by Jacob Whaler
“Do you love him?” Yarah says.
The woman looks at Yarah, smiling. “With all my heart. We’ve been together for sixty years.” Trembling with sobs, she drops her gaze back to the old man in the sleeping bag and buries her head next to his.
A big smile on her face, Yarah turns and looks through the crowd at Matt. Then she turns back to the woman.
“I know someone who can heal him.”
The woman’s head comes up. “A doctor?”
“No.” Yarah turns to face Matt again. “A healer.” She stands and walks back through the crowd. It parts as she approaches Matt. Her dark eyes meet his. “Can we? She needs our help. It won’t take long.” Yarah reaches her hand into the side pocket of Matt’s pants and finds the cloaking box. It comes out in her fingers. She holds it up to him.
Studying Yarah’s eyes, Matt kneels. “If we do this, he’ll know we’re here.”
“Don’t be afraid.” Yarah’s eyes beg for understanding. “We can’t let him stop us from being good.”
Heal the people.
This time, the words are louder, vibrating through Matt’s body. Reaching out and taking the box, he stands up. “Come with me. I’ll show you how.”
They walk through the crowd to the tent opening. Staring up through red eyes, the woman zips open the sleeping bag and draws it back, exposing the man’s chest. He’s drawing in quick, shallow breaths. Sweat beads up on his forehead.
Motioning for Matt and Yarah to come in, the woman moves aside. Matt stoops and enters the tent after Yarah and closes the flap behind him.
“You kneel on that side.” Matt carefully opens the lid of the cloaking box. “I’ll be over here.” Turning the box upside down, two Stones spill out. He hands one to Yarah and keeps the other for himself. “Just drop it on the ground between your knees and put your hands on his chest with me.”
The old woman’s eyes grow wide, hands go up to her mouth. She says nothing.
Yarah follows Matt’s lead.
“Now close your eyes and find me.”
When Matt opens his eyes, Yarah is suspended in space looking at him. The man floats between them, body horizontal.
“All we have to do is go inside and look.” Matt’s eyes drop.
“What are we looking for?”
“Anything that isn’t right,” Matt says. “Just follow me.”
Floating inside the man’s body, Matt sees a landscape of color open up below. Orderly rivers of blue flow and divide over an open plain of red. Glowing mountains of assorted hues lie scattered on the plain.
“It looks like a map,” Yarah says.
Matt casts his gaze from one side to the other. “See anything that looks strange or out of place?” He follows her eyes.
Yarah studies the scenery below her from horizon to horizon.
“Over there,” she says. “It looks wrong. Sick.”
“Let’s go have a look.”
In an instant, they are poised over a dark spot, looking down. Flowing rivers of color stagnate around it. The putrid odor rising up is unsettling and out of place.
“Let’s see if we can clean this up,” Matt says.
They both descend into black mists. Matt keeps his eyes on Yarah, marveling at her intuition. As she moves her hands from side to side, she discovers that she can move the mist. Pushing it aside, she uncovers the source of the stagnation at the bottom. Working together, they clear away the swamp, open the river channel and allow the colors to flow freely. The black mists fade and disappear.
From horizon to horizon, they gaze upon fields of beauty and clarity.
“I think we’re done,” Matt says. “Let’s go back and have a look.”
Returning to the surface, they open their eyes.
“See, you can do it!” Matt says. “You’re a natural.”
Yarah laughs with exuberance. “It’s easy! Think of all the people we can help.”
Matt lowers his voice. “But we have to be careful and only use the Stones in emergencies. We don’t want Ryzaard to pop in unexpectedly.” He grabs Yarah’s Stone and drops it into the open cloaking box. Putting his own in next, he snaps the lid shut. “Let’s go.”
The woman next to Matt is speechless, mouth open, eyes wide. Her husband’s chest rises and falls with regular motion. Color returns to his pallid face, and his eyes flutter open. Pulling himself to a sitting position in the sleeping bag, he runs his fingers over himself, as if incredulous that he is still alive.
“It’s a miracle,” he mumbles.
Matt touches his shoulder. “Please tell no one of this.”
“Thank you.” The man turns to his wife. “Come on Gloria. Let’s go for a walk. I feel like a million bucks.” Standing on his feet, he reaches out to his wife, pulls her up and throws back the tent flap.
Dozens of eyes stare back at them in silence as the man and wife move through the crowd.
When Matt and Yarah emerge from the tent, gasps and groans rise from the onlookers. Trembling fingers reach out to touch their clothes.
“Sorry for the disturbance, folks.” Matt takes Yarah’s hand and walks past the upturned eyes.
An old woman in a tattered dress steps forward. “He was almost dead. I saw him myself last night. Barely had a pulse. No color in his skin. Fingers turning blue.” She takes both of Matt’s hands, studying them, and then slowly looks up into his eyes. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’ve finally come. Just as Little John said.” She smiles, turns and walks away.
On the way back to their camp, Matt whispers to Yarah. “We better pack our bags and get out of here. Ryzaard could come any time looking for us. Good thing this camp is in plain view of the city. I’m guessing Ryzaard won’t risk an attack here.”
Matt bends to roll up his sleeping bag. He is startled by a tap on his shoulder.
“Could I trouble you for just a moment?” A young man with no teeth looks at Matt. He carries the stench of cheap whisky and speaks with trembling lips and a noticeable slur. “I saw what you did for the old man. If it’s not too much trouble, could you help me?”
Matt looks back at Yarah, a half smile on his face. “What is the problem?”
“It’s my leg.” He pulls up his pants and reveals a six-inch sore on his shin running with blood and puss. “Cut myself on some barbed wire hopping a fence. Three weeks ago. Just gets worse and worse. I can’t afford to see a doctor. Do you think you could—”
Matt checks the surroundings, seeing they are alone. “Sit.” With one thumb, he flips open the box and pulls out the Stone, casting an apologetic eye at Yarah. “This won’t take long.”
When he’s done, the young man stands on his feet and pulls up his pant leg.
No trace of the sore. The skin is firm and clear.
“Tell no one,” Matt says. “Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” the young man says.
Five minutes later, Matt finishes sorting the items to be packed away and looks up again.
Ten people are waiting in a line in front of him.
News of the healings spreads.
It goes through the homeless camp and out into the suburbs. It finds its way back into the City of Vancouver, drawing hundreds out of its streets and alleys. By noon, long lines form in front of both Yarah and Matt. Some of the people stand on crutches or canes, some of them ride in motor-chairs. Others carry children or old men and women in their arms. Many look perfectly healthy, but come to find healing for a secret inner malady.
With their Stones in hand, Matt and Yarah sit together under a blue tarp erected above them for shade. Off to the side is a growing pile of crutches, canes, motor-chairs, bottles, inhalers, injectors, body patches, pharmaceuticals, stimulants, narcotics and antidepressants, all discarded as people walk away, whole and healed.
After five hours of healing, both Matt and Yarah are exhausted. They take short breaks for food and water, brought to them by grateful patrons. But the lines only grow in length. Word of the mass healing spreads so far by mid-afternoon that people
begin emptying out the hospitals in the city, bringing their sick relatives to the homeless camp.
Police arrive on the scene, at first not believing what they see. But within minutes, they are organizing the lines and keeping order in the camp.
At intervals during the day, Matt and Yarah heal each other so they have the energy to keep going.
By nightfall, Matt can see no end to the crowds in sight. Generators are brought in, flood lights erected.
It doesn’t end until 3:00 AM. The lines had only grown longer, winding several miles back along the road from Vancouver. But the people finally relent and leave, out of compassion for the two healers, promising they will wait and come back the next day.
As the crowds pull away, Matt and Yarah lie in sleeping bags inside a new tent erected for them. A pile of IMU cards, loaded with enough cash to comfortably retire, is near Matt’s head. Policemen stand guard outside the door.
“He knows we’re here, doesn’t he?” Yarah yawns as her head hits the pillow.
“No doubt about it.” Matt stares up at the ceiling of the tent. “But I don’t care.”
Exhausted with joy, he falls asleep.
CHAPTER 99
“Why keep her alive?”
“Because those are the orders. Kill all the others, but keep the one with the walrus tooth necklace alive.” The soldier in charge knocks the other on his helmet. Then he stares down the barrel of his pulse rifle at Jessica, a big smile on his face. “We’ve been watching you for the past three days. Cameras everywhere in here. You had no idea, did you?”
The two soldiers sling their rifles on their backs and reach down, each grabbing one of Jessica’s arms. Before she can resist, they slap a wet material with the texture of rubber on her wrists and ankles. Within seconds, it hardens into a tough substance that adheres to skin and allows her to move slowly, but turns into concrete with any quick, jerky motions. With one arm, the bigger soldier pulls her up to her feet and pushes her under the open hatch.
The sound of a heli-transport floats above. Three black cords with hooking devices drop through the opening.
“You first, my lady.” The taller soldier pulls two cords. He passes one under Jessica’s arms and over her chest. The other clips into a receiver above his sternum. Turning to his companion, he slaps him on the back. “Get out before the charges blow.” He looks up and pulls Jessica close. “Here we go.”
The cords go taut and they rise into the air, the submarine falling away below. When all three of them are halfway to the heli-transport, Jessica looks down. The sea around the sub turns to foam as its metal skin implodes until nothing remains but a hard bundle of debris that sinks below the surface.
When they reach the bottom of the heli-transport, a round hole opens up and they pass into the dark interior. Rough hands take Jessica down from the cord. Something cold, metallic and round kisses her neck. After a hissing sound, all her muscles relax against her will. Her vision turns cloudy.
The last thing she remembers is being carried to a wall where her arms and legs are stretched apart and fit into soft silicone sleeves that hug her limbs and go hard, holding her in place.
Then everything goes dark and quiet.
CHAPTER 100
Alexa leans back in Ryzaard’s chair with her bare feet up on the cool glass of the window. The sun is setting. Looking east, a uniform crimson glow reflects off the west-facing office buildings.
At what point do you become a murderer?
She’s never killed anyone herself, never even tried. Knives and guns, heli-transports with laser cannons, none of that was of any interest. She’s just a cog in a machine moving along a pre-ordained path. It will do the same with or without her.
Is that sufficient grounds to claim innocence?
How many killings had she witnessed without protest? How many lives were snuffed out because of orders she conveyed to Ryzaard’s killing machines? How many times did she sit quietly while he planned the destruction of men, women and children in the freedom camps, never protesting or even pushing back? How many lives might have been saved had she refused to play a part?
Perhaps none.
A light flashes in the darkness behind her.
“Welcome back.” Alexa doesn’t turn to greet Ryzaard. “How was the Congo?”
Ryzaard’s familiar footsteps move across the floor. “I had to wait until he was alone. With so many people thronging him, it was difficult to find an opening.”
“Couldn’t you just stop time?”
“I could, but that would have given away my presence, at least to him. There would have been a fight.” As Ryzaard walks by, a hard object thuds to the wood desk and sticks like a magnet. “It’s much cleaner when you have the element of surprise.”
She swivels in the chair and sees the new Stone on the desk. “So, you got it.”
“Yes, I got it.” Ryzaard kicks off his shoes and drops on the meditation platform. “You should have seen the mess I made. The whole area strewn with dead and dying, and the boy at the center. Looks like it was hit by Chinese ion blasters. That’s the idea, anyway. No one will be surprised since it’s in the middle of the Congo. The Chinese war against the locals is still raging in the jungle.” The chain of Stones comes off and drops behind her onto the desk. “Have Jerek add this one to my collection. I’m sure he can figure out how this necklace works.”
“So that makes an even seven,” Alexa says. “A lot has happened since you were gone. Have you heard the latest?”
Ryzaard closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Enlighten me.”
“We finally found an opportunity to take the girl.”
“Alive?”
“Of course.” Alexa stands up from the chair. “Just as you ordered.”
“Good work,” Ryzaard says. “Everyone else was terminated?”
Alexa walks across the floor to the sofa. “Those were your orders, and that’s what they did. There was some collateral damage. A local farmer with ties to the freedom camp tried to interfere. His family and home were all destroyed.”
“Blame it on the Japanese SDF. War games gone awry, or something like that.”
“They’re on their way back now with the girl. Jessica. Should be here in a few hours.” Alexa sits and stretches out. “But that’s not the big news. Have you seen this? It’s all over the Mesh from earlier today.” Alexa points her jax at Ryzaard’s windows.
They go black. A blue strip along the top includes the words Vancouver, British Columbia.
Crowds of people throng a grassy park overgrown with weeds and trash. Orange tents and blue tarps dot the landscape. The grounds are littered with discarded motor-chairs, crutches and canes. Pink I-Vs dangle from above hospital beds, feeding into arms and legs of catatonic patients peeking out from under white sheets. Strong men and women, relatives of the sick, push the wheeled beds over the grass, all traveling in the same direction. Doctors, some in white coats and some in green hospital scrubs, wander among the masses.
In spite of the multitude of sick, the park has a carnival atmosphere. Joyful weeping and singing, people praying in large groups, Buddhist monks meditating in saffron robes. A catholic priest bears a crystal jar of holy water. Empty ambulances with open back doors line the street. Hovering above the crowd, heli-ships with well-known Mesh-point logos vie for the best angles.
“What the hell’s going on?” Ryzaard says. “Looks like some kind of open-air religious revival.”
Alexa nods. “In a way, I suppose it is. People finding new meaning in their lives. Burdens lifted. Transcendent truths revealed.” She watches carefully for Ryzaard’s reaction. “A new prophet has risen.”
The view switches to a video shot from the air looking straight down on the crowd. At the center is an open area of grass twenty feet across. Zooming in on the spot, police ring the small circle, elbow to elbow. In the middle, a man and a child sit on the grass with a person lying between them. As the camera zooms out, it is clear what is happening.
&
nbsp; Thousands are standing in a fat line that winds out from the center in an ever-expanding spiral, like a coiled snake. Now and then, a person leaves from the center, passing straight out through the curving lines to the outside.
“What are they lined up for?” Ryzaard says.
“Watch. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
A reporter narrates in the background.
“Never in recent memory have such multitudes gathered to be healed of such a diverse variety of illnesses. It all started earlier today when two men, both residents of this homeless camp, were cured in a manner they claim to be miraculous.”
Ryzaard’s eyes and attention begin to wander. “Why are you showing me this? Let the blind lead the blind. I don’t have time for such rubbish.”
“Really?” Alexa says. “I think you should see this. It may surprise you.”
As the camera pans over the throngs below, the reporter’s voice continues.
“—word leaked out and spread across the Mesh, they began to flock here, sheep looking for a shepherd. Numbering now in excess of ten thousand, there is no sign of doubt that the young man and tiny girl performing the healings—”
Ryzaard’s eyes and attention slowly turn back to the screen. “You’ve got to be kidding—”
“And at the center of it all, these are the two miracle workers performing the miracles. They refuse to say their names or where they are from. And they ask for nothing in return.”
Ryzaard stands up so he can get a better view of the screen.
From a different angle, another camera zooms in on the upturned faces of Matt and Yarah, their hands resting on the shoulders of an old woman in a motor-chair. As the camera lingers, the two pull back.
The woman stands, embraces each of them, and walks away, never casting a backwards glance at the motor-chair. Police officers pick it up and threw it onto a large pile a few feet away.
Alexa arches her eyebrows at Ryzaard and smiles.
He stares at the screen, speechless.
The camera switches back to the outer fringes of the park. An attractive young woman stands to the side as the picture frames what appears to be the beginning of the long line of people seeking a cure. A white-coated woman stands next to her.
