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 stroll around the plaza as the market is winding down. I watch a guy scoop out the last of his ice cream into little cups and hand it out for free before the ice block it rests on melts away. I take a cup; creamed corn flavour (not bad!).

  “This could be anywhere in Mexico,” I tell Benicio, with heavy irony.

  “Except everything’s clean, there are no kids working here, no one’s hustling you for money, everyone has a nice apartment to go home to, the water’s not contaminated. . .” he replies with a laugh.

  “Montoyo said part of the city was above-ground.”

  Benicio nods. “The land above-ground, it’s all ours. For many miles around. Bought hundreds of years ago by a Spanish lord who joined us. He gave the land to the Executive. They ordered it to be farmed, so we grow bananas, mangoes, vanilla, coffee, cacao beans. Plus, naturally, all the food we need for ourselves also.”

  “It’s incredible, amazing. Like paradise.”

  Benicio licks his ice-cream spoon, pondering. “Pretty much,” he decides.

  I ask, “And you have phones in this paradise? Do you have the Internet?”

  He looks astonished. “Of course.”

  BLOG ENTRY: OUR LADY OF THE HIBISCUS

  Whoa . . . sorry about that. This computer was set up to type in the Ek Naab version of Mayan hieroglyphs. It’s a sort of strippeddown, high-tech version of Classic Mayan. They use it to encode all their technical stuff . . . in case something falls into The Wrong Hands.

  That should read:

  Here’s a story I heard today from my cousin Benicio. I looked out of the window of an apartment in the city of Ek Naab. And what did I see but a bizarre, Spanish-style church?

  I guess in Mexico, they really are everywhere.

  “It’s for the first miracle of Ek Naab,” Benicio told me. “The miracle of the hibiscus.”

  Seems that Pedro Vallejo, the Jesuit priest who converted the Mayans of this city, chose to name his church Our Lady of the Hibiscus.

  “In those days the Mayans of Ek Naab guarded the shrine really fiercely. By then it was widely known that the Spanish – they couldn’t be trusted. Bishop Diego de Landa had tortured Mayan scribes in order to gain the secrets of Mayan books, which he collected and then burned. At Ek Naab they guarded the three most valuable and ancient books – the Books of Itzamna. The fourth, of course, was missing. Lost in 653 AD.”

  Well, I already know that – I’ve read the Calakmul letter. Funny to think that for the Mayans of Ek Naab, their missing codex is a fourth codex. But in the outside world, where they only know of four surviving Mayan codices, the one all the archaeologists whisper about is the “fifth”.

  “Even the fact that the books existed had to be guarded on pain of death. Any stranger who discovered us was forced to remain in Ek Naab. Any European stranger unlucky enough to stumble across Ek Naab was put to death. And not in a good way.”

  “Vallejo, wandering eagerly throughout Mexico in 1595, all holy and everything; he was one of those. The night before his execution, (a sacrifice of course. No way they’d waste a ready victim!), Vallejo prayed to the Virgin Mary. In the morning, everyone was astonished to discover that the entire city was filled with a rare and fragrant flower – the hibiscus. It bloomed in every nook and hollow.”

  Now, there’s little enough light in the cavern of Ek Naab, I’ve seen that for myself. And that’s with the high-tech mesh-thing they use for the ceiling. Centuries ago, it was all gloom and rock. There was the light from flaming torches, but you can’t grow most plants in that. Let alone the hibiscus. . .

  “But since that day, the hibiscus has grown here, even in the dark. Quite simply, a miracle. The Ancient Maya were a people who lived mainly by what they could grow. They really appreciated the power of Vallejo’s god. For them this was an incomparable command of nature. Way beyond any demonstration of Itzamna’s. And so, his life was spared. Vallejo preached and they followed, built a church, and everything.”

  I looked at the hibiscus flowers of Ek Naab a bit differently after I heard that.

  But I mean, it’s just a story. Right?

  After I’ve had a stab at updating my blog on a laptop in a little Internet café, Benicio and I make our way around the market stalls as they’re being cleared. The market is set up in the central plaza of Ek Naab, but it’s still tiny compared to most Mexican zocalos. It’s no bigger than a tennis court. The cramped feeling gets to me after a while. Ek Naab may be glitzy, clean and modern but it still feels pretty warren-like. It’s claustrophobic. When I mention this to Benicio, he just gives a knowing grin.

  “Hey, why do you think I became a pilot?” is all he says. “The Muwan are a great way to get out of the city.”

  I blanch. “You’re a what?”

  “I’m a pilot. And I’m studying aeronautical engineering.”

  “You must be older than you look.”

  Benicio shrugs. “I’m seventeen. We start our careers early here. I began flying a Muwan when I was fifteen.”

  “You’re never a pilot. . . Flying one of those Muwan? You’re having a laugh.”

  His manner changes a little, becomes mischievous. “You think so, hey?”

  I can’t help but notice people staring at me curiously. I mention this to Benicio.

  “Visitors are rare,” he comments, “very rare.”

  “Why don’t they ask?”

  “Is not our way. But they have an idea. Everybody knows that we have no Bakab Ix. They can only hope that you are this Bakab.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that . . . why don’t you just send one of the other Bakabs after the Ix Codex?”

  “They would die. They can only handle their own codex.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  He seems bemused. “You think I’m kidding?”

  “No, but . . . it’s superstition, right?”

  Benicio is wide-eyed. “No, it’s real, absolutely!”

  “And everyone here believes that the world’s going to end on the twenty-second of December, 2012?”

  “Everyone here,” he agrees.

  “How come no one else in the world knows?”

  Benicio erupts with indignant laughter. “‘No one else in the world knows’?! Josh, really, did you ever talk to anyone in Mexico? You ever talk to what’s left of the Mayan people? No; I bet you walk right past them. They clean your pool, they sell you Chiclets, they wipe the floor of your hotel. But you don’t talk to them, right? You don’t ask them about their world, their culture?”

  “They don’t always speak Spanish,” I say, defensive. I don’t like his implication – that I’m just another rich son-of-a-conquistador who doesn’t understand about Mexico’s ancient customs and knowledge. In the rest of Mexico, people judge you by how European or Mexican-Indian you look. With a mostly-Spanish father and an English mother, obviously I look fairly European. Benicio’s attitude suggests that those prejudices exist here too.

  From everything Benicio’s told me, I have plenty of Mayan heritage – enough to be one of their Bakabs. So why is he giving me a hard time?

  His smile has gone now, replaced by a mixture of sadness and defiance. “If you had ever asked, if anyone ever asked them. Not everything about our Mayan culture is forgotten. But it is ignored.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” I say. “Look at you guys. You’re not proper Mayan. You’ve got a church, right? Those Spanish priests who came here – they converted you to Christianity. You don’t worship Itzamna.”

  “We never worshipped Itzamna. He was our first leader.”

  “Carlos Montoyo told me that they used to sacrifice people in the cenote.”

  “Yes, that was the old use of Ek Naab. By other Mayans. We didn’t always live here.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “There’s no name. Other Mayans have called us things like the ‘Sect of Bakabs’.”

  I’m surprised that Benicio doesn’t make more of my accusation that they aren’t “proper Mayans”.

&n
bsp; Other Mayans have called us things like the “Sect of Bakabs”.

  Sounds to me like the people of Ek Naab have always been outsiders.

  We pass under a shadow, a lengthy section of the rock ceiling with no vents to the outside. The air cools sharply. I think of Ollie and Tyler, and wonder how they’re doing. They have to be out of the interrogation by now. And Mum. What will she be thinking when she hears I’ve gone missing? Camila’s body might have been identified by now. Will they imagine that I’m dead too? It’s definitely time to check in with them, let them know I’m alive.

  “I really need to make those phone calls,” I tell Benicio.

  “OK,” he says. “Let’s go this way. To the surface.”

  I follow him into a shiny, tile-faced tower that reaches all the way to the ceiling, about ten storeys up. We ride an elevator to the roof. We emerge under a huge thatch-roofed palapa.

  The illusion of a subterranean technological wonderland vanishes. It’s like being dragged back into the everyday, tourist version of Mexico. There’s a spacious tropical restaurant that appears to be at ground level but is actually on the roof of the building we entered seconds ago. The tables are filled with people sitting eating breakfast, drinking coffee, having meetings, working on their laptop computers.

  I can’t suppress a low chuckle. “This is just awesome! This is what you’ve got on the surface?”

  Benicio grins. “You like?”

  “You bet I do.”

  Through tall windows I see a garden of banana palms, lime and orange trees and what appears to be a vast landscaped swimming pool. It could be almost any Mexican resort hotel. And here too, heads turn; appraising glances sweep over me as lightly as silk.

  I follow Benicio out of the restaurant, into the sunny gardens beyond. The dark horrors of the road to Becan are fading in my memory. I’m working hard to hold on to the idea that this place is in some way the legacy of the ancient Mayan civilization. Above the surface, though, there’s no indication of that. Not the tiniest hint.

  Under my breath I mumble, “But seriously, mate. How come no one knows about this place? People must fly over it and wonder. Don’t they notice the mesh?”

  “Plain view, buddy; plain view. We look just like any other eco-resort, just like any other plantation. As for the mesh, it just looks like any agricultural thing to protect seedlings. It’s all legally owned. Just another of Mexico’s big family businesses. Taxes are paid; protection money is paid, you know what I’m saying. We keep a low profile. We’re invisible.”

  We arrive at the edge of another cenote. A stone staircase leads down to the water. This one looks cool, refreshing and, by comparison with the “dark water” cenote underground, positively friendly. A slightly overcast sky gives the deep water a milky sheen. The cenote is open for a hundred feet or so, then goes under an overhang dripping with stalactites. The water extends far into the distance.

  “Care for a swim?” Benicio says. “You’ve got time.”

  “My phone call. . .?”

  He nods. “Right.” Then he takes an ordinary-looking mobile phone from his pocket, presses a button on the side and hands it to me.

  “Directory enquiries. . .?”

  Benicio takes the phone back and dials. We get the number for Hotel Delfin. I call, ask for Tyler and Ollie. The news isn’t good, but I’m prepared for the worst. They’re still at the police station. That’s the second day they’ve been questioned. The receptionist gives me the number.

  I hand the phone to Benicio. “They can’t know it’s me. Say you’re a relative of mine trying to find out where I’ve gone. Ask to speak to Tyler or Ollie. Try to sound worried!”

  With a hint of a smile, Benicio takes the phone. He puts on a really serious, formal voice, like a kid trying to impress his elders. He does as I suggested, then puts his hand over the phone.

  “They’re getting one of your friends. This woman says they weren’t arrested, nothing like that. They’re only helping. . .”

  “. . .the police with their enquiries. . .?” I say with a sigh. “I’ll bet.”

  I take the phone. Tyler’s voice, sounding a bit shaky, says, “Hello? Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Josh. But don’t let them know you’re talking to me! Don’t act surprised or anything! Make out I’m a friend asking after Josh.”

  There’s a tricky silence. I guess Tyler’s trying to think of something to say that doesn’t give it away.

  “So what do you want to know about Josh?” he asks.

  “I’m OK. I can’t tell you where I am exactly, but I’m safe.”

  Carefully, he answers, “Uh huh.”

  “What’s your situation, Ty? Can you talk a bit?”

  “We don’t know where Josh is, mate. Last we saw of him was yesterday, just before we was met by these guys from the NRO. They’ve been looking for Josh’s dad and some other people too, from what I can work out. Asked us a lot of questions about what Josh was doing here in Mexico, the Ix Codex. . .”

  “What did you tell them? Did you tell them about the Calakmul letter?”

  Another long pause. “Yeah. Yeah, we had to.”

  I can tell he’s afraid to say any more. “Did you tell them what it said?”

  “We didn’t remember, not exactly.”

  “Ollie?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Did she give anything away?”

  “No, she’s actually pretty chilled, considering.”

  “One of those NRO guys chased me and Camila, Ty. He shot at us.”

  I sense him tense on the other side of the line. “You’re OK, though, yeah? Is she all right?”

  “No . . . no. She’s not. She’s . . . gone.”

  “Mate . . . I’m sorry.”

  I can’t speak for a second.

  “We’ve got to get out of this place, mate,” Tyler says in a whisper. “They keep on and on with the same questions. I’m not sure I stand any more of it without . . . you know . . . slipping. They know Josh went to Becan. They know why. They’re not going to stop looking for Josh.”

  “I’m going to call my mum,” I tell him. “Get her to help. She’s got contacts in the British Embassy in Mexico City. Maybe they can get you out of there. You’ve done nothing wrong . . . they shouldn’t be able to keep you locked up.”

  Tyler sighs heavily. “I know. Try telling them that, though.”

  There’s a sharp voice in the background, sounds like someone’s telling Tyler off. When he speaks again it’s all rushed, in a strong Oxford accent, as if he doesn’t want anyone to understand him. “Yeah, man, I’m . . . bloomin’ give ’em what for, innit? You take care of yourself, all right, do what you can then, eh, yeah?”

  And the line goes dead.

  Benicio’s eyeing me with interest. “Any help?”

  “Not really . . . my friends are in trouble. Like I thought.” I start dialling again, this time my home phone. I check my watch. It’s late in England, but not alarmingly so. Miraculously, I hear my own phone at home ringing. Somehow it feels like calling a different planet. The connectedness of the world can be baffling; so near and yet so impossibly far.

  Mum answers. She’s happy to hear from me and doesn’t seem alarmed. This is good because when we left, I wasn’t sure that she’d properly cottoned on that I was actually going to Mexico.

  “Have you heard from Tyler or Ollie’s parents?” I ask.

  “No. . .” Mum sounds anxious. “Why would I?”

  “No reason . . . I just wondered, you know, what they’ve been saying. Of course they tell me we’re having a good time but, you know.”

  “So everything’s OK?”

  I hesitate just a little too long, hear a catch in her voice as she says, “Josh. What’s happened?”

  “We’ve been called in for some questioning, Mum. By some US agency called the NRO. It’s something like the CIA, I suppose.”

  The line crackles with breathless horror. “What. . .?”

  “I’m OK .
. . I promise. I’m not with them. I ran away. But there are two things you have to know. Listen, Mum. . .”

  Her voice is tense but controlled as she says, “I’m listening.”

  “The woman in Chetumal is not Dad’s girlfriend, Mum. She’s his daughter.”

  “What. . .?”

  “His daughter,” I repeat, “from way back before he met you. It’s true, Mum, swear to God.”

  “Oh, Josh . . . what a relief.”

  I hesitate for a few seconds. Mum doesn’t need to know about Camila’s death . . . not right now, anyway, so I skip that part. It’s not something I’m ready to talk about.

  “And there’s something else. I’ve discovered what Dad found soon before he died. I’m going to find out why he was killed. And somehow, we’ll find a way to make them pay, Mum. That’s a promise.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m safe.”

  A steely note enters her voice. “Where?”

  “I don’t exactly know, Mum. But I’m safe.”

  “That’s it,” she says, and I hear the panic rising. “I’m calling the police.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Call them, yeah. And call the British Embassy – please, Mum. Get them to free Tyler and Ollie. They don’t know anything and they’re getting really freaked out by all this.”

  “Oh my God. . .” She chokes back a sob. “Come back to me, Josh. Now. Please.”

  “Mum . . . as soon as I can.”

  We exchange reluctant goodbyes; I hand the phone back to Benicio.

  “Can they trace the call?”

  “Of course not. The signal’s bounced from a transmitter in Chiapas. We have our own satellite.”

  “A satellite. . .?”

  He chuckles softly. “You have any idea what we’re up against, Josh? The kind of people who want our technology?”

  “Yeah, yeah, the NRO,” I say.

  “I’ve had those guys chasing me when I fly the Muwan,” Benicio says casually. “Believe me, it’s no picnic.”