by M. G. Harris
A small sphere of terrifying brightness rises from the central altar. I can’t look directly at it. It floats about one metre above the altar and then begins to rotate, picking up speed with every rotation, until minute pulses of energy seem to be torn from its surface, rippling out like tiny solar flares. As the sphere spins ever faster, these flares of energy grew longer, until they’re in danger of reaching me.
Instinctively, I drop to my knees, watching as above me, eventually, the tongues of light reach the sarcophagi. The caskets fill with a hazy, gaseous substance, a suspension of particles. The doors begin to slide open. Flares of energy continue to flow from the central sphere, which contracts, slows and finally disappeared into a tiny point of light, just above the Adaptor.
The air immediately around me crackles with static and a smell like hot, thick sheets of cotton flapping, dry as old bones. I taste salt on my lips. Awestruck, I touch a finger to my cheek, feeling a tear. The ancient rite of revival from which a great civilisation is reborn!
I’m dizzy, unable to speak. Shadows penetrate deep into the open sarcophagi. I’m afraid to use the torch to confirm what I already suspect. With a trembling hand, I lift the torch and point it directly ahead.
All twenty-one sarcophagi are empty.
Someone must have already woken them up! Did the Sect revive them, then slaughter the survivors? A million hopes seem to be dying inside me. Millennia of planning, all that energy expended to save civilization. All vanished to nothing.
The impossible waste.
Even the NRO can’t help us now. The 2012 plan needed three Erinsi survivors to activate the moon machine. The NRO only has one.
Diego and Ixchel are as dazed as I am. A crushing discovery. We feel the weight of it all the way back to the surface.
When we climb out, Benicio is nowhere to be seen.
I’m still trying to orient myself when in the distance I spot the gleaming metal of the Muwans. Two birds, silver against the red rock and indigo sky.
Two.
I shade my eyes to look more closely. People are clustered around the aircraft. One of the Muwans is a Mark II. The second is a Mark I.
My throat constricts as I realize what this means.
The NRO are here.
At first I walk; then I break into a run. When I reach Benicio and the visitors I’m way ahead of Diego and Ixchel. Ixchel catches up next. Instinctively, I grip her hand. Whatever is going on now, I want Ixchel close.
The second craft has delivered a man in who looks about thirtyish, close-cropped black hair with a high, suntanned forehead, his eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. He wears a khaki green flight jumpsuit covered with US Air Force insignia, his rank marked by two silver bars on his shoulder. The top buttons are open and I can just see a flash of red and blue on his chest – a tattoo of the American flag. He stares at me impassively. He has a sidearm prominently tucked into a shoulder holster, another smaller pistol at his waist.
With the Air Force guy is a very elderly woman with long silver hair that’s pulled away from her round face in a simple ponytail; dark, narrow brown eyes; and skin that’s pale, paper-thin. She wears a flowing blue cotton blouse and loose red trousers, sandaled feet poking from underneath.
There seems to be a twinkle in her eye as she gazes at me. Or maybe it’s a trick of the light.
I face them, sweltering in the unearthly heat. Diego lines up beside Benicio. Eyes gravitate anxiously towards the new arrival’s guns. There’s no time, no option for any of the Ek Naab team to produce a weapon. We’re at this guy’s mercy.
“And so. This is the boy,” says the woman, peering at me. Her voice is surprisingly youthful. I’d half-expected a witch-like cackle from someone so old. She speaks with a very strong foreign accent, not quite like anything I’ve heard before.
The pilot folds his arms across his broad chest. “Yup. This is Josh Garcia.”
Ixchel’s fingers tighten around mine. I address the pilot. “Do I know you?”
He sticks out his right hand. “No, son, you don’t. I’m Captain Connor Bennett.”
The name sounds somehow familiar, but I can’t place it at all. My gaze goes to his shoulder, the military insignia. “Are you part of the National Reconnaissance Office, too?”
“That’s right, son.”
“You’re one of the blokes who captured my father?”
He hesitates. “No. By the time I was put on this programme, your father had gone.”
He doesn’t say “disappeared into thin air”.
I stall, biding my time, wondering if this guy knows about the Bracelet of Itzamna, that my father used it to escape from an underground prison. I glance back at the aged woman. Everyone in the gathered group is staring at her, except the captain, who can’t seem to tear his eyes away from me. We’re staring at her as it dawns on us all just who she must be.
With a dry mouth I whisper, “Are you. . .?”
She begins to smile. “Am I. . .?”
“One of the Erinsi? Are you Ninbanda?”
Her smile broadens. She has white teeth, amazingly well preserved. “I am the last of the Erinsi.”
Beside me, I sense Ixchel flinch. “Wow,” I breathe, staring. “Just . . . wow.”
“Why,” I manage to say, “are you here?”
“We had to find a way to meet you. We knew you’d come here eventually. You’d have to, right? To see it for yourself – the empty chamber. ‘Happy are those who believe without seeing’,” chuckles the captain. “But that’s OK. I’d want proof too.”
Now I’m exasperated. “What are you talking about?”
“The Erinsi,” the captain states, emphatically. “They’re all gone. Gone. Ninbanda is the last. So listen to her.”
“If the Erinsi are gone, then it’s over, isn’t it? Because we need three.”
Ninbanda smiles gently. “We do. But I believe that you, child, may have what it takes.”
“Me?”
“You activated the Revival Chamber, isn’t this true?”
“I guess. . .”
“Then you can help. My role will be to instruct.”
I blink. “But . . . three?”
“There is another. Captain Connor Bennett.”
The officer smiles and nods.
“Him?”
“Our genes are widespread now, Josh. It was planned thus. Survivors, revived every few thousand years by their own descendants, were sent into the world to reproduce. One hundred and five individuals extending the continuity of our civilization over countless millennia. Casting wide our genes. Waiting for the return of the superwave.”
Captain Connor Bennett grins broadly. “You and me, kid, we’re descendants. We’re gonna save the world.”
“The Sect,” I say, stumbling over my words. “Are they . . . descendants? Do they have the gene too?”
“The way I understand it,” the captain says, “their entire existence is based on it.”
“The ones you know as the Sect of Huracan are descendants of the Erinsi,” says Ninbanda, pronouncing the words carefully. “But they don’t wish to share our dream of life, the development of humanity, of continuity. They dream instead of cataclysm, of death. And the rebirth of an elite. Yet they saw to disrupt our plans. That is our tragedy, Josh; our own children sought our destruction.”
A better tomorrow for the best.
I bite my lip, force myself to remain silent about what I’ve seen of the future, resist the impulse to touch a finger to the Bracelet of Itzamna under my sleeve. Ixchel feels the same tension, I know.
Neither the captain nor the Erinsi survivor has mentioned the time-travel device. Maybe they don’t know?
“Will you help us, Josh?” says the old woman, with a kind, hopeful smile. “I’ve waited so long. But without your help, there can be no solution.”
“So what do you say, buddy? Are you going to share the final secret? You Ek Naab guys have always had the most important piece of the solution.”
> “What important piece?”
The captain guffaws. “The location, of course. The location of the moon machine.”
Ninbanda murmurs, “As was written in our Temple of Inscriptions.”
Ixchel is silent, but I feel her entire body tense up. I stare back at the old woman. “If it was written on those walls in the Temple of Inscriptions, then it must be in one of the Books of Itzamna.”
There’s a faint but unmistakable panic beginning inside me. The NRO guy and this Erinsi woman are so sure that the location is somewhere in those inscriptions. But people in Ek Naab have been trying to find that information for years.
What if somehow, that part of the inscription wasn’t copied?
What if the location of the moon machine is lost for ever?
Captain Connor Bennett is suddenly still, rigid and alert, disturbed by something. Then I hear it too. An aeroplane. But not high and distant, like the commercial aeroplanes that leave their trails across the blue.
This one is low, approaching fast.
The captain shoots a steely glance at Benicio, then me. His voice is harsh and abrupt. “Did you send someone else?”
“That is not a Muwan,” Benicio says, quietly. We all follow his gaze. Now we see it, a small aeroplane, a propeller-driven jet. It descends even lower. Heading directly for us.
The captain throws a protective arm around the old woman. She’s bewildered. For a second I sense how fragile she is. Frail, aged and vulnerable. And with her, all of civilization.
Captain Bennett asks sharply, “Is there any way that the Sect could know you’re here?”
I stare, dumbstruck for a second. “We . . . we accessed their website when we were in Ek Naab.”
Ixchel adds grimly, “They were trying to do an IP trace. But that couldn’t lead them here . . . could it?”
The aeroplane is less than five hundred metres away, dropping by the second. The captain explodes with fury. “That website is a trap! The Sect use it to track people who know their secrets. If you were on that site then it’s gonna be pretty obvious to the Sect that you’d come here next.” He reaches for his sidearm and yells at Benicio, “Get your people in the birds. Get out, asap. Stay in radio contact. We’re going to have to rendezvous somewhere else.”
I grip Ixchel’s hand even harder. We head for the parked Muwan.
The sky erupts with explosions.
Bullets rain down from above, spattering the cracked red earth, throwing up clouds of hot dust. Someone in the aeroplane has a machine gun trained on the ground – firing directly at us. Random death, ready to rip us apart at any second.
I don’t let go of Ixchel’s hand, but we sprint faster, heads down. The terror is unreal. I lose my sense of where any part of me is; all I know is the speed and the zing of the bullets. I hear Ixchel breathing hard beside me, no energy wasted on words. Fifty metres to cover under a cloudburst of deadly gunfire.
At the edge of my vision, the very edge, I catch glimpses of the others racing forward, Diego slightly ahead. Benicio is slower, limping, dragging his wounded leg. The captain and the Erinsi woman lag even further behind, I guess – I don’t see them.
A riot of gunfire. From close behind me there’s a dull crack, a moan, a cry of anguish. The aeroplane swoops over us with a high-pitched metallic drone. I’m suddenly rooted to the spot, hearing the sobbing from behind me. The old woman crying, “No . . . Connor. Please, no.”
Benicio passes me with thunder in his eyes, pressing ahead to the Muwan. Ixchel and I glance at each other in despair. The aeroplane is turning around. Any second now it’ll be back for another pass.
Captain Connor Bennett lies on the ground, one hand outstretched, clenched into a fist. His foot shakes for a second; his lower body trembles. But he doesn’t make a sound.
In a hollow voice Ixchel says, “They’ll kill us all.”
Diego appears beside us. He grabs my arm just above the Bracelet of Itzamna, pushes me angrily. “Get into the Muwan. Take the woman. Get to Ek Naab, no matter what. That’s an order, pilot!” Dazed, I stare at Diego for a second, then see Benicio climbing into the Muwan. Ixchel tugs at the old woman. “Please,” she says. “Hurry.”
Diego insists, “I’ll look after the captain. Protect the Erinsi woman. Go, Josh!”
Tears are streaming down Ninbanda’s face, her eyes creased with sorrow. In the sky, the aeroplane approaches. I hold her hand tightly.
“Not Connor,” she mumbles. “No . . . I couldn’t bear to lose him, too. . .”
“Ninbanda, we have to run!”
We stumble the final few metres to the Muwan. I climb in first, hauling Ninbanda in after me. Benicio lowers the cockpit cover as the aeroplane passes above, throwing down a screaming hail of bullets. Pockmarks pepper the windows, but the glass holds. Ixchel is trapped below, sheltering under the body of the craft. We hear the aeroplane turn again. As I scrabble for the co-pilot headgear, I spot Diego dragging the wounded captain out from under their Muwan.
Brave guys. Captain Bennett must still be alive.
Benicio opens the cockpit and I pull Ixchel into the Muwan just as bullets spatter against the body of the craft. Ixchel tenses abruptly, her face screwed up with pain. When she’s inside I notice that Ixchel’s blood is smeared all over the edge of the window.
“Ixchel!”
From the passenger seats she says shakily, “I think . . . think I’m OK.”
“You’re bleeding!”
Ixchel looks up, trembling.
Ninbanda takes a closer look at her ankle. “That’s a very unpleasant graze. The bullet must have caught you on a ricochet. It stings, I’m certain of it.”
“Good to know you’re alive,” Benicio tells me, curtly. It sounds as though he’s a bit angry with me for getting him – and Ixchel – into another scrape. I watch his eyes when he looks at Ixchel. He’s pretty shaken, as much as I am. “I’m going to get us out of here. Strap yourselves in.”
The Muwan begins to lift. Ixchel’s injury seems to have focused Ninbanda, who asks me for a first aid kit. Panting slightly, Ixchel shows her where there’s one in the back. Benicio takes the Muwan up very suddenly, so swiftly that we’re pressed tightly into our seats. Within seconds we’re out of danger. But the other Muwan is still on the ground.
“We can’t just leave them. . .” I begin.
Benicio cuts me off. “You know, maybe the Sky Guardians is not the career for you. You seem to have a problem with orders.”
Red earth opens up beneath us, extending in every direction. The Muwan is a silver spot on the ground. Benicio changes course and we soar into the heavens. Straight for the deepest blue.
Over the radio, Benicio exchanges some urgent words in Yucatec.
“The ruling Executive want you back right away, Josh. And the Erinsi woman.”
I fumble for an earphone and plug it into my ear. “Let me talk to them. . .”
Benicio flips a switch and I hear the chief.
“Josh, is it true – do you have one of the Erinsi with you?”
“She’s the last of them! The chamber was empty!”
An air of finality enters his voice. “We’re finished.”
“No – the Erinsi says that she can tell two others what to do. But they need to have the Erinsi gene.”
“What?”
“The gene that the Sect call ‘jelf’. It allows only Erinsi to interact with their technology. Protects them from the bio-defence, or allows them to activate things. Like me with the. . .” I stumble, stop just in time to avoid saying “the Bracelet of Itzamna”. “Like me with the Adaptor. I can touch it, Simon Madison can touch it. Other people die.”
“That’s what it’s all about? Using Erinsi technology?”
I can hardly get the words out fast enough. “The Sect of Huracan select people who have the Erinsi genes. That’s why they think they should rule. That’s why they want ‘a better tomorrow for the best’!”
“How does this Erinsi gene make them ‘best’
?”
I think for a moment, putting the pieces of information together. “It must be because of hip33. The mind-control drug gives them powers over ordinary people – everyone else! That must be left-over Erinsi technology, too. And the Sect worked it all out. They found the drug, learned how to use it. The reverse-engineered the Erinsi technology. Just like Bosch did, with the time-jump device.”
The chief goes silent for a moment. I guess he’s conferring with the rest of the ruling Executive. Then Montoyo comes on to the line. “Josh – are you saying that you can substitute for one of the three Erinsi?”
“Yes.”
“That still leaves us short of one.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. . .” I breathe. “The NRO captain who brought the Erinsi, he has the Erinsi gene too. They wanted to use him, me and the Erinsi lady. But the NRO guy has been shot. I’m not sure he’s going to make it. So. . .”
“Yes. . .?”
“I reckon we use Tyler,” I say triumphantly.
“Tyler?”
“The Tyler I brought back with me,” I say, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. I really can’t let the Erinsi woman find out that I’ve been travelling in time. She’d probably try to take the Bracelet away from me – after all, it is Erinsi technology, and not something that the Erinsi had planned to release into the world. “You know . . . that Tyler? In his timeline Tyler was chosen by the Sect. Which means he must have the Erinsi gene too.”
Ixchel and Benicio are staring at me now, mystified. I put a finger to my lips, praying that they’ll get the hint not to mention the Bracelet of Itzamna.
“Tyler?” repeats the chief. “No. The boy is in no condition to withstand a trip to the moon.”
“What? Even if he agrees?”
But the chief seems to ignore my question. “Has the Erinsi woman told you how you’re getting there?”
My heart sinks. The location of the moon machine is the Erinsi’s final riddle – and it looks like no one has the answer.
I look back at the Erinsi woman. She’s helping Ixchel to bandage her wounded foot.
