Josan lay on his bed in the dim quiet of his room, staring into the shadows. His mind was burdened and unfocused, a haze of doubt and anger.
The Voice in the Dark had been taken from them. Like scattered sheep in the presence of wolves, the Disciples of Truth were frightened and unsure. For the first time in more than two years, they were without the spiritual leader they had awaited for almost five thousand. A regrouping would now be needed, a rethinking of the strategies they had so carefully and so successfully put into action. All they had done had hinged upon the Dovo Kosi, whose very existence had been the one tangible proof of the validity of the Truth and its prophecies.
Now that credibility was utterly gone. To the eyes of the world, the Prime Lord had become the victor in the war for the soul of Noron. On worldwide simulight, the forces of Drosha, Shass, and the Dark had proven themselves the stronger faith before billions of those who had been undecided or wavering in the placement of their trust.
Josan tried to suppress the anger he felt toward the Creator. He struggled to understand what had been accomplished, to grasp the reasoning behind the torture and murder of the one man who had become the physical heart and soul of the true faith.
It simply made no sense.
Darafine knocked and entered the darkened cubicle. She, too, had questions, but while she did not have answers, she did have her faith. She began to reach for a lightplate beside the door.
“No,” Josan said. “Leave it off.” There was hardness in his voice.
“Andrel located the source of the signal,” she quietly said. “It is coming from a point in the far northeastern section of Luracayn, in the deep wilderness. There is an ancient fortress there … most likely that is the place we are seeing.”
“I just thought you would want to know.”
“It is too late,” he said, defeated.
“I know.” Her head hung low.
“It just does not serve the Creator for T. G. to die that way.”
“It would seem not,” she replied, closing the door behind her. “But we have to trust Ish. All things happen for a reason.”
Josan shook his head. “I have been over it again and again. Nothing I can think of makes his death more valuable than his continued life. Nothing.” He choked on the words. “And now they mock him by just leaving him hanging there … like a trophy. It is abominable … as if torturing and killing him were not enough.”
“Perhaps his death is an example to the rest of the world. There is no greater proof of love and commitment than to lay down one’s life for another … or for the Truth.”
“But in the eyes of the world, that expression of dedication comes at the expense of the Creator’s omniscience,” Josan replied.
“I know,” she said.
“This was supposed to be the Awakening. But most of the world is still asleep … and will never awaken now.”
“Many have been brought into the light.”
“And so many have died. Our friends in Jerithia. Then Pretsal. And now T. G.”
She walked over and sat beside him on the bed. “I miss them too,” she said, placing her hand gently upon his. Tears welled up, blurring her vision in the already darkened room. “But we have to believe that this is for the greater good. We must now dedicate ourselves that much more toward the establishment of the Truth throughout the entire world.”
“Our job has become about a thousand times harder.”
“This could never have come easily. You know that.”
“But this … it defies reason.”
“Our reason perhaps. But we do not think as the Creator does. We cannot see all things as He does. We have to be patient, Josan.”
He considered her words silently. It would take time to get used to the idea that things were not going to unfold as he had expected them to, for his anger and frustration to fade. The woman rose, placing her hand upon his once more in a gesture of reassurance.
She left him alone in the dark.
The lost rejoiced. Those whose eyes had been opened wept.
The sun set, and darkness descended. The mortal remains of the Voice in the Dark still hung by chains from the pillar. The ropes that had ended his life had been removed, and the beasts that had mindlessly done their part in the execution had been returned to their enclosures, leaving the courtyard empty save for the black obelisk and the still, tiny form upon it. Rigor mortis had come and gone. Lights flared into existence, throwing their glare upon the vanquished, unmoving figure, ensuring that all the world could see his broken body throughout the night.
On Shass’ order, the corpse was not to be removed from the pillar at the stroke of midnight following his death, as was the custom. It was instead to remain in place until the week had ended. The display was a gruesome show of power and utter disrespect, but it made a point to all the world.
The Truth was not worthy of common respect, let alone one’s faith.
Shass had declared a weeklong world holiday, for the threat of the Voice in the Dark had been removed from the face of Noron once and for all. The Prime Lord had also ordered that the image of the slain false prophet continue to fill simulight domes for the full duration of that week as a constant reminder of his victory. In homes and public places worldwide, in restaurants, businesses, and hospitals, the grotesque figure of the Voice’s crushed, still form was everywhere to be seen. Those of Shass drew reassurance from it. The billions who wavered in their beliefs were confused by it, for the powerful words of Truth they had heard no longer seemed to make much sense.
All across the surface of the planet, parties began and gifts were exchanged. Those who carried the implant and bore the mark of the Prime Lord were given a provision of free credit toward their purchases, and they praised their leader and his kind generosity. All of his people overindulged in drink and drugs and the pleasures of the flesh as they lost themselves in the morass of the single largest party the world had ever known.
The hundreds of millions who had followed the Voice, who had heard him and had dedicated their lives to the Creator of Whom he spoke, were sorely tested. Everywhere, their leader’s stilled, broken form hung for all to see.
Yet the believers were not alone. Their young faith, having had little time to grow and mature, was tempered by the hideous situation as if by fire. And in order that their faith be not utterly consumed by those same flames, they were strengthened against the relentless assault of the Dark until they could stand firmly in their knowledge of the Creator.
Their faith, callow though it was, would have to be resolute if they were to endure the still greater test to come.
One of the larger parties in Luracayn took place in the home of Celestte Gesbal, once the hostess for the celebration of Paull Shass’ miraculous recovery. Now she opened her home for a celebration of his ultimate ascension, after which all the world would be his to adore. Thousands came and went as the open-door affair dragged on with a depth of decadence remarkable even on Noron. Few were sober, and even fewer cared.
Celestte glided through the ballroom, seeing to it that her guests sated their every desire. She had brought in a simulight unit for every room, so that at all times her guests could be reminded of the wondrous reason for their carnal joy.
She paused and looked into the dome, wobbling slightly on her unsure feet. A smile crossed her rouged lips as she sipped her drink and gazed upon the remains of the bloodied, disfigured man, drawing extreme satisfaction from the sight. And to think, she maliciously considered, I once let that warped degenerate into this house.
As she watched, the image began to waver and break up. Another presence began to replace it, coalescing beneath the dome as a new signal clarified itself. It stabilized, forming a noble face with which all the world was familiar, a face that had not been seen in some time yet still carried a measure of authority. Celestte looked upon it, welcoming it into her home.
“Oh, my dear,” she said to the lovely image, “where are you? We’ve been so worried …”
“Prosperity, people of Noron,” the woman began, her eyes sharp, her face unveiled. “I am Sereen Shass, the wife of your Prime Lord. I have come to you to tell you that you have been deceived.”
The full attention of the room was upon the dome. Indeed, all over the world conversations and festivities came to a halt as the previously popular woman spoke.
“My husband, your Prime Lord, is a fraud. He has never had the best interests of the Noronian people at heart … he has always desired only power for himself on a level unmatched in our planet’s history. Now that he has gained this power, he seeks to use it to keep a stranglehold on the entire world. He is not divine, nor is he chosen. Please listen to me … I was not kidnapped or in any way coerced into leaving him last year, nor into speaking these words to you today. I left him when I learned of his government’s plan for controlling the people, and I sought the council of those I knew opposed him.
“The prophet who was put to death was true. His coming was foretold thousands of years ago in the Truth he returned to our world. I know this from firsthand experience.”
A loud murmur swept the party. Celestte pressed a switch and muted the sound coming from the simulight unit in the ballroom, then called out to her confused guests.
“Ignore her,” she said confidently. “She is obviously under duress, saying words prepared for her. I know Sereen, and she would never attack her husband in this way. We have seen the Prime Lord’s love for us, and we know what we know.”
The party resumed, starting again at a somewhat quieter level. Celestte turned back to the simulight dome and momentarily watched the soundless lips of the woman as she went on speaking. Sipping from her glass again, the hostess reached up and rubbed her temple, and felt the tiny scar there.
“Get her off of there!” Shass exploded.
“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Barthos said, watching the dome in the Prime Lord’s office at the World Capitol. “But we can control the damage once she has finished. She can’t speak for long without risking a trace, so she cannot say too much. Many will not hear her, and those who do will readily accept whatever explanation we give them.”
The dome broke into static for a moment as Sereen’s signal ceased and was again filled with the image of the dead prophet. She had spoken for only six minutes, but both Shass and Barthos knew that some level of damage had been done.
“Find her and kill her,” the Prime Lord ordered. “I do not care what it takes. Put every Watcher in the world on it if you have to! I want her dead before midnight tomorrow!”
“That may not be necessary. The Twelve and their followers must have no direction now and very little public support. Billions who had been undecided have surely come to worship you and will soon take the implant as a sign of their allegiance to Drosha and the Prime Lord she chose. If we let things take their natural course, now that the Truth has been diminished in the eyes of the people, those who still follow the message of the Voice will be driven into the open and exposed. There will no longer be any public sympathy for them. They will now be seen as deluded fools.”
“What if they try to steal the body? Perhaps we should have brought it back and put it on display here instead of leaving it in that courtyard.”
“Taking it would serve no purpose. The whole world saw him die. Any claim they might make that he wasn’t really dead would result only in mockery.” He gestured toward the simulight dome. “Besides, I left the fortress heavily guarded, and the whole world’s monitoring the body. No one could even make an attempt at it.”
“I want the worship of the entire world, Cordan,” Shass demanded. “If anyone breathes on this planet, he will do so with my mark on his head. I want the coming Feast of Rebirth to be the day I go before the people and tell them that every living soul on Noron is mine. I will not have my great name assailed in this fashion any longer … do you understand me?”
Barthos thought about that. “The Feast comes in just over two months. I don’t know … that isn’t a lot of time, Paull—”
“That is the way it will be, or I will replace you and bring in someone who can get the job done properly. Understand?” Shass sat at his desk, turning his attention to other matters. “You may go now.”
Seething, Barthos looked away. Perhaps now should be the time!
He wordlessly walked out of the Prime Lord’s office and headed down the corridor toward his own. Along the way, he toyed with an idea, and the more he thought about it the more it appealed to him.
Barthos took the elevator to the level four floors below that of the executive offices and stepped into the lobby of the Security Section. Walking casually to the door of the office of the Chief Watcher, he peered in and found the man eating dinner at his desk while the body of the Voice filled the simulight dome there. Barthos knocked on the doorframe, and the man spoke without even casting a glance in his direction.
“Yes, what do you want?” he demanded, his mouth full.
“Working late, I see,” Barthos smiled.
The Chief Watcher coughed and almost choked as he looked up and realized who he had addressed so gruffly. “Oh … uh, yes, Chancellor Barthos,” he said in a suddenly respectful tone, surprised that his superior had come to his office. “There is much to be done.”
“Very good. I want you to bring the girl prisoner up to my office. Have her there in exactly one hour … understood? Not one minute later. And once she is there, I am not to be disturbed for any reason.”
“Yes, Chancellor Barthos,” the man nervously answered, knowing that his superior was easily angered if kept waiting. “It will be as you say.”
“Yes, it will,” Barthos said, turning to leave. “Do not disappoint me.”
The chancellor headed back into the elevator. As the door closed, he thought of Jenni’s youth, her beauty, her vitality. Almost laughing aloud, he silently congratulated T. G. for his excellent taste in women.
When it came to human’s, Beltesha had always been partial to blondes.
“This is everything I can remember,” Sereen said, handing a sheet of paper to Josan. “The duty schedules were always strictly enforced by the Watchers. I was privy to many details of the security system, and these timetables dictated the placement of Paull’s top men.”
Josan scanned the handwritten sheet, Darafine at his side. “There may be a tiny window of opportunity,” he said, nodding and pointing to the paper. “Here … at this point. For almost ten minutes at the shift change. There will be only half as many guards in place. The chances are small, but it is all we have. If we can avoid raising suspicion and prevent direct conflict, so much the better.”
“What about the cameras?”
“If this is handled properly, they will not matter,” Josan stated.
“I cannot promise that these figures are still valid,” Sereen cautioned again.
“We will have to take the chance,” he replied, taking a deep breath. He looked at Darafine, gazing into her eyes. “This is far from certain. Yours is the final word. Do we risk bringing him in? Lives may be lost.”
“We do,” Darafine asserted. “We owe T. G. this much, at the very least.”
“And we bring him back here? Despite the risk? It could mean giving ourselves away again. We could lose everything, Darafine … and suffer a recurrence of what happened in Jerithia.”
“He belongs here,” she answered. “He is one of us.”
Jenni sat huddled in her detention cell, still utterly confused about her surroundings. Feeling cold, as she often did, her tattered sweater did little to keep her warm, and she wondered what had become of her long coat. She had convinced herself that everything happening around her was but a part of some strange nightmare, one from which she could not awaken.
It had to be. T. G. had died horribly before her eyes.
It had been a terrifying experience—the man she loved had been executed without reason or explanation. She had wept for him until she could no longer, hoping against hope that when the dream ended she could run to him and feel his arms around her and find him alive and well.
It had to be a dream!
Of course it was! Dinosaurs pulled those ropes! And since there are no dinosaurs, it must all be a dream! And these other people … they’re so big and their eyes are so weird and they speak so strangely!
The cell around her had to be unreal. It was so odd, more of a pit or an animal cage than a jail cell. The bars were up so high, as was the corridor floor beyond them. Reaching out, she touched the hard cold stone of the wall, and wondered at the solidity of her hallucination. The tiny blue light of the monitoring unit on the wall shone clearly. Are all dreams so vivid but I just can’t remember them? Will I forget this one as readily once I wake up?
It had to have been weeks since her arrival, she knew. Can a dream seem to cover weeks? Or months? Or years? Dreams make their own past, their own prior circumstances, she once had read. She longed for a shower and clean clothes and her own bed.
She tried to retrace her recent past, hoping to understand how she had come to be where she was, if indeed it was reality she was dealing with. She had solid memories of being on the way to T. G.’s apartment, of walking along in the cold New York autumn. She remembered hearing the roar of an airliner passing high overhead, above the cloud deck where she could not see its running lights. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at all—she loved to walk under the crisp night sky and think about things while the snow sparkled in the streetlights.
But then something odd had happened, she recalled. Nearing the Brookfelder Building, she was struck by how dark the structure was. No interior lights were visible. Seeing T. G.’s car in the parking lot, she had decided that he was home, that he had simply forgotten to call her that evening as he had said he would. It was not so unusual a thing; he had often gotten involved in projects or studies and had forgotten dates with her or other get-togethers with their friends.
She remembered climbing the wet, rock-salted steps to the tall, brass-trimmed door of the building. It had been left open, she remembered. But just as her hand had touched its frozen surface, there was a harsh gust of cold wind from just inside and a loud sound like horses stampeding across hard ground. Something had then swept her from her feet, something cold and brutal that carried her violently into a swirling darkness, and then—nothing. Did I fall? Am I unconscious and suffering a concussion? Am I still lying outside T. G.’s building? Am I in a hospital?
Her next awareness had been of being in the cell, where she had remained except for her brief trip to the fortress where T. G. was killed. They had tossed her around along the way, striking her a few times, but only as if to rough up her appearance. No one asked her any questions nor made any demands.
In the fortress chamber the night before, T. G. had looked so different to her somehow. Perhaps it was the robes he wore—she had rarely seen him in anything but jeans and a flannel shirt—or perhaps it was the way he carried himself, the authority with which he moved.
She thought back to the first time she and T. G. had met—in their elementary-school cafeteria. Walking past her as she ate her lunch at one of the tables, he had slipped on spilled milk and dumped a whole tray of spaghetti on her shoulder, ruining her new sweater. Had he not broken his arm as he hit the floor, she might have been angry with him.
Instead, it was love at first sight. Not that she told him that—one had to play the game, after all. A couple of days later, he had given her a card in the school hallway, apologizing for messing up her sweater. She was the first to sign his cast.
And the rest, as they say, was history.
She smiled at the memory. Those had been good times, with good friends and loving family. Her parents had practically adopted him as their own, well before the deaths of his own mother and father.
Other images then intruded upon her, shoving the kinder memories aside. She had watched him die, horribly and brutally. In her mind she again saw him there, tied to that horrid pillar, his blood running in rivulets from its base.
She shut out the image. That wasn’t real!
Jenni glanced at the empty food tray she had left on the bunk opposite her own. She had tasted and smelled the bread and the odd drumstick of a meat she could not identify. It seemed that all five senses were coming into play in her amazing dream, with stunning clarity.
Seeing no choice but to tolerate the obvious hallucination and ride it out, she sat on her huge cot and leaned back. Her attention was soon drawn by footsteps in the corridor outside, and she looked up to see a huge man in dark gray robes at the cell door, peering down at her.
He looks like Ed Asner, she realized. Now I know this is a dream.
The man pressed his palm against a plate on the door, and it silently swung open. He stepped into the eight-foot-high opening, filling it almost completely.
“Setah cree kuda et tuphesa,” he said, seemingly giving her an order. He did not shout but spoke with a quiet, determined authority as he gestured for her to come to him.
“What?” Jenni asked. “I don’t under—”
The man thundered into the cell, taking note of the active monitoring unit on the wall. Reaching down, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet.
“Hey!” Jenni defiantly shouted, pulling away. “What do you think you’re doing? I’m not going anywhere with you. I know this is a dream now, my dream, so I make the rules from here on out.”
The huge balding man looked at his timepiece, then with a sigh he fell back upon a second option. He reached into a pocket of his robe and produced a small gleaming sphere.
“What is that?” Jenni warily asked, backing away slightly.
In an instant, he had pressed the silver object against her neck. There was a small hissing sound. She fell into his arms.
The girl would not give him any more trouble. The guard effortlessly lifted her limp, sleeping form and carried her up the steps and out of the cell, closing the barred door behind him. He walked down the corridor of the minimum-security unit, nervously checking the time again. It was late. He had taken too long—much too long.
He knew that disappointing Barthos was less than wise and that his very life was at risk. But he had made a vow and had a job to do.
The Watcher carried her past the duty station, pausing momentarily to sign her out. The guard behind the desk, laughing at the sight of the girl over the man’s shoulder, pressed a jeweled plate and opened the door to the elevator lobby. Still chuckling, he watched as Jenni was carried away.
She was expected.