Phobos: Mayan Fear (28 page)

The Final Papers of Julius Gabriel, PhD

Cambridge University archives

Few men are willing to brave the disapproval of their fellows, the censure of their colleagues, the wrath of their society. Moral courage is a rarer commodity than bravery in battle or great intelligence. Yet it is the one essential, vital quality for those who seek to change a world which yields most painfully to change.

—ROBERT F. KENNEDY,
DAY OF AFFIRMATION ADDRESS,
UNIVERSITY OF CAPETOWN,
JUNE 6, 1966

AUGUST 23, 2001

P
hobos
: A Greek term meaning “morbid fear.”

Fear: A state of mind, inducing anxiety.

On this, the eve of my symposium, my mind is consumed with anxiety, for the final piece of the Mayan Doomsday puzzle has now been laid into place, perhaps for the first time since the cursed priests of the Spanish Inquisition burned the Mayan codices left behind by Chilam Balam. Five centuries after the Jaguar Prophet attempted to warn us of things to come I am fearful whether my own words will make a difference.

They must. Our existence depends upon it.

The Mayan calendar is composed of five great cycles, subdivided into repeating twenty-year epochs, known as katums. According to Chilam Balam, the final katum of cycle five began in 1992 and ends on December 21, 2012. During that time, Balam predicts a decade of peace and prosperity will end when a charismatic leader shall be felled by his own growing ego, his fall from grace beckoning the forces of darkness.

A great deception shall follow, designed to unite the masses behind new false prophets. War will ensue, propelled by an agenda ripe with corruption, resulting in an imbalance that uproots morality and radicalizes the king-makers.

Divided into the powerful and the oppressed, the fabric of society shall unravel. And in the melee that ensues, Nature shall cause the planet to tremble.

Five great cycles. According to the surviving codices, each of the previous four had been terminated by earthquake, wind, fire, then water—the four sacred elements. According to Balam, it is during the last cycle that a fifth element shall come into play—an element responsible for the creation of the physical universe and ultimately its destruction:

The atom.

Desiring to know the Creator, man had studied the atom.

Desiring to kill his brother, man had split the atom.

Desiring to be the Creator, man was now colliding the atom, re-creating the Big Bang, ignoring the inherent dangers. The strangelet was man’s unbridled ego run amok, a fourth-dimensional cancer cell of gravity hellbent on consuming anything in its path.

It was simple cause and effect. Chilam Balam had understood it, and had painstakingly left us many clues—including one I had long ignored.

Archaeologists had unearthed more than a dozen crystal skulls over the last century, though only a few had traced back to Chilam Balam. Both Michael and I had dismissed these quartz artifacts after learning that the mineral was not unique to Mesoamerica, its shallow deposits spread beneath twelve percent of the Earth’s crust.

And yet it is quartz that finally connected the dots.

Ironically, it was my own great-grandchild, Sophia, disguised by a hiccup of time as my niece, who recently forced me to reexamine the skulls. After I gave the child a quartz skull for her last birthday, she presented me with a mind-boggling theory.

“Did you know, Uncle Julius, that quartz can resonate with brain waves, that it can even affect the creative process? The skull you gave me has given me vivid dreams—nightmares of the Doomsday still to come. It is as if I have been channeling Chilam Balam himself.”

“Tell me about the dreams.”

“Each begins with a volcanic eruption. This is followed by an earthquake, which releases a tsunami. Fire, wind, earth, and water—the four elements tied together by the presence of quartz. I think that is the meaning of the crystal skulls, that they trigger the relationship.”

“I see the relationship between fire and wind, earth and water, but nothing more. Nor do I see how quartz can trigger these violent acts of nature.”

Sophia then presented me with a geological map detailing the world’s known quartz deposits. “Do you recognize a pattern, Uncle Julius?”

“Nothing stands out.”

“Look closely. The quartz deposits match the planet’s seismic fault lines.”

The child was right, they did match. The question was—what did it mean?

I consulted a geologist, who found the idea intriguing, concurring that fault lines in California, Utah, Nevada, and Idaho could be identified by the states’ quartz deposits. He informed me that the mineral contained water, which when heated under pressure could indeed serve as a geological lubricant for rocks to slide and grinding tectonic plates to flow. He promised to research the theory further when he returned from a three-year field trip to Indonesia, though I wondered how Sophia’s revelation would help resolve the Doomsday prophecy.

And then I thought about the strangelet.

According to physicists, these theoretical miniature black holes, created when atoms were deliberately collided at near-light speed, could escape their manmade boundaries and pass through the planet’s core, seeking protons upon which to feed.

Assuming a strangelet were to be created by one of these massive colliders, would the feasting singularity somehow forge a molecular attraction to the unique properties and resonance found in quartz? If so, then these mineral deposits—shadowing geological fault lines—would serve as a beacon to this gradually enlarging black hole. With each pass through the planet’s crust the strangelet would grow larger; as 2012 approached these seismic events, triggered in effect by the singularity, would grow far more destructive.

Earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis … harbingers of a far more destructive force—a force created by man—a black hole large enough to atomize and consume our entire planet.

May the Creator shed mercy on our foolhardiness.

J.G.

24

STARR AUDITORIUM, BELFER CENTER

HARVARD UNIVERSITY

CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

AUGUST 24, 2001

T
he sold-out crowd files into the second-floor auditorium—professors and scholars, archaeology majors and graduate students, and members of the local media—along with a bizarre cross-segment of UFOologists. Today will mark Julius Gabriel’s first public appearance in more than a decade, and word has spread among the fringe elements that the aging professor intends to unveil “shocking new evidence” that supports forty years of “forbidden archaeology.”

The guest speaker sits alone in his dressing room before a lighted mirror, the bright bare bulbs revealing every wrinkle and stress line that defines his weathered face.
A miniature Nazca plateau
, his internal voice comments, the thought dispersed into the ether by the knock on his door.

“Michael?”

The door opens, revealing Sam, Laura, and his “niece,” Sophia.

“Laura, where’s my son?”

The turquoise-eyed beauty glances at her husband for support. “Julius, we talked about this three days ago. Michael and Adelina eloped. They’re scheduled to fly to Paris this morning for their honeymoon.”

The words puncture his chest cavity like a dagger, the sudden stress causing the blood vessels leading to his heart to constrict.

Sam catches him as he doubles over. Laura searches his jacket pocket and retrieves the pill bottle. She quickly pops open the lid and fishes out a small white tablet, placing it under Julius’s tongue.

The melting nitroglycerin pill quickly relaxes the damaged cardiac vessels, returning color to Julius Gabriel’s face. He sits back in the canvas chair, exhaling phlegm-laced breaths.

Laura holds a cup of water to his lips. “Sam, I can handle this. Take Sophia out of here, I’ll meet you at our seats.”

“Come on, Sophie.” Sam leads his daughter out of the dressing room, closing the door behind them.

“Julius, it’s not too late to cancel.”

“Cancel? Have you any idea what’s at stake? I’m not canceling anything. Death robbed me of my soul mate, lust stole my son … who else is there to see this through? Go on, join your family, I’ll be fine.”

She shakes her head and opens the door to leave—nearly colliding with Pierre Borgia. The deputy under secretary of defense is standing in the outer hall staring at Laura, transfixed by her eyes. “Do I know you?”

“No, and let’s keep it that way.” She pushes past him, walking quickly down the corridor.

“Julius, who was that?”

“Laura Agler. Maria’s younger sister.”

“I didn’t know Maria had a younger sister. Is it possible …”

“What is it you want, Pierre?”

“Just to wish you luck. And to remind you those military nondisclosure agreements remain in force.” He picks up the prescription bottle with his right hand, reading the label. “Amazing how a man-made ingredient designed to blow things up can also be used to save one’s life.”

He returns it to Julius using his left hand, watching as the archaeologist slips the bottle into his jacket pocket. “We’re onstage in ten. You’ll enjoy my intro, it should really wet the crowd’s panties.”

The stage is divided by the two matching daises, the backdrop a thirty-by-forty-foot projection screen.

A female voice over the speaker system quiets the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, faculty and guests—Harvard University and the Kennedy School of Government welcomes you to another seminar of the sciences. Please welcome our host for this morning’s event, the deputy under secretary of defense and a former Harvard undergrad, Dr. Pierre Robert Borgia.”

Pierre strides to his dais, waving to an audience no longer visible beyond the bright stage lights. “Good morning. It is an honor to have been selected to introduce today’s guest speaker. Professor Julius Gabriel and I studied together at Cambridge University nearly four decades ago, then spent the next three years together in the field with another colleague, the late Maria Rosen. Professor Gabriel’s theories regarding the influence of extraterrestrial intelligence on ancient cultures are as legendary in the field of archaeology as they are controversial. I’ve more to add, but before I do, let’s bring him out onstage, shall we? Ladies and gentlemen, Professor Julius Gabriel.”

Julius hobbles out from behind a curtain, offering a half-wave as he manages his way to his podium.

Seated in the third row with his family, Samuel Agler stares at the wolfish leer on Pierre Borgia’s face, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

“Well, Julius, here we are, together again after our tumultuous breakup. You once taught me that the pursuit of truth remains its own cause. With that in mind, I’d like to expand my introduction just a few moments longer, before you engage the audience in your romantic theories of extraterrestrial intervention.”

A rush of anxiety; Julius feels his left arm begin to throb.

“Ladies and gentlemen, last week an independent filmmaker in Hollywood sent me this short video clip—a behind-the-scenes account of a longer reel—a reel Professor Gabriel financed and developed in order to substantiate the inane theories he’s about to feed you. Roll the footage.”

An image illuminates the big screen, revealing Julius Gabriel seated in a horseshoe-shaped chamber surrounded by recording equipment—facing a small gray-skinned alien. There is no audio, the only sound provided by the hushed tones of the crowd.

“What you are witnessing is an alleged interview that Professor Gabriel will swear took place in a subterranean location somewhere near Area 51. In fact, the footage was filmed in a small sound stage in Nevada, and the supposed ‘E.T.’ was this little guy—”

From the podium cabinet Borgia removes a five-foot puppet identical to the extraterrestrial on the screen.

Julius grips the edge of his dais, his body trembling. “You lying bastard. You set me up!”

“You set us all up, Professor. The Mayan Doomsday prophecy is nonsense, your extraterrestrial theories regarding the evolution of modern man are ridiculous, and your presence here is an embarrassment to this university.”

Unsure how to react, some members of the audience boo, others stand and toss their programs onstage. Borgia plays up to the crowd’s angst, exhorting them on.

Julius gasps for air like a fish out of water, his chest constricting, his heart squeezed behind death’s vise. He staggers away from the podium—

—Sam bounding over two rows, leaping onstage, catching him as he tumbles behind the curtain’s edge. Kneeling, he holds the elder man to his chest with one arm while his free hand searches his jacket pocket, retrieving the prescription bottle. Popping the lid with his teeth, Sam dumps the pills onto his pant leg and examines one of the small white tablets.

“What the hell? These aren’t your pills, they’re breath mints!”

Julius gazes up at him wearily. “Borgia.”

Sam turns, only Julius squeezes his hand. “My time’s up, this is as far as I go. It’s up to you now, Manny.”

“Manny?” A rush of adrenaline jolts Sam’s being like an electrical charge.

“I know who you are, I know why you are here. Our time together … a gift from the Upper Realm. Chaos is upon us, unleashing ripples of hatred and destruction. The monster who chased you from your time shall emerge as it was intended to in mine. Only One Hunahpu can save humanity. And you are not he.”

“One Hunahpu? Julius, who is he? Who am I? Tell me, please!”

“I can’t.” The old man smiles with tear-filled eyes. “These are uncharted waters, son. Mind the helm.”

The weight on his chest grows heavy as Julius Gabriel’s soul abandons its physical vessel.

Sam cradles the lifeless body for a long moment. When he looks up, his wife and daughter are hovering over him—ushering in the sound of the auditorium and the heckling jousts of Pierre Borgia.

A torrent of hot blood rushes through Samuel Agler’s being. “Wait here.”

Borgia never sees him coming. One moment he is exhorting the crowd into a feverish frenzy—the next he is writhing on his back, the
craaack
of his occipital bone terminating in darkness.

JFK AIRPORT

NEW YORK

Adelina Botello-Gabriel applies a fresh coat of lipstick, purposely nudging her husband awake with her elbow.

Michael Gabriel opens his eyes. “Are we boarding?”

“Not yet, darling. Why don’t you get us each another coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.” Standing, Mick weaves his way through rows of seats crowded with passengers and their carry-on bags. Leaving gate C-47, he scans the overseas terminal for the nearest snack bar—his ears perking at the sound of his last name.

“ … Professor Gabriel was pronounced dead at the scene. No word yet on the extent of the under secretary’s injury or the identity of his assailant.”

Michael Gabriel stares at the televised news report, his limbs trembling. He waits until the story changes, then dashes back to Adelina.

“My father’s dead! He died of a heart attack.”

“Michael, calm yourself—”

“I just saw it on TV. Adelina, we can’t go to Paris, we need to get to Boston.”

Her pager buzzes in her purse. She glances at the text message.

“Who is it? Is it about my father?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

“Well? What did it say?”

“It said the marriage is over. I’m sorry.” She stands, gathering her belongings. “Not that it wasn’t fun. What you lack in social skills you more than made up for in bed. I was going to tell you in Paris—”

“What are you talking about?”

“The priest was an actor, Michael. We were never married. Our meeting—this entire relationship—it was a sham. My job was to get close—”

He grabs her arm, his grip cutting off her circulation. “Who hired you?”

“I don’t know … you’re hurting me! Help! Officer!”

Two airport security men hear her pleas, approaching from the next gate. Mick pulls her in close so that their lips are nearly touching. “We’ll meet again. Until then, I’d be very afraid.”

He releases her, then grabs his carry-on bag and disappears in the crowd.