The Golden City fr-3

by John Twelve Hawks

  Most of the Brethren were smiling and nodding. Mrs. Brewster turned her head back and forth as she watched her influence melt away.

  “My plan can become a reality if we don’t waste our resources on limited strategies. Instead of waiting for people to join the system, we need to create a worldwide sequence of threats and emergencies that impels citizens to voluntarily give up their freedom. And why would they do this? That’s easy to answer. Because we’ve turned them into children scared of the dark. They will be desperate for our help, terrified of a life outside their cubicle filled with predators and danger.

  “We can achieve this goal in a few years if we’re ruthless enough to consider every option. We need strength, not diplomacy. We need leadership, not committees. We need to stand up and say: ‘No more half-measures. No compromises. We’re going to do everything necessary to create a better world.’

  “I stand before you as a faithful servant: ready to obey your orders and create your vision. This isn’t a dream that might come true. What I have described this evening is an inevitable reality… if you’re ready for this next step. All it needs is your approval and support. Thank you.”

  Michael bowed his head slightly, folded up the speech and slipped it into his pocket. The room was completely quiet, but he avoided looking at the audience.

  One person began clapping-slow, insistent-and others joined in. The sound grew louder as it echoed off the walls of the cloisters. When he glanced up from the podium, he saw that Mrs. Brewster was staring at him. Her hands were clenched and mouth was a tight red line.

  She’s the first to die, Michael decided. I need to start a list.

  19

  Wearing a paper hospital gown, Maya sat on the edge of an examination table at a walk-in medical clinic in East London. A collection of dog-eared magazines was stuffed into a wall rack near the sink, but she had no desire to read about The Secrets Men Won’t Tell You and the One-Week Bikini Diet.

  When Maya and the others returned to London, she still felt a burning pain from the leg wound she had received in the First Realm. The clinic staff cleaned the wound, checked the stitches she had received from a Cairo doctor and gave her prescriptions for antibiotics and pain pills. For the last twelve days she had been recovering at Tyburn Convent. The Benedictine nuns had served her bland food while they whispered variations of the word-rest. Well, she had rested enough, and nothing had changed. The wound was still bleeding, and images from Hell still floated through her dreams.

  It was about two o’clock in the afternoon and the sounds of the busy clinic filtered through the walls. Doors were pulled open and slammed shut. Someone pushed a squeaky cart down the hallway while two nurses gossiped about a man named Ronnie.

  Maya ignored this background noise and concentrated on the screaming child in the next room. It seemed obvious that someone was deliberately hurting the child. Maya’s clothes and sword carrier were hanging from a hook on the door; her knives were in her shoulder bag. She should get dressed, walk into the next room, and kill the torturers.

  One part of her mind knew she was thinking like a crazy person. This is a clinic. The doctors are here to help people. But a dark compulsion made her slip off the table and take a step toward the weapons. As she reached out to touch the sword carrier, the screaming stopped, and Maya heard the child’s mother talking about a dish of ice cream. She heard footsteps in the hallway. The door popped open and Dr. Amita Kamani entered the room. The young physician had trimmed her hair since Maya’s last visit to the clinic, and she was wearing a pink T-shirt beneath her white lab coat that read: Children Are Our Future.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Strand. So how’s the cut doing? All healed up?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Dr. Kamani pulled on some latex gloves, sat down on a stool near the table, and began to unwrap the bandage around Maya’s leg. One of the nuns at Tyburn Convent had put on a fresh bandage about two hours ago, but it was already sodden with blood. When Dr. Kamani peeled the gauze off, she could see that the stitches still held, but scar tissue had not appeared.

  “This is not a normal healing response. You should have come in earlier.” Dr. Kamani dropped the bandages into a trash bin. She opened a cabinet, took out disinfectant and surgical cotton, and began to clean the wound. “Does it hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you describe the pain?”

  “A burning sensation.”

  Dr. Kamani handed Maya a disposable thermometer, then checked her pulse and blood pressure. “Did you take the antibiotics I prescribed for you?”

  It bothered Maya that she was the patient and this other woman was treating her. “Of course I took the medicine,” she said. “I’m not a bloody fool.”

  “I’m just trying to help you, Ms. Strand.” Dr. Kamani glanced at the thermometer. “Your temperature and pulse rate are in the normal range.”

  “Stitch me up again and give me some more pills.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the stitches. I’ll give you a prescription for a stronger antibiotic, but that might not help. As I recall, you said you were in a car accident during a holiday in Egypt.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Dr. Kamani took out some clean gauze and surgical tape. She sprayed a yellow liquid on the wound and began to put on a new bandage. “When you were in Egypt, were you were in contact with a sick animal or any kind of toxic chemical?’

  “No.”

  “Did you use any illegal drugs?”

  Maya wanted shout out an explanation, but she stayed silent. A citizen can never understand you. Her father had told her that hundreds of times, and it was especially true at this moment. What could she say to a person wearing a white lab coat? I traveled to a city surrounded by a dark river. The wolves tried to kill me, but I stabbed and cut and beat them down.

  “Just fix me up and make the wound heal,” Maya said. “I’ll pay you double what I did last time-in cash.”

  Dr. Kamani pulled off the gloves and began to write on her clipboard.

  “All right, I won’t ask any more questions. But we are going to run some medical tests before you leave the clinic today.”

  “Will the test results be placed in a computer connected to the Internet?”

  “Of course.”

  “I won’t allow that.”

  Kamani looked surprised, but her voice stayed calm and reasonable. “If you wish, I’ll make a note to the staff. They’ll leave the test results in my message tray and I’ll keep them out of the database. If I do that-if I break the rules-you have to promise you’ll come back here.”

  “I promise.”

  Dr. Kamani started to open the door, then paused and closed it again. “Although you told me you were in a car accident, I don’t believe that’s accurate. Your wound indicates you were stabbed with a knife, and your behavior follows the pattern of someone with extended exposure to significant trauma. Perhaps you were raped or physically abused. I strongly recommend some kind of psychotherapy combined with medical supervision.”

  “We don’t do that.”

  “And who is we?”

  “My-My family.”

  The doctor’s face showed pity and concern. Maya knew that her father would have been insulted by Kamani’s reaction; it implied weakness, and Harlequins were never weak. Mother Blessing would have stood up and slapped her.

  “You’re in pain, Ms. Strand…”

  “What’s the next step?” Maya snapped.

  Dr. Kamani opened the door and stepped into the hallway. “Stay here in the examination room. A nurse will take blood and urine samples.”

  ***

  After the tests, she left the clinic and took a shortcut past Spitafields Market to the Liverpool Street tube station. These days, East London was filled with high-rise buildings and trendy restaurants, but for hundreds of years the neighborhood had been a dark, crowded slum-the home of new immigrants and outsiders. This was where her father had met his first Traveler, a Jewish mystic nam
ed David Rodinsky who lived in the attic of a synagogue on Princelet Street. Maya had been introduced to Rodinsky when she was a little girl; he was a strange, stooped little man who knew over twenty languages. A few years later this tazdik had vanished from a locked room and was never seen again. “We guard the Travelers, but we don’t always understand them,” Thorn told her. “The only thing you need to understand is our obligation.”

  Perhaps the relationship was clear for her father, but in her own life, the obligation had become compromised by different emotions. She was supposed to be cold and rational with no real attachments to another person. Most of the time, she could play that role, but there were moments when she wanted to be back on the plane from Cairo to London. During the long flight, Gabriel had wrapped her up in a blanket and embraced her as if she were a sick child. They spoke about the First Realm in a cautious manner, trying to step back from the pain of what had happened there.

  ***

  Maya found Linden sitting outside the falafel shop in Camden Market, guarding the staircase that led to the upstairs room. A carrying bag for a tennis racket was propped up against the wall, but Linden didn’t resemble a man of leisure. His broad shoulders and broken nose made him look like a retired football player-someone once known for his rough play and penalties.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “The wound is healing, but it’s taking some time. Where’s Gabriel?”

  “The Traveler is upstairs, meeting with a group of Free Runners. They are figuring out a safe way to establish a communications network.”

  “That’s very ambitious.”

  “It is clear that he has a plan, but he has not explained it to anyone yet. He wants to hold a meeting of the Resistance in a few weeks.”

  Maya grabbed a chair and sat down beside the Frenchman. When she shifted her leg suddenly, she felt a jab of pain. Don’t show any weakness, she told herself. No one can use an injured fighter.

  “You’ve been guarding Gabriel for a long time. I’m healthy now and can accept the obligation.”

  “I would like that very much,” Linden said. “I need to solve some problems back in Paris. Apparently, a pipe is leaking in my flat. I can not have a stranger fixing it.”

  “I could take charge for a few days.”

  “As you recall, there was a problem with your objectivité. As Mother Blessing told you, Harlequins cannot have an emotional connection with the people they are guarding.”

  “I was sick during the trip back to London. I’m better now. I haven’t even spoken to Gabriel for the last six days.”

  “Yes. I noticed that. You have finally started to act in the correct way.” Linden looked over at the canal and made his decision. He picked up the tennis racket carrier and handed it to her. “Here is your weapon. A steel frame holds a sawed-off shotgun with a six-round ammunition drum. Insert your firing hand in the opening.”

  Maya found an opening on one side of the bag. When she slipped her right hand inside, she felt the shotgun’s trigger guard. “The safety is on. Do you feel it?” She clicked the safety button on and off. “Got it.” “C’est bon. I will leave tonight for Paris and will be back on Tuesday. If there is a problem, you know how to contact me.” For the first time in their long relationship, Linden made a point of shaking her hand. “Welcome back, Maya. It is good to know that you are healthy again.”

  ***

  After Linden left the shop, Maya stood guard for ten minutes or so. When she was sure the Frenchman was gone, she picked up the concealed shotgun and went upstairs. There was no immediate threat in the area, but she felt tense and sensitive to any sound.

  The meeting was just ending in the little room and the Free Runners were on their feet, lining up to say goodbye to the Traveler. Gabriel touched each person’s shoulder or shook their hand while looking directly into their eyes. Maya saw that the young men and women were pleased by the Traveler’s attention. Gabriel smiled when he saw Maya in the doorway, but he didn’t say anything until Jugger and his friends had left the room.

  “Where’s Linden?”

  “I’m in charge. He’s going to Paris for a few days.”

  “Good. He once told me that he misses hearing French in the streets.”

  Gabriel took a disposable mobile phone out of his pocket and called Winston Abosa. While he talked, Maya tried to dissect her emotions. She still loved him. That would never change. But if she wanted to protect him, she could never show her feelings. She focused on her wound, putting all her weight on the bad leg to increase the pain. When the burning sensation returned, she raised her eyes and stared at the Traveler with a coldness that was close to hostility.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m getting better.”

  “Good. We need to sit down and talk about what happened in the First Realm.”

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  “The experience was difficult for both of us.”

  “Sometimes we have bad dreams, but we shouldn’t waste the day thinking about them.”

  “What happened wasn’t a dream, Maya. The realms are a powerful experience because they’re real.”

  “It’s time to deal with the problem in front of us. Why did you call Winston?”

  “He’s picking us up in the van and driving us over to Bloomsbury. We need a safe way to communicate within our group. Sebastian has been in contact with a computer expert called the Nighthawk.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “No one knows. It took several weeks of negotiations before he agreed to meet us. Sebastian thought that the Nighthawk was in Eastern Europe, but it turns out he lives here in London.”

  “Has Sebastian ever met him?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “All I have is a room number at a graduate student dormitory near Coram’s Fields.”

  “Maybe it’s a trap.”

  “That’s why you’re coming along.”

  ***

  On the way over to Bloomsbury, Maya learned a few facts about the Nighthawk. He had been active on the Internet for over ten years, and had first become famous for breaking into the White House computer system. Even Maya knew about the Nighthawk’s most famous exploit. Two years ago, the “Kitty Cat Virus” appeared on April Fools’ Day. For three minutes, the virus took control of millions of computers and forced them to display a music video of dancing kittens.

  Winston dropped them off on the south corner of Russell Square near the British Museum. Maya was familiar with the area, and she led Gabriel across the square, passing through the plaza that surrounded a central fountain. The Hotel Russell was directly in front of them, its copper-roof turrets and red brick chimneys rising over the tops of the beech trees. Passing an outdoor café, they reached the north corner of the square and crossed the street. Students with backpacks and book satchels formed chattering groups outside the hotel and the Russell Square tube station. Maya touched the outline of the hidden shotgun as they continued down Bernard Street toward Coram’s Fields.

  The fields had once been the site of a foundling hospital where mothers left their babies in a large basket near the front gate. There was always a coin or a locket tied to the children’s wrists or braided into their hair-a final gesture of hope that mother and child would find each other again. The hospital was torn down in the 1920s, and now a massive playground was built on the bones of those children who had died there.

  When they reached Brunswick Square, Maya looked down the street and saw the small white buildings used by the petting zoo and the children’s nursery. There was only one entrance to the Fields, and a black spike fence guarded the area like a row of spears. Peering through the gaps in the fence, Maya saw three little girls blowing soap bubbles and then chasing them around a playground.

  “This is Coram’s Fields,” she told Gabriel. “My mother used to bring me here.”

  “You want to stop for awhile? We have plenty of time.”

  “There’s a rule here. Adults are only allowed t
hrough the gate if accompanied by a child. If you leave the Fields-and grow up-you can’t get back inside.”

  Continuing down Guildford Street, Maya and Gabriel reached Mecklenburgh Square. The Nighthawk supposedly lived in the graduate student dormitory on the north side of the square. They passed through a glass door to a lobby that looked like it hadn‘t changed in fifty years. Foreign students sat around a scratched coffee table covered with newspapers while a clerk sorted through the mail and placed letters into numbered cubbies.

  A sign said they were supposed to announce themselves at the desk, but no one stopped them. Gabriel grinned at her and pretended to be a student. “So how did you do on the German Lit. exam?”

  “Just keep moving,” she whispered, and they wandered down a hallway past a laundry room and a communal kitchen. Maya smelled popcorn and heard a Beethoven symphony blasting through the walls. Room 108 was at the end of the hallway, and the brass door bracket held a smudged card with the name Eric Vinsky.

  If this was a trap, then Tabula mercs would be waiting inside. Maya lowered the tennis bag so that the sawed-off shotgun was pointing forward. She motioned for Gabriel to step back and tried the door knob. It was unlocked. She centered herself, preparing for battle, then pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

  The ceiling light was switched off and the curtains were taped shut. Light came from the bathroom and from three computer monitors glowing with different images: a conversation in a chat room, luminous lines of programming code, and a silent, dancing ballerina. Instead of someone with a gun, they found a man sitting in an electric-powered wheelchair. His hand left the computer keyboard, touched a control lever in the chair’s arm rest, and it swiveled around toward the open door.

  They were looking at a young man with a severe muscular disease. He had a slack face and drooping eyelids, and his long tangled hair touched his shoulders. His entire body was a contorted S-curve-the legs going one way, the stomach and chest going another way, while the head struggled to stay in one position.