Stones (Data) (36 page)

On the way down, his vision sweeps past a woman sitting in a chair by the window. For an instant, her eyes lock with his before he hears the sound of his head hitting the floor. There is a look of horror mixed with confusion in her eyes. A fleeting thought crosses his mind before blackness flows in and overwhelms it.

Jessica.

T
he half-lit neon sign out front tells Kent everything he needs to know. He has found a no-name motel in a no-name town in rural Indiana, just the sort of place where you can stay the night without attracting attention. He is glad there are still a few places like this left in America.

Small-town people, small-town values.

Guiding the Chikara into the parking lot, he passes the office where a pudgy night attendant with sandy hair is hunkered down behind the counter, a can of beer tilted to his lips. He puts the can down, walks to the glass door and stares at the old truck as Kent smiles and glides past.

It isn’t hard to find an empty slot to park.

“Haven’t seen one of those old trucks for a long time.” The night attendant smirks as Kent pulls open the door. A little cowbell clanks against the glass.

Kent slaps a piece of colorful currency on the counter.

The night attendant holds the green and blue paper up to the light to see the watermark and stares into the face of Benjamin Franklin. “No one pays with paper anymore.” Trickles of sweat run down his neck past a thin gold chain onto a damp wife beater.

“Just criminals and runaways, right?” Kent shoots back a steely smile. “Don’t worry. You can take it to the bank. It’s still legal tender, for a little while longer.” He notices the wrinkle-free hands and guesses the young man to be about twenty-two years old. About the same age as Matt. Something strikes him as odd. Where is the ubiquitous jax and holo screen a twenty-two year old would normally have glued to his hand?

“For three more months, to be exact.” The attendant lays a keycard on the counter. “I don’t have any change. But I do have this.” He reaches behind into a small refrigerator, pulls out a can of Coors beer and puts it up on the counter next to the keycard. “Where you headed?”

“East. Trying to stay out of trouble.” Kent scoops up the keycard and motions toward the beer can. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass. Been sober too long to go back.” He grins and walks out the glass door as the cowbell clanks again.

The lukewarm shower and the smell of cheap motel soap bring back memories of that cross-country trip he took with his dad when he was a kid. Back when the world was simple, stable, predictable. He lingers until the heat slowly drains out of the water and it turns room temperature. Eyes closed, he relishes the rush of nostalgia and hears his dad’s gruff voice play in his mind like an old phonograph.

They make the soap smell like this so you won’t use it.

Kent laughs to himself, and it sounds just like his dad. He wonders if Matt has any memories that play in his mind the same way. He hopes the answer is yes, but he’s not sure.

After the shower, he sits on the edge of the bed in his underwear, still running that old cross-country trip through his mind and emotions. He is ready to slip under the covers for a good, long sleep.

There is a soft knock at the door.

He glances quickly at the slate lying out on the table and wishes he had put it away. Easing onto his feet, he stands up and walks to the peep-hole in the door. It’s the night attendant he met at check-in. The guy is standing there with another Coors in his hand.

Kent quickly pulls on some pants and opens the door. “Is there a problem?”

The young man looks up at Kent. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but you’ve come from the freedom camps, haven’t you?”

Kent quickly scans the man for weapons. It would be hard to hide anything under that thin shirt. The pants aren’t much thicker, and he doesn’t look like the violent type anyway. But you never know.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, I couldn’t help but notice when you pulled into the parking lot.”

“Notice what?”

“Your truck, the Chikara. Nice. My dad had one just like it when I was a kid.”

“What about it?” Kent was thinking about that long sleep waiting for him just a few feet away.

“Well, it has the sign.” The young man scratches his back and looks up at Kent.

“Sign?” Kent wrinkles his forehead. “What sign?”

The young man motions back to Kent’s truck in the parking lot with his chin. “You know, the sign of the freedom camps.”

“I drove through a couple of them, but I don’t think there’s anything on the truck.”

“Well, it’s not exactly on the truck. More like coming from the truck.”

Another few seconds of this and Kent is going to slam the door shut.

“My young friend,” he says. “It’s late, and I’m tired. What are you trying to tell me?

“Your motor-tone.” The young man took a drink from the can. “It’s got a freedom camp theme. Somebody must have downloaded it onto your car-com.”

Kent cranes his neck to look at the Chikara. “Funny, I didn’t notice anything different about the motor-tone. Whale calls and electric shavers. Nice mix.” He yawns and looks back at the bed waiting for him.

“Yeah, but it’s also got an old American Indian chant on a sub-channel. Some sort of high-frequency ultra-sonic stuff. I noticed it half a minute before you pulled in. I guess old guys can’t hear it.” The young man takes a drink of beer, brings his arm up and wipes his mouth with a hairy bicep. “No offense.”

“Interesting,” Kent mutters to himself.

“So, I got to ask you. Are you the one they’re talking about?” The young man leans forward and looks up into Kent’s eyes. “The one who’s going to pick a fight with The Complex?”

M
att slowly opens his eyes to see a blurred pattern of white octagons and blue diamonds.

Professor Yamamoto’s office.

With effort, he raises his gaze from the floor to look up. There is a pool of warm saliva that has run out of his mouth. Painful little prickles, like bee-stings, stab him from the inside in a thousand places on his neck, face and eyes. He tries to bring his hands up and push himself over, but discovers neither of his arms will move. They feel like heavy slabs of concrete running down his sides. The legs are the same, with no feeling in either one of them.

He’s lying on the floor like a beached whale.

“Your muscles are taking a bit of a rest. Tetrodotoxin.” A male voice behind him speaks. “Extracted from the blue-ringed octopus. Nasty little creatures. Fortunately, they only fight back when provoked.”

Matt remembers that he saw Jessica. “Where is she?” He yells between clenched teeth. With his head balanced precariously above the floor, he struggles to focus his eyes forward trying to get a fix on his position. Multiple-colored rectangles hang in the air. After several seconds of staring, he realizes it’s the bookshelf at the far end of Yamamoto’s office, and he’s facing it with his back to the door. The spine of the book directly in front of his eyes slowing resolves itself.
Aristotle’s Metaphysics.
There is a gap next to it where
The Complete Works of Shakespeare
should be.

“Are you referring to Jessica?”

It’s the same voice, one with a vaguely European accent, difficult to place.

“Who are you?” Anger mixes with panic, and the anger is quickly taking over. “What do you want?” He yells through a clenched jaw.

“So many questions, my young friend. You need to slow down and focus on what is going on around you.”

Footsteps approach him from behind and foul breath rains down. Two strong hands grab his shoulders, pull him off the floor and stuff him into a chair. Another set of hands throws a strap around his midsection and lashes him into place. He senses his ankles are being tied to the legs of the chair. Together, they swing him and the chair around so he’s facing the door. Sitting upright.

The jarring movements feel like someone is twisting his optic nerves into a knot. Sharp prickles stab the inside of his eyeball without mercy as he tries to focus his vision.

The game of
Igo
lies in disarray on the table with black and white pieces scattered on the floor. Matt’s jax is next to the
goban
board. The same two Yakuza thugs from his dorm room stand by the door, their faces made of stone and arms folded across their chests.

A tall man with silver hair in a tweed jacket and bowtie stands in the center of the room next to the table, a sympathetic smile on his face.

That face.

Matt stares in disbelief. He recognizes the features.

And then it hits him. His mind goes back to the dream.

Massive dark apes chase him through the jungle and across the wheat field. His back is against the dead trunk of the oak tree. The leading ape lunges and bares its fangs. Their eyes meet just before the dream ends.

The same face is now peering down at him, only younger, less wrinkled and hideous.

“Let me begin by answering your first question.” The man in the tweed jacket points in the direction of the window.

Matt moves his eyes to the right toward the light.

It’s Jessica, sitting limply, tied to a chair, her chin on her chest, face looking down at the floor, expressionless. Matt squints hard to see more clearly. Her eyes are closed.

He grits his teeth and strains against the cords, but his body feels like a dead sack of rocks. “What the hell have you done to her?” His chest heaves up and down as he struggles in vain to move. Arms and legs are useless.

As his eyes drift down, Matt can see a man in a blue suit, crumpled on the floor at Jessica’s feet, arms tied behind his back, eyes closed, a puffy red cheek flat against the blue and white tiles. There’s a bloody pool on the floor around his mouth. Professor Yamamoto’s black-rimmed glasses lay shattered next to his face.

“The real question, my friend, is not what I have done to her, but what are you going to do
for
her.” The tall man with the silver hair takes a drag on a black cigarette and walks closer.

Matt stares up. “What do you want?” He tries to calm himself by focusing on his breath, pulling it in, holding it, pushing it out, ignoring the stings and stabs that fight for attention, searching his mind for the image of his mother at the beach. With effort, he finds a hazy version of her face looking down at him, the sound of waves in the background. The image starts to fade. He pulls it back, fighting to enhance it, eyes closed to shut out all the distractions. The irritating pain is receding.

The man leans closer and whispers. “You have something that belongs to me.”

“Why is she here? She’s done nothing.” The words jump out of Matt’s mouth, erasing the image of his mother. Splinters of pain renew their attack, stronger than before. He turns to look at Jessica, yearning to reach out, embrace her, hold her close, protect her.

“You are right. She has done nothing. And I know how important she is to you. You will be able to help her by listening to me.” Ryzaard stops in front of Matt. Pity fills his eyes. “First, let me help you.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small silver tube and presses one end with his thumb. There’s a metallic click, and then the sound of releasing pressure followed by a long thick needle sliding out the other end of the tube. “I apologize for the effects of the tetrodotoxin.” The man motions with his eyes to the Yakuza thugs standing by the door. “They play too rough. I don’t always agree with their methods.” He puts a warm hand on Matt’s cheek and brings his other hand close in to Matt’s neck. “This will help.”

As the needle slides under his skin, Matt hears a hissing sound, feels a painful pressure, and then tastes vinegar in his mouth. Slowly, the piercing nodes of pain begin to soften their grip.

Matt looks down. “What about my arms and legs?”

“The anti-toxin will take a few minutes to work.” Ryzaard takes a step back, as if appraising a painting. “Just relax and let it do its job.”

“Tell me what’s going on.” As Matt speaks, his chest begins to tighten, as if it is about to explode. “What do you want from us?” He wants to lash out at Ryzaard, but instead he slows his breaths and fights to tamp down the emotion. If he’s going to unleash it, now is not the right time, not when he’s under the control of a madman.