Stones (Data) (32 page)

K
ent drives through mile after mile of cornfields, just as he remembers it as a small boy going cross-country with his dad in the old Ford Phantom. He’s taking his time, in no hurry to his final destination. It doesn’t make sense to get too tired on the trip. All his strength and wits need to be intact and ready to go when he arrives.

It’s difficult to keep Matt out of his thoughts as he moves down the endless interstate. He tries, but it’s like turning away a persistent unwanted guest that keeps coming back to knock on your door. At last, he grabs the jax out of its slot on the car-com and checks the MOM data-site again for the second time in fifteen minutes. Empty. Everything is fine. No need to worry.

Now that he’s in corn country, he doesn’t expect to run into any more freedom camps. But to his amazement, there’s one up ahead, marked by a line of cars and transports stopped on the freeway and pillars of black smoke rising above the green sea around him.

He wonders if he’ll get stopped and searched again, just like last time.

Several dozen youths, many the age of Matt, step out of the long cornrows onto the shoulder of the road. Others disappear back into the green mass of the field, their arms full of offerings.

Kent slows down behind the last car in line. Five young people, two of them teenage girls, walk toward his pickup. One of the girls approaches, a half smile on her face.

He rolls the window down and sticks out his elbow.

Her gaze sweeps past the beat-up pickup from end to end as if looking for certain identifying marks. Then she waves it on with a smile. No searches. No questions. No demands.

And then it all makes sense. She must have gotten the word from Little John. In spite of their display of hatred for technology, the freedom camps have a communication network.

Kent nods and pulls to the left out of the line and glides down the freeway past the cars and truck transports stopped on the right. Everyone stands back to let him go. All of them smile, some of them wave. He waves back.

It’s convenient, but eerie. A thought crosses his mind.

Is Little John tracing his journey?

Hard to say, but it makes sense if the freedom camps really do have a communication network, even a primitive one. Kent’s been careful to make sure no one is following him on the road, but maybe the freedom camps he’s passing on the way to New York City are accomplishing the same thing. Maybe Little John will find out that Kent’s true destination isn’t North Carolina. What will happen then?

Kent dismisses the thought. He’s not going to let that fat little man rattle his confidence.

As he travels, Kent’s been doing Mesh research on the origin and spread of the freedom camps. From what he’s learned, it all started with a mythic leader from decades ago, a man whose name was never mentioned, but that claimed to have seen visions of the future. A modern-day prophet. In spite of the common origin, the camps aren’t run under a single authority. It’s more like a loose alliance. Each camp has its own flavor. Some attract young people, like the one run by Little John. Others attract families with small children. Hundreds of them have sprung up spontaneously all over the world. Some of the members are highly educated. Former doctors, lawyers, engineers or businessmen. Most are just ordinary people that have grown weary of civilization.

One common thread runs through all the camps. A belief that Abomination, in the form of modern technology, will bring about the enslavement of the human race and must be avoided at all cost.

It’s the destiny of the camps to serve as a refuge from Abomination, to preserve islands of humanity where freedom and self-reliance are nurtured and from which leaders will emerge to guide the world through a time of great danger and suffering.

The more Kent thinks about it, the more it all sounds like a typical end-of-the-world cult, an escape for people who can’t handle reality. Rejects and outcasts.

Just like Kent.

A
lexa watches him in silence.

Ryzaard looks out the window of the corporate jet into the night covering the continent below. The lights of the great city of Los Angeles dot the California coast, and then all becomes dark as the jet plunges into blackness over the Pacific.

“Sure this is a good idea?” Alexa crosses her legs and looks at Ryzaard over a pair of red-stained wine glasses and a half-empty bottle of 1811 Chateau d’Yquem. “The shareholders won’t be happy when they hear we’ve suspended the trading program for technical maintenance. They’ve grown used to a steady stream of profits.” She reaches for the bottle and replenishes her glass. “Elsa’s not happy about this either.”

“It is unfortunate the trading algorithm cannot access the Stone from a distance, but that will come in time. Jerek assured me he’s working on it.” Ryzaard turns back from the window and reaches for his own wine glass as Alexa fills it. Then he brings it close and takes a sip. “It is regrettable that I have to personally direct an operation like this, but the boy
does
have a Stone. He may have learned a thing or two about using it, which makes him dangerous until he’s safely dead. That shouldn’t take long.” He leans back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling, savoring the taste.

Alexa holds her glass with both hands. “What will you do with a second Stone?” There’s a sense of hopefulness in the tone of her voice.

“It will make the work much easier.”

“The
work
?”

“The task I have to perform for humankind. To free them from their chains.”

“Do we have to have this conversation again?” Alexa rolls her eyes and looks out the window at the black void.

“It’s important that you understand.”

“I doubt I ever will. Isn’t
this
enough?” Alexa motions around her at the plush interior of the jet. “You’re the CEO of the most profitable corporation in the world. You can have anything you want, go anywhere you want, do anything you want.” She points to the Stone lying on the table. “And if that weren’t enough, you have a magic Stone that makes you invincible. No one can touch you. Isn’t that enough?”

The second the words leave her lips, she visibly regrets it.

Ryzaard explodes.

“No, it’s not
enough
! It’s never
enough
!” He jumps up, grabs the Stone off the table and knocks over the wine bottle, spilling its contents in a long red tongue that licks its way toward Alexa. “Don’t you understand? After all we’ve been through, after all we’ve done, you still don’t understand?”

“I’m sorry.” In the two years they’ve worked together, Alexa has never seen Ryzaard react like this. He’s always so calm, so sure of himself. A sliver of fear shoots through her spine.

Ryzaard takes a step back to the table and spins the slate around so Alexa can see it.

“The company is making more money than anyone imagined. An unlimited supply of wealth for our shareholders to feast on.” Ryzaard looks down at her with lips curling in a grimace. His hands curl into fists. “But you know what I see when I look at this?” He points at the slate.

“Tell me.” Alexa tries her best to speak in a calming voice.

Ryzaard drops back into his leather chair. “I see my father taken away by the Gestapo, the look of helplessness and terror on his face. I see my mother lying on a bed, arms and legs like pretzels, her backbone sticking out like a string of pearls. Her eyes are dark little pools of water at the bottom of a deep well. Reduced to nothing by starvation.”

He closes his eyes and brings the Stone close to his forehead. His body trembles as he breathes in and out.

“I was there when she spoke her last words.” A tear traces a line down his cheek. “She said she had a vision while in a delirium. An angel came to her and told her things. That I would survive the war. That I would have power over evil. That I would be the one to bring Paradise. She made me promise that I would do it.”

“She loved you very much.” Alexa speaks the words softly, gently as Ryzaard sits still with his eyes closed.

“I have carried those words with me ever since. It’s what got me through Auschwitz.” Ryzaard speaks in a low voice. “I don’t care about the money. I don’t care about the profits. I don’t care about the corporation.” He opens his eyes and gazes at Alexa. “All of that is nothing more than a vehicle, a means to an end.”

“What end?” Alexa leans forward and puts her hand on top of Ryzaard’s.

“The end of chaos. The end of suffering. The end of freedom. The beginning of order.”

M
att watches as the fingertips release the dagger. He can see the strain in the muscles of the forearms, the hatred mixed with fear in the man’s film-covered eyes.

A cry of terror rises in Matt’s throat. His body goes taut and his eyes close, bracing for the impact, unable to move. He waits. Nothing.

The birds and cicadas, everything around him, goes strangely quiet. But not quite silent. He hears the sound of the ocean, remembered from his happiest memory. A day on the beach with his mom and dad on his seventh birthday. He opens his eyes slowly and carefully, half expecting to find her standing there beside him and feel the sand warm under his feet. He no longer feels an intense need for food and water. He’s engulfed in peace and calm.

The naked man stands a few yards down the hill in exactly the same position as when he threw the dagger. At first, Matt thinks the man is playing a trick, standing as still as a statue, but then Matt can see a dark object suspended in mid-air between them.

The dagger.

Matt cocks his head from side to side and examines the weeds, the flowers, the bushes. Nothing moves, as if the world is cast in glass. Off to his right, a butterfly poses silently in mid-air, its wings open and frozen in graceful flight.

Matt walks forward through silence to the man, passing a swarm of mosquitoes as still as stars in the night sky. On impulse, he pulls the jax out of his side pocket and checks the time, recorded in hours, minutes and seconds on its blue screen. To his amazement, the seconds stand still.

Matt realizes he is frozen in time. Or more correctly, everything but him is frozen in time.

Heart still beating, he breathes and swallows and sweats. The whole world looks stuck, motionless. He moves back to the dagger, still hanging in mid-air at chest level. Reaching out, he touches it with trembling fingers. At the moment of contact, it falls to the ground. He picks it up and takes a closer look at the custom-carved jade handle and titanium blade, both attesting to the owner’s affection for weapons. It’s a prize piece.

With a shallow bow to the Yakuza thug, he grips it like a dagger and brings it close to the man’s naked chest. The thug’s eyes stare forward. Matt reads the intent behind the eyes and sees what he already knew. The thug means to murder him. He’s a professional killer. If Matt lets him live, the consequences will almost certainly be catastrophic. It isn’t much better if he kills him. After quickly parsing his options, Matt decides it’s too complicated. He slides the blade back into the sheath hanging from the man’s ankle, and then, raising an eyebrow, removes the sheath and drops it into a side pocket on his pants.

It’s not every day that you acquire a Yakuza dagger.

On a hunch, Matt lifts the Stone out of his pocket and cradles it in his fingers. It’s light blue, matching the color of the sky.

The sound of the ocean plays again in his ears, and he retraces his steps back the way he came, passing the man’s discarded clothing on the way.

As he reaches the trail, exhaustion overtakes him. The muscles in his chest tighten and he struggles to breathe. He drops down to rest, making a conscious effort to relax his body and mind, and the ocean fades away. As his mind lets go of the scene with the Yakuza, there is a moment of utter silence. And then an onslaught of sound and motion hits him with the intensity of a hurricane.

It knocks him off his feet, and he drops to his knees. After a quick moment of adjustment, he’s back on his feet, back in real time and moving quickly down the trail.

As he pulls away, a voice yells off in the trees.