by M. G. Herron
Copyright © 2017 by M.G. Herron
MG Publishing LLC
Cover design: Beaulistic Book Services
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. This story may not be reproduced without express written consent.
ISBN-13: 978-1973911449
ISBN-10: 1973911442
First Edition: July 2017
A Guide to the Pronunciation of Names
Though ample evidence suggests there existed a wide variety of languages and dialects among the ancient people of Central America, this author based the language of the Kakuli people on Yucatec Maya, the most commonly spoken—and well documented—Mayan language today.
Characters names were mostly invented. Specific words, when borrowed, were taken from modern Yucatec Maya dictionaries and archaeological texts. Where English transliterations varied, spelling was chosen for consistency and simplicity. The lovely sound of the Mayan language is poorly expressed with English letters, so a rough pronunciation guide follows.
NAMES
Citlali
[kit-LA-li]
Dambu
[DAHM-boo]
Ixchel
[EESH-chel]
Kakul
[KAH-cool]
Maatiaak
[MAH-tee-ahk]
Rakulo
[Rah-KU-lo]
Tilak
[Tee-LAHK]
Uchben Na
[OOCH-ben Nah]
Watiya
[Wah-TEE-yuh]
Xucha
[SHOO-cha]
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: A Year-Long Peace
Chapter 2: First Flight Back
Chapter 3: Not Quite Right
Chapter 4: No Small Action
Chapter 5: Mayan Monolith
Chapter 6: Strange Sightings
Chapter 7: The Cave Dweller
Chapter 8: The Kakuli Carving
Chapter 9: Sunk Cost Fallacy
Chapter 10: By Sea
Chapter 11: Turtletown
Chapter 12: A Powerful Motivator
Chapter 13: Better to Know
Chapter 14: Clearly Incomplete
Chapter 15: Leeches Should Drink Him Dry
Chapter 16: Clever Thinking
Chapter 17: Without Foundation
Chapter 18: Rupture at the Airlock
Chapter 19: Time Itself
Chapter 20: Like Warning Signs
Chapter 21: Margin of Error
Chapter 22: Searching for the Mark
Chapter 23: Dreaming and Dreading
Chapter 24: Rendered Inoperable
Chapter 25: Soul Harvest
Chapter 26: Palaver
Chapter 27: One Problem at a Time
Chapter 28: Fiber of Being
Chapter 29: Gehro’s Wild Mushrooms
Chapter 30: Non
Chapter 31: What Kind of Traitor
Chapter 32: Star Shards
Chapter 33: Hit the Mark
Chapter 34: The Way of Things
Chapter 35: Such a Fragile Vessel
Chapter 36: Anonymous Tipster
Chapter 37: The Well and the Wall
Chapter 38: The Alien Element
Chapter 39: Power Hungry
Chapter 40: Behind the Black Curtain
Chapter 41: Two Dangers
Chapter 42: One Emergency at a Time
Chapter 43: Blast Radius
Chapter 44: Moving House
Chapter 45: Darkness Stares Back
Chapter 46: The Same Era
Chapter 47: For His People
Chapter 48: What She Was Looking For
Chapter 49: A Particular Kind of Justice
Chapter 50: The Half of It
Dear Reader
About the Author
Also by M.G. Herron
1
A Year-Long Peace
Rakulo trudged through the ancient forest with low spirits and limbs so tired and heavy it seemed a miracle that his feet continued to obey his commands. He walked on through the grey, sunless day, clenching his teeth each time the cold, biting wind sliced down through the trees to prickle his sweat-soaked skin.
He held his head high despite his exhaustion. Thirty young warriors trailed in a ragged line behind him, their clumsy footsteps occasionally catching on concealed tree roots or vines buried among the deep leaf-covered forest floor.
Even though Rakulo felt as tired as they did, he couldn’t let them see any signs of weakness. A good leader never showed weakness, no matter how used up he felt.
About an hour outside the village, Rakulo held an open hand up, signaling to the warriors following him that it was time to stop and rest. Most of the weary men and women sank wordlessly to the ground with their backs against the nearest tree, not even bothering to seek out the most comfortable spot. When you’re that exhausted, anything that supports your weight feels like the softest feather bed.
“We’ll be home soon,” Rakulo said. “You’ll have two days with your families before we set out again, so make good use of the time. And it goes without saying, but not a word, not even among family, about what we were doing at the Wall.”
They nodded, but none spoke, for no one had the energy. A few heads lolled back to rest against moss-covered trunks. One or two warriors took deep breaths and blew out their cheeks as they sighed.
Citlali stood from where she had been squatting and walked over to Rakulo. Of all his warriors, Citlali was among the fiercest. Where some of the younger men were still scrawny, lean cords of muscle stood out beneath Citlali’s tawny skin. Where others tired after half a day of hard walking, Citlali could run from one end of the Wall to the other in a single day, and have energy to spare. Even now, the only sign of her fatigue was the quick rise of her chest while she breathed, and her puffy eyelids, which betrayed a lack of sleep.
She leaned close to him and spoke in a low voice so the others wouldn’t overhear their conversation.
“Don’t you think you’re pushing them too hard?” Citlali asked. “We’ve been in the forest for a score of days now.”
“They need to be in fighting shape,” Rakulo said.
“They also need time to recover,” she said. “And time to spend with their children. You’re too hard on them. They need strengthening, not breaking.”
“No one knows what dangers wait for us beyond the Wall. They need to be ready—for anything.”
She bobbed her head from side to side considering this. Rakulo said nothing about the fruitless journey from which they were now returning. They had searched along the Wall for days and days, looking for a way around or through, and found nothing. She finally nodded, turned, and sauntered casually back to where she had been resting a moment ago, making sure not to let her agitation show in her movement or on her face.
Citlali might disagree with Rakulo’s methods, but even if she was opposed to him, she would be careful not show any sign of open dissent. Rakulo was their chief now and had been for twelve cycles of the two moons.
Rakulo turned his back on the group of weary warriors and gazed off into the distance, where he knew the stone city called Uchben Na—Ancient Mother—stood empty in the jungle. His ancestors had lived there once, but not for many generations. For as long as anyone could remember, and long before that, his people had lived in Kakul, the village on the edge of the sea.
Citlali was right, of course. He was too hard on them. But he had to be. There was no other option.
They hadn’t found a way through the Wall this time, but one day they would. He needed them all to be ready when that happened, when the day came to fight for their freedom. Rakulo directed them to prepare in other ways. Toget
her, they had learned to carve canoes from sturdy tree trunks. Together, they made flint-tipped arrows, and knives of obsidian, and spears with tips of obsidian and flint. All of it was training and preparation. All of it was to ready them for the future and whatever may lie ahead.
When his warriors had caught their breath, Rakulo motioned them to their feet and moved onward, setting a slightly slower pace this time. They skirted around Uchben Na, crossed the river, and soon were padding into the farmland around the village, past the rows of corn and beans, toward the thatched-roofed huts that made up the village.
Men and women came out of the field and village to greet them. As soon as word spread about their return, more people emerged from between the mud daub walls. Children cried out happily, weaving between their parents’ legs on bare feet.
Rakulo exchanged polite greetings, and smiled as his warriors were reunited with their families and led home by their husbands, wives, brothers, and mothers. The children ran circles around them, whooping and laughing. Rakulo breathed deeply of the tangy sea-smelling air, carried to him by another cool breeze. Despite his discontent at a year of searching and no results, it sure felt good to be home, especially now while the weather seemed to be giving them a reprieve.
A plump figure draped with seashell necklaces, her shoulders thick with tattoos that showed her seniority and elevated social status, turned a corner. Spotting Rakulo, Ixchel walked quickly toward him. He could tell by her posture that something was bothering his mother.
“Chief Rakulo,” Ixchel said, loud enough for those still lingering nearby to hear. “I’m glad to see you’ve returned home safely again, my son.”
Rakulo hugged her close to him and whispered, “Is everything okay, mother?”
“We must speak in private,” she replied softly.
He followed her back to the house they shared near the center of the village. It was one of the oldest homes, with a fired clay foundation, sturdy wooden walls, and a thick roof that kept the house dry during even the fiercest monsoons. As chief, Rakulo could have commandeered a new house for himself, but he wasn’t home that often and didn’t want to isolate his mother, who had lost her husband and her youngest son in quick succession last year. Although there was no door to close the hut—all the houses in the village were open to the air—once inside, they had some privacy and could speak more openly.
“Did something happen while I was gone?” Rakulo asked.
“Ekel, the fisherman, has gone missing,” Ixchel said without preamble.
“What?” Rakulo swore, his hands clenching into hard fists. “When? Who else knows?”
“Word has certainly spread by now, although no one is talking about it where they can be heard.”
So that explained the obvious relief on the faces of his warriors’ families when they came to greet their loved ones. It was no shock that no one was talking about it. Everyone knew what it meant when an old man or woman went missing.
“Could he have just gone off on his own for a while? Down the coast, or into the forest? Has anyone checked the caves?”
Ixchel gave him a condescending look. “Old Ekel, the homebody? The man who’s gone fishing in the same spot every day for the last ten years?” She shook her head firmly. “No.”
Strange, indeed, Rakulo thought.
It had been over a year since Xucha had shown his face—the God had been absent since the death of Chief Dambu, Rakulo’s father. Had Xucha taken Ekel in retribution for what he’d done? And if so, why had it taken so long?
In direct contravention to tradition, Rakulo’s first order when he became chief was to immediately cease the human sacrifices that Xucha had demanded, and which had been reinforced by Chief Dambu and the endless line of shamans and chiefs that came before him—often unwillingly. Chief Dambu had been punished for his resistance, and eventually offered as a sacrifice himself.
When Rakulo became chief, he decreed that Chief Dambu was to be the last sacrifice.
The next few cycles of the moons were tense as everyone braced for retaliation from their God. None came. Xucha stayed away, no one fell ill, and eventually people began to relax. Many new babies were born in the last year, and—this was unprecedented—one elderly woman even died a perfectly natural death in her sleep. Rakulo had her buried next to the grave of Ixchel’s youngest son, Rakulo’s little brother, Tilak, who had been struck ill by Xucha in punishment for Dambu’s disobedience.
Since Rakulo took over as chief and refused to continue the tradition of sacrifice, their village had experienced a year-long peace.
Until now. Until Ekel’s disappearance. He knew what people would think. The whole situation stank of Xucha’s influence. The black-clad God was known to be deceptive, to work in secret and under cover of night.
Or was there another explanation?
“Why Ekel?” Rakulo asked. “Why now?”
“He stopped fishing while you were gone because the journey to the beach had become too hard on his knees. At least, that’s what he told everyone.” She was silent for a moment, considering the source of the information. “Your father would have said he was the sensible choice.”
“There are other things Ekel can do! And father’s not with us anymore. I’m Chief now.”
“I know that.” His mother scowled at him, and for a moment he felt like a child again—and doubly guilty for reminding his mother that her husband was gone. “Why do you think I’m telling you these things? But there’s something else.”
Rakulo took a deep breath. “What is it?”
“I think Maatiaak had something to do with it.”
“Elder Maatiaak?”
“The two of them barely spoke to each other before a few days ago.”
Rakulo nodded. “They both wanted to marry Dea, Citlali’s mother, and have been rivals ever since. But why does that matter?”
“They were never kind to each other. But after you departed a few weeks ago, that changed. Maatiaak began spending a lot of time with Ekel. They suddenly acted like old friends. I thought it was odd, but paid it no mind at first. I was happy to see that they had finally found common ground after all these years.” She pursed her lips and paused.
Rakulo finished her thought for her. “And then Ekel disappeared,” he said. “All of a sudden.”
“Something’s wrong, Rakulo. I can feel it.”
A dread twisted his stomach. She was right. Something was very wrong.
“I better pay Citlali’s father a visit.”
2
First Flight Back
Eliana hurried across the University of Texas campus, sweat gathering at the collar of her blouse and under her arms. Today was to see her give her final guest lecture of the term, and she was late for her own class.
The leather messenger bag she purchased when she had been offered the guest lecturer position at her alma mater earlier that year swung at her side, rubbing against the bare skin of her legs below her shorts. After a single semester, it was still not broken in, and the edges were sharp.
The spring air was fresh and she couldn’t help but slow her steps and bend to admire the bright bluebonnets spilling out of every patch of grass edging the sidewalk. Seeing the bluebonnets bloom wild and free in the spring always made Eliana long to be outdoors, in the sun, and the sight of them today made her check in with herself.
Yes, she thought, I have been outdoors lately—quite a lot.
Eliana rose from sniffing the bed of wildflowers and continued her walk across the campus, this time forcing herself to walk more slowly. What did it matter if she was late? It was her last lecture.
After a grueling nine-month application and permission process, the research team she now led had just spent three weeks exploring the Calakmul Biosphere Reserve, a jungle in Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula that extended into Belize and Guatemala. Their goal, at least on paper, was to map uncharted Mayan ruins, of which there were a great many in the dense 13 million acre forest.
She considered, for
a moment, the path that led her here. After she returned from Kakul a year ago, Eliana had begun to digest her harrowing experience. She wrote down everything she’d seen and learned, from the moment she was zapped across the galaxy by a glitch in Amon’s Translocator, to the last time she saw the two moons in the night sky of that other world.
Even if she had possessed pen and paper while she was in Kakul, she didn’t know if she would have had the presence of mind to keep notes. The first weeks had been so incredibly disorienting. She had been so intent on avoiding becoming a sacrifice to their ancient god, and then learning the language and working for her food, that nothing else had mattered. And then she had been brutally attacked. Who has time to keep a journal when your very survival is at stake?
Once Amon brought her home, she wrote down what she did remember. It went slowly at first, but once she had the facts down—how people lived there, what they ate, all the words she knew (spelled out phonetically), the people’s religious customs—she finally began to ask the other questions that had been nagging at her mind.
How had the Kakuli people gotten to that planet in the first place? And when? The archaeologist in her demanded an explanation. Eliana consulted with Renee Shaw, her mentor and former advisor at University. Renee was a linguist who specialized in ancient Mesoamerican cultures, and she confirmed that the language Eliana learned was, indeed, a dialect of Yucatec Mayan. Given all the words she didn’t recognize, she suspected that it would make sense that it was an unknown dialect or one that had diverged some time ago and had developed in isolation.
Later, much later, Eliana would admit to herself that she thought about going back to Kakul at that moment, and rejected the idea outright. Not only did she have absolutely zero desire to be translocated anywhere again, but Amon’s work was under more scrutiny now than ever. The US government had insisted, to Amon’s annoyance, on increasing security. She couldn’t use a billion-dollar molecular reassembly device under high security for her research without a lot of hassle.
Eliana turned, instead, to the other place she was likely to get answers. Though she still felt scarred from the experience, her recent exposure in the press was a boon. Eliana Fisk wasn’t just an archaeologist anymore—she was the woman who survived the world’s first and only Translocator accident.
