The hazy triangle of suns moved higher in the sky and one of the smaller machines left with its load of spark. Still squeaking and blowing off steam, the main crawler stopped beside a levee, and the harvesters stepped onto dry land. Near this resting point, someone had set up a large cone of hammered copper filled with clean water. Cups were attached to the cone with little chains. While the harvesters took turns with the cups, a young woman opened a sack and passed out small loaves of something that looked like bread. Michael took a loaf and bit off a piece of the end. The midday meal had a brownish-orange color and a coarse texture; it tasted like roasted hazelnuts.
Verga sat near the edge of the levee gobbling down one loaf with two other loaves on his lap. “It’s the gunder-spark today. Thought they’d serve us the rasten-spark, but this is better.”
“Is that all you eat?”
“I forgot-you guardians eat more of the world. We servants eat finners and shantu and rake, but mostly it’s spark, cooked different ways.”
“You ever want to eat like the guardians?”
“Here I am and here I should be,” Verga said as if this one phrase could refute any argument. “We servants are the hands and arms and legs, standing strong on the ground. And the militants are here…” He touched his heart. “And you guardians are here…” He touched his head. “All is just when each does his part.”
When the harvest resumed a short time later, Michael felt stronger and was able to keep up with the others. What had looked like a haphazard operation turned out to be an efficient system of farming. There was no need to plant seeds or pull weeds as long as the mother plants were left alone. Drainage pipes connected the different fields, and a weak current kept the water from turning stagnant. Even the clanking, hissing wet crawler followed an established pattern; the servant operating the machine steered a straight line by aiming at the sticks embedded in the mud.
Toward the end of the day, the workers put away their knives, rolled down their boot-tops, and followed Verga through the grid of levees to the dry land that surrounded the waterfields. After twenty minutes of walking, they reached three railroad tracks set on a gravel bed. The tired workers lay down on a weedy strip beside the tracks until a steam engine arrived, pulling a line of flatcars. The steam engine itself was as simple as a teapot on a three-wheeled wagon: a steam cylinder and a single piston transmitted power to the crank shaft that propelled the train.
If the train carried him to a new area, he might find it difficult to return to the passageway. As the harvesters began to climb onto to the flatcars, Michael looked around for landmarks and saw a rusty handcart that resembled an old-fashioned rickshaw. At night, he could follow the railroad tracks back to this point and then retrace his steps to the sticks he left in the water.
His new friends waved their hands and called to him. “Hurry up, Tolmo! We’re leaving!”
Michael jumped onto one of the flatcars, and the rickety train started down the tracks. They followed the perimeter of the water-fields, stopping every ten minutes or so to pick up another group of harvesters. Although the flatcars were moving about as fast as a Sunday jogger, there was a lively, excited feeling in the group. Everyone knew each other and people shouted jokes back and forth about the amount of spark each group had harvested that day. The wheels clicked with a quick rhythm as the wind of their passage ruffled the women’s hair and the hems of their skirts.
Michael sat at one end of the flatcar with his hat pulled low over his face. He thought again about the summer he and Gabriel worked at the cattle feedlot. They didn’t have money for gasoline so, at the end of the work day, an older man named Leon would give them a ride home in the back of his pickup truck. It was just like this: rolling down a road past the countryside.
Forget all that, Michael told himself. Focus on the present situation. Listening to the conversations around him, he figured out the system of two-syllable names used by the servants. Verga was also called “Verga sire-Toshan”-which meant he was the father of the man named Toshan sitting a few yards away. Mothers added their oldest daughter’s name, and so the woman next to him was called “Molva san-Pali.”
In the distance, huge white shapes seemed to emerge from the ground. As the train grew closer, Michael saw that they were approaching a cluster of triangular buildings with steep roofs. The steam engine blew its whistle loudly, the engineer pulled back a brake lever, and the entire train screeched to a stop. Everyone jumped off the train, and Michael followed Verga across the tracks. A line of rail cars had been left on a side track; some of them held wire hoppers filled with harvested spark. A few cars carried stacks of bricks and a work crew was unloading them into wheelbarrows.
A pathway led them to a central courtyard surrounded by the triangular buildings. The courtyard was dominated by white brick structures that were as large as the barns back in South Dakota. Near a machine shop, men were repairing a vehicle that Verga called a “dry crawler.” It looked like a nineteenth century stagecoach with a driver’s box and a steam engine in front. But there were also three-wheeled carts pulled by shaggy ponies with blunt noses and hand carts pulled by the older children. An open cooking area was at one end of the courtyard; women scooped out the pale orange pulp of the spark plant and molded it into loaves which they baked in an outdoor oven.
“Stay with my boots,” Verga said, and Michael followed the old man through the crowd to one of the barns. He found himself in a cavernous room where sunlight streamed in through high windows. The building was used as a dormitory for all the men in the community. There was a mound of straw at the center, pegs for hanging blankets and clothes, and a trough for waste that was continually flushed out by the water flowing from the bathing area. Imitating the old man, Michael washed his face and hands beneath a stone spout.
“Some say guardians could never cut spark in the waterfields,” Verga announced. “But you carried your blade better than that thief ever did.”
“What happens now? Do we eat?”
“Eat all you want, Tolmo. And then it’s the night for the visionary…”
Michael nodded as if he knew what the old man was talking about. They returned to the courtyard and followed the crowd to a trellised area where stew was being served in metal bowls. No spoons or forks were on the tables so they ripped off chunks of gunder-spark and used them to scoop up their food.
Verga led him over to a long table where their work crew was eating dinner. As they approached the others, Michael was startled by what he saw. About a hundred yards from the dining area was a screen as big as a billboard with a shimmery gold surface. The screen was about six feet above the ground, and benches and stools had been placed in a semi-circle in front of it.
The faithful servants gobbled down their food, laughing and gossiping, but Michael stayed quiet and studied a line of black and white circles on the surface of the screen. Every few seconds, the circles changed their configuration, like an odd clock keeping time.
It took him awhile to realize that the circles represented a binary number system-the same system used by computers back in the Fourth Realm. Each digit in a line of numbers was either on or off, one or zero. When number eleven () was transformed into number ten (), people tossed their empty bowls into a bin and sauntered over to the viewing area. Parents called to their children and, for a few minutes, Michael felt that he was back in a small-town movie theater where people arrived a half hour before the show to save seats for their friends.
The three suns were a hand’s width above the horizon. The cooks had finished their jobs and found their seats in the little amphitheater. Michael was cautious about asking too many questions, but he wanted to know what was going on. “How long do we have to wait?” he asked Verga.
“Soon enough. When the dark sky comes.” The old man jerked his head at the screen. “Just keep watchin’ the visionary.”
As dusk fell, the sound of a choir singing came from hidden speakers, and then the image of a crystal sphere appeared on the screen. Stars floated on the surface of the sphere, changing position as it rotated in space. The camera passed through the translucent surface to a second sphere that held the triad of suns and a third sphere that held comets and asteroids. At the center of all this was a round disc colored with patches of blue and green. Like an avenging angel, the camera swooped down from the sky, and Michael saw that they were entering a world with grasslands, forests and waterfields. A city was at the center of this world, and now the camera was gliding past brick buildings and streets filled with steam-powered crawlers.
A group of nine towers dominated the only hill in the city. They were tall, bright spires, composed of translucent glass or plastic that concealed those inside but allowed light to glow from within. Just down the hill from the towers was a white triangular building with an open roof. As the music reached a climax, the camera floated downward to where one man was standing on a stage.
The guardian was a slender blond man in his thirties with a pallid face. He wore a dark green robe that resembled a priest’s vestments, but had the ingratiating manner of a game show host. “Welcome everyone!” he shouted. “This could be the night the gods smile on you!”
Music boomed from speakers and beams of light shot across the stage. The camera angle changed and Michael saw that the guardian was facing an immense audience in an amphitheatre. Men and women were sitting in different sections of the room, and quick close-ups revealed that everyone was young and enthusiastic. Most of the audience were faithful servants, but a smaller segment of the crowd wore silver tunics and black trousers. Michael decided that these people were the church militants that acted as both police force and army.
“This is the moment when two halves become one.” The guardian spread his hands and then slowly brought them together. “This is the moment when the gods create a new unity, a new creation.”
Again, the lights changed and laser beams moved around the amphitheatre as if searching for someone. Back on stage, a row of lights on a panel began to blink rapidly.
“And the gods have searched and the gods have chosen…”
The row of lights froze-expressing a binary number. There was a brief moment of silence and then a woman in the audience screamed and jumped up, waving a slip of paper that showed her number. Her girlfriends hugged and congratulated her as she hurried to the central aisle and climbed a staircase to the stage.
The young woman had wrapped silk flowers around her red collar, transforming it into a necklace. She seemed awed by the bright lights and the fact that she was now a participant in this event. When one of her friends shouted from the audience, she giggled nervously and waved her hand.
“And what’s your name?” the guardian asked.
“Zami.”
“Welcome, Zami! Did you think this was going to happen to you tonight?”
“I-I prayed to the gods…”
“And now we’ll see how they answered!”
The binary lights began blinking rapidly as Zami clasped her hands together. When the flashing stopped and a number appeared, shouts and laughter came from the men’s section of the auditorium. A broad-shouldered servant emerged from the crowd and ran toward the stage. The moment he reached Zami, his aggressive energy disappeared. He glanced down at his feet and smiled nervously.
“We-We know each other,” Zami said.
“Wonderful! Sometimes that happens.” The guardian shook the young man’s hand. “And who am I speaking to?”
“Malveto.”
“You look like a happy groom.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, I am.”
As the evening continued, more brides were introduced to their grooms. Some of the couples were strangers, while others had known each other since childhood. At certain intervals, the guardian presented wedding gifts: tools, clothes, and simple furniture. No one seemed to find it surprising that that lasers and video screens existed in the same world as wet crawlers and horse carts.
Finally twelve new couples were led off stage. The lights dimmed and the music became slow and solemn. The harvesters sitting around Michael stopped chattering to each other. They looked tense and expectant. Verga leaned toward the screen.
“Each of us is a strand of thread woven tightly into a piece of cloth. The faithful servants are strong. The militants are brave. We guardians are thoughtful. But all of us serve the gods,” the Guardian said. “Unfortunately there are a few heretics who attempt to destroy the sacred unity that binds us together.”
Militants waiting in an off-stage area rolled out three men strapped to heavy wooden chairs. The prisoners had shaven heads, and bandages covered their necks. They wore only flimsy white robes that reminded Michael of hospital gowns.
The guardian approached the oldest prisoner. “This enemy of the gods was once a faithful servant.”
The prisoner was trembling. His mouth and tongue moved, but only a gurgling sound came out. Now the reason for the bandages came clear-someone had removed the man’s vocal cords.
“But he was a servant who committed a vicious crime!”
The visionary screen showed the prisoner chasing a young woman through a warehouse filled with storage bins. As the woman fumbled with a door latch, the man grabbed her from behind, threw her to the ground and began to rape her. The surveillance cameras photographed the scene from a variety of angles, but no one called for help.
The auditorium reappeared on the screen and a camera moved into a close-up of the man strapped to the second chair. This prisoner was younger than the rapist. His face was slack and his eyes rolled upward as if he had been drugged.
“And now we have a church militant who became a traitor and murderer,” the guardian said. “He was taught to be brave and faithful, but he violated his oath and killed a superior.”
The screen switched to surveillance footage of the prisoner standing in what appeared to be a military barracks. He was arguing with an older man and suddenly began beating him with a length of pipe. As the attack escalated, the harvesters stood up and shouted at the screen. When the militant finished, he turned and ran between two rows of cots. It seemed like he was coming toward the harvesters, trying to attack them.
“And now a true sacrilege,” the guardian said. “This wretch is a fellow guardian. A man I once called brother.”
The visionary showed a guardian using a hammer to destroy an altar in one of the crystal towers. The harvesters watching the screen began shouting. “Kill him! Kill them all!” Fists were raised and faces were distorted with rage. Michael could hear babies crying, terrified by their mothers’ anger.
“There’s no doubt of these crimes,” the blond guardian said. “No doubt of the punishment.”
Militants readjusted the hinged parts of the chairs so that they became wooden racks with the prisoners still fastened to the frames. While the prisoners’ gowns were ripped away, another group of militants appeared, pulling large hooks fastened to steel cables. The cables were attached to struts that extended over the stage.
A choir began singing as men with hammers pounded the hooks into the prisoners. When the cables were pulled tight, the rapist was pulled up into the air. Naked and bleeding from his wounds, he trembled and fought to break free. Then the murderer was raised up, followed by the guardian who had defiled the sanctuary. Each man twisted on three pairs of hooks that were buried in their shoulder blades, torso and legs.
The cables holding up the servant tightened and then strained. First his legs were pulled away, then both arms. The two remaining cables pulled even harder until there was an explosion of blood and his torso was ripped in two. The chunks of flesh and bone still attached to the hooks swung back and forth like bloody pendulums as the other two prisoners were executed in the same manner. When it was over, the cables were released and everything dropped to the floor at the rear of the stage. A spotlight focused on the Guardian. With a solemn look on his face, he clasped his hands together and murmured the phrase Verga had said earlier that day.
“All is just when each does his part.”
The music changed, after a moment the twelve brides and twelve grooms returned to the stage. All the young women had been dressed in dark red gowns and the men in black uniforms. A blaze of stage light made them look as if they were floating in darkness, but Michael could see the blood-splattered floor behind them. There was a crescendo of music and singing as the walls behind the stage opened like two immense doors. In the distance, the nine towers glowed with such power that they illuminated the city below. A final blast of music came, and then the visionary went dark.
For a few seconds, the crowd of faithful servants sat quiet and motionless. Then children began moving and the parents were pulled from their trance. Oil lamps were lit and the orange flames showed contented faces. They were tired-yes, it had been a long day-but somehow the visionary’s presentation of hope and happiness and cruelty transformed them all. Life was good. Time to go to sleep.
Michael felt like he’d been thrown off a building and somehow survived. He kept staring at the visionary as if a face would suddenly appear to explain everything he had just seen. Opposing ideas pushed through his mind and he was startled when someone touched his shoulder.
It was only Verga, holding an oil lamp. “Follow me, Tolmo. You sleep with us in the Sire House.”
Entering the three-sided building, Michael discovered that the mound of straw was being used for bedding. Men would take three or four armfuls of straw, pile it against the wall, and burrow into their little nests. It took him an extra amount of time make his own nest comfortable. One-by-one, the lamps were extinguished-leaving a faint buttery scent. Michael felt tired but wary. He removed the knife from its sheath and kept it close to his right hand.
Come to us, he thought. From what he had seen, this could be the advanced civilization that had sent that message. Come to us… and then what? Would they bring him up on stage and tear him apart for pretending to be a guardian? Michael sat up and tried to figure out what to do. He definitely couldn’t stay here. It was too dangerous. When everyone was asleep, he would follow the railroad track back to the handcart, then wait for sunrise. With a little bit of light, he could find the passageway.
Deciding on a plan made him feel detached from what he had seen on the visionary. Mrs. Brewster and the board members of the Evergreen Foundation thought they were tough-minded, but they were children in comparison to the leaders who ran this world. The acts of torture displayed on the visionary were about as subtle as a Mayan priest cutting open a prisoner’s rib cage and pulling out a still-beating heart. And then they put the couples together and married them. He puzzled out the connection between these two events, and then it came to him. We have the power to kill you or bless you-that was what the guardians were telling their audience.
Grunts and snores came from the darkness. The only light in the cavernous building came from a single oil lamp burning near the concrete trough. Michael’s arms and legs felt heavy, and he decided to nap for an hour or so before he ran away.
He snuggled deeper into the straw and went to sleep. At some moment during the night he woke up hearing the hiss and squeak of a steam-driven crawler entering the courtyard. Men spoke to each other in soft voices, and then boots moved across the bricks. Suddenly, Michael’s body was hit with a surge of pain that came from the red collar. The pain spread though his body-a sensation so powerful that he stopped breathing.
The collar lock had been broken when Verga took it off the dead harvester and Michael was able to rip it from his neck. Men were screaming and thrashing in the straw as men with hand lights searched the room.
Clutching his knife, Michael jumped up and ran for the doorway. Get out, he thought. Hide in the darkness. They’re going to kill you.