by Jacob Whaler
“What do you mean? We’re going to Vancouver, remember?”
“Little John thought my son was the next leader of the freedom camps.” Kent nods to himself. “If that’s true, maybe these clues will lead us to Matt.”
“Makes sense, but—”
“All we need is access to the Mesh, and I know just where to get it.”
CHAPTER 46
Ryzaard stares down at Little John and finds a chair near the foot of the hospital bed. Slipping another black Djarum into his mouth, he lights the tip and takes a deep inhale. “Dr. Small, your job is to keep the patient alive, nothing more.” He pivots in the chair and blows smoke over the feet of Little John. It drifts past his belly and into his face with no visible reaction.
“I understand,” Dr. Small says. “But the patient is suffering a severe stress attack right now.” He runs his finger along the bluescreen on the table. “Massive dilation of the muscular blood vessels. Racing heart. Violent breathing. Abnormally high blood-glucose readings. It’s a classic fight- or-flight response. All the numbers are off the charts. Like he’s being tortured. Something is wrong with the implant. I recommend that we remove it immediately.”
Ryzaard shakes his head. “You can see for yourself he is not being tortured. He is lying in a bed doing nothing.”
“But what about his mental state. The implant has clearly altered that. We should—”
“The implant is going nowhere,” Ryzaard says. “And you will keep him alive. Flood his system with drugs. Hook him up to life support. Force his body to comply.” He blows a cloud of smoke up to the ceiling.
“Prolonged exposure to intense levels of stress is damaging.” Dr. Small wipes the sweat from his forehead. “If you refuse to remove the implant, the only alternative is deep sedation.”
With his eyes focused intensely on Dr. Small, Ryzaard rises from his seat and moves closer, stopping only when they stand eyeball to eyeball. “Anything that dampens the clarity of his senses is out of the question. He must be lucid, fully awake, and functional around the clock. Period.”
“But surely you will allow him to rest. It’s like running a new engine at top speed without a break, or a thoroughbred until it drops dead from utter exhaustion.”
“Dr. Small,” Ryzaard says. “Your track record in neural implants and your desire to back up theory with human experimentation is the reason why you are standing here. When the State of New York stripped you of your medical license, your response was most impressive. Do you recall what you said?”
“Yes.” Dr. Small looks up as if reading from a cue card. “If we are to make progress, there are times when we must leave our fears behind and move beyond them.”
“Truer words were never spoken.”
Small takes a step back. “But this man is barely—”
“Let me make myself clear.” Ryzaard’s voice rises to a crescendo, filling the room. “This is not a party.” The glowing tip of his cigarette points down at Little John’s chest. “There will be no rest or breaks or mercy of any kind for this man.” Ryzaard walks to the exit and pauses at the door. “You will keep him alive and awake.” He throws down the cigarette and leaves the room.
Stopping in his office to straighten his bowtie, he brushes off his tweed jacket and gathers his thoughts. Outbursts of emotion are rare for him but still unpleasant. Dr. Small exhibits a weakness of character that is all too common with the human species. Such weakness threatens the perfection of all the plans that Ryzaard has so carefully made and executed. If people like Dr. Small are allowed to have their way and show mercy, Paradise will never come to humankind.
Ryzaard owes it to them to be strong.
Fortunately, he has a meeting with Elsa Bergman. Of all of the youngsters working under him, she exhibits the most focused and efficient behavior. Some would call her ruthless, but to Ryzaard, she understands her role and performs it without question. No doubt the addition of Little John’s Stone has given her trading algorithms a huge boost. He looks forward to the conversation with her.
The transparent doors part, and Ryzaard enters Elsa’s office. Huge bluescreens cover the walls from end to end, showing trading data for all major equity markets.
“Elsa,” he says. “What have you got to show me?”
She swings around in her high-backed chair to face him. “Please sit down.” She points to an empty seat.
“I prefer to stand,” Ryzaard says.
“After you hear what I’m going to tell you, you might wish you were sitting down.”
“That bad?” Ryzaard looks concerned.
“No, that good. Look at this.”
She swivels around in her chair with her back to Ryzaard. Her head scans the bluescreens from right to left.
“Please explain.” Ryzaard’s eyes sweep across a series of colorful graphs and rows of numbers, each changing in real time. “I’m not sure I understand what’s going on.”
“With pleasure.” Elsa turns to the right in full profile to Ryzaard, her hand pointing to the bluescreen in front. “That’s a running summary of our positions at each of the fifty major stock exchanges in the world. Red means losses. Green means profits.”
Ryzaard nods. “I see mostly green, as I would expect.”
“If I may be so bold, what you see is that our average take has jumped to over ten billion IMUs per hour.” Elsa turns in the chair to face Ryzaard. “It used to take weeks to reach that level.”
“The trading has improved with the addition of Little John’s Stone, as expected.”
“By a factor of at least a hundred. At some point, our major focus will shift from making money, to hiding and preserving it.” Elsa exhales. “I’ve ordered the legal department to set up 500 independent reporting entities, mostly Chinese and African, as the vehicles for our trading program. This is in addition to a hundred new banks we are setting up.”
“A hundred?” Ryzaard says.
“A hundred will do for now,” Elsa says. “We’ll eventually need more as the program continues. We’ll also be pouring funds into acquiring oil, gas and mineral rights in the Antarctic and throughout the South Pacific. And of course we continue to explore other trading platforms in addition to the usual markets. Sports gambling. Horseracing. Election results. All this, of course, in addition to the payments being made to almost every government on the globe. At some point, the best way to store money is turn it into political power.” Elsa exhales.
“Until such time as all politics and governments fall away,” Ryzaard says.
“Of course.” Elsa’s eyes scan the bluescreens. “Until then, political power may be our most important store of wealth.”
Ryzaard can see the dark circles under her eyes. “You’ve been working extremely hard. I wish I could tell you to take a rest, but I’m afraid there won’t be any of that until we are finished. I hope you find our agreement sufficiently rewarding.”
“I do,” she says. “In time I’ll be able to buy a country for myself and retire in style. Then it will all be worth it.”
Ryzaard grins and turns to the door. “Keep it up. Hire all the help you need. Keep me informed.” As he takes a step forward, two large glass panels open to let him through.
“Just one question,” Elsa says.
Ryzaard stops on his heel and walks back into the office, the doors sealing shut behind him. “What would you like to know?”
“There are more Stones out there, right?”
Ryzaard’s eyes narrow. “Yes, a few.”
“Do you know who has them, where they are, what they are being used for?” Elsa speaks while avoiding Ryzaard’s eyes.
“That’s four questions, not one,” Ryzaard leans against the chair and studies his shoes, thinking about what she is saying.
Direct queries about the Stones tend to be a sign of discontent. The only way to counter them is to avoid direct answers. No doubt these bright youngsters think a lot about the Stones and what it would be like to possess one. So far, it has not been a
problem. Interesting work, financial rewards, promises of power in the new world to come and the rush of being part of an ultra-elite club have been sufficient motivation to keep them focused and satisfied. As the pressures of work and the stakes begin to increase geometrically, Ryzaard is well aware that cracks will begin to appear in that structure.
There might come a time when bribes will no longer work.
For the time being, it is wise to ignore such issues, to deal with them if and when they come up, to assume everyone is content until there is clear evidence to the contrary.
Of all the young people, Elsa is the most focused and driven, but also the most likely to think about the future implications of the Stones.
Perhaps Elsa understands what Ryzaard is thinking.
“Just wondering,” she says. “How soon will you be getting more Stones to enhance the trading algorithm?”
“Does it matter?” Ryzaard says.
She looks down at her desk. “With more Stones, the power of the prediction algorithm will increase. If the current trajectory continues, at some point, we will break all the markets on the planet. We will have extracted so much wealth that the markets will no longer function. It won’t happen all at once, but it will happen. What then?”
Ryzaard laughs. “You just answered your own question.”
“What?” Elsa says.
“Once we reach the endpoint on this planet, we simply move on to others.”
CHAPTER 47
Kent presses the code on the number pad, and the large garage door rises up, its articulated sections folding like an accordion at the top. Inside is one car on the left and a noticeable gap on the right where Matt’s Toyota Chikara had always been parked.
“Matt’s going to kill me when he finds out I drove his truck to New York City and abandoned it,” Kent says.
“I’m sure he’ll understand,” Jake says. “After all, you did save his life.”
Kent walks through the garage. “Let’s hope he does.” He slips out of his shoes, twists the knob on the back door and enters the family room.
By force of habit, he goes first to the kitchen sink and looks for the salt and pepper shaker.
The white cube is facing up.
“I don’t believe it,” Kent says. “Matt’s been here.”
Jake is still at the back door trying to work his boots off. He finally manages to do it and stumbles through the doorway, up a short flight of stairs and into the kitchen. “What?” he says.
“Look at this.”
“Look at what?” Jake says.
“The white cube is on top.” Kent points at the shaker. “When I leave the house, I always put the black cube on top. When Matt comes home, he reverses it. It’s how we keep track of each other. No doubt about it. My son’s been here.”
“But you said it yourself back at the freedom camp.” Jake sweeps a hand around in a circle. “The police have probably already been here, searching for Matt.”
“It’s possible. But my guess is that they’d be careful not to disturb anything. They wouldn’t want us to know.” He rushes past Jake and bounds upstairs to his bedroom.
“Where are you going?”
Kent gives no answer. When he gets to his room, he does a quick sweep of the contents. Jake enters a few seconds later.
“Just as I thought,” Kent says.
“Do you mind telling me?”
Kent pulls the drawer open next to his bed. “Only two jaxes left. Should be six.” He waves his arms at the wall of plastic boxes. “Lots of stuff missing. A picture of me and my wife when we were young. Matt’s definitely been here. He popped in and packed for a trip. That means he’s alive. Good boy.”
“OK. Let’s say you’re right. Matt’s been here. Any idea where he went?”
“No. And if he’s smart, he didn’t leave any notes telling me.” Kent flips the lid off one of the boxes and takes out an old slate. “Take this and start looking on the Mesh for that stone monkey. I’ll whip up some dinner. No sense taking a trip on an empty stomach.”
“What trip?”
“The one Little John wants us to take.” Kent rushes downstairs.
Ten minutes later, Kent lifts a steaming pan of gyoza off the stove and walks to the kitchen table. “Good thing I had these in the freezer. Any luck finding a match?”
Jake sits on a chair, the slate on the table. To his left, the stone monkey figurine stands upright. On the other side, the lid of the black metal box is open. A white tissue lies on the bottom with the single gray hair carefully wrapped inside.
“No luck yet,” Jake says. “It’s like looking for a needle—”
The overpowering aroma of garlic and ginger, mixed with a touch of sesame seed oil, billows out of the frying pan on the table.
Jake turns his head to look. “It’s not roast beef and mashed potatoes, but smells delicious. You’re quite a cook.”
“Have to be,” Kent says. “I raised a son by myself.” He sits down across from Jake and drops two pairs of chopsticks on the table next to a bottle of ketchup.
Jake’s aviators stare down at the chopsticks. “No mercy for the blind man?”
“Need a fork?”
“I’d be grateful, if it’s all the same to you.”
Kent jumps up and returns with a large spoon, placing it next to Jake’s plate. “Sorry. It’s all I could find.” His chopsticks plunge into the nearest gyoza, dip it in ketchup and deposit it whole in his mouth. He chews slowly, eyes closed, savoring the flavors. “A perfect marriage of East and West.”
Jake is looking at the steaming plate with a wary eye.
“Don’t analyze it,” Kent says. “We don’t have much time. Just eat it.”
Taking the spoon in his hand, Jake carefully scoops out one of the dumplings and brings it close to his aviators.
“Curious,” he says. “Lightly browned on the side and burnt to a crisp on the bottom.”
“That’s why they’re called pot stickers.”
Jake sniffs at it, as if teasing out the ingredients. “Let’s see,” he says. “Definitely pork, green onions, garlic and ginger.”
“Right so far.”
“Then there’s vinegar, salt, pepper and some kind of cabbage.”
“Hakusai. Chinese cabbage. Anything else?”
Jake takes one more sniff and raises an eyebrow. “Something fermented. Hard to put a finger on it.”
“Miso,” Kent says. “Made from soybeans. You missed the sesame seed oil and nira. But still impressive.” He pops another one into his mouth. “Are you going to eat or what?”
With the gyoza still on the spoon, Jake scoops up some bright red ketchup on the tip and brings it all close to his mouth. “Here goes.” Placing it gently on his tongue and chewing slowly, a smile spreads across his face. “Delicious.”
“At last I know I can trust you,” Kent says.
Jake bites into another gyoza and grins. “Same here.”
They eat in silence until the food is gone.
Pushing the dishes away, Kent picks up the stone figurine and studies its surface features with a jeweler’s loupe, looking for any identifying marks. The monkey is sitting in a lotus position, legs crossed, hands together, thumb tips touching. Definitely Buddhist.
Turning to the slate, he finds the Mesh is full of pictures of meditating monkeys. Thousands of them. And that’s the problem. None of them match the look and feel of what he holds in his hand.
“No luck?” Jake asks.
“We’re not going to find it on the Mesh by trying to match pictures,” Kent says. “Time to pull out the heavy artillery.”
He goes back upstairs to the bedroom and rummages through a half dozen boxes, dumping the contents on the bed. It’s been a long time since he last used the MIPSS.
He flies downstairs and sits down, placing it on the table.
“What’s that?” Jake asks.
Kent looks up and grins. “A Micro Pattern Surface Scanner. MIPSS for short.” It looks like a g
eneric cube six inches on a side. When he touches a control panel, the top pops up and reveals a hollow interior lined with glass. Picking up the monkey, he carefully places it inside and presses the top back down. “This will take a few minutes.”
Jake points to the cube. “Looks like a Jack-in-the-box. What’s it going to do?”
“Exactly what its name says.” Kent presses a button on the control panel. “We’ll get a micro scan of the surface of the monkey. Should identify any marks or patterns we can’t see with our eyes.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Right. Forgot. Not all of us have eyes.” Kent peers inside the glowing box. “It’s working like a charm.”
Jake shifts in his chair. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How did she die?”
“She?”
“Your wife.”
“You don’t miss much, do you?”
“It jumped out at me while you were cooking the dumplings. Loud and clear.” Jake wipes a bit of ketchup off his lips. “You were thinking about her the whole time.”
“Guilty as charged,” Kent says. “I always use her recipe for the gyoza. We used to cook them together.” He takes in a big breath. His body sinks lower into the chair as he exhales. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time to hear it,” Jake says.
They both hear the low hum coming from the cube on the table.
“Sounds like the MIPPS is done scanning. Let’s have a look.” Kent reaches for the slate and touches its bluescreen. It lights up with hi-res pictures of the monkey carving. “Interesting,” he says.
“What did you find?” Jake stands up and stares over Kent’s shoulder.
“Nothing so far.” Kent’s fingers move over the screen, turning a three dimensional view of the monkey. “It looks like the front, sides and back are all clean. No extraneous surface marks.”
“What about the bottom?”
“I’m getting there.” Kent’s fingers fly over the screen. A long stretch of silence follows.
