The Joshua Files - a complete box set: Books 1-5 of the young adult sci-fi adventure series plus techno-thriller prequel

by M. G. Harris

“Hello, Josh.”

  Even though by the time he finally speaks I’ve already guessed the truth, I still gasp.

  “You’re . . . you’re. . .”

  “Marius Martineau? That’s right, Josh. We finally meet.”

  His smile is radiant now. He steps forward and grabs me by the arms.

  “My dear boy, you simply cannot begin to imagine what a great, what an extraordinary pleasure this is.”

  “Huh?”

  “After all this time, after everything that’s happened. . .” Quite gently, he takes hold of my chin. “May I?” he asks, staring into my eyes. “My goodness, it worked. They’re quite, quite blue, aren’t they? Melissa’s genetic engineering. She really is remarkable, that woman. Did the rest work too?”

  I pull away. I don’t like having him anywhere near me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter.

  He just chuckles. “I rather suspect you do. But no matter; it can wait. Your eyes are blue . . . they suit you, by the way. Which means, almost certainly, that the other genetic changes have also taken place. Thus, you are now endowed with the many gifts of the Bakabs.”

  “How did you get here?” I ask. I want to get off this topic . . . for all I know he’s trying to trap me into confirming that their genetic experiment worked. Without testing my blood, they couldn’t know for sure.

  “You must think me rather foolish,” he says with a grin. “I’m afraid I’m not in the business of giving away secrets, any more than you.”

  “You’ve got another Bracelet of Itzamna,” I say, nodding at the two devices on his arms. “Where did you get it? Did Blanco Vigores give it to you? Is he on your side now?”

  Again, he laughs. “Blanco Vigores? How interesting that you should mention him. Why, do you have your suspicions already, dear boy?”

  “How’s Simon Madison?” I say suddenly, with venom. “Did that cow Ollie dump him yet?”

  Martineau’s smile vanishes. “Simon and Ollie don’t exist; they haven’t been born. Stop thinking of time travel like aeroplane travel. Once you leave your own timeline, for all intents and purposes it is gone for ever. Unless you return immediately, there’s little guarantee of ever returning to the time, the place, the people you once knew. Simon and Ollie don’t exist. It’s possible that they never will.”

  I gaze at him in the flickering torchlight. His words have a terrible ring of truth. I feel sick to my stomach at the idea. I don’t want to believe him.

  “But. . .”

  “Every action has its consequences,” he snaps. “Every consequence is magnified in subsequent repercussions. Have you never heard of the butterfly effect?”

  “Uh . . . it’s a film?”

  Martineau rolls his eyes. “Dear lord, how can such an ignoramus have got the better of us on so many occasions?” He fixes me with a stern gaze. “Anything that you or I do in the past is likely to change something in the future. The consequences are unpredictable, because they magnify. Time travel, therefore, is extraordinarily dangerous.”

  “So why are you doing it?”

  There’s sarcasm in his voice now. “Because, dear innocent young Josh, has it not yet occurred to you that our entire existence has already been compromised by one foolish time traveller?”

  “Who . . . Arcadio?”

  Martineau pauses for a minute, as if he’s surprised by what I’ve said. “No . . . not Arcadio. But how interesting that you should suspect . . . Arcadio.”

  I get the feeling that he meant to finish that sentence with something else.

  “Who, then?”

  “Itzamna, naturally! The original time traveller. His meddling interfered with the plans of the Erinsi to protect the world from events like the galactic superwave. Where you and I come from, civilization has paid a heavy price for Itzamna’s interference.”

  Now I’m confused. This isn’t what I’ve been told by Montoyo. “Civilization is in danger . . . because of Itzamna? But isn’t he the one who stored the Erinsi knowledge? Who, like, kept it for the future? Isn’t that how come we’ve got any hope of handling the superwave in 2012?”

  “Really, my boy, why do you think Itzamna went to such efforts to copy the Erinsi writings, to create the Books of Itzamna? He’s a time traveller. Why get involved?”

  He has a point; I’ve never asked anyone that.

  “To save the world?” I suggest.

  “Yes, possibly. Generous of him, don’t you think? To worry about people thousands of years in the future?”

  I think about that for a few seconds. Is it especially generous? If Itzamna was from the future, he might know absolutely that if he didn’t go back in time and change something, all the people he cared about would be different. Maybe they wouldn’t even exist?

  Martineau’s words break into my thoughts. “Guilt is what motivated Itzamna, I’m almost certain. It’s a powerful force, Joshua, guilt. Itzamna – or whatever his real name is – he knew that his meddling had already doomed us. The superwave and other disasters wiped the Erinsi civilization from the globe. But they found a way to preserve their technology, their knowledge. Itzamna, that interfering busybody, found the time-travel bracelet. He meddled. Oh, no doubt he meant well enough. But the result was – the Erinsi plan was disrupted.”

  “Are you saying that their plan . . .” I begin, incredulous, “. . . was interfered with?”

  Martineau sighs. “For all their brilliance, the Erinsi failed to foresee the possibility that time travel could be their undoing.”

  “Itzamna . . . he tried to fix things . . . by copying their knowledge into the four books?”

  “So it would appear.”

  Now I’m really suspicious. Martineau seems to know so much more about Itzamna than I do. Maybe even more than Montoyo. “How do you know all this?”

  He gives me a tired look. “This isn’t my first outing with the Bracelet.”

  Accusingly I say, “Then you’re just as bad as Itzamna, aren’t you?”

  Lightly he replies, “I didn’t create the reality in which you and I were born, Joshua. Have you not felt, throughout your life, that things were very wrong on our world?”

  I shrug, peering at Martineau. His eyes glint like polished stones in the torchlight. Now that I know who the Jaguar Priest is, the costume seems ridiculous. What is a university professor doing dressed up like this? How has he conned Lord Yuknoom into accepting him?

  For the first time, I glimpse the advantage I might have here.

  Martineau can’t risk that I might talk, tell the Mayans that he’s an imposter. Which means he’ll have to kill me pretty quickly, before I can talk to anyone else. . . If he does that, how will he explain killing me to the king?

  His only other choice is to make me his friend.

  The way he sounds, it feels like he’s trying to be friendly. But this is a guy who gave orders to have me captured, shot at, tortured and experimented on. His organization threatened to murder my mother and best friends.

  Does he think I’ve forgotten any of that?

  Martineau falls silent, watching me form a question. Eventually I say, “So . . . you want to fix what Itzamna did?”

  “I doubt that’s possible. We don’t even know what he did. I plan to ensure that the Ix Codex never falls into the hands of your friends in Ek Naab. Of all four books, it’s the most dangerous.”

  An outrageous idea hits me. Is it possible. . .? “Was it you, then . . . did you get Yuknoom Ch’een to bring the Ix Codex out of Ek Naab?”

  Martineau’s lips stretch very thin. “You give me too much credit. Lord Yuknoom did that all by himself. But for your interference, Josh, it’s likely that the Ix Codex would have remained lost for ever. Well,” he says, in a voice that’s turned suddenly steely, cold, “I’m going to get my hands on that codex. Things will turn out different, you’ll see; better. In 2012, the superwave will blast the human population back to a manageable level. Those of us who rebuild society will be able to ensure that our new civilization dev
elops in an orderly, managed way. There’ll be no splurging capitalism, no environmental wreckage. The new world order will be at one with the planet.”

  He’s smiling by the end of his speech. There’s something wild about that smile, and it’s not just because of his alarming face paint. I don’t know much about new world orders but I can’t see the difference between Martineau and all the other crazies who think they should run the world.

  I can only see the similarity. However these things turn out, people like him are only interested in ending up on the winning side, the side which makes the decisions and controls everyone else’s lives.

  In our twenty-first century, the Sect has their training camps in Switzerland; they’re rich from money from Chaldexx, the pharmaceutical company that Melissa DiCanio runs. They have agents all over the world. All the males are Bakabs – descended from the rejected Bakabs of Ek Naab. The Bakabs have genetic abilities that I don’t even understand.

  New world order? Yeah, right. With the Sect of Huracan at the heart of everything.

  Martineau runs his tongue over the top row of his miraculously gleaming teeth. “I’m going to get my hands on that codex, Mr Garcia. And you are going to help me.”

  Martineau reaches around his waist, under his flowing blue cloak. From a jade-studded leather belt he pulls out a short, squat blade. Like all the others I’ve seen, it’s made from meticulously crafted black volcanic glass. I look from him to the knife, confused.

  “Turn around,” he orders, mildly. “I’m not going to kill you; why would I waste my time talking if that was my intention? You’re far more useful to me alive, as you will see.”

  With that he cuts through the bindings on my wrists. I turn around and silently rub at the rope burns on my arms.

  “I’m going to take you to meet Lord Yuknoom,” he says gravely. “Now remember this – the king is a man in his prime. Fifty-three years old, and he’s ruled the Kingdom of the Snake Dynasty for almost twenty years. He’ll rule for another thirty. A period of prosperity and growth, and one of the most magnificent Mayan cities in all their history. The Mayan world will not see his like again. He is not a man to be trifled with.” Solemnly, he gazes into my eyes. “Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  He continues, “You will speak only through me. If the king believes that you can communicate directly with him, there will be no reason, no excuse, to always have me present when you are with him.” He pauses again, then adds quickly, “Before you start wondering if that wouldn’t be to your advantage, understand this: you know nothing of this world, this time. Whereas I have studied the ancient Maya all my adult life. That’s how I’m able to operate as a Jaguar Priest. With everything that entails.”

  The way he stresses “everything” gives me a sudden shiver. I glance up, my question unspoken. He nods slowly, grinning like a death mask. “Yes, Mr Garcia. I’ve killed. I’ve taken human lives for sacrifice.” He lifts his right hand, holding the knife high. The Bracelet of Itzamna on his wrist is right in front of my nose. “With this very hand, with this very knife, I’ve cut flesh, spilled blood. Men, women. . .” He nods. “Even children.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Most Jaguar Priests leave bloodletting to the ah nakom. But what I discovered was this – I enjoyed it.” His eyes burrow into mine. I realize I’m holding my breath. “There’s an urge to kill that’s tamed in our society. In this world, though, killing can be seen as a powerful, a positive thing.”

  Finally I find my voice, hollow with disgust. “The Mayans . . . they really believe they need to kill people to make it rain, to make food grow. But you. . .”

  Martineau smiles. “I know that they don’t? With my modern mind, I understand that rain and weather are all part of an uncontrollable miasma of natural forces?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “We kill to eat,” he murmurs. “We kill to stay alive. We kill because someone orders us to. You think it’s as simple as that? Joshua, it’s even simpler: some of us kill because we’re born to it. We’re better than the rest; their lives are ours for the taking, when the wish takes us.”

  If he’s trying to scare me, it’s working. I don’t know where to look; I only know I want to avoid those flat, pitiless eyes. Fear rises in me again, like a metal claw closing around my heart and lungs. It’s so strong it threatens to blot out everything else.

  Martineau grabs my arm and leads me to the doorway. He leans closer until his mouth is right next to my ear. “Follow my lead and we’ll have the Ix Codex, and a glorious new future. One wrong move, though, and I’ll add you to the list of sacrificial victims for the next sacred festival. I’ll cut your heart out myself, Joshua. And I’ll enjoy it.”

  He drags the palm-frond barrier away from the door and pushes me ahead of him into the passageway. The two temple guards are waiting outside, stretched lazily in the sun, on the steps at the summit of the pyramid. When they see my hands untied, they seem surprised.

  “The boy is with me,” Martineau says. He doesn’t even glance at them as we begin the descent.

  “Goodbye, Clear-Eyed Demon,” sneers the second guard.

  “Clear-Eyed Demon,” Martineau mutters, in English. “How amusing. Looks as though you’ve found your Mayan name, Mr Garcia.”

  A numb feeling settles over me. I almost glide down the steps. Martineau says something to me but I barely hear him. The sun beats down on the city now, on every pristine stone on the temple, every column and frieze, on the hot skin of every man, woman and child. How many hours have I been here? Yet the shock of it is still slapping me in the face.

  This is just unreal.

  If only it were. Martineau’s dagger is all too real in its glinting sharpness. He’s obviously persuaded Lord Yuknoom that he has all the mysterious knowledge of a Mayan priest. No wonder, after all his years studying the Mayans: their history, mathematics, religion, language, customs.

  In the Mayan Snake Kingdom, Martineau can pass himself off as a prophet, a seer.

  I’m completely stupefied as he leads me across the acropolis, through the tree-lined path to the main citadel. We walk along the side of the enormous main pyramid. For a second or two I enjoy the cool of its shadow. We pass the low palace structure where I slept the night before. We cross the crowded plaza, winding our way past a jumble of traders, beggars and peddlers selling animals, dead and alive, caged birds, skinned iguana lizards with their tongues hanging out, stacked banana leaves tied into parcels with dry palms, baskets woven from shiny green palm fronds, fish sliced open, filleted and dried in the sun, clay pots filled with charcoal, gourds of every shape, hollowed and rattling with beans. A plump woman lumbers by weighed down with hundreds of shell and bead necklaces, and tugs at Martineau’s cloak. He ignores her completely and pulls me away with greater urgency.

  She’s the only person who doesn’t get out of our way, who doesn’t stare. Everyone else stops what they’re doing. Martineau and I carve a line of stunned silence into the crowd.

  A young child speaks clearly into that silence. “Look! The Jaguar Priest has a son!”

  The kid’s mum tells him to shut up and the silence becomes a flurry of whispers. I glance at Martineau to see his reaction. His lips are pressed together, hard. He returns my glance and says, “It’s your complexion. I was the whitest person they’d ever seen until you. At least my eyes are brown. The king will believe that we aren’t related. However. . .” He pauses. “It may be a useful rumour to spread. I intend to keep you close, Mr Garcia. When we return to the twenty-first century, we will return together.”

  The temples are arranged on opposite sides of a wide causeway. At one end of the giant avenue is the main pyramid, which overshadows the citadel like a mountain. It’s a complex series of tiers, platforms, columns on the lower tiers, niches at every level. As with every pyramid, on the summit there’s a thatched-roofed stone building with arched doorways. At the other end of the avenue is the second-highest pyramid, with one long flight of steps up the front of its thre
e tiers.

  We head for a lower, broad temple structure at the opposite side of the causeway. Its wide staircase is almost as broad as that of the giant pyramid, but there’s only one flight. Martineau leads me up the staircase to the building on top, which is watched by ten guards who stand out because of their red garments. They don’t shift from their positions as we walk past, but I sense them bristle, fingers reaching for the handles of their daggers.

  Martineau stops, addressing the guard at the door.

  “I bring the foreign prisoner to our lord. Guard him while I speak alone with Lord Yuknoom.”

  Then he disappears inside the temple. I wait for a few minutes, squirming under the harsh gaze of the king’s guards. Then he’s back, standing in the doorway.

  “Mr Garcia,” Martineau says to me, speaking loudly, almost self-consciously. “Lord Yuknoom will see you now.”