by M. G. Harris
Ixchel stands up. “You think this is a joke. . .? In that case, we’ll just go.”
“Hey, relax! I am in fact trying to get my head around the fact that it can’t be a joke. Being logical: if you got past security, then you must either be pretty darn good at sneaking around, or you have some high-level clearance. So what are you, some new kind of division of the secret service? Are they recruiting children now?”
“We’re not spies or anything like that. We’re not from any government. I can’t tell you who we’re with . . . and anyway, you wouldn’t believe me.”
She takes another sip. “Let me guess, you’re from the future and you’re trying to save the world from the giant electromagnetic pulse in December 2012.”
I consider this statement for a moment. Then, to my and Ixchel’s surprise, I reply, “Yes. Time travellers. That’s what we are.”
The smile on Dr Banerjee’s face completely vanishes. With mild disbelief, she asks, “Seriously?”
Behind my back, I seek out Ixchel’s hand. “Yes, totally right. You’ve been very helpful, Dr Banerjee. And now it’s time for us to get on with our mission. 2012 and all that.”
“No wait . . . you’re telling me that you kids are actually time travellers, time travel is real, you’re for real on some sort of mission to stop the giant EMP?”
“Yeah,” I tell her, backing away. Dr Banerjee seems friendly and all, but she’s getting a bit close to the truth for comfort. One phone call to the wrong people and things could suddenly get tricky for us. “What you said. All of that. And now we have to go.”
“Oh . . . oh, OK, I get it. You can’t say too much.” Dr Banerjee sounds dazed. “I guess that might change the course of history in ways you didn’t plan. . ..” She looks at us, a touch disappointed. “You could always erase my memory, though, afterwards. . .”
“We can’t,” I say firmly, as Ixchel and I reach the door. “Not today. Forgot to bring our amnesia thingummy.”
As we leave, from above, a mechanism begins to grind; a panel in the dome slides into place. Dr Banerjee follows cautiously, at a discreet distance. We rush out and down the emergency stairs.
Time travel. Close enough to the truth, even if we’re not actually time travelling right now.
Outside, the sunlight is becoming sharp, clear through a cloudless mauve sky. The low mist has burned away, and the crisp russet of the desert is startling, every crinkle in the terrain visible. I put on my sunglasses and stand for a moment, gazing out over the vast, mountainous desert. It’s how I imagine another planet might look, or the moon.
Ixchel murmurs, “I think we may have scared her just a little. . .”
We both slide down the loose, dusty surface of the hill underneath the observatory. “She’s just a bit disoriented,” I say. “It does seem to weird adults out when they realize they’re talking to kids about stuff like this. Remember that archaeologist woman at the museum, the one who bought our golden Mayan bracelets?”
The Muwan nestles in the shade at the base of the hill. The sunlight is touching the tip of the craft’s nose, but the brushed matt surface stops it from glinting too harshly. When we’re in range I lift my arm and hit the remote control for the Muwan. The cockpit window opens.
“Come on,” I say, holding out my hand to Ixchel. “I’m a bit worried about Dr Banerjee. I think we need to get out of here, quick, before she starts wondering if she should report that she’s seen us.”
“You think? No; she’ll be too confused. Time travel isn’t something you go reporting to people, not unless you want attention. And Kitrick seems to have scared her off. . .”
We reach the Muwan and I step aside to let Ixchel climb aboard. Glancing back at the observatory, I spot Dr Banerjee at the crest of the hill. She followed. Her hand is raised to her forehead and she’s peering at us. In the distance, I see her other hand reach inside her jacket. She takes out a phone, raising it.
I follow Ixchel into the cockpit and hurriedly run through the system checks.
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Seriously, Josh – why?”
“Take a look! She’s videoing us. Better hope no one believes her.”
“She’s won’t tell. She liked you.”
“Hmm. Don’t know about that.”
I’m itching to leave right away, but force myself to take time to scan the satellite data for updates. It records radar station readings from all over the world, so I can see a map of anything that’s been flying in the vicinity within the last five minutes. I don’t spot anything on my first sweep, but when I look again there’s something at the extreme northern periphery that looks unusual: a single aircraft moving very fast, headed directly on a course for El Tololo. I look back over the past five minutes. It’s definitely moving faster than anything commercial or private. Has to be military. But its point of origin is in Paraguay. Not a country whose military I’ve ever encountered.
Ixchel notices that I’m stalling over the satellite data. “Problem?”
Within a second I’m prickling with sweat. “Not sure. I’m trying to cover all the bases. . .”
Paraguayan military . . . and there’s just one of them. How much trouble could they be?
“You think Dr Banerjee liked me?” I mutter. “Babe, I hope you’re right.”
I take the Muwan up medium-fast, which is enough to make us both catch our breath. My mouth is already dry when I check the satellite map again. The radar data is coming in now too.
The aircraft I’ve been tracking is almost on top of us.
With a shiver, I switch to manual and shoot up to Mach 2, on a dummy course heading for the Mexican military base in Chiapas. It’s one of the Sky Guardians’ standard manoeuvres to fool observers into thinking we’re a military aeroplane.
We shoot past the aircraft, seven thousand feet under it. I check the radar again, breathless.
It changes course immediately. And follows us.
Urgency enters Ixchel’s voice. “Josh. What’s wrong?”
Deep breath. “There’s something on our tail. Approaching from Paraguay.”
“Paraguayan?”
“I can’t tell. But it’s moving like a military jet.”
“Can you lose it?”
I don’t answer, but flick through the list of possible evasive manoeuvres, feeling a twinge of embarrassment when Bermuda Mask flashes past. Before I pick one, I check the radar data one more time.
What I see almost makes me vomit.
Two more aircraft have appeared from nowhere, both closing in on our position from directly east.
I swear under my breath but Ixchel catches it.
“What’s wrong now?”
“Two more of them.”
“WHAT?”
My voice remains calm but I’m shaking. “Coming in at eleven o’clock.”
“Oh no. . .” groans Ixchel, staring through the window behind her. “That looks like a Muwan!”
I check my readings. “A Mark I! I bet the other two are as well. . .!”
“Josh . . . it’s the NRO!”
I say nothing, muscles rigid, forcing myself to hold a firm line of descent.
Three National Reconnaissance Office Muwans.
The only escape move that will get me out of this is the one I watched Benicio pull when he rescued me from the island in the middle of Lake Catemaco.
Stratosphere Dive.
Problem is, that move is even more insane than Bermuda Mask.
“Gotta do a Stratosphere Dive. . .”
I glance at the radar. All three are altering course again. They’re coming in on different angles.
A burst of light flares in the sky ahead for the tiniest fraction of a second. Then the whole craft shakes, rattling like an old can. There’s a change of pitch in the sound of the engine.
Ixchel whispers in horror, “What was that?”
“They hit us,” I say, grim as death.
“With what?!”
“Some kind of beam weapon. W
e have to land.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. If we shoot at them they’ll destroy us. And another hit like that and we’ll be down.”
“Can’t we eject?”
“Ixchel, we’re above a desert. . .”
“But . . . but we have survival supplies, don’t we?”
I’ve pulled out of the dive, gently, and we’re sweeping along a few hundred metres above the dusty ground. I can see two of the Muwans through the window now; they’ve dropped to the same altitude as us.
“Three NRO Muwans, Josh. How could this happen?”
“They must have seen us coming.”
“Yes, but how?!”
“No idea. It’s too soon for it to have been Banerjee. . .”
Ixchel watches with increasing disbelief as I let the two Muwans guide me to a landing area. “Josh . . . no. You’re going to surrender to the NRO? After what they did to your father? After everything we’ve all been through to stop them getting our technology?”
Grimly, I say, “I’m not surrendering. Just chill for a minute, if you can. I’ve got an idea.”
All three Mark Is are now visible in the sky, less than a mile away. Stealthily, I stretch out an arm and flip open the catch I noticed in the dashboard. I push a fingertip inside and find the metal hook, pulling it out slowly. The taut static rope follows. I pull it level with my waist and then open the hook, snap closed over my belt.
I give Ixchel a quick glance. She’s breathing rapidly. With a sigh, I settle back into my seat.
OK, Benicio. Let’s see who’s crazy now.
BLOG ENTRY: CRAZY JOSH (PASSWORD PROTECTED)
Benicio, I’ve called the hospital and your mobile phone but still can’t get through to you. The hospital says you’re still sedated, so I guess that’s why you’re not answering the phone.
OK so this is what happened since we last saw you.
Ixchel and I found out about a Sect scientist called Jonas Kitrick. He is blocking the research of an astrophysicist called Dr Banerjee. She’s got proof from telescope research that the galactic superwave is on its way. We decided to take a little trip to Chile, to visit Dr Banerjee. We sort of borrowed your Muwan . . . and it’s all got a bit tricky.
As we left Chile, three NRO Muwans turned up. I still don’t know how they got on to us. They forced me to land the Muwan.
We landed, they landed. The NRO had four agents on the ground by then, standing next to their Muwan Mark Is. Two of them were aiming at us with rifles. I jammed the radio so they couldn’t talk to us but they just yelled across the empty wasteland: GET OUT!
Ixchel climbed out first, then me. I had the line attached to my belt. Just the way you did to me in the Crazy Benicio routine. . .
I stuffed the Muwan remote into my back pocket. I touched the control panel and initiated Crazy Benicio. As I stepped outside, I put an arm around Ixchel. All the time, in my head, I was counting. How many seconds to go? Surely Crazy Benicio had to start any moment now?
There was a small rock in my path; I made a big show of tripping over on it. The NRO agents weren’t fooled. They immediately started yelling at me: “Don’t move!” “Get your hands where we can see them!” and such.
But they were too late. Our craft was already lifting off the ground. I felt a swift tug at my waist. I grabbed hold of Ixchel, tightly.
Then we were in the air.
When it happened in training, I was almost paralysed with fear. This time it was the bullets that terrified me. The NRO agents didn’t shoot at us at first – I guess what they were seeing was too surprising. Unless you could see the line, it looked as though we were floating away. One second later the pulley mechanism kicked in and dragged us to the Muwan. Then the shots began.
On the ground, I heard shouting, arguing. A man’s voice ordering them not to shoot. Then I slammed against the cockpit, right against my kidneys, and Ixchel thudded hard against my ribs.
Pure adrenaline must have pushed me through it because I remember feeling like I couldn’t breathe. I guess I was winded. I could feel Ixchel’s hands grabbing for the edge of the cockpit. It was a mess; we were in a complete panic, trying to get in. Next thing I remember, I was inside, Ixchel was inside, although upside down, with her head jammed against the floor.
I sealed the craft. Outside, we could hear them scrambling for their own aeroplanes. I grabbed the headset as Ixchel was strapping herself in. We didn’t say a word to each other, but we were both shaking like leaves just before a hurricane.
The sensor data started feeding me holographic images right away. Two of the NRO Muwans were rising off the ground. There wasn’t a second to spare.
Stratosphere Dive. I knew I could make it work. And when I beat them on the descent, I’d do just what you did, Benicio, that first time we escaped from the NRO.
I headed for the stratosphere. Those two NRO Muwans were trying to get on my six. But they started to ascend too early. Flying on the hypotenuse, trying to intercept. But basic geometry proves that can’t be done – unless you can fly faster.
And I was hitting a vertical rise approaching maximum speed. The pressure in my sinuses was like putting my face in a vice. But that’s what training does for you; I didn’t care. When I hit the stratosphere I cut the engines, flipped the craft on the drop. I passed the Mark Is on my way down. They were trying to brake, but it was too late, I was already falling too fast. I knew I’d pull out of the dive before they’d even course-corrected. The Mark I is really no match for the Mark II when it comes to manoeuvrability.
They didn’t get closer than five klicks behind me all the way back to Mexico.
Then, Benicio, I used your old trick of hiding. You know what I’m talking about. In the tunnels. . .
The best hiding place within a thousand kilometres of Ek Naab.
I landed the Muwan inside the mouth of a cave. Just like that time when you rescued me from Catemaco, when I first located the Ix Codex. And that’s where we are, Benicio.
With three of those NRO Muwans swooping around looking for us.
So we’re stuck. Until we dream up some way to get out of here.
The nearby volcano Mount Tacana is extinct, but there’s always been a hint of sulphur to the air when I’ve been there. The sun is too high to penetrate directly into the cavern. It’s pretty dingy inside. The air tastes of hot stones.
Ixchel asks, “Do you think they know we’re in here?”
“I’ve turned off all the flight systems, so they shouldn’t be able to pick up anything electronic. The rock is pretty thick above us – I doubt they’ll get any heat readings on infrared, either.” I pass Ixchel an energy bar. “We’re OK in here. But it’s hundreds of kilometres to Ek Naab. I don’t think I could lose them again between here and home.”
“So we’re stuck. . .?”
I peel open the wrapper of another bar. “That’s what I’ve just been telling Benicio. Posted to my blog from my phone.”
“He’s still not answering?”
“I left a message with the hospital reception. His operation is happening round about now.”
“You’re using the Ek Naab phone? Can’t the NRO trace that? If they know how to use that Muwan Mark I properly, they can trace any of our technology.”
“Already thought of that. I’m using my ordinary phone.”
Ixchel looks doubtful. “I don’t know too much about cell phones and everything, but I’m pretty sure any cell phone can be traced. It just takes a high enough security clearance. And the NRO probably have one of the highest you can get. After all – they’re the National Reconnaissance Office!”
I blink, confounded. Ixchel reaches across and plucks my phone out of my hand. With a wry grin, she turns it off. “Time for a bit of radio silence.”
Now we’re completely cut off. From Ek Naab; from the NRO; from the world.
“Well . . . if it comes to getting out of here . . . there’s always the bike. This Muwan is fully equipped: bike, survival kit, everyth
ing.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Ride a motorbike all the way back home?”
“We can be like Che Guevara in that film, Motorcycle Diaries. I really love that film.”
“Me too,” she says, approvingly.
“Hmm. Yeah,” I remark. “Another film with that bloke you like.”
“Sweetie, you’re twice as cute as him.”
We both have a smile about that, because it blatantly isn’t true. “Seriously. Here to Ek Naab. We could do it in, like, a day. We’d go across Chiapas State and into Campeche from Villahermosa. It’s got to be less than fifteen hours.”
“We could go and look up Bosch on the way, in San Cristobal de las Casas. See if he ever did retire there, like he told us.”
“If he actually survived life with the ancient Mayans, you mean! Still, it’s not a bad idea.” I take a bite of the cereal bar. “We could see how he feels about giving me his time-jump bracelet early.”
“What do you mean, early?”
“Remember? Bosch and his retirement plans. San Cristobal de las Casas, late twentieth century. He said he’d leave me the Bracelet of Itzamna in his will. Maybe if he’s there, he’ll give it to me now.”
“It would certainly make things easier.”
“That bracelet?” I laugh. “Since when did it make anything easier. . .?!”
“No one knows where the moon machine is. We don’t know what the Sect has planned with their Futurology Institute. But you could get the answers to those questions.”
“If I had the Bracelet. . .” I’m beginning to understand Ixchel’s suggestion. “If I time travelled . . . into the future.”
“If we time travelled. . .”
“You don’t want to go through all that again, do you?”
“No, Josh,” she says softly. “If you go, I go. That’s the deal. I don’t want to wind up being separated from you.”
“But that wouldn’t happen. I can always use the default to get back to my starting point. And if I only travel forward, to the future, there’s no danger of changing the past.”
Ixchel sighs. “I don’t know, Josh. All that time-travel causality business confuses me. But I bet it’s possible to mess things up, somehow.”