by M. G. Harris
I become insistent. “But if all I do is to go into the future, snoop about a bit, gather some intelligence, then jaunt back . . . that’s not so dangerous.”
The idea is beginning to grow on me.
“Josh . . . what if we go into the future and find that the Sect has won? Then we’ll know that there’s no point changing things, because we’ve seen our own future. We’ll know that we’re doomed to fail.”
I gaze at Ixchel. “But also, what if we go into the future and everything is fine? Then we can find out how that happened, how we defeat the Sect, the location of the moon machine, everything! And you know what else? If we go into the future and everything is fine, that’s like a sign, isn’t it – a sign that maybe we’re meant to travel to the future, that it’s all part of how things work out in our timeline.”
A shadow of doubt crosses her face. “I don’t know. There’s a reason the people who made the time-jump bracelet didn’t use it. I don’t think we understand enough about how to use it. Or how it really works.”
“I’m not saying it couldn’t use a manual,” I admit. “But anyway, without some kind of instructions I couldn’t use it. Bosch would have to show me. And he probably wouldn’t agree to that.”
“He’s probably a grumpy old man by now,” agrees Ixchel, “if he’s even still alive. . .”
“Bosch?” I smile. “That crazy time traveller? I can’t imagine him not being alive. Bosch is indestructible!”
Ixchel unscrews a metal bottle of chilled water. I open a packet of beef jerky and offer it to her before taking a couple of strips of dried meat and putting them in my cheeks, where the salty flavour begins to seep through.
I say, “We should definitely swing by San Cristobal and look him up. He’d want to know that there’s a problem with the 2012 plan. Who knows; maybe he can even tell us the location of the moon machine.”
Ixchel chews the beef jerky thoughtfully. “Can’t see how that’s possible. Bosch didn’t seem to understand much of what he was writing when he copied out those ancient Erinsi inscriptions into the Books of Itzamna. He may have studied the Erinsi civilization, but I don’t think he had much clue about their technology.”
“That was when we met him. But he’d be a lot older now. Who knows what ideas have occurred to Bosch since then?”
“I think maybe you’re being a little too kind to his memory, Josh. Have you forgotten how he was about to trick you out of your time-travel bracelet and use it to escape from the past?”
I shrug. “Bosch could be a bit of a lad. But he made it good, didn’t he? He helped us to trick Martineau, got his warriors to save us, and gave us our own time-travel bracelet back.”
She chuckles. “You can be very forgiving. Why aren’t you that way about the NRO?”
“Bosch was panicking. He just wanted to write those books and then get out of there. He was scared. When we turned up, he saw a chance to escape.” I swallow. It’s not easy to keep my voice even. “It’s completely different with the NRO. That was all premeditated. They chased my dad . . . hunted him down . . . threw him in an underground jail and left him there without letting anyone know. And to make sure no one came looking, they faked his death! So, you tell me: what’s to like about the NRO?”
“They did all that, true. But at least they’re on the same side as us. They want to stop the superwave.”
“We don’t even know that for sure. All we know is that they want as much of the ancients’ technology as they can grab. Can you imagine what kind of technology this moon machine must be, if it can stop a cosmic event like the galactic superwave? It’s got to be mega. The NRO want that for themselves. That’s one heck of a power imbalance in the world.”
“Doesn’t mean it would be used for evil purposes, though.”
“Depends on whether you think nukes should ever be used, doesn’t it?”
Ixchel sighs and takes another piece of jerky. “But surely a point comes when you have to make a deal, even with someone you don’t like.”
“Deal with the NRO?” I mutter darkly, leaning back against the dry volcanic rock of the cavern. “Maybe. When hell freezes over.”
Sky Guardians are required to wear wristwatches, something that I don’t often do. The watches are equipped with torches too, but I’m already in survival mode; no point wearing out the battery. I check the time: 07:08.
It’s going to be a very long day.
Ixchel and I start hauling out everything we’re going to need from the Muwan.
I put two emergency packs into the inside pockets of my flight jacket. Two hard plastic cases, each about the size and thickness of a paperback book. The supplies inside are identical: medicines, bandages, a syringe and needles, currency worth one thousand US dollars in bills of, Mexican pesos, US dollars, euros, UK pounds and Chinese yuan. A Gerber Octane multitool. A foil thermal blanket, folded up into a tiny wedge. Water purification tablets, cotton wool, waterproof matches.
The motorbike – Benicio’s Harley Davidson – has loads more stuff in its packs: a tent and proper outdoor survival gear. The flight jacket packs are just a supplement if a pilot is forced to eject from the Muwan.
We could survive for a few weeks on what’s inside the Muwan.
It’s a hazy morning, with almost total cloud cover. In the valley below, a warm mist has settled. Patches of washed-out foliage poke through it; trees and cacti are scattered across the terrain. The cave is halfway up a mild slope in the Tacana mountain range.
Ixchel takes a pair of binoculars and surveys the area. “There’s a road to the east, a few kilometres. But I’m pretty sure that’s Guatemala. Mount Tacana is right on the Mexican border; just about everything to the east is Guatemala. I don’t know if we can risk being there without passports. Would make getting back into Mexico pretty difficult.”
“So we stay on the Mexican side.”
Hopefully I sound more confident than I feel. Ixchel is right; we’re fairly isolated. I really want to be able to tell someone our location but until the last second when I had the Muwan radar operating, those NRO craft were still hovering. They know roughly where we are, I’d bet, down to fifty kilometres. We need to put distance between us and the Muwan before they start a ground search. I dread to think how good their satellite images are. Chances are they’ll be tracking us pretty soon after we’re in the open.
“OK,” she says. “There has to be a trailhead somewhere; this is hiking country. We just need to head south to the nearest town, keep our eyes open. But Josh, it might be impossible to get a motorbike down the trail.”
I hand Ixchel the spare helmet. “It’s going to be OK. It can’t be too hard to find, so long as we keep heading for the nearest town.”
“You’re right,” she agrees. “Hikers only have one way to arrive there . . . so that’s where the trail must start.”
The next hour is tricky going. The terrain is dusty, lots of crumbly volcanic rock. We have to ride slowly, watching out for sudden dips or needle-sharp cacti. We lose count of how many times our elbows and knees catch the pointy end of some fierce-looking plant.
It’s slow going without being able to risk using our phones to find a map on the Internet. But eventually we locate the trail. Miraculously, at first there’s no sign that we’re being tracked. I guess the NRO have realized that even if they land a Muwan they won’t be able to catch us while we’re on the move. The Mark I Muwans don’t have much storage space, certainly not enough for a motorbike. Those pilots are stuck once they’ve landed.
Even so, I guess that they’re hatching a plan. We’re on the only machine moving for kilometres in every direction. How hard must it be to spot us from a satellite?
It takes us an hour to finally reach the meagre road at the nearest town, Chiquihuite. It’s a huge relief. Ixchel’s arms are loose around my waist but as we hit the tarmac, she squeezes. I turn on the satnav. Within a few seconds it’s calculated a route to the plantation entrance of Ek Naab. Just over one thousand kilometres, roughl
y thirteen hours of riding. As I’d hoped, the route takes us right through the central highlands of the state of Chiapas, and the town of San Cristobal de las Casas.
By nine in the morning the heat is already uncomfortable. We strip down to sleeveless T-shirts and shorts, and smear sunblock over our shoulders and arms.
I’m uncomfortably aware, every moment, of the fact that the NRO might still be tracking me. Plus, I don’t even have a motorcycle licence. But the reality is that once we hit Highway 200 a few kilometres out of the miniscule village of Chiquihuite, it would be hard to identify us from the sky. The motorbike is a fairly new model, bigger than you’d normally see being ridden by a guy my age. I make sure not to ride too fast. Ixchel reminds me not to take my helmet off anywhere where people can see us with the bike.
With water and food on board, we decide not to stop anywhere public, apart from refuelling. When we do, I don’t remove my helmet and Ixchel pays for the gasoline, so that no one sees my face. Altogether, the whole escape goes well. By the time we ride into San Cristobal I’m hopeful that we’ve outwitted the NRO.
When we roll up at the edge of town, my watch says it’s four-fifteen in the afternoon. Tourist buses are arriving, lining up at the coach parks on the outskirts. I keep riding, helmet visor lowered, until we reach the colourful zocalo – the central plaza.
The town is prettier than most I’ve seen, even by the standards of cute old colonial towns. Low red-tiled roofs, cobbled alleyways. Buildings painted in sugar-frosting colours, sunflower yellow with cinnamon red, peach and white, eggshell blue. Terracotta pots filled with flowers. Palm trees with white-painted trunks.
But unlike any place in Mexico that I’ve ever been – except Ek Naab – the town seems mainly to be populated with indigenous Mexicans wearing items of brightly coloured traditional dress. Women carrying babies in shawls wrapped tight around their chest. Crowds of people wearing traditional Mayan clothes, quite a bit like Ek Naab.
And tourists. Absolutely loads of pale-skinned faces, mostly young, studenty types. Seeing so many of them actually jars. Nine months since I’ve seen such a variety of non-Mexicans!
I stop for a moment, just leaning on the bike, to marvel at the sight. A proper big town, seething with the energy of people from all over the world. And unless things change, the lively bustle of this place and most others like it will be destroyed.
I don’t have the energy to face this right now. Exhaustion is beginning to hit me. I’ve been on the move for almost two days. Ixchel doesn’t say anything but she’s got to be tired too. I’m desperate for a proper meal and a rest.
We lock up the bike in a secure-looking motorbike parking area, then start to wander across the square, a park of brilliant green flowering shrubs. Footpaths cross the garden, shaded by heavy palm trees. The square is surrounded by a red and white colonnaded arcade on one side and the grand, vanilla-ice-cream city hall on another.
Shoe-shiners buffing the leather uppers of old guys who sit high up on their stalls, reading the newspaper. Kids buying fancy covers for their mobile phones; a stall laid out with a different kinds of sweets. I take out one of the hundred-peso notes I’ve stashed in my trouser pockets and buy a Snickers bar, and some round cakes of peanut marzipan – Ixchel’s absolute favourite. She gives a tiny scream of delight when I hand them over. For a moment I just watch her open the wrapper and bite into the soft, powdery sweet. It’s so good to see her smile, to have a small break from the feeling of vague, omnipresent fear.
“So this is where Bosch chose to spend his final days,” I say.
“Wonder how he adjusted to being plain old ‘Zsolt Bosch’ again,” Ixchel says, “after years of living amongst the ancient Mayan as Itzamna.”
“From what we saw of Bosch, I’m sure he missed being thought of as the living incarnation of one of the Mayan gods.”
“I’m not so sure,” she muses. “Being a living legend might be a bit of a chore.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “After all, you’re the Bakab Ix. And you know, once in a while, Josh, even you complain!”
Clutching the coins I got in the change for the sweets, I hunt for a payphone that doesn’t have a queue. This isn’t the kind of town where everyone has a mobile phone, I guess. But it’s the only way to get hold of Benicio without turning on our own mobile phones and risking being traced by the NRO.
I have to call directory enquiries to get the number of the hospital. My call is transferred from the main desk to the ward sister. Eventually, they put me through to Benicio.
“Josh, buddy! What’s going on?”
“How’s the leg?”
“They got the bullet out, pinned the bone, stitched me up. Another stupid scar, I guess.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. “At least it wasn’t worse.”
He sighs. “Yeah. I’m feeling pretty lousy now. I just called Montoyo, trying to get a lift home. But no answer. Do you know where he is?”
“Benicio . . . look, mate . . . I can’t really talk. Not properly.”
His tone alters immediately; tension enters his voice. “Josh . . . did something happen?”
“Ixchel and I found a name in that contact database. An astrophysicist called Kitrick. He was getting all weird with this other scientist, who’s made a massive discovery. She’s only gone and found the first signs of the galactic superwave!”
“The Sect won’t like that.”
“Too right – they don’t! We went out to Chile. To see Dr Banerjee, the scientist woman.”
I hear his gasp. “Chile. . .? Josh, don’t tell me you took a Muwan. . .?”
I lick my lips. “We might have. . . ”
There’s a disbelieving silence. “You’re finished, you know that? With the Sky Guardians – that’s over. Take a Muwan before you’re licensed and that is the end.”
“No – they don’t know it was me. We used your security access card.”
Benicio groans. “I get it . . . you want me to take the rap.”
“Buy us some time, OK? The NRO chased us down – I hid in Tacana. Have you seen my blog yet? I know you know the password.”
“No . . . I just woke up like thirty minutes ago.”
“Well – read it. Look, we’ll be home tomorrow. We’ve stopped on the way to get some rest. Just cover for me, mate.”
Exasperated, he says, “What do I tell the chief, Josh? I’m supposed to fly a shift today.”
“Even better – you’d have to get out of flying anyway, with your bad leg. Tell the chief you took the plane out early. Unless they check the CCTV footage they won’t know any different.”
“Sure, it’s OK for me to go down too, lying to cover your sorry butt.”
“One more day! Look, it’s worth it – we’ve got some intel about what the Sect might be up to next.”
“Josh . . . what aren’t you telling me? Why is it taking you so long to get home. . .?”
I pause. “Listen. The Muwan – we had to leave it. It’s in Tacana, in one of those caverns you showed me. Problem is, the NRO know it’s there.”
“Oh God, not a Mark II.” His voice sounds hollow. “Josh, tell me you didn’t leave a Mark II somewhere the NRO might find it. . . ”
“Benicio, I’m gonna sort this out. Really. There’s a plan. But I need you to cover for me.”
It’s too late. My coins run out just in time to hear Benicio’s wail of anxiety turn into a tirade of the spiciest Mexican curse words I’ve heard for a while.
Slightly shaken, I return to where Ixchel is admiring some oil paintings being displayed by the artist.
“What did Benicio say?”
“Oh. . .” I can’t meet her eye. “He’s pretty annoyed.”
“How is he?”
“Bit upset about us leaving the Muwan in the cave . . . kind of obvious, really, that he would be.” My voice trails off.
Ixchel continues to fix me with a steady gaze. “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him . . . that we’ve got a plan.”
“Which is. . . ?”
There’s no way I can stop myself looking helpless. “Well, I more sort of don’t have a plan.”
Ixchel is speechless, but she doesn’t actually look too surprised.
“Apart from yours, of course,” I add, hastily.
“My plan? Which one?”
“Getting Bosch’s time-travel bracelet and going to the future. Then we find out how to fix everything and come back as heroes.”
She bursts into laughter. “You think that’s my plan? I was joking, Josh. Talking hypothetically. There’s a reason Montoyo locked away your time-travel bracelet. That thing is dangerous!”
She tries to move away but I grab her hand. “What? If you didn’t want me to get another Bracelet, then why did you agree to search for Bosch?”
“Because we’re passing through the town anyway. It makes sense to see if he’s here. Realistically though - what are the chances? Josh, wouldn’t he have contacted you?”
“You think he’s dead?”
“If Bosch is dead and he actually kept his word, left you his own Bracelet, then why didn’t his lawyers contact you? Isn’t that what happens when someone dies?”
I release her hand. “You – you want me to go and find out that Bosch isn’t here, is that it? To realise that there’s no chance of getting the bracelet? Were you just messing with my mind?”
There’s a note of irritation in her voice. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was simply saying ‘what if?’ That’s what people do, isn’t it? I was thinking aloud.”
I step away, shaking my head. “No. I’m right, aren’t I?”
There’s a hint of panic in her eyes now. “Josh, please . . . you can’t seriously be thinking of time travelling again.”
I begin to walk away. It feels as though I’ve been slapped in the face with a cold towel. Ixchel follows me into the colonnades.
“We should find the central records office or whatever,” I mumble, vaguely. “Find out where Bosch lives. Or lived.” I’m simply going through the motions. Truth is, I haven’t a clue what to make of Ixchel’s sudden objection. Her idea was a good one, I thought. Risky, but then look at the stakes – it’s the end of the world we’re talking about!
