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

  I shuffle around until I’m behind the cop. Another groan from Gaspar’s man shatters the silence.

  “Your friend is going to bleed to death,” the cop tells Gaspar. “I shot him in the belly – not a nice death. Throw down your gun and I’ll handcuff you; we’ll take your friend to the hospital. Maybe he’ll live. As for your other pal. . . A life for a life.”

  Gaspar doesn’t move.

  In my pocket, the Ek Naab phone buzzes.

  “If you answer that phone,” Gaspar seethes at me, “I’ll kill this cop.”

  The policeman bristles. “Silence!”

  I breathe quietly through my mouth. This cop has no idea how fast Gaspar can move. He might get one shot off before Gaspar’s on top of him. Or Gaspar will throw himself into a wild, unpredictable capoeira move.

  One thing is for sure: the longer these two blokes keep staring each other down, the less I can believe that the cop is ever going to shoot Gaspar.

  Chances are, Gaspar senses it too.

  My decision’s made. I bolt away, back towards the cars. The cop’s gun goes off and then I hear two voices, yelling. I keep running hard along the mountain road, past the cars, further into the thick cloud. I can’t see anything now but mist; mist and the solid line of tarmac beneath my feet. I’m running full pelt, the sounds of my footsteps squelched in the damp air, blood thundering in my ears, no sound but my own heartbeat.

  Against my thigh, the Ek Naab phone buzzes again. I feel like yelling with rage at Benicio – I’m a bit busy now, think you could call back later?!

  Through a haze of adrenaline, I become aware of a sound behind me.

  Footsteps, hard and swift, twice as rapid as mine. They’re chasing me, coming closer. It can’t be long now; any second. Fear surges within; I squeeze a last effort from my legs.

  Then, to my right, there’s a mist-muffled voice.

  “Josh! Jump! I’m right with you, buddy . . . got a lock . . . just jump . . . I’ll catch you.”

  Run off the edge off the mountain – without even looking first? The idea fills me with terror. I keep running. Even to change direction would be too risky now. Gaspar is mere steps behind me – I’d run right into his grasp.

  “You’re coming to a bend in the road, Josh,” Benicio calls. “Keep going! Jump! Jump right out!”

  I put my head down for a final spurt. Without warning, I burst free of the cloud. Sunlight explodes around me. I can see everything – the road, the valley, the mountains. The sheer drop to the bottom of the valley.

  Hovering in mid-air, just beyond the road, is Benicio’s Muwan.

  Immediately before I hurl myself at the road’s fence I hear Benicio shouting, “Josh . . . trust me!”

  I grab the fence with both hands and spring off into a handstand flip. The valley spins around me as I turn in the air. I fly across the divide, the Muwan directly below.

  The cockpit is open, but I don’t quite make it. With a thud I land just short of the opening, clutching at the edge of the cockpit, scrabbling for a firm hold. For a few breathless seconds I hang one-handed over the edge. With a gasp, I swing my other arm over and grab hold with both hands. When I gaze up, it’s straight into Ixchel’s eyes. For once, they’re filled with admiration.

  “You did it, Josh. . .”

  Benicio lowers the craft all the way to the floor of the valley. I relax my grip and crumple to the ground. From the front of the Muwan, Benicio’s triumphant voice yells, “Nice flying, Batman!”

  All the fear and tension vanishes, replaced by a surge of euphoria. We made it. Me, Tyler, Mum, Ixchel – we all escaped the Sect.

  About fifty metres above I catch sight of Gaspar leaning over the edge of the road. He stares down in disbelief. I grin and give him a little wave.

  Hasta la vista, baby.

  BLOG ENTRY: SLEEPING IN A CITY THAT NEVER WAKES UP

  Well, turns out that I’m not done with the blog. I’m back where I started, with a whole bunch of things I can’t talk to anyone about.

  Most of the way flying back to Ek Naab, I was semi-sleeping. I was thinking; couldn’t stop. More than anything I wanted to talk to Ixchel.

  What is it about that girl that makes me want to tell her just everything? Yet every time I open my mouth to speak about anything really serious, I choke on it.

  Benicio being up in the front of the Muwan didn’t make things any easier. He doesn’t know about the Bracelet, so that topic is out of bounds. Luckily he didn’t seem to notice my dad’s writing on my arm. More than once, I caught Ixchel staring at it.

  Was she wondering if it’s my handwriting?

  So much happened in the last couple of days, it’s one big jumble in my head. The dream-visit from Camila, the genetic treatment they did on me, finding the Crystal Key, fixing the Bracelet. Meeting my dad again in Area 51. Having the power to travel through time.

  Tyler and Ixchel kept making me explain what had happened in the Chaldexx labs, how I went back ten minutes in time and rescued myself. It’s almost as if they sensed I wasn’t telling them the whole truth.

  “I just don’t get how that thing works,” Tyler concluded. “Why does it take you ten minutes into your own past as a safety setting? Isn’t that just gonna send you right back into the same problem? And how come when your dad used the Bracelet he wound up on that volcano? It doesn’t add up. . .”

  Well, I agreed with him, of course! What else could I do?

  Tyler was also a bit bemused about the idea of two versions of me in the same place.

  “You saw yourself on that bed? You rescued yourself?”

  I told him I did.

  “What happened to that other you, the one you woke up?”

  “He’s me, don’t you get it? I’d already been him. I woke up, went to the cold room, found the Crystal Key, fixed the Bracelet and . . . bam! I travelled back in time. All that happened was that I got to see myself from another viewpoint. I went back on myself and then caught up.”

  I even drew a loop in the air with a finger, explained all about the time-loop thingy, just like Dad explained it to me.

  Tyler still seemed a bit doubtful. “Seems to me that’s got to happen quite a bit, with the time travelling. How do you know it hasn’t already happened? Maybe you’ve already met your future self – you know, yourself, but, like, older.”

  At which point I started to think about Arcadio again. In case Ixchel started to wonder about Arcadio too, I changed the subject.

  Anyway. There may well be bad news waiting for me. Lorena and Montoyo are eager to find out what genetic changes the Sect introduced into my DNA.

  It’s kind of worrying . . . to say the least.

  Benicio told me right away that Tyler had been rushed back into surgery when he got him back from Brazil. His wound had opened up again. All that fighting had made it worse. By the time Tyler reached Ek Naab, they even had to give him a blood transfusion.

  Mum was fine – scared out of her wits about me and Ixchel, of course. If I was a better son I’d probably worry more about putting Mum through all this stress.

  It’s not as if I go looking for trouble. I just want a quiet life.

  Is that too much to ask?

  Maybe I’ll enjoy life in Ek Naab, after all. From what I’ve seen, it’s pretty darn quiet.

  I’m writing my blog on a brand new laptop in my own room in my very own new apartment in Ek Naab. Tyler lies resting. I insisted on getting a bed. Hammocks are all well and good, but sometimes you need a proper bed.

  There’s a polite little knock on the open door. It’s Montoyo. I turn around and meet his eyes. There’s a halfsmile there, but he’s looking solemn.

  “Josh,” he says with a nod. “It’s time.”

  I snap the laptop shut, follow him out of the apartment and into the street. Trying not to give away how nervous I am. I don’t like blood tests at the best of times, so yesterday’s session with Lorena wasn’t much fun.

  Today I get the results.

  Today I find
out what Melissa DiCanio really did to me. Apart from changing the colour of my eyes to blue . . . which I wouldn’t mind, except that the one person I want to like the new colour is Ixchel. She doesn’t seem that pleased.

  “What were you writing in your blog?” Montoyo begins. “Your deepest, darkest thoughts?”

  I try to chuckle. “Something like that.”

  “Ha! I wish we’d had blogging when I was a youngster. I think I’d have enjoyed having a secret diary.”

  “What stopped you?” I ask. “I mean, you had pen and ink, right? Or would that be a quill and parchment?”

  Montoyo looks slightly irritated for a second. “Sure, I could have written a journal. I just always seemed to have other things to do. Scribbling away in a book . . . would have seemed kind of . . .”

  “. . . girly?” I offer with a grin. “I kind of felt that way too.”

  Montoyo laughs and shakes his head. “Not at all! I was going to say . . . earnest, serious. Very, very serious.”

  “That sounds like you, all right.”

  “Earnest and serious?” He seems surprised. “Not when I was a young man, believe me.”

  I look up at him. “What changed you?”

  He turns away, shrugging. “So many things happen at your age. Don’t you find?”

  “Well, to me, yeah. . .” I say. “But all I want is a quiet life.”

  Montoyo guffaws. “Absolutely not true! It’s as I told you, Josh; for men like us, happiness comes at a cost. We’re only truly happy when we’re living life at the edge.”

  “Not me,” I say, objecting. “I’ve got the soul of a poet, man!”

  Montoyo laughs even harder. I’m enjoying myself now, despite my anxiety. I decide to take it further. “I could have been another Alex Turner! But instead I have to go on all these crazy missions for you. . .”

  “Who’s Alex Turner?”

  I can tell he’s being serious. Well, OK. Even my mum might not know.

  “Only the coolest guy on the planet. He’s a singer – a rock star.”

  Montoyo arches an eyebrow. “A singer? I’m sure he’s making a tremendous contribution,” he says. “But he’s gonna have to leave the important work to people like you and me.” Then he frowns. “Anyhow, when have I ever sent you on a mission? As I recall, I forbade you from getting involved in rescuing your mother and Ixchel. Or have you forgotten?”

  I haven’t forgotten. Remembering how protective Montoyo was of me, I’m suddenly uncomfortable about deceiving him. The Bracelet is back in my bedroom, safely stashed in my luggage amongst my clothes.

  “You sent me after the Bracelet,” I tell him in a quiet voice. He gives a dramatic sigh. “Ah, yes . . . the Bracelet of Itzamna. Since you raise the subject, Josh, I was thinking that we should have a conversation about that.”

  He stops, turns to face me. In that instant I see it.

  He knows.

  I pause, then try to continue walking. Montoyo grabs hold of my arm. Staring deep into my eyes, he twists my arm so that the inside wrist faces upwards. I’ve showered since arriving from Switzerland, but my dad’s handwriting is still there – faintly.

  “You wrote this,” Montoyo says, his eyes boring into mine. “You wrote this because you used the Bracelet.”

  Hotly I reply, “I so did not!”

  “I met a man once,” Montoyo says, his expression now deadly serious, “with a tattoo on his forearm – the exact same place. Can you imagine what that tattoo said?”

  I shake my head nervously. There’s something about his tone that I don’t like.

  Montoyo’s grip on my wrist tightens. “It said Incidents II JLS 195.”

  I struggle to return his gaze. A tattoo like that – it can only mean one thing. It’s a reference to that book by John Lloyd Stephens. To that page of that book – the one with the coded message, the formula of the Crystal Key.

  I can only think of one person who might tattoo that on to his arm.

  Which means that Montoyo has met Arcadio.

  I whisper. “Where did you meet him? When?”

  But Montoyo brushes off my questions. “Surely the real question is who is he?”

  I breathe, “Arcadio. . .?”

  “Precisely. Blue-eyed Arcadio Garcia, the forgetful time traveller. Now here you are . . . mysteriously, miraculously escaped from the clutches of our deadliest enemy, your eyes blue, your name inscribed on your arm . . . in case using the Bracelet makes you forget.”

  He continues, and I’m almost pinned to the spot under the intensity of his gaze. “A strange thing to have tattooed on one’s arm, wouldn’t you agree? I thought as much back then when I met him. Imagine my surprise to find Arcadio’s name in a book with the title Incidents of Travel in Yucatan, Chiapas and Central America by a Mr John Lloyd Stephens.”

  He’s right; it’s a strange thing to have tattooed. Montoyo’s not the first person to have that idea. It’s like I said to Tyler about Arcadio: why didn’t he tattoo the formula on to his body like that guy in Memento?

  Well, maybe he did.

  Montoyo and I stare at each other in silence. Citizens of Ek Naab stroll by, giving us a wide berth. Everyone knows who we are. Everyone would love to listen in, I’ll bet. But nobody, nobody dares to give away the tiniest hint of curiosity.

  He walks away a few paces, sits down on a bench next to a small fountain. I listen to the water gurgle up and splash over the blue ceramic tiles. His shoulders slump slightly; he’s exhausted from a long day’s work. “You have to give me the Bracelet, Josh,” Montoyo says, a tad sharply. “Time travel is not a thing to be trifled with.”

  He’s right, I know. I haven’t forgotten that my dad tried to make me promise never to use the Bracelet again. But I don’t want to accept it.

  “If I’m Arcadio,” I say quickly, licking my lips, “then it stands to reason – I keep the Bracelet. Don’t I? One day in the future, I must figure out how to use it. And then I use it to travel in time. So I can’t give it to you,” I tell him, warming to my argument. “Or that would change the timeline. Wouldn’t it?”

  Montoyo laughs again, this time cynically. “A nice try! But Josh, see it from my point of view: you think I can leave a teenage boy running around with the power to change time itself?”

  I ask him flat out: “Am I Arcadio?”

  Montoyo shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Do I look like him?”

  He studies my face closely for a long time. “The truth is, I don’t know.” He sounds sincere. “It was a long time ago. I didn’t exactly take a photograph.”

  I remember how Susannah St John once told me that Arcadio didn’t like to have his photo taken. Was he trying to avoid leaving evidence – a hostage to fortune?

  I say, “How can I find out?”

  “We can ask Blanco Vigores.”

  “Vigores?”

  “He found the Bracelet of Itzamna, Josh. He knows more about it than anyone,” Montoyo says with a sigh. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

  “If Vigores tells us I can keep the Bracelet,” I say, thinking rapidly, “will you let me keep it?”

  Montoyo hesitates. “If you give me the Bracelet today,” he says, “then you have my word: when we talk to Vigores, he can decide who keeps it; you or me.”

  “What if he wants it for himself?”

  Montoyo shrugs. “He has the authority to do that. You and I, we had a deal. Remember?”

  “That’s right,” I say with a touch of sarcasm. “My secret mission for you.”

  “I’ll owe you, Josh. Don’t dismiss it out of hand – many in Ek Naab would enjoy having me in their debt.”

  I know immediately the “favour” I want to ask Montoyo.

  Stay away from my mother.

  BLOG ENTRY: BLUE-EYED BOY

  Mum was the first person to meet me when we arrived in Ek Naab from Switzerland.

  The minute she saw me, she burst into tears. Later she said it was because of my eyes.

  “The day
you were born, Josh, the first thing I noticed about you was your eyes. Dark brown, just like your father’s. That’s rare, you know? Babies are usually born with blue-grey eyes. Yours were brown, from the very first minute.”

  I just stood there, blinking. It was hard to believe what she seemed to be saying. She gave birth to a brown-eyed boy. Now they’re blue.

  I remember how my voice shook when I told her, “Mum, it’s still me.”