THE MAYAN GLYPH

by Larry Baxter

  "How long will you need to finish the translation?" asked Robert.

  She stared at the wall for another minute. "Hard to say. Some of these glyphs are like nothing I've ever seen."

  Chapter 34

  * * *

  Cancún City, November 12, 2010

  The barroom was floored with hard packed brown dirt and smelled of beer and urine. The walls, roughly framed in two by fours, were decorated with an assortment of calendars from auto parts companies and breweries. No insulation was needed in this climate, so the galvanized corrugated steel was simply nailed to the framing and the roof rafters. A steel panel had been ripped off by the last hurricane and hung by a corner, swinging and scraping in the breeze and revealing a large slice of dark sky. One side of the room was the bar, a huge refrigerator stocked with beer, and rows of transparent glass bottles racked without labels. Muñoz and Antonio Martinez sat in the exposed corner for privacy as the regulars tended to hang out in the protected end of the room.

  Muñoz lifted his shirt and revealed a wide swath of bandages. "See this? Focking Ernesto did it."

  "Caramba! With a knife?"

  "Focking Ernesto thinks I told the college archaeologists what he was doing."

  "You did?"

  "No." Muñoz popped the lime section into his mouth, chewed it and swallowed half a bottle of Corona. "I did not." He slammed the bottle down. "We had a slick deal, working both sides. I got a nice car out of it. But I have thought this over carefully. I will kill Ernesto, next time he lands here."

  "He is said to be tough to kill—"

  "You can help." Martinez whitened.

  "But there is the very generous payment—"

  "There are some problems with the very generous payment. If you follow the news, the college boy was telling the truth. You read the newspaper? There will be so much pressure here the top will blow off. You see the virus in Texas? Everybody in the U.S. is very excited about this. The college boy is working on some kind of cure, he needs to get into the cave."

  "So? Ernesto will squash him."

  "Maybe, maybe not. There's going to be backup. Mexican army, U.S. Marines, who knows. Ernesto ain't gonna make it. He'll rat us out if he gets a chance. So we switch sides first, so we don't get caught with our hands in the cookie jar." He jerked his head towards the bar and Antonio jumped up for two more Coronas.

  Muñoz popped a fresh lime into his mouth and took a generous gulp. "Another problem: Ernesto pissed me off. Here's the plan. Suppose we were to help the college boy? We could get the Guardia Nacional, maybe a hundred men, or a SWAT team from Mexico City if there's time. We tell them we're going to capture a few dozen drug smugglers from South America and a ton of coke. We take Ernesto and whoever he brought for muscle, we make sure Ernesto gets killed in the action, and impound the inventory. There'll be a lot of confusion, and if it turns out Ernesto's rocket things weren't all full, who'll know?"

  "How do we sell the stuff?"

  "I got a contact or two in Tijuana that can take it at half price—all we got—no questions asked. We might clear a couple of million pesos. You get twenty percent. You ever want to live in Jamaica?"

  Chapter 35

  * * *

  Akumal, November 13, 2010

  Robert woke early, dressed quickly in shorts and T-shirt, and powered up the videoconference system to talk to Dr. Teppin. Teppin's image formed in the small display and the speaker emitted the sound of Boston traffic.

  "Teppin."

  "Good morning, Dr. Teppin. Mexico calling," said Robert.

  "So I see. Set the camera up on that railing so I can look at the ocean, would you? Yes—perfect—thank you. Not that you are difficult to look at, you understand, it is just that the ocean there is such a different shade of blue. Something in the algae, I think. Now, what is happening?"

  "We scored. We found a cave system under Tulum—perfectly preserved—covered with glyphs and with charge microscope images. We also found a pile of statues, jade, gold, jewels. And we found the charge microscope they must have used, 1,200 years ago."

  "That's incredible. Even though we knew it had to be there, it is still a shock. This will revolutionize Mesoamerican studies. The virus, what about the virus? Did you find virus molecule images, too?"

  "Yes, sir. The Austin virus molecule was there. An image we thought was the antiviral was there, and from the nearby glyphs, it appears that we guessed right. It looks as if the entire cave was set up to record and preserve the knowledge of Tulum. This is the Mesoamerican version of the Library of Alexandria. I'll show you some video we shot in the caves, if you can tear yourself away from the ocean."

  "Please. Wait, let me see if Gary Spender is on line, he'll want to see this too." A minute later he announced that Spender was away from the video terminal, but he was on audio.

  Spender's voice came through, sounding far away, "Robert, hello, I hear you're making progress."

  "Very exciting, Gary. I'll run the video for you." He keyed the machine on.

  "There! I'll pause that, that's the Maya version of the charge microscope. It looks like they had mastered its use and also mastered the technology of using its images to design biological materials. Here, they're showing the method they used to produce the antiviral. It's pretty clearly something that they harvested from the rain forest, but our translators aren't sure exactly what. But Teresa's got a good-sized team on it, I bet a day or two does it."

  "Is there any evidence that the antiviral worked for the Maya?"

  "Yes, indirectly," said Robert. "The glyphs in Uxmal seemed to say that, and also this entire cave seems to be a how-to book for the Maya, they didn't record failed experiments here."

  "Let me fill you in with the news from here," said Teppin. "It can be summarized with this graph."

  Teppin sketched a few lines with his mouse.

  "First, the deaths from the virus—the solid line—are increasing at a high-order exponential rate. The population of the world would be dead in fourteen months if this curve continued. Second, the deaths from violence—the dotted line—are starting late but threatening to cross over soon. This outbreak is so frightening, the symptoms of the disease so ugly, that some Texans near the isolation zone are shooting strangers who get close. Dr. Spender, have you seen this violence?"

  "We've heard reports, and we've heard a lot of shooting in the distance, but we are very well protected by National Guard and regular Army troops. It is like a war, here, though, I've seen napalm drops inside the red zone, and we have maybe ten thousand troops enforcing quarantine. But I think some of the troops are running out on us."

  "Is the buffer holding?"

  "It's more like the buffer du jour. I don't think anything is going to hold this thing. It's like holding light in a bottle."

  "How about Houston?" Robert asked.

  "Houston is directly downwind," said Spender. "It will be evacuated as a precaution, but many people are leaving. Your daughter and her family are not at home, we think they probably evacuated."

  Robert felt his fists clench, his nails digging into his flesh. Goddamn better have evacuated. "Then what we've got here is the best shot? What if we can't get any farther?"

  Teppin answered him, "We may all be dead. I do not consider myself a religious man, but I've been doing a lot of praying lately. I know you do not want any more pressure than you have already, but we have nothing else. I am sending down a team, maybe twenty people."

  "Twenty people? They'll be bumping into each other."

  "You can keep them straightened out. Half of them will be on standby to set up a pilot production line in case you can give them anything to work with. Some will help with administration, the nuts and bolts of keeping everybody fed. Some will help with translation. Some will help with synthesis and analysis. We will set up and staff a field hospital and have medical staff standing by in case they get anything to administer."

  "But, why not have this installation in the States?" asked Robert. "It would be much ea
sier to handle the logistics."

  "Time. Look at the curve. In a few weeks, saving an hour will mean saving a thousand lives. Now, until you find the cure, time is free. And maybe the antiviral can be found only in Mexico."

  "All right, that makes sense, send 'em down. We'll see if we can keep them busy."

  "We have been in contact with the Mexican government and they pledge complete support. The Guardia Nacional has been mobilized and a battalion will be deployed in the Yucatán to help in whatever way they can. They are preparing for possible virus outbreaks."

  "In the Yucatán?"

  "Yes. You see, the source of the virus outbreak at Austin seems to be understood now. The archaeological team members that were the first to die visited some of the more remote sites—Copán, Yaxchilán—and excavated extensively in Uxmal. It is probable that a human, bird, animal, or insect vector in the Yucatán is responsible, almost certainly at the Uxmal site."

  "That would imply that the Maya themselves may be carriers?"

  "Possibly. They may be racially immune after surviving the attack in the ninth century. But it is more probable that the virus just lay dormant in some pocket of vegetation for hundreds of years until it was disturbed. In any case, you can expect to see an outbreak in the interior Yucatán soon, or it may be happening already. You must take every precaution. We will send appropriate isolation gear. One mitigating factor is that the virus may need high humidity to propagate and you are coming into the dry season there."

  "And it must be inhaled?"

  "Yes, that has been proved."

  "Suppose we do dig up a candidate antiviral? How do we test it?

  "Good question. I can get you any number of victims, but then we have the hazard of starting a new outbreak if the virus escapes containment. I think that is not a good risk at this time. We will fly the antiviral to Texas. I have asked for military jets to stand by at the Cancún airport, Mexico has provided two F-14's. Contact a Colonel Estancía. No, I will have him contact you. Of course, if there is the outbreak in the Yucatán jungle, you have your test subjects."

  "We have a lot to do."

  "Be ready for the new people, think carefully how you will set up for them. Your job title is changing from research to management."

  Chapter 36

  * * *

  Uxmal, November 13, 2010

  Ixtac lay on his belly at the edge of the clearing. He was a small man, just a little less than five feet tall, not quite one hundred pounds, a perfect size for this night. He felt the excitement begin to flow in his veins as he looked over the scene.

  Ixtac's small size and his dark skin would help him now, would make him invisible to the guards. The moon was overhead now, a big enough sliver so that Ixtac's dark-adapted eyes could make out the bright wide ribbon that stretched around the clearing with its printed warnings, "muy Peligroso" and "prohibidad! Politzia," and the three-pointed symbol that Ixtac did not recognize. Perhaps the symbol of the company that had made the ribbon.

  Ixtac had visited many of the areas where the gringos dug into the earth to find the sacred places of his ancestors, and he knew that the treasures were not for the gringos but for him—Ixtac, with the pure Maya blood. In his visits—quiet visits well after dark—he had saved Maya things from the gringos. Alvarez, in the town of Playa del Carmen, would buy these things. Alvarez would pay many pesos for the statues of the jaguar god or the frog god made from the green stone and the black stone, and Alvarez would take them—he had once said to Ixtac—to the big museum in Mexico City where the Maya could all see them.

  Once Ixtac had seen a frog god made from the green stone hanging around the neck of a fat old gringo woman in Playa del Carmen. It looked like the one he had sold Alvarez only a week before and he wondered if perhaps Alvarez was not completely honest, but then he thought that there must be many similar green stone frog gods in the world and it would not be the same one.

  Ixtac saw the shiny metal trailer with the same three-pointed symbol and in it two guards, listening to the radio and smoking cigarettes. On both sides of the spot where he was hiding stood the posts with the black glass spots. He knew about the posts, he had crawled between these posts in Palenque when he was a young boy and the posts had screamed like the jungle pig when you put an arrow in it—like a thousand jungle pigs—and all the lights had come on and he had run like a crazy man.

  He did not see the dogs but he had brought their dinner—the rabbit his wife had skinned for him the week before—and he himself had slit the rabbit open and poured the bottle of the fluid he got from his cousin who worked at the hospital.

  He had carried the rabbit on the bus from Akumal and he knew the dogs would find the rabbit of much interest as the others on the bus did not sit with him in the last row or in the row next to him or even the row in front of that one.

  Now he pulled the rabbit from the big bag on his back and slung it thirty feet away. The small noise when it fell or maybe its strong smell brought the dogs quickly—strong-looking dogs—two dogs that moved quietly to the rabbit and quietly ate it, making a low growling only when one seemed to be taking more than a fair part. Then soon the dogs laid down and were quiet.

  Ixtac dug with his machete a shallow hole under where the posts looked at each other through the black glass, removed his bag, and pushed it ahead as he crawled through. He could use his flashlight now as the guards were in the brightly lit trailer, and he picked his way over the trenches and under the tight white strings and found the great block of the tomb under a blue tarpaulin in the center of the mesa.

  He cut a hole in the tarpaulin on the side away from the guards and looked at the heavy cover with dismay, but he found a crack where he could lever the stone with his machete and then chip out a new resting place for the tip of the blade and lever the stone again.

  After an hour and a half, Ixtac had a hole of sufficient size to squeeze through. He dropped into the tomb and sifted through the dust and chips of wood and pieces of stone and fabric and bone, trying not to breathe the stench which was not as strong as the rabbit but which somehow made his stomach clench. When he saw the first lightening of the sky he had found only a few old coins. Alvarez would give him maybe enough pesos to pay for the bus. His wife would tell him again to get a job at the hotel, and she would sleep with her face towards the wall for a week.

  Ixtac sighed, scrambled back through the tomb, burrowed again under the eyes of the posts with the black glass, and walked back out to the road. He would use his thumb to go home, he was no longer a man rich enough to take the bus.

  * * *

  Ixtac found Alvarez drinking tequila con limon in the Green Parrot. Alvarez signaled for the waiter and provided Ixtac with tequila also, then shook the coins out on the table and studied the coins for many minutes, then washed them with tequila and studied them some more, and then surprised Ixtac by handing him enough pesos to keep him drunk for a month.

  * * *

  As the sun came up, Ixtac woke with a mezcal hangover that banged against the inside of his head and made his legs weak. He checked that the remaining pesos were safe in the bag with his tools and left the alley where he had slept to find his way home before his wife became too worried. Now perhaps she would not face the wall and pretend to fall asleep.

  Ixtac worked his way home through the jungle near Akumal, taking the diagonal route from where the banana truck had dropped him off, and came upon a strange thing. Many men in dark clothes were there, most carrying big rifles, looking fiercely about as if for something to shoot. Dark men, not gringos, but not clean-shaven like the Federales.

  He would pick up a little bonus. But it was daylight now and he would need to be careful. He picked up a big bo-tan leaf and tucked it into his rope belt, and wriggled his way with the patience of the jaguar into the camp—his slender body no higher than the grass—moving along fissures in the rough rocky ground.

  Ixtac found a big rifle and pulled it to him, wishing he knew how it worked, but then he stopped
as a strange feeling of tightness in his throat stopped his breath for a moment and he gave a great cough before he could think how to stop it and he closed his eyes almost shut and tried to sink deeply into the ground, his small body braced for the blows of the bullets.

  Ixtac's cough launched a fog of aerosol particles into the air at near-supersonic speed. As Ixtac's throat and nasal passages were rich with the virus, each microscopic droplet hosted between a hundred and a thousand molecules of the deadliest virus ever evolved. Each molecule was a single strand of RNA, measuring only one millionth of an inch long, in the shape of a nail, floating inside the drop. The day was not humid and the drops evaporated rapidly, mostly within a few feet. The virus particles died a millisecond later, their hydrocarbon constituent elements oxidizing and rearranging themselves into an amorphous, inert fleck of dust and wafting away.

  But one larger drop wafted upwards in a vagrant air current, ventured near the nose of the Columbian sentry, and was inhaled. It successfully dodged a thicket of nose hair and landed on the man's nasal passage where it slowly evaporated, but not before several molecules of the RNA virus found a home. Their new home was warm, moist, and rich with amino acids and proteins, and they settled in comfortably, contemplating mitosis. In five minutes, they had divided into six molecules. In ten minutes, twelve molecules. In an hour, twenty-five million.

  "Esteban!" shouted a voice, moving closer. "That you?"

  It was Esteban that coughed, thought Ixtac. Not me. Esteban.

  Finally the owner of the voice came walking straight at Ixtac, and Ixtac thought the beating of his heart would give him away, but the man stepped over him as if he was a weed or a rock and walked down the little hill, calling still for the missing Esteban. Ixtac dropped the rifle and crawled quickly—low like a snake—away from the camp.