Menedez contacted City Authority. Enforcers had been placed in the ranks of the City Defenders-as acting Military Liaisons-and a pair of them whisked him away in a speedy transport.
The sky was dark as they approached the City-and as always, Stoneworthy was impressed with his accomplishment. He had to crane his neck to see Archangel Tower flying free of the City’s Carapace almost half again as tall. Neighboring structures were dwarfed by its size. How often he had wished to see the Tower’s pinnacle in full sunlight. It was a dream that he hoped parley could make real.
The transports approached the City’s western gates on Level Zero. They had to negotiate enormous barricades of concrete slab and sandbags. Two mammoth doors swung open with ominous silence. In all the history of the City they had never been closed and locked. Overhead, another highway exited through the wall with gates of its own, and another soared over that.
As they passed through, Stoneworthy saw twenty tanks and support troops clustered around the open space inside the wall. And as the doors swung shut behind him, the minister caught the first hint of a dilemma.
It was unlikely that he’d be allowed to leave the City now that he was privy to some of its defenses. The idea held no anxiety for him. He expected to be treated as a prisoner of war and allowed the basics despite his dead state. And such a setting would allow him to spread the word. His guards said little to him for the remainder of the trip and rather than draw conversation out of them, he used the time to collect his thoughts.
When he had first approached the City Defender scouts, he had asked to speak with Mayor Barnstable- perhaps naively. He had been a humble minister so long that he didn’t quite fathom the size of the applecart he and Updike had upset. When the transport roared past City Hall, the minister understood that he had grossly underestimated the situation.
Stoneworthy had met the Prime on a number of occasions, he worked in the same building after all-though the Prime was said to spend a good deal of his time in seclusion, or traveling back and forth by airship to Europrime and the other more distant nations where meetings between ruling corporations took place.
By manipulating an International Credit Co. grant that would finance the final construction of the Tower, the Prime had secured the top Sunsight floors for Central Authority Headquarters. They already controlled most of the Tower office space from Zero to Level Two, so it became a sore point for the minister, though he had tried to look at it philosophically. Archangel Tower was completed and the arrangement had worked well enough for the past few decades. It also allowed him to keep a wary eye on the politicians. He had been disturbed by some of the design alterations ordered by the Prime, but seventy-five years of Tower building left the minister anxious to finish.
The Prime was a large man who wore a straight bang of black hair over a heavy-set face that was predisposed to blotching and blushing. The man was intelligent, and had an orator’s gift for communication. Stoneworthy often found himself caught up by his broadcasts. His message was usually about keeping Westprime safe from foreign influence. He railed bombastically about the citizen’s duty to stand against the mystery of the Change. Despite his patriotism, the minister always felt uncomfortable around him. Perhaps it was his skin-that had a pale oily look to it, or it might have been his anxious restlessness-the Prime had a shifty frenetic quality that belied his bulk.
As they rumbled up Skyway Three and drove onto Tower Avenue, Stoneworthy glanced out at pedestrians. There were fewer than usual for neighborhoods this far downtown, and those he did see scurried between City Defender checkpoints. They had a stooped frightened look to them that caused embarrassment to burn his cheeks. He was partly responsible for their fears.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked, already guessing the destination.
“Prime wants you,” the Enforcer on his left said. His voice sounded mechanical.
Stoneworthy didn’t like the idea of the Prime “wanting” him, but he did know the man personally if not well. The top was the best place to start a dialogue. And then he flushed again. What was he saying? The street was the best place for the Word to be spoken. The average man’s soul needed to understand the Army of God. Hadn’t he started building the Tower on these very streets? Hadn’t he first met Karen there? Then he thought of his friend and closed his eyes in prayer.
It was too late to take the message to the street. Perhaps, this was the example of the necessity of leadership. The people already knew the message, now they needed to be led. If only the Prime could be made to understand. He had authority to countermand the mayor’s orders-even Central Authority rulings. Speaking to him would have the greatest impact. The Army of God was poised to strike. He couldn’t delay.
Stoneworthy had felt somewhat remiss that he and Updike did not bring the ultimatum to the Prime in the first place. But the preacher told him that their issue was with the City not all of Westprime and approaching the mayor would not be seen as an open challenge to the Prime’s authority. Stoneworthy wished the ultimatum had been better received. The Prime was a shrewd businessman and politician though. The army at the gates would get him to deal. And it was the only way he could hang onto any of the wealth he had.
The transport approached the high Tower Wall and passed the spear-point gates that protected the grounds. The soldiers were dressed in the livery of Central Authority. A wide circling drive guided them to one of many official entrances. Stoneworthy stepped out after his guards and looked up. The height was dizzying. Even against the gray concrete of the level overhead, the Tower was beautiful.
“There you are.” His voice was choked with emotion. “I’m home.” His breath sat heavy in his chest.
76 – Rearguard
Conan was backtracking and struggling with the possibility that he was disobeying orders. Mr. Jay had told him to help stragglers, and to some degree, since he wasn’t with the rest, the magician could be called a straggler. Bend. Fold. Twist the yak-yak. It didn’t sit well with him, since Mr. Jay had trusted the little fighter with an important and puffed-up position, but he couldn’t shake a nagging gut-wrench that his only grownup friend was in trouble. Hours had passed.
So he left the Quinlan boys to keep the path open for all the slow-kids who were ready to make the trek and run. Liz was out in the service tunnels pointing the Squeakers out of the Tower by Sophie’s secret way. He thought about the spooky girl and counted her lost among the stragglers doing her willowy dance or other tweedle-dum. She was just another good reason to sprint back and have a look-see and listen.
Mr. Jay’s work was ongoing, that much was plain as a nose out of place. As Conan made his way back among the empty dormitories, he passed a constant flow of white-shirted kids flying down the dark like paper airplanes. They all wanted to ask him questions and delay his mission, but all he had time for was a quick series of grunt- grunts and much point-point-pointing with his kill-flower back the way he came. All the boys looked at his murder- fist with can-I-have-it stares and Conan swelled. Helping Mr. Jay was the only thing on his mind. Worry. Shiver. Ghak!
He didn’t know how many forever kids were stuffed into the Tower but he knew the longer Mr. Jay worked to cut them free, the more danger he’d be in. And the more he’d need Conan’s slash and thrust of the blade- bloom.
The little fighter wondered about the power that the magician had already used, and hoped that Mr. Jay had not over-guessed himself. Conan had done it before, thinking he could fight men with guns and he had lucky- missed-me scars to prove it. The Tower was sure to be full of unseen dangers, and powers that no one ever guessed of in their wildest bed-wet.
Conan had butterflies and sour-gut that they had pushed their luck enough already. Too much time had passed.
He blurred by many more straggling kids and gave them the same encouragement and directions point- point-air-stab before running past them into the shadows. When he came upon a group of children that were running with panic-eyes and prickle-hair, Conan felt a thrill of battle-scorch burn through him. There was trouble for sure. Lots of it. Yum-cut-gulp! By the looks of terror on the rocket-run forever children, something really bad had happened. He hoped he wasn’t too late.
Conan grabbed the arm of one little boy who right-away started squeaking and dancing in the fighter’s grip.
“Let me go! Let me go!” the boy shrieked now pushing at Conan’s mask. “The Principal’s here!”
