by Archer Swift
Chapter 40
Even though the underground tunnel made our journey so much quicker than an on-the-ground march through the thick, untamed jungle, it was still a very long way. I realised the distance to the Shadow Valleys was shorter than the thirty treks we had assumed, but cajoled and harassed; tied up as we were, it took us well over three hours to get to our destination.
Xakanic grew frustrated by the end, bemoaning the sheer uselessness of the human species, and that our eradication would rid the universe of another poorly developed, weak constituent. Needless to say, his belly-aching did not make the hike any easier to bear.
But then we arrived. And the unending sameness of the tunnel, the headache inducing glow of the purple lighting, and the fear of our inevitable demise gave way to the splendour and grandeur and magnificence of a jewelled city.
I was the first human to exit the tunnel behind a proud, chest-thumping Xakanic still riding high on his own glory, and the shoulder-hoisted platform.
“Behold, the City of Zika!” he announced to himself. “A suitable reflection of my own fame and…”
I didn’t catch the rest of his self-exalting declaration; instead, my eyes gorged on the breathtaking sights that greeted them.
A colossal cover of sorts, an opaque, glass-like dome stretching north, south, east and west as far as my eyes could see, blotted out the sky and the sun. Similar to the sunshields that enclosed Earth’s last cities; still, my mind reeled, and questions raced to the surface.
It’s absolutely … ginormous! But why can’t we see it from camp? Maybe it reflects the light somehow?
The magnificent dome was adorned with brilliant purple, blue, green and red crystals—exactly the same shape as the purple lights that had lit up our Gathering Place earlier—only brighter and bigger. These orbs hung suspended at different heights, all higher than a hundred strides in the air, defying gravity, sparkling like stars above. Even without any natural light, it seemed as vivid as noonday … only with a softer, more colourful hue. And a delightful, scented aroma filled my nose; leaving me feeling dizzy.
Incense? A similar scent to what I smelt on Miltredic.
“Beautiful, is it not?” purred the Ruler of Zika. I realised he was looking at the wonder etched on my face. My response, a small assenting grunt gurgled in my throat—coherent words trapped in my swollen gorge. “See!” he continued brazenly. “My creation, even more beautiful than the sun and the moon. Come!”
Based on our positioning under the covering canopy I knew we had popped up somewhere in the middle of the city. Even so, it was clear that the city was built above the marshy valley floor, which I could catch glimpses of, some ten strides below. Though modernistic and highly-developed, the city was an immense, glorified “tree-house” megalopolis, built into the willow-like trees that presumably acted as part of the founding structure of the awe-inspiring metropolis … a city concealed in the shadows of the valley lands.
The highways and byways of interconnecting streets, including the one I was hauled along, were wide and possibly made of wood, although they seemed as firm and solid as concrete. A network of rope-like vines criss-crossed the streets some five strides above, giving the Zikalic two avenues of travel.
The streets and vines were relatively busy with the city’s denizens moving in all sorts of directions, doing whatever they did at this time of the day. Only one or two noticed our arrival at this point.
Before us loomed a massive arena reminiscent of pictures I had seen of sport stadiums on Earth. Only more primal, more daunting.
Yes, a little like that ancient arena in Rome before the Oil War turned Europe into rubble.
I had never seen a sport event before, sports and athletics had long been abandoned by the time I was born. With Earth on the verge of a meltdown, all I had to go on were books and some old Digi-Holo footage my parents gave me, connecting me to a day when sport was an Earth-luxury.
When my hands were jerked forward by my Zikalic shackles, I realised that I was dawdling; it was clear that Xakanic was marching us straight into the arena.
His Great Arena awaits … and our demise.
Just as I heard the clatter and rattle of the next humans entering the city, some thirty strides behind me, their unbridled expressions of wonder and awe at the sight of the City carrying easily to me through the fragrant, windless air; suddenly, from all directions, the Zikalic people appeared in their droves. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with sweet air, trying to muster some resolve from the embers of my charred despondency.
Xakanic bellowed in his astringent native tongue, and whatever he said, the people’s response was one of cheering and clapping and laughing and even foot stomping. Feet-cum-hand stomping? While Xakanic soaked up the applause directed his way, I felt like a herded animal whose life existed merely to amuse—which, of course, I was.
Excitable Zikalic thronged on either side of us forming a gauntlet through which we had to trudge the humiliating stretch from the exit of the tunnel to the Great Arena, some three or four hundred strides in length. I looked around to see at least a hundred humans had exited the tunnel, spilling into the street like a broken riverbank; the whites of their gawking eyes catching the predominant purple glow, making them look zombie-like. Our collective fear and trepidation were tangible, and I caught myself before I retched.
Taking deep breaths to preserve my sanity, I espied the faces of Judd and Matthew near the front of the ‘human herd,’ Ruzzell and Sarah towards the middle. No sign of Gellica. There were still more than two hundred people underground.
Please God, let her be alive.
The initial wonder that had illuminated the countenance of my people had quickly melted in the face of the hordes of Zikalic—men, women and children—who openly scorned us with brutal disdain. Knowing our language, they spat out words like puny, ugly, pathetic and scrawny to describe us. While humiliating, the words that really punished us were words like death, torture, pain, and Mizumba food—phrases we knew presaged our fate in the arena itself.
The Zikalic wore garishly colourful attire limited in the most part to purple, green, red and blue. I found the appearance of their children cute, even beautiful, and the women attractive—in Zikalic terms that is. However, the men were ugly, hideous: their bigger facial features excessively out of proportion, but none of them nearly as grotesque as Xakanic. And only one or two that I could see were significantly over five feet tall. At over six feet, Xakanic was indeed a freak in every way.
I looked for a friendly, concerned face among the Zikalic who mocked us, but found none. With the colour of their eyes burning a reddish purple, their expressions communicated only contempt and ridicule. Where were the many Shumbalic claimed were sympathetic to our cause? Had they all been arrested? Perhaps the sympathy they articulated in theory had now been abandoned when we needed it expressed in practice.
The emptiness of good intentions?
Then I caught a glimpse. Just the briefest of sights before I was pulled through the giant main entrance of the Great Arena; cutting off all view of the Zikalic throng and the city itself.
A timid face in the crowd.
A hesitant human face.
A pet, a Zikalic pet.
A young woman with a quaint visage dressed and dolled up with excessive, droll makeup of sorts.
I had caught her gaze for just a second, before she hid her face in shame.
