Stones: Theory (Stones #4) (38 page)

The villagers are rising off their knees now, moving toward the four of them. Tears stream from their eyes. The people cast worshipful glances at Yarah and Matt.

Matt’s hand finds the top of Yarah’s head and rests comfortably on it. “We may be here for a while, at least until we figure out a better plan.” He drops down to her level with hands on her shoulders. “Are you sure Ryzaard won’t be able to follow us?”

“There’s nothing for him to follow.” Yarah extends her arms with the palms up, and then curls the fingers and brings them in close to her body. “I felt the trail and pulled it all away from him. When we left, the air was empty. No tracks.”

Jessica bends down and close to Yarah. “What about Jhata?”

“I’m sure she’s dead,” Matt says. “Ryzaard merged her Stones with his. I’ve felt the power that flows into you when that happens. There’s no way he’d be willing to give it up. It would be too easy to kill Jhata and keep it all for himself.”

“You mean he has more Stones now?” Alexa grips the barrel of the pulse rifle until her knuckles are white.

Matt slowly nods up and down. “We knew it would be a trade-off, but we had no choice. Jhata’s dead and gone, but Ryzaard now has forty or fifty Stones.” He looks up at Alexa. “That’s why we need to be careful about when we go back.”

“Fifty Stones?” Alexa swallows and grips the pulse rifle tighter. “Don’t you mean
if we go back
?”

U
tter silence reflects off the white walls of Miyazawa’s sealed compartment floating ten thousand meters over the Pacific Ocean. A tanker transport with a caterpillar body disengages its link and reels in its long hose, like a butterfly rolling up its tongue.

A young female priest checks the rectangular bluescreen on the wall above the door to Miyazawa’s compartment.

“Heart rate is constant at 41,” she says. “Blood pressure is a bit low. It should rectify as soon as we wake him. Hydration is optimal.” She turns to the other assistant priest.

He stands staring out a window at the tanker receding into the distance. “How long since we touched down on solid ground?” He looks at his female companion. “Do you remember?”

“Forty-seven days.”

His shoulders rise and drop down with a quick sigh. “I can’t recall what it feels like.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Walking on solid ground.” He turns back to the window. “At least we’ll be touching down today.”

She smiles. “For a few minutes.” Her gaze turns back to a pair of numbers on the bluescreen. “Looks like last night’s feeding was fully absorbed. Can you change the nutrient pack while I dress him? It’s time to wake him up.”

She walks forward and touches her fingers on a small glass screen outside the closed compartment. “One more thing.” She turns to the other priest as the door slowly slides open to the right. The sickening sweet smell of incense pours out of the dark interior through the open door. “Make sure there’s a fresh set of derms in his room. It looks like the supply is running low.”

The male assistant looks over his shoulder. “Those are twenty-four hour derms. Heavy duty stuff.” He shakes his head. “He’s up to four a day now.”

“Just do it.” The female assistant enters Miyazawa’s room.

W
e are the Kami.

Miyazawa’s body stretches across the universe from one end to the other. A thousand galaxies cluster in his navel. Star systems are tiny motes in his eye. With each inhale and exhale, worlds without number are created and destroyed.

From somewhere far below him, a faint voice floats up.

“Sir, the ceremony will be starting in less than an hour. I’m going to wake you now. Please don’t be alarmed.”

Through half-open lids, Miyazawa watches with detached interest as the assistant priest leans over his body and presses a transparent tube against the bare skin of his neck just above the collarbone. The flat carbon tip hisses as green liquid flows out on a transdermal path to his nervous system.

The female priest steps back to observe the effect.

Miyazawa’s eyelids are as heavy as the cast iron bell that hangs above the entrance to his shrine. His body turns to liquid and flows down through a tiny hole below him. The sensation is not unpleasant. It simply means it’s time for a short visit to his home world.

The assistant places a warm metallic point to his neck. The familiar hiss of compressed air pushes stimulant into his skin.

“This should help,” she says.

It does. As the drug floods his brain, Miyazawa’s eyes flutter open. The heaviness drains out, and his lids are as light as cherry blossoms. He stares up into the delicate features of the assistant’s face, enjoying her sweet breath.

Her gaze drops down. “We’ll be in Mexico City in 45 minutes for a much-anticipated dedication ceremony. The last one in the Americas, and the last major one of our world-wide campaign. Dignitaries from all over the world will be there, including Mr. Ryzaard. You’ll want to dress in your most exquisite robes.”

She pulls on his arms until his upper body lifts into an upright position. Another assistant priest enters and gently moves Miyazawa to the edge of the bed where his feet hang down to the floor. As he watches through foggy eyes,
tabi
socks slip onto his feet and fresh white undergarments come down over his head and up his legs. Hands work quickly and efficiently around him, front and back.

He stares up at the female assistant. “Mr. Ryzaard will be there?”

Her eyes are fully dilated oceans of black.

“Yes,” she says. “His office called yesterday. He will meet with you after the ceremony, if you have time.”

“It’s been a long time since
we
talked with him.”

Strong hands pull him to his feet. A silk white under-tunic finds its way up his arms and onto his shoulders. Broad leggings work up his thighs to be secured around his waist. A stiff outer robe clings to his body. The black cap floats atop his head.

“All done,” the female assistant says. “Would you like to have a look?”

Miyazawa walks to a full-length mirror and stares at himself. The eyes and mouth might have belonged to another person. The fingers of the hand twitch and move, but not by his own volition. The face has a foreign and detached quality about it. He notices a subtle internal shift, as if his body were made of thousands of tiny machines brought together in loose association. It might flow apart to move through a crack in a door and then come together again on the other side. He recognizes many voices playing in his mind.

We are the Kami.

He walks out of his compartment into the room next door. Other assistant priests move aside as he strolls past and stands face to face with a white wall.

“Would you like to view the approach, Master Priest?”

His head dips slightly in a shallow nod. “We would.”

The white color of the wall slowly drains out, leaving it transparent as empty air. Far below, the rocky outlines of the western coast of Mexico float into view. They are soon flying silently over the Sierra Madre del Sur mountains. Line after line of ranges pass beneath with mist-laden valleys between. As they cross the terrain, Miyazawa looks down at a massive brown cloud floating below them like a thick
miso
soup broth suspended above the plain. The transport descends, dropping down into the cloud and becoming engulfed in the filthy air. Drawing closer to the ground, the dark spires of skyscrapers thrust up through the brown mist. Further down, long boulevards of the endless urban landscape that is Mexico City stretch out on either side.

The ground is finally visible at an altitude of 200 meters.

“Full view engaged.” The onboard syn-voice speaks, its female tones comforting and omniscient.

Directly below them, a brilliant white square a kilometer on each side opens up, a stark contrast to the dark buildings on the periphery. As the transport descends further, it approaches a clear bubble arching over and covering the entire square, a gift from Shinto to keep the new shrine pure of contamination from the putrid air. A small hole opens in its glass surface. The transport passes through into a world of pristine white.

On closer inspection, it is a sea of the Shinto faithful dressed in their purification robes and bowing in humble reverence at the approach of the ship that carries the Master Priest himself.

“The Plaza de la Constitucion,” says the syn-voice. “100,000 in attendance.”

The female assistant steps to Miyazawa’s side. “An impressive number, but a small percentage of the actual observers.” She places a palm against the clear glass wall and stares down through the floor. “The ceremony will be carried on all Mesh channels. Estimated global viewership is nearly 19 billion. It will be the last of the great dedication ceremonies, a glorious climax for the Earth United Shinto Alliance.”

“You’ve made the upgrades we requested?”

“Yes, the path is in place and has been purged of impurities. The other shrines are standing by. All is ready.”

Light as a feather, the transport touches down on a circle of cut diamonds spread like pebbles on the square. Miyazawa stares out at a straight line of pure gold one meter wide and fifty meters long floating a foot above the ground. It leads through the torii gate to the dedication platform. A sea of brown faces and dark eyes stares at the transport in silent expectation.

“Miyazawa-
sama
, all preparations are complete.” The assistant addresses the Master Priest using the highest honorific and hands a flat wooden stick to him, the symbol of Miyazawa’s rank. “Shall we open the door?”

Miyazawa stares straight ahead. “The holy communion stimulant patch.”

With a practiced smile, the assistant nods. A male priest places a packet of thin green squares into her palm. The female priest peels one off, lifts the Master Priest’s robe and undergarments, and applies it to the bare skin of his lower back just above the spin.

The quick inhale and long slow exhale from his lips is proof that the drug has taken hold.

Miyazawa’s eyes focus ahead in a fully dilated stare.

“Ready?” the assistant says.

Miyazawa’s chin drops a half centimeter in confirmation.

Bowing deeply, the female priest rises, and her eyes sweep past the other priests standing in two lines on either side of Miyazawa. Each of them signals their readiness, and she presses her palm against the glass door.

It slides open.

Miyazawa looks down and steps across the small gap separating the path from the transport entrance. The gold surface flexes slightly with the weight of his body, and he moves forward past the worshipers kneeling on each side. He knows that, from the viewpoint of someone a few meters away, he appears to be walking on air just above eye level.

The effect is intentional.

As the Shinto acolytes catch glimpses of the passing form of Miyazawa, they rock back and forth, sending ripples through the human ocean. Moans of ecstasy filter up and over their heads.

Moving forward, Miyazawa places each step of his wooden
geta
sandals in front of the next with careful attention to maintaining the slightest inward curve of the feet. His upper body remains stiff and motionless, eyes fixed forward.

Thousands of hands reach out as if yearning to touch the very air breathed by the Master Priest.

Halfway to the platform, Miyazawa pauses in front of the torii gate. His eyes slowly rise up to the double crossbeams on the two vertical pillars. As with all such gates, they are painted brilliant vermillion red with the bases glossy black.

That is all about to change.

Voices float in his mind.

We are the Kami. We are the source of purification.

He opens his hands, fingers pointing down, palms facing forward, and takes a step. A hush runs through the gathered masses as they witness the Master Priest make the symbolic journey on their behalf from the profane and unclean world outside the shrine to the sacred and pure world within its boundaries. As he passes under the torii gate, it glows hot as the sun and emits a brilliant flash of light that reflects off the glass dome above. When the light fades, a single harmonic tone emanates from the gates’ surface, specially generated by hidden speakers to resonate within the body of every worshiper.