Chapter 1
Rivulets of light rain meandered down the thick bullet proof glass of the spacious unlit office. The masked intruder dressed in black from head to toe sat at a large desk, proficiently double-thumbing commands on a handheld device he had hard-wired into the corporate network. The room was completely dark except for the light of the computer monitor, the faint glow of streetlights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, and occasional distant flashes of lightning. The red numbers of an elaborate and expensive digital desk clock glowed 3:58 AM.
With a final touch of a button the device indicated it had begun downloading data and the figure sat quietly, completely still, listening to the irregular staccato beats of raindrops on the windows and feeling the warmth of his breath each time he exhaled against the mask he wore. The large room was cold, the temperature in harmony with the glass and chrome décor which characterized the austere and clinical feel so common to Fullerton Global Resources offices around the world.
He waited.
On the other side of the sprawling FGR campus, inside a large windowless server room which resembled a small NASA control center, IT data analyst Rick Garcia noticed the blinking red light in the corner of one of his monitors. It indicated a sudden drop in CPU utilization for the 3D modeling process he was running. FGR crunched so much data daily it required a staff of IT people working around the clock, 365 days a year, to make sure no time was wasted. Standard operating procedure was the engineer who requested the modeling before leaving work yesterday would arrive in the morning and find his data ready to use.
Rick frowned at the screen. It showed an overall 7% drop in the processing power his applications were using. He peered around the room, at the tiered rows of workstations all facing a large central screen, suspecting one of his colleagues of stealing his processors as a practical joke. Everyone here was extremely competitive, all working towards the coveted, if unofficial distinction, of being able to crunch the most data in the least amount of time. This meant finding creative and unorthodox ways of stealing someone else’s processors for a temporary boost in computing power not unheard of, at least until the victim noticed. They were, after all, computer geeks, and proud of it.
A glance at the big screen in front, which showed individual real-time processing efficiency by operator, indicated no sudden spikes in processing speed by any of his co-workers, which deepened the mystery as to why his programs were slowing down. He entered a few quick commands on his keyboard and pinged his processors. All of them responded normally except eight processors on Server 32, which showed only 52% of their capacity was devoted to him. Forty-eight percent was running a process originating from user “admin.”
Rick glanced over his shoulder, up the rows of workstations to the central, glass-enclosed office to see if the night supervisor, Mr. Cassner, was there. Cassner was standing in front of his desk, as he normally did, which provided him a bird’s eye view of the entire room. When Rick was recruited by FGR eight months ago, it didn’t take him very long to figure out many of the mid-level managers were ex-military. Cassner was definitely one of these. He always stood ramrod straight, engaged in no small talk, and his sentences were always short and clipped, with no wasted words. Most of the staff were intimidated by him, although Cecilia from human resources once mentioned she thought Cassner was cute one night during drinks at an after-work bar. Rick thought she was nuts. How could any adult with a flat-top be cute? He picked up the phone.
“Mr. Cassner, Rick.” He had learned early on this was how Cassner preferred everyone to start a conversation with him when calling. He wanted no wasted time with “Hi,” or “How are you?” or “Hey, did you just get a haircut?”
He continued, “Sir, I’m showing a 7% drop in speed due to 48% utilization on my Server 32 processors by another user, “admin.” Can you help confirm who’s stealing my power?” Cassner replied with a curt, “Stand by.”
Rick watched as Cassner leaned over his terminal, typing commands on his keyboard. Cassner had the access to track down where each process originated, and who the user was. Abruptly, Cassner jabbed a button on his desktop phone, switching to a different line, and started speaking animatedly into his headset, looking like he was yelling. The glass-enclosed room was soundproof, so Rick couldn’t actually hear what Cassner was saying. Oh shit, looks like something’s up, he thought.
The line in the security room buzzed. “Security, Sergeant Jones.”
“This is Cassner, ID 673020. I’ve tracked a process request originating from a terminal in Building 5, corporate level. Please advise if there are any authorized employees currently present on that level.”
“Stand by. No, sir, we show the last employee exiting at 22:41. No recorded entry since then.”
“Sergeant, send a security team to investigate Building 5 corporate level immediately for possible intruder. This is not a drill. Repeat, not a drill!”
“Yes, sir!”
FGR did not entrust its security to untrained, minimum-wage guards provided by some third-party vendor. Security team members were in-house, employed directly by FGR, and all were weapons trained and qualified. Weapons included not just handguns, but assault rifles and all manner of other special equipment more befitting any given city’s SWAT team than a corporate security force. Every member was ex-special forces from some country’s military. Within minutes a six-man unit was pounding up the stairwell in Building 5. The flak-jacketed and helmeted group paused outside the door to the corporate level. The sergeant looked at his men and nodded. They nodded back. Quietly he tapped his access card on the door reader and opened it. The security team walked single-file down the faintly lit office hallway, with the brisk, bent-knee lock-step of a well-trained tactical team, each man with his weapon pointed in the opposite direction from the man before him, covering both left and right sides.
All the offices on this floor had glass walls facing the hallway, so the line of armed men proceeded quickly down the corridor without pause, red laser-sight beams casting reflections crazily in all directions as they pointed weapons into the empty offices looking for intruders. The two in front harshly whispered a muted, “Clear!” as they passed each office on their respective sides. The only office which did not have glass walls and could not be viewed from the hallway was the large suite at the end of the corridor, the office of Caesar Fullerton, Chairman and CEO of FGR.
The six men spread out and trained their assault rifles on the solid, polished pecan-wood double-doors leading into the suite and stopped. But just as the sergeant prepared to order his men to enter, and before he could do so, the door exploded outward towards them.
A thousand pieces of wood and other shrapnel hit the security team as a black-clad figure followed the flying shards and dove into the group of men. Only a few shots were fired before the well-trained team stopped, because as soon as the intruder was among them, they could not risk firing for fear of hitting each other. With their vision impaired from the muzzle flashes, few of the men could later accurately describe what happened. All were pushed, punched or kicked as the intruder raced past them towards the stairwell at the end of the hall, and the only thing the sergeant could do was scream into his two-way radio, “Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Dressed in black, exiting Building 5! All security personnel intercept! Extreme prejudice, extreme prejudice!”
In the black hours just before dawn the FGR complex erupted into chaos. Sirens wailed and intermittent flashes of gunfire lit the low-hanging clouds of the approaching thunderstorm. From a bird’s eye view, as each individual security team encountered the intruder, the groups of muzzle flashes formed a straight line leading downhill toward one side of the large circular wall which enclosed the facility.
***
Detective Frank “Ace” Wazowski pointed up the hill from the passenger seat of his unmarked police cruiser.
“What the hell was that?” he exclaimed. Wazowski and his partner, John Welburn, were headed back to the precinct after taking a home invasion call earlier in the night. Driving in their Crown Victoria past the FGR campus which overlooked the city, they could see what looked like muzzle flashes and heard faint sirens disturbing the night.
Wazowski and Welburn had been working together since Wazowski made detective four years ago. Considered to be a young, upcoming star rising quickly from patrolman, and twice decorated since making detective, Wazowski was seen as an aggressive, level-headed and outstanding police, to be counted upon in any situation. Nicknamed “Ace” because of an epic, all night poker game from his street cop days, with the final pot being won with an “Ace” in the hole, Wazowski was well-liked by the rank-and-file on the force, who saw him as a cop’s cop. Welburn was a grizzled veteran of 30 years, heavy-set and whose hair had become more accurately described as white than gray. The two men shared a close bond, with Wazowski being more or less an unofficial adoptee of Welburn’s family, attending every Sunday barbecue, and adored by Welburn’s kids.
“That, looks like a goddamn firefight,” remarked Welburn, calm and unflappable as ever. “We should call it in.” Wazowski picked up the radio as Welburn gunned the engine and sped up on the damp road, windshield wipers clearing the light rain as they headed closer towards the FGR campus. Further along, Welburn knew, was an access gate in the twelve-foot-high retaining wall that surrounded the company property, and a possible entry point for them. Most retaining walls were built to prevent rock and earth from sliding downhill, but this one was built several feet higher than ground level, with the obvious purpose of keeping people out as much as keeping the ground in. Looking to his left and up the hill, the muzzle flashes could be seen just above the top edge of the wall.
Suddenly, a ten-foot wide stretch of FGR’s wall approximately fifty yards ahead of them shattered, and both Welburn and Wazowski later privately agreed what happened during the following few seconds just somehow seemed off, like when what you see doesn’t match what you expect to hear. First, there was no sound of an explosion. A hole appearing in a wall that size could only logically be caused by explosives. This was more like a freight train running through the wall, but with no freight train. The entire event seemed eerily quiet, like watching a silent movie. Second, what looked to be a human form crashed through the wall just behind the wavefront of debris. The figure hit the ground running and crossed the road in front of them from left to right before disappearing downhill into the dense underbrush. The human form seemed to be glowing – not an intensely bright glow like from a light bulb, but just a faint outline of a glow that seemed to surround the entire figure. It became more visible as it moved away from the streetlights and just before entering the darkness of the vegetation on the other side of the roadway.
“Gun it! We’ll catch him downhill!” yelled Wazowski, not completely sure if what they were trying to catch was really a him, or a person, for that matter. The road they were on meandered back and forth as it made its way downhill, so if they drove quickly enough, they should be able to cut off whatever was heading down through the thick underbrush before it reached the next section of road. The engine roared as Welburn took the police cruiser through the hair pin turn and raced for the point below where their quarry should appear. But before they got there, they saw the figure dart across the road and into the underbrush again on the other side.
“That’s impossible!” Welburn yelled. “Nobody can get through there that fast!” Welburn stepped on the pedal again and raced through the next turn, coming back around just in time to see the human shape crossing the road in front of them yet again, but closer this time. Somehow this guy was running through bushes, small trees, downhill over rocks and boulders, in the dark, faster than they could drive!
“We got two more turns before we hit Chinatown!” Wazowski yelled above the engine noise while bracing himself with one hand on the dash and the other on the ceiling of the Crown Vic. Old Chinatown was at the base of the hill. It was called old, because a newer Chinatown had been built five years ago farther away from downtown. Old Chinatown was still there, though much seedier and run-down than its younger sister. At this time of night, the stores were almost all closed, except for the infamous Food Street, a section of open-air small restaurants, stalls and carts, selling all kinds of mysterious Asian food, usually unidentifiable to the Western eye, accompanied by equally foreign and sometimes repellant smells. Lit by neon and red lanterns, it was a favorite congregation spot for hungry late night Asian party goers and gang members.
Welburn and Wazowski went through two more turns at maximum speed on the wet road, each time glimpsing what appeared to be the same figure disappearing into the bushes on the downhill side of the road. As they reached the bottom of the hill, slowing down and driving parallel to Food Street, both kept a sharp eye out for where their quarry could have gone.
“There!” shouted Wazowski. At the entrance to one of the back alleys leading to Food Street, a dumpster stood askew, partially blocking the alley, and still slowly rolling, like something large had knocked into it while going past. Two cars farther in the alleyway had their lights flashing and alarms blaring, as if protesting some indignity recently suffered. Welburn screeched to a halt, the car sliding sideways a few feet and immediately Wazowski was out the door and running down the alley, drawing his weapon and racking a bullet into the chamber at the same time, the action sending the small flashlight he normally carried in his coat pocket skittering away across the pavement and into the shadows. He ignored the wayward flashlight, not wanting to take the time to find it. Welburn, he knew, would be calling in to police dispatch to give them an update on what was happening and ask for backup.
Running as quickly as he could with his weapon held in both hands stiffly pointed down and to the side, Wazowski short-stepped carefully to keep his footing on the wet and oily pavement, which reflected a glowing smear of neon lights from the street ahead as he reached the end of the alley and looked onto Food Street. There was no mistaking which way should go, since a clear path of knocked-over tables, strewn chairs, and angry patrons standing and yelling stretched to his right. He thought he caught a glimpse of someone in dark-colored clothing disappearing around a corner. He ran.
People yelled at him in Chinese as he raced past them, trying hard to not run over patrons all looking in the direction he was running, which meant they didn’t see him coming. Somewhere, a woman screamed, probably because of the drawn weapon in his hand. “Police! Police!” Wazowski bellowed, hoping it would clear the way for him, and stop anyone from shooting him in the meantime. There was no doubt in his mind there were quite a few young gang members in the crowd packing iron. He turned the corner, onto a street of darkened and closed shops, and saw an Asian woman sitting on the ground, legs sprawled under a short red skirt as a man tried to help her up.
“Which way, which way!” Wazowski yelled at the man, who mutely pointed down another side alley. Wazowski quickly but cautiously rounded the corner and proceeded down its length, hugging the wall. The strong smell of garbage assaulted his nose, and he furrowed his brows against the steadily heavier rain growing with intensity with each passing second, drowning out most other sounds. A sharp bang echoed down the alleyway on the right, and Wazowski began sprinting in that direction, discovering an emergency exit door to the building half open. Peering in, the door seemed to lead into a large, warehouse-type space, dimly lit by streetlights coming in through windows high and close to the ceiling, filled with clutter and disorganized boxes of kitchen equipment. Restaurant supply store, he thought, and he could see another open doorway approximately thirty feet inside. Suddenly, a flash of lighting split the night sky, immediately followed by an impossibly loud crack of thunder. The strike must have been almost directly above the building and hit a transformer, because the power in the area cut out immediately and the entire structure plunged into darkness. In that second, as the lights went out, Wazowski saw the silhouette of a large, fit man framed in an inner doorway, with his back towards him. The crazy part was the figure seemed outlined by a low-intensity light, clearly visible in the pitch-black building, like some kid had taken a magic glow-in-the-dark crayon and traced his way around the normal shape of a man.
By the time the image registered and while his brain struggled to interpret and identify what he was seeing, the outline winked out, leaving nothing but complete and total blackness. Wazowski stood outside the door pumped up on adrenalin, every part of his body screaming to jump through the doorway after whatever the hell he was chasing. Twice he false-started through the door but stopped, knowing going in was pure folly, as he had no flashlight, no way to see, and no way to navigate the boxes, crates and other items he had briefly seen inside before the power had gone out. From somewhere deep inside the building, faint enough to be on the complete opposite side of the structure, he heard a sharp bang, which most likely signaled his quarry exiting the building on the opposite side from where he stood. Wazowski loudly cursed his frustration at the night sky, standing in the now heavy rain, wondering what in god’s name he had just seen that night.
Rick Garcia sat with his back to his computer monitor staring up, along with most of his co-workers, at Cassner, who had been constantly pacing and shouting on the phone for the last half hour since Rick had first informed him about his wayward processors. “Dude,” whispered one of his colleagues as he leaned in closer to Rick, “What did you do?”
Chapter 2
The gong summoned the gray-robed acolytes into the temple’s largest practice chamber. Completely windowless, it was lit by lanterns and torches that gave off a rich, orange-yellow light and caused shadows to constantly flicker and move on the rough-hewn stone walls. Each acolyte entered and spread out until they were evenly spaced in a grid pattern throughout the chamber, some fifty of them in all. All showed the calm confidence of those who were about to do something done many times before, although today was a special day, thought Chandi. Today the cohort would be initiated into the next level of enlightenment, marking the end of their time as acolytes and beginning their induction as protector-learners, or simply learners, as they were more commonly called, each training in the hopes of one day attaining the status of protector, if found worthy. As acolytes, none of them knew exactly what was expected of a protector, although all the protectors Chandi had ever seen or met, such as her teachers, emanated powerful auras of strength and capability. Today, she and her cohort would shed their gray robes and don the yellow robes of learners. Fully-fledged protectors wore deep orange robes while in the temple, and Chandi wondered if she too, would one day earn the right to wear them.
A second tone of the gong signaled the start of the morning martial arts session, their final one as acolytes. In unison, the cohort began their practice forms, the same way they started each and every day. Precise, powerful, each movement an acolyte made was identical to any other of his brothers and sisters. Punches, kicks, blocks were all executed with precisely the same angle, every movement beginning and ending at the same moment. If one were to ignore the individualistic features of each acolyte, such as height, hair both fair and dark, or the myriad of skin coloring, the effect was the same as if one person performed the moves surrounded by mirrors.
Chandi went through the motions of the form without conscious thought. She had done them so many times it did not require her full attention to perform them with complete accuracy. Totally relaxed, she reflected on the fifteen years that had passed since she was brought to the temple as a child of ten years old. She had known all the brothers and sisters in the chamber with her now since the very beginning. However, only a handful of them had begun their training the same time as she, and the rest were all older by varying degrees. There was no one in the chamber with her that had arrived at the temple after she began her training, meaning of all the acolytes in the temple, she was considered among the fastest to reach this stage. Time spent as an acolyte did not come to an end marked by a finite period of time, but by the speed at which the acolyte improved and demonstrated skills in all trainings, both martial and mental. Some remained as acolytes their entire lives, forever wearing the gray robes, and there was no shame in that. Even the most common acolyte could be considered a master in some form of martial art, and most were masters in several, from jujitsu to tae kwon-do to Chinese kung fu. Chandi and the others in the chamber had been tested and selected one week ago as the acolytes who were deemed worthy to move on to the next level. As one, the cohort completed the final move of the practice form and stood in a rest stance, waiting to be addressed by the abbot, Pattaranopong Gamonsugasool, 145th abbot of the Temple Clan.
The old abbot moved forward on the dais, where he had been standing with the entire complement of the temple’s teachers, and with a grace and speed that belied his age, sat down on the floor in his gray robes, which were lined with both yellow and orange, representing he had come full circle, from acolyte, to learner, to protector, and back to acolyte, an acolyte that served all of them, and the cause which they all served. He gestured and as one the cohort sat where they stood. Chandi remained expressionless but looked with great fondness at the abbot. When she was brought to the temple she had been an orphan, living on the streets, but a protector who for some reason considered her deserving plucked her away from that life and brought her here. Since then, her rescuer had become abbot, and had been both father and mother to her, filling her mind and soul with his wisdom and his teachings, nurturing her as she had never been before. She loved him more than anyone in the world and would gladly die for him without hesitation if needed. In this, she knew, she was probably no different than anyone in her cohort, or the entire temple, for that matter.
The abbot spoke, “My children. Today I am pleased to see you all granted the yellow robe. It is a symbol of your achievement, and at the same time, an indication you still have much to learn. Tomorrow, you will begin your training as protector-learners, and although you do not know it yet, I know, and your teachers know, you all have the ability to succeed. Whether you do so or not, however, is completely up to you. To achieve the orange robe, you will need to open your mind, accept the improbable, and ignore the impossible. Some of you will remain learners forever, and others of you will eventually wear orange. Time has no meaning in this. You may be as old as I before you receive the next robe, or you may be only a few years older than you are now.” With a wry smile, and suppressed laughter in his dancing eyes, the abbot continued, “But since time immemorial every learner has had the same question, so I will answer before you ask. Five years is the shortest time any learner has ever worn yellow. “
With a wave of his hand, the teachers, who had moved down from the dais while the abbot was speaking and carrying neatly folded yellow robes in their arms, moved from acolyte to acolyte and presented them the robes that made them protector-learners. “Rest now, my learners,” the abbot continued, as the last robe was issued, “I am proud of all of you. Today marks a new phase of your lives, and you should take some time to reflect and prepare for it. Meet Master Song here after the mid-day meal. I will leave you now.”
The cohort stood as the abbot exited, bowing in respect as the teachers filed out after him through the opening behind the dais. As soon as the last teacher disappeared through the doorway, the cohort cheered. Some leaped up and clapped their mates on their backs, hugging and laughing at the relief of achieving such a milestone, while others sat quietly, or weeping tears of joy. Still others immediately ripped off their gray robes and began putting on the new yellow ones, faces split by smiles and laughing in delight. Chandi slowly stood, a deep, warm glow inside her, filling her with a feeling of pure contentment. As she looked around the chamber at her brothers and sisters, she wondered what the afternoon would bring.
***
Master Song stood in front of the attentive class of new learners seated on the floor. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with a stern countenance that belied his tendency to occasionally crack a dry joke, sometimes so dry it took a moment to register that it was even a joke. Chandi did not know him very well, as he was not previously one of the regular acolyte teachers, though sometimes he did take over a training session now and again if one of the normal teachers was ill or away on temple business. In his deep orange robes, Master Song projected a sense of supreme confidence, but at the same time, one could tell the confidence was not without basis, as he also emanated a strong undercurrent of power. Chandi suspected Master Song would never have any trouble backing up anything he said.
“Welcome, learners, to your first training session. Many of you are still, no doubt, wondering what you will learn, and what it requires to become a protector. Rather than explaining first, I will simply demonstrate.” Master Song glanced at the front row of learners, including Chandi, “All of you. Select any weapon of your choice and surround me.”
Chandi and five of her fellows ran to the wall on one side of the chamber, where all types of sharp and blunt edged weapons commonly used during martial arts training were kept. Chandi selected a bo staff, her favorite weapon, although like everyone else, she was an expert in several. Other learners chose nunchaku, escrima sticks, a spear, and two swords. They quickly formed a ring around Master Song and waited.
“Attack me. Now!” All six learners struck with their weapons at Master Song, and all six stopped their weapons inches away from his body, for the master had made no move to protect himself at all. “Ah, you’re afraid of hurting me, yes? Let me give you some encouragement, then!”
Master Song struck at their weapons with his bare hands, moving so fast it appeared they were all pushed back at once. All six of the learners began trying to strike him in earnest. At first the master looked like he was deflecting almost all of their blows, an open hand pushing away her bo, a forearm sliding along a sword strike, a foot pinning down a thrusted spear. Soon, it became apparent some of the blows were actually landing on Master Song, but strangely, he gradually blocked less and less, until he was standing completely still, while all six learners landed blow after blow on all parts of his body, but seemingly unable to injure or affect him in any way.
Each time her bo struck Master Song, Chandi felt as if she were hitting a stone wall, immoveable, unyielding. So hard were the blows, she could feel her staff starting to splinter from the impacts. Her colleagues, she saw, were not having any better luck. All were starting to look a bit winded. Master Song, on the other hand, simply stood calmly, a peaceful expression on his face. Eventually, he signaled them to stop, and gestured for them to sit back down.
”Master, how …?” Master Song raised his hand to quiet the learner’s question.
“Observe.” He signaled to someone and the lights began to dim. As the darkness intensified, a faint glow surrounding all of Master Song’s body became visible. It covered him from head to toe, with what seemed like to Chandi to be a uniform thickness around half a centimeter or so, and golden in color. With a start Chandi realized the glow had been there the entire time, but just hadn’t been visible with the lights on.
“What you see surrounding me,” intoned Master Song, “… is what we call Li. In the form you see it now, less than a finger’s width, none of the manual weapons on the wall can harm me. Li has been practiced by our temple for thousands of years. It is a manifestation of mind, and soul. You cannot think it into existence, you must feel it. Those who earn the orange robes do so by mastering the ability to control it, and to use it. This is what you will learn as protector-learners.”
“Where does the Li come from, master?” Chandi asked.
“Ah, that is a simple question, Chandi. It comes from inside each one of us. Every human being on this planet is born with some degree of Li. Most people’s ability is so small, it can never manifest itself, and serves no useful purpose. A very few others, like all of you, were born with a high degree of Li, but would most likely never have learned to use it, unless shown how. Still others, though very rare, can spontaneously manifest massive amounts of Li in moments of great stress, for a very short time. But since they do not realize what they are doing, or how they did it, it usually never happens again, no matter how hard the person tries. Think of the miraculous soldier who ran through heavy enemy fire without a scratch on him, or the skydiver who fell five thousand feet and lived after his parachute failed to open. Not luck, but Li.”
“Master, how are we to learn to use Li?” one learner asked eagerly.
“All in good time, all in good time, my son,” replied Master Song, waving his hand up and down in a “calm down” gesture. “We start tomorrow. Tonight, I want all of you to meditate deeply, on what your life has been so far, what it was like before you came to the temple, and most importantly, a time when you felt the greatest fear, despair or shame. You will need this for tomorrow’s lesson.”
“Master, who was the first person to learn how to use Li?” Chandi asked.
“Again, all in good time, Chandi. You are dismissed.” And with that, Master Song turned on his heel and left the room. The learners quickly bowed as the master exited, left with only their own thoughts while trying to absorb what they had just witnessed.
Chapter 3
“So there’s nothing you can add to shed more light on the events of this morning, sir?” Wazowski sat uncomfortably on the edge of a designer couch that probably cost more than a year of his salary, and looked intently at Caesar Fullerton, Chairman and CEO of Fullerton Global Resources.
Fullerton was an athletic, tall man in his late-forties, but looking more youthful than his years, with distinctive Nordic features and intense blue eyes approaching violet. He had created FGR as a start up in his early twenties, and today FGR was the largest privately held company on the planet, simply touting itself as the world’s “foremost technology company,” but involved in everything from computer chips to defense contracting to consumer food products. Financial analysts estimated FGR’s value in excess of half a trillion dollars, and the size of Caesar Fullerton’s personal wealth remained an often-speculated-upon mystery, though everyone agreed he must be, if not the richest individual on the planet, then at least among the top three.
“I believe Mr. Fullerton has already answered that question, detective, so I don’t think it’s necessary to repeat what’s already been said.” This came from the expressionless, barrel-chested man standing to Fullerton’s right, whose expensive gray suit did nothing to hide his obvious physical strength, with thick, powerful arms and trunk-like legs. Wazowski thought he must have been a bodyguard at first, wrongly stereotyping based on his size and boxer nose, but Robert Starke had been introduced as FGR’s Corporate General Counsel. The eyes gave him away as something more than just a dumb brute, bright and piercing, they shone with intelligence and shrewdness.
A bespectacled woman who stood to Fullerton’s left was Ella Moore, FGR’s Global Director of Security. She smiled apologetically, as if trying to soften her colleague’s bluntness. With her perfect features, dark hair, haute couture dress emphasizing a fantastic figure, and stiletto heels, she was an absolute knock-out in anyone’s book, Wazowski thought, but there was something about her that made him wary, like a beautiful rose bush hiding a deadly viper.
A few feet behind Wazowski, Welburn stood calmly, after immediately deciding upon arrival that he didn’t care to sit on the low, fancy couch, perhaps unconsciously and confrontationally mirroring Fullerton’s subordinates who stood on either side of their boss. Both Wazowski and Welburn looked somewhat disheveled, after working a full shift the day before, going through the excitement from last night, then coming straight to FGR after looking through the restaurant supply store once the power came back on. There had been no trace of the person Wazowski had pursued, other than two battered doors, one on either side of the building.
“It’s all right, Robert,” said Fullerton as he waived a casual hand at Starke. “I don’t mind.” He looked at Wazowski as he continued.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can add, detective. My plane only landed this morning at 7 AM. I went home for a shower and a change of clothes, and arrived here at 9 AM, whereupon Robert briefed me about the downed power lines, the utility pole hit by lightning, and the forklift it knocked down the hill and into the wall.”
“So you’re saying the flashes of light we saw were from downed power lines, and the hole in your retaining wall was caused by a forklift?” Wazowski retorted, incredulity creeping into his voice.
“Perhaps I can help,” Ella Moore cooed, trying to make her voice as soothing as possible. “Would you like to see the video captured by one of our security cameras?” Without waiting for a reply she pulled out her smart phone and started tapping. A large screen TV on one wall flashed to life, and while she queued up the video, she elaborated.
“This was captured by one of our security cameras on the south side near the wall.” A black and white, grainy nighttime still frame of FGR’s campus appeared on the screen. Several buildings were visible despite a light rain, and in the far-right corner, an electrical utility pole and large forklift parked on the side of the road could be seen, just above a date and time stamp that read 4:15 AM. The video began to play, and for a few seconds nothing happened. Suddenly, a flash of lighting turned the entire scene white. Sparks flew from several lines and the utility pole began to topple, as if in slow motion, bumping the side of the nearby forklift at the end of its fall. Like one domino being hit by another, the forklift began sliding sideways in the softened earth from the force of the impact, and teetered at the edge of the slope, the front forks turning with its momentum to face downhill. Wazowski watched as the forklift continued rolling downward, gaining speed until it crashed into the retaining wall, ending up with half the vehicle protruding on the other side before it came to a sudden stop.
Moore continued, “If you step over here gentlemen, you can see the forklift is still in the wall. We’re waiting for the arrival of a crane large enough to pull it out.” She was gesturing towards one of the large windows in Fullerton’s office as she gracefully walked to it, inviting them to follow her. Wazowski and Welburn both quickly approached the window and looked down. Although it was not from the same angle as the video, and at a farther distance, they could clearly see the tail end of the forklift still sticking out of the wall. They silently glanced at each other, trying to keep the disbelief and confusion off their faces.
“Detectives,” Starke said, “As you can clearly see, this has been an industrial accident caused by an act of God. While the damage is regrettable, it is limited to property loss, without any personal injury or obstruction of a public road. Even though the forklift breached the wall of the FGR campus, our property line is located further downhill, 18 feet from the road, so it never actually left our property. I’m afraid I don’t understand why this is a police issue at all.”
“We’d like a copy of the video,” Welburn offered lamely, as if grasping for something to say.
“Of course, detective,” Moore responded warmly, “That won’t be a problem at all. Now unless you have any further questions, I’m sure you can understand Mr. Fullerton has a very busy schedule and is already missing some appointments.”
They shook hands all around, and Wazowski and Welburn left, immediately being ushered toward the exit by a waiting secretary as soon as they stepped past the doorway. Fullerton stood and moved over to a window, staring out and speaking to Moore without looking at her, “You have no concerns about providing them a copy of the video?”
“There’s nothing to be concerned about, sir. They don’t have the ability to detect any artifacts on the video, certainly not with any technology accessible to law enforcement.”
“What have we learned about the intruder?”
“He managed to download a significant amount of data, sir,” Starke replying this time. “We are trying to determine the exact files now, though everything he copied is encrypted.”
“Fine,” Fullerton murmured, distracted as he watched Wazowski and Welburn exiting the building several floors below. “I want to know exactly what he accessed by noon.”
***
Wazowski and Welburn turned onto the road outside the FGR campus after slowly cruising down the hill from the main building, past the forklift with its front end protruding from the wall. They both stared intently at the forklift, as if looking at something that just couldn’t be possible, that defied explanation, because its very existence negated what they witnessed with their own eyes just a few hours earlier. Welburn pulled up at a stop sign after they exited the campus and turned to look at Wazowski, who sat silently gazing out the passenger window deep in thought. “What the hell, Ace? We can’t have imagined the whole frickin’ thing, right?”
Wazowski continued looking out the window at nothing, remained quiet for a beat, then asked, “Do you remember in the video how the forklift slid sideways, and then its front end rotated around, before it went down the hill?”
“Yeah, what about it?” replied Welburn.
“The tire tracks tell a different story,” responded Wazowski.
Chapter 4
US Air Force Captain Austin Jackman sat quietly with his eyes closed in the cargo hold of the military transport, visualizing in his mind the jump he was about to take with eager anticipation. The roar of the plane’s four, eight-bladed turbo prop engines were muted by his helmet, and he found the vibrations coming through the soles of his boots relaxing, even comforting. The jump light turned green, and through the headset in his helmet he heard the pilot say, “Sir, we’re in the drop zone. Uh, you’re sure you want to do this?”
“Affirmative, Lieutenant,” Jackman replied. “You can tell anyone who asks I ordered you to let me out.”
“Roger that, cap. You be careful now.”
Jackman shuffled over to where an airman stood ready to roll up the jump door. He nodded and the airman nodded back, before reaching down and forcefully pulling up the 36-inch wide rolling door. The sound of the turboprops immediately intensified, accompanied by the howl of rushing air. Exiting the aircraft, especially at this speed, he knew, was one of the most dangerous moments. If he misjudged the airflow or his orientation upon exiting, he risked a tail-strike. Hitting the tail of the airplane would of course, he knew, be fatal – either immediately or upon impact with the ground if he were unconscious. He took one last breath and casually somersaulted out the door … then spread his wings.
The first known use of a wingsuit was in the early 1900’s, invented by a French tailor, who unfortunately decided to test it himself by jumping off the Eiffel Tower, with deadly consequences. Several more daredevils attempted the feat in the succeeding years, with quite a few of them unsuccessful, meaning they died, garnering the wingsuit its reputation as a death trap. However, in the late 1990’s, the first “safer” commercial wingsuits started to become available, and the one Jackman was wearing now was a custom-modified version he redesigned himself.
He had always been known to be a bit of a daredevil, sometimes taking risks others considered unwise, including his commanding officers, and other times tip-toing on the edge of insubordination, which he had been told many times was limiting his “upward career mobility.” He was already considered a little old for a captain, having entered his 30’s, but he couldn’t bring himself to muster out. The rush he received from flying a fighter jet was just too much to give up, and for the self-admitted adrenalin junkie, it was the ultimate experience, even better than flying at 200 mph in a wingsuit.
Jackman took his bearings on a distant mountain peak, and slightly adjusted his body position to modify his angle of attack. The purpose of the wingsuit was to give the parachutist greater horizontal movement after jumping, instead of falling relatively straight down as in normal parachuting. Optimally and masterfully used, an expert wingsuit parachutist could travel in excess of 16 miles from the point of departure from the plane. He only needed to go 10 miles total, which by his calculation made his ETA less than 2 more minutes. He spent the time enjoying the feel of the wind pushing against the full mask of his visored helmet, and looked up at the pure blue sky and floating white clouds, beautifully contrasting with the sandy desert hardpan below. The only things marring the perfect surface of the desert were the large dust plumes of three desert-camouflaged Humvees racing towards his landing zone in the distance.
Jackman deftly reached left, right, then down to unzip the wings of his wingsuit, which was necessary for him to grasp the lines of his parachute above his head once deployed and run a bit upon landing. He pulled the ripcord of his chute and the sudden deceleration felt like he was being jerked upwards, though he knew that wasn’t really the case. He was falling the entire time, just abruptly much slower. Jackman pulled his steering lines perfectly and only had to take three running steps on landing, coming to a stop still on his feet. As his parachute slowly collapsed behind him, he watched at least a dozen soldiers stream out of the Humvees with M-16 rifles leveled at him, spreading out in a semi-circle yelling, “On your knees, on your knees!”
He complied and sank to his knees, raising his hands and wisely choosing not to antagonize so many armed and clearly pumped up soldiers with guns pointed at him, as a lieutenant colonel exited the center Humvee and strode towards him.
Jackman flipped up his visor and said, “Nice of you to come pick me up, Boots. Quite the welcoming party you sent.”
A look of exasperation and annoyance flashed across Lt Colonel Richard Booten’s face as he recognized Jackman and said, “Stand down, gentlemen. This here’s Captain Jackman, our newest pilot, and world-class dumbass.”
***
“What, Captain Jackman, made you think it was a good idea to parachute onto a highly secure, top secret Air Force base, without prior authorization?” General Steve Coppler, white-haired with matching mustache, looked at Jackman from behind his government-issued desk that looked like it was made from 500 pounds of solid steel. “You could have been shot.”
Jackman stood at attention in front of the general’s desk, not having been invited to sit down, staring fixedly at the clock that hung above the general’s window behind him. The office looked like a typical military office, albeit a big one, on a typical base. Standard, drab, government-issue everything, from the chairs, to the filing cabinets, to the trashcan. Even the paintings on the wall seemed to be duplicates Jackman could swear he had seen in other offices just like this one. Lt Colonel Booten sat relaxed on a side couch, enjoying the show.
“Sir, I received orders at 1900 hours yesterday to report to you here with all speed. The only aircraft headed in this general direction within the following eight hours was the C-130 transport, which I knew would not be permitted to land as the crew do not have the appropriate security clearances. Therefore, I requested the pilot to fly just outside the base’s airspace at which point I determined I could travel the remaining distance via wingsuit. So I could arrive here … with all speed … sir,” Jackman finished lamely. It did seem a little ridiculous after saying it out loud. Sounded like a good idea at the time, though, he thought. Plus he got to try out his new wingsuit for the first time.
The general shook his head slowly. “Your reputation is certainly well-deserved, captain. I must admit you got here quickly, however unconventionally.” He paused for a moment, as if trying to decide how to continue. Finally, he waived resignedly at a chair and said, “Sit down, Jackman.” After Jackman sat, Coppler continued, “What do you know about Project Eos?”
Jackman remained silent for a moment, perhaps deliberating what he should or should not admit to hearing, and said, “I’ve heard rumors it’s a black project related to experimental aircraft, sir. That’s all I know.”
General Coppler looked thoughtful. “Well, if that’s all you know, then the little you know is correct. It’s blacker than black, and it relates to an experimental aircraft light years ahead of conventional technology. Instead of manual interface, it’s controlled purely through neurotechnology. You think what you want the aircraft to do, and it does it. There is no control stick, there are no gauges, no pedals. You literally will things to happen, and they happen. That is,” he paused, “if you’re compatible.”
“Compatible, sir?” Jackman looked skeptical. “How do you know if you’re compatible?”
Coppler shook his head. “We don’t know, frankly. Some pilots are more compatible with the technology than others. Some can actually take her for a flight. Others can barely make her move. We just don’t know until we try.”
The general looked directly at Jackman. “I’m not going to order you to fly this plane, captain. It’s completely up to you if you want to try. I need to warn you there is some pre-conditioning required before you can fly the plane which we have found to enhance an individual’s ability to control it, but the pre-conditioning isn’t pleasant, involving transcranial direct current stimulation to the brain.”
He paused again. “So what do you think, Jackman?”
“Sir, I’m in. If the others can handle it, I know I can.” Jackman paused a beat. “How many other pilots are there, sir?”
The general looked at him steadily, “You’re the only one, captain, the only one.”
Chapter 5
Chandi sat cross-legged with her eyes closed on the stone floor of the darkened room, illuminated by only a single torch, hands resting lightly on her knees. Master Song strode slowly around the room with his hands clasped behind his back while he intoned the same mantra he had been repeating for the last three days.
“Close your eyes, relax your mind. Think of an event in your life that caused you great fear, despair, or shame, then go there. See it in your mind’s eye. Relive it, feel it, and let your emotions wash over you. When you are ready, I will know it, and you will feel me touch your forehead.”
Of the fifty learners in her cohort, there were but five left in the room, including her. She knew over the last three days Master Song had deemed the other forty-five ready and had at intervals touched their heads. Each one had then simply stood and approached a large stone door at the end of the chamber farthest from the entrance. The only thing that interrupted the smooth surface of the door was an iron handle, large enough to fit one hand. Unlike other doors, this one did not swing, but had to be slid sideways, into the wall. The mystery was there were no rollers on the bottom of the door, as far as she could tell. As a young acolyte, while exploring the temple with a few friends, they had chanced upon the door and tried pulling on the handle. Even with six of them tugging at the same time, the door had never moved even the slightest amount.
Each of the learners that Master Song deemed ready had approached the door, spread their feet to brace themselves, and then one-handedly slid the door open slowly with a great grinding sound of stone on stone, the activity clearly testing the limits of their capabilities. Once on the other side, the learner again slid the door, shutting it. Chandi had no idea what was on the other side of the door and had not seen any of the learners that passed through again since they exited. One thing that was consistent, however, was each learner manifested Li to open the door. In the dim light of the room, the glow surrounding each of them had been clearly visible. What was inconsistent, however, was there were varying degrees in the strength of the glow from learner to learner, and there definitely seemed to be a correlation between the intensity of each learner’s glow and the ease with which the door moved.
For the last two days, Chandi had alternately chafed and despaired at not being selected by Master Song. Always at the forefront of every lesson, skill or test she had ever faced, she had never been last at anything, or even in the bottom half, and couldn’t understand what she was doing wrong or what to do differently. None of the remaining learners in the room had eaten for three days, they had not returned to their sleeping quarters each night, and Chandi began to despair at ever being able to open the door as she felt herself growing weaker. She tried again.
***
Chandi had been orphaned at the age of seven. Living in the trading town of Changmai in rural China, her family was poor. She, her father, mother, and infant brother lived in one small rented room on the second floor of a dilapidated tenement near the center of town on a crowded street, all sleeping together each night on a bed of blankets, huddling together for warmth in winter. Once a single-family home long ago, over the years the individual rooms had been rented out to people who could pay for it, but too poor to afford anything better. With no running water or electricity, there were perhaps more than thirty people living in the two-story house, most of whom came and went, to be replaced by other unfortunates.
Each morning, her father rose before the sun and walked thirty minutes to a well at the edge of town, rumored to have the freshest spring water available in the area, which could be pumped up by hand. He carried back with him two large buckets of water suspended on each end of a bamboo pole which he supported on his shoulders. By the time he returned, Chandi’s mother would have a fire prepared in the small yard behind the house, over which her father would set the water to boil. Once the water boiled, Chandi’s father would transfer the water to a large, double-walled metal pot half his height, which had straps and a spout on the side. He would strap the pot of boiled water to his shoulders, insulated with a blanket both to prevent burning his back and to keep the water hot longer, then trudge fifteen minutes to the town’s trading area where locals from nearby gathered to trade everything from livestock to mechanical parts, offering pours of boiled water by leaning over until the water exited the spout, for spare change. Most days, once she was strong enough to walk by herself, he took Chandi with him, and she could still hear him hawking, “Boiled well waaaaater! Boiled well waaaaater!” while she sat nearby where he could see her, watching him pace back and forth waiting for the next customer.
Sometimes, on a particularly good day, Chandi’s father would return home to refill his pot two or three times for extra trips to the trading post. Other days, he would sadly pour half a pot of water too cool to sell out on the street, to spare himself the labor of carrying it home. On those days, Chandi knew they would go hungry.
Her father was always kind to her, even when she misbehaved, and at times when she was tired and walked particularly slowly while going home at the end of the day, her small hand in his calloused one, Chandi’s father would pick her up and carry her, despite the metal pot still on his back and his own fatigue. He would chat with her while he walked, “Who could be lovelier than my Chandi? You are my pretty girl!”
Chandi’s mother spent her days selling tissue paper, gum and other assorted items from her basket, standing on various street corners with Chandi’s brother strapped to her back. She always wore a scarf around her head, Chandi recalled, and multiple layers of clothing, even in summer, with a long skirt. All she hoped for was to sell her meager items for a little more than what she paid, but it was not easy. Every item sold was fiercely negotiated by every customer, and at the end of the day she was lucky to have made enough to buy a small bag of rice for their evening meal, but it helped.
Chandi could see her father clearly in her mind’s eye, but the memory of her mother was hazy, since she spent most of her days with her father. Her brother she could only recall as a baby who slept a lot, and did not cry much. It was a difficult life, and she had never been to school, but life was about to become even more bleak.
She went to sleep one night huddled among her family on their bed of blankets. The next thing she knew, she awoke in confusion lying on the cold street, with a strange man over her, shaking her shoulders and yelling, “Are you all right? Are you all right?” They were outside her home, and many people were yelling and screaming, staring and pointing at the huge fire that engulfed the house where she once lived. She never saw her family again.
Seeing she was alive, the man straightened and simply left her lying on the street. Chandi never knew if he had carried her out of the inferno or had simply found her there. Her chest was painful, her head was spinning and it was difficult to breath, but she crawled away from the street and huddled next to the wall of the building opposite the burning house. Eventually she fell asleep, despite the roar of the fire and din of voices that surrounded her.
***
This was the moment on which Chandi had been focusing the last three days. The feeling of loss and despair when she lost her family had been great, as well the grief and heartache she felt knowing her family was gone forever, that she would never see them again, or hold her father’s hand, or sleep tightly huddled next to her parents and brother for warmth and comfort.
Weak from her fasting and knowing now this memory was somehow inadequate for the exercise Master Song had set before her, her mind drifted back to her childhood.
Chapter 6
“Do you want to eat?” For the second time in a day, Chandi awoke to a stranger standing over her, this time a disheveled child in rags a few years her senior, so dirty and hair so tousled that only after a few moments did Chandi realize it was a girl. “Do you want to eat?” the girl repeated. Chandi was still lying in the same spot she had crawled to next to the wall after being awakened by the strange man. Changmai was a poor town, and the people in it were poor as well. Too many were already worried about from where their next meal would come, or how to pay the landlord, or where they could find medicine they could afford for an ill family member. Passersby glanced at her lying on the sidewalk and kept walking. No one stopped to help her, or even speak to her, until this girl.
“I’m Mengru. I’m the best thief in this area!” she boasted, pointing a thumb at her own chest. “If you want to eat this bun, you can have it, and then we’ll figure out what to do.” The bun, as she called it, was really only about half a bun, slightly dirty, with clear teeth marks on one side. Chandi took it eagerly and devoured it. She was starving. As she chewed, she looked across the street where the burned debris of her former home still smoldered, with tendrils of smoke rising towards the gray sky. Knowing her family was buried in there somewhere created a tight knot of pain in her stomach, almost preventing her from swallowing.
Mengru led her to a half-collapsed warehouse. On one side the roof had fallen in, but the other side was intact, enough to keep most of the inhabitants fairly dry when it rained. This was where Chandi would sleep each night for the next two years. Mengru was the leader of a bedraggled group of street children, most of them orphans, though some had simply become lost and did not know how to return home, or had been abandoned by despairing parents. They were both older and younger than Chandi, and Mengru not only protected them, but also organized them in such a fashion that everyone had something to eat, however meager, on most days. The younger ones she sent to beg. Slightly older ones, who had learned to differentiate between things safe to eat and best to avoid, scavenged in trash and refuse behind restaurants, inns or homes looking for food. The oldest ones, and those who were quick and deft in their movements, stole, from the wagons of vendors selling fruit, or any small unguarded item that could be quickly taken and later sold.
The most important rule that Mengru enforced was all food and money, which would be quickly converted to food, was always brought back to the abandoned warehouse, where it would be shared among all. Sometimes each child’s share was a single mouthful of food in a day. Other times, Mengru would arrive back at the warehouse with an entire loaf of bread, or a basket of fruit only slightly over-ripe, and one time, a full jug of milk from which each child took one sweet mouthful.
Other gangs of children also roamed the streets, but most of them gave Mengru’s group a wide berth. She was fierce and loud, unafraid to confront anyone even if they were much larger in size. She taught all her brothers and sisters to quickly gather when another of their group was in trouble, and start chanting in low voices, “Hai, hai, hai,” until the aggressor, unnerved by the strange and nonsensical display, backed down. Mengru’s bravado combined with her superior ability to organize her group kept most others at bay.
Chandi was quick and deft. Very soon she was going on pilfering trips around town with Mengru, who showed her all the tricks. “See that fruit seller?” Mengru would say. “Every time he reaches down to take a bag to fill for his customer, he can’t see the right side of his cart. That’s the perfect time to take a piece of fruit, tuck it under your arm, and then casually walk away. He won’t even know you did it.” Mengru became the most important person in Chandi’s life, and she looked up to Mengru, loving her like the sister she never had.
One day, almost two years after she met Mengru, Chandi awoke early in the morning, with sharp pangs of hunger in her stomach. Everyone else was still sleeping, so she silently got up, tiptoed past the other sleeping children, and walked to the local market area. This time of morning, foot traffic was still light, and various vendors had only just set up or were still setting up their carts. One in particular caught her eye. It was the cart of Chang, an especially nasty fellow, with a foul temper and pockmarked face, who sold buns. One time, he had seized the wrist of one of their group just as the child was lifting a bun off his cart, and with an open hand, slapped the poor boy on the side of the head so hard he fell unconscious to the street where he laid unmoving for several minutes. When Chang saw him stir finally, he kicked him and roared, “That will teach you to steal from Chang, you worthless little shit!” Onlookers said nothing as the boy stumbled away, holding his ribs and crying.
On a normal day, Chandi would have passed by Chang’s cart, not wanting to risk the wrath of the quick and foul-tempered bun seller while foot-traffic was still light and making her presence that much more obvious. But today she was very hungry, the buns looked so plump, white and enticing, and her stomach growled loudly. Casually she strolled toward the cart, at an angle that would seem to take her away from it as she approached. Sneaking a quick look, she saw Chang had his back turned towards her, lifting a box to place it on the ground. As she passed the cart, she quickly pivoted towards it and snatched a bun from the top of the pile. Suddenly, she heard Chang roar, “You! Stop!”
Startled, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Chang leap over the end of his cart and start running after her. He was less than a dozen paces behind. She fled down the street and took the first corner on her left, but stumbled, deciding to dive in mid-fall between some boxes outside a general store, hoping Chang was not so close behind her that he had seen her hiding place. She huddled on the ground, trying to breathe as quietly as possible, still clutching the wayward bun in her hand.
Suddenly, she felt the bun snatched from her and looked up just in time to see Chang pull up from his run in surprise, and Mengru in the street not ten feet from him, holding the bun aloft in one hand. Casually she began edging away from Chandi’s hiding place, looking at Chang all the time, and with a start Chandi realized Mengru was trying to distract Chang from where she lay hidden.
“Hey, you, bastard!” yelled Mengru. “Is this what you’re looking for?” Chang’s eyes bulged in rage, and red-faced he bellowed, “You thief! Give that back to me!”
“What, this bun?” retorted Mengru. “Is this yours?”
With disbelief, Chang watched Mengru slowly lower the bun to her mouth, take a large bite and begin to chew. Enraged, he leaped at her. Mengru was very quick, and normally would have dodged so swiftly that Chang could not have caught her. But to Chandi’s shock and dismay, Chang caught just the barest handful of Mengru’s shirt as she tried to evade him, but it was enough. “Come here, you little shit!” Chang growled, “I’m going to teach you a lesson!”
Mengru struggled but could not break free of the powerful man’s grasp. Still early, there was no one on the side street at the moment, and the confrontation had gone unnoticed by anyone. Chang dragged Mengru into the alley next to the shop where Chandi hid among the boxes, and she heard him say, “Oh, so you’re a girl! Well now I’m going to show you what I do to girls who steal from me!” She heard a muffled scream from Mengru, and then several more after that, Chang obviously covering her mouth somehow. Each cry seemed weaker than the last, and every muscle in Chandi’s body wanted her to jump up from where she hid to rescue her sister, her friend, her protector, but she was completely paralyzed while at the same time violently shaking in fear as tears streamed down her face. Her muscles were completely seized, and she could not move. She was still only eight years old.
Minutes went by, until eventually Chandi heard no more sounds. Slowly, her muscles loosened enough for her to move, and she stiffly stood up, staring fixedly at the entrance to the alley. She didn’t see any sign of Chang, and she couldn’t see Mengru. Chandi forced one foot in front of the other and approached, finding Mengru inside the alley lying at the edge of a trash heap. Her face was beaten to a pulp and blood was everywhere, coming from her mouth, her nose, her ears, and in one hand, she still clutched the bun with a single bite taken from it. Chandi fell to her knees and tentatively touched her, plaintively calling her name, “Mengru, Mengru!”
As soon as she touched her, somehow Chandi knew immediately Mengru was dead. She felt a small, black and icy-cold void form deep inside her, tiny at first, but which grew horrifyingly quickly until it filled her chest, then surrounded her completely until everything around her faded to black, and she could only see Mengru lying there. So large and brash in life, she looked pitifully small and vulnerable now, her lifeless body dumped on the ground like so much refuse.
Chandi screamed in anguish as sobs racked her tiny body. The fear of facing life without Mengru washed over her like the torrents of a raging river, accompanied by the deep despair of losing the only person on earth she loved, so soon after also losing her family, and the intense shame she felt for being unable to come to Mengru’s aid.
Master Song touched her forehead.
***
She found herself sitting on the floor of the chamber as she had been doing for the last three days, tears falling in a steady stream down her face, and she moaned in sorrow over Mengru as the present began reasserting itself and the memory of Mengru’s fate, which she had buried so deeply in her mind that she couldn’t remember when she last thought of it, began fading in intensity. She felt a tingling sensation from head to foot, and when she opened her eyes, she saw Master Song gazing calmly at her, finger still raised from when he had touched her forehead. With a start, Chandi realized he was sitting on the floor directly in front of her, and the chamber was empty save for the two of them. She was the last learner in the room.
“Why master?” whispered Chandi. “Why was it necessary for me to remember that moment?”
Master Song lowered his hand and considered her question. “It wasn’t about that moment in particular, Chandi, but how that moment made you feel. Do you recall, when I explained to you every person has some innate degree of Li?”
“Yes, master,” said Chandi.
“Each’s person’s Li can only be released once. Normally, except in rare instances, in order to release it for the first time so that it can be used, one must be touched by another using Li. This is what I’ve been doing when I touch each learner. Like attracts like, and each learner’s Li comes forth when it is freed by another’s. However, in order to maximize the strength of Li someone is able to wield after release, it’s necessary to do so in a moment when the person’s mind is in a state of great fear, despair, or shame. These emotions weaken the defenses of the mind, and allow a larger channel, if you will, for the Li to emerge. If one’s Li is released while the channel is small, they may forever be limited in the amount of Li they can command once it is released.”
Master Song expanded, “Think of the magma that lies below the earth’s crust. A thin channel from the magma to the surface results in a small eruption, and lesser flow of magma. A large channel, on the other hand, can result in a massive volcanic eruption. I have been waiting these past few days for you to open the largest possible channel for me to release your Li. A few times I came close to doing it, thinking you were ready, but decided each time to wait instead, so as to not reduce your future potential. I’m glad I did so. And now …” Master Song gestured towards the stone door, and Chandi knew it was finally her turn.
Somehow, she could feel the Li inside her now, and knew she could summon it at will. It was like a deep well of power waiting in reserve, and she intuitively knew she could release just some of it, or let its full force come forth. She approached the stone door, planted her feet firmly and grasped the iron handle with one hand. Anticipating the door would be difficult to move, considering how slowly it had opened and shut for the other learners, she decided to use all the Li she could summon and pushed.
The door shot open so quickly the handle flew out of her hand and impacted the edge of the wall in which the stone door was set, actually causing the door to bounce back towards her a few inches before coming to rest. The handle, previously protruding away from the door at a perfect right angle, was now bent askew at least 30 degrees due to the force of impact with the wall.
Chandi looked at Master Song, who said dryly, “Well. I suppose we will need a new handle now.”