Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

Warning lights illuminate the forward steel bulkhead. The impregnable vault door swings open, allowing them entry into a long, brightly lit tunnel.

Sam follows his mother through the naked corridor, registering the change in air pressure as the vault door is sealed from behind. ‘Okay, Ma, what’s this all about? Where the hell are you taking me?’

‘Shh. Save your questions until we’re inside.’

‘Inside? You mean this isn’t inside? What is this place?’

‘Be quiet and be patient.’

They follow the soundproof concrete and drywall passage to a set of steel double doors. The door seal parts as they approach and they enter a sterile white chamber, the walls circular, the ceiling domed. There are no windows or doors.

A hologram of an East-Asian secretary appears in the center of the room.

‘Good evening, Mrs. Gabriel. Please proceed to Habitat-2. Dr. Mohr will meet you there.’

‘Thank you, Rameeka.’

The camouflage of white wall disappears, revealing a steel door and keypad. Dominique presses her palm to the scanner.

Another passage opens before them. Dominique turns to her son. ‘Deeper into the rabbit hole, eh, Manny?’

‘Cute.’

They exit the holographic security chamber and enter a tight corridor, the rounded walls and ceiling composed of clear Luxon glass, a new diamond-based polycarbonate.

‘I feel like a goddam hamster. Whoa-’ Sam rounds the corner and stops, the floor below having dropped away beneath the glass.

They are six storeys above the ground floor of a subterranean hangar. A slow-moving hover-lift glides below, its enormous flatbed transporting an intricate piece of equipment, possibly a rocket engine subassembly. Ahead, a pair of Statue of Liberty-sized 150-foot-high double doors begin to part.

Sam presses his face against the thick glass to see better.

Dominique grabs his arm. ‘Come on, we’ll be late.’

‘Wait, I want to see what’s inside.’

‘Later. Dr. Mohr’s waiting.’

The glass corridor bends to the left, another door up ahead. ‘So who’s this Dr. Mohr?’

‘The director of GOLDEN FLEECE.’

The corridor door opens. To Sam’s surprise, they are standing in a pleasant foyer-more ski lodge than space center. Teak wood lines the walls and floor. The ceiling, stretching six stories above their heads, ends in a tinted glass dome. Plush furniture in shades of violet and purples surround a control station.

Seated behind the rounded console is the East-Asian woman who had appeared in the last hologram, only this time in the flesh.

The woman stares at Sam as if seeing a ghost. ‘Remarkable…’

‘Rameeka Ellepola, this is my son.’

The dark-eyed, brown-skinned Sri Lankan stands, extending her hand. ‘This is such an incredible honor.’

He shakes her hand. ‘Guess you’re a big football fan, huh?’

‘Football?’ She shoots Dominique a quizzical look.

‘I’ll explain later,’ Dominique says. ‘Where’s Dr. Mohr?’

‘Observing the training session. He asked you to meet him in the mezzanine.’

Sam follows his mother to an awaiting turbolift, the Asian girl never taking her eyes off him. He waits until the elevator door seals. ‘Okay, what was that all about?’

Before Dominique can respond, the lift door reopens.

They step out onto a dark mezzanine. Ahead is a floor-to-ceiling glass barrier overlooking an enormous indoor arena, its interior bathed in violet light. Situated on their side of the glass wall are twelve control stations. A dozen technicians, both males and females, are seated behind wraparound head-to-toe plasma monitors. Each wears a silver-colored body leotard lined with sensory links wired to their controls. Atop the technicians’ heads-sensory visors, obscuring their faces.

Appearing from behind the monitors is a slight Caucasian man in a white lab coat. He approaches, pausing so that the beam from an overhead light reveals his face.

‘Hello, hello.’ The scientist kisses Dominique on the cheek, then turns to her son. ‘Oh, my, thank you so much for coming. I’ve waited so long to meet you.’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Mohr, David Mohr. Please call me Dave. I’m in charge of this monstrosity.’

The scientist is six inches shorter than Manny, with chocolate brown hair graying slightly around the temples. His complexion is pale, the deep-set eyes brown and twinkling, absorbing everything they see.

Immanuel eyes the offered hand before shaking it. ‘Samuel Agler.’

Mohr flashes a grin. ‘Samuel Agler, oh, I love it. Come with me, Samuel Agler, there’s something I want you to see. Dominique?’

‘Go, you know I can’t stand to watch.’

‘Understood.’ Mohr leads Manny toward the glass barrier. ‘You know, Sam, your mother has told me so much about you. Ever been to the Cape?’

‘Once, when I was in high school. Wait a second, you’re not the weather-net Dr. Mohr, are you? The Nobel prize guy?’

‘That’s me. These days, I’m working on things infinitely more interesting. Let me show you.’ He points to the vast arena, its specifics still hidden in darkness.

‘What is this-a holographic suite?’

‘As a matter of fact it is. We use it as a training facility. It allows us to monitor all levels of combat.’

‘Combat?’

Mohr flashes a boyish grin. ‘You’re just in time for the morning session.’ The scientist turns to his two assistants. ‘We’re ready, ladies. Begin sequence one.’

Yellow ceiling lights illuminate the interior, revealing a replica of an ancient Mesoamerican ball court. The playing field is about 150 yards long, slightly narrower at its width, its rectangle of grass imprisoned within four walls constructed of limestone blocks. The longer eastern and western boundaries are bordered by stone embankments rising fifteen feet, each slanted wall adorned with ancient ball game reliefs. Situated atop the eastern embankment, directly across from the glass partition and control room, is a replica of Chichen Itza’s twenty-six-foot-high Temple of the Jaguar.

Anchored to the two perpendicular walls like a giant vertical donut is a circular stone ring, its hoop twenty inches in diameter.

‘You’ve duplicated the Mayan Ball Court? Why?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘The Mayan inscription on the embankment-what does it say?’

‘This particular ball court was known to the Maya as “black hole”, indicating it stood at the entrance of the Underworld, or Xibalba. The heroes of the game were said to have descended to Xibalba to conquer death. Look, here come their challengers.’

Mohr points below and to their left.

Entering from the southern end of the arena, their faces cloaked behind Mayan death masks, are a dozen brown-skinned warriors. Too large to be of Mayan descent, the men are as tall and muscular as Ryan Beck. Each carries an object like a baseball bat, the handles shaped like a serpent’s head.

The twelve technicians work furiously at their control stations, each manipulating their designated warrior.

The Mayans line up in formation, shoulder to shoulder beneath the opposite eastern goal.

From the northern end of the field appear two men. In stark contrast to the warriors, these athletes are dressed from head to toe in modern-day Special Ops combat body armor, one in black, the other in white.

‘What are they wearing?’

‘An advanced type of exoskeleton. The outer layer consists of ballistic-resistant ceramics backed by a lightweight carbon nanotube. Fabric’s as strong as steel, as light as cotton. A mini-fuel-cell-powered thermal comfort system, worn at the hip, cools or warms each soldier. Microturbines fueled by liquid hydrogen provide the body armor with ten kilowatts of power. Those teardrop-shaped helmets have integrated communication systems and augmented reality optics with night-vision screens. Strapped to their backs is a thin, pressurized water pack feeding a tube mounted inside each of the soldiers’ helmets.’