Stones (Data)

by Jacob Whaler

  When Kent chose to go off-grid so many years ago, it was a choice to opt out of the Complex. And a choice to fight back.

  Turning away from the window, his fingers stretch out to the slate. An idea is taking shape in his mind. He breathes in and out, letting the idea grow as he relaxes into it. The original seed was planted after the death of his wife. Over the years, details and plans accumulated in layers like a growing pearl. Kent always suppressed it so he could focus on Matt. But now Matt is gone and safely away in Japan.

  The idea takes on its final form and rises to the surface of his mind. Still in his late forties, he’s young enough and fit enough for the physical demands of a sleuthing trip back to the City. Back to MX Global.

  Now or never.

  He looks again to make sure he has an anonymous Mesh connection with the strong encryption protocol engaged. His fingers begin to type a message to his source on the inside at MX Global.

  Many thanks for the intel on Ryzaard and MX Global. It’s been over a decade since MX ripped Yoshiko away and left me alone to raise my son. They are solely responsible for her death. The time has come to reveal the truth and seek justice.

  He sends off the message and gazes out the window once again up at the Mosquito Range.

  There’s a ping on his slate.

  Good hunting, my friend. Good hunting.

  He walks upstairs and begins to pack.

  CHAPTER 32

  Matt strides past the elevator and descends a spiral staircase into the open luggage area below. He recognizes passengers from the flight and moves past them straight to the customs area. There is no need to stop. The pack on his back is the only piece of luggage he possesses. As he approaches the customs counter, he slips out the same red passport. With an utter lack of expression, the officer does a short bow and waves him through an archway into the main airport area. Passing under the arch, he reads the words written there, royal blue against a white background.

  Yokoso Nippon e.

  “Welcome to Japan.” Matt mumbles to himself. “All I can say is, it’s good to be here.”

  He checks a clock. There’s still two and a half hours before the flight to Sapporo. Plenty of time to eat.

  Only twenty paces away, a sea of bright colors catches his eye. He walks closer and stares through a window at plates of neon sushi freshly cut from the day’s catch. Or so it seems. On closer inspection, he knows it’s all made of hand-blown glass, fashioned to look better than the real thing and lure in customers.

  It works on Matt.

  His eyes skim past the prices and his mind screams no. But an audible rumble bursts out of his belly, and his feet obediently take him across the threshold into the store. In a daze, he drops into a chair and lets the backpack slip free of his shoulders to the floor.

  A young woman with an apron approaches and asks what he would like. His lips move. Time seems to blur. In a matter of minutes he’s looking down at a sea bream lying on a plate, fresh from the ocean. Raw and glistening, its sides have been cut into small fillets, each one a mouthful of joy. His hands grope for the chopsticks, and he gently takes up one of the translucent slices. As he dips it in soy sauce, the stain makes thick grains of flesh visible to the eye. Once safely in his mouth, there is no hint of fishiness. It’s the Platonic ideal of food. Texture and flavor join in a seamless unity. Pure Nirvana.

  A soft swaying motion catches his eye. As his gaze drifts down, he sees the pink tail of the fish waving back and forth.

  Now that’s fresh.

  Having paid the equivalent of a week’s wages, his mind takes control as he finishes the last of the sea bream. On the way out of the restaurant, his fingers fumble for the jax.

  Best. Sushi. Ever.

  Instinctively, he glances around at the passersby to see if anyone has their eye on him. Then he chides himself for being paranoid.

  I’m in Japan now. I’m one of them. No need to worry.

  His stomach reminds him that, in spite of the costly meal, he’s still hungry. That can only mean one thing.

  It’s time to fill up on noodles and soup.

  He heads to the lower level where the holo-ad promised an orthodox negi miso ramen, the finest this side of Tomakomai City. His thoughts turn to long tubes of Japanese pasta floating in a savory broth of leeks and soybean paste. Swallowing frequently, he makes his way to the ramenya.

  In front of the bright red noren curtain, he stops to read the word ramen written vertically in sharp black katakana. Just before he passes through into the tiny culinary boutique, he casts a backward glance to see if he’s being followed. Then he chides himself again for not letting go of his dad’s demons and ducks inside.

  A single row of barstools stretches out at a low counter. The aroma of steaming broth and fried pork mingled with soy sauce and ginger carries him to the last empty seat at the far end. He leans his backpack against the wall where faint brown stains run in streaks down to the floor. A black cockroach scampers into a crack.

  A sign on the wall explains that the broth used in this ramen shop was originally made over three hundred years before and has been added to, but never thrown out, since that time.

  It sounds delicious beyond description.

  After settling into the seat, Matt swivels to have a look around. Most of the others at the bar are exhausted sarariman in drab blue and grey business suits, going or coming from business trips. The younger patrons hunch over jaxes and slates, swimming in a world of electronic chatter, earphones maintaining a buffer of noise between them and the world. The older ones pour over ancient manga comics, as thick and yellow as old phone books. Laughter streams out of a screen in the opposite corner where a mindless game show plays quietly to provide just the right amount of background noise. They are all absorbed in the ritual of slurping the precious contents of their bowls with detached oblivion.

  A bookcase stands within arm’s reach against the wall. Matt grabs a purple manga with a picture of an octopus-looking alien and begins to page through it.

  A strange feeling floods over him. He is a chameleon. Thirty-six hours ago, he was at home dodging boulders on a late-season slope in the Colorado Rockies. Now, thanks to his mother’s genes, he blends perfectly into this new and exotic environment. Two diverse cultures pull at him. He is simultaneously immersed in and alienated from each.

  The noodle chef works briskly behind the counter with a white hachimaki band twisted around his head. Looking up quickly, he acknowledges Matt with slight nod. Matt bobs his head in return, and then watches the man in fascination as he builds a ramen from the ground up.

  First, he empties a small basket of steaming white noodles into a bowl with one hand and dips broth from a large caldron behind him with the other. He gently pours in the brown liquid. As the noodles begin to swim, the chef’s hands dance in circles, dropping in chopped green onions, a generous measure of crushed garlic, two dark slices of pork. As Matt gazes on, the chef looks up quickly and flashes a knowing smile. In a blur of movement, the chef throws oils and powders of mysterious origin into the bowl and stirs it briskly with oversized chopsticks and two flicks of his wrist. The completed masterpiece floats down in his hands to the front of a customer on Matt’s left.

  The chef approaches Matt to get his order.

  “O-kyaku-san. Dou suru kai?”

  Matt notes the rough tone of speech common for ramen chefs, but answers in a more formal manner, ordering without checking the menu. “Negi miso ramen, o negai shimasu.” He knows exactly what he wants. Noodles with leeks and fermented soybean paste.

  “Yoshi. Wakatta.” In two words, the chef tells Matt it’s a good choice and he’s confident of his ability to deliver.

  In three minutes, Matt is slurping louder than anyone else at the counter.

  He remembers that he hasn’t jaxed off a safe arrival message to his dad. While still eating with chopsticks in his right hand, his left hand slips into a side pocket and taps out a quick note.

  Got to Nippon in one p
iece. Enjoying ramen nirvana right now. No need to worry. Everything OK.

  He omits any mention of the little hiccup at the airport security portal. Hopefully, it will be enough to satisfy his dad. With the ramen in front of him, everything is more than OK.

  And then, out of the corner of his eye, he notices two Japanese men staring at him from across the corridor outside the door.

  It must be coincidence. His attention goes back to the ramen, and he downs two more bunches of noodles and broth. Out of habit, he glances again outside the door.

  The two men haven’t moved an inch, and they’re still staring at him.

  One wears an off-white suit over a wide-collared red shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. The other has a black suit with the same red shirt. Shoulder pads flare out under their clothing, giving their torsos an unnatural V appearance. The front half of their heads are shaved and polished. A greased ponytail lies down on top and points forward, its blunt tip coming down between dark eyebrows. Neon tattoos in the form of purple and red dragon motifs adorn ridiculously enhanced pecs under tufts of black hair.

  Samurai warriors in Italian suits. He can tell with one glance they’re Yakuza. Japanese mafia.

  A flash of fear causes him to catch his breath. An image forms in his mind. His mom in the car in the seconds before the transport tears it apart. Nausea wells up in his stomach. It sparks a tingle that begins at the bottom of his spine and ascends up to the base of his skull, vertebra by vertebra, raising the hair on his back as it goes.

  Despite their comic appearance, Matt knows one doesn’t mess with Yakuza, self-styled keepers of bushido, the samurai spirit. As part of his preparation to come to Japan, he read about their rapid rise in popularity after the Mukden-Hiroshima Incident, a direct result of Japan pulling away from America and the West. The police rarely challenge them, and the common people often applaud as they pass on the street. They live above the law and apply their own version of vigilante justice, often selling their services to the highest bidder.

  If the rumors are true, the skyscrapers of Tokyo are full of bodies dumped by the Yakuza into their newly poured concrete foundations.

  Matt turns back to his ramen and tries to enjoy the last of the noodles, the flat slices of pork, the leeks, the innumerable little bits of flavor floating in the broth. After fishing out all the meat and broken noodles at the bottom, he lifts the bowl to his lips. Slowly and deliberately, he drains the contents, savoring the taste and aroma to the last. When he stands up, he pulls an old 500 yen coin from his pocket and places it on the counter.

  “Gochisosama deshita,” Matt says. But simply thanking the ramen man doesn’t seem sufficient. He needs to tell him how delicious it was. “Sugoku oishikatta.”

  “Arigatosan.” The man behind the counter nods, accepting the compliment.

  Matt shoulders his backpack, takes a deep breath and walks briskly through the noren curtain out into the corridor.

  The two Yakuza are still there, staring, smiling. Matt’s field of vision sweeps across them. The older one with the dark suit has a thin red scar running down one side of his pock-marked jaw from ear to chin. He taps a long silver tube against the palm of his hand, lips curling in a snarl, making no attempt to avoid Matt’s eyes. Two fingers are missing from his right hand. The other man is short and younger with no visible scars.

  Matt takes one more look at the multicolored dragons and demons spreading out from their chests. As he stares, he notices movement. The creatures crawl over their skin like maggots on the dead.

  He’s heard the rumors of mobile tattoos, a recent innovation found only in the underground flesh markets of Tokyo. But this is the first time he’s seen them for real.

  Could it be that they are looking for Matt?

  There is only one way to tell. Matt walks briskly down the corridor and around several corners, making a large circuit that takes him through the restaurant section of the airport and back past the ramen shop. Five minutes later he passes the ramenya and takes a quick backward glance.

  No doubt about it, they’re in pursuit, making no effort to look innocent. A knot forms in his stomach and wraps itself around a novel thought.

  Maybe dad was right after all.

  His left hand instinctively gropes for the jax, and he fingers a message inside his pocket.

  Dad, being tailed by a couple of Yaks at the airport. Not sure what to do. I’d rather not let them know I’m flying to Sapporo so they can contact their comrades on the other end and arrange a pick-up. Any enemies in Japan you haven’t told me about?

  Matt’s fingers tremble and then erase the message. Sending it won’t help. It might even bring his dad to Japan after him. Better to handle it on his own.

  As Matt moves down the corridor, the crisp tap of footsteps behind him draws closer. In his mind’s eye, he can see himself, bound and gagged, driven off to an abandoned warehouse along the Arakawa River in the backseat of a black Mercedes Benz.

  He makes an abrupt left turn a few feet down a crowded hallway and ducks into a men’s restroom. It’s empty. Good thing the doors on Japanese bathroom stalls go all the way to the floor and hide their inhabitants. Rushing into one, he bolts the door behind him, tears off his backpack, drops it down and waits.

  Then he curses himself for walking into exactly the kind of trap the Yakuza thugs have been waiting for.

  The restroom door squeals open. There is the same crisp tapping of shoes on the tile floor. Matt struggles to control his breathing as the laughing voices of two men bounce off the walls. From the rough Japanese they speak, he knows they are from Osaka, a Yakuza stronghold.

  “Where did the stupid gaijin go?” The younger one speaks first. “I couldn’t tell if the scum came this way or not.”

  “Don’t worry, Taka-chan.” The low voice of the older man drifts closer. “At least we had some fun with him.”

  “Did you see the look on his face when he ran off?” The younger voice seems to move to the urinal against the wall.

  Staring through a crack in the stall door, Matt watches as the older man leans back against the sink and lights a cigarette.

  “Like a little scared dog. All Americans are the same. Worthless cowards.” He blows a thin plume of smoke up to the ceiling.

  “Did you ever kill one?” The younger man still stands at the urinal relieving himself as the sound of falling water echoes in the room. It goes on for more than a minute.

  “What, a dog or an American?” The older man laughs open-mouthed, exposing deeply stained teeth. “Yes, once. When I was younger, like you. You should try it sometime.” He turns and looks at himself in the mirror, adjusting his shirt collar.

  “Tell me about it.”

  The older man inhales sharply. “We were selling cheap Twilight fresh from China down around Shinjuku. An American student, one of our regular customers, refused to pay. He said the drugs were dirty. Called me a filthy Jap.” He pushes off the sink and starts walking slowly toward the stalls.

  Matt freezes.

  “What did you do?” The young man zips his fly.

  “I told him I had something even better he could try for free.” His footsteps are just outside the stall. “He got in the car with me and Bobo-chan. We took him for a ride to Roppongi. Got a rope and some knives from the club. We played with him for a couple of hours before we finished him off.”

  The restroom door opens and a man with two chattering children enters.

  As Matt watches through the crack, the older Yakuza man takes one look at the children and heads for the door. “Let’s go. I’ll tell you the rest later.”

  There’s the sound of a toilet flush and footsteps going out into the corridor. Then the sound of children’s laughter.

  An hour later, Matt walks into the boarding area for the flight to Sapporo with two minutes to spare. The navy blue T-shirt and black cargo pants are gone, replaced by a windbreaker and jogging pants, both with fully adjustable color and looking white at the moment. Spiked hair
and a black mustache complete the disguise.

  His dad is the one who slipped the urban-camo kit into his backpack and taught him tricks to avoid detection when he was a kid.

  Matt chuckles to himself as he thinks of the two Yakuza gangsters. They won’t recognize him now even if they are still at the airport.

  That wasn’t so hard.

  He taps out a message to his dad as he steps onto the auto-walk to board the plane for the hour flight. The backpack, covered with blue camo cloth, slips off his shoulders and goes down between his feet. With a touch of his thumb, the message goes off to his dad.

  Now boarding final leg to Sapporo. No problems. Everything smooth as silk.

  As the auto-walk turns a corner, he glances behind him. The two Yakuza goons are walking away, backs to him, both doing fist pumps in the air.

  The older one fingers the same silver tube he had outside the ramen shop.

  CHAPTER 33

  Kent walks downstairs past the open door to Matt’s bedroom. The light turns on when he enters the storage room. He rummages through the shelves looking for the high-density C-cells. They always come in handy when you are going on a road trip. Equipment is piling up in the garage.

  He hopes everything will fit in the bed of the Chikara.

  It’s been a half dozen years since his last trip, and even that was a vacation with Matt where they did some long-distance surveillance on a low security lithium-dumping site in Idaho. He prefers to do his work in quiet anonymity using only the Mesh, military grade encryption-ware and an assortment of loyal contacts and spies. Physical location is rarely a matter of importance.

  But this is different.

  Pulling out his jax, he scans the packing list again. He still needs to get the monofilament jumpline and karabiners, as well as a climbing harness, a pair of carbon-stretch gloves and ball bearings. A grapple wouldn’t hurt either. You never know what you might have to deal with.