by Jacob Whaler
It’s late at night in the bowels of the Bodleian Library where Ryzaard stares down at a low-relief sculpture found at the burial site of Sargon the Great of Akkad. Ryzaard draws his fingers across its bronze surface and sees the man holding a claw-shaped object. With Ryzaard, Matt struggles to decipher the Akkadian characters carved into its side, and then stares down at the result, scribbled in a notebook with his own hand.
The world will be remade by the one who finds the Stones that shine in darkness.
Matt feels the cool wooden grip of the Boker knife as Ryzaard tries to stab Varanasi, the holy man in Northern India who possessed a Stone and used it to heal the sick. He is there when Ryzaard pulls the Stone from the ashes of Varanasi’s funeral pyre after poisoning him several months later.
The connection is strong.
In a few nanoseconds, the old man’s life roars through Matt’s mind and touches all of his senses. He knows Ryzaard because he is Ryzaard. Like the old man, Matt thrills with the realization that the Stones are not just legend, but actual objects, still in use, available for exploitation. The only way to rid the world of evil and chaos. It all makes sense.
It has to be done.
There will be obstacles. There will be non-believers. There will be Stone Holders unwilling to give up their power. All of them must be swept aside without mercy or hesitation. They are the guardians of the status quo and must be eliminated.
There is no other way.
And then another realization hits Matt. He, himself, has become the chief obstacle in Ryzaard’s way.
Fibers of brilliant light dance across his skin as Matt stares into Ryzaard’s eyes. From somewhere behind him, the sound of a pulse rifle detonates. The old man’s voice echoes in the silence of Matt’s mind.
Do you finally understand?
He stares at himself through Ryzaard’s eyes. He wraps Ryzaard’s fingers around his own throat. He watches as the blood drains out of his cheeks, leaving them pale and white. He feels the muscles of Ryzaard’s face and lips tense with rage. Screams rip through his throat with a burning hunger to wipe away the last remaining stumbling block to Paradise.
Himself.
Join me. Now that you understand, stop resisting. Join me.
Matt looks down at his feet. He stands at the top of a white cliff. Just beyond his toes, a chasm opens up. Its depths are filled with warmth and longing. A wave of cold passes through him. Ryzaard’s voice comes again.
I am the way. Follow me. You will find comfort and peace. Jump.
Lifting a foot, he holds it over the open pit. His weight begins to shift forward.
Then he pulls back. The cliff and chasm vanish. He opens his eyes and looks squarely at Ryzaard. “No,” Matt says. “There is a better way.”
One by one, against the old man’s will, Matt uncurls Ryzaard’s fingers and forces Ryzaard’s shaking hands back down to his sides.
“No more force. No more killing.”
Dozens of Stones burn brilliantly on Ryzaard’s chest like cat eyes waiting in the dark. Waiting to pounce and destroy.
The old man struggles to engage the muscles of his legs and arms, but Matt holds him frozen in place, like the Zeus statue on Ryzaard’s desk, arms at his side.
Reaching out his finger, Matt touches the Stones on Ryzaard’s chest one by one. As his skin makes contact with the hard surface of each one, their light dims and fades to black.
With the loss of each Stone, Ryzaard’s rage and helplessness grow, like pressure in a boiler.
Matt moves on, slowly and deliberately, running his fingers over the Stones as if playing an old-fashioned keyboard.
When the last Stone goes out, Ryzaard folds and drops to the ground like a discarded paper doll. Matt pulls his senses and awareness back into himself and stares down at the still form.
Behind him, as if on the other side of a thick wall, he hears Jessica’s voice.
CHAPTER 77
“What’s he doing?” Jessica whispers to Alexa.
Yarah lies on the ground at their feet, eyes closed and still, clutching a white Stone in her hand.
Jessica understands that, somehow, Matt is connected to Yarah’s Stone and is using it with his own to fight Ryzaard.
But now Matt walks forward and stops just a foot away from the old man. They stare at each other.
“No idea,” Alexa says. “All I know is that Ryzaard can’t be trusted. If he can’t kill Matt outright, he’ll wait for an opening and exploit it without mercy. Just like with Jhata.” She grips the barrel of her pulse rifle, presses it into her shoulder and lowers the sights onto Ryzaard’s forehead. “If he drops his defenses, maybe I can get lucky and finish him off.”
As if he has heard her, Ryzaard turns and shoots a blast of jagged golden fire in their direction, but it makes no dent in the lacy white film that hangs around them, falling away like water breaking against rocks.
The old man raises his hands and reaches out to Matt. With slow deliberation, he puts his fingers on Matt’s neck and visibly begins to squeeze. To their horror, Matt calmly stands still with arms at his side and makes no effort to get away, as if he is offering himself up for slaughter.
“Why isn’t he doing anything?” Jessica’s heart beats against her ribcage. A sickening sense of desperation settles on her, causing her imagination to race. Jessica gazes at Yarah lying still on the concrete. “Ryzaard has so many Stones. Maybe he’s found a way to control both Matt and Yarah.”
Alexa shakes her head. “I have no idea what’s going on.” She eases the point of her pulse rifle through the white lace shield shimmering in the night air.
Nothing happens.
Next she ventures the tip of a finger into the white matrix with no shock or heat or pain of any kind. Without warning, she steps through and emerges on the other side.
“What are you doing?” Jessica says.
Alexa turns back. “I’m not going to sit here and watch Ryzaard strangle Matt to death.”
A feral scream breaks from Ryzaard’s lips as he opens his mouth and thrusts his head up into the falling rain. His white knuckle grip on Matt’s throat grows tighter. His eyes close.
“Stay here with Yarah.” Alexa pumps the pulse rifle and walks out into the rain.
“Wait,” Jessica says. “I’m coming with you.” She grabs her own rifle and pumps it with a quick up and down motion.
Shoulder to shoulder, they cross ten meters of wet pavement and stand behind Matt. Small fibers of dancing light swim across his blue skin. His chest isn’t moving in and out.
Ryzaard’s eyes shoot open, but he doesn’t focus on them.
Alexa steps forward just off Matt’s left shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to do this.” She points the rifle at Ryzaard’s forehead and pulls the trigger.
The black projectile appears between his eyes frozen in its forward motion a millimeter from the surface of his skin. For a full minute, they watch it spin as if it were attempting to drill into his skull. As its spinning winds down, it drops to the street.
Alexa lets off two more shots. They fall to the ground with the same result.
And then the old man’s fingers lift from Matt’s neck, one by one, as if they are being peeled away by an unseen entity. His hands tremble in the rain and return to his side.
Matt’s eyes come open.
“Can you hear me, Matt?” Jessica says.
No response.
His hand reaches out to Ryzaard and touches a Stone floating above his chest. Its neon gold glow bleeds away until its flat black. It drops to the street, bouncing and spinning like an empty artillery shell.
One by one, Matt extinguishes the Stones until the pavement is littered with them. As the last one slips away, Ryzaard’s eyes snap close and his head drops down. His legs buckle beneath him, and he falls hard to the concrete, his forehead striking with an audible thud.
Matt stares down at the crumpled form.
“Are you OK?” Jessica touches Matt’s shoulder. The tiny fila
ments of light still cling to his skin, coiling and twisting like snakes. She draws her fingers back in pain and looks at Alexa. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Neither do I.” Alexa steps forward and looks into Matt’s face. She waves her hand in front, but his eyes aren’t tracking. “It’s like he’s in a trance.” She pokes Ryzaard with the tip of her rifle and gets no reaction.
As the rain beats on their heads, Matt collapses to the pavement, just like Ryzaard. Jessica catches his shoulders just before his head hits and gently lowers him.
A few seconds later, Yarah rushes to their side. “What’s going on?” She stares down at Matt and Ryzaard lying on the street.
“I don’t know.” Jessica kneels down and lays her finger on the blue skin of Matt’s neck. She holds her breath as she searches for a pulse. Then she looks up.
“He’s alive.”
“What about Ryzaard?” Alexa walks over to the old man, slips her foot under his belly and rolls him over onto his back. Blood mixed with rain runs in rivulets down his temples and into his ears. She bends down and feels for a pulse. Her fingers move across the neck and press down. “Nothing,” she says.
They hear a sudden gasp for air behind them.
Matt wakes up.
CHAPTER 78
Miyazawa looks down from his transport at the three floating torii gates in the water, each with a fresh coat of vermillion paint. Atop the highest crossbeam, a long arc with upturned ends shines glossy black in the morning light. Mist hangs low around the many sloping corners of the Itsukushima shrine, freshly rebuilt with Japanese cedar for the occasion.
“We wait until high-tide,” Miyazawa says. “We will present the Gift just as the waters touch the base of the jinja shrine.” He looks from the glass wall to an assistant standing next to him. “Do we have sufficient numbers of the Gift for each who enters the shrine?”
“We took delivery of 500,000 units last night.” The assistant lifts a transparent cube in her palm and stares down at the blue jewel suspended in its interior. “Invitations were sent out to only 300,000 for this first Giving. It will be sufficient.”
Miyazawa turns back to the window. “Once the ceremony begins, others will come to partake of the Gift. They must not be turned away. All must receive so that all can know of the Kami.” He walks back to his private quarters. “Wake me when it is time.”
The door slides shut behind him.
He walks to a mirror and gazes at his own reflection. The dilated eyes are pools of black tar matching the color of the high cap on his head. A thick silken tunic extends down his chest and below his waist. The outer robes of starched cotton hang as straight as boards. His hands disappear beneath the oversized sleeves.
As a living Kami, it is no longer necessary to remove the robes of a Shinto priest while he sleeps. They have become as much a part of him as his own skin.
Next to the spread of Shinto to every corner of the world, the Gift will be his greatest legacy to believers everywhere. It will join them together with him, allow them to partake of his divinity, and bring them all together as one. There will be no question that he is the Way.
Through him, they will all become Kami, the ultimate realization of Shinto ideals.
Relaxing into a white leather chair, he reaches to a small stand beside him, works his arms out of the sleeves and finds one of the soft gelatin cubes that litter his compartment. With a practiced motion, he strips off a thin green square. It goes inside his robe against the bare skin of his chest. The familiar rush of warmth flows up his spine and branches out into an infinity of nerve endings, reaching into every part of his body and bringing it all together as one. Then he closes his eyes and falls back into the chair. The warmth entwines and cradles his body in a soft bubble.
As he gives himself up to its comfort, he is ready at last to fully engage the blue jewel.
His past attempts have failed. Today he is resolved to go all the way.
Even with the help of the derm patch, the initial merge with the Mesh calls up intense fear, like standing on a high precipice looking down into a wild river. That first step is the hardest. It takes incredible courage or a sufficient dosage of morphine analog to take it.
His eyelids flutter down, and Miyazawa lets himself fall forward in a long swan dive into the churning white below. A second after impact, he penetrates the icy chill of the connection and senses intense motion as the current sweeps him away. The warmth of the derm patch helps, but he still shivers uncontrollably until his body and mind acclimate.
His mind wanders.
Since the late-twentieth century, there had been speculation about how the inside of the Mesh would appear to a connected human mind. Miyazawa was an avid reader of the literature. Ubiquitous bluescreens and holo technology caused most to imagine it as a monochromatic universe of icy blue penetrating the black of boundless inner space. In this perpetual night, motion along grid lines provided access to oceans of data displayed in cold mathematical precision.
But the truth is much more complex.
Miyazawa opens his eyes and gazes upon a world of white space filled with intense color and sound. It has no horizon, no up or down, no limits. Like an infinite ocean, the world inside the Mesh spreads out in three equal dimensions. Travel is easy. Simply select a destination with the eyes and move in its direction, fast or slow.
Understanding floods his mind.
A library might appear as a brilliant pink sphere floating in a sea of blue. Entering might be as simple as swimming through its outer film. A corporate headquarters might be a large green plain lined with mountain ranges and dotted with small rural villages. A government Mesh-point might be an entire city in the form of a massive chrome cube shot through with roads and buildings that appear to be made of glass and steel.
Other people in the Mesh appear in the form of the avatar of their liking. It might be a stylized version of themselves or something completely different. A dragon, a faerie. A ninja warrior.
The choices are infinite and effortless.
Data takes whatever form the traveler choses. Pie charts convert into multi-dimensional bar graphs with a mere thought. All of it has a tactile feel that is both natural and intensely real. Whatever is seen with the eyes can be touched and moved with the hands.
Tastes and smells abound.
The inner world of the Mesh as revealed by the blue jewel plays on all of the senses.
And there is another sense, one that has no analog in the world of dirt and blood and tears. Inside the Mesh, every object is a source of information. Any contact with an object causes data to flow directly from that object into the mind.
Touch a purring cat and instantly see its DNA structure. Handle a book and absorb its contents in an instant. Inhale the aroma of a lotus flower and master the history of Buddhism. Taste a sphere of honey nectar and understand the geometry of circles and ten billion digits of pi.
Every object in the Mesh is a receptacle of information. Interact with the object and the information flows freely.
Miyazawa marvels that still there is more.
In the real world, anyone can create a Mesh-point, but it requires a knowledge of arcane coding skills that, like second languages, are most easily acquired in early childhood. It comes naturally to the young whose minds can adapt to ever-evolving technology. But as one grows and matures, and as technology changes, their skills became outdated and useless.
That’s why the best Mesh-runners are between the ages of eight and twenty-four. By the time they hit thirty, they’re overtaken by a flood of younger talent.
But Miyazawa instantly understands that the blue jewel opens up a new world of creative possibility.
Inside the Mesh, creating a Mesh-point is a simple matter of thinking. Imagination becomes reality.
He moves at light speed past a blur of colored spheres and down through a sea of blue teeming with white dolphins. It might have been a college course on oceanography, or perhaps a Mesh-point created for
supporters of a new global warming initiative.
He doesn’t stop to investigate. Rather, he jumps to an open area, a sea of white space as yet unclaimed. His thoughts go to his shrine in the mountains of northern Japan. Imagining all its topography, its landscaping, the structure of its buildings, he gazes as it comes together before his eyes.
And there it floats, a city in the clouds.
He marvels at the calm mountain setting of his own creation drawn from his favorite traditional Japanese wall hanging. He touches down on the courtyard of white pearls. As he walks forward, they move under his feet with a satisfying crunch. He stoops down to run his fingers over them. Touching their warm surfaces, each one contains an ancient proverb from a long forgotten Shinto master that plays in his ears.
He selects one perfectly shaped pearl and cradles it in his palm. An entire discourse on the fleeting nature of reality opens to his mind.
It will do the same for his followers.
Walking, he passes beneath two cherry blossom trees that grow in the form of a torii gate ten meters high. Their trunks form the vertical pillars, and branches come together overhead in the shape of two distinct crossbeams. Placing his hands on the smooth white bark, sweet music from the old tree in the forest flows through his body and lifts his soul on wings of ecstasy.
It will do the same for his Shinto followers.
He sees it in his mind.
From all over the Mesh, they will come here to worship the living Kami. From here, he will impart the wisdom that comes only to those who are purged of all filth.
He steps off the sea of white onto golden stairs up to a platform of diamond crystal where he will stand and preach to the masses. Framed by a gorgeously tiled roof and pillars of the shrine behind him, this will become a major hub of the new Mesh, a daily stopping point for billions of the world-wide faithful.
