Stones: Theory (Stones #4) (4 page)

“I don’t know why we can’t have elevators.” She leans on the railing, breathing hard. “We made a killing on the Event and the aftermath. Every nation on the planet is buying our radiation cleanup technology. We’ve certainly got the IMUs for it.”

“The answer is simple.” Floating a meter off the floor on a platinum-colored meditation platform, Ryzaard speaks with his back to the group. “Dependence of any form is weakness. The time for weakness is over. And besides, as you seem to have forgotten, elevators are a notorious security risk.” His gaze wanders out the window, coming to rest on the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance.

Elsa drops into a chair on Kalani’s left. “Then move me closer to the top.” She speaks in a whisper that only he hears.

“Life is good.” Kalani gets a big island smile on his face. His head relaxes back into the cradle of his hands. “Just one floor down from the Man.”

Stepping away from his platform, Ryzaard stretches both arms above his head and does a couple of deep side bends.

He turns and walks to the table, taking his place at the usual spot on one end. His eyes sweep its outer edge, resting for a moment on each of the young people, his children. Except for Elsa, they are well-rested and happy to be there.

As always, the twenty-four hour trading cycle is taking its toll on her.

“No tweed jacket?” Kalani speaks without restraint. “New uniform?”

“Our work is changing as we approach the end,” Ryzaard says. “The limits of power fall away as we hold the future of humankind in our hands.” His fingers brush across seven Stones floating above his chest. “It’s a good time for a fresh start.”

Instead of the usual tweed jacket and khaki pants of a professor-archeologist, Ryzaard now sports a shirt and matching pants made from a nitrodinium-carbon underweave with a multi-chromatic nano-tile structure on the surface. Using the resources of his new lab, Jerek developed it during routine materials research. Ryzaard controls its color and texture with his mood, blending in with his surroundings to the point of near invisibility, or blasting out visual stimulation like a neon sign.

Today, it has a shimmering, ethereal look, vaguely metallic.

“Time for reports all around,” Ryzaard says. “It’s been three months since the Event that kick-started our movement. I hope you will all agree that ten million casualties was a small price to pay. I know that was a difficult pill for some of you to swallow. MX Global is extending a helping hand to the millions of survivors. That should more than compensate for any involvement we had in the Event itself. We must all put it firmly behind us and move forward.” He turns to the left and faces Jing-wei. “Please update us on our progress.”

Laying her slate on the table, Jing-wei clears her throat. “We are using a small portion of the funds generated by sales of radiation eradication technology to fund research on new therapies to deal with the radiation sickness that afflicts urban centers targeted by the detonations.”

“A complete waste of money, if you ask me.” Elsa is still out of breath from climbing the stairs.

“But politically necessary in the current environment.” Ryzaard turns back to Jing-wei. “Please continue.”

“The amount we are investing in humanitarian efforts is a small fraction of the profits from the sale of technology to assist governments in the cleanup effort.” Jing-wei steels her jaw and stares at Elsa. “The positive PR we have garnered for MX Global more than justifies the amount spent. In case you haven’t heard, Dr. Ryzaard has been nominated to receive this year’s Nobel Peace Prize because of the company’s quick response to the disaster.”

“A development that is flattering, to be sure.” Ryzaard’s jacket flashes bright red for an instant, and returns to its metallic look. “But one that doesn’t interest me. I’d prefer to avoid the media attention, so I’ve given instructions that the prize is to be awarded to Mr. Miyazawa, which is a good segue into our next topic. The EUSA. Please continue, Jing-wei”

“As I am sure you are all aware, the Earth United Shinto Alliance will erect its last
jinja
shrine in Europe next to Westminster Abbey at a much publicized event to take place later today. Mr. Miyazawa himself will preside, as is customary for events of such prominence. Proper tributes will be made to the victims of the nuclear holocaust. We understand the Archbishop himself will be the guest of honor. With complete coverage of Europe and Russia, EUSA will turn its attention to North America.

Ryzaard nods. “As I understand it, no significant resistance to the spread of Shinto has been documented. Is that still the case?”

“Smooth sailing all the way,” Kalani says. “They can’t build shrines fast enough to keep up with the demand. It’s become an issue. We’ve tried to reason with—”

Jing-wei flashes a glare at Kalani. “Miyazawa insists that all shrines and torii gates be manufactured in Japan by Japanese hands. While the factories there continue to improve efficiency and production rates, it’s clear that we could move more quickly if fabrication were outsourced to West African production facilities. Miyazawa flatly refuses to even consider such a proposal.”

“Which we will respect,” Ryzaard says. A diagonal line of blue ripples across his chest. “At least for the present. We must be careful not to antagonize our Shinto friends. The success of our work depends on it.”

Kalani leans forward. “That’s just the thing.” The white soles of his bare feet rest on the round edge of the table. “We all understand that Shinto is key. It’s been beat into our skulls. But we could work more effectively if we knew exactly
why
it’s so important.”

Ryzaard nods. “I appreciate your frustration. Working with less than complete information is never easy. Please be patient. In this case, it is necessary for your own safety and the success of the entire operation that the final solution be kept confidential, at least for a little while longer.” Shades of green and blue move in slow horizontal lines up and down Ryzaard’s body.

“Our safety?” Elsa eyes are framed in thickly arched eyebrows. “I don’t understand.”

“That is entirely intentional.” Ryzaard says.

Elsa’s face flushes red, a stark contrast with her blonde hair and pale skin. “Do you have any idea the massive quantity of IMUs we are pouring into the Shinto project each day? There are no limits to the money they demand.” Elsa casts a side glance at Jing-wei. “There’s barely enough left over to pay the rent and power bills, let alone the meager salaries we draw.”

Ryzaard’s suit changes to rotating diamonds of red. “If I’m not mistaken, your monthly salary alone amounts to more than the annual salary of the chairman of JP Goldman. Isn’t that correct?”

Elsa says nothing.

“Based on our latest models, Shinto will achieve 95% penetration in major metropolitan populations in approximately four months.” Jing-wei ignores Elsa and stares at Ryzaard. “The last 5% will take another six months, but the production costs and drain on our financial resources will go down substantially.”

Jerek leans forward and faces Jing-wei. “Is Miyazawa aware of the timetable?” His fingers dance across the surface of a slate. “He’s currently employing 10% of the Japanese population in his factories and training facilities. What happens when there are no more shrines to build? Massive unemployment? Social unrest?”

“I’ve modeled the problem and found the answer.” Diego says. “Convert workers to Shinto priests as production falls away. With normal maintenance and the need to replace shrines every seven years, the industry will stabilize and be self-sustaining at a rate roughly equal to 21% of current levels.”

“I appreciate the analysis, but it’s a non-issue. Just keep Miyazawa happy until full coverage is achieved.” Ryzaard strikes a match to the Djarum black dangling from his lips and takes an extended inhale, filling his lungs with the dark smoke. “In the long run, all these petty little problems will fall away.” His gaze jumps across the table to Elsa. “I’ve seen the latest financials. You’ve found new markets to crack. I’m sure we’d all like to hear about it.”

The general rage at the world fades from Elsa’s face. As the conversation turns to money, she sits up and cracks a smile.

“Even before the Event, we had reached a tipping point where we could no longer efficiently exploit the market. We had
become
the market. After the Event, we passed that point.” Elsa’s hand drifts down to the table. A 3D holo of graphs jumps out of its crystalline surface. “Stock, bonds, commodities, derivatives, hedge funds, exotic insurance instruments, hard money funds, and a few dozen more financial hybrids were all maxed out. As you can see, returns were beginning to plateau. We needed a new approach.”

Elsa waits in silence for the appropriate prompt to stroke her ego and push her to tell more of the story.

As if on cue, Ryzaard supplies the attention she craves. “Tell us where your financial wizardry took you. We’re all anxious to hear.”

“I tried to think of untapped markets, any area where latent inefficiencies might allow an agent with superior information to extract
rent
from the other market participants.” She enjoys the stares of five blank faces around the table. “
Rent
is a technical term referring to—”

“Enough!” Kalani explodes. “Just tell us, you pompous bitch.”

Snickers float around the table.

“Large financial markets are no longer an area of viable growth.” Elsa leans back and smiles. “Micro markets, with their latent information scarcity, are the new trading frontier.”

“Meaning what?” Jing-wei says.

“In essence, gambling,” Elsa says.

Jerek arches his eyebrows. “I thought we were already doing that.”

“You’re referring to sports-related betting, which is a well-established market.” Elsa folds her arms, clearly enjoying the game of hiding the ball. “It’s all a very old, traditional market, and we use proxies to do as much as we can without drawing undue attention. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“OK,” Kalani says. “We understand. You’re so much smarter than all of us.” The fingers of his left hand shoot out, grabbing a handful of her blonde hair, and pull her head back, exposing an exquisite ivory neck. With his right hand, he whips a long knife out of his pants and lays the sharp end of the blade against her skin. “My ancestors ate people like you.” He grits his teeth, a wild look in his eyes. “Now, will you tell us?”

Elsa calmly arches her back and slams the heel of her foot into Kalani’s gut, dropping the blade and him to the floor, doubled over in pain.

“We call it micro-betting.” She leans back with her arms behind her head, clearly enjoying the attention. “Diego knows. We’ve been working together on this project. Our offshore casino has a nominal address on Pitcairn Island, so it’s completely unregulated. We take bets on anything that can’t be manipulated and controlled by the bettor. The algorithm combs the Mesh for a few related data points. Five is usually enough. The data goes through an algorithm connected to the Stones. It spits out the next data point, the one that hasn’t happened yet. We offer better odds that anyone else, because we already know the outcome. It helps to know the future.”

“Still don’t get it,” Jerek says.

“I do sympathize,” Elsa says. “I know it’s difficult to wrap your mind around this if you’re limited by the laws of physics, so let me give you an example.” A holo screen sticks up out of the table like the dorsal fin of a shark. “People love to bet. It’s universal. Everyone thinks they’re an expert on something. Like the weather. How much would you be willing to bet that a butterfly will land on a particular branch on a particular tree in front of your apartment window or that it’ll rain in Manhattan between 3:00 PM and 3:15 PM, stop and start raining again between 5:00 PM and 5:15 PM tomorrow, or a year from tomorrow?”

Kalani looks up from the floor, still holding his belly. “You can’t know the answer to that. It’s totally random.”

“
We
don’t know the answer, but the Stones do. Five data points is all we need.” Another graph appears above the table. “We’ve run the numbers. It works.”

“I like it.” Ryzaard blows smoke in the air. It spirals up to a vent in the ceiling. “We get the whole population even more addicted to gambling and instant gratification, more entrenched in their bondage. More prepared for the day of liberation.”

He notices the exchange of glances between Jing-wei and Kalani.

It looks like they have cooked up something even bigger.

F
rom his vantage point in his white ornamental heli-transport, Miyazawa looks down through a transparent spot on the floor on the massive blue roof of the Collegiate Church of St. Peter at Westminster, freshly painted in the form of a perfect cross. From above, the roof appears to float in a sea of worshipers dressed in white and gathered on three sides of the structure. Only an open area directly in front of the western façade has been roped off and reserved for Miyazawa and his entourage.

“It’s been here for over a thousand years. The holy of holies. The burial place of English monarchs and notables.” The aide to his right speaks in the crystal silence of the interior. “To have secured rights to the land opposite the western side for a torii gate and a
jinja
shrine is unprecedented. Extraordinary beyond measure.”