Stones: Hypothesis (Stones #2)

by Jacob Whaler

  But Ryzaard can’t get a hit. He stops to allow the smoke to clear and sees Jake standing calmly, a carefree smile on his face.

  He has no eyes, but he knows in advance where I’m shooting. Impossible.

  “Wrong.” Jake is talking loud enough for Ryzaard to hear. “With the Allehonen, nothing is impossible.” He grins again and backs up, disappearing behind the base of a rock tower.

  Ryzaard stands still, scanning the ruins and grass from side to side, listening for the sound of movement, trying to gauge where Jake is going.

  For a time, there’s no sound but the inhale and exhale of Ryzaard’s breath and the beating of his heart.

  Thump thump thump.

  The deep noise of a single helicopter breaks through the silence. It comes flying low and bursts into sight from above the jungle. Within seconds, it’s landing on the open grass fifty meters away.

  Ryzaard glances at the helicopter and squeezes his eyelids together.

  The coward came back. I’ll take care of him later.

  It’s no use trying to chase Jake through the rocks and ruins. There’s a much easier way to dispose of this nuisance. With time stopped, it will be a simple matter to find and destroy him.

  Ryzaard closes his eyes, finds his breath and relaxes into the present moment.

  But nothing happens.

  He tries again, gripping a Stone in each hand, closing his eyes and finding the familiar spot in his mind he discovered so many years ago.

  Again, no result. A chirping bird breaks the silence.

  Then it hits him.

  The Null Box on the attack-heli. Still engaged.

  He reaches into his pocket for the jax to let the pilot know he can turn it off.

  A hand grips his shoulder.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  As Ryzaard turns to face the voice, something hard slams into his jaw, and shards of pain explode in his neck and behind his eyes.

  He staggers backward, fumbling for the jax that evades his fingers. Another blow catches him in the stomach and nausea spreads out from his chest. He doubles over in pain. A third blow on the back of his head sends him to the ground. Lights flash behind his eyes and a drum beats inside his brain. He hits the ground on his belly.

  He looks up to see Kent standing over him, hands curled into fists.

  A skinny boy in a T-shirt and jeans stands next to him grasping a Stone in his hand.

  CHAPTER 115

  Matt hangs suspended in space, distant stars visible in every direction. The same blue aura clings to his body.

  He senses movement. Not a physical motion, but a flow of thoughts from other minds. He tries to understand them, to hold on to them, but they are too slippery, too fast, just out of reach, like sticking your hand into a fast moving river and trying to grab the water. The thoughts rush by in a blur, impossible to grasp.

  Yet the thoughts pull him closer, and he tries to wrap his mind around them. The more he tries, the more slippery they become.

  And then an idea occurs to him.

  Perhaps it’s like looking at a speck of dust floating on your eyeball. If one tries to focus directly on it, it moves away. But look away and just let it be, and it appears in the periphery.

  Matt stops trying to capture the flux of thoughts and relaxes his mind, simply opening it to the flow and making no effort to analyze or grasp.

  At first, the rhythm of sound is familiar, but the words don’t make any sense.

  And then he begins to understand .

  Fragments of meaning float through his mind, a conversation between two speakers.

  He passed through the eye.

  It has never been done before.

  There is always a first.

  Why would he chose pain and struggle?

  It was his choice.

  He is not afraid of power.

  He has great love.

  He belongs to us.

  You offer him nothing.

  Let him choose.

  He has already chosen.

  He cannot choose that which he does not know.

  He need not know that which he does not choose.

  You fear he will choose the power.

  There is no fear in love.

  He must know power so he can choose.

  He has already chosen love.

  Let him choose again.

  He has always chosen us.

  Is he not free to choose again?

  He is free.

  We will show him power.

  We will show him love.

  Then he will choose.

  Agreed.

  The two threads of conversation flow on, moving away from Matt until he no longer perceives the words.

  CHAPTER 116

  Kent reaches down, grabs Ryzaard by the lapels of his tweed jacket, now torn almost beyond recognition, raises him off the ground and thrusts him against the rough surface of a boulder. He peers into the eyes of the old man.

  Jake walks up behind them.

  Ryzaard looks up at the two men staring down at him. “You have no idea what you are doing.” The Stones on his chest are cold and black.

  “Where’s my son, you bastard?”

  “I already told you.” A grin crosses Ryzaard’s face. He looks from Kent to Jake. “He’s dead. I killed him myself. With my own hands.” He puts his fingers on the boulder and tries to push away and stand, wincing in pain.

  Behind Kent, ten meters away, the Monkey is an unmoving pile of hair at the bottom of a broken stone wall.

  Kent’s hand curls into a fist again.

  Ryzaard puts up his hands to protect his face, but it’s too late.

  The fist breaks against his jaw and sends a fresh surge of salty warmth through his mouth. Ryzaard smiles, almost as if he is enjoying the experience.

  “Show me the body,” Kent says.

  “The body?” Ryzaard can’t hold back a fit of laughter that rolls over him. His speech is slurred, and dribbles of red run out the corners of his mouth and down his chin. “I can assure you, after what I did to him, there is no body. Nothing you would recognize. Nothing you could even see with an electron microscope. In fact, you could say I turned him into nothing. A thoroughly enjoyable experience.”

  Jake speaks into Kent’s ear. “Kill him. We should leave. Now.”

  Kent shakes his head. “I don’t think he’s telling the truth.” Then he whirls around, and his fist slams into Ryzaard’s chin.

  The old man twists and falls to the ground. He lays there without moving.

  “Is he dead, or just playing possum?” Jake says.

  “Let’s find out.” Kent lands a solid kick in Ryzaard’s side, feeling the cracking of ribs.

  There’s no movement.

  Kent lands another kick. From out of nowhere, images burst into his mind. A truck plows through an intersection, its mammoth wheels rolling over his wife’s car. Matt lashed to a chair, Ryzaard bending over him with instruments of torture. Rage breaks through the hard shell that keeps it contained in a small corner of his mind. Like a flashflood, it fills his eyes and sets his teeth on edge.

  His fingers begin to curl again, as if on their own. Feet kick against Ryzaard’s neck and head. Fists beat against his face. As the anger wells up, Kent feels like a wild animal let loose from its cage after years of torment. He unleashes a lifetime of rage against all that is unjust in the world, all that has been taken from him.

  More than anything, he wants to kill Ryzaard with his bare hands. Slowly and carefully.

  But then the wave of anger begins to subside. It flows out like a receding tide, and he can no longer sustain it. His fingers uncurl, and he takes a step back.

  Looking down at Ryzaard’s broken body, Kent can only feel disgust and pity.

  Jake comes up behind him, grabs Kent’s shoulders and pulls him back. “Don’t do it like this. Make it quick. Use the knife.”

  “You’re right.” Kent looks around for the dagger. “Let’s get this over and get out
of here.”

  Ryzaard’s body stirs.

  “Quick!” Jake says.

  Rushing up behind him, Kent stops. “Got it.”

  “I’ve given you plenty of time, and you still can’t do the job. Pathetic.” A smile forms on Ryzaard’s face. His jax lies on the grass just a couple of feet away, bright green lines run down its side. “Disengage the Null Box,” he says.

  The Stones on his chest jump to life, glowing dark purple.

  Kent and Jake back away.

  “Gentlemen,” Ryzaard mumbles. “I’ve let you have your fun. Now it’s my turn.”

  Kent and Jake turn and run.

  CHAPTER 117

  Warmth descends from above, and Matt looks up.

  The Woman comes down toward him, the same Woman he saw before, with luminescent skin the color of gold, a broad nose, wide nostrils, deep brown eyes. A white robe hangs from her shoulders, her hands and feet are bare. Large, full lips move apart to reveal two rows of perfect teeth.

  In her hand, she holds a white Stone, nearly identical to the one in Matt’s hand.

  Looking at himself, Matt sees his own body clothed in the same robe, the same luminosity.

  “You will choose.” She touches Matt’s shoulder with one of her hands.

  Warmth spreads out from her fingers to Matt’s entire body. Deep relaxation and calm flow through him.

  The Woman smiles.

  In that moment, it is as if Matt’s entire life, all his thoughts and experiences, the good and the bad, is absorbed into his Stone. No detail is missing.

  He follows the Woman’s eyes down to his palm.

  “Will you allow me to see and know?” she says.

  Matt looks into her eyes. “Will you see it all?”

  “Yes, all of it, or none of it. The choice is yours.”

  “But there’s so much in my life I’m not proud of, so much that’s petty and mean. So much I want to hide. So much I regret. So much pain.”

  “And much beauty and meaning.” The Woman’s eyes are gentle. Inviting. Pure love. “Do not fear.”

  Matt hesitates, as if he’s about to pull back the bandages on a festering old wound of quivering flesh that has become gangrenous and green with age.

  And then, he hands his Stone to the Woman.

  Matt’s entire life, from the time he was a small child until the present moment, are laid open to her view. Faster than a multiple cluster computer, Matt senses the Woman download his memories, thoughts, feelings. She sees all that Matt has seen, knows all that Matt has known.

  But that is not all.

  In the brief seconds that pass between them, Matt watches as the Woman becomes him.

  She feels his shame on that day that Matt pushed down a crippled boy in first grade just for the fun of it. She is him when, egged on by his friends, he bullies a younger boy, throwing a punch and causing a nosebleed amid laughter and ridicule. She feels the depth of his hurt and confusion when he’s ten years old and told he’ll never see his mother again. She exults in the adrenaline rush as his sixteen-year-old self ignores a warning sign, slips under the rope and shreds a perfect run on a perfect powder day at the Skull. She gets caught in the avalanche that almost took his life. She tells the same lies to explain the crumpled side panels on the old Toyota Chikara to avoid the truth about falling asleep at the wheel and rolling off the side of the road. She beats up the drunk kid that vomits on Jessica at the outdoor concert at Ribbon Park.

  There are no more secrets.

  It ends as quickly as it begins. The Woman’s words flash through Matt’s mind.

  Now we are one.

  He looks up. “I’m sorry. Now you know the truth. I’m not who you thought I was, am I? Not as good as I could have been. I’m so—”

  “Imperfect?”

  “Evil.”

  “No,” the Woman says. “Not evil. Growing. Becoming.”

  Staring into her eyes, Matt finds himself standing on a beach of golden sand facing the ocean, its water the color of deep turquoise, its surface an endless mirror.

  Parallel to the water, there’s a line of palm trees, ten stories high with trunks as narrow as his arm and tops that sprout out long strings of delicate ferns that hang down like lustrous hair.

  But there are no shadows. And no sun in the sky.

  Matt turns to the Woman. “Where does the light come from?”

  She bends down to the sand and scoops up a handful, bringing it close to Matt’s eyes.

  As he stares at it, taking a pinch of it into his own hand and separating out individual grains, it looks like gold but feels almost weightless. He cups his hands together and peeks through an opening in his fingers, but it is as light inside as outside. Each particle burns from within, just like the Woman. Just like Matt.

  He hears her voice in his mind.

  The light is in all things.

  The Woman lets the sand in her hand drop back to the ground.

  Turning away from the water, the Woman walks to the trees with her hand on Matt’s shoulder.

  Come and see.

  They pass through the ferns, the long strings of lace brushing against his face. Soft, delicate, inviting. Matt pauses to look at their structure and emerald-green color. They are the same as the sand, luminous and clear, glowing from the inside.

  Passing through the curtain of ferns, they emerge together on the other side, stepping onto a wide street, its surface warm and the same color as the sand on the beach.

  Matt has never seen such architecture.

  No soaring towers or monolithic slabs of steel and glass. No Greek columns, golden spheres or copper pyramids. Most of the buildings have no roofs, but are open to the sky and made of a transparent material. Matt isn’t even sure that the structures that unfold before him qualify as buildings. The word sculpture would be a better description.

  The structures are small for a city, few of them more than a hundred feet high. In spite of the incredible variety of shapes, there is a unifying theme.

  Life.

  On his right, Matt stares at two wide swirls of translucent glass rising up out of the ground like a double helix. Broad steps on its surface lead to an open platform balanced on the top.

  The Woman notices Matt’s interest and takes him closer for a more detailed inspection.

  What Matt thought was translucent glass is actually white crystal as thin and delicate as butterfly wings and filled with branching veins. A half dozen men and women, all dressed in robes like the Woman, walk up the steps, engaging in discussion as they go.

  Matt presses his finger against the crystal material. Its surface is soft and pliable. It feels warm and alive.

  They return to the street. Open areas between the buildings are filled with lush plants, some with leaves as small and delicate as flecks of gold, and others as large as Matt himself. Trees bear pastel-colored fruits in the shape of apples, pears and peaches. Small birds flutter through the foliage, filling the air with song.

  The Woman walks to a nearby tree with vein-like branches stretching out from a central pillar of a trunk. White grapes the size of golf balls hang down on slender vines. She plucks two of the fruits, one for Matt and one for herself.

  Eat.

  Matt raises the warm sphere to his nose and inhales the fragrance of honey. Following the Woman’s lead, he plunges his teeth deep into its warm flesh. At first, it reminds him of watermelon, but then a multitude of distinct flavors burst into his mouth. Pomegranate, raspberry, Concord grape. He tastes them all distinctly, simultaneously. Satisfaction and relaxation spread through his body.

  A structure on the left is like an open nautilus shell, filled with compartments and stairs ascending up to a roof where two men and a woman converse. They are smiling, laughing, nodding, speaking.

  Next to it is a plant-like structure with stairs going up to open pavilions in the shape of lotus leaves. As Matt moves closer, he sees the same crystalline material, soft and pliable, responsive to his touch.

  The
broad street runs straight ahead to the horizon. When they come to a cross street, it’s the same.

  “How large is the City?” Matt asks.

  The Woman touches Matt’s arm, and they instantly stand together in space above the shimmering planet, a brilliant orb floating alone in the depths of space.

  Matt stares down in amazement.

  Blue ocean water takes up most of its face. Faint grid lines of a city spread out to cover a single continent that stretches around the planet. He sees no mountains, but here and there, rivers crisscross its smooth surface.

  Then they are back down on the street, walking as before.

  Matt begins to focus on the people. They wear white robes of multiple styles and are lustrous, beautiful beyond description. The concept of race doesn’t seem to apply. Each person shares the same approximate proportions, but is best described as being their own unique race. Like the Woman, they all look to be in their mid-twenties.

  Angels, Matt keeps thinking to himself.

  They laugh and speak audibly with each other in a language that bears an uncanny resemblance to Japanese.

  Here and there Matt catches a word or two, but more than the words, it is the flow of sound, the rise and fall of tones, the cadence of speech, that resembles Japanese.

  All of them are entering structures and moving to the upper platforms.

  He turns to the Woman. “What are they doing?”

  Working.

  “Working?” Matt doesn’t understand. Why would a people as advanced and perfect as this have to actually work. “What kind of work are they doing?”

  Come and see.

  They walk together to the nearest structure, a building in the form of a giant sea anemone made of the same living crystal. They pass upward on a spiral staircase through the inside of its central column, coming out onto a platform.

  A dozen people gather on top. Matt and the Woman walk closer to a Man standing near the edge. He has the same luminous brown skin as the Woman, with light blue eyes and golden hair that flows past his shoulders to the middle of his back.

  All of them carry a Stone in their hands.

  The Woman faces the Man and takes his hand in hers. The Man moves close to her, bends down and kisses her forehead. She looks up and their lips meet.