The Mayan Resurrection

24

3:50 p.m.

K. C. Renner lines the first-team offense up at the twenty yard line, scans the alignment of the ‘Canes’ second-string defense, then barks out signals: ‘Blue-twenty-six, blue-twenty-six… hut, hut… hut!’

The ball is snapped. K. C. fakes the handoff to his fullback, then tosses a short pass to Samuel Agler, who has released from his block and is rolling left out of the backfield.

Sam catches the pass – and is immediately hit by Alec Parodi, a reserve outside linebacker for a three-yard loss.

Coach Demaio kicks at the turf, then blows his whistle. ‘Mule, with me!’

Twenty-one pairs of eyes follow the star tailback as he jogs over to the sidelines.

‘Yeah, Coach?’

‘You hurt, son?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Girl troubles?’

‘No, Coach. Why?’

‘Something’s gotta be wrong, because you’re not running like the Mule I know.’

‘Coach, I’m giving one hundred percent. Parodi just made a nice play.’

‘Parodi couldn’t tackle you in the open field on his best day.’ DeMaio lowers his voice. ‘Look, I’ve heard rumors. If this is a money thing?’

‘Coach, I swear-’

‘Okay, okay, I had to ask. It’s just that I’m worried about you. We’ve got a huge game in two weeks in Gainesville, then the first round of the January Jubilee. I need to know my best player is ready.’

‘I’m ready.’

‘Hell, son, show me, don’t tell me. Coach Lavoie, line ’em up again.’

‘Yes, coach.’ Offensive coordinator Mike Lavoie yells at the two squads. ‘Okay, girls, get your asses in gear!’

K. C. Renner buckles his chin strap, listening as Lavoie’s computer communicates the same play.

Sam lines up in the backfield behind fullback Doug Parrish. He focuses his mind inward, his adrenaline pumping, as he beckons the entrance to the ‘zone.’

Renner takes the snap. Fakes the handoff to Parrish.

Sam slips inside the nexus.

The field brightens, the action grinding to a slow crawl.

Sam’s quadriceps burn as he pushes through heavy waves of energy. He blocks the blitzing strong safety, pancaking him with vicious forearm to the chest, then looks up as Renner’s pass floats toward him like a balloon.

As he looks up, the sun melds into a soothing white light.

Who are you, cousin?

The female’s voice coos at him.

Slip inside the light and speak with me.

The light brightens as it widens, blotting out the football, blotting out the entire sky.

Sam leaps out of the nexus – as the ball strikes him on his helmet, and Alec Parodi crushes him with a bulldozing hit.

A whiff of ammonia snaps Sam back into consciousness. He opens his eyes, the team doctor’s face appearing fuzzy.

‘You okay, son?’

‘Dunno. My head still attached?’

‘Let’s get a quick scan of your brain.’ Dr. Meth slips the portable MRI device right over Sam’s helmet. ‘Don’t move, this’ll only take ten seconds.’

The device activates, scanning Sam’s brain.

PATIENT: SAMUEL AGLER.

DIAGNOSIS: THIRD – DEGREE CONCUSSION.

PROTOCOL C-3: ICE, ANTICONCUSSION /INFLAMMATORY

MEDS, MONITORED BED REST.

RETURN TO ACTION: THREE DAYS MINIMUM.

NONCONTACT DRILLS FOR FIVE DAYS.

‘That’s it, son, you’re done.’ Dr. Meth and his two assistants help him to his feet.

Coaches and players watch in accusing silence as Sam limps off to the locker room.

7:16 p.m.

Three hours, a shower, and seven interviews later, Samuel Agler emerges from the air-conditioned training facility into the cool dusk November air.

He motions for the guard to open the gate, then pushes through the usual postpractice crowd. He signs a dozen portopads, then sees the black government-issue limousine parked along the sidewalk.

Fubish… of all days.

The driver’s door opens, releasing a powerful African-American man.

Sam crosses the street, the crowd still enveloping him, shoving porto-pads in his face.

Ryan Beck approaches. ‘Back off!’

The crowd scurries.

‘Hey, Pep. Still have that gift of gab, I see. How you doin’?’

‘Just doin’. You look like shit.’ Beck opens the rear door.

‘Yeah, nice to see you, too.’ Sam climbs in back. The door closes behind him as he takes his place opposite his mother.

Dominique Gabriel removes her dark, wraparound sunglasses. Although she is forty-nine, most would place her age closer to thirty. The ebony hair is still long and parted in the middle, with a touch of gray sprinkled here and there. The breasts are firm, her figure still flawless, thanks to a strict diet and daily regimen of weight training and cardiovascular exercise. The only signs of aging are the crow’s-feet that litter the corners of her chocolate-brown eyes.

Sam looks her over. ‘You look good for an old broad.’

‘Is that how you greet your mother?’

He leans over and dutifully plants a kiss on her cheek. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. You know I don’t like surprises.’

‘You look tired, Manny.’

‘Sam! Call me Sam.’

‘To me, you’ll always be my Manny.’

‘Can we cut to the chase?’

‘Your brother wants to see you.’

‘Forget it. We had an agreement.’

‘Yes we did. You wanted total anonymity, we gave it to you. A new name, a new identity, surrogate parents… you got the works. But what you’re doing now is extremely dangerous. Instead of living out of the public eye, you’ve dashed back into the spotlight. Your face is on every website and public broadcast in North America. How long do you think it’ll be before some hotshot reporter sees through the tinkered files and false birth certificate and figures out who you really are?’

‘Immanuel Gabriel is dead, mother. He drowned six years ago. No one will put two and two together.’

‘Jacob thinks otherwise, and that’s why he needs to see you.’

‘Jacob’s a freak.’

The slap in the face stuns him, sending shock waves through his already bruised brain. ‘That freak, as you call him, gave you a new life. If it wasn’t for your brother, you’d still be living in the compound… or worse.’

‘How long are you going to keep this charade up, Mother? You’ve been giving in to Jacob our whole lives.’

‘I don’t give in to him.’

‘No, you’ve done worse. You’ve empowered him by believing in this whole Mayan Hero bullshit. Look at you. When are you going to get on with your own life?’

‘I have a life!’

‘Yeah, sure you do. I have a life. You work for Jacob.’ He shakes his head. ‘Just tell me how long.’

‘A few days. He says he needs to discuss things that only you would understand.’

‘God dammit, Mother, for the last time, I am NOT Hunahpu!’ He closes his eyes, fighting back tears of frustration. ‘The two of you are not part of my life anymore. You don’t know a thing about me. I’ve worked my ass off… I trained for years. I take a beating every time I step out onto that field. I am not like… him.’

‘You’re right. As cold and emotionless as Jake can be, he’s selfless. You’re driven by ego.’

‘Good-bye.’ He slides toward the door.

‘Wait!’ Dominique grabs his arm. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.’

‘Yes you did.’

‘Manny, I am really proud of you. Proud of what you’ve accomplished in school. Proud of the life you’ve been able to lead. And I like everything I’ve heard about Lauren. I think she’s good for you. Will you at least introduce us before you get married.’

‘Not a chance.’

She smiles. ‘You’re so much like me. Stubborn as a mule.’

He cracks a half smile at the mention of his nickname. Checks the digital timer sewn into his shirtsleeve. ‘I have to go. I’m having dinner at my father’s house.’

‘Surrogate father.’

‘Whatever.’

‘I’ll pick you up here tomorrow morning at nine. Pack an overnight bag.’

‘I’m supposed to spend the holidays with Lauren’s family.’

‘Get out of it. She’ll understand.’

‘No she won’t. I don’t even understand. What am I supposed to tell her?’

‘You’ll think of something.’

‘Can’t we do this another time?’

‘No, it has to be now.’

‘Why?’

‘Tomorrow morning, Immanuel. After that, I’ll be out of your hair forever.’

He exits the car without saying another word.

Jacob Gabriel had always ‘sensed’ there were enemies about, ever since the day he had learned to read the Bible Code, ever since his first remote-viewing session. But it was not until his last communication with his father that he realized how close he had allowed his true enemy to come.

He had always known Lilith was Hunahpu, his genetic cousin and equal. He had never suspected her to be the Abomination.

Jacob knew there were only two ways to stop the Hunahpu’s pursuit; either kill his one true love or convince her that he and Manny were dead.

Faking his brother’s drowning had been a simple matter. The collision on the bridge was easily choreographed, the black hair dye and contact lenses easily fooling the media into believing it was Manny who was the victim. Jacob’s immersion into the nexus stifled his life signs long enough to convince CNN and the randomly chosen witnesses.

His own death had been a bit trickier to choreograph.

Jacob knew that Pierre Borgia was out for revenge and that his own public appearance would flush his quarry into the open. What he didn’t know was that Ennis Chaney was the former secretary of state’s real target, or that Lilith would show up at Manny’s funeral. Fortunately, the nexus had given him a chance to intercept the bullet, his Kevlar nanofiber body armor absorbing the projectile’s impact, the explosive blood bags hidden beneath his jacket fooling everyone, even Rabbi Steinberg and the physician, who were in on the plot.

Even Lilith.

With both twins safely ‘dead,’ Jacob could pursue more advanced training with GOLDEN FLEECE while Manny disappeared into the anonymity he had always yearned for.

Rabbi Steinberg was close to a young couple from his old congregation in Philadelphia. Gene and Sylvia Agler were good people who had never been blessed with children. After several meetings, they agreed to ‘adopt’ Immanuel and adhere to the strict guidelines of the covert arrangement.

GOLDEN FLEECE arranged the falsified birth certificate and school records, their operatives creating a completely fabricated childhood, down to sports awards and home movies. Gene Agler was given a principal’s job in another state, the couple a new home.

The burden was then on Dominique. Having already lost her soul mate, Mick, she was now being asked to break apart the rest of her family.

And so she made the ultimate sacrifice so that Manny could be free.

Hollywood Beach, Florida 9:17 p.m.

Small waves lap relentlessly upon the deserted beach, tickling Samuel Agler’s bare feet. He stares out at the dark ocean, its wave tops illuminated by the reflection of the three-quarter moon.

The sound of the surf soothes his restless soul.

‘Thought I’d find you out here.’

Sam turns to face his surrogate father. Gene Agler is in his late fifties, his curly black hair graying around his ears, his six-foot frame stooping at the shoulders.

‘Mind if I join you?’

Sam pats the sand next to him.

‘You feeling okay?’

‘Guess so.’

‘Everything all right between you and Lauren?’

‘Fine.’ Sam watches a hermit crab scamper up the beach. ‘My real mother… she’s in town. She wants me to travel with her tomorrow.’

‘I know. She called me last week.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Didn’t think it was my place.’

‘It’s not right what she does, waltzing in unannounced, turning my life inside out.’

Gene picks up a fragment of shell and tosses it at an incoming wave. ‘Try to understand, it’s been very hard for her. She’s led a lonely life.’

Sam lies back on his elbows, the sound of surf deadening in his ears. ‘Dad… I’m thinking about quitting football.’

‘Well, now that is a pretty big decision. What brought this on?’

‘My teammates. They think I’m sandbagging it.’

‘Maybe you’ve spoiled them.’

‘Selfish bastards… all they care about is themselves. These guys’re supposed to be my friends.’

‘There are all sorts of friends. Some inoculate us against pain, others walk out the minute there’s trouble. It doesn’t necessarily make them bad people, it just means they were probably never really good friends to begin with.’

Sam gazes at the stars. Says nothing.

‘Are you thinking about turning pro, or are you intending on quitting football altogether?’

‘Quitting, I guess.’ The stars blur. Sam pinches away tears. ‘It’s

… complicated. I… I don’t think I can compete at the same level anymore.’

‘Because of one off game?’

‘Dad, I can’t… I just can’t do it anymore.’

‘Well, you know what? I’m glad.’

‘You are?’

‘Sure. For someone sitting on top of the world, you don’t seem very happy.’

‘They’ll label me a quitter.’

‘Who cares? As long as you know it’s not true.’

‘A lot of people will be very upset.’

‘Yes, the world will certainly be disappointed, but the sun should still rise, and the birds will still sing, so how bad can it be?’

‘I feel like I’m letting everyone down. Maybe I should just suck it up and deal with it?’

‘Maybe it’s time you asked yourself why you’re playing football?’

Sam looks up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you remember Rabbi Steinberg’s sermon on Tikkun Olam and Tikkun Midot?’

‘Not really.’ Sam grins. ‘Sorry. Guess I didn’t make a very good Jew either, huh?’

Gene ignores the remark. ‘ Tikkun Olam means to mend the outside world. Tikkun Midot deals with acts of internal healing. Tikkun Midot is a self-awareness that enables you to reach beyond the natural and instinctive, past the reflexive and knee-jerk responses, in order to refine the soul. It means we have recognized the need to turn our lives in a better direction.’

‘I thought I was going in the right direction.’

‘Success and prosperity doesn’t necessarily equate to living a good life. Something’s obviously bothering you about your future. Whether you choose to play football or not should be your decision, not your peers’. You can’t allow your friends to make their agenda yours. I think Philip Roth expressed it best when he wrote, “The human stain that touches all that we do is inescapable.” Do you understand?’

‘All but that last part.’

‘What Roth was saying is that placing great faith in human beings is not only impossible, it’s downright foolish. Everything we touch as humans is stained. Roth saw modern man falling into the same rut as Abraham-creating and serving lesser gods-false idols that neither redeem nor save us.’

‘What does any of that have to do with me?’

‘Think about it, Samuel. Look at what you’ve become. You were born the false idol, a mythical twin worshiped by the masses. You successfully escaped to a different identity, but like some insecure Hollywood actor, you still covet the spotlight. It’s like you’re afraid to let go, afraid to disappoint. None of this attention is real, son. Fame is fleeting. The only thing that counts is what’s on the inside.’

Gene looks up at the moon. ‘You know, I’ll never forget the night you and your brother were born. Such a crazy time. Sylvia and I watched the whole thing on TV. There must have been ten thousand people surrounding the hospital. Rabbi Steinberg told me the air literally seemed charged with electricity. And everyone inside-the doctors and nurses, President Chaney, all those nosey reporters and the armed guards-all were anticipating this wondrous miracle. Your poor mother, she was exhausted and in pain, but she hung in there, refusing any drugs… so afraid it might affect the birth. Anyway, the blessed event happened, and they finally showed footage of your mother holding you in her arms. I remember looking at you, so innocent, wrapped up in that tiny blanket, and I thought to myself-this is a special child, a gift from God, but from here on out, it’s downhill all the way. Because how on Earth could any child, or any adult for that matter, live up to the expectations humanity seemed to be placing on you and your brother?’

Sam sits up. ‘It always played with Jake’s head-all those crazy expectations. I think he was trying to become something everyone wanted him to be. Somewhere along the line, he just lost it mentally.’

‘And isn’t that the reason you wanted out of that life, to escape all that craziness?’

‘Yes.’

‘Looks to me like you jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Samuel “the Mule” Agler-everyone’s all-American hero. To do Tikkun Midot means to overcome our less worthy instincts, not to succumb to peer pressure.’

Gene Agler stands, brushing away the sand. ‘When I was eleven, two boys at school beat me up pretty bad, just because I was Jewish. For a long time after that I remember feeling ashamed of who I was. One afternoon my father gave me a card and inside was a poem. “Be your own soul, learn to live; And if some men hate you, take no heed. If some men curse you, take no care. Sing your song, dream your dream, hope your hope, pray your prayer.” ’

‘Whatever you decide, Samuel, do what’s best for you. Do what’s best… for your soul.’

A wisp of thought, in the consciousness of existence.

Jacob?

Are you out there, son?

If you are there, I have no way of knowing.

The Abomination has blanketed my senses, shielding your thought energy from me. While I cannot hear you, I pray you might still hear me in the hopes that my experiences on Xibalba can protect you.

At one time we spoke of love. It’s important you understand the power of the emotion, and how its absence can taint the soul.

As Michael Gabriel, I had lived an existence devoid of happiness-a lonely childhood, followed by a bitter adolescence. I was life’s victim, my later years spent in isolation in a mental asylum. Even those precious few moments spent with your mother were fleeting, the pain of her loss filling me with an angst I cannot put in words or thoughts.

Was it mere coincidence that the Guardian arranged a shared existence with the Mars colonist, Bill Raby-himself filled with an emptiness as bad, if not worse than my own? No, I no longer believe in coincidences.

But it was not just Bill Raby who experienced this heaviness of heart, nearly every colonist marooned on Xibalba shared the same unspoken feeling. It was a feeling of shame, of survivor’s guilt, magnified beyond the scope of human despair.

Nine billion people on Earth had perished so that a chosen few could survive. Many of us had ‘conspired with the Devil,’ meaning we had been selected for Mars Colony based neither by lottery nor merit, but by political affiliation, by favoritism and ethnic background. We survived because of who we knew and how much money we had so that we could manipulate the selection process.

Now, marooned on Xibalba, the immorality of our affairs was tearing us apart inside.

Not all of us, I should say. Your cousin, Lilith, and her son, Devlin, along with their ‘coven’ of friends, seemed quite content with our bizarre predicament.

The rest of us, however, were left to wallow in our existence. ‘Live for those who died,’ became our creed. And so we faked our joy, pretending the whole affair back on Earth was just a test of survival.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily… life is but a dream.

Was Bill Raby’s existence but a dream?

Was Michael Gabriel’s? Can one truly exist without love?

Yes, but it is a self-imposed hell.

It was your love that saved me, Jacob, but in your unselfish quest to release me, I fear you have condemned your soul to the same purgatory, the same ultimate destiny.

You cannot simply be Hunahpu, you must retain your humanity. Step into the real light. Allow yourself to love again, or you will find yourself on the same path as your cousin, Lilith.

Having said what I needed to say, I’ll return to my journey on Xibalba.

Each of the alien planet’s days was divided into three shifts consisting of labor for the collective, personal time, and more labor, for it was essential to our existence that our first crop yield a bountiful harvest.

During these first six months, I was assigned to a habitat shared by seventy-eight single men and women.

It was there that I met Jude.

Judith Fields was a fellow genetics expert whose specialty was in agriculture. Using the surviving portions of our gene bank, she and her colleagues had begun the process of cloning livestock for New Eden’s farms.

Jude was a country girl, originally from Idaho, with long brown hair, hazel eyes, and a great sense of humor. It was Jude who made me feel again, and over the months, our puppy love blossomed into a strong bond. I found myself, or was it Bill, thinking about her constantly. Whoever it was, our time together was one of great happiness that, at least for the moment, sweetened both our souls.

Jude introduced me to Tan Rashid, an astronomer, originally from England, who entertained us with his ‘theories’ regarding the location of our new home world. You see, despite his computers and star charts, despite his infinite knowledge of the heavens, Tan simply could not discern the location of our planet. Was the distant red supergiant Betelgeuse? If so, none of the other constellations were familiar. Seeking answers, he and his fellow astronomers set to work on building Xibalba ’s first telescope.

As for me, my alter ego-Bill Raby-was a marine geneticist. Since there was little we could do to contribute on an alien planet devoid of oceans, we were assigned to the geology department.

Drone scouts gave us the ability to map New Eden’s entire domed landscape, which spanned nearly 3 million square miles, making it roughly the equivalent of Australia. Engineers determined our floating continent had been built in sections over eons. With its temperate climate control systems and agricultural pods, which we still could not access, they estimated New Eden could house and feed more than 2 billion human beings.

Located twenty feet below the habitat’s rich layer of soil was an inaccessible subterranean chamber, its alien carbon fiber plating composed of the same composite materials used in the dwellings. Within this sealed level, we theorized, had to be the environmental systems that perpetually purified the cloud city’s air and water, fertilized the plant life, and controlled the dome’s shielding mechanism.

The first crop was a bountiful success, and the future of our colony and our species seemed secure.

Two weeks later, the plague struck.

The human body is an amazing and complex machine. There are over a hundred thousand different genes in the human genome, and one single gene may contain more than 2 million nucleotides. Our bony framework consists of 206 bones, most of which are in our hands and feet. Our heart and lungs are the power trains behind a circulatory system that supplies muscles and organs with blood, oxygen, and nutrients, all the while removing carbon dioxide and other waste products. Our nervous system and hormones control bodily functions. Our digestive and reproductive systems are marvels of engineering, our brains more complicated than any computer. In fact, the human body is akin to a combustion engine, producing the same amount of energy as a hundred-watt lightbulb.

Yet, for all its nanoscale complexity and metabolic sophistication, the human body is still composed of 70 percent water.

For eighteen months our colony had been consuming New Eden’s water. We were cooking with it, bathing in it, and consuming food supplies grown with it.

What we didn’t know was that it was affecting us… changing us, altering our genetic code.

As Bill Raby, I was among the plague’s first victims.

I remember it being an overcast day. Olive-gray storm clouds whipped above New Eden’s protective domes. Jude and I were on personal time, strolling along one of the artificial lakes, admiring the handiwork of our alien benefactors, when I was suddenly stricken with intense head pains, as if my brain was on fire. I crumpled in agony, screaming to Jude for help.

Mercifully, I blacked out.

I awoke three days later in a medical ward, quarantined with others like me.

The human brain floats in a self-contained sort of womb, surrounded by and filled with a watery substance called cerebrospinal fluid. Doctors informed me that pressure in this cavity had increased dangerously, causing a portion of my cerebrum actually to press against the inside of my skull. This alien form of hydrocephalus had stricken fifty-seven New Edeners besides me, and more cases were being reported every day.

Drugs were not working, and the pressure on my brain was increasing by the hour. Unless relieved, I would lose consciousness and die within three days.

In effect, it was a death sentence.

How does one take such a pronouncement? Jude fell apart. Bill Raby’s consciousness wept inside, while I… well, I just got angry. ‘Remove the tumor,’ I demanded.

‘It’s not a tumor,’ the resident surgeon said. ‘Your brain is swelling. Intracranial pressure has risen from 210 mm to 270, and it’s still climbing. There simply isn’t enough room in your skull to allow for any more growth.’

Within hours, I slipped into a coma.

The Homo sapiens brain is an incredibly unique organ, its electrochemical design quite different from the rest of the body. It is shielded from direct contact with blood, and contains a hundred billion working cells called neurons, which make over a thousand trillion connections. The organ may be the most complex computer in the universe, yet, despite all our God-given intelligence, our species was still only capable of using roughly 10 percent of its brain, lacking the genetic programming to do otherwise.

The human brain also consists of several unique layers that reflect the gradual progression of our evolution. Rather than discard the antiquated layers, nature had simply built upon them, preserving our evolutionary history-and perhaps our tendency toward violence.

The oldest and deepest of these layers, dubbed the ‘neural chassis,’ consists of the midbrain, brain stem (medulla and pons) and the spinal cord, and controls our basic life functions, such as our heart beat, blood circulation, and respiration. Surrounding this layer is the R-complex, nicknamed the ‘reptilian brain,’ as it controls our aggressive behavior, social hierarchy, and territoriality. It consists of our globus pallidus, corpus striatum, and olfactostriatum.

Surrounding the R-complex is the limbic system, a layer developed during our evolution as mammals. Comprising the thalamus, hypothalamus, amygdala, pituitary, and hippocampus, it controls social behavior, emotions, and complex relations required for living in cohesive groups.

The outermost layer of the brain is a tablecloth-sized sheet folded like a parachute. It controls reason, spatial perception, and language. Known as the neocortex, it is divided by anatomists into the frontal, parietal, temporal, and occipital lobes. While the outer layers of other animal brains are smooth, ours is grooved, increasing the surface area of the cerebral cortex.

I bore you with these anatomical facts because, as I lay in bed in my coma, I dreamed that I was actually walking through this outer maze of gray matter, lost in the canyons of my neocortex. Reaching a precipice, I looked down, staring into the dark recesses of human existence.

And I saw everything.

The birth of our universe.

The formation of galaxies.

The evolution of life on ancient Earth.

From insectivores to primates. From early hominid to modern man.

And suddenly, as if a curtain had been lifted, I understood.

Futurists in my time had defined three categories of evolution for human civilization. Type-I civilizations were those that master all forms of our home world’s energy resources. This includes everything from mining the oceans to tapping into the planet’s core, to modifying the weather. A Type-I civilization is mature enough to rise above petty conflicts of politics, race, religion, and culture to develop a unified planetary economy. While still susceptible to certain environmental and cosmic catastrophes, Type-I civilizations have begun the process leading to the colonization of nearby planets.

The next step up the evolutionary ladder are Type-II civilizations, which harness energy solely by way of their suns. They have colonized other planets and have begun the exploration and possible colonization of nearby solar systems. Able to manipulate their environment, they will no longer be in danger of facing extinction by glaciation or asteroid impact, but will still be vulnerable to supernovas, whose eruptions could irradiate nearby planets.

Type-III civilizations are the pinnacle of advanced societies. They have exhausted the energy output of their suns and must reach out to other star systems throughout the galaxy. Their starships approach the speed of light, and perhaps, have even mastered ‘Planck energy,’ the energy necessary to violate the very fabric of space and time.

In other words, Jacob, they can manipulate wormholes.

When I left Earth in 2012, our species was still a struggling Type-0 civilization. Our people were hopelessly divided, enmeshed in petty conflicts of equality, religion, and politics. Our technologies focused on making war, and we very nearly destroyed ourselves in our quest of ego and self. Type-0 civilizations are always prone to disasters, whether self-induced, or, as our predecessors learned, through the fury of Mother Nature.

What scientists had left out of the equation was hominid evolution. Homo sapiens was not the last stop up the evolutionary ladder; it was merely the beginning… and love was our key to survival.

As this knowledge was imparted to me, I found myself staring at my own genome. The spiraling ladder of DNA was changing, continuing an incredible metamorphosis that had begun the moment the first drops of alien water had passed across my lips.

And though I was dreaming, I knew the vision was real, that I was actually changing, evolving into something more efficient-something superior. Another layer of brain tissue, a hypercortex, was growing over my neocortex.

I was becoming… Transhuman.

The transhumanist school first surfaced at the turn of the twentieth century when science fiction gave rise to serious futurism. The term ‘transhuman’ implies our species as being transitional, that Homo sapiens does not represent the end of our evolution but rather its true beginning. Through bioscience breakthroughs and technological advances in nanoscale engineering that enabled telomeric augmentation, proliferated nanoimplants, genomic editing, and mitochondrial genetic preservation, individual humans could prepare themselves as transhumans to reach our ultimate goal as a species: Posthumanism.

A posthuman was imagined to be an augmented super-brained person no longer merely human. It was believed that posthumans could end up as completely synthetic organisms, living far beyond the human body’s limitations-or as some imagined, as exobody consciousness, programmed within some futuristic biochemical computer.

As I watched my genome evolve, my hallucination instructed me. It showed me how my brain was growing. Taught me how to program my own neurological pathways simply by using streams of conscious thought. My dream guided me toward understanding how my biological processes worked and how they could be manipulated.

More than seven full months would pass before I emerged from my coma. When I awoke, I learned I had evolved into a different Homo sapiens subspecies.

It began with my appearance, which was bizarre, bordering on the grotesque. My skull had completely deformed, elongating to accommodate the increased mass of my brain. My body had enlarged as well, to better nourish the brain. My muscles were stronger, not only able to lift heavier weights, but they could fire faster, as if Bill Raby’s neural connections had doubled in speed.

There was a new clarity to my thought process. My mind could suddenly recall obscure documents I had read years earlier-word for word. My brain possessed an eidetic memory, but with highly expanded associativity, cataloging key concepts, drawing upon oceans of information in a millisecond of preconscious thought.

The entire colony was undergoing an identical metamorphosis.

As Jude was still in her coma, I decided to leave the ward, my new intellect determined to reveal New Eden’s secrets. My first destination was a massive structure, standing seventy-eight stories tall, encompassing a thousand acres. What drew me to this alien facility was its exterior lead gray surface, adorned in ever-changing patterns of lines and glyphs, which radiated the colors of the spectrum.

An imposing thirty-foot arch delineated the grand entry. Approaching the sealed hatch, I closed my eyes and focused my thoughts inward, imagining the doors unsealing to allow me entry.

Immediately, a strange buzzing sensation overcame me, as if my brain was expelling volts of electricity. I fell to my knees, overcome by vertigo.

When the buzzing stopped, I opened my eyes.

The portal had unsealed.