It was unheard of, a first in the long history of the embattled world. The president of Luracayn, the new king of Kamir, and the new grand premier of Sethii all sat down at the enormous table in the lavish Ceremonies Room of the Luracaynian Capitol. There was a huge crowd gathered, dignitaries and press from all the nations of the world, looking on as the course of events took a hard left turn, changing all their lives forever. All eyes were on Paull Shass.
No one in the audience really knew the names of the other two men. It did not matter.
The room looked like a combination of the Hall of Congress and a grand throne room suited for the coronation of kings. T. G. wore formal purple robes and sat in an assigned box next to the one shared by Sereen Shass and Cordan Barthos. Tonie sat next to him, also wearing her most colorful finery, her hair elegantly styled. T. G. cut a sideward glance at Barthos, who sensed it and smiled back, raising his little finger in the Noronian equivalent of a thumbs-up sign. The press was everywhere, taking photos and transmitting the event live, by simulight, to all the world.
A trio of aides, one from each nation, brought a circular, cut-crystal disc some two feet in diameter into the room. It glinted blue in the chandelier light, catching and holding it somehow, creating a glowing effect that was breathtaking. Those in the room broke into applause and rose to their feet at the sight, an ovation that lasted a full minute. The disc was then set upon a velvet drape before the first of the three leaders, who sat side by side at the huge table that dominated the center of the room.
The first man picked up a metal stylus and began to sign his name upon the disc A bright orange light flared at the point where silver met crystal, scribing his signature indelibly onto its surface. Both disc and stylus were then passed to the man to the right, who repeated the act, then sat back as the final leader of the three—the man of the moment—readied himself for his turn.
Shass picked up the stylus. Pausing dramatically as he looked upon the document scribed into the face of the disc, his face a solemn mask, he brought the stylus up and signed his name in the appropriate place.
And became something new, something Noron had never had before.
Prime Lord of all the world.
Instantly, the room broke into wild applause, a standing ovation that sent chills up T. G.’s spine. The significance of the moment was overwhelming, the drama palpable. Shass rose to his feet.
The whole world of Noron applauded its single, sovereign leader. Its first.
All trade barriers, with the final signature, fell. All national borders opened. All armies of all nations became one. All loyalties merged into one, and one alone. There was only one world. There was only one law. There was only one people.
Sereen Shass, beneath her crimson veil, wept tears of pride. Barthos applauded loudest of all, it seemed. T. G. and Tonie lauded the new world leader too, as the thunder continued. Shass saluted the gathered assembly, then spoke a few carefully selected words.
“My friends,” he began, pausing a moment for the applause to fall silent, “this day has dawned on a new world, one unlike that of our fathers … a world of unity, and prosperity, and very soon, peace.”
A new round of applause sounded. T. G. looked around the room, soaking in the sight of the people as they honored their miracle man. He felt pride for the part he had played and would continue to play as Noron continued toward the full realization of its Awakening. He saw that many of the lower class were present, a representative group chosen by the Prime Lord’s publicity staff to show the world that he was serious about eradicating the class system, making opportunity and resources available to all.
“We have plotted a new course, a new destiny, a new purpose. Soon, through a system of public participation that will quickly come to full realization, you, too, will become a critical part of the drama that now unfolds before us. The class system we have known—a great wall that has thrown a shadow upon the people of this world for long enough—will be abolished. I promise you now … I will lead you into a new dawn of joy and plenty beyond your greatest hopes.”
New applause arose. As T. G. stood adding his manual praise to that of those all around him, he realized that it would most likely be a very long speech—and nature was calling. He turned to Tonie.
“I need to take care of something,” he said, trying to be heard above the roar. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She nodded.
T. G. passed the Watchers standing just within the doors of the Ceremonies Room and walked out into the surrounding concourse, heading toward the closest restroom. The concourse was empty since all were inside the hall, enjoying their former president’s finest moment to date. A new thunder of applause boomed from within the marble walls, signifying another wondrous promise made by Shass, and T. G. smiled as he realized that politics were politics, whatever planet one was on.
He entered the large, opulent restroom. More like a hotel suite than a sanitary facility, it reflected the upper-class view of nonmoderation in all things. A small flowering garden with a trickling fountain was set to one side of the large high-ceilinged room, the sky stretching wide and ever-pink beyond the angled skylight above. A row of marble basins lined the wall to his right, and as he passed them, making his way toward the privacy stalls at the back of the room, he looked into the wall-length mirror above them.
Local boy makes good, he thought, looking upon his reflection. A kid from New York becomes a prophet and government official on another world—imagine. Happens every day.
It had taken him months to get used to the Noronian concept of a toilet. Within a stall, he hung his robe upon a hook, then looked at the reason he had come into the room in the first place. It was not so much a seat as a saddle, something to be mounted rather than sat upon or stood before. Porcelain, metal, and stone, the toilet was as cold as any toilet seat on Earth—that was one constant T. G. could have done without.
Finished, he once again wrapped himself in his robes, washed his hands in the warm flowing water of one of the basins, then dried them and headed back out into the concourse, toward the Ceremonies Room. No sooner had he stepped out of the restroom than he saw a renewal, the first he had seen in months, no more than ten feet away. He stopped, watching as it passed, waiting for the inevitable terrifying reaction.
It had the appearance of a child, a little girl dressed in the common robes of the lower class, and it clutched a worn, ragged doll. Its face bore an innocence that was obscene, considering its true nature. It made its way slowly past, in no hurry, headed toward the doors of the Ceremonies Room, where it apparently was a part of one of the attending lower-class families.
It turned and looked at T. G., never breaking stride. He held his breath and braced for what would surely come next—but no evil, glaring eyes burned through him. No shrill, Hell-born scream filled his ears.
It smiled at him.
T. G., stunned and bewildered, watched as the translucent child-thing walked casually away. It entered the Ceremonies Room, and as it passed through the momentarily open door of the chamber, another explosion of acclaim sounded.
T. G., his mind already struggling, barely heard it.
Why? Why didn’t it …?
And then, he knew.
No! How could I have … no!
His mind raced. Driven almost by instinct, he ran toward the elevators and pressed his palm against the summoning plate. Seconds later, the car arrived and he lunged into it, hurriedly pressing the destination panel inside. The doors closed—too slowly.
“Come on!” he quietly screamed.
Then he was on his way. Not up, toward his office far above, but down. Down toward the parking area, where his car waited. In mere moments, the antigravity elevator carried him past hundreds of other levels, toward that which he sought. But as the door opened, he froze.
No, not the car. They’ll know …
He stood motionless, picturing his house, trying to shift there. In a panic, he caught himself and stopped, his heart pounding.
If you shift, they’ll know!
Breathing heavily, he pressed the command plate again and the elevator fell a few levels farther, moved sideways for a while, then dropped once more before coming to a stop. His heart pounded in his throat as he entered a security code. Will it still work? Do they know?
T. G. breathed a sigh of relief as the door obediently and uneventfully opened once again, and as he cautiously stepped out into a wide familiar foyer of deep-red marble he began to believe he would make it. His reflection alone danced in the polished stone all around him as he moved—no one else was there. A warm light splashed upon him from directly ahead, and with his heart pounding he ran toward it. His heels sounded loudly, too loudly, against the cool floor as he dashed forward. Someone might hear! Without slowing, he slammed into a wide glass-and-metal door, shoving it open as he spilled out into the light.
And onto the street.
He ran anew, headed toward the massive and distant city wall. In planning the proposed law enforcement grid, he had come to know the layout of the streets, the general arrangement of the city, the areas to avoid. Block after block fell behind him.
How could I have done this?
The streets were crowded as always. They were less imposing by daylight, but he knew that danger waited everywhere. He would have to be careful.
How could I have been so stupid?
The high oxygen content and doubled barometric pressure of the Noronian atmosphere helped him, allowing him to run farther and with less fatigue than he ever could have on Earth. His legs did not cramp. His lungs did not ache—not yet. He remembered his frantic run through the woods of Colorado, David at his side, and he knew that the danger now facing him was greater. Much greater. Lethally so.
Shass was into the final stanzas of his speech almost an hour after it had begun. It had gone well. The world was in his pocket.
Barthos had noticed T. G.’s departure, and the still-empty seat worried him. He made his way over to the waist-high divider that separated his box from that to his right and leaned toward Tonie.
“Where’s T. G.?” he asked quietly.
“I do not know,” she answered, also in a low tone. “He said he would be right back, but that was a long time ago.”
Barthos turned his head toward one of the Watchers at the door, then nodded and pointed, indicating the concourse beyond. The man understood and immediately left the room.
Another round of applause. Barthos returned to stand before his seat and joined the ovation, yet his eyes remained fixed, unmoving, upon the door.
T. G. had been running for hours, weaving his way through the maze that was Keltrian. He was astonished that he had gotten so far without incident.
He made his way along one of the city’s secondary streets, knowing that the high city wall was still many miles away. Beyond lay open wilderness and dense forest. And cover.
A place he could stop and think.
He moved carefully, huddled over, trying to stay out of sight of the masses all around him. It was vital that he remain unrecognized by the ghostly renewals in particular, for he realized that one sighting might immediately flash his position to those from whom he fled. Whenever possible, he moved through the city’s underground tunnel complexes, where power links and sewer lines were run, but he found them more populated by the itinerant than he had expected and had to move carefully to avoid detection.
The tunnels were ancient and mazelike, a dank, subterranean puzzle that made it difficult for T. G. to keep his bearings. As he moved quickly and quietly along, he smelled something ahead, something unusual for a sewer—not the usual oppressive, heavy scent of the synthecrete and steel tunnel, but that of a backyard barbecue. For a moment, pleasant memories of summer cookouts filled his mind. A pall of smoke hung high in the air, hugging the ceiling, stinging his eyes. Carefully, he rounded a bend in the sewer and came upon a scene that both sickened and horrified him. As he hid in the deep shadows, his body pressed against the wet, slime-coated wall, he saw a group of disheveled men and women huddled among several small fires, preparing their meals.
They were working to dismember several human bodies. Using small flameblades, the ghouls were portioning them out, muscle and sinew and organs, to those excitedly gathered to watch. Small, drum-contained fires flared beneath ragged metal grids, providing grills upon which much of the ravaged flesh was cooking. Some ate greedily as others prepared their portions, their demented eyes glistening wetly in the firelight. Knee-high piles of grinning skulls and stripped, gnawed bones littered the tunnel all around them and well beyond, a silent testimony to the horror that had befallen hundreds of fallen, forgotten people.
T. G. fought the bile rising in his throat as he backed away, into the darkness. He doubled back some fifty feet down the tunnel before choosing another route that appeared to end in a narrow shaft of pinkish light, far ahead and above. Horrified, he now longed for daylight as never before—he had no desire to end his career on Noron as an entrée. Making his way up the first access ladder he came upon, he found himself in an open alleyway, where he wearily fell back against a wall and grabbed a moment of rest. Several deep breaths helped to clear the disgusting smoke from his lungs, but he could still smell it on his skin and robes. He yearned for a shower.
After a brief interval, he covered his head with the tattered remnants of a cloak he found discarded in the alley and pressed on, keeping his face out of sight, hoping to attract no attention at all.
He was not so lucky.
Running at full stride, he rounded a corner. In a blur of frenzied motion he was slammed violently and without warning against the dense stone wall of an abandoned storage building. Dazed, he fell hard to the ground, landing awkwardly upon a jumbled tangle of broken machinery and garbage. Losing his grip on the cloak as he fell, he saw two men towering over him, their expressions angry, their fists clenched. Both were well over seven feet tall.
“All right, chuni,” one of the men growled. “We have watched you sneaking along for the last couple of blocks … what are you hiding under that robe? Give it up! Now!”
“What?”
“Nobody moves like that unless they are carrying something they want to keep. Give it to me!”
He shuddered at the phrase. Falling back a few steps, he brought his arm up, pointing it at the men, fingers spread. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he warned shakily. “Leave now …”
The men laughed. “What are you going to do to us?” one asked, feigning fear and stepping closer.
T. G. tensed the muscles in his arm and waited for the aching cold, the searing heat. And waited.
And waited.
The men were upon him in a second, their fists pounding him. As T. G. again fell to the ground, one of the assailants ripped the cloak away, revealing that he carried nothing of value. “Nice clothes on this one, eh, Rodlan?” he asked, rifling T. G. for anything he might be carrying. “Looks like a rich one.”
“Well?” the other impatiently asked. “What does he have on him?”
“Nothing!” the man said in frustration. “It is just a stupid chuni!”
The other man landed a few final punches and threw T. G. to the ground once more, tearing the bleeding man’s clothes in the process. The two brutes then turned and walked away, laughing.
“If your robes fit me, I would take them,” one threatened, dismissing T. G. with a wave of his hand. “But since you are just a chuni, I am feeling generous today. Next time, you are dead!”
Finally alone, T. G. rolled painfully onto his knees, then braced himself against the wall and rose to his feet. Picking up the cloak, he wiped the blood from his mouth and nose and stood for a moment, breathing heavily, arranging his robes.
Why didn’t it work? he wondered. Didn’t I hold my arm right?
After several minutes of standing there in pain and humiliation, wondering if he would see a friendly face ever again, he made sure the coast was clear and headed back out into the streets.
For a day and a half he pressed on, running and hiding, staying in the shadows and remaining as invisible as possible. He found water at a small public fountain and drank until his intense thirst died away. The sun set and darkness fell upon the city, creating new shadows for him to hide in. Hours passed, each moment holding the threat of new danger. Finally, after cutting down a last, confusing network of cluttered alleys, he came to one of the many gates in the towering city wall and passed outside. The darkness gave him the cover he needed—the sun would not rise for almost two hours.
Outside the gate, he left the road at once, cutting across a grassy meadow toward the dense forest in the distance. The grass grew deeper and thicker as he got farther from the busy road, but he struggled on, having to raise his knees higher as he ran.
The forest loomed closer, towering over him like a cluster of green skyscrapers. He knew there were probably animals in there that would very much like to eat a little earthling, but he also knew that nothing in there could be worse than what lay behind him. He pressed on, passing the first of the towering trees, into the deeper darkness of the tropical timberland.
He stopped to rest at a point deep enough that he was sure he could not be seen. Breathing heavily, leaning against a tree trunk, he peered between the trunks behind him and scanned the clearing between himself and the city. No one followed.
The last time he had found himself running through the woods, he had not been alone. Now he had no knowledgeable friend to fall back upon, no seasoned woodsman whose experience might mean the difference between life and death. David, I sure could use your help right now …
He turned and ran deeper into the thick growth, the sounds of his breathing and his footsteps pounding in his ears.