The Mayan Resurrection (69 page)

Dominique is beyond exhaustion, her body in constant pain. ‘I think I could use a break from the real world.’

‘Remove your clothing.’

She strips down, then allows the male to assist her into the pod. He connects the seven neural chakra links, then attaches a dime-sized anaesthetic patch to the back of her neck. ‘This will help you to sleep.’

Dominique tastes a metallic bitterness in the back of her throat. She looks up at the Guardian elder, swallowing hard. ‘I’m cold.’

‘You’ll feel comfortable in a few moments.’

The female leans over her and smiles. ‘Pleasant dreams, my dear …

My dear …

My dear …

My dear …

The male checks Dominique’s vital signs.
She’s stable. We must hurry, before the star goes supernova.

The male Guardian quickly connects a tracheal tube, intravenous tubes, and elimination hoses to Mick and Dominique while the female fits plugs into Dominique’s nostrils and ear canals.
Is cryogenic suspension really necessary?

This was all discussed. One Hunahpu’s mind is in chaos, but it is still quite powerful, and it still has access to the nexus. If left unbridled, it could potentially affect the ship’s trajectory through the wormhole. Placing him in cryogenic suspension is the only way we can shield his mind from the higher dimensions.

I was referring to First-Mother. I don’t like lying to her.

She would have fought us if we revealed everything. She would have delayed the therapy, potentially risking One Hunahpu’s life.

I disagree.

As is your right. Computer, seal both pods. Begin preservation process.

A clear gel-like liquid flows out the bottom of each pod, lifting the two inert bodies as it rises to fill the tank. The Plexiglas frosts, then crystallizes.

The male elder enters the ship’s control room, his mind instantly updated telepathically with multiple status reports from the four Guardian elders inside.

The
Balam?

Long gone. It disappeared through the wormhole hours ago.

Most distressing.

Is it possible that One Hunahpu is controlling it?

Impossible to say. The origins of the
Balam
remain a mystery.

Preparing to enter wormhole.

Appearing on the forward viewport is the wormhole’s glowing emerald green orifice, beckoning them in.

The mammoth oblong transport ship accelerates, entering the time-space conduit.

A moment later, Sirius-B goes supernova, the titanic explosion rattling time and space with the energy of 100 million suns.

A male voice … his screams echoing in the dank, dungeonlike basement.

Dominique’s consciousness moves through the antiquated concrete-block corridor of the Massachusetts asylum, following the guttural sounds to a row of cell doors. She stops at a cell marked
SOLITARY CONFINEMENT
. Tries the door.

Locked.

Remember, you’re in control.

‘Open, please.’

The bolt unlocks, the door swinging open.

Inside is an eight-foot-by-ten-foot cell, its bare cement floor and walls damp with mildew. A broken toilet and sink. A bare bulb, no windows.

Scratched into the far wall is a map of the world, a half dozen points X’d off in dried blood.

Mick is curled up on a wafer-thin mattress on the floor. He turns and gazes up at her, his ebony eyes so dark, it is difficult to tell where the irises begin.

‘Who … who are you?’

She smiles. ‘A friend.’

Mick sits up. ‘Dr. Foletta won’t let me have visitors.’

‘Dr. Foletta’s been transferred. I’m in charge now.’ She holds
out her hand. ‘My name’s Dominique, and I’m here to help you.’

The transport soars through the wormhole like a pebble flowing through a garden hose, the effects of the supernova twisting and turning the currents of energy, until the massive spaceship is forcibly spit out the other side.

The blackness of space returns.

They soar toward a yellow sun and familiar star patterns. Up ahead, a bright blue world.

Home
.

The asteroid-sized transport slows, establishing orbit around the watery planet.

The elder male Guardian paces the conn, his transhuman blood simmering.
What happened? Every calculation was accounted for!

Apparently not every calculation.
The younger male Guardian’s telepathy burns in his superior’s mind.
The
Balam
entered the wormhole before us. Its presence apparently altered the wormhole’s trajectory.

The female, positioned within a comm link station, opens her eyes.
Cartography confirms we overshot both third and fourth dimensional coordinates.
She activates the viewport, the image of the blue world they are orbiting appearing below.
The planet we are now orbiting is not Earth, it is Mars. Ancient Mars. The computer positively identified the planet’s moon as Deimos.

Mars has two moons, not one. Where’s Phobos?

I believe we are Phobos.

The elder male stares hard at her.
How far into our past have we traveled?

She looks up at him.
The time period equates to 127 million years before the time of Osiris.

And the wormhole?

Gone. We are stranded in this time period.

Warning lights and a telepathic siren blare throughout the vessel.

WARNING: TACHYON DRIVE OVERHEATING. PRIMARY AND BACKUP COOLING SYSTEMS OFF-LINE. EXPLOSION IMMINENT.

The female works her control.
The ship’s engines have seized, so have our shields!

The gargantuan internal explosion violates the hull, igniting a flash fire that races through the vessel, consuming everything in its path. Sections of infrastructure melt and collapse, the Guardian crying out in agony as the intense heat bursts their hairless elongated skulls into flames, melting their eyeballs, peeling their charred skin away from their bones.

Steam fills the corridors as rows of cryogenic pods begin to melt. Glass fractures, a river of gel pouring from the shattered vessels percolating along the gridded floor.

It is over almost as quickly as it began. Within seconds, the vacuum of space inhales the ship’s air supply, dousing the flames, leaving death and destruction in its wake.

The damaged iridium-and-iron satellite continues orbiting Mars, its interior hull now lifeless—

—save for two isolated souls.

An azure lagoon, surrounded by lush tropical foliage. A cool breeze stirs the palm fronds.

Dominique lies naked on the cool pink sand, watching in delight as Mick climbs to the top of a twenty-two-foot waterfall.

‘Dom, watch!’

‘I’m watching, but you’d better hold on to your you-know-what.’

With boyish charm, Mick leaps from the rock, executing an awkward somersault.

Dominique waits until he surfaces before applauding. ‘That was really … awful.’

‘Thank you.’ He swims closer, his bronze body as naked as hers. ‘Come here.’

She enters the lagoon, wading in the shallows and into his arms.

‘Do you know how much I’ve missed you,’ he whispers.

‘Yes.’

They embrace—Adam and Eve in Eden—the only two souls in the world, oblivious and carefree in their own uninterrupted eternity of happiness—

—until that fateful day when a serpent shall again reenter their garden.

DECEMBER 27, 2033: CAMBRIDGE ARCHAEOLOGY DEPARTMENT

The American strides purposefully down the empty corridor, the sound of his footsteps picked up by the acoustic monitors, activating the holographic guard image at the security checkpoint. ‘Good evening, sir. Authorization, please?’

The American holds up his forged passport and palm. The infrared beam scans his ID tab.

Two floors up, the information is instantly sent to the Cambridge Archaeology Department. A moment later, an older gentleman’s face appears in place of the guard’s. ‘You came fast, Professor Rosen.’

‘I happened to be in the country. When were the papers found?’

‘Two days ago. Construction workers discovered the vault when they started tearing down the old library. None of the department heads remembered it being there. Must’ve
been built back in the early 1940s.’

‘The papers … may I have them, please? I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

‘Who isn’t these days? Give me a few moments.’

The American watches the digital clock. Wipes perspiration from his brow.

Minutes pass like hours.

Finally, the elderly British professor appears in person, a rusted metallic lockbox in his hand. ‘Everything’s inside, Professor Rosen, just like we found it. Not sure why you’d even want it, to be honest. Gave us all a good chuckle when we read it.’

The American takes the box, stifling his excitement. He opens it, removing the dust-covered text:

THE FINAL PAPERS
OF JULIUS GABRIEL

Secured within the vault of
Cambridge University

AUGUST
21, 2001

The azure-blue eyes glisten behind the hazel contacts, the dark-haired American forcing a smile. ‘Yes, I’m sure we’ll all have a good laugh at this back in the States.’

‘What part of the States you from?’

‘Uh, Florida.’

‘Really? The missus and I are heading there next month. Just booked passage on the space plane—our first trip. Twentieth anniversary and all. Ever been up?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Took us four years just to get tickets. You ought to book as soon as you can. By the way, you can keep those papers. Nobody ’round here seems to give a
bluck
about them.’

Bluck? Bloody fuck … Damn British string slang.

The American waves, then turns and leaves. He exits the building and climbs in the back of a waiting cab.

The large African-American in the front seat glances up at the rearview mirror. ‘So?’

Immanuel Gabriel holds up the lockbox containing his paternal grandfather’s papers.

The bodyguard turns to his Caucasian companion. ‘Get us outta here, Salt, before the wicked witch figures out we just stole her broom.’

The cab turns into traffic, accelerating into the night.

As a writer, I have found the experience of penning the novels of the
Domain
[
Mayan
] series to be both mentally exhausting and creatively exhilarating …
exhilarating
in that the research often required to flesh out the story line has been as fascinating as it is frightening, exhausting in that the backdrop takes place in humanity’s past and future—an uncertain future, to be sure. One small futuristic detail can have a domino effect on dozens more, and at times, I felt as if I were consuming an iceberg from the tip down—the more I thought I had digested, the more it seemed was waiting for me below. Fortunately, I have come to know a growing circle of talented readers whose own intelligence and experience far surpass mine, and their contributions to keeping my work ‘in line’ from a scientific perspective were invaluable.

And so, my heartfelt thanks to the
Resurrection
[
The Mayan Resurrection
] team: ‘Interstellar Bill’ Parkyn (science and mythology), Dr. Lowell Krawitz (meteorology), Dr. David Mohr (rocket science), Bill McDonald of Argonaut-Grey Wolf Productions/website:
www.AlienUFOart.com
(paranormal science and mythology, as well as the MAJESTIC documents), Professor
Barry Perlman (physics), Professor Stephen Davis (chemistry), Barbara Esmedina (research), Konstantin Leskov and Pat Weiler (science), Bill Raby (story editor), Rabbi Richard Agler, and Kevin Williams, whose afterlife studies and website (
www.near-death.com
) provided valuable insight into neardeath experiences and the spiritual realm.

As always, many thanks to my literary manager and editor, Ken Atchity, AEI creative executive, Brian Fagan, and the rest of the team at Atchity Editorial/Entertainment International for their hard work and perseverance, as well as Danny Baror of Baror International. Appreciation to Tom Doherty and the great people at TOR/FORGE Books, especially editors Bob Gleason and Greg Cox, as well as Heather Drucker in publicity. Special thanks to Ed Stackler at Stackler Editorial, who is always there when I need him, and copy editors Bob and Sara Schwager.