The GoldenCity

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 guardians 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.