by Jacob Whaler
One finger of lightning has already penetrated the man’s chest. A black bulge of burnt flesh protrudes from his back like a mini Mt. Fuji. The only expression on his face is a clenched jaw and half-shut eyes staring at the spot where Matt had been standing.
Matt walks back and forth across the front of the group, not sure of what to do. The instant he releases his grip on time, the man and the group will be annihilated. Nausea rises in his stomach, but he does his best to push it back and simply deal with the reality facing him at that moment.
He moves to the side, contemplating his next move, out of the line of fire of the lasers.
Something rolls on the ground against his heel, a sphere made of metal and glass, a light green glow emanating from within. A bubble of light springs out of it and falls to the ground, completely enveloping his body. Instinctively, he tries to jump away. But it’s impossible to move beyond the bubble. It’s holding him in place.
His grip on the present is slipping away. Fear pierces the calm as he stares at the jagged fingers of lightning only nanoseconds away from ripping bodies and splitting bones.
“The funny thing is, the moment you let go, you become the murderer.”
Matt turns in the direction of the familiar deep voice.
Ryzaard stares back at him.
In desperation, Matt throws himself against the white bubble, but it refuses to give way. Each time he touches it with a hand or shoulder, it responds with an intense shock that surges through his blue skin, throwing him back. He wills his Stone to shoot kernels of high energy at the inside of the bubble, hoping to break through, but it absorbs all his attempts with little more than a ripple.
Ryzaard stands calmly, gazing down, arms folded across his chest.
“You’re running out of time and energy, Matt. You know you can’t keep this up forever. At some point, you’ll have to let go.”
Matt stares through the bubble at hundreds of men and women, their deaths only seconds away, entirely in his hands, yet slipping out of his control. The image of the Woman, one of the Allehonen, plays before his eyes.
Dropping to his knees, Matt brings his hands together. Words gush through his mind. His lips struggle to keep up.
I know you can hear me. I know you can help. I can’t hold on much longer. It’s my fault the attack-ships came. Don’t let them die because of me.
He recalls the vision of the Woman facing an onrushing army alone. In his mind, he sees the warrior on a horse charging her, sword in hand. The warrior leans forward and lowers the blade, catching the Woman just under her chin. Her body falls to the dust, the severed head landing and rolling a few meters away.
No. Don’t let them die.
Matt puts both palms squarely against the inside of the white bubble and tries to push his hands through. The blue skin reacts, spreading searing pain evenly across his body from his eyeballs to the tips of his toes. He can’t control the convulsions and shaking. The muscles in his chest seize up.
Still, he pushes through and beyond the pain.
“Don’t worry,” Ryzaard says. “It won’t last much longer. Why don’t you just relax and enjoy the show.”
“Let these people go. They’re innocent. You don’t need to kill them.” One of Matt’s hands breaks through to the outside. “Take me.” Jolts of pain surge through his spine, radiating out into his arms and legs. Something warm and sticky begins to run on his skin. His other hand breaks through the white bubble. He looks at his shirt and pants.
“Don’t worry, I will take you. And them.”
The white fabric of Matt’s T-shirt turns red everywhere it touches his skin. Blood drips from his chin and elbows. A crimson rain falls to the ground.
Gritting his teeth, Matt looks up through the white bubble at the clear blue sky above. His last grip on the present is slipping away, like water through a sieve. In a few seconds it will be gone.
He calls out to the Woman.
Why won’t you help?
Time snaps into place, and Matt falls back into the center of the bubble. His eyes fall on the tall man a few meters away.
The sound of thunder explodes in Matt’s ears. Strings of lightning shoot across his line of vision. The tall man’s chest implodes as a mass of bone and pulp explodes out his back. The look of defiance never leaves his face as he collapses to the ground.
Matt looks on, helpless, as the initial blast of the EM laser cuts down the first five rows of the crowd. Their bodies fall in smoking piles to the ground, causing the group behind them to glance wildly around in bewilderment as they try to make sense of the flash of light. A second blast comes ten seconds later and another hundred torsos rupture and split, spilling gore on the green field of grass.
Matt watches in horror, unable to close his eyes, yelling at the top of his lungs, but hearing no sound.
Ten rows back, the crowd finally grasps the direction the blasts are coming from and becomes a confused mass of arms and legs fleeing to the edge of the forest away from the attack-helis. EM lasers rake the field with bursts of fire, opening great holes in the diminishing horde. Bodies lie on the ground, reminding Matt of a haunting black and white photograph he once saw of the mangled bodies of Holocaust victims, cut down by machine gun fire and strewn on a barren field after the end of the great war in the middle of the twentieth century.
It plays out in front of his eyes exactly as he saw it in his mind only moments before.
After thirty seconds, all that remains on the field are two people, a man and woman, running together, almost to the trees. Two fingers of light leap across the field. One rips through the man, tearing his body in two like a zipper down his spine. The other slams into the trunk of an old cedar, shattering it, just as the woman enters the trees.
She stumbles and disappears into the shadows without looking back.
Matt slumps to the ground and closes his eyes, the afterimage of the final scene burnt into his retinas.
“It didn’t have to be this way.” Ryzaard walks forward, standing over Matt. “How many more of your friends will be killed because of your refusal to submit?” Ryzaard’s mouth droops with a half-smile. “Fortunately, the answer is zero.”
Opening his eyes, Matt looks up at Ryzaard in his tweed jacket. He thinks of the Allehonen and how easy it would have been for the Woman to help. To make everything right. An image of the Woman forms in his mind.
Why didn’t you come?
Trying to cast the thought out of his mind, he focuses on his breath, erasing the remnants of pain that still swim across his skin. After a long silence, his eyes open, and he looks squarely at the sphere of glass and metal on the ground near his feet.
“A new weapon?” Forcing his aching body to move, Matt kicks the sphere, but it’s as still and hard as though bolted to the ground. At the moment of contact with his shoe, a jolt runs through his body. He tries hard to conceal the pain. “So you’ve got five Stones now? Two more than last time. Life must be good.” Pointing with his own Stone, Matt shoots an energy pellet at the sphere at point blank range.
Nothing happens.
Ryzaard stares over Matt’s head in silence.
From out of the corner of his eye, Matt catches movement at the outer fringe of the field. He recognizes Jessica’s clothes but tries not to focus on her.
“I know she’s there, in the trees. Your beloved.” Ryzaard takes a step back and drops his gaze to the sphere, focusing on it with unusual attention. “Doesn’t matter. It’s over for you.”
A quiet hissing sound comes from somewhere in the sphere, and a white mist rises out of a slot in its middle. The temperature of the air instantly drops, leaving a chill on his skin. Goose bumps cover his body.
With a little more concentration, he just might be able to break through the bubble and get at Ryzaard. Closing his eyes, Matt inhales slowly.
But the air inside the bubble is gone.
His lungs find nothing to hold on to, as though he is floating naked in the vacuum of space.
Ryzaard folds his arms. “I could think of much worse ways to die. Be thankful for this mercy.”
Matt’s mind shifts into overdrive, searching for a way out. His chest heaves in and out.
No air.
Panic takes over. He jumps up and fights against the inside of the bubble enclosing him. Again and again, he stabs his Stone at it with no result but utter helplessness. His lungs are nothing more than deflated bags. The world is hazy and vague. It starts to slip away.
No air.
Matt stops trying to move. He sits on the grass, legs under him Japanese style, and faces away from Ryzaard. His eyes look for and find Jessica, still standing at the edge of the trees. Through the descending fog, he sees her raise the pulse rifle to her shoulder. Her head drops, looking along the sights.
Keep his attention away from her.
Using the last of the air in his lungs, he turns to look at Ryzaard. “I’ve seen things. Incredible things. The Allehonen—”
“You’ve been duped.”
“No. You’re wro—” Matt’s lungs collapse, and he drops to the ground, eyes falling shut as his head hits the grass.
He is sixteen years old again, skiing on velvet powder down a steep slope, lifting his skis up and floating effortlessly into each turn. As he carves into another arc, the snow below him falls away, sucking him into a churning maelstrom. He fights to keep his head above the surface, but eventually his body is pulled under into cold and blackness. All motion ceases. The darkness solidifies. He opens his mouth to breathe.
No air.
The dream ceases.
Digging deep for a final push, Matt opens his eyes one last time to search for Jessica at the far end of the field. A burst of fire jumps out of her pulse rifle. As he sweeps his gaze past Ryzaard, a thin membrane of blue energy appears on the old man’s body, like a neon sign lighting up. Nanoseconds later, a stream of black projectiles explode harmlessly against his back, spraying fragments in a circle.
Ryzaard’s laughter drifts into Matt’s consciousness.
He struggles to hold up his eyelids. A weight like tons of granite pulls them against his will. Just before they seal shut, he looks across the field.
Jessica breaks from the trees and is sprinting toward them. Matt tries to scream, to warn her, but his mouth opens in silence. As his eyelids are pulled down, an intense white light blazes in a circle, exposing blue veins.
Finally, the Woman came. I knew she would. She’ll make everything right.
CHAPTER 35
Idiots. I’m surrounded with idiots.
Squelching the rage that has risen to the surface, Miyazawa takes in a lungful of air. Nerves relax.
“Wakatta.” Miyazawa stops pacing. “I understand your situation perfectly. But it is nevertheless unacceptable. Production must reach full capacity within seventy-two hours. We need 5,000 shrines per day, including the torii gates. Anything less is unacceptable.” He looks at his jax. A full-color holo floats above it, displaying a vast complex of buildings just completed on the island of Tsushima, between Korea and Japan.
“Yes, I am aware that your factory is only one of a hundred.” An edge of impatience is creeping into Miyazawa’s intentionally mellow voice. “Each is important. Each is necessary. You have made commitments. Taken oaths. I expect you to fulfill them all. Do I make myself clear?” He bows curtly at his jax. The holo image disappears, and he drops it in the pocket of his silk business suit.
On any other day, he would have worn the comfortable robes of a Shinto priest. But not on this day. On this day, he needs to compel more respect, to project more power.
Hence the suit.
Looking up, Miyazawa starts walking the aisle toward the stage and podium, just ahead.
“Is there a problem?” A stocky man with a full head of gray hair, massive chest, short legs and thick arms, walks alongside Miyazawa. “I can whip the bastards into shape.”
Sato’s rough Osaka dialect grates against Miyazawa’s more refined Kyoto sensibilities.
“Just typical growing pains, Sato-san. Production will reach full capacity on time and on budget. The money’s too good.” Miyazawa looks to the right and left as they pass rows of men in awkward black suits. Some have buzz haircuts. Others have long ponytails trailing from shaven heads. Here and there among the men he sees women in black kimonos.
Sato makes a fist. “I get things done. On time and below budget.” He presses his fist into the palm of his other hand. Blue flowers peek out from beneath the sleeves of his black suit and disappear. The red tip of a dragon’s tongue flicks at the base of his neck, then ducks below the open collar, reappearing at the back. A second later, a full dragonhead and body dart up from his back into his hair, and then fade from view.
Swimming tattoos.
It’s the first time Miyazawa has seen a living example.
As they walk the aisle through the sea of men, the sweet smell of sake hangs heavy in the air. Miyazawa glances at Sato.
“We’ll need to do something about this drinking. A Shinto priest must be sober.”
Sato snorts and shakes his head. “At least when he’s on the job, right? Don’t worry.” He sweeps his arms at the fifty thousand men seated in the concert hall, and Miyazawa notices the missing pinkie finger on his left hand. “The men of the Yamagata clan listen to me because they fear me. You keep the money flowing. I’ll keep them sober enough.”
Together, they ascend the stairs to the stage under bright lights. At the top of the steps, Sato turns to face the audience, his gaze sweeping from right to left. His hands come out in front, palms down, in a gesture demanding quiet.
Silence instantly descends on the hall.
Sato smiles and takes his seat on the single row of chairs stretching across the stage. It is filled with a mixture of men in suits and Shinto robes.
Looking to his right at a man just off-stage, Miyazawa nods and signals the man to engage the microphone. Lights dim. Miyazawa walks to the middle of the stage and stands in front of it, hands dropping behind him.
“Welcome, friends.” Miyazawa’s voice booms through the concert hall. “This is an historic occasion. Never before have so many new priests of the Way of the Kami received their robes on a single day.”
Cheering and clapping rings through the hall. It sounds more like a soccer match than a sacred ordination ceremony. Miyazawa glances to his left and sees Sato standing, a large smile on his face, joining in the applause. On either side, older Shinto priests in starched robes and tall black hats sit quietly, hands carefully folded in their laps, faces devoid of emotion.
Miyazawa stares at Sato until he stops clapping and drops into a chair. The hall goes silent again.
“In the next few hours, you will all receive instruction on the Way of the Kami. My distinguished colleagues behind me will teach you all you need to know so you will be worthy of the sacred Shinto robes that will be placed upon you tonight. Tomorrow, you will board transports to India, Bangladesh, Burma, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. There your service will begin. In a few days, another wave will follow. Please listen carefully.”
Miyazawa moves from the center of the stage back to a vacant seat. The lights dim in the concert hall, momentarily plunging it into darkness. An immense blue screen appears above the heads of the sitting dignitaries on the stage, filling it from left to right.
Miyazawa’s image flows onto the screen, dressed in full ceremonial robes, strolling through the rock garden outside his home shrine in the mountains of northern Japan.
“For millennia, the Japanese people have been guided by the Way of the Kami, the beneficiaries of a rich tradition that has brought peace and prosperity to our island nation.”
On the blue screen, Miyazawa walks closer to the camera.
“The time has now come to share our truths with the world. The entire world. It is your good fortune to be part of this divine wind that will leave our shores.” Miyazawa takes a step forward and seamlessly walks off the screen, moving
through the air in full color to the middle of the concert hall, his fifty-foot-tall holo image suspended above the heads of the Yakuza gangsters gathered there to become priests. A pair of exquisite white cranes fly from opposite sides of the hall, their holo images landing above Miyazawa in a tree that appears next to him.
The real Miyazawa sits on the stage, cocks an eyebrow and glances, first to his left at Sato, and then to his right at the dignitaries seated on the other side, wondering how this surprise is playing with them.
From all the reactions, the hundred million IMUs it cost to create this special effect have been well spent.
As near as he can tell, all of them, in the audience and on the stage, sit in silence, staring up, mouths dropping open, as if they are looking into the face of a living Kami.
Just a matter of time.
CHAPTER 36
So this is what Earth looks like.
As the light slowly fades, Jhata surveys her surroundings. She finds herself in an open field, ringed by a forest of old trees of exquisite shape and beauty. The familiar smell of an ocean lingers in the air. A few dozen meters away, five black aircraft of awkward design stand end to end.
The field itself is littered with hundreds of broken and torn bodies, ripped apart, she imagines, by a primitive energy beam emanating from cannons mounted on the aircraft.
In the end, it had been an easy matter to find the coordinates inside Leo’s mind. A few minutes of searching was all it took. And that was not all. For such a young boy, he had a surprising amount of interesting information.
In searching Leo’s memories, Jhata found particular interest in the evil man that had killed many of Leo’s friends and managed to collect multiple Stones. Ryzaard.
And of course Matt, the only Stone Holder to ever escape alive from Jhata.
Both of them are here, before her eyes.
Matt lies at the feet of Ryzaard, trapped inside an energy bubble. About to die.
Jhata recognizes the energy signature. Ryzaard is using his Stones to kill Matt. And Matt is almost dead.