Invisible City (33 page)

I do as he says. The dimple studs are tiny depressions on the left and right sides of the box, inside which are tiny hidden buttons. These yield only to hard pressure, enough to mark my fingertips after holding them in for ten seconds. Nothing happens until the tenth second. Then I hear a hissing sound, like a vacuum being released. Around the edges of the top of the case, a crease appears. Until then, the volume looked
impossible to open. I run my fingers along the crease and dig a fingernail underneath. The hissing sound grows louder for a second. Then there's a final little
pop
. The lid springs open.

Inside there's a pile of thick parchment pages, tanned with age, folded concertina-fashion, just like Mayan codices I've seen in museums. The hieroglyphs are rendered in faded colors. The pages are thick, densely covered with glyphic writing.

“Pick it up,” Vigores says with pride. “Your ancestors' work.”

“Itzamna wrote this?”

“Not this actual codex. You'll see no codex this old—almost fifteen hundred years! It's almost a shame to destroy it, but destroy it we must.”

“What?” I can barely hide my indignation. After everything I've been through to bring it back?

“You misunderstand. Parchment doesn't preserve well; even in a hermetic environment like this case, its days are numbered. Therefore, a Bakab must make a faithful transcription at least every fifty years. Only when the reproduction has been passed as a faithful and authentic transcription by the other three Bakabs do we destroy the former version.”

“Why?”

“Such was Itzamna's instruction.”

“But why? You could copy it, scan it, distribute it—”

Vigores interrupts gently, “This knowledge isn't for general consumption, Josh.”

“You want to keep all this knowledge to yourselves?” I ask. “You think that's right?”

Vigores says, “So have we been instructed.”

“That's what Madison has against you all, you know.”

Vigores just nods calmly.

“That's what he said. ‘We're gonna do what the
conquista
should have done. We're gonna finish off Ek Naab.' Something along those lines.”

“The information in the Ix Codex will lead to a powerful technology. Perhaps the most powerful yet—the technology to counteract the electromagnetic pulse of the superwave. That power mustn't fall into the wrong hands, Josh.”

“But
how
will it do that?”

“Well,” he says with a bashful grin, “we haven't read the codex yet. We need to transcribe, then decipher it. Now”—he taps the space beside us with his white stick—“seal the case again. The sea air is highly damaging to parchment.”

I take a final glance at the parchment pages. It's incredible to think they can hold such a secret. And to anyone but the people in Ek Naab, the writing is total gobbledygook. Written in a code, using Mayan glyphs. Then I close the codex case and return it to the sisal backpack, safely at the other end of the bench.

“But this amazing power … it's safe in your hands?”

“We're not interested in world domination, Josh. We're guardians of an ancient secret, something that will preserve civilization on the planet. Every member of Ek Naab's community is dedicated to that end.”

“And what happens after 2012?”

Vigores sighs. “Well, that's another matter.”

“So it could be that everything Itzamna did was to save civilization from the 2012 thing?”

“Yes.”

“And after 2012, you're free. Ek Naab will have this amazing technology. What will they do with it?”

Vigores looks thoughtful. “By then you'll be part of the Executive. You can shape the destiny of Ek Naab. In fact, young Josh, I'm sure that you will. As for the technology being safe in our hands, the alternative is rather more dangerous. Josh, if we don't develop this technology, at the end of 2012, the world will be propelled back into the nineteenth century, with the population problems of the twenty-first. Oh, without computers there won't be any machinery of war. But as we've seen, if people want to kill each other badly enough, they'll use knives, axes, clubs. And millions can die.”

I struggle to grasp the implications of the vast responsibility they've suddenly burdened me with. If I choose to help them, to follow the destiny that's been laid out for me, I might save civilization, sure—while equipping Ek Naab with the kind of
power that would corrupt anyone. If I don't, then I can join the club of “people who destroyed civilization.”

“You hesitate only because you don't believe in your heart that a civilization can end,” Vigores remarks. “You've lived your whole life in a thriving civilization that can see its direct, unbroken origins in the Middle Ages. But remember for one minute what you've seen of fallen empires—the ancient Greeks, Romans. Of us, here in Mexico. Just as you've walked in the ruined streets of our Mayan cities, don't imagine that one day people won't stroll through the ruins of Manhattan, or London. This has happened to every other civilization on the planet so far. It will happen again. We all exist in the shadow of tomorrow.”

“What will you do with the codex now?”

“I'll take it back to Ek Naab and we'll begin the transcription. A pilot will pick me up shortly.”

“Not Benicio?”

“Benicio has other orders. You should go to him now. Say your good-byes.”

I stare at Vigores again. I feel as though I'm missing something here. Like there's something between us, something unsaid. He seems sad and resigned and I don't understand why.

All I can manage to say is, “So, you and me. Think we'll ever meet again?”

He nods. “I'm sure of it. But not for a while. I suspect you'll grow up a great deal before we do.”

“Well … yeah, of course. I'm not a little kid anymore.”

Almost wistfully, he replies, “That's true. I wish it didn't have to happen so quickly. But there it is. Things are what they are.”

His manner suddenly changes. “Now go. Benicio will be waiting for you.”

“Don't forget the gas mask,” I say. Vigores nods absent-mindedly. I'm worried that he hasn't heard me, so I push the gas mask into his hands. I picture the codex being received in Ek Naab. By a bunch of Mayans wearing full-on protective clothing, I'd guess.

Still staring into the water, Vigores tells me, “Josh, you've made us prouder than you can know.”

I don't know what to say other than, “Thanks.”

“Good-bye, young Josh.”

“Good-bye,” I tell him, standing up, trying to think of something else to say. “I'll keep in touch.”

And then his face turns up, looks in my direction. “One more thing, Josh. The storm.”

“Yeah, it hit-big time,” I say. “In Catemaco.”

Vigores shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “It's yet to come.”

“Uh … okay,” I say. Why is he telling me about a storm? “I'll warn Benicio …”

Vigores just looks right past me as I walk away. Well, I guess he
is
blind. I leave him sitting on the riverbank and catch up with Benicio in front of Hotel Delfin.

Benicio turns to me, arms outstretched. “Give me a hug, cousin. This is good-bye.”

“So you're not going back to Ek Naab?”

“Not me, not right now. I've got something else to do.”

I hover, curious. “Yeah, Vigores said. What's up?”

When he answers, Benicio seems almost reluctant to speak. “Well, it's about Ixchel. She didn't come back yet, which is kind of strange. We've lost touch with her.”

“She's done this before?”

Benicio looks glum. “Uh-huh.”

“She keeps running away from home?”

“Well … she is kinda angry with the decision of the
atanzahab
.”

“The matchmaker?”

Suddenly it all makes sense. The arranged marriages for the Bakabs. The sudden appearance in her life of the last guy in the world she wanted to see.

“It's me, isn't it?” I say slowly. “She's supposed to marry
me
. And she doesn't want to.”

Benicio says nothing, flashing me a look that's somewhere between sympathy and annoyance.

It's nothing personal
, Ixchel had said.
A matter of principle
.

Now it's pretty clear—those words were really intended for me. I don't want an arranged marriage either. Well, of course not. But I don't much like the feeling I'm getting right now.

“She ‘usually comes back,'” I say. “But now that she's actually met me, she's gone for good?”

“It's not personal,” murmurs Benicio.

“Why are
you
going? Shouldn't it be me?”

“You?” Benicio laughs. “You're a kid! You don't know your way around Mexico.”

Angrily, I say, “I did okay. Found the codex, didn't I?”

“Hey, you already knew where it was. Montoyo told us about your dream. That's why I let you go.”

I'm stunned. “You … let me go?”

“I saw what happened on the beach with Madison, saw your friends rescue you.”

I stare at him, dumbstruck.

Benicio continues. “I saw you leave your friends at the gas station. So I called to Carlos. And he ordered me not to pick you up. To let you wander. You had a journey to complete, Josh. You carried the location of the codex in your subconscious.”

“You let me go …?” I repeat, reeling.

“I lost you in Acayucan,” he comments. “Looked for you in the bus station. Guess you didn't get off the bus.”

“You were tailing me?”

“On a motorcycle. We carry one in the belly of the Muwan.”

“A Harley?”

“Yeah.”

I stare at him. “I saw you.”

“When I lost you,” Benicio says, “I went back to the Muwan, back to Ek Naab.”

“Good thing for me I got that cell phone working.”

“They can survive almost anything, those phones.”

I'm silent, chewing my lip. It's tough to deal with the fact that the Mayans were prepared to leave me in situations of potential violence, of real danger.

Benicio touches my arm. “We didn't hang you out to dry, Josh.”

He looks uncomfortable, though. Like he's itching to leave. He pats my back again. “We'll see each other again, I'm sure.”

Will we? But when? Now that they've got their precious codex, seems to me that the Mayans of Ek Naab are only too eager to get back to business.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Benicio says. “Carlos sent you something.” He hands me a pen-sized syringe. “For when the NRO talk to you. Which they will want to do, and soon. This will make it possible not to give away the secrets of Ek Naab.”

“The amnesia juice? Oh … now I get it. You want me to forget everything?”

“Don't worry!” Benicio laughs. “This just works to suppress your nervous system. A tranquilizer. You'll be as cool as a cucumber for several hours. Even a polygraph test won't crack this.”

I look at the syringe. “The NRO …? What should I tell them?”

“Just tell them what they want to hear.”

“Which is …?”

Benicio shrugs. “Hey, who better than you to invent something, Blog Boy? Just tell them what they already believe.”

“Have you been drinking, son?” asks the first agent, the one who calls himself Jack.

It's the first time I truly appreciate that evil doesn't have to dress in black, wear gothic clothes, have fangs, horns, or red eyes, doesn't have to burn incense. Evil wears a suit and tie, a friendly smile, smells of aftershave. Makes deadly decisions. Kills people who get in the way of its plans as if they were ants. And then calls you “son.”

With bleary eyes, I look up at this cold-blooded murderer. And try to hide my hatred.

“I'm just tired,” I admit. “Been awake for almost two days. Least, it feels like that.”

“It's just that … this story … it's kind of incredible.”

“You've heard stuff like this before,” I say. “You must have.”

“I'm not saying it's unprecedented,” he acknowledges. “But this thing about the aliens having a base under the volcano …”

“They have more than one,” I say. “There are bases under other volcanoes.”

“You went to other bases?”

“I did. We flew in through one and came out through another.”

“Son … most of the volcanoes around here are still active.”

I just shrug.

“What did the aliens look like?”

“I already told you. Standard Grays.”

“Like in
The X-Files
?” he asks, making no attempt to hide his skepticism.

I nod. “Like the Grays in
X-Files
.”

“Why were you in Catemaco?”

“I don't remember why. They gave me mind-control drugs. Everything that happened there is hazy.”

“How did our agents die?”

“I have no idea. Maybe a poisonous gas?”

“And then this ship that picked you up … that was them again?”

“Yes. And then others chased us. Three other ships. I don't know who they were. Didn't understand what they were saying.”

“How do they talk?”

“It's sort of clicky.”

“Jack” and his colleague “Steve” say they're both with the NRO, but the badges they show me are CIA. They keep staring
at the polygraph trace, which is as clean as a whistle. They look pretty puzzled. After taking my statement for over two hours, they put their heads together.

“Let's talk about this guy, the one you called ‘Blue Nissan.'”

“That was back then.”

“What?”

“That's what I called him. Back then, when those things were happening to me. Before I was abducted for the first time.”