Stones: Experiment (Stones #3) (22 page)

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.

I
diots. 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.

S
o 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.

That won’t do.

Ryzaard turns and takes a step back, his eyes filled with incredulity. “Who are you?”

“None of your concern, Mr. Ryzaard.” Jhata is still wearing her fairy godmother dress. She makes sure Ryzaard can see the belt of Stones on her waist. “And neither is he.” With a wave of her hand, the energy field around Matt fades and disappears.

Matt coughs violently, and then his mouth opens wide, chest rising and falling, gasping wildly, filling his lungs with air.

“What are you doing?” Ryzaard’s eyes narrow. “You don’t understand. He’s dangerous.”

Jhata walks closer to Matt. “And he’s mine. I’m just taking back my property.” She fingers a Stone on her belt. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

“No,” Ryzaard says. “As long as you destroy him.”

A smile creeps across Jhata’s face. “I know about your plans. I am impressed with all you’ve accomplished in so short a time. You have an appreciation for power. Based on that, we share more than a hatred of this boy.” She viciously kicks Matt with the sharp toe of her golden shoe.

He moans, and his eyes start to flicker open.

“I don’t understand,” Ryzaard says.

Jhata slips a Stone from her belt. “Of course you don’t. And I intend to keep it that way.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Ryzaard’s tone of voice makes it clear he knows he is outgunned, or at least out-Stoned.