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

  “You think he’s fixed it so it doesn’t cause amnesia, or so that the crystal doesn’t burn out and trap you in the past?”

  “Yes,” I say brightly. “Maybe!”

  Ixchel puts down her knife and fork and dabs her mouth with a napkin. She places both hands on her knees. “Well, Josh . . . aren’t you going to open the letter from Bosch?”

  I sit up, take the letter from the envelope and spread it on my bed. Three pages of handwritten instructions for using the Bracelet of Itzamna. There’s a brief memo on top of the three pages.

  Josh Garcia, as I live and breathe! Except that obviously I don’t breathe any longer, not if you’re reading this. No worries – it hasn’t happened yet.

  Kid, I’ve no idea what would bring you to town, looking for the Bracelet of Itzamna. Maybe you make a mistake and want to put it right? Or maybe you want to do the one thing I’ve never dared to do – to venture into your future!

  I don’t know how far into the future you could go. I’ve thought about the physics of this and . . . well, bottom line is, I’m not a physicist. In theory the Bracelet goes both ways – into the past, into the future. In theory! I haven’t tested it enough.

  All I know, tjommie, is that you and I will meet again. Can’t tell you when and where, but we do.

  So – I figure maybe you’re going to need the Bracelet. Hey, it’s not as if I know anyone else that can use it. Not now that Marius Madman is dead!

  Good luck, Josh Garcia. Hope you’re still with that girl, Ixchel. You make a cute couple.

  Yours in anticipation, Zsolt Bosch

  San Cristobal de Las Casas, December 22nd, 1990

  Reading Bosch’s letter, a tingle enters my body through my fingertips and sweeps through me within seconds. Something happens to Ixchel too because I feel her grip tightening on my arm.

  Bosch’s meaning couldn’t be clearer. All doubt leaves my mind.

  I’m going to use the Bracelet to time travel again.

  Silently, I wrap my arms around Ixchel and embrace her tightly. She’s clinging on to me, trembling all the way through.

  Remember to breathe.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I whisper against her ear.

  Ixchel hugs me even harder. “I hate that you have to do this stuff. Was it too much to hope to fall in love with a normal boy?”

  “I know, I’m sorry. What can I do to help?”

  “Not go. . . ?” she mumbles, hopefully.

  “What else can I do to help?”

  Ixchel’s sigh is muffled against my jacket. Then quietly she says, “Sing me something. Like you did on the beach that time.”

  “I don’t have my guitar. . .”

  “Please. Just . . . anything.”

  I try to sing part of “Last Night On Earth” by Green Day. But it’s no good. There’s a knot of air moving through my chest. I just can’t get through the song.

  We hold on to each other for the longest time, as though we’re being buffeted in a storm. I think about the millions of couples who are hugging each other, right this very minute, or holding their child, how all of that happiness will be smashed to pieces when the superwave hits the Earth. The stupidity of the entire world’s power play and how idiotic it is that even in a situation like this, you have to ask yourself who can be trusted. The insanity of the Sect, who want to see billions of lives ended just so that they can have their own version of heaven on Earth. Compared to all of that, the warmth that flows between Ixchel and me seems like a trickle, even though the sensation is strong enough to make me dizzy. Compared to all of that, Bosch’s letter stands out as a shining beacon, the only way forward.

  The 2012 plan has reached a stalemate. It’s time for us to break it.

  We make our way through the streets of San Cristobal. The sound of my blood pulses in my ears. The air is still cool at this altitude. It’s eight in the morning and the town centre is already getting busy with people ambling to work. We pass a corner where a street vendor sells hot tamales wrapped in banana leaves, which he takes out of a large aluminium steamer that sits on top of a brazier. The air smells of steamed maize and chillies.

  The Bracelet of Itzamna on my arm is primed – Ixchel and I used Bosch’s instructions to work out how to set it. Six symbols need to line up. We want to travel to the same geographical destination, so that was easy – one touch sets the symbols to auto-locate to the current position. Next, the destination date. That was easy too, for Ixchel; she reads Erinsi script fluently now.

  And that’s it. The Bracelet will calculate the rest: how to compensate for the movement of the Earth through space.

  “One year may not be enough,” Ixchel pointed out, when I suggested 2013. “If things do go wrong . . . it might take a while for the world to get organized again.”

  So in the end we settled on June 2014.

  We spent all night planning (arguing, more like) and decided that we need all the help we’ve got on this mission. That means finding a way to still have access to the motorbike and the Muwan, two years from now. We’re going to ride out to an isolated spot, hide the motorbike, then jaunt into the future. And hope that the Muwan is still in the cave in Juny 2014.

  “Then we use the Muwan to check out Ek Naab,” I say. “That’s the simplest thing. Ask them what happened in December 2012.”

  Plan B is to pay a surprise visit to the Sect of Huracan. The Bracelet can manage short teleport jumps within the same time so long as you can get a visual lock on where you want to go. Bosch’s instructions mention that he’s tested this but finds it the most dangerous version of Bracelet travel. His comments actually remind me of what Blanco Vigores told me about the first time Blanco used the Bracelet – he nearly ended up inside a rock.

  We decide to try other ways of getting inside any Sect building before risking a Bracelet jump.

  We have a printout of the Web page that Dr Banerjee showed us, with the location where this Futurology Institute is being built in Oxford. I’m still guessing that it’s the Sect of Huracan’s new headquarters.

  “If you’re wrong. . .?”

  “Then we try Chaldexx in Switzerland. Even if that isn’t where the Sect is mainly based, that’s where Melissa DiCanio hangs out. So she’ll have key intel on her computer.”

  “Which we’re going to take?”

  “I’ve still got the memory stick that Benicio gave me, the one I used to copy the Sect’s contact database. We’ll copy their emails, all their documents. All we need is ten minutes with one of their computers. Whatever we do, we’ll arrive in the middle of the night: fewer people around to see the Muwan landing, or to notice us snooping around.”

  I’m pretty excited at the thought of my first solo flight across the Atlantic. In contrast, Ixchel looks pale and seems subdued. She didn’t eat any breakfast, hardly slept either. We were up pretty late, learning how to operate the Bracelet settings; time and place. But she’s still worried that we’ve made a mistake.

  I guess we can’t know for certain, until we use it.

  We continue on the way to the small parking section at one corner of the zocalo where we left the motorbike. As we’re drawing closer, a voice calls, in English, “Hey, you there!”

  I stop and turn my head. All I see is a row of newspapers spread in front of three guys having their shoes shined. I glance around to see who else the voice could have been talking to. The voice sounded casual and friendly, spoken in English but with a Mexican accent. All the same, I’m too paranoid now to let even a tiny sign of danger pass by. Immediately I’m tense, watchful.

  “Did you see who said that?” I whisper to Ixchel.

  She grips my hand tightly, the other hand clutching our motorbike bag.

  For the next few seconds we just watch the streets, searching. A mother walking hand-in-hand with a little girl, each carrying a straw shopping bag laden with fruit. Two women setting out their bright, stripy woven wares on a grey blanket. The ice-cream man wiping down the creamy white surface of his mobile coole
r. The shoeshine boys and the squat, shirt-sleeved man who seems to be running them. Backpackers arranged over one of the green-painted metal park benches, reading tourist guides and smoking. Another obvious foreigner dressed in green and yellow Lycra cycling gear, wraparound sunglasses and a cycling helmet – he stops near the motorbikes to tie a lace on his running shoes. A party of female tourists, quite a few nuns among them, begins to cross the centre of the plaza.

  Nothing suspicious. Yet no one has owned up to the “Hey you.” I’m tempted to check the faces of the guys behind the newspapers. But I decide to press on. The sooner we’re out of here the better.

  Something is wrong. Definitely. But I have no idea what. The motorbike is parked less than twenty metres away. I put the phone back in my pocket. We break into a jog.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the cyclist standing up, taking off at a jog. His path is about to cross ours. Ixchel, looking in the same direction, utters a sharp cry that seems to get lodged in her throat.

  At the very last second the cyclist swerves and throws his shoulder round hard, bumps into me less than three metres from the bike. I’m braced enough not to fall hard, but I land awkwardly. Ixchel’s swung away from me; out of the corner of my eye I spot her on the pavement. Then I hear her voice, a warning.

  I’m standing up when the cyclist’s fist flies through the air. It connects hard with my right cheekbone. The pain explodes inside my eye socket, and I reel for a second. With a burst of adrenaline, my capoeira training kicks in. I drop low, feint right, then roll in the opposite direction, dodging the next blow. Low to the ground, I switch legs with a troca and swipe at his legs with a corta capim.

  He falls backwards. Not a capoeira fighter, at least. But Sect – most definitely he’s with the Sect.

  I don’t stay to fight, but leap over him and towards the motorbike. Ixchel’s already there, taken up pillion position, urging me onwards. I reach into my jacket pocket for the bike key. Before I can unlock the bike, the cyclist is coming at us again, trying to shove Ixchel off the bike.

  She struggles with him for a moment, then tries to punch him in the face, but he grabs her fist. I wallop my elbow into his ribs, and follow up with a backwards punch. While he’s temporarily distracted, Ixchel sinks her teeth into his shoulder. He yells, lashes out with a fist and catches Ixchel on the ear. I twist around and give him a heavy shove. As he staggers backwards I stare into his face – wraparound sunglasses under a white cyclist’s helmet. He smells of sweat and hair gel. But even from the little I see, this close up, I know him.

  Simon Madison.

  Madison staggers for just long enough to give me time to turn the key in the lock. Ixchel takes the heavy chain lock from the handlebars; she swings it into Madison’s advance. That buys us another second. I twist the throttle. The bike jerks into movement, pulls away with Madison’s fingers clutching empty air.

  Our fight has alerted the cops now; two patrolmen in beige and khaki uniforms have dashed over to Madison. One motorbike cop enters the zocalo. The witnesses must have told them that Madison started the fight, because the cops are piling towards him. But the motorbike cop yells out to me: “You! Stop!”

  I turn, briefly, twist the throttle and speed around the corner. The motorbike cop responds by zipping across the pedestrianized section in the middle of the square and cutting off our escape route.

  For a second we face each other, about three metres apart. The cop dares me to challenge him, eyes peeping out from beneath the peak of a silver-and-blue badged helmet.

  There are shouts from the other side of the square. Madison is on his feet and one of the two patrolmen is on the ground. The second is holding a gun on Madison, yelling at him to get on to the ground.

  A background hum of whirring blades from a helicopter suddenly explodes into a riot of noise. I glance up – it looks like the black helicopter that we spotted last night. For a second I freeze.

  The black helicopter swoops into view, low above the square. There’s the sound of two shots being fired, followed by a woman’s scream. Then a hysterical stampede away from the centre of the square, to the colonnades.

  The helicopter’s appearance is a jolt to Ixchel, too. She can’t tear her eyes away from it.

  “Simon Madison followed us to San Cristobal, Josh! How?!”

  Madison arrived in the helicopter. He’s here, with others from the Sect of Huracan. I stare at the helicopter just in time to see a rifle being pulled back inside the cockpit.

  A sniper. No wonder Madison wasn’t carrying a gun. He has all the air cover he could need.

  Both patrolmen are on the ground. The motorbike cop opposite me seems to take a moment to process what has happened. Two of his fellow officers have been shot from the air. The woman who saw the shootings up close can’t seem to stop screaming. No wonder. I’ve seen someone killed by a bullet at close quarters – it’s a chilling sight.

  In confusion, the motorbike cop looks across the square from Madison to me. Madison’s mouth is tightly closed, jaw clenched. He’s walking towards our motorbike; then he breaks into a run.

  I rev up my bike. “Get out of here,” I say to the cop. “Hurry!”

  He throws a nervous glance at Madison. I turn the wheel, feel the motorbike drag. In another second I’m on my way out of the square. I hear Madison yell at the cop, hear two more shots fired from the looming helicopter, hear the loud rev of the cop’s motorbike.

  And I don’t even look around, don’t need to. I can already sense it; Madison is chasing us. With a helicopter in tow.

  We’re navigating the streets of the old colonial town as fast as I dare take the bike. The head start we gained won’t last long – that police motorbike looked pretty hefty, more powerful than my Honda. On his stolen vehicle, Simon Madison is gaining fast.

  Falling into the hands of the Sect – especially with the Bracelet of Itzamna – is simply not an option.

  Our only way out is the Bracelet. Is it safe to use it while moving? Bosch’s instructions said you should be stationary, but he didn’t say how dangerous it might be to risk a time-jump while you’re actually moving pretty fast.

  But how are we going to buy enough distance and time to be able to use it?

  There’s wild electricity to riding at this speed without a helmet. Death might be seconds away and yet it’s unimaginable.

  Madison sticks behind us, only fifty metres away and closing. If we stop, he’ll be on top of us in a second. I begin to take bigger risks, the kind that Benicio might take. Squeezing between a yellow school bus and delivery truck, speeding up to sixty to get through a traffic light before it turns red. I feel the icy touch of sweat rolling down my back.

  Madison is just as reckless – he runs two red lights and catches up with me. The helicopter trails along less than thirty metres above the road, somewhere between Madison and me. Ixchel grips my waist so tightly that it’s difficult to breathe. I sense her fear but also her trust as she leans against my back.

  The town thins out. There’s less traffic. I use the space to speed up to seventy. We’re rocketing down the main exit road. Madison is still in relentless pursuit. In the distance, police sirens.

  Things pass in a blur. Every decision has deadly potential. We swerve past coaches bringing in another load of day trippers. The road begins to climb, the green hills and forests of the countryside lie ahead.

  The moment we hit the country road, I speed up yet again. I’ve never ridden the bike this fast, not even when I raced against Benicio. It’s exhilarating, yet terrifying. The covering of trees thickens at the edges of the road. Soon we’re riding through a pine forest. I glance over my shoulder.

  Madison is no more than ten metres behind.

  He accelerates again. He’s almost alongside. I slam on the brakes and watch Madison sail past. I swerve off the road, into the woods. Our tyres skid on the damp forest floor of pine needles. We double back and head in the opposite direction, zigzagging deeper into the woods. Madison’s mot
orbike roars as it enters the woods, seconds behind. He leaps over a heap of logs and crashes down ahead of us. We barely stop in time. The Harley slides and topples. Ixchel is thrown free of the bike, to my left, but I’m trapped under the bike.

  Madison is already off his bike and diving through the air. He throws himself at Ixchel, lands right on top of her and rolls her over, until they’re both facing upwards, Madison with one arm in a tight lock around Ixchel’s neck. With his other arm he’s pinned both her arms to her sides.

  “Wanna hear me break her neck?”

  Cautiously, I slide out from under the bike, bruised and grazed but nothing worse.

  “Don’t come any closer or I swear, I’ll kill her!”

  Less than two metres from Madison, I hold out my empty palms to him.

  “Let her go. I’m not armed. I can’t hurt you.”

  Madison is panting fiercely, his eyes fixed on mine. Ixchel gulps down each breath, fighting for air.

  “What do you want?”

  Madison barks out, “Where is Marius?”

  How ironic; Madison asking me about his missing father.

  “I don’t know. . .” I reply, carefully. Technically, I don’t know where Marius Martineau’s body is buried, so it’s not exactly a lie.

  He sounds furious. “You know something, you and your moronic friends in that place. . .”

  Ixchel’s eyes are glazing over. Maybe Madison is out of control. He’s definitely hurting her.

  “Let go of her, Simon; this is between you and me.”

  He manages to snort out a laugh. “I’m holding on until the others get here with the helicopter. I know you wouldn’t abandon your new girlfriend. She’s easier to hold on to than you would be. A lot nicer too,” he adds, with a disgusting grin. My eyes flash to Ixchel’s and I hold her gaze for a second, trying to find some way to reassure her. But my own fear must be visible, because I can’t stop myself from trembling.

  The clatter of helicopter blades comes closer, until it’s almost directly above our heads. I gaze at Madison, squirming amongst the pine needles, struggling to keep Ixchel in position.