by M. G. Harris
“Is the plan on track?”
Montoyo goes to the door, which I’d left open. He closes it. He indicates the chair in front of his desk. But I shake my head. Adrenaline floods through me as I wait to hear what he’s about to say.
His voice becomes conspiratorial. “You can’t repeat this to anyone. Not your cousin, not your mother, no one.”
“I’d have to tell Ixchel,” I demand.
Montoyo hesitates. He has the look of a cornered animal, desperate to find some way out. “Yes, I imagine that’s inevitable,” he mumbles, almost to himself. “And you consider she can be trusted?”
I glare. “Yeah, sure.”
Montoyo’s hands spread on the desk in front of him; he gazes at them for the longest time, seemingly lost in the pattern they make amongst the neat, shallow piles of paper. Finally he looks up at me. There’s a melancholy, wise, accepting expression on his face, as though this is a day he’s seen coming and dreaded, but now that it’s arrived it’s not as bad as he thought.
“There is a problem with the 2012 plan. And for once, Josh, I can only think of one solution. A solution that goes against everything I’ve fought against for so many years. Against all the efforts we’ve made throughout the centuries to keep ourselves separate from the outside world. And even that solution is far – very far – from being certain.”
Flinching, I ask, “Does it involve me . . . again?”
Montoyo smiles sadly. “No. This time, it doesn’t. But I can be sure of one thing: you won’t like it.”
By the time Benicio catches up with me I’m staring into the still, deep waters of the black cenote for which Ek Naab is named. It’s a good place to go when you need to think; the mirror of water gazes right back at you until you feel like you’re staring the answer in the face.
“Ixchel said you’re not happy with what happened today.”
It takes me a full five seconds to work out that he’s talking about the flying lesson. He hands me my Muwan flight jacket. “Look what you left in the hangar bay.” Then he grins, but not unkindly. “Don’t feel too bad. It’s normal to fail Crazy Benicio the first time.”
I take the jacket and tuck it under my arm.
“Oh, that. Yeah. I mean no, I wasn’t happy, but that’s not your fault.”
He gives me a quizzical look. “Something wrong? What did Montoyo say?”
My eyes widen, I turn red, but I manage to stay silent. Is there anything Ixchel doesn’t tell her ex-boyfriend? But as I watch Benicio I realize that for once, he isn’t joking around or teasing. He’s anxious.
“Come on, Josh, what did Montoyo tell you about the 2012 plan?”
“You don’t know?”
“No – and quit gloating. Only the ruling Executive know the truth. And everyone else. . .”
“. . .has been ordered to keep silent.”
Benicio nods. “Right.” When I don’t say anything, he sighs and gives a sarcastic smile. “Oh, I get it. And you too.”
“Benicio. I can’t.”
“They send me on missions, you know, and I’m never allowed to see the full picture. But I’m not blind. I know that something is wrong. And this time it’s serious, yes? Because we have the Ix Codex; we have all the knowledge we should need to protect the world from the superwave. This time, it’s not as simple as sending good ol’ Josh Garcia to hunt for the codex.”
I look right into his eyes. I want to tell him what I know . . . but I promised.
Benicio gazes back at me until he sees enough to realize that I’m not going to talk.
“OK,” he says after a moment. “Let’s do this. I’ll tell you what I suspect. If I’m right, you say nothing. If I’m wrong, Josh, then you have to try to change the subject. That way you’ve actually told me nothing.”
My eyes plead with him. “Ben . . . don’t . . . I promised. . .”
“Come on – we both know most of this anyway, from what happened to you when you went into the Mayan past and met Bosch, your crazy time traveller from the twenty-second century, the guy who persuaded the ancient Mayans he was a one of their gods.”
“He didn’t have to try very hard. . .” I mutter, remembering the Bosch’s wild energy, his intensity. “Those Mayans were fully smitten.”
But Benicio won’t be thrown from the scent. “You wouldn’t be giving away anything. It’s just me here, theorizing.”
“I don’t. . .”
“Josh, why do you think I want to know? For the same reason as you. Haven’t I been there for you every time you needed me, at least whenever I possibly could? Scooping up your sorry butt in Oxford, Switzerland, Mexico, Brazil. . . And half the time, cousin, I broke rules. Remember when we rescued Ixchel and your mom from the Sect? We went against Montoyo then, right?”
“Yeah, but. . .”
“I don’t know about you, dude, but I’m done with the ruling Executive. They’re tearing themselves apart right about now, through inaction. Somewhere along the line, we’ve hit a problem. The 2012 plan has stalled. There’s a chance, just a chance, that someone in the outside world can help. But the ruling Executive is so stuck on keeping all our technology secret, they won’t talk. Don’t say anything, Josh; if I’m right, just let me keep talking.”
I gulp and force myself to meet his eyes.
“The Sect of Huracan and the National Reconnaissance Office both have a piece of what we need, don’t they? They each control one of the Revival Chambers. And we control one, too. The ancient Erinsi left the best and wisest people of their civilization in those chambers, in deep hibernation. Over history, they’ve been revived. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes by mistake. Now, their time has come. The galactic superwave is on its way. And only the Erinsi knew how to stop it. They put a machine somewhere – what in the Ix Codex they call the moon machine. Some kind of device to create a counterwave or something, to protect the Earth. I’m just talking, Josh, theorizing; this is still just old Benicio, talking a blue streak, is all.”
He pauses. I remain silent.
“The moon machine is on the moon, presumably. That’s why we have the Muwans, I’m guessing. But so far as I know, there hasn’t been a single mission to the moon, not yet. The superwave will hit the solar system in December. That gives us less than six months. We should be running test missions to the moon by now. So what I’m thinking is this: we don’t know the exact location of the moon machine.”
Calmly, I blink at him.
“OK, here’s my wild guess. Are you ready? Here goes. I’m guessing that the dirty little secret is this: the precise location of the moon machine is secret; not written anywhere. It’s the Erinsi survivors themselves who know. And . . . there are no ancient Erinsi survivors left. It’s not just our own Revival Chamber, here in Mexico: all those Revival Chambers are empty. . .”
I cough, trying to think of a way to change the subject just as Benicio suggested, so he will understand that he’s on the wrong track. “Seen anything good on YouTube?”
He frowns. “. . .the chambers aren’t empty. . .?” I raise my eyebrows, trying to urge him to keep guessing. “Or . . . maybe not all of them?” he continues. “Is that it? Maybe we don’t know where they are . . . or can’t get into them.” I give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Despite himself, Benicio flashes a grin, more relief than triumph. “Without the ancient Erinsi, we can’t operate the moon machine. You need a specific number of Erinsi survivors, I’m guessing five, one from each chamber. . .”
I rub a hand across one eye. He’s on the wrong track: I need to change the subject again. “The air’s a bit rubbish today, isn’t it? I don’t think the filters are working properly.”
Benicio stops. “Maybe not five. Maybe more . . . maybe less? Four. Three?”
I shrug and say nothing, hoping he’ll pick up the signal that he’s right.
Urgently now, he says, “Three Erinsi are required to locate and operate this moon machine. And we don’t have a single one! So our only hope to get out of this nightmare, to recover
all the careful planning of the genius Erinsi who put all the efforts of their dying civilization to save our future . . . is to trust our enemies. And that’s why there’s so much tension in the ruling Executive. Can you ever trust an enemy?”
I just smile.
“I’m guessing they’re not thinking about asking the Sect of Huracan. The Sect is counting on the superwave. It’s going to destroy the existing world order. The Sect will leap right into the vacuum. Those twisted sickos want billions to die so they can start their own, perfect society.”
He pauses, giving me a chance to interrupt. I return his stony gaze.
“So if we’re thinking of cooperation, it must be the National Reconnaissance Office. We know for a fact that they control one of the Revival Chambers – the one in Iraq. Yeah. The NRO may work for the government of the ‘leader of the free world’, but they’re as bad as anyone else when it comes to grabbing power and technology. We work with them and we help ensure the continuation of the status quo. While adding a few priceless technologies to their arsenal.”
Benicio’s eyes have become cold, hard, grim. “For weeks now, the ruling Executive has been trying to make up its mind. Shall we sell out? Join forces with the NRO? ”
Struggling to stay calm, I manage to limit myself to, “The NRO. They might as well have murdered my dad.”
Into the long silence that follows, Benicio merely sighs. “Do you wish Montoyo had never told you?”
“No. I asked him, didn’t I? I wanted the truth; I want to help. But I can’t see how, this time.”
“You could come on a mission with me. Probably a waste of time but you never can tell. At least you’d feel like you’re doing something.”
“Montoyo has been ordered not to send me on missions again.”
“Ordered?”
“By my mother.”
Benicio looks genuinely surprised.
“I’m serious. She knows enough of what’s really going on to know that there’s nothing that only I can do. So she told Montoyo to keep me out of it.”
“Well, that makes sense. Montoyo’s crazy about your mom. She’s the boss of him, for sure.”
“She’s the boss of me too. I guess I’ve risked my neck one too many times.”
“Naturally. You gotta understand your mom, Josh. Why should she allow her son to be endangered, over and over? If the world is going to hell, then at least she should have her only child with her.”
“Montoyo would risk me, even so. He told me that once – that’s why he protects me. So that I’ll be there when he needs me to get the Ix Codex.”
“Yes, as a time-travelling superstar you have your uses. As an ordinary soldier, however . . . you’re more use to Montoyo as the studious son of the woman he plans to marry.”
“Yeah, maybe. But I’m almost sixteen. I should be able to choose my own life. What’s all this flight training for if I can’t fly on the moon mission? What’s all my experience of fighting the Sect for if we can’t use it?”
“For once, buddy, I’m a hundred per cent agreed. You’re not a little kid any more. God knows, you’ve earned your place here.”
“Right!”
“So, come on a mission with me. We won’t tell Montoyo. You and me, just like the old days.”
“The old days, last year?” I laugh.
“Yeah, those. Let’s hit the road.”
We’ve had our ups and downs, Benicio and me. But I think, at that moment, that I may actually love my cousin.
We go directly to the garage where all the road vehicles in Ek Naab are stored. Most of them are pickup trucks designed to be used on the ranches. There are eight motorbikes. Benicio’s Harley is there. Gently, he prises it free of the stand and pushes it out. Then he waves me on to the passenger seat.
“Huh? Don’t I get my own?”
“You don’t have a motorcycle licence yet, so, no. If we’re stopped, the last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves. You got your fake papers, yes? Your student card from Yucatan University?”
My hand goes to the Muwan flight jacket. There’s a pocket in which you’re supposed to keep some kind of identification that will work in the outside world, just in case of trouble. I check the pocket – the ID is there. I pull the jacket on over my white T-shirt, baggy shorts and trainers. It’s not ideal attire for a motorbike ride, but it’ll do. On the other hand, Benicio is wearing blue jeans, black boots and his leather biker jacket, which is a kind of madness in this scorching weather.
Benicio passes me a silver Shoei helmet and waits as I fasten it on. I ask, “What’s the plan?”
He pulls on his own, identical helmet, climbs on the driver seat in front of me. He plants his right foot firmly on the ground to steady the bike and turns his head slightly so that I can hear him.
“OK. Whilst the Powers That Be of our city argue about talking with the enemy, while we wonder if between us and the NRO we can scrape together enough Erinsi survivors to activate the moon machine. . .” He takes a deep breath.
Before I can stop myself, I interject, “Assuming we can even find it. . .”
I can hear the smile in Benicio’s voice. “Assuming, yes. . . So the Big Guys are focused on that. But little old me, I’m still worried about the Sect of Huracan. I think we’ve taken our eye off the ball. You don’t hear so much about the Sect these days; they’ve gone pretty quiet.”
“Big mistake,” I say. “The Sect is in this for the very long term. We shouldn’t let up on them at all.”
“Exactly my view. Which is why that’s the focus of my work. And I think you can help. Since it isn’t Montoyo asking for your help this time, he’s in the clear with your mom.”
“Yeah, but if she finds out. . .” I say.
Benicio chuckles. “She’s only my aunt. What’s she gonna do, ground me?”
“Right,” I say, forcing a laugh, but my stomach lurches a bit with the idea that Mum might actually ground me. The humiliation would be pretty severe.
“So. When you were time travelling, at one point you landed by Lake Bacalar, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“And you were using the time-travel bracelet that belonged to one of the leaders of the Sect of Huracan, yes? You were using Marius Martineau’s device.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the way you and Ixchel describe it, seems that the time-travel Bracelet always returns the user to the last place he was.”
“In default mode, yes. But you go back to ten minutes before you left. That’s the safety thing, see; it assumes you were safe ten minutes before whatever danger made you need to escape.”
“You return to where you were, but displaced by ten minutes?”
“Right.”
“OK. You were using the Bracelet belonging to Marius Martineau, and it defaulted, so you travelled in time and arrived at the exact location he’d left. Which was beside a house on Lake Bacalar. Therefore, the Sect has a house at Lake Bacalar.”
“Exactly!” I say, triumphant. “The number of times I tried to tell Montoyo about that. The house was rented to that scientist woman from the Sect, Melissa DiCanio. I’m pretty sure she’s one of their leaders. She was with Martineau’s idiot son, Simon Madison. Finally, finally someone’s taking me seriously.”
“Oh, they’ve taken this seriously for a long time. But without you, Josh, to identify the house. . .” Benicio shrugs. “Well, I’ve searched a few. But we haven’t found it.”
“And you couldn’t ask me to help,” I say, bitterly, “because Montoyo promised my mother that he’d leave me out of this from now on.”
“You got it, cuz. I’m down to the last few candidates. Just need you to confirm my suspicion. See how there’s no danger? You just have to make a visual confirmation. That’s all.”
I’m actually a bit disappointed, but then Benicio does something that jolts me back into adrenaline mode. He grins and pulls back his jacket slightly, to reveal what he’s wearing underneath. When I glance down I spot the edge
of a holster containing a pistol tucked tightly under his left armpit.
“A gun. . .?”
“Right.”
“You know how to use one of those?”
Benicio nods. Suddenly I catch a sense of the risk he’s taking. Out on a secret mission with me, and he’s packing a gun.
“You’re not coming into the house with me,” he warns. “The gun is just an insurance policy.”
I’m silent, thinking through the possible outcomes. Worst case scenario – someone gets badly hurt. Even if nothing super-bad happens, if my mother finds out about this, I can see my flight lessons being cancelled. But it’s a little late to lose face with Benicio. And I really do want to help him find that house on Bacalar.
“You still want to come?” he says, shortly.
I shrug. “Of course.”
“OK, Josh. We’re gonna find the house, take a look around. Anything we can find about the Sect could be useful.”
We leave Ek Naab via the innocent-looking banana plantation that belongs to the city. Benicio swipes his security pass at the electronic gate. This gate is unmanned most of the time, but there’s a CCTV that is monitored inside the city. Luckily the helmet makes it impossible for them to see that I’m the guy sitting behind Benicio.
The ride to Lake Bacalar takes just over two hours, all along tiny little roads that Benicio zips around, me riding pillion, holding on around his waist. It’s good to see the outside world again. The hot-tar smell of roads. Sleepy Mexican villages with straw-topped houses. Roadside vendors wearing cowboy hats and selling plastic bags of sliced mango, coconuts hacked open with a handy straw, cans of fizzy drinks sitting in barrels of giant chunks of ice. My mouth waters each time we ride past one but Benicio doesn’t stop.
But even better is the feeling that once again, I’m doing something about 2012. I’m getting involved. Nine months of solid studying and I feel as though I’ve been stuffed in a box. Riding with Benicio is like being sprung, jack-in-the-box style. Wild, unpredictable, thrilling.
When we reach Lake Bacalar, Benicio finds somewhere cool to park the Harley. He applies a massive lock to the wheel. There’s almost no one around, only the occasional car driving past. Across the road, appearing in chinks of intense blue between the lakeside properties, the turquoise lake stretches in every direction.