Stones: Experiment (Stones #3) (50 page)

J
hata stretches her arms out in a spread eagle as the last particles of dust from Matt’s world blow past her fingertips.

Ripping out the mountain range ringing the planet was like opening an immense zipper, exposing the molten interior. With the entire world engulfed in a plasma conflagration, she treated it in precisely the same way as Yarah’s world, turning it inside out, liquefying it, gasifying it and blowing it apart.

An elegant solution.

The next stop will be Earth with its billions of innocent inhabitants. But, of course, they aren’t innocent. Being of the same race as Matt, Leo and Yarah, they are guilty by association. And they will soon pay the price of their guilt with blood.

But first Jhata needs to rest and rejuvenate. The frenetic activity of the past few days has left her depleted in spirit. She lets her eyes drop and thinks of her sanctuary, her cathedral on the hill overlooking the city on one side and the ocean on the other. When she opens her eyes, she’s standing in the courtyard. A cloud of small yellow birds with bright red beaks scatters into the air.

A gentle breeze blows through her hair, bringing the fragrance of saltwater. Jhata inhales deeply, drawing in the ocean’s healing power.

The hint of an unpleasant odor wafts toward her from inside the cathedral. Her eyes drift in that direction. A groaning sound comes through the door. She turns and walks inside past the first emerald column.

Then she stops, staring at the middle of the floor.

The blackened form of a human lies face down in a puddle of yellow liquid. Six Stones are scattered a few feet away. Stubby remains of fingers push the upper body up. It twists to face Jhata. A single white eye devoid of expression looks out from a featureless black background. A hole opens. It may have once been a mouth, but now the lips are gone.

“Help me,” it says. The voice is dry, like dead leaves scraping over rock.

Instinctively, Jhata drops a hand to her belt and pulls out a Stone. She moves forward cautiously, eyeing the form before her. The putrid stench of decay makes her nauseous. As she walks, her mind is already inside the burnt creature, seeking its identity, sifting through fragments of its most recent memories, checking on its body functions, evaluating its strength.

Without a doubt, it is the man named Ryzaard. The one from Earth who tried to kill Matt. He is a hair’s breadth from death, in excruciating pain, barely managing to stay conscious.

An easy prey.

“I warned you not to follow me. Yet here you are. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you and take your Stones.”

Ryzaard struggles to speak without lips. He turns his face away from her, perhaps sensing that it only causes revulsion.

“You need me.”

Jhata throws her head back and laughs. It’s almost hilarious that such a weak creature would speak to her in this manner. One small jolt of blue plasma from her fingertip and he will instantly die.

Pain is draining away his life. It’s getting so intense that she slips back out of his mind.

“The boy, Matt.” Ryzaard can’t hold himself up any longer and slumps to the floor. “You tried, but couldn’t kill him. Neither could I. Together we might be able to. If not, he will destroy us both.”

The toll these last few words have exacted from Ryzaard is clear as his head slams into the marble floor, splashing yellow liquid onto Jhata’s golden shoes.

A few more minutes and even she won’t be able to help Ryzaard. Perhaps it’s time to take a calculated risk. An investment.

“You will be my slave,” she says.

“Agreed.”

A few minutes later, Jhata stands in front of a transparent spherical tank. Its soft, pliable sides are composed of a semi-porous jelly-like material that can be penetrated from the outside with the right equipment, but which cannot be breached from the inside.

The burnt body of Ryzaard floats inside, bathed in a solution that maintains his life and holds him in a state of mental stasis, rendering him entirely harmless. She still isn’t sure whether she will help him or not. It’s good to go slow, weighing her options carefully.

In the end, it will make sense to help Ryzaard only if she can extract much more from him in return.

T
he captain is the first one off the sub.

He steps gingerly from the exit platform and drops into the water ten meters from the rocky shoreline. After disappearing below the surface, his head bobs up and he looks back.

“Everyone jump in. The water’s great.”

Three splashes follow in close succession. The crew members rejoice at finding liberation from the confines of their metal prison, free to feel the sun on their skin, free to move, free to get away from the stultifying body odor that had overcome the sub’s air systems.

Jessica and Eva are the last ones to remain on the exit ramp. Eva eyes the rocky shoreline warily.

“We have to go ashore,” the captain says. He’s already pulling himself up on a rock and stretching out in the sun. “We’re nearly out of food and fuel.” He smiles across the water at Jessica. “You were the one that picked this spot, remember? Even though the freedom camp’s been disbanded, they’re still expecting us. We might even get a hot meal.”

Eva stands by Jessica, waiting for her to jump. “Do you sense danger?” Eva’s hand goes up onto Jessica’s shoulder. “What do your feelings tell you?”

“That I’m starving for real food.” Jessica pulls on an old backpack she scavenged from the sub, full of odd items that might come in handy. “As long as I have this, I’m OK.” She slips the strap of the pulse rifle over her shoulder and jumps into the water.

Two hours later, after time for a swim and some rest, they are walking single file behind the captain, heading inland across an open green field. The sun is dropping below the watery horizon to their backs. The submarine is safely drifting a few meters below the surface, moored to rocks by an underwater cable.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Jessica turns and whispers to Eva behind her.

“From what I hear, Mr. Hashimoto has always been friendly to the local freedom camp. He’s not a member, but sympathetic.” She runs her finger along the inside of a small can of peanut butter she brought from the sub. “He’s a businessman. Well-respected in the community. Runs a large farm and dairy. They built the freedom camp here because of his support.”

Jessica turns to the captain walking in front. “Does anyone else know we’re coming?”

“Nope.” The captain shakes his head. “All the rest left when you gave the order. That was two days ago. We just passed through the old freedom camp.” He stops and motions back toward the setting sun with his burly hands. “As you can see there’s not a trace left behind.” He shakes his head and laughs. “Very Japanese.”

If only Matt were here,
Jessica thinks.

“Does anyone speak the local language?” Jessica glances from the captain to the others lined up behind her.

Nothing but shrugging shoulders and shaking heads.

Eva nods. “I can get by.”

“Really?” Jessica’s eyebrows rise up. “Where did you learn Japanese?”

“Back in Vancouver. I worked as a tour guide for a while. When I was young.”

As Jessica gazes at the faces of the group, a realization hits her. With their Inuit features and dark hair, all of the crew and Eva can pass for Japanese, at least from a distance. She has brown hair and brown eyes, which helps a little. But her face is all-American, a dead giveaway.

“I’ve heard the anti-foreigner movement is stronger than ever in Japan.” Jessica looks at the captain, hoping for a rebuttal.

“It depends,” he says. “The Japanese love the Chinese, Koreans, Thais, anyone from Asia. All part of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere announced by China and Japan a few weeks ago. But one thing’s for sure. They hate Americans. It wouldn’t take much to start a war.” He smiles broadly, showing the wide gap in his front teeth.

“They aren’t all like that.” Eva shoots a dark look at the captain. “And if we have to, we can make you look Japanese.”

The rest of the group laughs.

Jessica walks for the next hour in silence, but her fingers can’t stop running along the silver barrel of the pulse rifle.

“There it is. The Hashimoto home.” The captain points at a house constructed of separate compartments, all loosely joined by enclosed walkways. “Remember to take your shoes off, everyone. Bow and be polite. No loud voices or spitting.”

Looking like a Buddhist temple with its perfect tile roof and peaked corners, the main entrance to the compound stands fifty meters away, barely visible in the evening moonlight. They approach along a winding path through fine gravel, sculpted shrubs, large boulders with flowing, asymmetrical shapes, and dozens of
bonsai
trees, large and small.

“Japanese rock garden.” Jessica remembers Matt’s words from a conversation about Zen Buddhism. “Carefully composed to be an aid in meditation about the true meaning of life.”

The captain laughs. “And right now, the true meaning of life is to get some food in my belly before I collapse.” He turns to the rest of the group. “Eva, come with me. We need to use your Japanese skills. The rest of you stay here.” He makes a point of looking squarely at Jessica.

The two of them walk to the outer door and slide it open to the side. Then they move into the entry way.

Jessica hears Eva’s voice, calling into the house.

“
Gomen kudasai.
”

The sound of approaching feet moves across hardwood floors. An inner door slides open. Warm greetings are exchanged, and it’s clear that Mr. Hashimoto is expecting visitors. Whether he is expecting
six
visitors is less clear. His voice trails off as he and the captain walk back into the house.

Eva’s head appears outside. “Everyone come in. Remember to take off your shoes.”

Jessica follows Eva, leaving her shoes in the
genkan
entrance and stepping up onto the main floor. They all walk down a long, dark hallway past sliding doors and into a large tatami room at the back. Two Japanese women dressed in tight kimonos and aprons, one older than the other, are busy adding additional
zabuton
sitting cushions and place settings to a low table.

From the looks of it, they were expecting only the captain.

“Please accept my apologies,” Hashimoto-
san
says. “I was unaware we would be honored by so many guests.” His eyes survey the captain and the other three crew members, all of them large men.

His gaze freezes when he sees Jessica, the pulse rifle still slung over her back.

“
Hajimemashite
. So nice to meet you. My name is Jessica.” Recalling a lesson from Matt, her body bends forward from the waist in the best Japanese bow she can muster.

“Would have been even nicer of you to leave the weapons outside.” The captain mutters, shooting a glare at Jessica. Bowing his head, he looks at Hashimoto-
san
. “There’s been some trouble lately. Problems with the freedom camps. Please forgive—”

“No apologies necessary.” The younger of the two Japanese women speaks in accent-free English, drawing the gaze of the other crew members. “We’ve had our own share of trouble.”

Hashimoto-
san
motions to the low table. “Please, sit and make yourself comfortable. And forgive my daughter. She just returned from college in America and has forgotten her manners.”

They all take their seats while Hashimoto-
san
’s wife and daughter make multiple trips in and out of the room to bring in individual trays of carefully arranged food. Each tray is set out in exactly the same way. A bowl of rice in the lower left corner and miso soup on the right. Between them sits a small plate of yellow pickled radish. Above that is a larger plate of fried pork cutlets with triangle-shaped tomato pieces and finely sliced cucumbers on the side. In the upper right corner is a small plate with chunks of bright red fish cut into perfect rectangles and stacked like leaning dominoes.

It takes several minutes for all the food to be set out on the table.

“
Itadakimasu.
” Hashimoto-
san
lets his head drop in a shallow bow then looks up and surveys the table. “Please enjoy your food.”

Everyone goes for the raw bluefin tuna first.

“Where did you get this
maguro
? I haven’t seen anything like it for years.” The captain places one of the red chunks in his mouth with studied reverence and closes his eyes in deep satisfaction. “It’s divine.”

“I have my own supply.” Hashimoto-
san
picks up a piece in his chopsticks and eyes it closely. “Mercury-free, and secret.”

“Black market,” whispers Hashimoto-
san
’s daughter. With her legs folded perfectly under her, she quietly slips onto a
zabuton
cushion next to Jessica. “By the way, my name is Michiko.”

Jessica sips the miso soup and nods. “Your father said you went to college in the U.S. Where were you?”

“Seattle, at the University of Washington. I just got back yesterday.” She stabs one of the port cutlets with her chopsticks and takes a bite. “I saw the black attack ships fly overhead on their way to the freedom camp at Vancouver.”