Stones (Data)
Page 1
STONES
(DATA)
BOOK ONE OF THE STONES SERIES
by
Jacob Whaler
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
CHAPTER 108
CHAPTER 109
CHAPTER 110
CHAPTER 111
CHAPTER 112
CHAPTER 113
PREVIEW
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
COMING SOON FROM JACOB WHALER
AFTERWORD
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER 1
The Stone.
Steal it. Master it. Use it. End suffering. Bring back Paradise. Let nothing stand in your way.
Dr. Mikal Ryzaard repeats the words in his mind, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Killing a thief or a psychopath or a coward for the Stone would be easy. But not someone like Varanasi. A good man, a holy man.
And yet killing him is the only way.
He looks down at the vintage Boker knife cradled in the palm of his hand and inhales the smell of oil and leather that rises up as he slides the blade from its sheath. His own eyes, gray and dead, stare back at him, reflected in the warm steel.
Take the Stone.
Another set of eyes, nearly identical, flashes through his mind. They belong to the Nazi soldier he killed and stripped the dagger off that night in the death camp so many years ago.
A single bead of sweat runs down his forehead, jumps off his nose and splashes onto the reflection.
He thinks about the holy man. Varanasi.
Ryzaard likes the ancient Indian guru, his melancholy eyes contrasting with a generous smile. Only hours before, Varanasi announced plans to leave at dawn on another walking tour of the Punjab to visit poor villages to bless and heal the sick.
Worst of all, the Stone will go with him.
Time is running out.
Ryzaard wipes the blade on his shirt sleeve and slides it back into the sheath. A line of moisture runs between his shoulder blades and down his spine as he stands up. Clipping the sheath to his belt, he walks from the tent through a silent grove of Kadamba trees. Their trunks rise around him like the ruined columns of an ancient Sikh temple. The smell of honey mixed with wood hangs in the air. Straight ahead through the trees, the last arc of the evening sun is just vanishing below the horizon, leaving the sky crimson.
At the edge of the grove, a dirt trail leads through a jute field to the village, and the chemical stench of fertilizer replaces the sweet aroma of the trees. The trail narrows, hemmed in on both sides by arrow-straight stalks and green leaves rising a foot over his head.
Get the Stone.
Without warning, his chest seizes up with tightness. He struggles to breathe. His skin goes clammy and cold beneath the khaki shirt. A panicked hand drops to his side and gropes for the dagger. His fingers find the black wood handle and grip it tightly. He stops, closes his eyes, inhales slowly until equilibrium is restored. And then he hurries down the path.
Emerging from the jute field, he sees Varanasi’s hut on the edge of the village. Ryzaard’s pulse quickens, blood pounding in his ears. Distant voices float up from the river where the villagers gather each evening to wash their clothes and bathe.
He and Varanasi will be alone.
A few meters from the hut’s entrance, he spies the holy man sitting in a lotus position on the dirt floor, his back to the open door. One palm opens toward heaven and the other closes, the fingers gently wrapping around a luminous white Stone in the shape of a claw.
It will soon be Ryzaard’s.
He stops a few feet from the hut and studies the motionless back of Varanasi. The Indian holy man has the power to see the future, to heal, to perform miracles of wonder. Perhaps, some say, even to stop time. The rarest of gifts, his power entitles him to unlimited riches and control over multitudes. Yet, like Ghandi, he lives in poverty and dresses only in the simple khadi cloth worn by poor villagers all over India.
Kill for the Stone.
Ryzaard waits for Varanasi to invite him in as he always does, but no words come from his mouth this time. Swallowing hard, Ryzaard steps carefully through the open door. A hand drops to his belt and silently draws the blade from its sheath. Griping the handle until his knuckles turn white, he raises the blade level with his chest. The pounding in his ears drowns out the singing of birds.
Varanasi remains motionless.
Drawing in a silent breath, Ryzaard holds the knife in both hands and stares at the side of Varanasi’s neck where he will bury it to the handle and sever the carotid artery. The blade lunges down. Just before its tip breaks skin, Ryzaard closes his eyes.
The next instant, he lurches forward, tumbling onto the dirt floor of the hut, the dagger still in both hands.
Varanasi has vanished.
CHAPTER 2
Closed. Avalanche Danger.
Matt skis past the big,
red sign and taps it with his pole. Ducking and crossing under the rope, he surrenders himself to gravity as it draws him down the steep ravine on the back of Skull Pass into a hundred meters of virgin powder. Enough for a couple dozen epic turns. At the bottom, he can hike through the trees, get back in-bounds and melt into the crowd before ski patrol finds his tracks and closes in.
A simple, yet elegant, plan.
The first five turns are pure ecstasy.
And then the entire face of the slope breaks free beneath his skis, engulfing him in a churning maelstrom.
For a few seconds, he points his body downhill and manages to keep his tips up and his head above the flowing mass. Twenty meters from the bottom, he’s dragged under into darkness.
When the movement finally stops, there’s a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach from knowing that his skis are probably lost.
And the pain is excruciating.
His left elbow is pulled back behind his head. The right shoulder feels like an open wound soaking in gasoline. The heel of a ski boot jabs the small of his back. A searing pain rips through his thigh. But more than the pain, one thought dominates his mind.
Dad’s going to kill me when he hears I was skiing out of bounds.
After a futile struggle, he realizes he’s packed in the snow like a fly in amber. He might be a few inches or several meters below the surface. Maybe he’s upside down. There might be broken bones, torn ligaments. One thing is certain. He has no excuse but his own stupidity. The mountain has swallowed him up, and its cold blackness holds him in its grip like a great fist. Heat drains out of his body, sucked by the infinite icy darkness. His fingers and toes lose all feeling. The numbness snakes up his arms and legs until it takes control. He holds off the hunger for sleep until the last remnants of oxygen vanish.
The world has become silence and cold and blackness. A new realization dawns on him. His life is about to end at the tender age of sixteen.
I’m so sorry dad. You were right. Right about everything.
Sadness washes over him. Three words form in his mind, repeating over and over in an endless loop, bleeding out into the darkness.
Please help me.
Time passes, but whether it’s long or short, Matt can’t tell.
A point of light appears far above in the darkness of his closed eyes, like Venus on a clear September night.
It descends toward him.
Gradually it begins to take the shape of a Woman standing in a tube of light. Warmth envelops him as he gazes at her. When she finally stops, she’s only a meter away.
Matt looks at his own arms and legs. In a vast ocean of black, he floats freely, legs below him, arms at his side. A thin blue light clings to him, the same as the Woman.
She holds a glowing rock shaped like a large claw in her hand. Her mouth moves, and he hears the words with his whole body.
We are the Allehonen.
CHAPTER 3
Staring out the window of the tram at the slopes below, Matt’s fingertips play out words on a thin cylinder made of metal and glass and molded to the precise curl of his closed palm. Spiral lines of blue light run down its side.
Hey Jess. I’m up at the Skull. Snow’s almost gone. Just about to take my last run of the season. I’m going to end it with a bang. Fast and smooth. How was your bike race this morning? Hope your asthma didn’t kick in.
Before sending off the message, Jessica’s face floats through Matt’s mind. Long hair. Massive brown eyes. A smirk on those virgin lips that she’s never allowed him to kiss. Saving them for the right time, she always says.
More like torture, Matt thinks.
When he taps the end of the jax, the words turn into a ripple of energy shooting through the Mesh, the network uniting all devices and data on the planet. Seconds later, the jax trembles in his fingers. Jessica has read the message.
A grin plays across his face.
The tram glides to its perch high above Skull Pass. His thigh muscles tighten and relax in rhythmic motion as he lets his eyelids drop down and mentally rehearses the final run. One of his hands runs along the scarred top of a ski as his fingers read the subtle dips and gouges that tell tales of battles won and lost on the slopes. Scratches on the tops don’t matter. Only the bases matter, and his ski bases are flawless.
The jax gently buzzes in his hand. He looks down and opens his palm. A blue screen of holo letters opens in the air above his fingers.
Listen carefully. I’m only going to say this once. No injuries on your last run. That’s an order. Remember the concert tonight. I need to see you in one piece. By the way, I won the race. No asthma this time.
Matt imagines the slender fingers that tapped out the message. Her words are firm, but that’s just Jessica. Never one to beat around the bush. Knows what she wants. She must have talked to his dad. They both worry too much about him on his treks to the mountains. At some point, he just has to ignore their worrying and live his life. Jessica is more understanding than his dad, but even she had insisted he skip the last day of the season.
Not a chance.
He hopes he never has to choose between skiing and her. He’d go with her because she’s the only girl he ever met that reminds him of his mother.
But it would be close.
The inside of the tram is quiet except for the muffled sound of nano-boots and the rustle of jackets. Most of the other skiers bob their heads up and down, listening to internal music spreading from blue dots in their ears, waiting for the door to open. Matt closes his eyes, pulls his skis close to his face and inhales the sweet aroma of speed wax.
The tram coasts to a stop.
A few seconds later, the doors part like the end of a long elevator ride. Matt’s eyes float open to a cool breeze blowing across his face. He and the others flow out through the landing dock to the launch area at the summit of Skull Pass.
The jagged ridges of the Mosquito Range hold up the sky in every direction. With skis balanced on one shoulder, he walks past a group of Chinese tourists in windbreakers and short pants huddled together in front of an ancient wooden sign. As long as anyone can remember, it’s been there, a landmark from the pre-Mesh days. Most of the white paint has flaked off the letters, and the wood is cracked, but that doesn’t matter. The words were burned into his memory long ago and play effortlessly in his head like an old song.
Three generations ago, annual snowfall in the American West fell drastically from the cumulative effects of global warming. The Mosquito Range Mountains are a great aberration. Hiding in a pocket where moisture-laden air from the Pacific meets cold Arctic air flowing down from the north, winter snows come early and still lay deep on these Colorado slopes well into summer.
He raises his jax and takes a quick panoramic video from the summit, ending with a half smirk as he brings his hand up to his face.
Jessica will be so jealous when she sees this.
He remembers his dad’s incessant warnings to never send unencrypted video through the Mesh.
To hell with that.
He jaxes the video to Jess anyway.
When he finds an open spot, Matt presses the magnetic release on his skis and pulls them apart. His eyes sweep past the maximum speed setting. As he promised his dad earlier in the morning, it’s set to 62. He looks at the wide bowl opening up below him and the turquoise sky above, and then smiles to himself as he punches it up to 87. Opening his hands, the skis fall forward onto the snow with a loud slap, drawing stares from skiers on both sides.
When he steps onto the boards, his eyes automatically drop down.
An electric tingle shoots up from his soles into his legs and through his spine. The nano-boots stiffen and hug his feet. They fit like perfection. Hard where they need to be hard, soft where they need to be soft. Bindings rise out of the flat surface of each ski and clamp onto the toes and heels of his boots with a soul-satisfying click.
He digs his poles in, lets his head fall back. His eyes drift to the sky. An Indian war whoop slips f
rom his lips.
Someone grumbles behind him.
Matt turns and stares at a pec-enhanced man wearing a Manchester United jersey. He’s got hairy arms and a girlfriend.
And he’s staring back.
“Pathetic,” Matt says loud enough for everyone to hear. It’s not worth a fight, so he lets out another war whoop and pushes off.
Despite its name, Powder Puff Basin is like an enormous cereal bowl a mile across with towering basalt cliffs forming the rim. Matt likes to climb them from late summer into the fall until the heavy snows come again. Below the rim, its slopes plunge down through a boulder field to the chair lift at the bottom.
Winter or summer, this is where he comes to escape from the suffocating world of his dad.
He tucks into a racing stance and blasts down a cat track into the Basin and around the lower edge of the rim to the opposite side, floating a hundred meters below the cliffs.
On the way, he passes a spot marked with flags, a rope and a big red sign.
It always brings a certain memory to mind.
Six years before, he was a wild sixteen-year-old who ignored the sign and crossed under the rope into a dive down the back of Skull Pass. It’s no surprise an avalanche swallowed him up. By the time ski patrol pulled him out, he had no pulse and a core temperature of less than forty degrees. Thanks to luck and the mammalian diving reflex, they revived him. The doctor said there was no permanent brain damage.
His dad always said he wasn’t so sure.
A rooster tail of loose snow shoots up and out from the back of his skis. Boulders the size of cars lay strewn above and below, islands of rock floating in a sea of white.
When he reaches the opposite side of the bowl, Matt lifts his head and contemplates the beauty of the mountains. He tries to take it all in, but discovers that it’s beyond understanding and can’t be captured in a still shot or video or even memory. The best he can do is open himself to it and let the moment flow through him.
The thin air lifts his dark hair in streams and stings the skin of his cheekbones and ears. He smiles until his lips are numb and his teeth ache from the cold.
Looking down to the left, the slope drops sharply away. He sucks in a lungful of oxygen and holds it, like a diver about to break the water’s surface.
In one fluid motion, he leans forward, tucks into his thighs and launches himself off the lip of the traverse. Ten meters down slope, his skis bite into the white velvet.