Stones: Hypothesis (Stones #2)

by Jacob Whaler

  CHAPTER 52

  “Come on, Jake. We’re going.” Kent has a backpack over each shoulder. Running down the stairs, he takes one off and tosses it to Jake.

  Jake sticks up a hand and catches it.

  “Vancouver is one thing. We can cross the border in the back of the transport. But flying to Thailand is out of the question.” Jake shakes his head and stuffs hands into his pockets. “Airport security. Customs.” He paces back and forth in the kitchen between the sink and the refrigerator. “They’ll stop me, start asking questions. Take off my glasses. Inject Truthtell. Not good. I can’t go.”

  “Let me guess,” Kent says. “No ID card. No passport. Not even a jax to your name. Am I right?”

  Jake says nothing.

  Dipping into his pack, Kent pulls out a plastic box the size and shape of the ancient paperback novels he read as a kid. He tosses it through the air in the general direction of Jake.

  Jake looks up and catches it a few inches from his face.

  “Now you have all three,” Kent says. “Let’s go.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry. There are lots of things I don’t know, but when it comes to fake IDs, I’m a certified expert. It comes with living off-grid for so many years. You’ll be fine.”

  Jake takes the lid off the box and pulls out a silver jax, bringing it close to his aviators.

  “It has a special algorithm add-on. I’ll show you how to work it on the way,” Kent says. “You’ll need it to get through the security gate.”

  Jake slings the backpack over one shoulder and follows Kent to the door. His voice lowers to a whisper. “I thought we were going to the freedom camp in Vancouver. That was the original plan.”

  “Your plan.” Kent opens the door and stops. “But not Little John’s. It’s as plain as day he wants us to go to Thailand and see the monkeys.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Disengaging the implant.

  The words filter down to Little John from outside his field of vision, a voice coming from the vast black expanse that engulfs his body.

  He stares into the darkness of this alternate reality. He has tried in vain to shut both his eyes and his mind, but neither of them responds to his commands. A rhythmic pulsation moves through the scaly worm that fills his mouth, throat and belly. Jagged pain surges through his spine like a constant presence, a dark shadow in his dreams that refuses to leave. He struggles to remember what his body felt like without the pain and the worm, but even the memories of a body without pain have been erased.

  Opening his mind to the pain, he tries to look at it as a neutral observer might look at a work of art, to get behind it and disengage from it. But there is nothing behind it, nothing beside it. Only pain. Nothing else. For as long as he can remember.

  The worm moves.

  It stops pulsating and begins pulling out of his mouth. The dry scales scrape across the surface of his flat tongue, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed. When it leaves his belly, the pain in his spine stops abruptly. A few seconds later, it emerges entirely, and he sees the bloody fangs visible in the half-opened mouth of the eyeless head. It disappears down the dark tunnel of the throat of the larger monster, its jaws still holding Little John in a vise-grip on his back and chest.

  Now I’m going to bring him out.

  The voice echoes from outside Little John. The bitter taste of burnt sulfur is thick on his tongue.

  Hours go by.

  The jaws that are clamped on his back release their iron grip, and the monster pulls away and moves down past Little John’s feet into the blackness of space, disappearing from view.

  Little John is left alone, floating in space, too numb to register any wonder in his mind.

  Without warning, lightning explodes overhead, and the darkness is replaced by a blinding white flash. The air begins to change from the cold dry of space to something more humid and breathable.

  Voices float above Little John like invisible eels swimming in a dark ocean, muffled and dampened.

  “Thank you for agreeing to release the patient.” The voice is whiny and high-pitched.

  “Only for a few minutes,” Ryzaard says. “And it won’t happen again for a long time. Elsa is not at all happy about this interruption to her trading juggernaut.”

  The voices are getting louder, closer, clearer.

  “Stress measures are coming down,” says the whiny voice again. “Hormone values returning to sustainable levels. Vitals within nominal range. Would you like to speak to him, Dr. Ryzaard? I believe I can bring him out of the dark.”

  Little John feels himself rising quickly now, coming to the surface from the black depths of an otherworldly place. His face and ears break through the surface, and he is in the same room with the voices.

  Back in the hospital bed.

  “Yes,” Ryzaard says. “I would like to speak to our patient. But you’ll need to leave while I do.”

  “Of course.”

  A low sound hisses near Little John’s wrist. A bright light shines directly in his eyes.

  “The patient should be fully conscious. Please be gentle. I can’t imagine what he went through when the implant was engaged.” Crisp footsteps walk away, the whiny voice receding with them.

  The only sound Little John can hear is a low hum and the inhale and exhale of his own breath.

  “Speak to me, Little John,” Ryzaard says. “I don’t have much time. Neither do you.”

  The glaring whiteness above Little John slowly resolves into shapes and colors. A dark form stands over him, looking down. For an instant, he thinks it’s the monster that released its grip on his head only moments ago. After staring up for more than a minute, he recognizes the face of Ryzaard.

  The filth. The Abomination.

  Little John tries to speak, but his lips move in silence.

  “Take a deep breath, swallow slowly and try again,” Ryzaard says.

  Closing his eyes, Little John rests for another minute and gathers all his strength to talk. Finally, a sound emerges from his lips.

  “Why?” The word leaks out in a high-pitch squeak.

  Ryzaard smiles and begins pacing back and forth along the edge of Little John’s bed, hands behind his back, like a university professor, ready to deliver a lecture.

  “Why?” Ryzaard says. “I can only infer that you are asking why this has happened to you. Why I am doing this to you. But you already know the answer. I need your Stone to bring peace to the world. I asked for your cooperation. You refused. You forced me to force you. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

  Strength begins to flow back into Little John’s body, bit by bit, starting with his arms. When Ryzaard has his back to him, he moves a hand against the restraining strap and discovers that it is loose. A small victory. For the first time since he can remember, he suppresses a strong urge to smile. Making an effort to speak again, he opens his mouth. This time, his voice has more vigor and clarity.

  “What are you doing with my Stone?”

  “Your single Stone works like a magnifying glass, greatly amplifying the power of my two Stones. At the present, that power is running a world market trading program to great effect, gathering the wealth needed to execute our plans.”

  “Our plans?” Little John’s left eyebrow moves up in mock surprise.

  “I’ve done my research. You’re a leader of the freedom camps. As it turns out, we both want the same thing. That’s why I brought you back from that hellish alternate reality caused by the implant. To give you one more chance to join me, willingly.”

  “What do you want?” Strength flows into the fingers of Little John’s other hand. He moves them after Ryzaard walks by. The strap is loose. Good.

  “What do I want?” Ryzaard stops, fingers stroking his goatee. “To free mankind from tyranny.”

  “What tyranny?”

  Ryzaard whips around, facing Little John.

  “The tyranny of evil. The tyranny of waste.” He motions somewhere out
side the room, outside the building. “The tyranny of their vapid, meaningless lives.”

  Little John extends his fingers. The strap is just above them. He drops his voice to a whisper. “Listen to me. You have let Abomination overtake you. But it’s not too late. I can help you before it destroys all the good in you.”

  Ryzaard approaches the side of the bed and looks down with what might be interpreted as warm concern. “Listen to what I’m offering you. A chance. To join me. Not as a slave, but as a partner. A willing participant.”

  Eyes moving downward, Little John sees the green controller in Ryzaard’s hand. It’s the same one that sent Little John into spirals of agony the last time Ryzaard paid a visit. He licks his lips and steels his jaw, drawing in a long, slow breath, waiting for the right moment.

  It comes as Ryzaard turns his back.

  With a burst of adrenaline, Little John slides his hands out from under the restraining strap and raises them high enough to grab the back of Ryzaard’s tweed jacket. He pulls down hard.

  The result is better than he could have hoped for.

  Ryzaard loses his balance and falls backward across Little John’s chest.

  Reaching his right arm up, Little John hooks it under Ryzaard’s chin, putting him into a head lock. He brings his other arm up to join in the grip. He knows his time is short. Ryzaard’s ear is pressed close to his mouth.

  “I wrestled in high school,” Little John says. “Sometimes those old moves come in handy.”

  Ryzaard’s arms flail. One of his heels comes off the floor.

  Mustering all his strength, Little John grabs Ryzaard’s head and brings it to his mouth, biting down hard on the ear and enjoying the exquisite sensation of flesh tearing and separating between his teeth. His fingernails dig into Ryzaard’s neck, scraping and peeling skin.

  A wheezing sound comes from Ryzaard’s mouth as he struggles to breath. His other heel comes off the floor, and Little John feels the full weight of Ryzaard’s body on his chest. The green controller clatters to the floor. Both of Ryzaard’s hands come up and start clawing at Little John’s head.

  For once in his life, Little John is glad he’s bald. Ryzaard’s fingers find nothing to grab.

  In his mind, Little John rejoices. Both of Ryzaard’s hands are empty. He has lost the green controller.

  The stainless steel cube hums quietly only a few meters away.

  Little John squeezes his arms harder around Ryzaard’s neck. The old man’s strength is fading. If Little John can hold on just a little longer, he might be able to rid the world of this monster.

  This filth. This Abomination.

  If he fails, his life will be an endless nightmare. For the sake of the world, it’s worth the effort to try.

  “Now what was it you were saying?” Little John strains to hold Ryzaard in a headlock. “Something about how you and I want the same thing. About how I forced you to force me so you can bring an end to tyranny. Now let’s be honest. Do you really think that makes sense?”

  There are only gasps and wheezes from Ryzaard. His flailing arms cease to move.

  The face of a blonde Nordic woman appears on the bluescreen at Little John’s feet. Her eyes grew large as she sees Ryzaard with his hands grasping in vain to free himself from the iron grip.

  “Dr. Ryzaard,” she says. “What’s going on?” Her face disappears from the screen. The sound of her footsteps running away echoes in Little John’s ears.

  The jig will soon be up. There’s only enough time for one final message.

  Hugging Ryzaard even closer and tasting the blood flowing from his ear, Little John whispers loud enough for Ryzaard to hear clearly.

  “Remember this, my friend.” Little John takes a deep breath as his own strength fades fast. “Your power may reign for a time. It may appear to subdue everything. But it cannot last. It is unstable, temporary, unsustainable, self-defeating. A contradiction.” His eyes glaze over. “Even now, I see other Stones gathering against it. Great and terrible shall be your fall.” He takes the fingernails of his right hand and digs them into the sides of Ryzaard’s head, drawing deep crimson stripes from temple to chin.

  A commotion of bodies enters the room.

  Little John closes his eyes, a smile on his face. He opens his arms and releases Ryzaard’s limp body. It slumps away like a discarded wet towel.

  The hard thud on the carpet is the sound of Ryzaard’s head hitting the floor.

  CHAPTER 54

  Two luminous beings float together in space.

  Matt casts his gaze around. “No doubt about it. This must be one of the alternate realities connected to the Stones.”

  “Alternate realities? What do you mean?”

  “Before I came here, I met another Stone Holder, an old Japanese man. He told me the Stones are connected to multiple realities. This must be one of them.”

  Leo shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Finish what we started back in the Forbidden City. Heal the old man.”

  “How can we do that if he’s not—”

  Matt motions for Leo to look down.

  The old man is stretched out in a horizontal line between them like a patient on an invisible operating table, palms facing up, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

  Leo casts his gaze down at the man and back up at Matt. “How did he—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Matt says. “Let’s heal him, just like you said before. We should be able to see what’s wrong and make it right.” Matt drops his eyes down to the old man and begins to concentrate, scanning his body from head to foot, looking for something to catch his attention.

  Little by little, Matt notices that the horizontal body between them is changing, becoming almost transparent. He can not only look at it, but into it and through it. Whatever part of the body he focuses his attention on becomes ultra clear. Everything else just falls away.

  He sees the wide blades of the old man’s pelvic bones and follows the femurs down to the knees. Going up the body, his eyes find the spine and sweep along the length of the vertebrae to the base of the skull. The bones of the skull fade away as he studies the two hemispheres of the brain, looking like long strings of raw pink sausage stuffed inside a football-shaped mold.

  A disc-shaped gray mass with radiating spiral arms like a small galaxy catches his attention. It strikes him as being a foreign object, something that doesn’t belong, like a cigarette butt floating in one’s minestrone soup.

  “Do you see it?” Matt says. “In the center of the brain.”

  “No,” Leo says. “I’m looking at the heart. Something’s not right.”

  “Let me have a look.” Matt shifts his attention to the old man’s chest. He studies the pulsating heart. Deep maroon-colored blood flows out to the lungs as they slowly expand and contract. As the blood enters the lungs, it separates into innumerable branches, and its color changes from maroon to bright red. From innumerable tributaries, it all flows together again and travels back to the heart. Then he sees it. The blood pools inside the heart, but only a fraction of it flows away to the rest of the body. A section of the lower heart is gray and lifeless.

  “Right,” Matt says. “I see it now. Part of the heart muscle has died.” He looks up at Leo. “We can fix it.”

  In unison, they drop their hands down to the man’s chest.

  The instant Leo’s hands make contact with Matt’s, a sea of images, sounds and colors floods Leo’s mind, as if he just walked into a dark room full of high-definition holographic video.

  “What’s going on?” Leo says.

  “Not sure.” Matt’s voice plays just to the side. “I’m feeling it too. Some kind of sensory overload.”

  Leo tries to close his eyes and shut it out, but that doesn’t work. Focusing forward, he picks out a single random image and concentrates on it.

  It’s a beach scene, endless sands falling away to the hor
izon on both sides. The sun is warm on his skin, and a gentle breeze flows through his hair. Water runs down his back and legs.

  Come on, Dad. Let’s do it again.

  The voice comes from inside his head.

  Someone laughs behind him. “Race you to the next wave.” A man yells out as he rushes by, surfboard in hand, running into the ocean. Leo feels his fingers grab a board. He stands and runs after the man.

  A woman’s voice reaches his ears from behind. “Be careful, Matt-kun. Don’t go out too far.”

  His eyes flip around to look at her, and he sees a small Asian woman with long dark hair and perfect skin.

  Don’t worry, Mom.

  The same voice comes from inside his head.

  From outside, the male voice yells again, drawing his attention back to the ocean. “Here it comes, Matt. Let’s catch it.”

  He splashes into the warm ocean water and lunges forward with his surfboard, landing on his belly.

  Leo lets go of the image, scans around the room and finds another. The same voice plays inside his mind.

  Where are we going, Dad?

  “No time to talk, son. We have to go. Now.” The man grabs his hand and begins to run, pulling him along.

  But Dad. What about Mom?

  “She can’t come with us, Matt. I’ll explain later.”

  Leo sees the expression of grave concern mixed with fear in the man’s eyes.

  They run through an airport, the smell of fresh paint in his nostrils.

  Leo detaches from the image and finds another.

  Soft arms rest on his neck and shoulders. The aroma of a woman’s perfume wraps around his head. Large eyes look up at him. His body is filled with longing.

  “Why do you have to go?” The woman stares into his eyes. He sees the two large dimples in her cheeks that stand out even when she isn’t smiling.

  It’s a great opportunity. Just for the summer. I’ll be back in no time.

  “But Japan. It’s so far away.” The woman pulls his head down.

  He feels her lips press against his forehead and drop down, sliding along the bridge of his nose.

  Leo lets go of the image and breathes in deeply. The flow of sights, sounds and colors is slowing down, no longer overwhelming him. He is able to pick and choose, investigate and pursue. It was like being in a library where you can pull books at random off the shelves, leaf through them, put them back and move on.