The Omega Project

EPILOGUE

Located in a narrow forested valley in Hangzhou, the Lingyin Temple, known as the Temple of the Soul’s Retreat, remains one of the largest and most visited Buddhist temples in China. Built in 328 A.D. by the Indian Monk Huili, the compound’s main buildings are immense double-eaved structures with halls as high as sixty feet — a necessity when accommodating statues of Buddha that stand forty feet tall.

After nearly a month in China with my wife (I never get tired of saying that), I find I have settled into an Eastern biorhythm that has all but vanquished the internal strife that fueled decades of anger. Without the aid of ABE, Andie claims I have become human again. She has a point. Humanity has become so reliant on technology, we rarely raise our heads from texting to see the lotus blossoms. Having learned the usual tourist rhetoric of Chinese, I have enjoyed a newfound sense of accomplishment that was lacking with the “instant access” I had become so used to with my bio-chip.

The Lingyin Temple will be our last stop before returning to Hong Kong for the flight back to Cape Canaveral. Andria and I walk hand in hand through a vast outdoor courtyard, past shops and offices to Mahavira Hall. Within this chamber stands a massive image of Shakyamuni, founder of Buddhism. Painted in hues of gold, the sixty-two-foot figure is seated on a bed of lotus flowers, the entire creation carved from wood.

Andie excuses herself to use the restroom. Moving to a guardrail, I place my right heel on the four-foot-high section of steel, using the beam to stretch out my sore hamstring. Even after four weeks, all this walking …

“Oh, God—”

Doubling over in agony, I clench my teeth, gasping for air! My heart is racing. Sweat breaks out across my body, drenching my shirt.

SYSTEM ONLINE. INCREASING ADRENALINE.

The statue of Shakyamuni is staring at me, laughing silently at the foolish Westerner — a man who has sacrificed a lifetime of bliss for a principle governed by ego.

Sound crackles in my ear. I groan, fighting the sensation, fighting to remain here …

HEART RATE STABILIZING. INCREASING CORTISOL.

Nausea invades my senses, poisoning my efforts at salvation with its acidic breath.

OPEN YOUR EYES, ROBERT EISENBRAUN.

No!

OPEN … YOUR … EYES.

The chamber is dark, laced with streaks of neon-blue fluid. The sensory pod glows violet red beneath muscles long paralyzed with anesthetic.

A buoy of thought — happiness, vanquished by a simple command, can be restored by another — go back to sleep.

“You are destiny’s castaway, Robert, a man who has witnessed the darkest days of existence. Now you live again, but only to change history.”

I glance over at Dharma, her nude form stretched out on a sensory table, her features obscured behind her life-support modems. Unconscious and dreaming, yet unaware — a captive Buddhist princess, denied any chance of achieving real Nirvana.

“Seek justice or seek happiness. You cannot have them both.”

Dharma or Andria?

Consciousness or an endless dream?

My anger swells at the injustice of our predicament, resuscitating the Hungry Ghost. I yearn for a lifetime of happiness with Andria, but Andria is dead, her soul has moved on.

Held in stasis, trapped in immortality, neither Dharma’s soul, nor mine can ever be free.

I rise from the sensory table, tearing the electrodes from my flesh. ABE … can you get us back to the lunar portal that brought us here?

YES.

Then engage Superman protocol. We’re getting the hell out of here.