Phobos: Mayan Fear (33 page)

“It took me four years to figure out these controls. Not sure I could pilot this thing, but I know how to access the ship’s video log. You’d better sit down.”

She occupies the copilot’s seat, watching as he removes a helmet from a hidden storage space. “Everything’s based on thought control, the relays are in this headpiece. It’s similar to an Apache chopper’s fighter pilot controls, only far more sophisticated. The difficult part was hacking into the mainframe to create a new password.”

Strapping himself into the pilot’s seat, Mick dons the headgear. “Activate voice command, authorization Gabriel, Immanuel, Beta Alpha Gamma Delta Tango.”

“Did you say Immanuel?”

The console lights up like a Christmas tree.

Dominique smiles. “Very cool.”

“Prepare yourself. What you’re about to see isn’t easy to watch.” He closes his eyes, focusing his thoughts.

A small rectangular flat screen blinks to life on the center console.

“This is the ship’s last recorded log entry.” The screen darkens. A date and time code appear:

JULY 04, 2047—19 HRS. 06 MIN.

“July 2047? How is that possible?”

“Keep watching.”

The nose of the shuttle appears in the lower left corner of the screen, the ship suddenly accelerating down a runway through a blistering gray haze. Mick mentally advances the playback until the dust clouds are replaced by velvety-black space, a billion stars … and the Earth, rotating like a giant blue beach ball.

The small, clear, marblelike object hovers beneath its southern pole … moving closer.

As Dominique watches in horror, it begins consuming the planet.

“Oh God … oh my God. What the hell is that thing?”

“It’s a type of juvenile black hole, called a strangelet. Sort of an unwanted afterbirth created by a bunch of physicists who decided it was worth $10 billion and the future of our planet to collide atoms, just so they could win a Nobel Prize. Keep watching, this next scene is important.”

A wormhole materializes, appearing in the void of space occupied by Earth only moments earlier. The space plane alters course, heading straight for the open portal.

The screen goes blank.

Dominique shakes her head, unnerved. “Sam comes from our future?”

“Correct.”

“He came to warn us about the strangelet.”

“Correct again.”

“But this is a good thing. Thanks to Sam, we have thirty-five years to prevent the problem from ever happening.”

“Incorrect. The strangelet has already been conceived, its due date is December 21 of this year.”

“Wait … what? How is that possible?”

“This may be hard to grasp, but try to imagine your life traveling down a highway linked to countless intersections. Every path is fully charted, your future is simply based on whichever path you choose to engage. Some paths dead-end in tragedy, others lead to fame and fortune, and everything in between.

“Human existence travels along a similar path. The Mayan calendar predicted the highway would dead-end on December 21, 2012. That dead end was somehow averted in the 2012 that belonged to the occupants in Sam’s world. The off-ramp wasn’t perfect—it dead-ended from the same cause that now threatens us, annihilating the planet in 2047.”

“Then how are we alive?”

“We’re alive because the wormhole deposited Sam back in time to the pre-2012 highway, only the variables have changed.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’ve spent months in this shuttle, poring over historical accounts. In Sam’s version of 2012, a cosmic rift opened between Earth and the underworld of Xibalba. What saved the planet was a weapon fired from an even larger spacecraft buried beneath the Kukulcan Pyramid. Six weeks ago I was in Chichen Itza when the Gulf floor collapsed. The quake caused the sacred cenote to drain. I was part of an excavation team that explored the pit—searching for an entrance to an aquifer that runs beneath the pyramid. In Sam’s 2012, that aquifer led to the spacecraft buried beneath the Kukulcan Pyramid—a starship referred to in these historical records as the
Balam
.”

“
Balam
? As in Chilam Balam?”

“Yes. Only the ship isn’t here in our 2012.”

“Why not?”

“Because time shifted down a different exit ramp in Sam’s 2012—an exit ramp that looped time back to our own 2012 after Earth was destroyed in 2047. Only our 2012 is the 2012 where the strangelet appears. The seaquake in the Gulf was actually caused by the strangelet passing through the planet’s core. I know it’s confusing, but we’re in some serious trouble here, Dominique.”

She sits back, numb. “This is unbelievable.”

“Unbelievable? That train hasn’t even left the station yet. According to the ship’s historical records, two people entered the
Balam
in December of Sam’s 2012 and activated the starship’s weapon. One was a female graduate student from Florida State who was working at a Miami mental asylum.”

“What?”

“The other was the mental patient she helped to escape.”

“Sam?”

“There was no Sam back then. The guy who piloted this ship through a wormhole in 2047—the same guy my father and I found on this desert in 1990 who is currently sitting in a cell in a Miami asylum—wasn’t born in 2012. I was the mental patient!”

Dominique smiles, then breaks into bouts of hysterical laughter, the sheer absurdity of the situation too much to handle. “This is a joke, right? I’m on one of those new reality shows that sees how far they can screw with your mind. Because none of this can possibly be real.”

Mick closes his eyes.

A new image appears on-screen—a newspaper headline. Beneath the
New York Times
ledger is the date: September 22, 2013, followed by the lead story:

Vazquez-Gabriel Gives Birth to Twin Sons

DNA confirms Jacob and Immanuel’s father as Michael Gabriel

The photo reveals a smiling Dominique in a hospital nightgown, cradling her two newborn sons.

“Oh my God …”

“See the dark-haired one? That’s our son, Sam, only his name is really Immanuel. Look at Jacob’s eyes, see how blue they are. Same color as your biological mother, Chicahua, and my Aunt Laura. Just by his appearance, you can tell Jake’s farther along in his development. According to the article, I disappeared on the 2012 winter solstice … Dominique? Hey!”

He grabs her as she falls forward, unconscious.

31

This truly is a new age of physics and the understanding of our universe—we’ve never before seen these unprecedented energies that the collisions will be at the Large Hadron Collider. The idea is that it accelerates particles to close to the speed of light and then it smashes them together. Now this doesn’t sound necessarily very interesting but actually if we go to Einstein’s equation, E=mc squared, if we’ve got loads of energy we can make really massive particles—particles that might not have been around since the very beginnings of time. So we can create these massive particles and we can actually study them, and this gives us our whole plethora of information about the early universe and how it began and how nature really works on a fundamental scale.

—CLAIRE TIMLIN CMS PHYSICIST, IMPERIAL COLLEGE, LONDON

THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON, D.C. NOVEMBER 22, 2012

L
ocated in the West Wing of the White House, the command center known as the Situation Room is a five-thousand-square-foot complex designed to link the president and his cabinet with key personnel and sectors throughout the world. Born out of President Kennedy’s frustration after the lack of reliable intelligence that led to the failed Bay of Pigs invasion, the Situation Room fuses communication among Homeland Security, the intelligence sector, and the military. There are three conference rooms designed to accommodate national security meetings, acrylic privacy booths for secure international phone calls, five secure video rooms, and two tiers of curved computer terminals that handle incoming data from around the world.

Vice President Ennis Chaney makes his way through the complex, pausing as the privacy fog lifts on a sealed booth, revealing a physician removing a blood pressure cuff from President Maller’s arm. Pretending not to notice, Chaney continues on to the main conference room, the high-tech chamber a rectangle of smart walls adorned with flat screens set around a large mahogany table.

The new VP takes his place in the empty gray leather chair opposite Secretary of State Pierre Borgia. The uncomfortable silence is broken by President Maller, who hustles inside, sitting at the head of the table before a video control center.

“Before we discuss Iran, there’s an important item in this morning’s daily briefing that we need to go over. If you’re not familiar with the situation in Yellowstone Park, there’s a summary waiting in your e-mail, make sure you read it. For those of you not familiar, in essence nature deposited a ticking time bomb beneath Yellowstone in the form of a supervolcano, called a caldera. To define this as a Doomsday scenario would not be exaggerating—should the caldera ever erupt, we’re looking at devastation that would equal ten thousand Mount St. Helenses. The USGS monitors the situation around the clock, and though there’ve been a few concerns over the years, overall the situation has remained reasonably stable … until now.”

The president presses a switch on his control panel, broadcasting a live feed from Yellowstone Park over the conference room’s six flat-screen plasma TVs. A man in his forties appears on-screen, wearing a black USGS collared shirt and matching baseball cap. “Dr. Mark Beckmeyer is the associate director of the United States Geological Survey–Earthquakes Hazard Program and the man in charge at Yellowstone. Dr. Beckmeyer and I have been speaking since late last night. Doctor, if you can give my staff a brief summary of what we discussed?”

“Yes, sir. I’m not going to get into defining the caldera or Yellowstone’s substructure as I’ve included all that in the e-mail. Our biggest concern is an earthquake triggering an eruption. Earthquakes come in swarms at Yellowstone, most of the clustering due to the size and shape of the caldera’s ring fracture. For instance, during the month of July we recorded 152 earthquakes in the Yellowstone region, seventeen more than in 2011. Fortunately these events tend to be benign, and in fact our ground deformation data shows that uplift of the caldera beneath Yellowstone Lake has ceased. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the September 22 seismic event not only affected the Gulf of Mexico but Yellowstone’s geology as well, triggering the collapse of the caldera’s three volcanic chambers, in essence creating one massive magma pocket. Pressure within the pocket continues to rise. Our geologists have been working with the Army Corps of Engineers in an attempt to design ways to vent the chamber, but should another earthquake event occur like the one on the fall equinox, then an eruption would be imminent.”

“Dr. Beckmeyer, paint us the worst-case scenario.”

“Simply put, an eruption of a major caldera like Yellowstone is a planet-changing event. The last one occurred around seventy thousand years ago at Lake Toba in Sumatra and nearly wiped out every air-breathing life form on Earth. Yellowstone’s caldera is far larger than Toba. Should the caldera blow, the explosion would instantly wipe out the surrounding population, with lava flowing over thousands of square miles. The Midwestern states would become ground zero, devastating our crops. As bad as all that sounds, the far worse problem is atmospheric debris, which will blanket Earth’s atmosphere and blot out the sun. We’re looking at a volcanic winter, with global temperatures plunging as much as a hundred degrees. Power grids will fail, populations isolated, the economy lurching to a standstill. Millions will perish during the first few weeks just from the cold. Roads will be impassable. Within a month or two, those who haven’t frozen to death will starve.”

The vice president loosens his collar, struggling to breathe. “There must be something our scientists can do?”

“We have teams working on it,” Beckmeyer replies. “So far, nothing looks promising.”

“Thank you, Dr. Beckmeyer, I’ll see you in Washington.” The president disconnects the line. “I know many of you are shocked, and of course we’re all praying to avoid another seismic disturbance like we experienced back in September, but the truth is that our experts have been analyzing this threat with the same thoroughness as the Pentagon rehearses war game scenarios, and contingency plans are under way. Mr. Secretary?”

Pierre Borgia turns to face the cabinet members seated on his left. “Yellowstone is an issue of survival. Survival means making difficult choices. It means accepting the harsh reality that, should Yellowstone erupt, then six billion people—save a handful of the prepared and protected—are going to die … painfully.”

Using his laptop, Borgia uploads a series of graphs that are displayed on the surrounding plasma screens. “Our objective is to stockpile food, water, livestock, and seed vaults in the 106 subterranean emergency facilities located outside the ground-zero states. Early estimates suggest we can house upward of twenty-seven thousand people for five years, eleven thousand over a decade, five thousand for twenty years. These numbers reflect a five-to-three birth rate versus death rate per colony.”

Chaney shakes his head. “What about the residents in the kill zone—are we going to warn them ahead of time so they can leave?”

Borgia looks hard at the VP with his one good eye. “Alert the masses and panic will ensue. There will be anarchy, rendering the highways and rail systems useless. It may seem cruel, Mr. Chaney, but being incinerated is probably far more humane than starvation.”

“Why don’t you try both and let us know?”

President Maller slaps the tabletop with both palms. “Ennis, this isn’t political, it’s about the survival of our species.”

“You mean, the survival of the elite. Anyone not a politician or billionaire gonna be invited into these underground shelters of yours? Five thousand worthless chiefs and no Indians. If that’s the gene pool that represents the future of this planet, then I’m glad I won’t be around to see it.”

The vice president stands, heading for the door.

“Was that your official resignation?” Borgia calls out. “Because we accept!”

Chaney flips him the middle finger and leaves.

President Maller catches up to him in the corridor. “Privacy room. Now, Mr. Chaney.”

The vice president glares at his commander-in-chief, then follows him into one of the soundproof privacy booths.

Maller fogs the windows. “What’s with you? Since when do you allow Borgia to bait you over a hypothetical catastrophe? You’re smarter than that.”

“Maybe I’m tired of dealing with stupid people, Mark. See, the problem with stupid is it’s forever. You can’t change stupid. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“I need you to try harder.” The president looks him in the eye. “I have my own ticking time bomb to deal with. December first will be my last day in office.”

Chaney’s eyes tear up. “How long have you known?”

“About seven months.”

“Yet you still ran?”

“I ran so we’d get elected, so you’d be there to take the baton.”

“Why me?”

“For all the reasons you just demonstrated in that meeting. Because you put the people first. Because you care about what’s really important. Now, it’s your show. You want to change stupid, you’ll have your chance. Clean house. Do what’s necessary.”

“And the caldera?”

“Pray it doesn’t happen. Warn the people if you feel it’s best. Most won’t leave anyway, but do it if you feel it’s the right thing. Meanwhile, quietly prep the facilities, just in case. Just remember, it’s a lot easier to object to who goes in than to actually select who gets saved.”

SOUTH FLORIDA EVALUATION AND TREATMENT CENTER

MIAMI, FLORIDA

“Out of the question.” Dr. Foletta continues moving down the corridor, Dominique giving chase. “The Mule’s been in solitary for a long time, suddenly forcing him outside, even for only an hour a day, would potentially be a danger to the other residents.”

“I thought about that, sir. The yard’s clear from 2:15 to 3:15 every day.”

“We’d have to post more guards, deviate from the inmate’s routine. Today’s my first day back from vacation, give me a week to settle in.”

“With all due respect, sir, Samuel Agler’s been in solitary for eleven years. Maybe that goes over in Massachusetts, but it’ll never fly at this facility. Now you either allow me to arrange yard time for my patient, or you can explain to the board of regents why he’s the exception to the rule.”

Foletta turns on her, his cherub face flushing red. “Who the hell do you think you are, Intern? I’ve been running asylums since before you were born.”

“Then you know I speak the truth. One hour a day, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“And if I agree?”

“Then I’ll cosign his evaluation as you requested.”

Foletta’s gray eyes scrutinize her, sweat beads dripping down the side of his face. “One hour. Nothing more. And you’ll sign his evaluation before lunch.”

The yard at the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center is a rectangular stretch of lawn surrounded on all four sides. The L-shape of the main building encloses the perimeter to the east and south, the north and western borders walled off by a twenty-foot stark white concrete barrier topped with coils of barbed wire.

There are no doors in the yard. To exit the grass-covered atrium, one must ascend three flights of cement steps, which lead to an open mezzanine running the length of the southern side of the facility.

Samuel Agler walks across the expanse of lawn, enjoying each blade of grass squeezed between his bare toes, luxuriating in every breath of fresh, unfiltered air. Tilting his head back, he allows the sun’s rays to beat down upon his face, causing his flesh to tingle and his blood vessels to vasodilate.

Dominique watches him, feeling the eyes of every guard upon them. “How do you feel?”

“Reborn.”

Mick and I finally have everything ready, we’re getting you out tonight.

How?

I’ve been staying late, pretending to be studying for my certification. Paul Jones makes his last round at eight fifteen, then the night guy takes over—Luis Lopez. This is Lopez’s second job, and his wife just had a baby, so he usually dozes off by eleven in one of the pods. I’ll spike his coffee just to be sure.

First-floor security is wired in to every video camera, how do we manage to bypass the system?

Raymond works the night shift this week. I’m going to bait him into paying you a late-night visit. He’ll shock you before he attacks. Mick gave me a device that will interfere with the transponder receiver on your ankle cuff. Slip it inside your shoe before you leave the yard, then once you’re alone in your cell adhere it to the ankle bracelet so it covers the wireless antenna. Mick will be waiting outside for you in a white van.

They stroll past the concrete wall, Sam’s eyes casually inspecting every crack and fissure.
What about you? You’ll be a fugitive.

When Raymond wakes up, I’ll be lying next to him, unconscious. You’ll erase the master tapes before you leave to protect my cover story. We’ll rendezvous when we can.

You mean in Nazca?

How did you know that?

Mick took you there weeks ago. Whatever you saw—it made you afraid.

Let’s stay focused on tonight.
She checks her watch
. Stop walking and put on your shoes, I need to give you the device.

He stops and kneels in the grass, slipping on his shoes.

From her pocket she removes a metal wafer the size of a stamp and casually drops it on the ground.

Sam slips it inside his shoe.

One last detail—we need to get into a fight. I’m going to ask you to leave. Walk the other way. That will alert the guards. I’ll stop them from Tasering you and insist that I handle the situation. When I approach I want you to backhand me across the face. Hard.

I can’t do that.

Yes you can. Think about Laura and Sophie. This is your only shot at saving them.

Dominique checks her watch again. “Quit stalling, Sam. It’s time to return to your cell.”

Sam hesitates, then walks the other way.