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

  We enter a small apartment, minimally furnished, like a room in the IKEA catalogue. Montoyo leads me to a bedroom. There’s a hammock, a reading light suspended from the ceiling and a thick mat of woven sisal on the floor. An indigo-coloured curtain is drawn across a small window. It doesn’t quite blot out the dimmed daylight that floods the city. The sun must be up outside, high above the jungle.

  From behind a cupboard door, Montoyo removes a fleece blanket.

  I hold it for a minute, just looking at the label.

  “This comes from Sears,” I say, noticing the mark of the department store.

  Montoyo nods. “Most things we use come from outside the city.”

  “And nobody knows about you?”

  “They don’t know about Ek Naab. Part of the city is above-ground. Doesn’t look like the rest of Ek Naab, that’s for sure. And it’s all private land.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Tomorrow, my boy.”

  I can’t stop myself yawning. “OK. But . . . can I ask one more thing? When you said you had unfinished business with my dad. What did you mean?”

  Montoyo’s eyes take on a flinty look. “He took something of ours – or rather, something that once belonged to Itzamna.”

  Hearing this jolts me awake. “Itzamna really existed?”

  “Of course.”

  “Not just a myth?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “And the Bakabs?”

  “His four sons. And their sons.”

  “The guys who hold up the four corners of the sky, you mean those Bakabs? Bakabs are real?”

  Montoyo gives me a stern look. “You’re as bad as your father, you know that?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “A lifetime of education told your father that everything he studied about the Mayan religion was mythology and superstition. Even with the evidence before him, he could hardly believe it.”

  “Maybe that’s why he took this thing of Itzamna’s. To test it.”

  Montoyo laughs. “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “The Bracelet of Itzamna is not exactly the sort of archaeological artefact your dad is used to handling.”

  “The Bracelet of Itzamna?”

  “That’s what he took.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “A good question.”

  “And . . . what is the Bracelet of Itzamna?”

  Montoyo smiles thinly. “Ah! Now that really is the question.”

  For a second, I’m hopeful. Then I notice Montoyo’s lips pressed tightly together.

  “Oh. . .” I say, rolling my eyes. “I get it. You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  This time Montoyo gives a wry grin. He pats my shoulder. “Get some sleep, Josh.”

  I climb into the hammock, wrap the blanket around me and snuggle up, trying to find a comfortable position. My mind buzzes with everything I’ve seen and heard. I hear Montoyo moving around in the living room. Piano music plays faintly in the background – it sounds like Bach.

  This is all too bizarre. I still haven’t quite recovered from finding myself sliding into a pyramid. I’d been expecting a cubbyhole, something I could stick my hand into and find a hidden manuscript in.

  The city of Ek Naab is about a billion light years from anything I’d ever imagined.

  It takes me a while to fall asleep. I think about Ollie and Tyler, feel a dig of guilt when I think about the trouble I’ve led them into. It’s only the memory of how mad-keen Ollie was to come on the trip that makes me feel anything but a total idiot.

  Camila is another story. I haven’t dared to really think about her yet. Every time I get close to the memory, I can’t help crying, like when I was with Ixchel. Now, alone in this darkened room, I forget where I am. I could be anywhere in the world. When I close my eyes, all I see is an image of Camila in the car, blood trailing through the water from her head. I force it away, try to think of anything else.

  I imagine meeting my father again. Telling him about Ek Naab. Having a nice little chat about it. And that, finally, puts me to sleep.

  When I wake up, a narrow line of light around the curtain tells me that it’s still daytime. The music playing next door has changed – now I hear something that sounds like grungy rock music.

  I slide out of the hammock. Underneath, someone has laid clothes in a neat pile. There are shorts and a blue shirt, and some canvas slip-on shoes. I change quickly.

  In the living room, sitting on a wood-framed sofa is a guy I don’t recognize. He looks around seventeen, eighteen. When he sees me, he smiles broadly, leaps to his feet.

  “Hey, Josh! It’s great to finally meet you!”

  Another person who speaks terrific English. He shakes my hand vigorously, pats me on the back. Meanwhile I struggle to take in yet another new face.

  “Where’s Carlos Montoyo?” I ask.

  “He had something to take care of.”

  “But . . . he said he’d be here.”

  The guy gives a huge, so-what shrug.

  “I’m Benicio,” he explains. “I’m your cousin!”

  “Um . . . that’s pretty random.”

  “‘Random’?”

  “Wild. Out there. It’s unexpected.”

  My “cousin” gives a puzzled smile, then gets back to shaking my hand. He’s slim and lean, only a little taller than I am. He has longish, floppy hair with a ragged fringe that looks a little greasy. His face is covered in a couple of days’ worth of stubble. He wears blue jeans, a plain, crumpled white T-shirt and green tennis shoes.

  “I read your blog, man,” he says with a grin. “You and that TopShop girl. Cool! Until you hid it. What a shame!”

  “You read my blog,” I repeat. “How come?”

  “Montoyo, you know, Montoyo’s been watching out for you ever since your daddy disappeared.”

  I think about that in silence. I study Benicio’s features for a second: sallow skin, almond-shaped brown eyes. I’m definitely seeing another mixed Mexican/Hispanic – mestizo – face. It’s a fair bet that Benicio’s ancestors are part Hispanic too, but his eyes and mouth show signs of a Mayan heritage.

  I’m beginning to wonder if anyone in this lost Mayan city is actually a hundred per cent Mayan. Looks to me as though the Spanish well got their feet under the table in Ek Naab.

  Benicio notices me checking him out. He folds his arms, saying, “So, Josh, you notice any family resemblance?”

  “I dunno,” I tell him. “What relation are we, exactly?”

  “Your father, Andres, he was my father’s first cousin.”

  “So our grandparents were brothers?”

  “Brother and sister. She’s alive, you know. Your great-aunt – my grandmother.”

  “That’s amazing. How many more relatives have I got here?”

  “A few.”

  “The girl who found me, Ixchel. Is she one?”

  Benicio looks momentarily shocked, then laughs. Emphatically, he says, “No way.”

  “Benicio,” I say, “I really need to call my mother and my friends. Is there a way to do that?”

  “Yeah. They’ll be pretty worried, I guess. Listen, I can’t call to an outside network from the underground part of the city – only to another Ek Naab phone. But later we’ll be on the surface. Then you can call, OK?”

  “How long?” I ask. I don’t want to keep them waiting any longer than I have to.

  Benicio checks his watch. “Like one, two hours.”

  I sit, anxious. I don’t really want to insist, but that feels like too long.

  “Come on, it’s OK,” he says, trying to cheer me up. “We can get to know each other! I’ve been waiting to meet you!”

  “How long have you known about me?”

  “Just a few months. When your father made contact with Carlos Montoyo. No one knew that your grandfather, Aureliano, had a baby in the outside world. Imagine! Was a big surprise for everyone here.”

  “How come?”

 
; “Aureliano,” says Benicio, “he was spending most of his time outside the city. Searching for the Ix Codex. Your grandpa, I think he was kind of a crazy guy. You know? Living to his own rules. We have our rules here, and when he was here, he lived by them. But outside . . . outside he was playing another game.”

  “Another game? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, here, he has his wife. By arranged marriage, of course. But no son. Maybe he’s not so happy, so outside, he hooks up with this other woman. . .”

  “Wait, wait,” I say. “Slow down. Arranged marriage?”

  Benicio’s eyes widen. “You don’t know about this?”

  “Look, I just got here, OK? This isn’t easy to take in, you know!”

  Benicio pats my back. “Hey, man, cool it! That’s why your cousin Benicio is here, OK? To answer all your questions. Sorry – I thought Montoyo told you all about the Bakabs.”

  There it was again. That term – the Bakab. It was mentioned in the Calakmul letter, written way back in 653 AD. I dreamt about someone saying, Summon the Bakab Ix.

  What on earth are the Bakabs?

  “Arranged marriage is normal for the Bakabs,” Benicio explains. “Has always been this way. All the Bakabs must have a marriage arranged by the atanzahab, the matchmaker.”

  “So you still have Bakabs in Ek Naab?”

  “Yes. Your grandfather was a Bakab. You didn’t know this? He, your father, and you. All Bakabs.”

  “Until yesterday, I thought Bakabs were Mayan gods.”

  Benicio nods gently. “Not ‘gods’. But descended from Itzamna, yes. Is why the bloodline must be protected. And so, marriages must be arranged. To guarantee it.”

  Piece by piece, things fall into place. I lean back on the sofa, overcome.

  I’m a Bakab. Descended from Itzamna. Not a “god” – but a real person.

  Benicio stands up. “I’m gonna make some breakfast. You look like you need it.”

  He disappears through an archway into a kitchen, from which, after some minutes, delicious smells waft in my direction. I can’t resist and I join him at the stove. Benicio gives me a friendly smile as he scrambles eggs, heats refried beans and tomatoes, and griddles maize tortillas. He indicates a fridge, says, “You want some juice? There’s papaya and pineapple too.”

  We take our food out on plates and sit on the sofa as we eat. I’m so famished that I stop talking, even though I’m thinking of questions as I wolf down the breakfast.

  When the initial pangs of hunger wear off, I ask, “So, Benicio . . . are you a Bakab?”

  “No. Our great-grandfather was a Bakab, but only his son’s sons can be Bakabs. It’s through the male line.”

  “Like priests?”

  “Not like priests,” Benicio says. “We have a woman priest. Maybe I’m not explaining this very well. The Bakab thing – it’s inherited. On the Y chromosome. You know what is the Y chromosome?

  “Course I do,” I say, a bit annoyed. “I’ve done biology. So what’s passed along on the Y chromosome? Is it, like, some special ability?”

  “Yes – a special ability. The power to resist the curse of the codex.”

  I can’t help it; I laugh. “You’re kidding me.”

  But Benicio’s face is entirely serious. “Look, the Bakabs, they are the guardians of the four codices – known as the Books of Itzamna. Everything we know about technology, it comes from these four codices. Ancient knowledge, which has been copied down every fifty years by the Bakabs, since we received them from Itzamna.”

  “And the Book of Ix – is one of these?”

  “That’s right. The Bakabs are Muluc, Cauac, Kan and Ix. Your family carries the blood of the Bakab Ix. The Bakabs in your family, they protected the Ix Codex.”

  “‘Summon the Bakab Ix’,” I say wonderingly.

  “What?”

  “It’s something I once dreamt.”

  “Well, the Bakab Ix, that’s you now. You’re the only one.”

  “Why do you need a Bakab?”

  “To find the Ix Codex,” he says. “Is why you come here, no? Only a Bakab can do it. The Books of Itzamna are protected by an ancient curse. Anyone but a Bakab – if they touch one codex – they will die.”

  They want me to find the codex. Well, fine, me too. But I need that codex for myself. Without it, how will I to persuade the police and NRO to leave Camila’s husband and my friends in peace?

  Benicio seems so normal that it kind of freaks me out. I watch as he disappears into the kitchen to return with two cups of tea and a packet of biscuits. He seems like any Mexican college kid. When I mention this, he says, “Sure, I have to work in the outside, see? So I learn to speak like the Mexican kids, even spend some time living among them. Is possible to live like this, Josh. But it’s only on the outside. On the inside, believe me –” and he taps his chest close to his heart – “right here, I understand my priorities.”

  And he looks at me closely. “Just like you should understand yours.”

  Well, I’m beginning to. Everything is beginning to make a strange kind of sense. From the minute I started out on this quest for the Ix Codex, I’ve felt the bond between my father and me grow stronger. Just as he discovered the mysterious bond between himself and his own, secret father. I’m becoming conscious of the link between all the men in my family, those who’ve gone before me. The idea that this all ends with me, that I have to finish what they all began, sends cold shivers down my spine.

  Yet I’m not afraid.

  “You know what you’re here to do?” Benicio asks quietly.

  And somehow, I do know. It’s as though the thought has been buried inside me forever, and I’ve finally uncovered it.

  “You want me to find the Ix Codex.”

  Benicio nods. “First, you need to be officially installed as the Bakab Ix.”

  “Thought you said it was an inherited thing.”

  “Yes, of course, you already are the Bakab, but you know, rituals and ceremonies and all those things. Your Prince William, he isn’t just the king one day, is he? They still have to make the coronation.”

  “It’s different. And he’s only second in line to the throne. He’s can’t be the king just because he’s a Wales.”

  “Well, you, you’re the first in line to be the Bakab Ix. So you need to be installed with the ceremony.”

  “Or else, what? There’s another potential Bakab Ix wandering around?”

  Benicio’s features cloud. And he doesn’t answer.

  “The Executive will install you,” he says.

  “Who are the ‘Executive’?”

  Benicio says, “Is, like, the government. The four Bakabs; our mayor, Chief Sky Mountain; and the atanzahab – the matchmaker.”

  “The matchmaker? Why?”

  “Is kind of an honorary title,” he says with a grin. “She’s more like our chief scientist. These marriage matches aren’t made with potions and incantations and things like that, not any more. She uses state-of-the-art genetic matching.”

  “But you’re missing the Bakab Ix?”

  “Exactly. That’s where Carlos Montoyo comes in. When your grandfather left, we chose a proxy – someone to stand in for the Bakab Ix. Montoyo is the third one we’ve had. Then your dad came back and . . . well, we had our hopes, but, you know. . .”

  He flashes a rueful grin, I return one.

  “So anyway, we’re back with Carlos as the proxy. He works undercover in a university. He files patents in the world outside, based on technologies from the Books of Itzamna. That’s how come the city is so rich. Worth billions of dollars a year. All secret; bank accounts in Switzerland, Monaco, the Caymans. And with all the money, Chief Sky Mountain runs building, engineering and genetics projects. Makes Ek Naab what you see today.”

  I can see out of the window and it’s hard to believe I’m not in a swanky neighbourhood of Mexico City. Albeit a very cramped one. Most buildings are separated only by narrow alleyways and the occasional small patio. It’s like a modern
version of a medieval town. With a Mayan twist.

  “So all this, right under the nose of the Mexican government?”

  “Pretty much. Cool, huh?”

  “It’s am-a-zing. It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen or heard of. And then some. You Ek Naab Mayans, you really stuck it to the Mexican authorities, hey?”

  Benicio’s reply is unexpected, and a bit odd. “Of course you’d think like that, it’s to be expected. For you, all success means progress. And progress is success.”

  I’m not sure what he means. Sure, progress is good. So what?

  “Fiddling while Rome burns.”

  That’s his answer. I’m none the wiser.

  “That’s how we were in Ek Naab,” Benicio explains. “Learning from the Books of Itzamna. Progress for the sake of it. We didn’t have the Ix Codex, so we didn’t worry about what we didn’t know. We avoided it. Because we had some idea that it answered a pretty tough question. The toughest of all – the one that could really kill us.”

  And finally I get what he means. The Book of Ix is about the “end of days”.

  “What is going to happen on the twenty-second of December, 2012,” I breathe.

  “You got it, buddy. And it’s getting awful close. Whatever the Ix Codex is going to teach us, we don’t have too much time to learn. So you need to begin your mission, and fast.”

  “Mission?”

  “Yeah.” Benicio gets to his feet and snatches away the packet of biscuits I’ve been picking at. “So, time to go. Just a little time before the ceremony. Lots to see.”

  With that, he leads me out of the apartment and into the alleys and plazas of Ek Naab, now bustling with people, a hive of activity.

  Everything seems clean, everybody looks busy. Benicio takes me walking. He explains a bit about how Ek Naab works. Food, clothes, bread and tortillas are all sold at the daily market. Clothes are pretty simple for most people. Few dress in “Western” clothes; instead they wear white or cream-coloured loose trousers and brightly coloured stripey or plain woven tunic shirts drawn in with a simple belt. Women wear the same, or white cotton dresses embroidered with large flowers and bird designs.

  “What we don’t grow or make ourselves, we buy from the cities,” Benicio says.