by Jacob Whaler
“Then take mine. Kill them all. The only way.”
His heart beating wildly in his ears, Ryzaard’s eyes slam shut, and he throws himself forward into Jhata. He becomes a blur and gets pulled through her eyes into her mind.
He’s standing on an open prairie. A hot, violent wind blows. The ground shifts under his feet. He tries to remember Jhata’s words.
Drop down several levels until you find the eyes.
It’s much easier than he expected. Falling down through layers of color, two points of intense light stand out in the darkness. He runs to them until he stares through her eyes at a Stone in her hand. Moving without hesitation, he scoops it up.
Back in his own body, the full power of Jhata’s Stones, multiplied by thousands, unlimited and unrelenting, becomes part of Ryzaard’s very being. He turns to Matt and sees Matt’s fingers wrapped around Jhata’s throat. She hangs limp in his grip.
Without a word, Ryzaard swings his fist and connects with Matt’s jaw. The bone crushes and immediately reforms itself. Streamers of light ignite and fall away.
Matt stumbles back two steps, but doesn’t release his iron hold on Jhata.
Ryzaard grabs two Stones. Intense light leaks out between his knuckles around the bones in his hands. The soft tissue is like clear crystal.
Jhata was right. The power is intoxicating. With the Stone grasped like a dagger, Ryzaard lunges again at Matt from the side. This time he wraps his arms around Matt’s body, digs his feet into the floor and pushes forward like a linebacker making a tackle.
Spontaneous explosions rise from their skin wherever they make contact. Jhata slips from Matt’s grip and collapses to the floor like a Japanese paper lantern.
Losing his balance, Matt twists, wraps his arms around Ryzaard and pulls him down. Flaming plasma pours off their skin and bathes each other in glowing red as they roll off the edge of the plateau and drop out of sight down the sheer cliff face that ends not far from the ocean.
As they fall through the air trailing fire and smoke, Ryzaard stabs Matt in the back again and again with his Stone. The wounds go deep, but instantly heal each time Ryzaard pulls out the Stone. At the bottom, rocks and boulders vaporize where they crash and roll.
Matt pushes away and comes up on his feet, panting. “Do you really think you can kill me?”
Without answering, Ryzaard lunges and swings. His fist finds Matt’s chest, opens a hole and enters. The cracking of ribs is audible, like pine wood splitting under an axe on a subzero winter day. Blue plasma ignites between them. Matt grips his chest, staggers across the wet sand and drops into the surf.
The ocean water turns to columns of steam filling the air.
Ryzaard rushes into the white fog, jumps on top of Matt and beats down on his chest. The old man throws his head back and lets loose a guttural howl.
Working his feet under Ryzaard, Matt throws the old man off. Running his fingers over his chest, he finds it healed and whole. As Ryzaard comes at him again, Matt jumps to his feet and assumes a boxer’s pose.
They circle around each other.
“You’re losing,” Ryzaard says. “Eventually I’ll wear you down.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “Kill you and all the others.”
“You’re doing just what Jhata wants you to.” Matt wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t you see how she’s using you?”
Ryzaard throws his head back and laughs. “Since when are you so concerned about me?”
“You’re playing a losing game. Your power, no matter how much you amass, will always be a subset of hers. As you get more, she will reign over you, use you like a tool, make you her slave.” A sneer curls across Matt’s lips. He stoops down and scoops up a handful of wet sand. “When you’ve outgrown your usefulness, when you least expect it, she’ll cast you aside like dirt.” He throws the sand to the ground.
Orange fire shoots from Ryzaard’s hands and catches Matt in the stomach. The thin white film around Matt’s body grows fainter. He doubles over in pain.
Ryzaard lunges and brings his Stone down to Matt’s neck.
Matt crumples to the ground.
And then vanishes.
Immediately catching the pull of his jump, Ryzaard vanishes and reappears at the top of the plateau a few meters from where Yarah and Jhata lie.
Matt lies still on the ground facing down, his eyes closed.
Towering over him, Ryzaard looks down at the motionless figure of Matt. “It’s finally over.”
Matt’s eyes snap open. In less than a nanosecond, he releases the Stone back to Yarah. For a passing instant, they stand face to face in the darkness of deep space.
“Your turn.” Matt closes his eyes and opens completely to her.
Through blinding pain that still racks her body, Yarah finds Matt’s Stone and closes her hand around it. Limitless power surges through her. All wounds instantly heal. She looks over at Matt and then at Jessica.
“Now,” Yarah says.
Jessica levels the pulse rifle at Ryzaard’s back and fires at point blank range. Momentarily distracted, he swings around to face her.
In the open space created by his distraction, Yarah’s hands flash out to touch Jessica and Matt. She finds the place previously anchored in her mind. With a silky smoothness, she jumps away and pulls Matt and Jessica with her, along with Alexa and another 500 Chimpotee down in the valley.
CHAPTER 65
Before Ryzaard can react, they are gone. His mind reaches out to grasp the current of movement, but he finds nothing.
Somehow, the little girl managed to cover her tracks.
And then Ryzaard realizes that Yarah and Matt joined their Stones together, taking turns at the lead.
Such trust is a rare thing.
Standing alone on the empty plateau, he looks down at Jhata lying on the ground, motionless and vulnerable.
The word floats back into his mind.
Trust.
Dozens of Stones decorate her waist like a chandelier of fine crystal. He thinks of all the wealth and power she has amassed through centuries of tyranny.
Now he can have it all if he wishes.
But only if he breaks the trust she put in him.
Sitting beside her, he drops back into her mind, following the same path he took before, careful not to relinquish his hold on her Stones. He finds himself floating alone in a dark space. No need to hurry. There is time to explore. He looks above him and has the sense of moving up through multiple levels until he stands on the broad plain of Jhata’s mind. The landscape is exactly as it had been before. The mountain ranges are the same shape in the same place. No wind is blowing. The ground holds firm under his feet. A profound silence rests on everything in sight, like a clear veneer of transparent glass is holding it all in place.
This must be the upper level of her mind, the one closest to the surface. Her memories are likely on a deeper level. What treasures of wisdom are to be found in sifting through them? Like the archeologist he used to be, he finds great pleasure in the thought of excavating her past, exposing and analyzing it. Learning from it.
Willing himself to drop down slowly until he senses a new level, Ryzaard opens his eyes on an entirely different scene.
The open prairie landscape is gone, replaced by an almost claustrophobic sense of closure. A roof hangs low over his head. Multicolored organic forms in the shape of abstract tubes, tendrils and spirals drop down from above to touch and merge with the uneven floor. Plastic mounds push upward. All of it is covered with a wet, thin membrane.
He has the sense of being in a gallery designed by Picasso.
Stepping forward, he gently strokes a transparent oblong sphere. Images of a small girl in a sailor dress flood into his mind. As he watches, she giggles and screams, pursued by her father in a game of hide-and-seek.
He brushes his fingers along a drooping piece of flesh that hangs down from the ceiling like a thin blanket. There is Jhata, a little older, running through the streets of
a city of glass skyscrapers. Flashes of fire and laser cannon rain down around her. Buildings crumble into piles of rubble. Screams and pleas for help float into his ears. He feels her pulse and senses her fear. He looks down into her tiny hand at what it grips.
Her first Stone.
Moving on, he pushes through delicate structures of lace, images flowing into his mind as he brushes past.
Jhata is now a young woman, beautiful and powerful. Dressed in her signature red kimono, she stands on a high platform made of gold and floating above a multitude of people. On an open plain behind them, the remains of twisted steel, broken concrete and shattered glass spreads out like a massive wound. Black smoke rises from the debris as if from a funeral pyre.
“I own you now.” The shrill voice of a younger Jhata fills the void between her and the people below. “Expect nothing from me. Abandon your hopes and dreams. They will only torment you. From this moment on, you live only to serve my whims. My happiness will be your sole reason for existence.”
As he moves through the jungle of her memories, Ryzaard runs his fingers over all of it and absorbs the arc of her centuries of domination, divided into chapters by the capture of each new Stone and the worlds destroyed in her pursuit of power. Lies and deception and carnage mark her ascent.
The more Ryzaard sees and senses, the faster he moves. At some point, he falls into a drunken trance and shoots through the delicate world of Jhata’s memories, touching, pushing, ripping and tearing with such speed and abandon that he leaves a wake of destruction behind him. The sights and sounds of her life, her very thoughts, all of it is recorded indelibly in his own mind.
When he has seen all there is to see, he drops down another level onto a city street. It’s a darker place of misshapen statues, half-finished buildings, and chaotic howling and moaning that comes from all directions. Everywhere he turns, there are faces of people from Jhata’s past etched into the walls and pavement. As he enters narrow alleys or peeks through broken windows, shadows move away like spiders stirred up by the glare of a sudden light in a cellar.
It’s a place of doubt, regret, guilt, forgotten dreams, sacrificed ideals.
Many more levels of darkness lie below. Ryzaard senses their presence as he drops down as if through a mine shaft into the heart of a mountain.
And then he stops at the lowest level and finds himself in a strange room.
It’s unusually well-lit and barely large enough for two people. The faint sound of a drum-beat with a steady slow rhythm comes through the wall as if from another room. A thin pink ribbon of flesh stretches from floor to ceiling like a rubber band. Ryzaard runs his fingers along its surface. It’s warm to the touch. Alive.
This must be the Core.
Until now, he hasn’t thought of speaking to Jhata. Perhaps she will not hear him. Perhaps she will refuse to answer even if she can. But the seed of an idea begins to grow as he stands in the small room. It causes such a thrill that he can no longer keep it a secret. He has to share it with her.
“Can you hear me, Jhata?”
No answer. He absent-mindedly runs his finger along the pink membrane marveling at how something so delicate can be stretched so thin.
“I’ve enjoyed this odyssey through your mind.” Ryzaard leans against the uneven wall and feels its warmth. There is a definite increase in the tempo and volume of the beating drums. “You’ve taught me so much, and I want to thank you for your kindness. More than that, I want to thank you for trusting me. It’s very touching.”
Please leave.
The sound of her voice comes as a surprise.
“So you can hear me.” Ryzaard sits and stretches out his legs. “Then you’ll be interested to hear that I’ve got a great idea. Simple, yet effective. It will solve all my problems. And you’ll be pleased to know that I got it from you.”
I trusted you.
“Yes, I know.” He digs the heels into the soft floor and senses it give way, like pliable clay. The drum beating grows louder. “I’ve seen what you’ve done in your life. Quite amazing. And I must say that your view of power coincides exactly with mine. At least on that point, we are in perfect agreement.”
Please. I beg you.
Ryzaard brings a finger and thumb up to his chin and strokes the dark stubble. “You’ve given many lectures in your long life. Most of them dealing with power. Most of them delivered to conquered people. Do you recall any of them?”
I can help you. I can teach you about the Stones, things you could never guess or learn on your own. I can give you anything you want.
“There was an especially memorable moment a few hundred years ago. I saw it in your memories. You had just slaughtered 99% of the humanoid population of a planet called Argaath.” Ryzaard’s eyes drift up to the ceiling. “They had developed computing technology a hundred years before and recently launched a program for interplanetary travel within their solar system. With the help of a few thousand well-placed nuclear detonations, you destroyed all that their civilization had achieved and sent them back to the Stone Age. I wonder if you can remember.”
So many worlds destroyed. So many lives taken. Hard to remember them all.
“Yes, I don’t blame you if it’s all a blur now.” He reaches an index finger up to the membrane and gently pokes a hole in it as one might put his finger through wet tissue paper. The tear opens and spreads to half the width of the stretched flesh. “You were floating above them on a golden platform, delivering a lecture on power. Do you recall what you said?”
There is only silence from Jhata and the sound of drums. Her heartbeat. Loud enough for Ryzaard to feel in his bones.
Ryzaard’s hand comes up to his forehead. “Let me refresh your memory. This is what you said.” Closing his eyes, he recites as if from memory. “There is no wrong or right. No evil. No good. There is only power and weakness. Power is its own justification. It has no foundation, no justification, and needs none. It is neither above the law nor below the law. It is the law. It needs nothing and asks for nothing. It relies on nothing. It simply is or is not.”
Ryzaard laughs and pokes another hole in the ribbon of flesh. It widens and spreads. The beating sound vibrates on its thin veneer.
“I’ll be eternally grateful to you for putting it so simply and succinctly. Those words will be my guiding light in all I do.” He reaches up and puts his finger through one of the two remaining strands above him. “In light of your deep knowledge of power, I’m sure you’ll understand what I’m about to do.”
The beating sound rocks the room.
I’ll give you anything. Everything.
“Yes,” Ryzaard says. “I know. And now I’m going to take it. All of it.”
Please don’t.
With a swift chop of his hand, he breaks the remaining thread of flesh.
The room rushes past him in a blur. Darkness collapses inward. All is motion and chaos around him.
When he opens his eyes, the shriveled body of Jhata lies still on the ground beside him. Out of habit, he checks her neck for a pulse and finds none. Slipping a dagger from inside her kimono, he cuts a deep slit in the shape of a smile from ear to ear. Crimson blood flows out and mingles with dust, becoming warm red mud. Then he removes the belt of Stones that hangs down around her waist like tears of dark obsidian.
One by one, he cradles them in his hands and watches them light up.
CHAPTER 66
Please don’t.
When the end comes, it’s painless. But there is a surprise.
It isn’t the end.
Overcome with sudden weightlessness, as if she is a bubble of air rising from the ocean floor, Jhata moves higher and higher, enveloped in light and colors.
The light grows stronger, brighter, warmer. Her body is drawn to it. It’s a pleasant sensation.
A single Voice calls out to her.
Come. Be One with us. Partake of all that we share.
As she moves closer to the Voice, it reaches out to her, pulling her. Profou
nd love and warmth rise up and threaten to engulf her. If she does nothing, all that is uniquely her will be sucked away. She will become One with the Voice. One with Them. The Allehonen.
The realization dawns on Jhata that They want to steal her power.
Fear explodes inside her. In panic, she turns away.
A sensation like a multitude of hands and fingers plays over her body. They rip and claw at her skin. They are ravenous wolves, devouring all that she is. The light is scorching hot. It burns and blinds her. Love floods her mind, overwhelming, suffocating, drowning. She tries to fight back but is helpless.
You must choose. Be One with us. Or be alone.
She remembers the Stones. Ryzaard stole them from her and now possesses them all. All that she had worked for, all that she had built up over millennia, all of it is gone. He possesses the power that once belonged only to her. A cruel twist of circumstances has pried it from her fingers and delivered it to him. It isn’t fair. It can’t be allowed to stand. A gnawing pain grows inside as she thinks of all that could have been if she only had the power.
And now a fiery, scorching Voice is taking away all that remains of her, taking away her power.
Be One with us. Share all that we have.
She turns her face away from the Voice and finds that, by this simple action, she begins to move backward. The sense of invasion falls away. The hands and fingers slip off her body, and she is whole again.
All that she needs now is to get back her power.
The Voice recedes until it is no more than a single dot in a sea of blackness. No matter how far away she drifts, it never completely disappears. Always, it hangs in the distance, beckoning to her, a reminder of the pain and fear of becoming One with it. As it recedes, the hunger within her grows like a spreading contagion. It floods and consumes her mind, becoming a mantra that she repeats to herself, over and over.
I need the power.
In the cold darkness, other voices call to her, strangely familiar. Curiosity compels her to take a closer look.
She turns and moves in their direction.
