The Golden City: Book Three of the Fourth Realm Trilogy

by John Twelve Hawks

  “Know this, my love Believe this, my love the Light survives.”

  The Itako breathed out one last time, and collapsed onto the floor as if the life force had been ripped from her body.

  17

  M ichael Corrigan accepted a flute of champagne from a young woman with a silver tray and began to wander through the crowd that had assembled in the college cloisters. The Brethren’s annual meeting drew delegates from all over the world, and everyone wanted to talk to the young American who had just become the new Executive Director. Before he could cross the room, Michael encountered Mr. Choi, the delegate from Singapore, who wanted him to meet Mr. Iyer from India.

  None of these people could be considered his friend—or even an ally. Michael knew he was in dangerous territory. A year ago, he was a prisoner of the Brethren, lying on a surgical table with wires in his brain. Now he was running the Evergreen Foundation, and many of the delegates seemed surprised by this sudden transformation.

  Mr. Westley and the other half gods had told him what to do when he returned to the ordinary world. But Michael wasn’t about to reveal their plans. Instead of describing the wet crawlers and the executions on the visionary screen, he informed the Brethren that he had explored a rock-filled, uninhabited landscape and that he had heard gentle voices, like angels, whispering in his ear. He had asked these angels for technological knowledge, and they had transmitted the design for a memory chip that could store an enormous amount of data.

  He made sure that Dr. Dressler sent the executive board an enthusiastic description of this new technology. Many governments and corporations had been overwhelmed by the personal information obtained by the Vast Machine. Now they would have the memory to store every detail about billions of people. Every recordable activity in a person’s life could be saved, evaluated and linked almost instantly.

  While Michael’s description of the Fifth Realm was like a blurry photograph, his request for power was clear and explicit. If the Brethren wanted to receive more information, then Mrs. Brewster had to resign so that Michael could take control of the research effort. Of course, he would continue to be guided by the Brethren’s collective wisdom, but the change of leadership would make the Foundation more responsive and efficient organization.

  Mrs. Brewster spent a week trying to organize opposition to his plan, but the corporate leaders serving on the board were tempted by the power implicit in the new technology. Within twelve hours of his victory, the Evergreen Foundation issued a press release that transformed Michael into a successful real estate investor and international philanthropist.

  This conference in London was the next step in his plan. The Brethren’s annual meeting was usually held on Dark Island or at Wellspring Manor in southern England, but Michael wanted to stay away from the two locations where Mrs. Brewster still controlled the security team. Remembering that it was the 200th anniversary of Jeremy Bentham’s invention of the Panopticon, Michael came up with a new proposal. If the meeting was moved to London, they could hold the welcoming party in the South Cloisters at University College where the philosopher’s body was kept in a glass case. The Brethren’s executive board was so enthusiastic about this idea that even Mrs. Brewster was forced to smile graciously and make the vote unanimous.

  After the Foundation made a generous donation to the college’s maintenance fund, the Board of Governors allowed them to use the cloisters for the evening. Michael volunteered to make the opening remarks to the guests, and he contacted the more powerful members of the board to get their suggestions. “I think we need to make a strong statement,” he said, and everyone agreed with him.

  * * *

  Michael finished his glass of champagne as another group of delegates prattled on about their fears and desires. Finally, he shook hands and turned away. In a few minutes he would begin his speech, and he wanted to get some inspiration from the dead man at the end of the hallway. Nodding to members of the board, he threaded his way through the crowd until Mrs. Brewster stopped him. Although he had taken her public role as the head of the Evergreen Foundation, she was still in charge of the Brethren. For this event, she was wearing a royal blue dress and pearls, but her face was a tired mask.

  “It’s clear that I haven’t been informed of all the arrangements.” Mrs. Brewster’s voice had the clipped, precise tone of an educated Englishwoman who had just found something rotten on her lawn.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “It’s the chairs.” She gestured to the rows of chairs set up at one end of the long hallway. “Are they really necessary for a short welcoming speech?”

  “The speech might be a bit longer than we discussed. I believe that this organization is at a crucial point in its history. We need a new strategy for the future.”

  “And what is that strategy going to be?”

  “I’m sure that you’ll support it,” Michael said, and left her alone in the middle of the room.

  He checked the speech in his suit coat pocket as he made his way to the south end of the hallway. The glass and wood cabinet that contained Jeremy Bentham’s body had been surrounded by delegates at the beginning of the party, but now the dead philosopher stared out into empty space.

  Bentham believed that the remains of famous men should never be cremated or hidden in tombs. Instead, their bodies should be turned into something he called “Auto-Icons” that would inspire future generations. Dressed in his own clothes, Bentham’s skeleton sat on a chair with a cane resting on his leg. A broad-brimmed hat partially covered the wax model of his face.

  Michael felt no sense of awe looking this effigy. But he was impressed with the fact that—even in death—Bentham demanded acknowledgement. Recently, the University College had fired the security guard protecting the glass case and had replaced him with a CCTV camera mounted on the wall. The creator of the Panopticon was now on the grid.

  “Excuse me ”

  Michael pivoted and saw that Nathan Boone was watching him. The Head of Security for the Evergreen Foundation was as solemn as a funeral director in a dark blue business suit.

  “Do you have a question, Mr. Boone?”

  “The schedule says that you’re giving the opening remarks. In the past, the staff has been allowed to circulate with drinks and refreshment for the duration of the party. But your email indicated that you’d like the staff removed from the area.”

  “Yes, this is a speech only for the Brethren. No outsiders.”

  Boone raised a communications device and spoke softly. “The Executive Director’s speech starts in a few minutes. Please clear the staff and guard the door.”

  Two of Boone’s security men stepped from the periphery of the crowd and whispered something to the waitresses. Still holding their silver trays, they headed for the exit. But Boone didn’t walk away. He stared at the Traveler intently as if Michael’s necktie could give him clues about what might happen.

  “Is there anything else, Mr. Boone?”

  “The London staff informed me that you’ve organized a new team of employees.”

  “That’s correct. It’s the called the Special Projects Group.”

  “And you’re using my men.”

  Michael concentrated on Boone’s face. The Head of Security was trying to control his emotions, but his eyes and the corners of his mouth betrayed him. Like Mrs. Brewster, he was being eased out of power, and he appeared to understand the implications.

  “Yes. I accessed the database and hired a few of the men you used for previous operations. I wanted to get things moving along and you were busy with your other responsibilities.”

  “Can you explain to me what these ‘special projects’ might be?”

  “I do have a plan, Nathan, but I’m not prepared to give the full details at this time. After this speech, I’m going to ask for full authorization from the executive board. It’s clear that the Brethren have been focused on local or regional goals. It’s time we committed ourselves to a more aggressive worldwide strategy.”

  Boone’s fingers trembled as if he wanted choke Michael. “We’ve been
fairly aggressive in the past.”

  “You’ve been an outstanding employee, Nathan. We all appreciate your loyalty and hard work. You’ve shown us the right path. I’m just taking us a few steps farther.”

  “When can you give me more information?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” Michael reached out and slapped the older man’s shoulder. “With your help, I’m sure we’re going to be successful.”

  He left Boone in front of Bentham’s body and strolled to the end of the hallway. The delegates were sitting on folding chairs or standing near the interior windows that looked out at the cloister garden. Michael stepped behind the podium, took the speech from his coat pocket, and gazed out at the crowd.

  Studying the faces of the delegates, he realized that they could be placed in three categories. Some of them were openly suspicious, while others were curious about their new leader. The small group that sat around Mrs. Brewster was hostile, glaring in his direction and then whispering to each other.

  The last waitress disappeared out the doorway, followed by the two security men. Nathan Boone stood behind the seated guests and nodded to Michael. Everything was ready. Speak.

  18

  E veryone in this room seems to know about my background and my special gift. The late Kennard Nash, a man of great insight and wisdom, was the first member of the Brethren who realized that a person like me could be an asset to your cause. I will always be grateful for his faith in me. He was supported by a number of people here—in particular, Mrs. Brewster. Her dedication and hard work continues to be an inspiration to all of us.”

  A few of the delegates applauded Mrs. Brewster. She nodded and raised her right hand as if to say: Please, it’s not necessary. Then she looked back at Michael with a look of barely disguised rage.

  “At first, General Nash had questions about my loyalty, and I had my own doubts about this organization. But I have gone through a complete transformation. These days, I stand in awe of the Brethren and your vision of a stable, orderly society. What we decide here in the next few days will determine the future of this troubled world. Although the Panopticon was never built during Jeremy Bentham’s lifetime, our generation has the opportunity to turn his dream into reality.

  “I recently crossed over to another world and then traveled back to you with the first of many technological miracles that will finally allow us to achieve our goals. But what is even more important is this: I came in contact with minds of great wisdom who showed me that the so-called ‘virtue’ of freedom is actually dangerous illusion and that firm, but fair, social control is the salvation of mankind.

  “The Brethren are right and have always been right throughout history. After I learned this great truth, I only had one objective: to return and help you in any way possible. But before we start down this road together we need to understand our present situation and where we’re going in the future. In some ways, we’ve never been stronger. Almost every electronic transaction and act of communication can be detected and linked to a particular individual. This information can be placed in centralized databases and stored forever. We can create a ‘shadow’ image of each person and monitor their daily behavior.

  “Yes, there are a few crazies typing away on the Internet, but the major media is now controlled by a small group of people. These opinion shapers are our friends, and once we give them good stories—with villains and heroes, threats and solutions—we can drown out the scattered voices shouting in the streets.

  “Opinion polls have shown that law-abiding citizens don’t mind being watched by the authorities. All they want is a decent job and a chance to have some fun: a comfortable, orderly existence. Forget about the radicals and the fringe groups. There‘s no question that the public is on our side. Indeed, this the moment when we Brethren can stop and ask ourselves: how will the new system benefit our own lives?”

  Michael paused so that he could examine the crowd sitting in front of him. Most of the Brethren looked surprised by his question, but a few of them nodded slightly as if to say: Yes. That’s right. What’s in it for me?

  “The Panopticon will create a stable society where it’s easier to manipulate behavior and stifle dissent. But what are we going to gain from the new system? History has shown us that a severe dictatorship creates a resentful and rebellious underclass. A better goal is combining control—with prosperity. The problem with Bentham’s Panopticon is that his prisoners don’t work. His old-fashioned prison completely ignores the economy.

  “It’s time for a New Panopticon. Imagine a vast office—an enormous room—filled with billions of cubicles. In my system, there’s one electronic cubicle for every citizen in the industrial world. And within each cubicle, what are our citizens doing? Making products or providing services. They are productive citizens who fill out their time cards and don’t complain.

  “Once we realize that our true goal is a cooperative workforce, a great many issues become clear. It doesn’t make a difference if we’re talking about doctors, accountants, students, short-order cooks or steel workers. They’re all going to be in their invisible cubicles, watched by our surveillance cameras and controlled by our social parameter programs.

  “Do we care how our workers decorate their cubicles? Are we concerned if they spend their free time watching television or digging in their garden? Of course not. It makes no difference what church they attend so long as their faith doesn’t transform their lives. They can vote and slap bumper stickers on their cars so long as their political candidate doesn’t really change anything. If an economic crisis occurs, we’ll have the government print money and make superficial modifications, but the basic structure will remain the same.

  “The New Panopticon allows us to control the behavior of people both as workers and as consumers. Our citizen in the cubicle is essentially powerless, but he is still able to express himself at the shopping mall. Freedom of choice becomes the freedom to buy, and our new system gives us powerful tools to manipulate consumer behavior. When our citizen walks through the streets, billboards will recognize his face. Eventually, a centralized computer base will know all our citizen’s previous purchases and will make sure he’s never offered a product that will challenge his view of the world. It will be like listening to a radio station always tuned to music that sounds pleasantly familiar.

  “So this is what I’m proposing—not a prison of sullen, unproductive prisoners, but an interconnected structure that creates obedient workers and trained consumers. This world-wide system will guarantee more money and comfort for yourself and your family. We’ll get the stability of the old Panopticon—with a happy face.”

  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

  W earing 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.