muscle, Devlin ‘ordained’ that personal time each day would henceforth be dedicated solely to worship. One religious order-the ‘Church of Mabus’ was proclaimed, and it was mandated that all colonists attend services.

Those of us who doubted the self-appointed deity sensed democracy and freedom fading fast-replaced by a new theocracy, with its own brand of Inquisition soon to follow.

Something had to be done.

Carefully, and very discreetly, I began recruiting members of the scientific elite who I knew harbored similar misgivings toward Mabus and his mother. Over the months our flock grew to include several dozen engineers and astronomers, rocket scientists and mathematicians, all seeking freedom from a society we suspected would soon turn to ‘divine’ persecution.

Thus was born the brotherhood of the Guardian.

Ours was a secret sect, for to be caught opposing Devlin and Lilith meant dismemberment by their followers. Because our thoughts could be telepathically ‘tapped,’ each member of the brotherhood would only be addressed by his or her alias.

We decided upon historical names. As Guardian founder, I dubbed myself: Osiris.

Michael Gabriel’s identity surely must have screamed at me from the abyss of Bill Raby’s mind.

What our newfound Guardian brotherhood desired was a safe haven from Devlin and his growing flock. We had two choices; either relocate to another part of New Eden or inhabit one of the planet’s two moons.

Remaining on New Eden was only a temporary solution at best. Targeting the larger of the two moons, we made plans to steal a shuttle.

A former NASA rocket scientist, known to us only as Kukulcan, was convinced he could salvage enough fuel to get us to our destination. Another scientist devised headgear that would scramble our brain’s electromagnetic waves enough to prevent other colonists from eavesdropping. While this assured us at least some semblance of privacy while we prepared our escape, Devlin’s new religious decree meant we would have to work during our ‘sleeping’ shifts.

The three shuttles that had carried us into New Eden had remained abandoned atop one of the transhuman dome-scrapers for years. While the Guardian scientist, Kukulcan, worked on preparing one of the shuttles for spaceflight, the rest of us reconfigured the ships’ environmental suits for our elongated skulls. Agricultural pods were stocked, medical supplies secreted on board.

As the day of our departure crew near, we felt prepared for anything – never suspecting there was a Judas in our midst…

10:03 a.m.

The black limousine follows the NASA Parkway east, leaving Merritt Island and crossing the Banana River land bridge to Cape Canaveral.

Mitchell Kurtz instructs the vehicle to stop at a security checkpoint. A flashing sign orders everyone to step out of the car.

Immanuel Gabriel, a.k.a. Samuel Agler, his mother, and the two bodyguards climb out of the limo, allowing two heavily armed guards to check their credentials. A robot sensor sweeps the exterior of the motorcar.

Dominique places her palm against the portable DNA scanner, her false identity tag appearing on screen.

SUBJECT IDENTIFIED: YOLANDA RODRIGUEZ. SUBJECT HAS GOLDEN FLEECE CLEARANCE. HAVE A NICE DAY.

Kurtz submits to a weapons scan. An alarm sounds, piercing the humid night air, causing both NASA guards to aim their weapons. ‘Hands high and wide! Move!’

Kurtz looks at Pepper, who rolls his eyes. ‘Rookies.’

A lieutenant exits from the station, stun gun held high. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘He’s packing a high-energy taser, sir.’

The lieutenant recognizes the limo and its passengers.

‘Watkins, did you bother to check his clearance?’ The guard looks down at his computer pad. ‘ Fubishit, he’s MAJESTIC-12.’

‘Which means I can march into the goddam White House with any weapon short of a neutron bomb,’ Kurtz says. ‘Now get that toy out of my face before I vaporize you.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

The other guard approaches Sam with the portable DNA scanner. ‘Place your palm against the scanner, please.’

‘Wrong.’ Beck steps in between them. ‘The kid’s exempt from DNA protocol.’

‘Sorry, big fella,’ the lieutenant says. ‘Nobody’s exempt from DNA protocol, not even President Zwawa.’

‘Check your orders again, Lieutenant.’ The imposing African-American moves closer, eyeballing the overmatched officer.

‘There’s nothing in my orders about a DNA exemption.’ The lieutenant nervously fingers his stun gun, not sure what setting short of DEATH could stop the bear-sized man.

Dominique sees the expression on Kurtz’s face and knows he is seconds away from activating his taser. ‘Salt, wait! Lieutenant, contact Dr. David Mohr in Hangar 13. He’ll verify everything.’

The lieutenant hesitates, then touches the comm link on his forearm. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Mohr, but I have four guests at the gate, a Yolanda Rodriguez, two bodyguards, and a male adolescent who refuses to submit to a DNA scan.’

Mohr’s face appears on the tiny screen. ‘Let them through, Lieutenant.’

‘But sir-’

‘Immediately, Lieutenant. Mohr out.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hangar 13, referred to by NASA personnel as ‘the fortress,’ is a twenty-two-storey steel-and-concrete structure situated on the southernmost tip of Cape Canaveral. As wide and as long as three football fields, the building contains two monstrous bay doors, each 297 feet high. Within the complex (the third largest structure in the world), are thirty-one cranes, two 227-metric-ton bridge cranes, and twenty-three of the latest hover-lifts. Cooled by nineteen thousand metric tons of air-conditioning, the facility has its own power plant, cafeteria, and security force. The exterior is surrounded by a series of electromagnetic and electrostatic dampeners, making it the largest Faraday chamber in the world. The site is also protected by an electrically charged forty-foot-high perimeter fence, with gun towers positioned along each corner, two more by the adjacent beach, one more along the shoreline of the Banana River.

No one gets in or out of Hangar 13 unless authorized.

The limo follows a two-lane bridge to the island complex, then turns left into a parking lot. Three more armed guards appear, escorting Dominique’s entourage from the limousine into the windowless front entrance. Salt and Pepper head off to the eatery while Sam and his mother are led down a plush magenta-carpeted hallway, past another checkpoint, then to a large alcove, dead-ending at an immense titanium vault door.

A holographic security guard appears. ‘Good evening, Ms. Rodriguez. You may enter the facility when ready.’