by M. G. Harris
“Until it’s all over? What does that mean?”
“We’ve gone back to my last point of origin, but exactly ten minutes before I set out, and displaced by around twenty metres. That’s how I know what is about to happen: I’ve been here before. I’ve seen it, but from a different viewpoint. Simon Madison – Martineau’s son – Ixchel and me, are about to come crashing into the woods on motorbikes. Then he wallops Ixchel. I drag him into the future with me.”
“The future.”
“Yep – 2014. Where I met you.”
“So right now there are two yous running around?”
“No. There were two of me where we’ve just been – me and other-Josh. But the Josh that is about to come into the woods chased by Madison, he is me. He’s me from a couple of days ago, before my trip to 2014.”
“Pure madness.”
“Yeah, it is a bit. It’s like looking in a mirror – with a time delay. I see him, I know about him, because he’s in my own memory. He is me, but he doesn’t know about me. He’s about to time-jump into the future – to 2014 where he’ll meet you. I have to keep it that way. Or else . . . or else I’ll create a time paradox. Or something.”
“What if you did something to help him?”
“I could. Once, I actually did – I did something to help myself, ten minutes in the past. But this time, I know that I didn’t do anything, see? So I won’t.”
Tyler gives me an incredulous stare. “Huh?”
I try to think of another way to explain it. “If I were sitting here now, remembering that I left myself something handy, a weapon or something, then I’d go, aha, I need to go and leave that in place right now, so past-me can find it.”
“But you’re not going to?”
I sigh. “No, see, because I didn’t.”
We’re silent for a minute. I look at Tyler’s shoulder. He’s trying to find a comfortable position for his arm and failing.
“You’re losing blood.”
He grits his teeth. “I know, muppet, we need to tie it up.”
I stand up and take off my hoody and T-shirt. I pull the hoody back on and tear the cotton shirt into strips. Tying the cloth hard and tight, I bandage Tyler’s shoulder, then use the rest of the torn shirt to wipe Tyler’s face. He grimaces. “Wipe your own face.”
“No need to thank me.”
“Thank you for what, Josh, for dragging me back to hell?”
“Funny, I thought we just came from there.”
“Didn’t I make it blatantly clear, moron, I don’t want to go through the end of 2012 again?”
“We’re going to prevent it. It won’t be like what happened in your timeline.”
“Prevent it – how?”
“I’ve got the sample of hip33. Someone will be able to synthesize an antidote. The Sect won’t be able to use their mind control.”
“And the superwave, you’ve got some way of stopping that too?”
I don’t answer. Tyler’s got a point – my mission has only been partly successful.
I’m no clearer on what can be done to stop the superwave. Bosch came from a future where the superwave isn’t stopped. I’ve just been to a future where the superwave isn’t stopped. In fact, the only future realities that seem to be linked to any time travelling – they all seem to be doomed by the superwave.
Maybe it can’t be stopped?
Maybe it is fate.
Tyler breathes hard through his mouth, struggling to contain the pain. This waiting is tough on him, I can see. “Why you?”
The question throws me. I peer into the woods and once again glance at my watch. Surely it must be almost time for the motorbikes to arrive. When I look back, Tyler is still facing me with a hard, expectant gaze. “Why me?” I say. “Because some scientist from the twenty-second century time travelled, changed the past. He genetically engineered four boys to be able to resist some poisons, and used those poisons to protect all his secrets. I’m descended from one of those kids – from his own son, actually. I was born with a gene that protects me. So – that’s why me.”
“But why are you the one who’s time travelling? Your magic bracelet – is that poisoned too?”
“No . . . no, it isn’t. But you need some kind of gene to use it.”
“The ‘jelf’ gene? The one they test for before they make you a blue-blood?”
“Yeah, when you told me about ‘jelf’ I did wonder the same thing,” I admit. “That’s why I asked if you know what it does.”
“If it’s ‘jelf’, then you were born with it.”
“I don’t know if I was born with the ability to use the Bracelet, or if it’s one of the things the Sect changed about me. The first time I used it, was after they changed me.”
“The Sect . . . you mean the Emergency Government?”
“Yes. They started their genetic engineering programme a while ago. What you called making blue-bloods – they tested it on me a while back.”
“Reckon any blue-blood can use the Bracelet?”
“No idea, Ty. Want to give it a go?”
Tyler stares at me with curious detachment. “You’re playing with people’s lives.”
“It’s not a game.”
I lean back, follow a brightly coloured bird as it flies from a low branch and up into the tree canopy. The needle-clad branches are pine-dark silhouettes against a featureless, whited-out sky. I turn around slowly so that the world seems to rotate, stretch out my arms and feel the warm air, heavy with moisture as it clings to my fingertips.
Without looking down at Tyler I say, “It’s going to rain.”
A light drizzle begins. Seconds later the tension snaps. The high-pitched roars of two motorcycle engines shatter the stillness. The dull, metallic throb of helicopter blades whirring follows close behind. Moist wood cracks and breaks as the motorbikes enter the woods. We hear wheels spinning, loose soil and pine needles sent flying into the air.
For a second or two Tyler looks at a loss. I indicate that we should both lay low. We scramble for cover behind two thick-trunked pines and try to catch a glimpse of the action.
Ixchel’s and my encounter with Madison takes place noisily, a little distance away. We’re close enough to hear everything but our view is obscured. It’s difficult not to intervene, especially when I recall the swingeing blow that Madison delivered to Ixchel.
But Tyler is injured, and what’s happening barely twenty metres away – that is my past. Already written, already part of me. I can no more disturb that than I can rip out my own memory.
So I close my eyes and try to block what I’m hearing. Until I hear Ixchel yell, until there’s no sound but the incessant pounding of the helicopter blades above. Slowly, I rise to my feet and prepare to scare the wits out of Ixchel.
When she sees me, she flinches. “You came back for me.”
I reach for her, trying to find words, but I can’t. She lets herself be pulled close, lets me hug her tight, but after a few seconds she pushes me away. Her eyes are filled with eagerness. It takes another few seconds of gazing into my eyes before Ixchel understands. When she does she pulls away, confused and hurt.
“You’ve already been? How long have you been gone?”
“Hardly at all. A couple of days.”
Her voice becomes colder. “Why didn’t you come back for me?”
“Madison was there. I had to run.”
“Josh . . . what happened?”
Tyler emerges from the trees, one hand propping up his injured arm. Unsteadily, he makes his way over. “This your girl, Josh?” He wavers. I grab hold of his good arm and take some of Tyler’s weight. “The name’s Tyler. Josh speaks very highly of you.”
Ixchel’s eyes run over both of us, struggling to comprehend. “Tyler. . .” she says after a while. “Interesting move, with the hair. And they did something to you, didn’t they? Like with Josh. They changed your eyes, too.”
Tyler tries to smile, but wobbles, falling against me.
“How bad is
he hurt?”
“He’s losing blood,” I say. “Will you phone Montoyo? I struggle to keep Tyler upright. “Mate, I’m so sorry. People are always getting shot at because of me.”
Ixchel makes the call. She has to cover one ear to be able to hear about the drone of the helicopter blades. Her face seems very controlled throughout. My guess is that there was some yelling on the other end of the phone.
“Montoyo is sending someone. But they’re going to take at least twenty-five minutes to arrive. We need to get away from here. The police bike is still here . . . and that helicopter is going to be tracking us.”
“The Muwan can take out the helicopter with an ion burst,” I say. “But the Mexican motorcycle cops are going to be here soon, and that’s definitely a problem.”
Ixchel retrieves our Honda and the helmets we didn’t have time to put on when Madison gave chase. Meanwhile, I prop up a fading Tyler and give him my helmet. We just manage to squeeze the three of us on the bike, with Tyler in the middle. He flinches when the bike starts moving; each bump we ride over seems to cause him agony.
But even the Tyler I knew was a tough, resilient guy. And this Tyler is battle-hardened, a leader, a survivor of the apocalypse. I know I can count on him.
We ride through the woods, weaving through the pines for around thirty minutes. The fresh hillside air of the woods is replaced suddenly by the acrid smell of hot asphalt. A light drizzle begins to mist the air; I have to squint to keep the moisture out of my eyes.
Ixchel keeps her phone dialled in to Ek Naab so they can track us. The Sect helicopter is a persistent irritant in the sky above us. It can’t land, but on the other hand we can’t risk coming into the clear. Eventually, the Muwan arrives from Ek Naab. We’re deep in the forest by now; according to the satnav, several kilometres from the nearest road.
We watch through the pine canopy as two electrical bursts erupt from the Muwan Mark I: the ion volley in action, at last.
The helicopter doesn’t wait for a third. It visibly falters, then stalls once and loses altitude. It turns and heads back towards San Cristobal. Those electrical bursts will have taken out most of their systems – I guess they’re lucky to be alive.
Once the helicopter’s out of the way, the Muwan finds a clearing in which to land. The pilot is none other than Rafa himself, who prepped the craft for my Crazy Benicio lesson. Rafa says nothing at all as we get Tyler into one of the passenger seats: a combination of sheer brute force, dragging him up the ladder and the odd moment of cajoling.
Then Rafa sends me back outside so that I can stow the motorcycle. Once I’m back inside the Muwan, he closes the cockpit and pulls away from the ground on a heading for Becan.
“You’re in deep trouble, my friend.”
“What’s up . . . is it Benicio?”
“I’ll get him later. He’s OK, apart from a slight run-in with the police. Your motorbike clocked up quite a few suspicions; they traced it back to Benicio. He reported it as stolen, said the thieves shot him in the leg, so the cops are leaving him alone, for now.”
“That was quick thinking.”
“Sure was. But you, on the other hand, you managed to let the NRO capture a Muwan Mark II.”
There’s nothing I can say to that, so I turn to watch Ixchel looking at Tyler. He’s pale now, looks barely conscious. From under my seat I take a bottle of water. Rafa points me to a packet of emergency supplies that he’s tossed on to the floor of the Muwan. Passing two painkilling tablets to Ixchel, I tell her to help Tyler. He swallows them with difficulty.
As I stare at Tyler, his throwaway comment a little while ago returns to me:
Reckon any blue-blood can use the Bracelet?
I thought he was just being flippant. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to me. But when I really think about it – the idea might actually stand up.
The truth is that I don’t know how or why I can use the Bracelet. I always assumed it was because of being a Bakab Ix. Montoyo can’t use the Bracelet of Itzamna, but I can. So can Blanco Vigores – another Bakab. So could Marius Martineau, who, like his son Simon Madison, carries the Ix gene.
But what about Bosch? What about Arcadio?
Tyler’s been altered genetically by the Sect, just like me. Could it be that Tyler also has the gene that lets him use the Bracelet of Itzamna?
Back in the Garcias’ house in the Lake District, I mentioned that anyone in the room had the knowledge to become Arcadio; I’d just written down the text of Arcadio’s coded postcard messages to me. The two books that Arcadio liked to quote from were in the house: the books by Italo Calvino and Jorge Luis Borges.
And Arcadio’s all-time favourite, Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatan by John Lloyd Stephens; that was in the house too.
Is it Tyler who will read those books?
Tyler is a leader, a man of action. I can see him having the drive to become Arcadio. To spend half a lifetime obsessed with the secrets of time travel. He has the blue eyes; he knows about the whole story of Arcadio and me and Susannah St John.
There are no photos of Arcadio – no portraits. He wouldn’t let his image be recorded. And everyone that I know who has met him is deliberately vague. Almost as though they’re trying to throw me off the trail.
Did Arcadio tell them never to describe him? Was he trying to hide his identity – in case I tried to change his past?
Rafa pulls me back into the world of trouble that’s waiting for me in Ek Naab. “The NRO found the Muwan you left in that cavern in Tacana.” He shakes his head, gravely. “I’ve never seen Chief Sky Mountain this angry. I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw you into the cenote all by himself, Josh.”
I could try to defend myself, to explain why we went to Chile, why we had to outrun the NRO, why I didn’t make it back to Ek Naab.
But I don’t, I can’t. I’m distracted by one insistent thought.
Is Arcadio sitting in the back of this Muwan?
Well, it’s back to face the music in Ek Naab.
There’s no doubt that Benicio was right in his prediction: my future as a Sky Guardian is on the line. Taking a Muwan without permission, without an assignment – that was bad enough.
Montoyo won’t be surprised at what I’ve done – he knows me too well.
But losing a Muwan to the NRO is in a different league.
Just one ace left to play. Hopefully the vials of hip33 in my pocket will swing it. Ek Naab’s Chief Scientist, Lorena, has a team that will be able to crack the secret of the Sect’s plans for mind control.
It’s not the same as using the 2012 plan to protect the planet from the superwave. But it’s a start – a kind of hope. A tiny consolation in the empty void of terror that lurks somewhere ahead.
Perhaps for the first time, I have a real sense of what we’re up against. The cosmos and the world’s reliance on computer networks are going to do almost all their dirty work for the Sect of Huracan. Like the hurricane they’re named for, that cataclysm will crack open the door. And then the Sect will blow it open with a world of chaos. Total disorganization as financial and communication networks grind to a halt. Every government in the world will be brought to the brink of collapse.
All the Sect need to do is to be the first organization to get the world back on its feet. They’ll control the destiny of the whole planet. From what I’ve seen, they’ve spend decades planning for the collapse.
I’ve only seen the after-effects, but that’s enough to give me night terrors. In fact, I don’t know how I’ll sleep again until I know Lorena has the antidote.
There are already thousands of secret members of the Sect, smug with the knowledge of their specialness, the fact that they’ve been selected to survive the apocalypse. I reckon they don’t even think what they’re doing is wrong. For a chance to rebuild the future according to their own plans, they’re prepared to let pandemonium rule, to let billions die – wiped out by what they see as a natural disaster.
A better to
morrow for the best.
Or is it really a “natural” disaster? From what I’ve seen of the leaders of the Sect, Marius Martineau and Melissa DiCanio, they might even be capable of helping along a natural disaster. DiCanio’s company, Chaldexx Biopharmaceuticals, would probably have access to genetically engineered biological weapons.
What if it is no accident that a plague is unleashed after the turmoil of 2012?
The thought of what might be waiting for us all, just months from now, puts ice in my veins. I’m determined, Montoyo is determined, the whole darn city of Ek Naab is determined. But against that, I can’t forget that in Bosch’s future and the only future I’ve seen, the Sect win; the galactic superwave hits the planet and the Sect take over.
What if there is no way to prevent what is coming?
I glance at Tyler. The white-gold of his bleached hair is edged with his own blood. He’s dozing now, relaxed. Trusting us to get him to safety. Trusting people in Ek Naab to put things straight in this world. I get a pang of guilt about what I’m doing to Tyler. The way I see it, either he goes back to his grim post-2012 future, or I do. One way or another, the destiny of his reality and mine are intertwined.
Either Tyler is Arcadio, or I am.
The homing signals of Ek Naab register in the navigational readings. Rafa selects an automatic docking programme and steadies one hand on the steering controls, just in case we need any adjustments to the final descent. The hangar bay opens like a yawn in the woods. Rafa guides the craft inside. Just before we land we send a signal calling for an emergency-response medical team.
When the cockpit opens there’s already a stretcher waiting, with two medics. Beside them is the stocky, muscular figure of Chief Sky Mountain, the mayor of Ek Naab. His tanned skin and a thick white plait give him an air of stark gravity. He’s dressed in a plain white linen tunic-shirt and loose trousers and wears a calm expression, but his mouth is a tense, thin line.
Slightly frazzled, I clamber out of the cockpit and help the medics to get Tyler out.