Hacker: The Outlaw Chronicles (12 page)

Outlaw smiled. “In your world, everything is rooted in time. How long have we been talking? Do you know?”

Austin glimpsed his watch. “A few minutes.”

“And in this moment, are you real?”

“Of course I am.”

“Are you sure? Back in San Francisco your body has been floating for less than a minute, yet it’s felt far longer hasn’t it?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“Your body is in San Francisco.” Outlaw paused. “Is that also real?”

Austin flinched at the thought.

The man continued. “A better question might be:
Which
of you is really you? The one sitting in front of me now . . . or the one in your apartment at this moment?”

Austin hesitated. “Both. I’m clearly here, talking to you. I see you, I smell the fire, I feel its heat.”

“Some might say that your version of reality is impossible. One person in two places at once. Seems ridiculous, don’t you think?”

“To some, maybe.”

“Such as those who believe that material reality is all there is?”

“Yes.”

He tilted his head down slightly. “People like you.”

“I . . .” His thoughts shuddered to a halt.

“You see what I mean.” Outlaw said.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Not suggesting, merely reporting what I see. What you know as real is only real in part. You see the world through a darkened glass. You’ve begun to tap into a reality that most people would ridicule if you tried to explain it, an existence just beneath the skin of the seen world. The problem is, most do not have the eyes to see it.”

“Or the knowledge.”

“Knowledge is a tool, a pathway that’s useful for a time, but only for a time. I can tell you, there is a way of being that doesn’t rely on knowledge at all and where thinking is a great hindrance. Knowing
about
and knowing are two different things entirely.”

Anger kindled within Austin. “Thinking is a tremendous ability.”

“You cannot trust what you think you know,” Outlaw said. “You have to let go of what you think you know. There’s a narrow Way where all things are possible. The price to walk it is death, which is why it’s such a rare find, a treasure buried in a field. Most will never seek it because they’re terrified of what they will find.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Outlaw met his gaze and held it. “Yes. Actually, you are.”

“If you know so much, tell me how to tap into the next level. I know the answer to healing my tumor is within reach. How do I get to that place?”

“I told you once, but you weren’t ready to listen.”

“Here I am. I’m ready.”

“Ready for the truth?”

“I’d give everything I have for it,” Austin said.

Outlaw was silent for a moment. A look of deep sadness crossed his face. “And you will.”

A chill prickled Austin’s skin. He didn’t like the way Outlaw had said that.

“When the time comes,” Outlaw said, “let go of all you know. See the small gods that you’ve made for what they are. Let them shrivel to dust and die. You know about many things, but
knowing
isn’t the same as
understanding
. To truly
know
—to understand—demands surrender of everything, even the very need to know. Only when you’re ready to empty yourself completely will you know. Until then, you’ll remain in darkness.”

“I know far more than I did in Boston.”

“And here you are, still blind,” he said as the wind picked up, bending the flames. “You have a mind, but you are not your mind. You have a body, but you are not your body. What is the essence of you, the real you, is without beginning or end. You were an eternal thought held in the mind of the Creator before time began. An eternal thought that always was, is, and will be forever, even after your costume has returned to dust.”

Dirt began to swirl violently in the air, steamrolling across the plain in an instant, and peppered Austin’s face. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes; the dust churned faster and grew thicker.

He glanced at his watch: one second to go. The world closed around him and the air thickened. “No! Wait!”

“Trouble is coming,” Outlaw said. “Save her.”

Austin leaped to his feet, leaning into the wind, which now roared in his ears like a freight train. He took a step forward. The fire was gone.

“Where are you?” he yelled. “Wait! Save who?”

The wind swelled, pelting him with dust and gravel, biting into his flesh. It forced him to one knee. He dropped his head and shielded it with an arm. The earth shook beneath the sound of the fierce wind. He clenched his eyes tight and dropped onto the ground, curling into a ball. The rumbling grew louder, like an approaching jet. Closer and closer it came until it seemed right on top of him. Then, with a deafening whoosh and blinding flash—as bright and fast as lightning—the world disintegrated around him.

All was silent.

“
A
USTIN
?” I called, but heard no answer.

One moment I had been with him, standing on the crest of Mt. Everest, and the next I was here, wherever here was. My last thought had been of the second doorway, the black one Austin had described and hoped would lead us to another level.

Was this what lay beyond? A stinking alleyway? Was he here too?

I tilted my head to peer up. Clouds raced overhead, but like they do in time-lapse videos—too fast to be real, too vivid not to be. I blinked and the clouds slowed. A flock of purple-black ravens flitted through the air then vanished.

I was standing in a filthy, trash-clogged alley between two crumbling brick buildings. The humid air smelled like damp earth and decay. It was as far from the pristine beauty of the mountains as anyone could imagine.

My watch showed that only a second had passed since I’d stepped through the rip.

Where are you, Austin?

All around me, flies buzzed over piles of reeking trash. A mangy, emaciated dog sniffed at a pile. It rooted into the garbage, digging and snuffling. With a growl, it plunged in and backed out with a black rat dangling from its mouth.

The rodent twitched and squealed before going limp. The dog tossed its head back and bit hard, crunching into bones. It raced past me, claws clicking a crazed rhythm against the concrete. At the alley’s end, it rounded a corner and disappeared.

That’s when I noticed the people: a thick crowd of them at the mouth of the alley, none looking my way. Beyond them, cars congested a city street. But there was no sound and—stranger still—no movement. The people and cars were all frozen in the act of streaming past the alley in both directions.

Frozen?

Pushing off the wall, I walked toward them, lightheaded at the sight, steadying myself with a hand skimming along the wall. The city around me was as silent as a country meadow. The air was warm and damp; the decaying brick wall crumbled under my fingertips. This wasn’t anywhere I recognized, and I couldn’t wait around. If Austin was here, he wasn’t in the alleyway.

Then a voice reached me. It was the sound of a girl singing.

“Who’s there?” I said and stopped in the middle of the alley, scanning my surroundings. Trash and filth. Nothing more.

I began walking and heard the voice again. It reverberated off the muck-caked walls. I realized it emanated from outside the alleyway, from the city street ahead of me. I ran forward.

Coming out of the alley was like breaking the surface of a dark ocean. Suddenly sunlight blinded me and warmed my skin. I blinked against it and took in the scene: in every direction, the streets were clogged with rickshaws and motorbikes and taxis—all of them covered in a layer of dust so thick their colors had muted to a universal gray.

Gaunt cows, rib cages bulging, stood motionless in the streets. And the people: dust-covered and bustling about, but that was just it. They
weren’t
bustling. Maybe they had been once, but now, they stood, most in midstride, totally still and stiff. It was as if I’d stepped into a painstakingly rendered diorama of a busy city.

My mind scrambled for answers, but this was so foreign, so weird and surreal, my brain couldn’t even form the questions.

I walked slowly through the crowd that packed the sidewalk and spilled into the street. There were men and women of every age, children as well. Most were dressed in rags and covered from head to foot in the thick dust that clung to everything.

But where—?

India.

The thought came on its own. I was sure—somehow—that I was in the slums of Calcutta. This is where my mother grew up and these were the streets from which the Catholic nuns had rescued her as a child. Had my subconscious brought me here?

I stepped into the street, passing beside two men frozen midstride in front of a rickshaw. How long had they all been like this?

Pausing, I leaned close to see if they were real, but I knew they were. Where the dust had blown or fallen or streaked off, their brown skin was slick with glistening sweat and their hair was damp and matted. The organic smell of life—sweat and dirt mixed with the aromas of warm bread and curry—hit me like a physical slap. As did the acrid odor of human waste, which pooled and caked in the street’s shallow gutters.

Despite the stillness, everything seemed vividly alive and vital. Or perhaps it was that my senses were hypertuned to it all in a new way. It was strange, but I felt no repulsion, no discomfort.

Then: a girl, a beggar with her right hand stretching out to a tangle of people that crowded around her, caught my attention. She was young, maybe no older than seven or eight, and clothed in a dress of filthy, threadbare rags. The child was emaciated and covered in dirt, but still beautiful. The scene reminded me of a photo my mom had shown me once, the only photo of her as a young girl in India.

This was my mother? It had to be a trick of my mind, however real it seemed.

The beautiful singing had been coming from the child. Unlike the others, she was moving. I stood there, watching this girl who had called to the people crowding around her with the voice of an angel.

There was something incredibly different about her. Despite her physical condition, everything about her seemed unusually vibrant. Her eyes locked with mine and she smiled.

“Hello,” she said, a sweet accent giving the word a singsong quality.

Startled, I took a tentative step toward her. “You can talk,” I said.

“Of course I can,” she said with a giggle. “So can you.”

“And you can see me,” I said. Austin was the only one who could see me in the hacks. How was it possible that she could too? The thought brought Austin to mind and I wondered where he was.

“He’s where he’s meant to be, just as you are,” she said, answering my thoughts. “Don’t worry. He’s safe.”

“How . . . ?” I knelt down in front of the girl, coming eye to eye with her.

The child brushed my cheek with her hand. “You’re very pretty. I like your eyes. They’re like mine, very dark.”

“Yes, they are,” I said with a smile. “Thank you.”

There was so much joy in the girl’s face, the kind that everyone wants, but no one ever seems able to find and hang on to. If the world around her was terrible, she seemed not to notice. Maybe she was too young to realize the awfulness of this place.

“You will be my friend, okay?” she said.

“Of course I will.”

“Good, good. I’m glad you come to my beautiful home.” She held my gaze as if she’d answered my thought for me. “So glad. It’s a perfect place for you, yes?”

I was silent. How could she possibly say that? The girl was suffering in a hell on earth. How was that perfect and why would anyone want to be here at all?

The girl took my hand. “You see this?” She swept her free hand through the air. “No need for pity in your eyes. God has abandoned this place, you think. The life is a mistake. Better to forget,” she said, shaking her head. “Better to forget. This is what you think.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “No, I don’t think your life is a mistake.” But I did, and I knew she’d felt it the instant our eyes had met. If there was no barrier between my thoughts and Austin’s in the hack then it was probably true now. With her.

The child’s eyes were soft and gentle. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “We are meant to be born, meant to live—you and me—otherwise we’re not born. Yes?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“Life is a gift. Things not always as they look. Being hungry reminds me to be grateful when I have food. For things to live other things must die. This the way of life. What you see as suffering may be what is needed. All things matter—small things, big things—but we hold only a corner of picture. We think our corner is everything.” She smiled. “It’s only just a corner.” The girl was silent for a long moment and then released my hand. “I’ve waited long time for you.”

“You’ve waited for me?”

She watched me with great interest for several seconds, then her brow furrowed. “You are in great suffering. Great suffering, yes?”

“Suffering? I . . . I don’t know.”

“Questions,” she said. “Many, many questions but they make you suffer very much. They crush you like a stone the size of world. Why, why, why? This is the worst question of all. A very terrible question.”

I was lost in her gaze. They weren’t the eyes of a child, but someone who seemed far older, older than time itself. There was peace in them. It all felt like a dream, the kind that made no sense at all. I didn’t know where I was or why I was there or who this girl was.

“You are desperate,” she said. “I see it. This is true?”

I nodded and replied reflexively: “Yes.”

She looked at me a long time without speaking. Her eyes flicked left to right quickly as though she were reading something that had been written on my face.

Finally she spoke in her gentle, singsong voice. “You believe you have lost so much. So much, but it is not your fault. You think it was, but you’re wrong. All of it had to happen. It’s part of the unfolding. You do not see it yet, but you can if you want.”

“See what?”

“That your corner is just a corner. There’s much more to your beautiful picture.”

A lump worked itself into my throat.

She smiled a knowing smile. “Do not fear what’s coming. It cannot hurt you. Go to your mother. She will teach you all you need to know. She needs you now. Save her, Nyah. Save your mother and you too will be saved.”

“What are you talking about? What’s coming? My mom is going to be okay, right?”

“We all die. All of us,” she said. “But she needs you now. Go to her. The doorway you seek is one thing only—surrender. Only that will set you free and her too.”

“To what? Surrender to what? What’s going to happen?” Desperation made my voice shrill.

The girl leaned forward and took the sides of my head in her hands. Gently, she pulled me close until our foreheads touched. “You are so loved. There is no need to fear. Everything is okay. Everything. Let go,” she whispered. “Let go.”

“Please tell me what you mean.” I felt something within me melt away and tears welled in my eyes. “What’s going to be okay? Just tell me.”

“Let go,” she said again. “Your ashes will be beautiful again.”

The tears came unbidden then. I could barely say it, but I did, “Please, just tell me what’s going to happen to my mom. What did you mean? Is she going to die? I have to know.”

“Do not fear,” she said and pressed her lips to the top of my head, kissing the scar that stretched across it.

When she did a jolt of electricity entered through the top of my head and shot through my body. Warmth ignited at the base of my spine and grew hotter as it climbed upward and into my head. Every inch of my body prickled with electricity as the sensation spread through my arms and chest, then down through my legs.

I gasped for breath, but every draw of air made the sensation in my body swell until it was nearly unbearable—not pain, but pleasure so raw I was sure my skin would catch fire.

I gripped the girl’s arms and held tight. What was happening to me?

Like a wave, the energy churning inside me climbed again, but this time it seemed to draw the energy from the rest of my body. I could feel it drain from the muscle fibers in my legs and chest as it was pulled through my spine and into my throat.

My lips began to burn and tremble. Just as I thought my lungs would burst into flames, I heard myself exhale once. It sounded as loud as the wind itself and the force of it shook my body.

As quickly as it had started, the sound disappeared. The world was once again quiet, and my body was back to normal.

I stared, trembling and wide-eyed, at the beggar girl. The air sizzled as if lightning had struck nearby.

“There,” she said. “So you will see.”

“But how . . .”

“I take it from you. Do not carry it anymore. No more. Let go of your need to carry it. Your scars are not you.” Her eyes went to my head. “Not anymore.”

A shudder ran through me. Slowly, I lifted a hand to my head and touched the place the girl had kissed. I ran my hand over it again, feeling for the deep scar carved into my head. It was gone.

“It’s . . . not possible,” I said. My voice was shaking, my hands trembling. I clenched my eyes tight, feeling the hot tears squeezing through.

“So you say,” the girl said. The world shifted audibly like a film frame clicking into place. Then there was a roar of sound—blaring horns, yelling men, and traffic—as the world around me came to life.

“Go to her,” the girl said, her voice quieter now against the din.

I knelt there, eyes closed, lungs heaving. If the girl could heal me, maybe she could heal my mom. Or Austin. She could heal his tumor.

I said, “Should I bring my mom here . . . and Austin?” I opened my eyes.

The girl had disappeared.

I scanned the crowd, but there was no sign of her. I stood and turned in a complete circle. People shuffled, cars rolled, but the girl had slipped away. I needed to find her, needed to know who she was.

I pushed forward, shuffling through the thick crowd. A few steps into the street I caught a glimpse of her darting away, and I ran after her. The sidewalk and street were swollen with people all streaming toward me. I struggled and pushed for each step.

“Wait!” I yelled, but she didn’t slow.

I dodged a group of women gathered in the middle of the sidewalk and surged forward. The girl was only ten paces ahead of me, slipping through the crowded streets. “Hey!” I said. She didn’t turn, didn’t pause.

“Come back!” My voice cracked with desperation.

The girl stopped and turned around, hands at her sides. She smiled and said something else, but the street noise snatched her words away.

“What?” I called, stumbling closer.

It was then that I noticed the shadows stretching through the streets like long fingers. I peered up at the sky as the sun dimmed. A thick swirl of cast iron clouds swirled low over the city like a monster hurricane.

The hack was ending.

No! Not yet!

The child was only three paces from me now, walking along the crumbling sidewalk. The wind howled. “Wait!” I said. “Who are you? What’s your name?” I grabbed for her, my fingers falling short.