The GoldenCity

“So this is what I’m proposing-not a prison of sullen, unproductive prisoners, but an interconnected structure that creates obedient workers and trained consumers. This world-wide system will guarantee more money and comfort for yourself and your family. We’ll get the stability of the old Panopticon-with a happy face.”

Most of the Brethren were smiling and nodding. Mrs. Brewster turned her head back and forth as she watched her influence melt away.

“My plan can become a reality if we don’t waste our resources on limited strategies. Instead of waiting for people to join the system, we need to create a worldwide sequence of threats and emergencies that impels citizens to voluntarily give up their freedom. And why would they do this? That’s easy to answer. Because we’ve turned them into children scared of the dark. They will be desperate for our help, terrified of a life outside their cubicle filled with predators and danger.

“We can achieve this goal in a few years if we’re ruthless enough to consider every option. We need strength, not diplomacy. We need leadership, not committees. We need to stand up and say: ‘No more half-measures. No compromises. We’re going to do everything necessary to create a better world.’

“I stand before you as a faithful servant: ready to obey your orders and create your vision. This isn’t a dream that might come true. What I have described this evening is an inevitable reality… if you’re ready for this next step. All it needs is your approval and support. Thank you.”

Michael bowed his head slightly, folded up the speech and slipped it into his pocket. The room was completely quiet, but he avoided looking at the audience.

One person began clapping-slow, insistent-and others joined in. The sound grew louder as it echoed off the walls of the cloisters. When he glanced up from the podium, he saw that Mrs. Brewster was staring at him. Her hands were clenched and mouth was a tight red line.

She’s the first to die, Michael decided. I need to start a list.

19

Wearing a paper hospital gown, Maya sat on the edge of an examination table at a walk-in medical clinic in East London. A collection of dog-eared magazines was stuffed into a wall rack near the sink, but she had no desire to read about The Secrets Men Won’t Tell You and the One-Week Bikini Diet.

When Maya and the others returned to London, she still felt a burning pain from the leg wound she had received in the First Realm. The clinic staff cleaned the wound, checked the stitches she had received from a Cairo doctor and gave her prescriptions for antibiotics and pain pills. For the last twelve days she had been recovering at Tyburn Convent. The Benedictine nuns had served her bland food while they whispered variations of the word-rest. Well, she had rested enough, and nothing had changed. The wound was still bleeding, and images from Hell still floated through her dreams.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon and the sounds of the busy clinic filtered through the walls. Doors were pulled open and slammed shut. Someone pushed a squeaky cart down the hallway while two nurses gossiped about a man named Ronnie.

Maya ignored this background noise and concentrated on the screaming child in the next room. It seemed obvious that someone was deliberately hurting the child. Maya’s clothes and sword carrier were hanging from a hook on the door; her knives were in her shoulder bag. She should get dressed, walk into the next room, and kill the torturers.

One part of her mind knew she was thinking like a crazy person. This is a clinic. The doctors are here to help people. But a dark compulsion made her slip off the table and take a step toward the weapons. As she reached out to touch the sword carrier, the screaming stopped, and Maya heard the child’s mother talking about a dish of ice cream. She heard footsteps in the hallway. The door popped open and Dr. Amita Kamani entered the room. The young physician had trimmed her hair since Maya’s last visit to the clinic, and she was wearing a pink T-shirt beneath her white lab coat that read: Children Are Our Future.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Strand. So how’s the cut doing? All healed up?”

“See for yourself.”

Dr. Kamani pulled on some latex gloves, sat down on a stool near the table, and began to unwrap the bandage around Maya’s leg. One of the nuns at Tyburn Convent had put on a fresh bandage about two hours ago, but it was already sodden with blood. When Dr. Kamani peeled the gauze off, she could see that the stitches still held, but scar tissue had not appeared.

“This is not a normal healing response. You should have come in earlier.” Dr. Kamani dropped the bandages into a trash bin. She opened a cabinet, took out disinfectant and surgical cotton, and began to clean the wound. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe the pain?”

“A burning sensation.”