Munoz
Munoz felt his shoulders tense with anticipation as the sand skimmer neared the crest of the dune. On the other side, the City of the Dead was waiting for him. This trip would be his third and final annual inspection. Construction was finished. It felt like only yesterday that he'd walked these sands with Dane Wyland and tasted the first draw of cool, clear water from the wells, but he knew it wasn't. Tomorrow, the first of the five thousand clients would arrive and in-vaulting would commence. He leaned forward and tapped his driver on the shoulder.
"Stop here," he commanded. The craft settled to the sand and Munoz climbed out. "Wait—I'll be right back."
A sense of destiny flooded his mind as he overlooked the expanse of simple white buildings some two hundred and fifty feet below him. A mighty wheel it seemed, its turning paused but for a moment on the desert sands: a seven story central building formed the hub, the freezing vaults the spokes, and the perimeter walkway the rim.
A faint popping sound echoed up the dune and his gaze turned toward the western edge of the city where a thousand tents still sprawled across the sand, their sidewalls snapping in the desert wind. He filled his eyes with the sight. Before the week was out, only the cube-shaped freezing vaults and a handful of caretakers would remain as testimony to Dane Wyland's engineering feat. He nodded with satisfaction. The man was indeed a gifted engineer. Turning back, he made his way to the skimmer and a moment later the vehicle glided to a stop before the compound's central building.
Climbing the four broad steps that encircled the building like a wide-banded bracelet, he stared upward. Bronze doors, flanked by soaring columns, extended nearly two stories. On the columns, carved in bass relief, a gigantic balance scale. The left dish held a vase, the right a feather. Across the squared topline, the fulcrum stretched. A fitting design, he thought. The scales of Maat to weigh the hearts of those who go through these doors.
Turning slowly, he stared down cut stone walkways lined with vault cubes. He chuckled to himself. A true diplomat, his engineer. By refusing to allow cube adornments of any kind, Wyland had neatly sidestepped grumbled claims of status discrimination. Only the surname and an identification number inscribed over the door of each tomb separated one from the other.
His gaze came back to the columns and fixed on the right hand dish with its carved feather; he hesitated an infinitesimal second before entering the coolness of the control center.
Across the room, three women and seven men looked up from flashing control boards. A tall young man strode forward with his hand outstretched.
"Your Holiness! We didn't expect you until tomorrow."
"My schedule changed." Munoz shook Dane's hand. "I have to be in San Francisco tomorrow, which doesn't leave me as much time as I would like for inspection, but I did want to see the finished product before arrivals begin."
"I understand. Shall we start here, then?"
As they strolled from board to board, Dane briefly explained the vault operation, pointed out the check monitors, and introduced each staff member. The Pontiff listened politely. Wyland had built the plant. He would naturally be confident, but Munoz wanted to hear that same confidence echoed by the staff. Only then would he be ready to entrust his Plan to this endeavor.
"Any problems with the freezing controls?" he spoke to a slight, freckle-faced man.
"No, sir. Working perfectly," the man answered.
"If the grid supply should fail?"
"The sun is our only power source, Holiness," Dane said. "Once the collectors were filled, this plant became self perpetuating and self regulating. If the sun disappeared today, it would take a hundred years for the collectors to empty and the vaults to cease operating."
"We've thrown every conceivable test we can think of into the lines," the freckle-faced man said. "This baby doesn't lose a byte—corrects faster than we can throw."
"Yeah," another chimed in. "It's as if it knows what we're thinking before we do."
Munoz smiled at the arrant enthusiasm. "I would say Our dollars were well spent then." His smile faded as he glanced down a long corridor at open doors. Striding toward the first door, he poked his head around the jamb, and surveyed the immaculate porcelain equipment, the spotless marble floors.
"Where's the medical staff?" he called over his shoulder, making his way to the next door.
"Sleeping," a brown haired woman answered. "They worked most of the night on the final preparations, making sure that our supply inventory is sufficient, that the sterilizers are working at full capacity, and that the tanks are set up and drawing properly.
Munoz turned to the engineer. "Excellent job," he said. "Excellent."
"Thank you, Holiness. I'm glad it meets with your approval."
"Your first group, they arrive when?"
"Eight o'clock tomorrow morning." Dane pointed a finger upward. "They'll be housed in the private suites on the floors above. Would you like to see those, too?"
Munoz looked at his watch. "Afraid not. My time here has just run out. Although this project is finished, your contract with Us has not yet expired and you may be able to solve a rather perplexing problem for Doctor Raborman, Our Director at Tartarus. With that in mind, I will expect you to join me at the Foundation in San Francisco once you have the freeze routine established here. Let's say—one week?"
"One week! Holiness, we have seven hundred—"
"Your staff is not competent?"
"Of course. They're more than capable," Dane answered.
"Good. One week should give you ample time to prepare then. Bring the plans for this building with you." He cast a cursory glance around the huge room. "I may want to make a few changes."
Dane nodded.
Munoz put on his sunglasses and exited into the harsh glare of the desert sun. As the bronze doors closed behind him he heard the young man giving his staff the rest of the day off for a well-deserved rest. Their joking comments told him that they not only respected their boss, but also liked him. When the time came for Wyland's replacement, the Pontiff would have to keep that in mind.
Before climbing into the waiting skimmer, he took one last look around the city compound. Seven hundred and fifty registrants would be arriving over the next two weeks. Within the year, all five thousand vaults would be filled with the wealthiest, most influential citizens in the world. How easy it had been to get their reservations. He had promised to give them exactly what they wanted—power. And power they would have.
His.