The Mayan Resurrection

21

The pelican balances on a wooden piling, struggling to preen its feathers. Like most of the other coastal scavengers, the bird no longer actively hunts for its meals. The shallows are devoid of fish, the marshes long paved over. Processed food sustains it now-all the scraps it can eat.

The pelican’s beak opens and closes in spasms, gasping insufficient breaths of hot air thick with body lotions, perfumes and the unmistakable scent of human perspiration. Mau-Mau music-a blend of calypso and rap-blares from hundreds of speakers situated around the Teflon-coated fiberglass pier.

A final gasp and the pelican drops from the piling, its lifeless form splashing upon the olive-colored, gasoline-tainted surf twenty-five feet below.

Another scorching Saturday afternoon in late autumn… the inner harbor at Biscayne Bay once again transformed into a human beehive of activity.

Moving inland from the piers is a latticework of inflatable walkways and air-supported bridges that weave in and out of hundreds of stores and eateries. Shoppers and sunbathers, families and students, locals and tourists, representing a multitude of races, religions-and colors-flock to the trendy mall-park.

Skin color in the 2030s is now a matter of choice, the once-popular tattoo replaced with ‘body-dipping.’ Developed by dermatologists in response to the alarming rise in skin cancers caused by the continued deterioration of the ozone layer, ‘dermo-shields’ were originally designed as clear body applications featuring an SPF-50 ultraviolet skin protector designed to wear off in 90-120 days. Unfortunately, very few people under the age of sixty sought out the preventive treatments.

Six months after its development, an enterprising group in Australia introduced color to the formula, and body-dipping became an overnight sensation.

Clinics opened everywhere. Clients could select from a multitude of flesh-toned colors, including Caucasian, Bohemian-Tan, Chinese, African, and American Indian. Dermatology became a fashion statement, racial discrimination ultimately ‘confused.’ Even better, the four prescribed annual ‘dips’ were covered by all three levels of the FMC (Federal Medical Coverage).

More radical applications quickly followed, designed to appeal to the sought-after age twelve-to-twenty demographic. Clinics introduced ‘rainbow-shields,’ and a new race of ‘alien-adolescents’ invaded the schools, their epidermis stained from head to toe in shades of greens, blues, violets, reds, and yellows. When this fad led to increases in gang-related violence, municipalities and states instituted laws forbidding rainbow dips to anyone under the age of eighteen.

The Mau-Mau music slips into prerecorded ocean acoustics. A family of African-Americans, stained Bohemian-Tan, pauses along one of the catwalks to observe the activity below.

Bonzai-boarders balance precariously on fluorescent orange-and-yellow skateboards that ride on ‘zip tracks,’ the cushions of methane microjet air allowing riders to defy gravity-at least the first four to six feet of it.

A small crowd gathers at the guardrail, anticipating either an amazing feat or a spectacular fall. Spurred on by the applause, several of the more daring riders link arms and race along a skull-and-crossbones-painted path leading to ‘suicide hill,’ a four-storey, 360-degree vertical loop.

The blueberry-stained teens rise in unison along the nearvertical wall and invert, the crowd’s oohs and ahhs quickly turning to gasps as gravity’s invisible fingers latch on to two of the boys closest to the center. Suspended upside down, they are yanked from their boards, the rippling disturbance sending the entire pack tumbling headfirst toward the crash mats forty feet below.

On ultrasound proximity alert, air-bag suits inflate a milli-second before the first body strikes the tarmac.

For a long moment the dazed adolescents lie motionless in an entanglement of purple-blue flesh and equipment, their crash collars and helmets momentarily restricting all movement. Gradually the air suits deflate, freeing bruised but intact limbs. A smattering of applause greets the daredevils, encouraging them to reorganize and attempt the impossible assault again.

Above, the bright Miami skyline buzzes with a high-pitched whine coming from a dozen VTOLs-Vertical Takeoff and Landing vehicles. Powered by four fixed turbine ducts that provide thrust for launch, these two-man skycars whiz back and forth over Biscayne Bay like swarms of giant polyurethane wasps. Less-maneuverable one-man VFVs (Vertical Flying Vehicles) hover over the nude sunbathers along South Beach, the two-propeller craft rented by the hour.

Below, the aqua green surface is crisscrossed by sailboats and schooners, windsurfers and super yachts, all competing for maneuvering space within the crowded marina. The occasional Luxon-glass nose cone of a two-man minisub sneaks a peek above the watery playground, the Argonauts ever fearful of the whirling blades that cut great swaths across the ceiling of their more private underwater domain.

At the center of this entertainment Mecca is the MTI Orange Bowl-a mammoth steel-and-tinted-glass horseshoe rising sixteen storeys above the sweltering south Florida playground. Home to the University of Miami’s PCAA-champion football Hurricanes, the arena is bursting with the energy that comes from its capacity crowd of 132,233.

Patches of orange, lavender, and teal bare-chested bodies denote the different skin-stained Miami fraternities harbored in the west bleachers. A group cheer prompts a response from the visiting Florida State student body, their own skins dipped ‘Seminole red,’ while bare-chested women from both universities pose for hovercams, showing off their ‘calypso’ tanned and augmented breasts.

After six minutes of play, the home team trails cross-state rival FSU 3 to 0, and the Miami crowd is beyond antsy. Chants of ‘Mule, Mule, Mule’ bounce across the cushioned Teflon seats, electrifying the air as the ’Canes’ offense sprints onto the field for the first time, taking possession at their own sixteen yard line.

There are no team huddles. All instructions are communicated from position coaches directly into the players’ helmets via encrypted microspeakers.

The orange and white-clad Hurricanes set themselves on the artificial grass field, the roots of which are designed to give on impact. There are no human referees. A dozen infraction cameras linked to high-speed macroperceivers adorn the sidelines, analyzing the playing field, searching for infractions. There are no first-down markers. Concealed beneath the padded emerald green turf is an electronic grid linked to remote sensors embedded inside the football. Fluorescent yellow laser lines indicate precise ball placement, while digital sideline markers display both the down and the yards necessary to achieve a first down. A vertically oriented electromagnetic plane extending upward from the goal line must be broken to score a touchdown, the accomplishment instantly igniting a rainbow of laser lights and the scoring team’s unique holographic special effects celebration.

The goalposts themselves are violet-colored holograms that activate for field goal or extra point attempts. Striking the ‘post’ causes the ball to spin wildly, the outcome always a crapshoot.

Samuel ‘the Mule’ Agler, Miami’s twenty-year-old star sophomore tailback lines up in the backfield behind his quarterback and best friend, K. C. Renner, as the game ball is set into place by Robo-Ref-a two-foot-high mobile trash-can-shaped device.

On the Miami sidelines, Mike Lavoie, the team’s offensive coordinator, selects a play from his Port-a-Coach. Sam listens as the annoying computerized voice chirps in his left ear.

Sixty-three, halfback, pitch right… on two.

Sam blocks out the crowd’s thundering crescendo and slows his pulse. His mind focuses inward, directing his consciousness into what his sports psychiatrist calls ‘the zone,’ a soothing pool of existence harbored somewhere deep within his brain.

Senior lineman Jerry Tucker squats over the pigskin, the massive 378-pound center’s buttocks stretching the reinforced polyurethane-and-steel fibers in his pants to their max. As he touches the ball, all player-coach field transmissions are instantaneously severed.

The play clock ticks backward from fifteen.

Now Sam immerses himself fully into the zone, grimacing as the familiar ripples of queasiness magnify into waves of intense pain – and time and space suddenly appear to slow to a surreal crawl. The din of noise evaporates to a dull baritone buzz. The football rises away from the turf in slow motion.

Easy… don’t jump offside. Sam waits impatiently, the burning in his gut intensifying as the leather object momentarily disappears between Tucker’s elephantine thighs, reappearing a lifetime later within K. C. Renner’s hands. The quarterback fakes left, then pivots to his right, his planted cleat tearing away a clump of artificial grass and sand that spins as it rises, twirling in the air like an orbiting Kelly green satellite.

Sam eyes the divot, his attention momentarily transfixed by grains of plastic dropping away like a comet’s tail.

Enough!

Renner pitches the football to Sam’s right. Sam plucks the floating object out of midair and secures it within the crook of his right arm. His dark eyes set upon the wall of moving bodies, his mind dissecting the fluctuating current of pads and flesh.

Miami’s right guard and tackle are pulling, but Florida State’s all-American, Ryan Ehrensberger, is blitzing from his linebacker position, and fat Tucker is too slow to stop him. Ehrensberger shoots the gap in slow motion, his eyes widening, his face a mask of contortion and glee as he bears down on the ball carrier like a child on Christmas Day.

Not today, pal…

The Mule’s quadriceps fire, the capacity crowd gasping as number 23 gallops away from the Seminole’s blitzing linebacker with an almost inhuman burst of speed.

Slipping from Ehrensberger’s lunging tackle, Sam heads for the outside corner, only to see wideout Rusty Bradford tumble in slow motion as he misses his block on FSU’s strong safety.

The outside linebacker joins him, cutting off the corner.

Have to do it the hard way…

Planting his right foot, the Mule changes direction with an ankle-breaking pivot and rushes back toward the mounds of flesh now rolling in disarray along the line of scrimmage. The safety’s expression drops as he flails helplessly at a blur of orange and white that, only seconds before, had been the Miami tailback.

A wall of bodies looms ahead. The ‘Mule’ targets Joe Mastrangelo, FSU’s 377-pound all-American, Sam’s powerful ‘stiff arm’ striking the defensive tackle’s chest like a lance, the blow knocking the bulky lineman clear off his size eighteen triple-E shoes, opening a sliver of Kelly green daylight.

Samuel Agler slips through the hole and into the clear, leaving a half dozen would-be tacklers in his wake. Invisible flames of lactic acid singe his insides as he gallops untouched toward the end zone.

He crosses the thirty yard line… the forty Who’s out there?

The female’s voice startles him. He nearly stumbles at midfield.

Speak to me, cousin. Identify yourself.

Terrified, Sam wrenches his mind free of the zone.

The crowd noise returns.

Sam staggers down the right hash marks, his chest heaving, his mind urging his exhausted muscles to move faster.

‘He’s at midfield… the forty… the thirty… the Mule’s heading for the end zone, and no one in this arena’s going to catch him-touchdown!’ Todd Hoagland, the Hurricanes’ visual color commentator, is on his feet screaming into his remote headset as waves of hysteria bombard the MTI arena.

Samuel ‘the Mule’ Agler drops to his knees in the end zone, gasping great breaths of air as his delirious teammates rush to embrace him.

4:17 p.m.

Sam leans back against the carpeted cubicle in the Hurricanes’ locker room, his aching muscles in desperate need of a rubdown. The faint scent of ammonia moves through an air-conditioned current tinged with the scent of human sweat. Wearily, he raises a plastic container of tangy cold liquid to his lips and quaffs the beverage, a few drops dribbling past his chin. The high-protein drink is loaded with amino acids and biogenic fuel designed to stimulate tissue repair and help flush his system of lactic acid.

The media converge upon him. A dozen wireless videocams are shoved toward his face, linking each telecast to computer feeds around the world.

‘Sam, you’ve already broken the PCAA’s rushing record for a freshman, now it looks like you’re well on your way to smashing the all-time single-season rushing record. Can we safely assume you’ll bypass your junior year and declare yourself eligible for the GFL’s draft?’

‘Look, we lost a tough game today. I don’t want to talk about my future. Christ, don’t you guys ever get tired of asking the same questions?’

‘We’ll stop asking when you start giving us answers.’ Diane Tanner leans in, the blond bombshell’s tight gray-and-red ESPN leotard revealing more than most of the toweled athletes watching in the wings. ‘For instance, can you confirm rumors you’ve negotiated a contract to play basketball with the GBA next season?’

Sam steals a glance at K. C. Renner, who is flicking his pierced tongue at him from across the locker room. ‘I’ve been offered a dozen contracts, but I haven’t signed anything. Besides, if and when I do turn pro, it will be to play football. The Global Basketball season is way too long.’

‘A lot of GBA owners would be willing to sign you just for the playoffs. The London Monarchs’ owner told me last week that he’d even allow you to use his private jet.’

‘Enough! Ask me about today’s game, or we’re done.’

‘I have a question.’ Sun Sentinel beat writer Ethan McElwee pushes his video feed a little closer. ‘Miami only scored one touchdown, four below its season average. Was the FSU defense really that tough?’

‘They’re tops in the nation for a reason. They hit hard, as hard as any team we’ve faced.’

CNN sportscaster Cal Kitson squeezes between McElwee and Sam, offering the football star a tantalizing view of her Indian red-tinged cleavage. ‘Mule, in two years, no one’s ever come close to tackling you behind the line of scrimmage, yet in the third quarter alone, Jesse Gordon, Florida State’s left defensive end, caught you twice. How do you explain that?’

‘Gordon’s quick. He made a coupla nice plays.’

‘And those rumors about point spreads?’

‘That’s enough.’ Head Coach Ted DeMaio pushes his way through the crowd. ‘Give the kid a break. Hell, he’s been averaging over two-hundred yards a game since he was a freshman, ain’t he entitled to one bad game?’

‘Coach DeMaio-’

‘I said out! Security, get these leeches outta my locker room.’

Four taser-armed security officers push the crowd of reporters toward the exit.

Sam hangs his head.

Diane Tanner lingers behind, moving close enough for Sam to catch a whiff of her perfume, a new aphrodisiac offering a hint of lilac and strawberries.

‘Yes, Diane?’

‘Aren’t you forgetting something? You promised me a private interview after the Penn State game. You blew me off.’

‘I, uh… sorry, I’ve been busy.’

‘Sports is a business, Sam. You guys get paid from revenues we help generate. The head of the network’s pissed, he wants a live studio interview by Monday or we’ll cancel global coverage of the FAU game in three weeks.’

‘Okay, okay. How ’bout tomorrow afternoon? I can meet you in the Press Room about three.’

‘Tomorrow’s good, but tonight’s better. I thought we could do it in my hotel suite.’

Yeah, I bet you did… ‘I, uh… really can’t.’

Diane leans closer. Whispers into his ear. ‘Yes you can. In fact, I bet you can do it all night long.’

She pulls away as the ’Canes’ starting offensive line assembles in front of Sam’s cubicle. The grungy, orange-stained underclassmen are wearing nothing but skimpy towels.

K. C. Renner steps forward. ‘Hey, ESPY-ho, check out this exclusive!’

‘Trust me, Renner, there’s nothing you’ve got under those towels I haven’t seen already.’

The six football players ceremoniously drop their towels, revealing pubic hair but no penises.

Sam hides his grin as K. C. strikes a pose. ‘It was a team decision. Saves wear and tear on jockstraps and cups.’

Ignoring Renner, she turns back to Sam. ‘Tomorrow at three. Don’t blow me off again.’ She whispers. ‘Call me later, and I’ll help you forget all about today’s game.’

She pushes past K. C. and heads for the exit as Sam’s teammates, laughing hysterically, untuck their male organs from between their legs.

K. C. watches Dave Goldsborough, Miami’s 402-pound all-American left tackle struggle to free himself. ‘Yo, Moose, you oughta think about trimming that thing for real, man. Probably help you to move a lot faster.’

As if considering it, the lineman looks down, unable to see past his massive belly.

Sam looks up as his best friend slaps him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, K. C. Lauren would kick my ass six ways to Sunday if she caught me hangin’ with the ESPY-ho.’

‘No sweat. If she corners you again, send her my way, I’d love to give her what she wants.’ K. C. lowers his voice. ‘Seriously, man, what happened out there today? ’Cept for that first score, I’ve never seen you move so slow. You pull something?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? You’re not doin’ leeches, are you?’

‘You know me better than that.’

‘Sure, sure-’ The quarterback follows him back to the showers. ‘Well listen, you can pay me back by sticking around long enough for us to win at least one more PCAA championship. I don’t wanna be reading about you jumpin’ ship next week to join some rugby team in Orlando.’

Sam wheels around, catching his friend in a playful headlock. ‘Don’t worry, pal, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.’

7:42 p.m.

Dusk bathes the western face of the arena in its golden haze.

Sam emerges from the air-conditioned building, his skin tingling in the heavy south Florida humidity. He brushes his long, jet-black hair away from his forehead as his dark eyes search the sea of faces waiting for him behind the outer steel gate. Samuel Agler’s eyes are black as coal, making it impossible to tell where the irises end and the pupils begin. At times they seem to shimmer, radiating an inner strength and intellect.

He nods to the guard to open the gate, then pushes through the crowd, struggling to avoid the computer porto-pads being shoved in his face.

‘Come on, Mule, one autograph-’

Sam ignores the autograph hounds, whose only intention is to download his signature across the Internet. He pauses for a father and his eight-year-old son, forcing a smile as their porto-pad snaps his picture. He scribbles a signature – looking up as a black stretch limousine slows, then passes by.

Sam’s pulse quickens. He hands the kid back his porto-pad, his eyes searching for his ride.

K. C. Renner beeps at him from his ‘hydro-jeep.’

Sam jumps in the vacant passenger seat. ‘Go, man, quick!’

The fuel cells kick in, spiriting the two of them away.

Main Campus, University of Miami,

Coral Gables, Florida

Saturday Evening

Nineteen-year-old geology major Lauren Beckmeyer jogs past rows of royal palm trees adorning the campus drive. Shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, making her tall, six-foot frame seem even more angular. The junior track and field star glides like an antelope when she runs, her loping strides and explosive power giving her a competitive advantage in the long jump, triple, and high jump.

Lauren’s coach is pushing her to add hurdles to her events. Hurdles means more roadwork, a lot of it. Lauren hates roadwork. It wears on her lower back and knees and chews up too much time. Between going to class and studying, proctoring Dr. Gabeheart’s meteorology class and her physical training regimen, she barely has time to see her fiance.

Missed his game again. Sam’s going to kill me…

A gunshot of thunder echoes across the threatening south Florida sky. She quickens her pace. Screw this. Three events is enough. Not like I’m going to the Olympics…

Crossing the street, she cuts in front of a campus robobus, the twenty-four-hour-a day vehicle powered by the electromagnets of the induct-tracks embedded in the smart-way. Sheets of rain are pouring on her by the time she reaches the quadrangle of dorms located on the west side of campus. Wiping sweat and rainwater from her face, she holds up her hand, allowing the security camera’s scanner to ‘read’ the computer S.I.D. (security and identification) chip embedded in the flesh of her palm.

The sensor identifies her, simultaneously scanning her for weapons.

ENTER LAUREN BECKMEYER. HAVE A NICE DAY.

The front doors part, the familiar gust of cold air causing goose bumps as she enters the mezzanine. She walks past a group of students, some on body cushions, others hibernating inside sensory bags, as a movie displays on the giant smart-glass screen. By day, these multipurpose windows adjust the degree of tint to keep out the sun. By night, they opaque for privacy and convert into entertainment centers.

She waves to a friend, then locates an unoccupied turbolift and takes the high-speed transport up to the seventh floor. A holographic notice advertises a ‘Rave-Free Lunar Festival’ tonight in the dorm’s virtual-reality chamber. A federal ad displays: Immunize and say NO TO ADDICTION.

In early 2024, the United States, Canada, and Mexico, following in the footsteps of the European Union, began mandatory infant immunizations for cannabis, cocaine, and heroin. These ‘inhibitor shots’ were designed to prevent the human brain from experiencing a ‘high,’ eliminating any possibility for a future attraction to the narcotic.

Unfortunately, remove one illegal high and another is bound to come along. Immunization programs against fringe drugs like methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA) were proving expensive, and the population was becoming tired of ‘Big Brother’s’ heavy-handedness.

Instead of continuing the battle, the federal government, in 2028, decided to join forces with the pharmaceutical industry, staking its own claim in the $500-billion-a-year trade of recreational agents. The aim of drug companies had always been to free the human condition from physical pain. Now they would turn their attention to eliminating psychological pain while enhancing happiness.

The first ‘heaven’ drug was BLISS, a genetically encoded cocktail designed to release serotonin and stimulate phenylethylamine, a chemical released by the human brain when one is ‘in love’ (or for some, while eating chocolate). A year later, a second line of BLISS was developed for senior citizens, this one designed to restore the dopaminergic neurons that gradually die off as we age, leading to a decline in sexual drive.

Happiness and a recharged libido-an old industry was reborn.

Designer heavens were not physically addictive, and the delayed action of these nonneurotoxic mood enhancers released a more gradual high, preventing the wild emotional swings of drugs like heroin, Ecstasy, and cocaine. When used in conjunction with a new line of virtual-reality software products, the effect was increased tenfold.

Biotechnology had created an entirely new sensation-driven world economy, virtually replacing the alcohol and nicotine industries.

Lauren steps from her moment of serenity into a hallway throbbing with technomusic. From an open dorm room she spots a bare-chested, multistained underclassman.

Second-year Middle Eastern Dialects major Kirk Peacock stares back at her through mood-evolving contact lenses, which now appear purple. The track lighting along the ceiling reflects off his hairless scalp and the Chinese symbol for love permanently tattooed just above his forehead.

‘Laur-rah-’

‘It’s Lauren.’

‘Laur-rah, Laur-ren… just a name, Laur-ren Beck-man.’

‘Beckmeyer.’

‘You’re the Mule’s tool.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘His plaything, you know, his pacifier. I need you to score me a signed pigskin. My geoprof said he’d raise my grade if I-’

‘You like new experiences, Kirk?’

‘It’s the basis for my existence.’

‘Then try attending a few lectures in person this semester.’ She examines his neck. ‘Is that a mood-leech?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Kirk giggles, pulling the edge of the flat leech-shaped object away from his birdlike neck. ‘Want a suck? Still got another twenty minutes of juice.’

The ‘mood-leech’ is a drug injection system, its two-hundred hollow microscopic needles designed to release a hybrid of illegal ‘rave narcotics’ directly into the user’s carotid artery. Combined with ‘designer heaven,’ the mood-leech created waves of ‘ wholebody hyperorgasmic euphoria,’ especially when used in a virtual-reality chamber.

Lauren shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Is your consciousness ever drug-free?’

Kirk’s grin reveals two platinum-capped teeth. ‘Consciousness blows, psychological hedonism rules. If it ain’t virtual, it ain’t reality… Laur-rah Beck-woman. What releases your endogenous opioids? Exercise? Sex? Food? Music? When I listen to music now, its stirs my soul. When I make love, my whole body quivers for hours. This morning, I had erotic alien sex in a VR chamber, and I don’t even know if it was a male or female!’

‘Yeah, well I’m not into Zombi-ism or alien gang bangs. I’ll stick with my mule, if you know what I mean.’

‘Mule sex. Ha. Ha-ha-ugh…’ The metallic smile suddenly fades as Kirk’s blue-tinged face flushes violet.

WARNING: TOXIC LEVELS OF DEXTROMETHORPHAN PRESENT. SWEAT GLANDS SHUTTING DOWN. HEAT STROKE IMMINENT. PARAMEDICS HAVE BEEN SUMMONED.

‘Shut up!’ He looks at Lauren, fighting to keep his balance, his mood swinging like a pendulum. ‘ Sheating-fud computer’s been driving me crazy all afternoon.’

Sheating-fud? Lauren frowns, her mind racing to unscramble the new slang-stringing curse. Shit-eating fuck-wad… got it. She touches his forehead. ‘You’re burning up.’

Kirk’s eyes roll up as he falls forward.

Lauren ducks, catching him over her right shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She enters his apartment, gagging at the stench as she makes her way over piles of soiled laundry and garbage.

The lights fail to activate as she enters the bathroom. ‘Computer, increase lighting.’

UNABLE TO COMPLY. FUEL CELL HAS BEEN REMOVED.

‘Emergency lighting.’

Panel strips illuminate along the ceiling and floor. The bathroom smart-mirror has been spray-painted black.

Lauren lays Kirk on the shower floor and rips the leech from his neck, revealing a series of red dots. ‘Computer, shower on, fifty degrees.’

Icy water blasts from dual nozzles, the built-in sensors targeting the unconscious teen.

Kirk moans.

‘Computer, this is Resident Assistant Beckmeyer. What is ETA of paramedics?’

SIX MINUTES.

‘Place a call to resident’s sister to meet resident at student health center.’

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Lauren looks down at Kirk. The teen’s eyes have reopened, his mood-contacts black, his flushed skin paling to blue again as his body cools off.

‘Fu… fu… fubish-’ His teeth chatter as he tries to stand.

Lauren places her foot on his chest.

‘Fuckkking… bi-itch-ssshiiit-Laureeenn!’

‘At least you got the name right.’

‘Let… m-m-me… g-g-go-’

‘Sorry, Kirk, you want to kill yourself, do it on someone else’s floor, not mine. Now sit your rainbow ass down and take it like a man

… or alien, whichever you prefer.’

The paramedics arrive five minutes later.

Eight minutes later, Lauren enters her own apartment. The interior is plush and immaculate, decorated in soothing shades of gray with violet throw pillows.

She kicks off her running shoes

GOOD EVENING, LAUREN. IT IS 7:36 P.M. YOU HAVE THREE MESSAGES.

‘In the bathroom.’ She grabs a bottle of recycled reverse-osmosis water from the fridge and heads for the bathroom.

Interior lights turn on to greet her.

She sits on the toilet and urinates.

The ‘smart-toilet’ instantly analyzes her urine, while the pulse in her thigh is computed.

NO DISEASES PRESENT. YOU ARE NOT PREGNANT.

‘Thank God. Computer, play back message one.’

The image of Lauren’s father, Mark, appears on the mirror. ‘Hi, sweetheart. Nothing important, just wanted to let you know that we’re all looking forward to seeing you and Sam next weekend. Give us a flash when you get in.’

‘Computer, erase message one. Play back message two.’

Christopher Laubin, Lauren’s volcanism professor appears on screen. ‘Good afternoon, Ms. Beckmeyer. This is just a reminder that our grant selection committee will be meeting with you Monday morning at seven-thirty in Clinton Hall, Room 213. Don’t be late.’

‘I’m never late. Computer, reply BECKMEYER ACKNOWLEDGE to message two. Play back message three.’

Sam’s face appears on-screen, her fiance calling from a cell phone. ‘Hey, babe. Sorry I’m late, but my teammates and I had to do this postgame ritual thing. I’ll be by in about twenty to fondle your breasts. Love you.’

Dammit… She stands, strips out of her neon orange body-suit, and steps into the shower, the warm water spray drenching her as the door seals shut.

IT IS TIME FOR YOUR MONTHLY MELANOMA CHECKUP.

‘So do it… damn computer-nag.’

She glances down as shower sensors scan her body. Her stomach is taut, her legs rock-hard from daily workouts at the training center. She wonders if Sam would prefer her breasts larger.

‘Increase temperature ten degrees.’

The water heats up, the shower’s pulsating heads massaging the tension from her muscles.

Should I be angry at Sam or just disappointed? Recalling his postgame interview with the ESPN woman, she decides a touch of both would be appropriate.

The two melanoma monitors embedded in the tile begin blinking. She turns slowly, allowing the device to examine her skin for cancer.

MELANOMA NOT PRESENT. DERMO-SHIELD SHOULD BE REPLACED IN TWENTY-TWO DAYS.

A three-dimensional commercial for a local dermo-shield clinic displays in the shower.

The sound mutes.

ATTENTION. YOU HAVE AN INCOMING MESSAGE FROM YELLOWSTONE PARK.

‘I’ll take it in the bedroom.’ Lauren steps from the shower, drying herself with a preheated towel.

Lauren’s associate department head, Professor William Gabeheart, is on sabbatical, teaching an on-site correspondence course, Geology 434: The Effects of the Yellowstone Caldera on Geysers, Fumaroles, and Hot Springs. Lauren is Gabeheart’s graduate assistant and class coordinator.

While Yellowstone National Park is known for its magnificent geysers, mud pots, and boiling hot springs, to scientists it represents the home of the world’s largest and most dangerous caldera. Originating deep beneath the park’s mantle is a ‘hot spot,’ one of only a few dozens on the planet. Magma and tremendous heat rise from this volcanic location, impinging on the base of the North American plate while powering the park’s geysers, hot springs, and fumaroles.

Three of the most violent volcanic eruptions in Earth’s history have taken place at the Yellowstone hot spot, the first occurring 2.1 million years ago, the second 1.2 million years ago, the last 630,000 years ago. The eruptions have unleashed a combined six thousand cubic miles of debris, the ejection of lava causing the tops of the volcanoes to collapse, forming three massive calderas, or depressions. The calderas remain buried beneath extensive rhyolite lava flows resulting from smaller eruptions over the last 150,000 years.

Entering the bedroom, Lauren wraps a towel around her waist and slips a UNIVERSITY OF MIAMI sweatshirt over her head. ‘Okay, computer, put the call through.’

The monitor on her nightstand comes to life, revealing Bill Gabeheart, forty-two, his mop of brown hair tucked neatly beneath a HAVANA SHARKS baseball cap. The former Navy Intelligence officer’s hazel eyes glow blue in the porto-lab’s computer consoles.

‘Hey, Doc. You get the midterms I sent over?’

‘Never mind that. Are you behind a secured firewall?’

The question startles her. ‘Uh, no-’

‘Get on one.’

She leaves the bed, hurrying to her desk. ‘Computer, transfer call to PC.’

ACKNOWLEDGED.

The computer boots. Lauren touches the keypad, activating her secured access code. ‘Go ahead, Professor.’

‘Last night I received data back from the three Trimble 5000Ssi receivers we deployed at our new GPS control stations.’

‘So? How bad’s the subsidence?’

‘According to the USGS, everything appears stable, but as my grandfather used to say, “Something ain’t kosher.” The readings we received look identical to data I collected three years ago. Between me and thee, I don’t trust the new USGS director.’

‘Alyssa Popov? I thought you liked her?’

‘Grinding her and trusting her are two different things, and I don’t have time for one of your feminist lectures. Things are happening behind the scenes here in Yellowstone. There are factors at play that we can’t see, covert deals being made between the White House and other factions outside the government. Late last night, Professor Danielak and I decided to take our own vertical motion readings, along with temperature readings of the hot springs at the preselected areas within the Yellowstone caldera.’

Lauren hears Sam enter her apartment. ‘What do you need me to do?’

‘I want you to analyze the results. We’ll upload everything directly to your computer in the lab.’

‘But-’

‘Don’t worry, we’re encoding it and rerouting through a dozen other servers. Once you start receiving data, I want you to run a full analysis of variance, comparing subsidence with the results we took in the fall of 2030.’

‘Hey, Lauren, where are you?’ Sam bursts into the bedroom.

She cuts her fiance off with a harsh glare. ‘You’d better hurry with that data. Hurricane Kenneth was officially upgraded to a class-five storm two hours ago. Winds are expected to reach super-cane proportions by Tuesday evening. If the weather net doesn’t slow it down, we may have to evacuate the city as early as next weekend.’

‘Where’s the eye?’

Lauren presses CONTROL -6 on her keyboard. The screen splits, the right side showing a live satellite feed over the Atlantic Ocean. Using the mouse, she focuses on a swirling white vortex, the eye of the strengthening storm clearly defined.

‘Kenneth’s 361 miles due east of Antigua.’

‘Still pretty far out. Where’s the weather net?’

She types in another command. A series of crimson dots appears off Cuba. ‘En route to Havana’s port to refuel from the last cell.’

‘Which means they won’t be in place until Wednesday. You’re right, that’s calling it close.’

Sam lies by Lauren’s feet. Playfully, he reaches his hand beneath her towel.

She pushes him away with a calloused foot.

‘Any other cells developing in the Atlantic?’

She scans the screen. ‘Nothing.’

‘Analyze that data. I’ll be in touch when I can. And Lauren, mention this to no one.’

‘Understood.’

‘Gabeheart out.’

‘Wait-what about my grant? The committee meeting’s on Monday.’

‘You know you have my full support, now more than ever. We could sure use your brain down here.’

Sam makes an obscene gesture with his tongue.

‘Good luck on Monday. Gabeheart out.’