Authors: Tom Clancy,Steve Pieczenik
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Thriller, #Action & Adventure, #Modern fiction, #Adventure, #Terrorists, #Internet
Night Moves (9 page)
His parents were on the way to see him. They'd be here this afternoon, and he wasn't really looking
forward to that. They'd be upset and wanting to take care of him, and he ... he ... uh ... What had he just been thinking?
Another surge of fear washed over him, coating him with another layer of sticky sweat. The physical thing, that was bad, yeah, but they said that would respond to treatment, and in a few weeks, he'd be his old self, could walk, talk, do the funky chicken; but his mind didn't seem to be working right. He kept running his thoughts together into a big hodgepodge, a slip sum and then losing them altogether. That scared the hell out of him. He could interface with VR with a bad arm and leg, hell, with no arms or legs at all, but if his brain didn't... if his brain didn't... Didn't what? He was afraid, and for a moment, he didn't even know why he was afraid, but then it came back. His mind. His brain. His thoughts weren't tracking. It was like trying to do calculus as you were falling asleep. You couldn't concentrate, couldn't keep the train on the track, couldn't... couldn't hold on to it! He had to get to a VR set and get on-line. He had to see if he could still do the most important thing in all the world. It wasn't just his job, it was his life. He couldn't imagine himself without being able to access computers.
He nagged one of the nurses passing through the rec room. He didn't try to talk, that still scared him, too, but he made the two-handed sign for a VR set: forefingers over his eyes, thumbs over his ears. She nodded.
"Sure. Just down that way and to the left. Come on, I'll take you."
He waved her off, then used his good hand to operate the wheelchair's joystick. He would find the computer himself. Plug in, and see what he could do. If he could do anything at all.
Sunday, April 3rdThe Yews, Sussex, England Major Peel leaned back in the chair in front of his desk in an office provided by his lordship in what had once been the groundskeeper's cottage. Three hundred years or so ago, during the Reformation, the cottage-cum-office had been built--as a Catholic church. In those days, with the Church of England cranking up to full steam, it was worth your neck to be caught practicing Catholicism in some parts of the country, so the faithful rich built small sanctuaries behind their manors and secretly gathered with a select few to worship. As long as they were circumspect about it, and as long as the lord of the manor was sufficiently wealthy and well thought of, local officials turned a blind eye to the practice.
The fact that the king wanted a divorce was no reason to give up generations of cherished belief and ritual, snap, just like that.
The window over Peel's desk wasn't stained glass, but it had that triple-hump Father-Son-Holy-Ghost shape inset into the mortared stone, and the desk itself sat upon the spot where once had been an altar. Peel looked at the computer screen, watching the video, and listened to the report from Lieutenant Wilson, one of his best men. Wilson led the team they had covering Bascombcoombs.
forward to that. They'd be upset and wanting to take care of him, and he ... he ... uh ... What had he just been thinking?
Another surge of fear washed over him, coating him with another layer of sticky sweat. The physical thing, that was bad, yeah, but they said that would respond to treatment, and in a few weeks, he'd be his old self, could walk, talk, do the funky chicken; but his mind didn't seem to be working right. He kept running his thoughts together into a big hodgepodge, a slip sum and then losing them altogether. That scared the hell out of him. He could interface with VR with a bad arm and leg, hell, with no arms or legs at all, but if his brain didn't... if his brain didn't... Didn't what? He was afraid, and for a moment, he didn't even know why he was afraid, but then it came back. His mind. His brain. His thoughts weren't tracking. It was like trying to do calculus as you were falling asleep. You couldn't concentrate, couldn't keep the train on the track, couldn't... couldn't hold on to it! He had to get to a VR set and get on-line. He had to see if he could still do the most important thing in all the world. It wasn't just his job, it was his life. He couldn't imagine himself without being able to access computers.
He nagged one of the nurses passing through the rec room. He didn't try to talk, that still scared him, too, but he made the two-handed sign for a VR set: forefingers over his eyes, thumbs over his ears. She nodded.
"Sure. Just down that way and to the left. Come on, I'll take you."
He waved her off, then used his good hand to operate the wheelchair's joystick. He would find the computer himself. Plug in, and see what he could do. If he could do anything at all.
Sunday, April 3rdThe Yews, Sussex, England Major Peel leaned back in the chair in front of his desk in an office provided by his lordship in what had once been the groundskeeper's cottage. Three hundred years or so ago, during the Reformation, the cottage-cum-office had been built--as a Catholic church. In those days, with the Church of England cranking up to full steam, it was worth your neck to be caught practicing Catholicism in some parts of the country, so the faithful rich built small sanctuaries behind their manors and secretly gathered with a select few to worship. As long as they were circumspect about it, and as long as the lord of the manor was sufficiently wealthy and well thought of, local officials turned a blind eye to the practice.
The fact that the king wanted a divorce was no reason to give up generations of cherished belief and ritual, snap, just like that.
The window over Peel's desk wasn't stained glass, but it had that triple-hump Father-Son-Holy-Ghost shape inset into the mortared stone, and the desk itself sat upon the spot where once had been an altar. Peel looked at the computer screen, watching the video, and listened to the report from Lieutenant Wilson, one of his best men. Wilson led the team they had covering Bascombcoombs.
"You're certain he doesn't know he's being observed?"
"Certain, sir. He might be smarter than an auditorium full of dons at Oxford, but he doesn't track very well in the real world. We've stayed away from fiddling with his computer hardware and programs--he does have those rigged with safeguards we don't want to try--but we've got spy cams planted all over his house and office.
There are units in the ceiling over his workstations in his lab and at his home that zero on his keyboard and monitor. He can have the best security in the world in the system, but all we have to do is watch him type or listen to him vox his codes in. And we've also got recordings of everything he sees onscreen." "And this business with the airports is untraceable?" "Yes, sir. Everything this chap does on-line is untraceable. He's rigged some way to overload a virtual reality headset--we don't have a clue how he did that-and he's put several snoopers into the hospital with some kind of stroke." "Really?"
"Yes, sir. There is one small worry we've come across. It seems that MI-6 has contacted the head of the FBI's computer crime unit. Net Force. He's here in London, working with them." "Already? That was fast."
"Apparently he was in town, attending a conference or some such." "Hmm. That bears watching. Keep me posted." "Sir."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing concerned with the project. But there's a small item you might find interesting. You remember Plekhanov?"
"The Russian who was going to take over Asia? Of course." They'd had a nice piece of change doing a little training for one of Plekhanov's groups. "After his capture, there were a few loose ends," Wilson continued. "The most notable of which was the Spetsnaz wet work agent, Ruzhyo." "Ah, yes. Nasty piece of work, that one. Got away, did he?" "Apparently only temporarily, according to what Bascomb-Coombs has learned. It seems they are about to collect Mr. Ruzhyo somewhere out in the American West." "Too bad for him."
"Certain, sir. He might be smarter than an auditorium full of dons at Oxford, but he doesn't track very well in the real world. We've stayed away from fiddling with his computer hardware and programs--he does have those rigged with safeguards we don't want to try--but we've got spy cams planted all over his house and office.
There are units in the ceiling over his workstations in his lab and at his home that zero on his keyboard and monitor. He can have the best security in the world in the system, but all we have to do is watch him type or listen to him vox his codes in. And we've also got recordings of everything he sees onscreen." "And this business with the airports is untraceable?" "Yes, sir. Everything this chap does on-line is untraceable. He's rigged some way to overload a virtual reality headset--we don't have a clue how he did that-and he's put several snoopers into the hospital with some kind of stroke." "Really?"
"Yes, sir. There is one small worry we've come across. It seems that MI-6 has contacted the head of the FBI's computer crime unit. Net Force. He's here in London, working with them." "Already? That was fast."
"Apparently he was in town, attending a conference or some such." "Hmm. That bears watching. Keep me posted." "Sir."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing concerned with the project. But there's a small item you might find interesting. You remember Plekhanov?"
"The Russian who was going to take over Asia? Of course." They'd had a nice piece of change doing a little training for one of Plekhanov's groups. "After his capture, there were a few loose ends," Wilson continued. "The most notable of which was the Spetsnaz wet work agent, Ruzhyo." "Ah, yes. Nasty piece of work, that one. Got away, did he?" "Apparently only temporarily, according to what Bascomb-Coombs has learned. It seems they are about to collect Mr. Ruzhyo somewhere out in the American West." "Too bad for him."
"Just thought you'd find it interesting, sir."
"Yes, well, keep me up to speed on new findings." After he clicked off. Peel looked up at the old window. Interesting developments in all this business. While it was not the regiment, it did have its moments. Indeed it did.
Sunday, April 3rdStonewall Flat, Nevada "All set?" "Yes, sir," Fernandez said.
"Sniper teams in place, ground troops to their positions. The place is surrounded, and the Strike Team is making dust for the trailer now.
Off-road, in case he's got it mined." Fernandez grinned to show he wasn't serious about that pan. The two men stood in their modified SIPESUITS next to the Hummer, parked half a mile back on the main road--the only road--leading to Ruzhyo's Airstream. Howard had his visor up and used his silicone-armored field-grade ten-power Leupold binoculars, sweeping back and forth slowly, looking at the target. "No sign of him. He must not be an early riser." "His problem," Fernandez said.
"Our boys'll be there in a minute, a few flash-bangs, some emetic gas, and Mr. Assassin wakes up half-blind, puking last night's dinner, and in deep feces. You should have let me lead the team, no point in both of us missing all the fun."
"You're about to be a married man with a child, Julio, and if you think I'm going to explain something happening to you to Joanna, forget it.
Better get used to sitting at a desk."
"That'll be the day."
"Sooner than you think. Sergeant."
He looked at the trailer. So far, so good. Ruzhyo was already awake when he heard the sound of the approaching vehicle. He came up, strapped on the belt with the extra shotgun shells, then picked up the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder by the nylon strap. He collected the pistol and the radio control unit, then walked to the window over the sink. He set the Browning down, hooked the control to his belt, and looked out. A squat, squarish, dun-colored truck rolled toward the trailer at a good speed, coming up the slight rise ten meters to the left of the driveway, paralleling it. A cloud of pale dust billowed behind the truck.
"Yes, well, keep me up to speed on new findings." After he clicked off. Peel looked up at the old window. Interesting developments in all this business. While it was not the regiment, it did have its moments. Indeed it did.
Sunday, April 3rdStonewall Flat, Nevada "All set?" "Yes, sir," Fernandez said.
"Sniper teams in place, ground troops to their positions. The place is surrounded, and the Strike Team is making dust for the trailer now.
Off-road, in case he's got it mined." Fernandez grinned to show he wasn't serious about that pan. The two men stood in their modified SIPESUITS next to the Hummer, parked half a mile back on the main road--the only road--leading to Ruzhyo's Airstream. Howard had his visor up and used his silicone-armored field-grade ten-power Leupold binoculars, sweeping back and forth slowly, looking at the target. "No sign of him. He must not be an early riser." "His problem," Fernandez said.
"Our boys'll be there in a minute, a few flash-bangs, some emetic gas, and Mr. Assassin wakes up half-blind, puking last night's dinner, and in deep feces. You should have let me lead the team, no point in both of us missing all the fun."
"You're about to be a married man with a child, Julio, and if you think I'm going to explain something happening to you to Joanna, forget it.
Better get used to sitting at a desk."
"That'll be the day."
"Sooner than you think. Sergeant."
He looked at the trailer. So far, so good. Ruzhyo was already awake when he heard the sound of the approaching vehicle. He came up, strapped on the belt with the extra shotgun shells, then picked up the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder by the nylon strap. He collected the pistol and the radio control unit, then walked to the window over the sink. He set the Browning down, hooked the control to his belt, and looked out. A squat, squarish, dun-colored truck rolled toward the trailer at a good speed, coming up the slight rise ten meters to the left of the driveway, paralleling it. A cloud of pale dust billowed behind the truck.
A military assault? With the driver staying off the road to avoid mines? Smart. If they were military,
they'd probably be wearing light armor, so his guns weren't going to do him much good unless he was very precise with his shooting. Something to keep in mind. He took a couple of deep breaths and let them out, found a glass and ran a little water into it, rinsed his mouth, then spat into the sink.
He put the glass down, stuck the pistol into his belt, and walked to the door. Guests had come to call, and it was time to put out the welcome mat. He pulled the radio control unit from his belt. There were four buttons on the device, each of which controlled a signal made stronger by a booster hidden in the satellite dish installed on top of the trailer. He sighed and pushed the first button.
"What the hell is that?" Howard said.
A circular wall of gray appeared from the ground around the trailer, roiling up into the still-cool morning air. The dark gray cloud obscured the trailer in a matter of seconds. "He's got smoke," Fernandez said unnecessarily into the LO SIR headset built into his helmet. "Slow it down."
The leader of the Strike Team said, "No shit." Howard was aware of the exchange in his own headset, but he was dropping his visor and switching his helmet's viewer to IR.
Not much help; whatever was making the smoke was also making some heat, and he couldn't see through it.
He called up the feed from Big Squint's footprint, but the computer-augmented satellite image didn't show anything inside the ring of smoke, save the trailer. "He's still inside," Howard said.
"So far. Proceed with caution."
"Copy that," the Strike Team leader said. Ruzhyo looked through the window over the door. The smoke bombs had obscured the trailer from view. In another few seconds, they would finish smoking and explode into white hot flares, which ought to confuse any sensor devices pointed at him. He looked at the second button. Nodded to himself. He hadn't killed anybody in a while, but this attack was obviously military in origin, and those men and women hiding at the sniper points would be soldiers and prepared to shoot him dead if so ordered. They knew the risks of combat. And if they did not, they were about to find out.
they'd probably be wearing light armor, so his guns weren't going to do him much good unless he was very precise with his shooting. Something to keep in mind. He took a couple of deep breaths and let them out, found a glass and ran a little water into it, rinsed his mouth, then spat into the sink.
He put the glass down, stuck the pistol into his belt, and walked to the door. Guests had come to call, and it was time to put out the welcome mat. He pulled the radio control unit from his belt. There were four buttons on the device, each of which controlled a signal made stronger by a booster hidden in the satellite dish installed on top of the trailer. He sighed and pushed the first button.
"What the hell is that?" Howard said.
A circular wall of gray appeared from the ground around the trailer, roiling up into the still-cool morning air. The dark gray cloud obscured the trailer in a matter of seconds. "He's got smoke," Fernandez said unnecessarily into the LO SIR headset built into his helmet. "Slow it down."
The leader of the Strike Team said, "No shit." Howard was aware of the exchange in his own headset, but he was dropping his visor and switching his helmet's viewer to IR.
Not much help; whatever was making the smoke was also making some heat, and he couldn't see through it.
He called up the feed from Big Squint's footprint, but the computer-augmented satellite image didn't show anything inside the ring of smoke, save the trailer. "He's still inside," Howard said.
"So far. Proceed with caution."
"Copy that," the Strike Team leader said. Ruzhyo looked through the window over the door. The smoke bombs had obscured the trailer from view. In another few seconds, they would finish smoking and explode into white hot flares, which ought to confuse any sensor devices pointed at him. He looked at the second button. Nodded to himself. He hadn't killed anybody in a while, but this attack was obviously military in origin, and those men and women hiding at the sniper points would be soldiers and prepared to shoot him dead if so ordered. They knew the risks of combat. And if they did not, they were about to find out.
Hidden at nine places where a sniper might conceal himself for a field of fire centered upon the trailer
were twenty-seven antipersonnel units buried in large paper cups turned upside down and covered with a thin layer of sand and soil. These were variants on the old Bouncing Betty; a small compressed-gas charge would pop the cigarette-pack-sized APUS up five or six feet, where a second, stronger charge would explode and blast a handful of steel BBS all around itself in a devastating pattern. An unarmored man standing within a few yards of the APU would be cut down, dead or seriously wounded.
Even with armor, some of the pellets could find a seam or unprotected spot and cause dangerous or even fatal wounds.
He pushed the button.
Howard's LO SIR com came alive with startled yells and screams, overlaid with the sounds of small explosions, both on-line and then, a second or two later, echoing across the terrain. "Report!"
"We got a mine here. Colonel, Spalding is hit and bleeding!" "We got blasted at S2, sir, dusted us pretty good, no injuries!" "Reader is down, her face is a bloody mess!" "John--look."
Howard looked at the smoke, saw bright lights flaring through the haze. What the hell was going on here?
When the first of the smoke bombs burned down to their magnesium pots and flared, Ruzhyo opened the trailer door and stepped out. He had only fifteen yards to travel, but he needed to be in position before his heat sig would be the only one in the area, in case they had sat or high overfly surveillance. He hurried.
The hidey-hole was disguised by a sheet of plywood, lined all around with heat-reflect ives and absorbent dead strip material. He'd glued dirt and brush on top of the board, and once in place, it was virtually invisible and solid enough to walk on. The chamber was only a meter wide by two meters long, but he wasn't planning on staying there that long. In the hole, he squeezed a cold chemlume and got enough light so he could see to power up the battery-operated TV monitor. A camera on top of the trailer-also hidden inside the satellite dish--and a second camera in the garbage dump behind the place gave smoke-shrouded, grainy, but serviceable views of the trailer and the area around it, including his Dodge SUV. The car was loaded with things necessary to make the rest of his plan work. Give it a few more seconds for the smoke to clear.
were twenty-seven antipersonnel units buried in large paper cups turned upside down and covered with a thin layer of sand and soil. These were variants on the old Bouncing Betty; a small compressed-gas charge would pop the cigarette-pack-sized APUS up five or six feet, where a second, stronger charge would explode and blast a handful of steel BBS all around itself in a devastating pattern. An unarmored man standing within a few yards of the APU would be cut down, dead or seriously wounded.
Even with armor, some of the pellets could find a seam or unprotected spot and cause dangerous or even fatal wounds.
He pushed the button.
Howard's LO SIR com came alive with startled yells and screams, overlaid with the sounds of small explosions, both on-line and then, a second or two later, echoing across the terrain. "Report!"
"We got a mine here. Colonel, Spalding is hit and bleeding!" "We got blasted at S2, sir, dusted us pretty good, no injuries!" "Reader is down, her face is a bloody mess!" "John--look."
Howard looked at the smoke, saw bright lights flaring through the haze. What the hell was going on here?
When the first of the smoke bombs burned down to their magnesium pots and flared, Ruzhyo opened the trailer door and stepped out. He had only fifteen yards to travel, but he needed to be in position before his heat sig would be the only one in the area, in case they had sat or high overfly surveillance. He hurried.
The hidey-hole was disguised by a sheet of plywood, lined all around with heat-reflect ives and absorbent dead strip material. He'd glued dirt and brush on top of the board, and once in place, it was virtually invisible and solid enough to walk on. The chamber was only a meter wide by two meters long, but he wasn't planning on staying there that long. In the hole, he squeezed a cold chemlume and got enough light so he could see to power up the battery-operated TV monitor. A camera on top of the trailer-also hidden inside the satellite dish--and a second camera in the garbage dump behind the place gave smoke-shrouded, grainy, but serviceable views of the trailer and the area around it, including his Dodge SUV. The car was loaded with things necessary to make the rest of his plan work. Give it a few more seconds for the smoke to clear.
"Smoke is clearing," came the report over Howard's LO SIR "Proceed with extreme caution," Howard
replied.
"You still want him alive?"
Howard gritted his teeth. He had four wounded--so far--and, according to the medic, two of them hit hard enough they needed to be gotten to a hospital PDQ. The Guard copter was already on the way. "Yes. Alive, if possible. But protect yourselves as necessary. I don't want anybody else going down, understand?
If you have to shoot, you shoot."
"Yes, sir."
Now, Ruzhyo thought. He pressed the third of the four buttons on his control unit. "Heads up!" Fernandez said.
Howard looked. A vehicle zoomed out of the smoke, coming up the road. Ruzhyo's SUV.
"He's running for it!"
The chatter of sub gun fire echoed. Howard brought his binoculars around to frame the fleeing vehicle. He saw pockmarks appear on the metal where the bullets hit. What an idiot! Did he think he could just hop in his car and drive away?
Ruzhyo pushed the final button.
Before Howard could adjust the focus on his binoculars and get a look at the driver, the car blew up. The ground shook where they stood, and the blast wave rolled over them with a noise like the end of the world.
A fireball rose inside a mushroom cloud like a miniature atomic bomb. This wasn't the gas tank going up; the car had been rigged with big explosives. "Holy shit!" Fernandez said.
"What the hell did he have in there?"
When the smoke cleared a bit, there was nothing left of the car except part of the frame and two flaming, smoking tires. More burning debris was scattered for hundreds of meters all around. Howard stared. Jesus Christ! What a fuck up! "Looks like you were right to be worried. Colonel. I stand corrected."
replied.
"You still want him alive?"
Howard gritted his teeth. He had four wounded--so far--and, according to the medic, two of them hit hard enough they needed to be gotten to a hospital PDQ. The Guard copter was already on the way. "Yes. Alive, if possible. But protect yourselves as necessary. I don't want anybody else going down, understand?
If you have to shoot, you shoot."
"Yes, sir."
Now, Ruzhyo thought. He pressed the third of the four buttons on his control unit. "Heads up!" Fernandez said.
Howard looked. A vehicle zoomed out of the smoke, coming up the road. Ruzhyo's SUV.
"He's running for it!"
The chatter of sub gun fire echoed. Howard brought his binoculars around to frame the fleeing vehicle. He saw pockmarks appear on the metal where the bullets hit. What an idiot! Did he think he could just hop in his car and drive away?
Ruzhyo pushed the final button.
Before Howard could adjust the focus on his binoculars and get a look at the driver, the car blew up. The ground shook where they stood, and the blast wave rolled over them with a noise like the end of the world.
A fireball rose inside a mushroom cloud like a miniature atomic bomb. This wasn't the gas tank going up; the car had been rigged with big explosives. "Holy shit!" Fernandez said.
"What the hell did he have in there?"
When the smoke cleared a bit, there was nothing left of the car except part of the frame and two flaming, smoking tires. More burning debris was scattered for hundreds of meters all around. Howard stared. Jesus Christ! What a fuck up! "Looks like you were right to be worried. Colonel. I stand corrected."
Howard just shook his head.
Sunday, April 3rdLhasha, Tibet Jay Gridley sat cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in an orange robe, the smell of patchouli incense heavy in the cool air. The thin reed mat under him did little to stop the cold radiating from the flagstones into his backside, and his shaved head was chilly. Through an open window, he saw snow piled ten feet thick, a blanket that shrouded everything in crisp, glistening white. A wordless vocal chant echoed in the background, a low and pulsing drone, and light inside the massive chamber was provided by hundreds of candles.
At the front of the room, seated in full lotus on a short wooden platform that put him only a few inches higher than the monks, was the head monk, Sojan Rinpoche. The man was also bald, probably seventy, and had smile wrinkles that didn't quit. Gridley could see why, after a few minutes of listening to the guru speak. He smiled a lot. At the moment, the old man was talking about some kind of Buddhist deity: "... in Sanskrit, he is called Yamantaka. In China, they call him Yen-ante-chia. In Tibet, we speak of him as Gshin-rji-gshed.
Everywhere, we know him as He Who Conquers Death, one of the Eight Terrible Ones, the drag-shed, Guardian of the Faith, and patron of the Dgelugs-pa. "He is terrible to behold, this manifestation of Man-jusri bodhisattva. Long ago, during a mighty battle in Tibet, Gshin-rji-gshed took his form to engage and defeat Yama, God of Death. He has nine heads, thirty-four arms, and sixteen feet. He is the Horror to Behold, the Mighty Terror, the Trampler of Demons.
"He is," the old man said, smiling, "not somebody you want to fuck with." Gridley did a mental double take at the last sentence. That seemed weird, coming from a Tibetan holy man. He sighed. This was the old man's scenario--if indeed he was an old man and not somebody faking it-and he didn't much care for it. Too austere. And now that he was here, he didn't really understand why he had come.
What was it that he had hoped to find?
The nurse. The nurse had told him to look this guy up. After he had ripped the VR set off and thrown it on the floor because he hadn't been able to concentrate without losing it. Oh, he could still use VR, but only in a passive, customer sort of way. He couldn't create it. He couldn't manipulate it. He would begin okay, but after a minute or two, he would drift, and the imagery failed.
A computer operative who couldn't run a computer. A VR worker who couldn't work VR. He was screwed.
Sunday, April 3rdLhasha, Tibet Jay Gridley sat cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in an orange robe, the smell of patchouli incense heavy in the cool air. The thin reed mat under him did little to stop the cold radiating from the flagstones into his backside, and his shaved head was chilly. Through an open window, he saw snow piled ten feet thick, a blanket that shrouded everything in crisp, glistening white. A wordless vocal chant echoed in the background, a low and pulsing drone, and light inside the massive chamber was provided by hundreds of candles.
At the front of the room, seated in full lotus on a short wooden platform that put him only a few inches higher than the monks, was the head monk, Sojan Rinpoche. The man was also bald, probably seventy, and had smile wrinkles that didn't quit. Gridley could see why, after a few minutes of listening to the guru speak. He smiled a lot. At the moment, the old man was talking about some kind of Buddhist deity: "... in Sanskrit, he is called Yamantaka. In China, they call him Yen-ante-chia. In Tibet, we speak of him as Gshin-rji-gshed.
Everywhere, we know him as He Who Conquers Death, one of the Eight Terrible Ones, the drag-shed, Guardian of the Faith, and patron of the Dgelugs-pa. "He is terrible to behold, this manifestation of Man-jusri bodhisattva. Long ago, during a mighty battle in Tibet, Gshin-rji-gshed took his form to engage and defeat Yama, God of Death. He has nine heads, thirty-four arms, and sixteen feet. He is the Horror to Behold, the Mighty Terror, the Trampler of Demons.
"He is," the old man said, smiling, "not somebody you want to fuck with." Gridley did a mental double take at the last sentence. That seemed weird, coming from a Tibetan holy man. He sighed. This was the old man's scenario--if indeed he was an old man and not somebody faking it-and he didn't much care for it. Too austere. And now that he was here, he didn't really understand why he had come.
What was it that he had hoped to find?
The nurse. The nurse had told him to look this guy up. After he had ripped the VR set off and thrown it on the floor because he hadn't been able to concentrate without losing it. Oh, he could still use VR, but only in a passive, customer sort of way. He couldn't create it. He couldn't manipulate it. He would begin okay, but after a minute or two, he would drift, and the imagery failed.
A computer operative who couldn't run a computer. A VR worker who couldn't work VR. He was screwed.
Other books
Florence Gordon by Brian Morton
Adé: A Love Story by Walker, Rebecca
Trouble According to Humphrey by Betty G. Birney
Buenos Aires es leyenda 2 by Víctor Coviello Guillermo Barrantes
Fireworks by Riley Clifford
Lies I Told by Michelle Zink
Love Me Always (I Hate You...I Think) by Davis, Anna
Kimberly Nee - The McKenzie Brothers by Playing, Fire
July 1914: Countdown to War by Sean McMeekin
Beauty From Ashes by Eugenia Price