To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga)

by William Rotsler

  Here the dome curved down and the walls were stacked high with boxes and shelves of merchandise. Several stock clerks noticed her passing, but gave Blake and Rio only a cursory look. Linda took a stairway down and the two fugitives followed. They came into a lower deck, below the surface of the mall, where the air-conditioning ducts and the various pipes, tubes, and conduits were located. Linda was still walking briskly, following a path that was twisting and turning.

  Blake knew they were well past the mall and into the outer wall of the arcolog, but he was beginning to lose his sense of direction. They went through fire doors, utility access hatches, company ports, and anonymous arches until he was completely lost.

  "Where are we?" he called ahead to Linda.

  "Sector six, quadrant two, level three-four-seven, sublevel B."

  "Thanks," Blake said. "I should have recognized it right away."

  A few moments later, Linda took utility stairs up one level and stopped at a locked door. She produced a key from her clothing and pressed it to the lock panel. The door clicked open and the three of them entered and closed it after them. They were in the technical-services hall to a series of condominiums.

  Linda walked quickly to the third of several doors and pressed another key to a blank spot on the wall near the door.

  She paused, and looked at Blake and Rio. "A moment," she said.

  They heard a noise, and Linda stepped onto the ident panel before the door. A few seconds later the door slid back and Linda walked through quickly. Blake and Rio hurried after her.

  The condo was large and dark, except for candles. The person who opened the door was robed in black. Blake observed the figure putting a laser gun into a pocket of his robe, then all Blake could see was the gleam of eyes in the darkness of the cowl. What have we fallen into this time, he wondered.

  The air was heavy with incense and the steady chant of a number of people. Blake came up behind Rio as she stood at the entrance to the main room. Linda had disappeared into the dimness and Blake sought her in the crowd of kneeling figures, but could not find her. Some of the figures wore black masks, and there were about as many of one sex as another. Against one wall an altar stood on a section of flooring raised up a few steps. The altar was made of some dark, polished stone and the candles on it were of black wax and were set in ancient holders of ornate silver. Before the altar stood a black man, in a black robe, speaking in a sonorous tone, reading from a heavy and ancient book. The language was unintelligible.

  "It's black magic!" Rio said in a whisper.

  Blake gripped her arm and gave the passing figure of the one who had opened the door a quick look. The man passed on across the room, and Blake saw him kneel with another small group of robed figures who were all but invisible in a corner. They seem to be praying, and all held candles.

  "Perhaps it is white magic," he told Rio. He felt her shiver and he murmured reassuringly in her ear, "It's just another religion. If it were a black mass, they'd have an inverted stolen crucifix and would be reading the Mass backward. At least, I think that's what they do."

  "We serve in a way far older than that," said a voice at their elbow. Startled, Blake and Rio turned to see Linda standing next to them. "Those who mock the Christian service with their blasphemies are but upstarts. We here follow a far more ancient form of worship. Listen!"

  Blake and Rio listened, but all they heard was the chant of the group of kneeling people who were following the man before the altar.

  The whole ceremony seemed to have significance to Linda. "Watch," she whispered. "Constantine is about to make a woman his slave."

  The man at the altar stopped his chant and put away the book. He took a piece of parchment given him by one of the women and drew three large concentric circles upon it with a quill pen. Then the acolyte offered him a small pot, which seemed to be filled with ashes.

  He dipped his quill into the pot and wrote something in the center of the circles.

  "Her name," Linda whispered.

  They watched as he pricked his left thumb with a needle. With his own blood he drew seven five-pointed stars within the circle where he had written the woman's name. After squeezing more blood from his thumb, he drew seven open eyes in the next ring, and in the outer ring seven quarter-moons. He then folded the parchment in half, then in half again. He knelt on the floor before the altar and an acolyte handed him a horseshoe and a black candle.

  As he was lighting the candle, Linda whispered, "Bloody hard to find iron horseshoes these days. One of the reasons I'm in the antique business."

  The black man held the paper to the candle flame, and the horseshoe in his left hand. Then he began to speak, this time in English:

  "Lord of the Night, of the Moon, the Stars,

  All-seeing Eye,

  Hear me.

  Great Lucifer, Beazelbuth,

  And all the fallen of the realm,

  Hear me.

  I command that you come here to this place

  And listen to me.

  Get this woman, Christine Tsitrian,

  And bring her to me,

  Drive her to me,

  Take her soul and give it to me.

  Lord of the Night, Great Lucifer,

  Do as I command

  Or I will curse you with angels

  And the eternal light of Heaven."

  The man began to repeat the incantation, using some of the ashes from the burnt parchment to draw a cross over his heart. He placed the horseshoe and the candle flat on the floor and drew a piece of black cloth over them. Then he rose and, apparently lost in thought, left the room.

  "I was waiting for her to appear," Rio said.

  "She will. In time. A day, two days."

  "Does he know her or is it someone he has merely seen?" Blake asked.

  "He has met her, yes." Linda looked at Blake, her eyes unreadable in the dim candlelight. "You believe?"

  "In witchcraft? No, I'm sorry, I don't. Look at his spell. He was intimidating Satan: Do this or I'll make you sorry! A very powerful Devil would hardly bow to a little chant like that."

  "It has worked," Linda said.

  "How many times? And how many times has it not? Do you follow the scientific method here, or do you just remember the winners? I'm sorry if I am insulting your beliefs, but you asked me."

  Linda nodded. "People turn to magic during times of great uncertainty, when the importance of the individual seems to be slipping away and life becomes cheap. Surely life was never cheaper than now? Biblical Jews turned to Moses, who was a great sorcerer, to save them from the Egyptians. It is quite possible that early Christians believed that the magic of the Christ was greater than that of other magicians, Roman or Hebrew."

  "But we will never know, will we?" Blake said.

  "Perhaps," Linda conceded. "There are many paths." She turned and walked away. "Come."

  As they circled the group of kneeling worshippers – who were now chanting something to the Lord God of the Heavens – Linda seemed to disappear into blackness. But Blake and Rio moved ahead and found a parting in the black curtains. They emerged into a hallway hung with cryptic drawings and discovered her waiting by a door.

  "This way," she said patiently, and they followed her.

  The room was expensively decorated. But it's likely no different, Blake imagined, than any of a hundred like it in the arcolog. It was the study of a rich man, with no more evil touches than a stuffed Angora cat on a shelf. The music tape cassettes filled a huge rack and the wallscreen was tuned to a muted abstraction channel. There were comfortable chairs and subdued lighting.

  The man who had been at the altar was now clad in a dressing gown of a rich, velvety fabric. He looked up from selecting a music tape and smiled at Blake and Rio. "Ah, our distinguished visitors from the past!"

  He came forward and took Blake's hand in a firm grip, and then bowed over Rio's hand in a curious way. As he smiled at her, Blake knew whose name was going to be on the next parchment.

&nbs
p; "I am Constantine Dahomey." He made it sound as if the letters of his name were set in neon. "But perhaps you would like a drink? Something of your time, or perhaps something you might not have tasted? A nicola? Itano? Burgundy? Chablis? A brandy, perhaps?"

  Rio asked for brandy and Blake agreed. As they sank gratefully into the comfortable furniture, Blake was struck by the swift transition he had made from a gladiator's barracks cell to a rich man's study. Then he smiled to himself. Or from a nice comfortable job to a fugitive in one easy sleep.

  Linda disappeared and Constantine sat down, giving Blake a little time to study the big, strong, black-skinned man. He was attractive, powerfully built, and had an assurance that told of quiet arrogance. Blake had not liked him to begin with and nothing new had changed his mind. Constantine was obviously playing a game of his own, and everyone else was either pawn or opponent.

  Settling into his chair, Constantine's eyes were on Rio, who seemed to be somewhat disconcerted by his attention. This struck Blake as odd, since she undoubtedly had been the target of hundreds of attractive men when she was with Voss. The possibility that she was attracted to Constantine occurred to Blake, and it made him edgy.

  "I thought black masses and so on were conducted is the nude," he said, to divert Constantine's attention.

  "We consider that both old-fashioned and rude," the black man said, not looking away from Rio. "One shouldn't appear naked before his god. We don't need to do that sort of thing anymore. Our magic is more sophisticated these days.”

  Before Blake could comment, Constantine struck the arm of his chair. "Enough of that! You must tell me of your adventures!" He spoke with enthusiasm, turning from Rio to Blake.

  Reluctantly, Blake gave him a capsule version. Constantine kept interrupting to turn and ask Rio's feelings about each-event, and his smile never wavered as he looked at her.

  When Blake had finished, he said, "But what do they want of us, these People for a New Day? Where are they?"

  Constantine waved a manicured hand. "We are the People, all that you have met are of the People for a New Day." He smiled again at Rio. "An uneasy alliance, yes, but an alliance nevertheless. We have plans for you. You will be useful."

  "Pawns?" Rio asked.

  "But no!" Constantine reached out and took her hands, looking into her eyes and still smiling. "Not pawns! Catalysts! One so beautiful would never be a pawn. A queen, yes, but not a pawn. No, never!"

  Blake broke in. "Do you know of Jean-Michel Voss?"

  For the first time, Constantine Dahomey stopped smiling. He looked narrowly at Blake. "Yes, I have heard of him. He was one of you, was he not?"

  "Do you know where he is?" Rio asked.

  "Not exactly, but generally. Why do you want to know?" His smile to Rio had returned, but with less voltage than before.

  "He can help us. He is powerful and rich and ... one of us."

  Constantine shook his head. "I think not. Perhaps once. Jean-Michel Voss is now Special Adviser to the Grand Council of the Archangels of God the Triumphant."

  Blake and Rio stared at him. "You mean, he's on the other side?" Rio asked.

  Constantine nodded.

  "Where is he?" Blake asked.

  "At the Temple. The main temple, in San Diego. If you are looking for him to help, I'm afraid you might be disappointed. He issued a warrant for your arrest through the cooperating councils. Even those who fight among themselves will often cooperate in apprehending criminals of your type."

  "Perhaps he is just trying to find us in order to help us," Rio said.

  Constantine raised his brows. "I think not. The order has 'Shoot if resistance is given' written all over it."

  "How do you know this much?" Blake asked.

  Constantine's smile was broad. "I am district commander of the Seraphim of the Sanctified Host. Church cop, if you will."

  "But–" Rio said.

  "Yes, I know. But it makes a good cover, and I can help my people. The position also pays very well. You'd be surprised how many people prefer, to pay a quite heavy tribute to avoid prosecution."

  "Blackmail?" Blake asked.

  Constantine looked puzzled. "I do not know the word. Some argot or sliptalk of your time? It does not matter. Well, you must be tired. May I show you to your rooms?"

  Blake and Rio exchanged looks of longing. He nodded, resigned to accept the obviously strong taboos of this strange new society. Someday! he thought. Someday!

  They exchanged a few words in the hall outside their rooms. "Jean-Michel was always a survivor," Rio said quietly.

  "So are we. Maybe he picked the wrong side," Blake said.

  "Maybe we did."

  They sighed, and kissed, and parted.

  Blake lay awake in his bed, thinking of Walter Robinson, of Venus, and of Constantine Dahomey, finding them much alike and neither of them much different from Voss. All three were powerful and arrogant, their contempt for others masked in politeness and distance. They were users. They all desired Rio – although Voss seemed willing enough to sacrifice her if doing so meant his own safety.

  Only the elderly pope had been different, much different from Blake's conventional concept of a Holy Father. Urban is an outlaw – as many popes have been – but Robinson and Dahomey are not. They are secure behind their money and position. Then why are they involved with illegal and revolutionary movements? More Power? More wealth? Voss has found a niche of safety and perhaps power, probably buying it with his hidden wealth and securing it with his devious mind.

  Blake turned restlessly in the bed. Three hundred years to go. Perhaps four hundred. Surely no underground can shuttle us safely back and forth for that long, no matter what sort of symbols we are. All the semi-immortality that he and Rio had achieved now seemed to be more of a burden than a prize.

  How long can such a restrictive society last? Blake wondered. He thought with gloom of the thirty-and forty-year reigns of difficult kings and vengeful popes, of the dynasties of China, of the dictatorships and presidents-for-life, of the hundred-year dominance of elitists in what was now New America. Even Napoleon and Hitler ruled for a decade and a half. But no one man caused an empire to exist, and no one man can cause it to fall. And there is now no one despotic king to battle in mortal combat, he thought. No single master computer, no cabal to outwit, and bring this monolithic society to ruins. Only the people can change it, not some fortune hunter, some freebooter or fugitive from a cryogenic time machine.

  Blake thought that he and Rio might do better than blindly follow the secret plans of the New Day people.

  What if they are bungling amateurs or head-in-the-sand types like Venus, who live to play at revolt? Suppose their plan is to make us dead martyrs? Causes love martyrs – they always have, they probably always will. The early Christians had them; Hitler had Horst Wessel; all the undergrounds have had their dead heroes to whip up enthusiasms for dangerous games.

  Blake turned over again, punching up his pillow. Why don't we just head for the Sierras, or the Superstitions, or back up to the Rockies? We could find or build a cabin, and just live out our lives in the snow and summer grass, away from everyone, away from corruptions of religion, away from the crazies – far, far away?

  The memory of Neva and Bennett came back to him. Marta, Rob, Kapuki, Narmada, and all the others came back to haunt him. Damn it, where is Granville? What have they done to Doreen in revenge? Is Voss going to think only of himself? Frustration fed the rage in him. Who did those religious bastards think they were, condemning us to death? The terrible, painful, humiliating public execution they had planned for Rio in the Arena was vivid in Blake's memory. They do not deserve their power, he thought angrily. They do not deserve the name "religion."

  In that moment Blake's resolve was forged: Destroy them. Destroy them before they destroy us. Destroy them – or die trying.

  Sleep came hard, and Blake's bed was lonely.

  Constantine had left them at breakfast, saying the condo was theirs, but suggested they sta
y inside. "Tonight the leaders will meet and we will decide how best to utilize you."

  "Will we be there?" Rio asked.

  Constantine shook his head. "That won't be necessary. There are some you should not know, so you could not inadvertently betray them."

  He left, smiling, and Rio and Blake looked at each other. "Big Brother knows best," Rio said.

  They looked over the big condo and found the room that had been filled with witches and warlocks was bright and sunny, with one window opening toward the south. The black drapes turned out to be dark blue, were tied off in twos, making the room appear lavishly decorated, but not bizarre. The altar was now a bar, the shelves under the back filled with bottles bearing labels with which Blake was not familiar.

  Blake and Rio settled into a couch and decided to find out more of their world by looking at television. The big wallscreen lit up and showed an expanse of ocean, deep purple and whitecapped, a vast plain of undulating water. Near the camera was a wide, low plankton skimmer, and the narrator was speaking of the majesty of the sea and the ripe harvests gained from it. On the horizon was the graceful and colorful shape of a sailsbip, the sun flashing off the metal vane sails set in ranks up three tall metal masts.

  The camera now sank beneath the waves, and Rio and Blake saw the great suction mouths that drank in the seawater, pumping it through the filters, extracting the plankton and other forms of food. The camera dropped further into the sea, and a small submarine passed by. They could see a fat cargo sub in the murky distance, then another cruising closer. The first dome tops began to appear at a hundred fathoms, and more circling subs of various sizes. The camera passed over the domes, looking down, then curved around and passed by on one side of the cluster. The narrator spoke in reverent tones about the bravery of the aquanauts that had established this research station so deep in the ocean.

  Blake and Rio could see through some thick ports at the interior of the domes. Men and women were at work and robots loaded cargo subs. The narrator launched into a long, boring speech about life under the sea. Rio changed the channel.

  A church service was in progress in a vast cathedral of crystal and chrome, a glittering temple of reflections and light. A woman in a richly ornamented robe was raising high a jeweled cross, and Blake noticed that the bottom arm of the cross was pointed and sharpened, like a short, thick sword,