Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

Jacob shakes his head. Points.

The drone representing Michael Gabriel is lying against the simmering remains of the calabash tree, blue blood streaming profusely from his abdomen.

‘Computer, rewind six hundred frames and pause.’

The image returns to the demon sentry’s lunge toward the tree. ‘Watch closely. His left claw is the decoy. Ignore it and focus on the right. Computer, resume at 1 percent nexus speed.’

Immanuel watches the demon’s left arm, which is partially hidden below its lunging body. Even at greatly reduced speed the limb is just a blur as it extends toward the Michael Gabriel drone, which is morphing out from the trunk of the dripping white tree.

Two of the sentry’s scalpel-sharp clawed fingers puncture Mick through his abdomen and out his spine before the appendage retracts in an attempt to parry Jacob’s blow.

‘Jesus, it… it butchered him.’

Jacob nods. ‘We can win, but it’ll take both of us to do it. We have a long day tomorrow, try to get some sleep.’

‘Sleep? You honestly expect me to sleep after seeing that?’

‘If you can’t sleep, ask the computer for a green tea sedative.’ Jacob exits through the open shoji, then turns. ‘Tomorrow is a big day, Manny. We need to bring you back to our chosen path.’

Immanuel Gabriel lies back on the uncomfortably hard bed, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe it’s your chosen path, bro, but it’s not mine.

Geology Lab, University of Miami,

Coral Gables, Florida

Lauren Beckmeyer is in Bill Gabeheart’s office, her bare feet propped on his desk. She has been in the lab over two hours, waiting for the lab’s computer to complete a data search to confirm information downloaded earlier from Yellowstone Park is identical to data received in the past.

ANALYSIS COMPLETE. REPEATING DATA FOUND BETWEEN YELLOWSTONE CALDERA READINGS OF 16 A PRIL 2030 AND 19 NOVEMBER 2033.

‘Repeating data? Computer, how close in similarity are the two readings?’

NO VARIANCE FOUND. DATA IS IDENTICAL.

Gabeheart was right. Those Fed bastards are hiding something. She types in Gabeheart’s access code on her laptop.

The professor’s prerecorded image flashes on screen. ‘Hi. Sorry to disappoint you but this isn’t me. Since I’m probably outside watching Old Faithful, feel free to leave me a message.’

‘Doc, it’s Lauren. I found something. Contact me the moment you-’

The recorded image disappears, replaced by that of Paxton J. Walther, Bill Gabeheart’s regional coordinator at Yellowstone. ‘Ms. Beckmeyer?’

‘Yes, sir.’ What’s he doing on Gabeheart’s private comm link? ‘Sir, where’s Professor Gabeheart? I need to speak with him.’

Paxton shakes his head sadly. ‘I’m so sorry-’

Lauren’s muscles contract in fear.

‘-there’s been an accident. Bill… he died earlier this morning.’

‘What?’

‘He was taking temperature readings at one of the hot springs when there was a tremor and Bill fell in. By the time we got to him… the third-degree burns… he was gone.’

‘Oh, God… oh my God-’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I can’t… I just spoke with him the other day.’

Paxton’s eyes come into focus. ‘Saturday?’

Lauren feels light-headed as the blood drains from her face. ‘I, uh… I don’t know. Might have been-’

‘Lauren, did Bill download something to you?’

‘No, I mean, yes, it was midterms. I… I had to turn them in before Thanksgiving break. Have you notified Gabeheart’s family?’

‘Not yet. Lauren, I’m sorry to have to spring this on you like this, no pun intended. I know you and the professor were close. Where can I find you… to notify you about the funeral arrangements?’

Don’t tell… don’t say a word… ‘I… I honestly don’t know.’

‘Are you going away for the holiday?’

‘I’m… not sure.’ Get off now, before you say too much… ‘I have to go, I’m sorry-’

‘Lauren, wait-’

She disconnects the comm link. Oh, God, oh my God… those bastards-they killed him! She covers her face, tears pouring from her eyes, sadness and fear taking her breath away. If they think I know something, they’ll come after me, too!

‘Stop! Get a grip and think. First step, erase the data trail.’ She turns to the main computer terminal. ‘Computer, erase all communication records received over the last week, with the exception of the last outgoing call.’

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Lauren’s hands are trembling. Okay, you can’t go home… can’t stay here… Who can I tell? Who would believe me?

A sudden noise-outside the lab. ‘Computer, seal the outer lab doors.’

ACKNOWLEDGED.

A knock outside the lab door.

She whispers, ‘Computer, who’s out there?’

CAMPUS SECURITY.

‘Shh. Reduce volume 80 percent and run a background check on the guy outside the lab door. I want a name and time he’s been on the job.’

COLLIN SHELBY. TRANSFERRED TO CAMPUS PATROL 19 NOVEMBER 2033.

November 19… only three days ago. Jesus, these guys move fast.

More banging, this time insistent. ‘Hello? Whoever’s in there, could you unseal the security doors please?’

Cold beads of sweat pour down Lauren’s face. ‘Computer, shut down and lock out all terminals, access code Beckmeyer Tango-Zulu-8659.’

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Gotta disappear fast, before he overrides the lock.

She looks around, desperate, then notices the antique letter opener.

Outside the lab door, Collin Shelby slides his bogus identification card across the magnetic seal. ‘Computer, override lock. Security, Shelby 28497-M.’

The doors hiss open. Shelby enters the lab, stun gun in hand. ‘Ms. Beckmeyer?’

No response. No one visible.

The guard looks around, then checks Gabeheart’s private office.

Empty.

‘Computer, locate Lauren Beckmeyer, microchip identification 341124876-FL-USA

LAUREN BECKMEYER IS OFF-LINE.

‘Off-line?’ Shelby looks around. Sees the letter opener, stained with blood on Gabeheart’s desk. Locates the remains of the crushed microchip implant in the trash can.

‘Clever girl.’

Shelby removes a palm-sized device from his jacket and attaches it to Gabeheart’s computer, overriding the lockout mechanism. ‘Computer, access all e-mail records and hard drive documents and delete.’

Thousands of records flash past the small screen in an instant.

Collin Shelby is a member of UMBRA, a mercenary subcontracting organization that functions in extreme sanction situations for the DIA, CIA, and NSA and maintains liaisons with senior FBI personnel. Formerly labeled the ‘Talent Pool,’ the shadow organization’s primary cover is the prevention of terrorist activities.

Shelby has no idea why he has been ordered to assassinate Lauren Beckmeyer, nor does he care. A harsh by-product of the new global Internet and unified monetary system is that terrorist organizations can now recruit young and old, male and female from any nation and every walk of life. Last month’s biological attack at the 9-11 Memorial killed more than sixty civilians. If the death of one confused college student can prevent more bloodshed…

E-MAIL RECORDS AND HARD DRIVE DOCUMENTS HAVE BEEN DELETED.

Shelby detaches the remote link and looks around.

Inches beneath the soles of his boots, hidden below the lab’s gridlike paneled floor, is a terrified Lauren Beckmeyer. She is scrunched up in a tight crawl space containing computer cables and circuitry, her bleeding palm wedged firmly in her mouth, preventing her from wheezing out loud.

The guard touches the comm link on his forearm. ‘It’s Shelby. She’s gone.’

‘Did you erase Gabeheart’s records?’