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

  He picks up without a single ring.

  “Where the hell are you?!” he screams, furious.

  “In a lake . . . Catemaco,” I tell him. “On an island.”

  I sense his relief, too. Benicio’s voice becomes calmer, serious. “East or west of the town?”

  “Er . . . east, I think.”

  “Are there howler monkeys?”

  “I think I heard some, yeah.”

  He pauses as if to catch his breath. “Are there ruins?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Definitely.”

  “OK. Good. Thank God! You’re on Isla Agaltepec. Don’t move. I’m coming for you.”

  “I’m not moving.”

  “Good.”

  “Benicio . . . I’m up a tree.”

  “Is probably a good idea. There is crocodilos in that lake.”

  “And . . . Simon Madison is looking for me.”

  Benicio swears softly under his breath.

  “And . . . Benicio . . . I’ve got the codex.”

  Benicio’s Muwan drops vertically, coming to a halt several metres above my head. From the outline I see immediately that it’s a Mark II – much larger than the Mark I. It’s like a gigantic bat’s shadow, blocking the rain, and creating a faint glow of cloud particles that reflect the Muwan’s lights. I wait for a few seconds, wondering what kind of high-tech tool Benicio will use to get me inside the craft without landing. A sisal-weave bag like the one Ixchel had been carrying lands on my upturned face, attached to a climbing rope. Above, I hear Benicio say, “Put the codex in the bag!”

  Once he’s taken the codex safely on board, he lowers the rope for me. A rope ladder would have been even better, but at least this one has a series of thick knots on which I’m able to stand. The Muwan hovers unsteadily, swings lightly with my weight.

  I clamber over the cockpit, startled to catch sight of Benicio’s face behind what looks like a gas mask. We stare at each other through the windscreen for a second. He beams a big smile, gives me a thumbs-up. When I climb into the passenger seat, he turns around.

  “Nice going, cousin!”

  “What’s with the mask?”

  “With that thing around,” he says, indicating the bag containing the codex, “only you are safe within a metre of it.”

  “So it’s . . . a gas?”

  “Sure,” he says, his voice distinctly cheery even when muffled. “What did you think? Magic?” And he bursts out laughing. “Josh, dude. This is incredible news!”

  The window through which I climbed begins to retract. I strap myself into the seat. The humming noise alters; a subtle harmonic shift. The Muwan lifts. I clutch my seat, almost gag at the next – sudden and violent – lurch; a crazy right-hand spin. The Muwan banks left, flips by 180 degrees within less than a second. Just as being in a Cessna feels more like you’re actually flying than when you ride a commercial jet, this sensation has an essence to it that’s totally new. Maybe you get that in those really advanced fighter jets – I wouldn’t know. At this moment, however, I’m certain I’ve experienced something beyond what I’ve imagined is possible inside a machine. The Muwan Mark II feels like a bird – simple as that.

  “All four codices are kept in the original casings,” Benicio shouts. “That’s thousands of years old! The coating is made of some material we still don’t understand. A matrix of some kind; partly organic, partly synthetic. It’s resistant to destruction by anything except a strong denaturing acid, which would destroy the contents too, obviously.”

  “But gas?”

  “Released when someone activates the matrix,” he replies. “By simple touch.”

  “Gas did that to those guys?”

  Benicio seems alarmed. “It killed people?”

  “Yeah,” I confirm sadly. “I watched it. Horrible.”

  It’s clear from his silence – this is a setback.

  “Tell me it didn’t kill anyone important.”

  “They were agents,” I tell him. “From the NRO. The guys who captured me in Chetumal.”

  Benicio seems to go berserk. He drags hard at the controls of the Muwan. We accelerate forward, the sudden G-force pressing me back hard into the seat.

  “Josh, I need to know how those agents found you. Did they lead you to the codex? Or was it the other way around?”

  “They followed me. They’re the three guys who’ve been following me since I got to Mexico. One of them captured me when you dropped me off.”

  “I knew it! Was a stupid thing to do! Didn’t I tell you? And I took the blame, just so you know. So all three are dead?”

  “No, Simon Madison isn’t. He chased me all the way on to the island.”

  Benicio groans. “So he saw me pick you up.”

  “Well, yeah. Him and anyone else who might have been looking out over Lake Catemaco.”

  “That’s nothing. There is always UFO sightings out here. No one takes it seriously.”

  “Madison will.”

  “Yeah, he will.”

  But our conversation is cut short. As we fly low over the mountainous terrain, I grasp the fact that we’re not alone in the sky. Three spherical lights appear in the distant sky ahead, crossing our path.

  “Those aren’t our planes . . . are they?”

  “No,” Benicio replies grimly. “They are not.”

  And one look is enough to tell me that they aren’t your everyday fighter planes either.

  Benicio curses softly when those three lights appear on the horizon.

  “Three,” he mutters. “Caray! I’ve never outrun three.”

  “You’ve seen these before?”

  “Yeah,” he breathes. “Sometimes I’ll see one. And it’ll chase me. Never seen three.”

  “What are they?”

  “You can’t tell? They’re Muwan. That’s how they look from outside, when the anti-gravity drive is fully engaged.”

  “We glow?”

  “Yeah. When you get in the mood for a physics lesson, let me know; I’ll give you all the details.”

  “I’ll live without, thanks.”

  Wait a minute. . .

  “It’s the NRO, isn’t it?”

  “We’ve never been certain of it. But, yeah, I think we can put two and two together here.”

  “Are they armed?”

  “You bet.”

  “Are we armed?”

  “Not like them. And if we fire on them, we start the war. So, we run.”

  “This is how it happened with my dad, isn’t it? This is how they got him.”

  Benicio doesn’t reply. He points the nose of the Muwan upwards and accelerates so fast that for a second or two I literally can’t breathe. Underneath us, the three glowing lights stop in midair and swoop upwards, following.

  “Let’s show these guys what they’re missing in their Mark Is.”

  The Muwan shoots up; slams us back into our seats for what seems an unreasonable length of time. Where are we going – the moon? My legs and arms are pinned into position; the urge to move becomes unbearable. If I could make my voice heard, I’d beg Benicio to stop. Outside, the sky turns from a star-speckled, deep navy blue to pitch-black, and a star field so thick, it’s as though the lights just came on. We’ve reached the stratosphere, I guess. At the very least.

  The craft decelerates and levels off. I can’t see the spherical lights anywhere now.

  “They still on our tail?”

  “They are,” comes his terse reply.

  “Where?”

  “Seven o’clock,” he says, angling the craft so that I can watch their approach.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Them. The Mark I is like a slug at terminal velocity. When we hit rock bottom, they won’t have any idea which direction I’m pulling out.”

  “Terminal velocity. . .?”

  “That’s it. Hey, Josh, you like roller coasters?”

  And then we drop, just like a stone.

  If the gravity was bad on the way up, it’s pure insanity on
the descent. My guts smash into my diaphragm and stay there jammed against it. It’s impossible to believe that Benicio’s still in control. Every sense is telling me that we’re hurtling to our deaths. I can’t stop thinking about those people who jumped from the Twin Towers. I badly don’t want to think about that, I don’t want those images in my head while I feel this appalling, deadly rush. Eventually I stop holding back. I scream.

  Benicio joins in, but he’s not screaming with fear.

  “Wooooooooooo hoooooo!” he yelps as the Muwan brakes sharply and pulls out into a horizontal swoop. “Yabadaba doo!”

  Yabadaba doo? Who actually says that?

  And then it’s back to all his favourite Mexican curse words, this time belted out with a gusto that I’ve never seen from him before.

  “Dude, I am a GOD!” he roars, laughing. “Just watch them try to do that without blowing apart.”

  “Did we lose them?”

  “Nope. They’re on our six.”

  “What?”

  “It’s cool. They can’t catch us now. And their weapons are out of range.”

  “But they’ll see where we land.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  I look down to see we’re flying low above the ground again. There are mountains everywhere, sparsely covered by trees. Ahead is the sea, by the second growing larger in the screen.

  “The Gulf?”

  “The Pacific Ocean,” says Benicio. “We’re flying over Chiapas. Tapachula.”

  We drop still lower, change direction as we fly over a huge installation underneath. Seconds later, behind us I see the three Mark Is swing around the same collection of buildings, still following us.

  We’re heading straight for a huge, conical volcano. It looms, dominating the entire screen. Benicio takes us so low that we’re practically hugging the terrain. As we fly over the crater, the Muwan swerves suddenly to the left, around the cone and then flips up, looping backwards. Straight into the jagged opening of the crater, only metres above the rocks. I’m bracing for impact when the rock wall ahead parts and we fly into a wide tunnel.

  “We’re in the volcano?”

  I hear his smile. “You got it, coz.”

  The tunnel leads vertically through the heart of the extinct volcano, into a huge, empty magma chamber beneath.

  And it’s lit. Four powerful arc lights beam like little suns, lighting up the vast space. It’s at least the size of the chamber of Ek Naab. Benicio skims the Muwan around the perimeter at a sedate pace. At intervals the walls of the chamber give way to plunging tunnels that lead who knows where, their lights disappearing into the far distance. Eventually Benicio finds what he’s looking for and turns into one of these tunnels.

  We fly along in silence for a few seconds. I’m so astounded that I can’t think of anything but dumb questions. I’ve just about had enough of being the wide-eyed kid around Benicio, and I’m beginning to wish I were the one yelling, Dude – I am a GOD! After all, I brought the codex back. . .

  So, I wait for him to speak. Which, of course, he eventually does.

  “Pretty cool, no?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  The tunnel emerges on a mountainside miles away. The Muwan bursts free of the rock and into the cool air of a misty early dawn. We fly out, low, coasting under the lip of a small canyon with a river at the bottom. After a few miles of following the river, Benicio changes direction. We jump out of the canyon, back over fields and hills. Then we’re over the jungle, heading straight for the blue line on the horizon – the Caribbean Sea. Twenty minutes later the craft slows to a complete stop, hovers and lowers on to a deserted beach.

  So – Chetumal again.

  I can scarcely believe this is happening: I’m back, with the Ix Codex. And I did it all by myself. Well, practically.

  BLOG ENTRY: VIGORES AND ME

  It was about five in the morning. Still gloomy; the sun was still over the horizon. I walked with Benicio through the deserted streets of Chetumal, to the banks of a river. Benicio pointed and I saw right away what he wanted me to do.

  “There he is,” he said. “He’s waiting for you.”

  I stared at the figure sitting on the bench by the river. Blanco Vigores, dressed in a loose-fitting, cream-coloured linen suit and a panama hat. He hadn’t heard us approach, or if he had, he was ignoring us. It looked like he was deep in thought. Or something.

  Not exactly what I was expecting, to be honest. For some reason, I’d assumed that Carlos Montoyo would be the one to greet me. But no. I guess this codex business – it’s between us Bakabs.

  Benicio left me with the old guy, and even left his own gas mask, because we both noticed that Vigores hadn’t brought his own. Forgetful, Benicio said, tutting. Benicio went back to the Muwan, I guess. To wait.

  When he’d gone, I walked over to the bench. Vigores didn’t move, even when I was right there. I cleared my throat. “It’s me, sir. Josh.”

  He looked up slowly. It struck me then how lonely he looked.

  “Hello again, young Josh.”

  “I’ve got the codex,” I said, a bit pointlessly.

  He smiled. “I know.”

  “You need the gas mask.”

  Vigores just patted the empty space on the bench beside him. “Sit at the end of the bench. I’ll be fine.”

  So there we sat in silence for a few seconds. Me, nervous about the deadly poison gas that was released from the codex every time something nudged its case. Vigores, sitting there as calm as you like.

  He asked after my mother, which threw me completely.

  “Umm . . . better than she was. She got my friends out of jail. So, that was good.”

  He nodded. “Will she let you come to live with us in Ek Naab?”

  I shrugged. “Would she have to come too?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can’t see that happening.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cos she has a life. Even without my dad, she’s got her friends and her job.”

  And she’s not going to fit in at Ek Naab, I wanted to say. Nor me. But it might have sounded rude.

  “Josh, it may not be safe for you in Oxford now. Simon Madison knows about you now. He knows what you are. What he knows, they will know.”

  “But he knows that I’ve already found the codex. He’ll work out pretty quick that it’s gone back to Ek Naab.”

  “Even so, the knowledge you have is dangerous. To you, Josh. And to anyone you choose to tell.”

  I guessed he was talking about Tyler and Ollie. So I made a decision. “I won’t tell. Not my friends, not my mum. I’ll be like a vault.”

  The old man turned to me, but this time his eyes didn’t meet mine. “You still have the phone we gave you. Use it to call us whenever you are in danger. Or even if you just suspect.”

  I waited for him to say something else, but that seemed to be it.

  “So . . . now what?”

  “You can go back to your friends in the hotel.”

  “That’s it?”

  Mildly, he replied, “What did you expect? A hero’s welcome?”

  Well, yeah, actually . . . why not?

  What Blanco Vigores tells me is way too secret to blog.

  I swallow. “Some answers would be good.”

  Vigores nods, leans on his stick and gazes into the river. “Go ahead.”

  “Well . . . I want to know about the codex, of course! Can I see it?”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the river. “You want to see it? Very well. Open the codex casing by holding both sides at once, locate the dimple studs with your fingers, press them in and hold for ten seconds.”

  I do as he says. The dimple studs are tiny depressions on the left and right sides of the box, inside which are tiny hidden buttons. These yield only to hard pressure, enough to mark my fingertips after holding them in for ten seconds. Nothing happens until the tenth second. Then I hear a hissing sound, like a vacuum being released. Around the edges of the top of the case, a cre
ase appears. Until then, the volume looked impossible to open. I run my fingers along the crease and dig a fingernail underneath. The hissing sound grows louder for a second. Then there’s a final little pop. The lid springs open.

  Inside there’s a pile of thick parchment pages, tanned with age, folded concertina-fashion, just like Mayan codices I’ve seen in museums. The hieroglyphs are rendered in faded colours. The pages are thick, densely covered with glyphic writing.

  “Pick it up,” Vigores says with pride. “Your ancestors’ work.”

  “Itzamna wrote this?”

  “Not this actual codex. You’ll see no codex this old – almost fifteen hundred years! It’s almost a shame to destroy it, but destroy it we must.”

  “What?” I can barely hide my indignation. After everything I’ve been through to bring it back?

  “You misunderstand. Parchment doesn’t preserve well; even in a hermetic environment like this case, its days are numbered. Therefore, a Bakab must make a faithful transcription at least every fifty years. Only when the reproduction has been passed as a faithful and authentic transcription by the other three Bakabs, do we destroy the former version.”

  “Why?”

  “Such was Itzamna’s instruction.”

  “But why? You could copy it, scan it, distribute it. . .”

  Vigores interrupts gently, “This knowledge isn’t for general consumption, Josh.”

  “You want to keep all this knowledge to yourselves?” I say. “You think that’s right?”

  Vigores says, “So have we been instructed.”

  “That’s what Madison has against you all, you know.”

  Vigores just nods calmly.

  “That’s what he said. ‘We’re gonna do what the conquista should have done. We’re gonna finish off Ek Naab.’ Something on those lines.”