The Golden City fr-3

by John Twelve Hawks

  “It is a small shop, sir. I never have enough room.”

  “Ever heard of a store called White Crane Books? A friend told me to check it out when I came to Tokyo.”

  The shopkeeper laughed, and then covered his mouth to be polite. “You have reached your destination, sir. This is White Crane Books and I am the owner, Akihido Kotani.”

  “I’m looking for a special book. It might be difficult to find.”

  “Is it a foreign book or Japanese?”

  “I only know the English title. It’s called The Way of the Sword.”

  Looking frightened, Kotani held up both hands. “I am sorry, but do not know this book.”

  “Of course you do. It was written by a fighter who called himself ‘Sparrow.’ He was close to a German named Thorn and Frenchman named Linden.”

  “You must be mistaken. I have never heard of these people. Excuse me. I must close my shop now. Gomennasai…”

  Kotani wheeled one of the book shelves into the tunnel while Hollis stood on the sidewalk. “You were Sparrow’s friend, Mr. Kotani. You got his fiancé out of the country and she had a son named Lawrence Takawa. He was a brave young man, but the Tabula killed him.”

  “Do not bother me. Please…” With frantic energy, the bookseller grabbed the second shelf and pushed it into his shop.

  “I need your help, Mr. Kotani. It’s important.”

  Kotani hurried into bookstore, pulled the door shut and locked it.

  Seconds later, he peered out the display window. When he saw that Hollis was still there, he retreated into the darkness.

  ***

  Hollis wandered down the street to a bus stop and sat on a wooden bench. He had concentrated so much on finding the bookshop that he hadn’t considered an alternative plan. Should he search for this spirit woman on his own or should he return to London? Although he had never totally believed that he could speak to Vicki again, he had felt a spark of hope. Once again he sensed the stone inside him, that constant anger that never seemed to go away.

  “Excuse me, sir. Excuse me.” Hollis glanced up and saw that Akihido Kotani was standing beside the bench holding a plastic shopping bag. “I am sorry to bother you. But you left this at my shop.”

  Confused, Hollis took the shopping bag. Kotani gave him a quick bow before hurrying away. Why didn’t he stay and talk? Hollis wondered. Are surveillance cameras watching on this side street? He returned to the main avenue before he inspected the bookseller’s offering. Inside the bag was a copy of The Way of the Sword and a mobile phone.

  11

  Michael was locked inside a metal container carried by a steam-powered crawler that was bumping its way down a country road. No one had explained where they were going. He had been dragged out of the men’s dormitory, carried across the courtyard and thrust through a narrow opening like a log being tossed on a fire.

  The holding container had a teardrop shape and sloping sides. It felt as if he was sitting in an empty water boiler built with sheet metal and rivets. The only light came from an air vent near the top of the container, and Michael spent most of the morning gazing up at a rectangular patch of clouds and sky.

  Late in the day, the crunch of steel wheels on gravel changed to a steady grinding noise. Michael scrambled to his feet, grabbed the grate covering the air vent and pulled himself up. Peering through the bars, he saw that the crawler was passing through a city.

  The buildings that lined the street had slate roofs, round windows made of yellow glass, and walls constructed with a series of triangles, each three-sided shape outlined with a darker shade of red brick. The visionary screen had revealed a society with sophisticated technology, but Michael couldn’t see any electric lights or power cables. Porters carried baskets filled with chunks of a black substance that looked like coal, and smoke trickled out of crooked pipes that jutted from the roofs.

  Michael saw one guardian wearing the distinctive green robe and two church militants patrolling the streets with clubs hanging from their belts. But the city was dominated by the faithful servants. Men and women baked bread, cobbled shoes and stitched clothing. There were street sweepers with long, feathery brooms.

  The crawler made a great deal of noise as it turned to the left and began to climb a low hill. Michael let go of the bars and slid back down to the bottom of the container. He sat quietly and waited as the machinery creaked and shuddered and stopped moving. A few minutes passed, then the door was unlatched and light streamed through the opening.

  Michael crawled out and encountered three militants holding thick wooden clubs. Maybe this was a different world, but the militants resembled the police officers he had met in the Fourth Realm. Michael wondered if there was some kind of universal cop attitude towards suspects: Mess with me and I’ll put you down.

  He was standing in a courtyard circled by the nine crystal towers he had seen on the visionary screen. At night, the towers had glowed with light; they looked like magical creations that could detach from their foundations and float into space. In the daylight, Michael could see that the towers were built with steel girders and thick panels of glass or plastic.

  “Who’s in charge?” he asked.

  The church militants glanced at each other. That wasn’t clear.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Wait for the guardian,” answered the tallest man.

  The youngest guard repeated what Verga had said when they were out in the waterfields. “All is just when each does his part…”

  Someone wearing the dark green robes of a guardian emerged from one of the towers and walked across the courtyard to their little group. It was the same blond man who had directed the weddings-and the executions-on the visionary show.

  “Did he give you any trouble?” he asked.

  “No, sir,”

  The guardian scrutinized Michael’s face. “I think he wants to run away.”

  Holding his club with two hands, the tall militant approached the prisoner. He hit Michael in the stomach, directly below the rib cage, and Michael went down-gasping for air.

  “You can’t escape, so don’t even consider it,” the guardian said calmly. “Now get up and follow me.”

  Michael struggled to his feet and staggered forward. When they were about twenty yards away from the militants, the blond man stopped and faced him.

  “What do you call yourself?”

  “Tolmo.”

  “A deliberate lie is like mud smeared on the altar of our Republic. You’re not a servant named Tolmo. Each collar has to match its owner. I’m sure he’s floating in the waterfields or rotting in a hole scratched in the ground.”

  Michael nodded. “He killed himself.”

  “Ahhh. Now I understand. So the servants were worried about three must be, and then you appeared.”

  “Yes, that’s what happened. I’m called Michael.”

  “You have an unusual name. But that’s common for barbarians that find their way here from the outlands.”

  They reached the base of a tower, and the guardian led him down a sloping causeway. The guardian pushed open a sliding door and they entered an underground area lined with glass panels that gave off a greenish light.

  “Electricity,” Michael said.

  “What?”

  “You’re not using torches or oil lamps.”

  “Our temples and the visionary can use the sacred machines.”

  An elevator door opened at the end of the corridor, and the guardian motioned for Michael to step in. The elevator glided upward with a soft grinding sound. When the door opened, Michael found himself in a large star-shaped room. There was no furniture of any kind-just a bare stone floor. The steep walls of the tower were composed of interlocking triangles reaching upward to an apex lost in the gloom.

  The guardian remained in the elevator. He pressed his hands together in a pious gesture. “You have been given a great privilege: a chance to feel the power of the gods. The servants and the militants worship them from afar. We g
uardians only encounter them once or twice in our lives.”

  “What do you mean-the gods?” Michael looked around. “No one’s here.”

  “The gods will display themselves if you show obedience and faith.” The elevator door closed and then Michael was left alone.

  The tower’s glass panels were tinged with a smoky grey color that allowed some light in, but made it impossible to look outside. “Hello?” Michael said. “Anyone here?” He whistled and clapped his hands, and the noise echoed off the walls.

  He sat on the floor and leaned against one of the panels for awhile, then lay on his side with his arms for a pillow. The image of the prisoners being torn apart on the visionary screen kept floating through his mind. There were only three classes in this society-servants, militants and guardians-and he didn’t belong to any particular group. The blond man had called him a “barbarian,” but he might also be considered a heretic and a criminal.

  When he woke up a few hours later, the room was dark and much colder. Light came from the other eight towers, but he felt as if he were trapped in a cave. Michael stood up and began to pace across the floor. He noticed a breeze touching his face. How was that possible? He was inside a building with no windows. Michael touched one of the panels with his hand, feeling the cold, smooth surface. His heart was beating faster and he sensed that someone-or something-had entered the temple.

  He spun around quickly and saw that three columns of light had appeared in the center of the room. The light seemed grainy, almost textured, and each column resembled a luminous green cloud with specks of gold dust floating within its gravitational field. Were these the gods that controlled this world?

  The light grew more intense until the columns appeared solid-green pillars glowing in the middle of the temple. And then he heard a voice coming from the center column. It was an older man’s voice, not loud but filled with authority.

  “Who are you?” the voice asked.

  “Are you a barbarian?” a woman’s voice asked. “A stranger from the outlands?”

  Trying to figure out what to say, Michael took a few steps toward the light.

  “We are waiting for your answer!” the first voice said. “We are the gods of this world and all other worlds…”

  Michael laughed softly and the sound filled the room. “I’m Michael Corrigan and I’ve traveled a long way to get here. Who am I? I’m a man who has made money selling things to other people.” He sneered at the light wavering in front of him. “And that’s how I know what this is-bells and whistles, tricks and mirrors to sell the product. It may be enough to impress the locals, but I’m not buying.”

  “He’s a heretic!” a young man’s voice shouted. “Call the guardians and give him his punishment!”

  “You can do whatever you want,” Michael said. “But then you’d punish the very person the gods asked to come here. I’m a Traveler from another world.”

  The columns of light gained power and intensity; they were so bright that Michael had to shield his eyes. Wind howled around him, almost pushing him off his feet. Then, just as quickly, the wind stopped. There was a moment of darkness, and then lights attached to the struts of the tower were switched on.

  Michael heard the elevator door open and three people-two men and one woman-stepped out and strolled across the stone floor. “Welcome, Michael,” the older man said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  12

  The young man on the right had a muscular neck and shoulders, and long black hair that covered his ears. He carried himself in a confident manner and raised his chin slightly as if he expected to be obeyed. In contrast, the older woman on the left looked delighted to meet the Traveler. She leaned forward as if she were going deaf and didn’t want to miss a word. The oldest man-clearly the leader-stood in the middle. His hook nose and sunken eyes remind Michael of a marble bust of a Roman emperor.

  “We apologize for the severity of our demonstration,” the older man said. “But we needed to discover if you were a Traveler or someone from the outlands.”

  “A barbarian would have fallen to his knees,” the woman explained. “They weep and shiver and pray to our light.”

  “Do you have names?” Michael asked.

  “Of course,” said the older man. “But they would sound strange to you and you wouldn’t understand their meaning.”

  “We want you to feel like you’re talking to friends,” said the woman.

  “So we’ve picked names from your world,” said the older man. “I’m Mr. Westley. This is Miss Holderness and-”

  “I’m Dash,” said the young man. “Mr. Dash.” He looked pleased with the name he’d given himself.

  “Are you the people who contacted us using the quantum computer?”

  Mr. Westley nodded. “For many years, we’ve been trying to communicate with your world. Finally, you reached the level of technology that could pick up the messages we sent across the barriers.”

  “We wanted a Traveler,” Miss Holderness explained. “But we didn’t know if they still existed in your world.”

  “And you call yourself gods?”

  “We are the gods of this reality,” Mr. Westley said. “There are more of us, but we three were given the task of meeting you.”

  “In my world, we have a different image of God. He’s a powerful force who knows everything.”

  “We know about everything that goes on in our Republic,” Miss Holderness said. “The computers track every negative thought and sign of rebellion.”

  Mr. Dash looked annoyed. “And we’re powerful as gods. If we gave the right order, half the population would kill the other half.”

  “But God is…” Michael hesitated, not knowing how to finish the statement. If he thought about God, he pictured the man with the white beard painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. “God is immortal.”

  The three half gods glanced at each other, and Michael sensed that death was a sensitive topic.

  “Our power isn’t dependent upon an individual being,” Mr. Westley said. “If one of us disappears, a new god is chosen from the guardian class. Mr. Dash is our newest recruit.”

  “The faithful never see us directly,” Miss Holderness said. “Sometimes we punish citizens who have prayed every day and followed all our laws. People fear us because they can’t predict our actions.”

  “But you didn’t create this world,” Michael said. “You’re not-”

  “Of course we created the world,” Miss Holderness said. “Ask anyone who lives here. They’ll tell you that we placed the three suns in the sky and made the spark grow in the waterfields.”

  Mr. Dash was getting angry. “God is whatever is worshiped. Perhaps you are a Traveler, but you seem rather ignorant about religion.”

  “There’s no reason for an argument,” Mr. Westley said with a soothing voice. “Michael has never been to our world and he still doesn’t understand our system.”

  “I’m sure he’s tired and hungry.” Miss Holderness turned to the others. “Aren’t we going to feed him?”

  “An excellent idea.” Mr. Westley pulled a black disc out of his shirt pocket and pressed one corner. There was a humming sound directly behind Michael. When he turned around, he saw sections of the floor open like an elaborate trap door. Slowly, a black metal platform with furniture on it was raised up from a lower level.

  The three half gods guided Michael over to benches surrounding a glass table covered with plates of food. The various slices and salads looked like different kinds of vegetables, but Michael wasn’t sure. Everyone sat down, and Mr. Dash mixed water and a blue liquid in a gold drinking bowl.

  “We’ve had Travelers visit us as long as we have recorded our history,” Mr. Westley said. “Some of the Travelers were only here for a brief time. Others, like Plato of Athens, stayed and learned from us.”

  “We started out with three divisions of society: workers, soldiers and rulers,” Miss Holderness said. “At a certain point, our ancestors introduced a series of
myths to justify our system. The first myth is that there is a fundamental reason for our three divisions. The faithful servants are the arms and legs of the Republic. The militants are the heart and the guardians are the head.”

  “I heard the same story from a servant in the waterfields,” Michael said.

  Miss Holderness looked pleased. “Our ancestors also created a wonderful story where everyone is imprisoned in a cave, gazing at shadows on the wall. Only we gods can leave the cave and truly see the light.”

  “The myth justifies our existence,” Mr. Westley said. “The major threat to stability is when people think and act freely. With a hierarchy of consciousness, you can say that anyone’s perception is foolish-or blasphemy.”

  “The men you executed were called heretics.”

  “The most significant challenge to stability is the perverse impulse toward freedom. You can’t control this desire for freedom entirely with threats and punishments; it’s more effective if you teach people to doubt the reality of their own perceptions. When the system is working correctly, they censor themselves.”

  Mr. Dash finished mixing the water and the blue liquid. He drank first and handed the bowl to Mr. Westley. The older man drank, and then handed the bowl to Miss Holderness, who took several swallows and gave the bowl to Michael. All three half gods were silent, watching him. Mr. Dash sat on the edge of his couch as if he expected an unpleasant surprise.

  Michael raised the bowl and took a sip of the turquoise-colored liquid. It had a slightly bitter taste, but when he swallowed, he felt warmth spread through his body. He decided that it must be alcohol or something like that. At least they weren’t trying to poison him.

  “The guardian who brought me here said you can track anyone wearing a red collar.”

  “There are a variety of other ways to monitor the population,” Miss Holderness said. “The militants watch the servants. The guardians watch the militants. And we make sure the guardians aren’t organizing some kind of rebellion.”