by Jacob Whaler
Ryzaard nods. “As I understand it, no significant resistance to the spread of Shinto has been documented. Is that still the case?”
“Smooth sailing all the way,” Kalani says. “They can’t build shrines fast enough to keep up with the demand. It’s become an issue. We’ve tried to reason with—”
Jing-wei flashes a glare at Kalani. “Miyazawa insists that all shrines and torii gates be manufactured in Japan by Japanese hands. While the factories there continue to improve efficiency and production rates, it’s clear that we could move more quickly if fabrication were outsourced to West African production facilities. Miyazawa flatly refuses to even consider such a proposal.”
“Which we will respect,” Ryzaard says. A diagonal line of blue ripples across his chest. “At least for the present. We must be careful not to antagonize our Shinto friends. The success of our work depends on it.”
Kalani leans forward. “That’s just the thing.” The white soles of his bare feet rest on the round edge of the table. “We all understand that Shinto is key. It’s been beat into our skulls. But we could work more effectively if we knew exactly why it’s so important.”
Ryzaard nods. “I appreciate your frustration. Working with less than complete information is never easy. Please be patient. In this case, it is necessary for your own safety and the success of the entire operation that the final solution be kept confidential, at least for a little while longer.” Shades of green and blue move in slow horizontal lines up and down Ryzaard’s body.
“Our safety?” Elsa eyes are framed in thickly arched eyebrows. “I don’t understand.”
“That is entirely intentional.” Ryzaard says.
Elsa’s face flushes red, a stark contrast with her blonde hair and pale skin. “Do you have any idea the massive quantity of IMUs we are pouring into the Shinto project each day? There are no limits to the money they demand.” Elsa casts a side glance at Jing-wei. “There’s barely enough left over to pay the rent and power bills, let alone the meager salaries we draw.”
Ryzaard’s suit changes to rotating diamonds of red. “If I’m not mistaken, your monthly salary alone amounts to more than the annual salary of the chairman of JP Goldman. Isn’t that correct?”
Elsa says nothing.
“Based on our latest models, Shinto will achieve 95% penetration in major metropolitan populations in approximately four months.” Jing-wei ignores Elsa and stares at Ryzaard. “The last 5% will take another six months, but the production costs and drain on our financial resources will go down substantially.”
Jerek leans forward and faces Jing-wei. “Is Miyazawa aware of the timetable?” His fingers dance across the surface of a slate. “He’s currently employing 10% of the Japanese population in his factories and training facilities. What happens when there are no more shrines to build? Massive unemployment? Social unrest?”
“I’ve modeled the problem and found the answer.” Diego says. “Convert workers to Shinto priests as production falls away. With normal maintenance and the need to replace shrines every seven years, the industry will stabilize and be self-sustaining at a rate roughly equal to 21% of current levels.”
“I appreciate the analysis, but it’s a non-issue. Just keep Miyazawa happy until full coverage is achieved.” Ryzaard strikes a match to the Djarum black dangling from his lips and takes an extended inhale, filling his lungs with the dark smoke. “In the long run, all these petty little problems will fall away.” His gaze jumps across the table to Elsa. “I’ve seen the latest financials. You’ve found new markets to crack. I’m sure we’d all like to hear about it.”
The general rage at the world fades from Elsa’s face. As the conversation turns to money, she sits up and cracks a smile.
“Even before the Event, we had reached a tipping point where we could no longer efficiently exploit the market. We had become the market. After the Event, we passed that point.” Elsa’s hand drifts down to the table. A 3D holo of graphs jumps out of its crystalline surface. “Stock, bonds, commodities, derivatives, hedge funds, exotic insurance instruments, hard money funds, and a few dozen more financial hybrids were all maxed out. As you can see, returns were beginning to plateau. We needed a new approach.”
Elsa waits in silence for the appropriate prompt to stroke her ego and push her to tell more of the story.
As if on cue, Ryzaard supplies the attention she craves. “Tell us where your financial wizardry took you. We’re all anxious to hear.”
“I tried to think of untapped markets, any area where latent inefficiencies might allow an agent with superior information to extract rent from the other market participants.” She enjoys the stares of five blank faces around the table. “Rent is a technical term referring to—”
“Enough!” Kalani explodes. “Just tell us, you pompous bitch.”
Snickers float around the table.
“Large financial markets are no longer an area of viable growth.” Elsa leans back and smiles. “Micro markets, with their latent information scarcity, are the new trading frontier.”
“Meaning what?” Jing-wei says.
“In essence, gambling,” Elsa says.
Jerek arches his eyebrows. “I thought we were already doing that.”
“You’re referring to sports-related betting, which is a well-established market.” Elsa folds her arms, clearly enjoying the game of hiding the ball. “It’s all a very old, traditional market, and we use proxies to do as much as we can without drawing undue attention. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“OK,” Kalani says. “We understand. You’re so much smarter than all of us.” The fingers of his left hand shoot out, grabbing a handful of her blonde hair, and pull her head back, exposing an exquisite ivory neck. With his right hand, he whips a long knife out of his pants and lays the sharp end of the blade against her skin. “My ancestors ate people like you.” He grits his teeth, a wild look in his eyes. “Now, will you tell us?”
Elsa calmly arches her back and slams the heel of her foot into Kalani’s gut, dropping the blade and him to the floor, doubled over in pain.
“We call it micro-betting.” She leans back with her arms behind her head, clearly enjoying the attention. “Diego knows. We’ve been working together on this project. Our offshore casino has a nominal address on Pitcairn Island, so it’s completely unregulated. We take bets on anything that can’t be manipulated and controlled by the bettor. The algorithm combs the Mesh for a few related data points. Five is usually enough. The data goes through an algorithm connected to the Stones. It spits out the next data point, the one that hasn’t happened yet. We offer better odds that anyone else, because we already know the outcome. It helps to know the future.”
“Still don’t get it,” Jerek says.
“I do sympathize,” Elsa says. “I know it’s difficult to wrap your mind around this if you’re limited by the laws of physics, so let me give you an example.” A holo screen sticks up out of the table like the dorsal fin of a shark. “People love to bet. It’s universal. Everyone thinks they’re an expert on something. Like the weather. How much would you be willing to bet that a butterfly will land on a particular branch on a particular tree in front of your apartment window or that it’ll rain in Manhattan between 3:00 PM and 3:15 PM, stop and start raining again between 5:00 PM and 5:15 PM tomorrow, or a year from tomorrow?”
Kalani looks up from the floor, still holding his belly. “You can’t know the answer to that. It’s totally random.”
“We don’t know the answer, but the Stones do. Five data points is all we need.” Another graph appears above the table. “We’ve run the numbers. It works.”
“I like it.” Ryzaard blows smoke in the air. It spirals up to a vent in the ceiling. “We get the whole population even more addicted to gambling and instant gratification, more entrenched in their bondage. More prepared for the day of liberation.”
He notices the exchange of glances between Jing-wei and Kalani.
It looks like th
ey have cooked up something even bigger.
CHAPTER 5
From his vantage point in his white ornamental heli-transport, Miyazawa looks down through a transparent spot on the floor on the massive blue roof of the Collegiate Church of St. Peter at Westminster, freshly painted in the form of a perfect cross. From above, the roof appears to float in a sea of worshipers dressed in white and gathered on three sides of the structure. Only an open area directly in front of the western façade has been roped off and reserved for Miyazawa and his entourage.
“It’s been here for over a thousand years. The holy of holies. The burial place of English monarchs and notables.” The aide to his right speaks in the crystal silence of the interior. “To have secured rights to the land opposite the western side for a torii gate and a jinja shrine is unprecedented. Extraordinary beyond measure.”
“I’m not surprised or impressed. Shinto has brought peace to the world. We should expect nothing less.” Miyazawa runs his palms down the starched white tunic on his chest.
As the transport floats down past the two high towers on the west end, Miyazawa gazes out at the vertical lines of a massive stained-glass window set in the middle, his eyes drawn irresistibly upward.
He raises his hand. “Stop here for just a moment.” He stares at the white statues of ten people arranged in a row above the arched entrance. “Who are they?”
“Christian martyrs from the 20th century.” The aide points out the window. “Some killed by Nazis. Some by communists in China. One was even killed by the Japanese army during World War II. All victims of oppression and tyranny.”
A thumb and index finger goes up to Miyazawa’s chin. “Then it is fitting that our jinja shrine face in this direction. It will be a symbol of the end of such oppression and tyranny.”
“May it be so, always.” The aide’s head drops in a short bow.
The heli-transport touches on the ground, soft as a cherry blossom. A muffled whining is faintly audible from the interior as power is cut to the over-sized rotors. As they decelerate to a stop, each of the eight-bladed turbines casts a spoke-like shadow on either side of the transport. Amid subtle creaks and groans, the whole ship settles and spreads out on the earth, like a great dragon. A glass door slides open, and a golden ramp moves out from cabin level to the grass below.
Miyazawa stands and straightens the tall black hat atop his head and pulls the starched tunic and sleeves down hard until they are as straight and stiff as wooden boards. Turning to the open door, he walks down the ramp, careful that his right foot is the first to touch down on the sea of white pebbles.
A hushed reverence rolls over the gathered faithful as a few catch glimpses of the Shinto priest. Thousands stare up at suspended screens the size of soccer fields to see the white figure emerging from the white transport.
In a carefully choreographed move, the western doors of the Abbey open to reveal the Archbishop of Canterbury standing in his red vestments emblazoned with the symbol of the sun. His white under-robe and collar match Miyazawa’s tunic. A white mitre cap rests on his head, shaped like a shark’s mouth gaping upward.
The Archbishop takes two steps forward, stops and holds out his arms in a gesture of welcome to Miyazawa.
Moving to the lowest marble step, Miyazawa executes a deep bow. Carefully keeping his body upright, he ascends the stairs, the bottom hems of his robes all but concealing his feet, giving him the appearance of an angel floating up to the Archbishop.
At the top, the Archbishop moves forward, extending both hands to grasp Miyazawa’s arms. At the same time, Miyazawa drops his upper body forward into a stiff bow at a precise forty-five-degree angle. For an instant, the Archbishop’s fingers brush against Miyazawa’s nose before both men realize their mistake and pull back.
Awkward silence ripples through the crowd.
“My mistake.” The Archbishop smiles gently, dropping arms to his side and bending forward in a stiff bow. “Welcome to our sanctuary.” Turning to the multitude of kneeling humanity, he raises his arms again, palms up, reaching out to the crowds on his right and left. “We are pleased to enjoy the presence of our great benefactor.” His voice bursts from hidden speakers mounted high on the towers of the Abbey. “His face is familiar to all of us. He is the one whose mighty hand stretched forth and stopped the destruction of millions. He is the Bringer of Peace, the Great High Priest of the Earth United Shinto Alliance, the most holy Tomoyuki Miyazawa.”
In the sea of bodies, thousands of eyes close as palms come together in silent adoration.
A head taller than the older Englishman, Miyazawa turns and stands arm to arm with the Archbishop. As they face the crowd, the rotors of the heli-transport engage and begin to silently rotate. At the end of a full minute, it lifts off the ground and floats back up past the towers above them, slowly banking away.
A pathway of white pebbles opens out from the bottom of the stairs. It leads through the courtyard, across the street to the opposite side where a small Shinto shrine stands alone. The gold-plated surface of its peaked corners glints in the noon sun. Over its entrance, a new shimenawa rope of braided rice straw loops down and back up like a smile, as thick as a man’s waist. White shide paper in the shape of lightning hangs along its underside like a fringe. A hint of incense drifts across the open expanse.
“It’s now my pleasure to escort you to the dedication ceremony.” The Archbishop moves down the steps ahead of Miyazawa.
Following two paces behind, Miyazawa walks in half-steps, careful to let the Archbishop take the lead.
As they proceed across the courtyard, robed acolytes on either side of the roped-off walkway toss handfuls of sea salt onto the white pebbles to purify the ground under Miyazawa’s feet.
As Miyazawa and the Archbishop cross the road onto the temple grounds and approach the torii gate, the Archbishop stops and allows Miyazawa to move ahead.
Pulling a flat wooden stick from his sleeve, a sign of his status, Miyazawa walks under the torii gate, leaving the world of the profane behind and entering sacred ground. At the base of the steps to the shrine entrance, he stops and turns back to face the Abbey.
To the amazement of the multitude, a flock of white doves explodes up from the towers of the Abbey, their wings beating in the quiet summer sky as they swoop down and cross the courtyard just above the heads of the kneeling crowd. In a show of impressive symbolism, they land in perfect symmetry on the awning of the Shinto shrine.
The meaning is clear to everyone present. Anglican Christianity has just given official endorsement to the Shinto movement. The two are bound together.
I’ve grown weary of dedication ceremonies, Miyazawa thinks as he ascends the steps to the shrine. Just a few more.
CHAPTER 6
“Tell us about the location algorithm.” Ryzaard takes another drag on his black Djarum and blows smoke across the table.
Diego picks up the slate. “You mean the new and improved location algorithm.”
Elsa’s holo of the graph vanishes back into the table. In its place, a large 3D globe of the Earth rises up out of the polished surface. Dozens of red dots orbit its surface. The lines of a grid system form between them, like a net around the planet. “With seven Stones and another hundred dedicated satellites, we now have instantaneous detection capability. No more lag time. No more extrapolation. If a Stone shows up, we know its location immediately. If it’s out in the open, we can get a visual within seconds.”
“Impressive, as always.” Ryzaard blows smoke at the holo of the globe and watches it drift through the blue interior. “Any hits since we last spoke?”
“Only the one we already know of in Greece, which is to be disregarded pursuant to your instructions. Otherwise, nothing since the Event, three months ago, when we detected them in Vancouver.” Diego says. “We’ll continue to monitor carefully and keep you apprised. If anyone tries to use a Stone, we’ll know about it.”
“How can that be?” Elsa says. “If they’re somewhere in the w
orld, why can’t we detect them, regardless of whether they’re using the Stones?”
Ryzaard smiles and lays the cigarette on the edge of the table. “That mystery has been solved.” He produces a small gray box and sets it on the table. “This comes from my personal collection and is a fake. They have the real one. Put a Stone inside, and it deactivates, making it impossible to track. But no need to worry. Let them play their game of hide-and-seek. At some point, they’ll make a move, use their Stones and we’ll know about it.” He turns to Diego. “Good work. What about the freedom camps?”
Diego brushes the slate, and the red dots floating around the globe drop away. In their place, scattered green dots pop up on land masses on all seven continents. “These were the freedom camp locations shortly before the Event. When we destroyed six of them along the West Coast in one day, all the rest suddenly disappeared, within hours.”
“Any confirmed sightings?” Ryzaard says.
“The former inhabitants of the freedom camps call themselves the Children, and they’re mingling with the general population. In the cities, out in the rural areas. Everywhere. It’s an easy group to infiltrate. There’s no security, no technology. No organizational structure to speak of.”
“How do they communicate?”
“Word of mouth.” Diego says.
“What about leaders?”
Diego scratches his head. “They don’t say much about leaders. From all we’ve been able to gather, there’s only one, a mystical figure that only a few have seen.”
“What do they call him?” Ryzaard leans forward and picks up his cigarette.
“The Finder.”
Ryzaard laughs. “You’ve got to be kidding. An obvious reference to The Boy Who Found the Stone. So he’s become the leader of the Children? Ironic but fitting.”
“So it appears.” Diego says.
“And what does The Finder say to them?”
“Not much. Most of the Children won’t talk about him. But that changed about an hour ago. I’ve been waiting to tell you.”