The training simulation blipped out. When Marcellus opened his eyes, he was staring into blackness. Sluggishly, he reached up and grabbed his head. The helmet was slim and pulled off easily, sliding obediently back into its housing at the head of his portal. Low voices and muffled footsteps came at him from all directions. The docking station reminded Marcellus of a library, except instead of crotchety old women wagging their fingers and insisting on silence, here there were uniformed soldiers armed with laser tubes. Coming in and out of the sim was painless, a matter of mere contact with the proper diodes and the rush of electrical current, and yet there was always that moment of confusion. He blinked a few times at the softly lit ceiling.
Reclining next to him was Munib, inert, head still ensconced in the helmet. A neat row of portals continued off down the entire length of the docking station. There were more in front and behind, enough for a hundred people at least. Some of the soft, cushioned couches were occupied and distended, but most were upright and empty, helmets resting comfortably in their housing. Soldiers were posted along the walls, and near the entrance was a little desk where a small queue had formed. An attendant was speaking in hushed tones with the woman at the front. Several more off-duty soldiers were standing idly behind, playing with their PA's and waiting for their turn.
The general stirred. Marcellus sat up and swung his legs over the side of the couch. At once, one of the attendants at the front began to thread his way through the matrix of portals in their direction.
“You have made great strides,” Munib told him as he sat up and rubbed his head.
“Thanks.”
“Just remember, in space the enemy's greatest weakness is his web of satellites. But it is also your own.”
“I fended off that attack!” Marcellus insisted loudly, earning him a nasty look from the approaching attendant. “They didn't shoot down a single one!”
“True,” the general agreed serenely. “But the attack should never have happened in the first place.”
The attendant led them towards the entrance. The soldiers, both on and off duty, saluted crisply as they passed. Munib hardly took notice, however, and they passed uneventfully from the docking station into the cramped, steely corridors of the Observatory beyond.
“I see you are wearing your ring again,” Munib observed as they waited at an elevator shaft.
Marcellus glanced down at his hand. “Yeah.” He managed a feeble smile. “I decided it wasn't so bad after all.”
Munib peered at him intently. “Did you now? You sounded rather sincere when you said you would never use it again.”
“I meant what I said.”
“But you might do so accidentally.”
“Believe me, I won't,” Marcellus snapped. Irritably, he thrust his hand into his pocket.
The general's eyes glittered. “How interesting.”
The elevator door slid upwards. Two soldiers stepped out and saluted.
“Don't you think I'm ready for a command of my own?” Marcellus asked once they were inside.
“Do you feel you are ready?”
“Yes.” Marcellus let out a breath of air. “I want a crack at the Russians.”
Munib seemed slightly amused. “The Russians? Don't you think you're biting off more than you can chew?”
A distraught look crawled across Marcellus' face. “You think so?”
The general laughed heartily. “Not at all. I think you have been ready for some time.”
“Then why didn't you say something?”
The Shadow of God on Earth shrugged. “You had to feel you were ready.”
The door slid upwards, revealing yet another, cramped corridor. This one was wide enough for several people to pass along at once. It was rather busy. As they passed, people stopped and stood at attention, saluting tightly.
“The mines to the west on the edge of the Oceanus Procellarum come to mind. Some of luna's largest metal deposits are located there. I will accompany you, of course. But the command will be yours.” Munib clasped him lightly around the shoulders. “You are showing all the qualities of a leader.”
The pair stepped into the Commons. Munib quickly withdrew his arm.
A group of soldiers lounging by the maple tree saw them first. A low cheer went up and quickly spread. Those who had been absorbed thumbing or speaking into their PA's put them down. Many called out to Munib (behind his back they might call him “the Shadow”, but to his face they respectfully referred to him as their general), but another name could occasionally be heard, too: Governor Hawkeye. The bartender gladly bought everyone a round a drinks. Marcellus noticed that he had artfully chosen to fill the space won from the gargantuan sized portait of Epstein with a decorative mural, hand-made by one of the fighter squadrons. It was a rare but welcome splash of color.
Munib responded graciously. “You ought to smile back, Mr. Gyges. They are cheering for you, too.”
Marcellus felt uncomfortable, but he did his best. He sought out anyone who looked familiar and was surprised to find that there were many. He relaxed slightly and smiled at the woman who rationed out the food packets. She smiled back. After that, they crossed the floor and exited the other side.
“Hawkeye,” Munib mused thoughtfully. “I like that name. It fits you far better than Gyges.”
“I got it because I noticed some big oaf stepping on an old lady's feeding tube. It was all over the link.”
“Perhaps so. But I am not interested in any of that. There is a wisdom that protects you, a vision. It's no coincidence you have survived until now, and it has nothing to do with that ring. Not your use of it, anyhow. From now on, I, too, will call you Hawkeye.”
Marcellus snorted with contempt. “No one calls me that!”
“Is that so? I was under the impression a great many do. Billions, if not trillions.”
“You want to make a politician out of me? You virtually crowned me governor when you went off to fight and left me behind to thumb documents.”
Munib suppressed a smile . “Perhaps it was so.”
“Well I don't want to be a politician.”
“Not even President?”
“No! Definitely not that!”
“But I was under the impression that's why you went to Washington. After you found the ring.”
“Yes,” Marcellus agreed reluctantly, “but a lot has changed since then. I've seen power up close.” He paused tentatively before asking. “Was Judas always like that?”
“Like what?”
“So...” Marcellus waved his hand futilely. “You know.”
“So ready to do business? No. The job changed him. The way he got it, I think, changed him.”
“I definitely do not want to be President,” Marcellus repeated flatly.
The general tilted his head slightly and looked up at Marcellus. “It seems to me that you have just pronounced yourself the most suitable candidate for the job.”
Marcellus laughed. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you come back with the Dutchman to serve under Judas?”
They emerged into one of the circular corridors that ran along the inside of the dome. The far wall was a transparent arc of multiple layers of protective plastic. It faced east and looked out over the cliff that separated the highlands from the basalt mare far below. The flaps were retracted, as the sun and its dangerous rays were bearing down on the opposite side of the Observatory. The harsh, bleak landscape stood out in sharp relief. The earth hung in the sky in its usual place, a quarter of her face showing like a shy child peeking out from behind a door.
Munib walked up to the handrail that ran waist high along the dome and gripped it tightly. He looked out longingly over the landscape and said simply, “I went with him so I could come here.”
“Here?” Marcellus sounded shocked. “I would have thought after all those years on that barren island this would be the last place you'd want to be.”
“Not at all,” breathed Munib. “Not at all.” Slowly, his eyes drifted upwards towards heaven. “That island wasn't barren. Far from it.” His eyes remained fixed on the stars, but his arm gestured lightly at the terrain in front of them. “Would you call this barren?”
Marcellus was about to answer, but for a reason he could not explain he held his tongue.
“Ah,” Munib continued after a short pause, “there is Mars. She's about to be occulted by the earth.” He pointed upwards.
Marcellus followed his finger. On earth, the stars in the sky flicker amid atmospheric fluctuations, and they nearly all have the same color. Not so on the moon. All the points of light suspended above are unwavering, and until he arrived there Marcellus had never known there was such a variety of yellows and oranges and blues. One fiery pinprick stood out among the many, burning brightly a short distance from the arc of earth. “Yes, I see it.”
“It always makes me feel better when Mars is close.”
Marcellus frowned, struggling to understand what Munib had on his mind. “What do you mean, close?”
“The earth is overtaking Mars in her orbit! It happens once every two years.”
“Oh.” Marcellus still didn't understand. “Why does it make you feel better?”
“Because. It's something else, something big, that much closer in the midst of all the vast emptinesses of space.” Munib turned and peered at Marcellus intently as if to ascertain whether or not he was getting through. He could see plainly that he wasn't. “The world down there is a cesspool,” he said darkly and pointed accusingly at the globe of the earth without even deigning to look at it. “It is a product of a deranged imagination run wild. Down there there are ordinaries and specials and mods and drones. Up here there are people.”
He drew a quick breath and continued. “When I went with the Dutchman off that island, before we went anywhere else he took me to Amsterdam. He took the time to show me the many parks, the sculpted, green spaces and the playgrounds for children. He was quite proud. I'm sure he thought he was treating me to a luxury. But they looked quite dismal to me. It might have been different had there been places outside the city untainted by the hand of humankind, but we both knew there were none. The city just keeps going on and on forever.
“What he couldn't see through his ignorance and his pride, Hawkeye, is that I had been enjoying the real thing – even if it was mostly rock and crabgrass and a few trees – for years on end! How could his sad, little parks compare to that? There were no caretakers. The animals and insects and plants that flourished or died did so according to a rhythm that was entirely independent of myself, and I was pleased because when I looked at the hand of humankind in nature everywhere else all I saw was a calculated, destructive cynicism.
“I'm telling you, Allah is in nature, and the moment you conquer it you banish Allah, too. That is why life down there on that grotesque ball of smog is so hopeless. Why else do you think the ordinaries pray so readily to cash dispensers? I knew I had to come here. As much as I had grown attached to my little island, I still very much wanted to leave, because a man like myself cannot be confined forever to a small patch of ground.”
“But this isn't green!” Marcellus protested. “You need a spacesuit to go outside!”
Munib the Magnificent's eyes glittered darkly. His hands were gripping the rail so tightly they had turned white. “It's still nature, Hawkeye. Raw, unspoiled nature. Allah is everywhere out here. Oh no, I will never go back. Never.”
“Okay.” Marcellus wasn't sure what else to say.
“Promise me, Marcellus Hawkeye. Promise me that when you are President you will leave me be.”
“I thought we already talked about this. I'm not going to be President.”
“Just promise.”
“Sure, fine. Yes. I promise.”
“Say it.”
Marcellus clicked his tongue. “I promise if I'm President I won't bring you back to earth! There. Are you satisfied?”
Munib did not answer, but he seemed to relax somewhat. Slowly his eyes drifted back to the sky. He stood that way for a while, pondering. “I will tell you a story, Hawkeye. Would that please you?”
“Sure,” Marcellus said neutrally, but actually he was very eager to hear it. Munib had never been so open with him.
He paused again as if gathering his thoughts. “When I was a boy in Lebanon,” he finally began, “many, many years ago, when the Americans only intervened in our affairs from a distance and the Mediterranean League was just a few, disjoined cities scattered along the coast of our sea, pining for the glory of ages past, my mother adopted a tiger cub.”
“You grew up with a tiger cub in the house?”
“Please do not interrupt. The cub was born in captivity at the zoo. There were, however, not enough funds to maintain the animals. One of the administrator's ideas was to allow individuals to pay for a portion of the care of a specific animal. Those interested could choose out of a catalog, and as a reward for their generosity, they were allowed to take part in some of the daily chores involving the animal's upkeep. The idea was that if people developed a personal bond with their adopted animal, they would also be more likely to keep contributing to its care. My mother chose a tiger cub.
“Most mornings before she went off to work at the hospital, she took me with her to the zoo. I watched from outside the cage as she went in, accompanied by an attendant. In the beginning, the cub was tiny, about the size of a kitten, and my mother clearly thought of it that way. She would hold it in her arms and laugh with delight as she scratched its ears. The cub purred, you see. As time went on, the cub grew in size, until she could no longer hold it. But she kept coming back to feed it. The attendant liked to encourage the idea that the cub considered my mother its mother as well. It was an idea that very much appealed to her. One day, when my mother entered the cage as usual with the cub's morning meal, it mauled her horribly, and she bled to death before my very eyes. Then they shot the cub.
“You see, Hawkeye, a tiger cub is still a tiger cub and not a kitten no matter how nice we are to it, and it cannot help but act like a tiger. I do not blame the cub for what happened. There is ferocity in nature, too, and no matter what we do we will never eradicate it, least of all because we will find it in our own hearts as well. It is a foolish enterprise to try.”
“Is that why you're so cruel?” The question slipped out before Marcellus could censor himself. Well, now that he said it, he went on. “I thought it had something to do with Constantinople.”
“The Turks?” Munib spat. A sudden hatred imbued his voice. “The Turks are animals. I watched them tear my father's body apart after he died. They climbed over each other like rats to get a piece.”
“The city was under seige! The Turks were the victims! Why isn't it the Burgundians or the Americans you hate? Didn't they bomb the hospital where he worked?”
“It wasn't the Burgundians or the Americans that ate my father!” Munib's fists balled up tightly. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The hands slowly unclenched, then the eyes. When he spoke next, the hatred had been meticulously stripped from his voice, leaving it bland and disinterested. But the coal-black eyes burned fiercely. “The circumstances do not interest me. The Turks are animals and I have done what I could in my lifetime to cut down on their numbers. Amen.”
“But you don't hate the tiger cub.”
“A tiger cub does not have the opportunity to choose. Your questions are wearying.”
“But aren't you ever bothered by the faces of those you -?”
“Butcher? No. Because nothing new can ever be made in this world until what once was has been destroyed.”
“Oh c'mon,” Marcellus scoffed. “I mean, if you're a cruel man, you are also an effective general. Maybe the one goes with the other. But don't try and make up petty excuses!”
A wan smile crept onto Munib's face. He gestured at the dark sky above. “Do you see that, Hawkeye? A myriad of stars. It's so beautiful, so serene, is it not? And yet most of what you see will one day end in a violent death and whatever life or beauty was on the planets that orbit these stars will be destroyed. The galaxy is a giant whirlpool with a black hole at its center, relentless sucking in all matter and chewing it up and spitting it out in jets of raw energy. To what end? Because if you reject the utility of destruction in nature, then you cannot answer that question.
“You see, destruction is a part of life. And a good thing it is! The carbon in your body, the oxygen you breathe and drink, the thorium that serves as fuel, where do you think they come from? The hearts of suns! They were forged over the eons by the process of fusion and when those suns exploded they cast the fruit of their labor across the void so they could become the stuff of new solar systems. I fulfill the same function, provided on a much smaller scale. I wipe things away so people like you can start afresh.
“Do not judge me, Marcellus Hawkeye. You need me.”
Xiling the Terrible, suspended about halfway between the floor and the domed ceiling of the main hall of Grand Central Station, cocked back his arm, lips locked in a fierce snarl, and was about to hurl the deadly ball of fire cupped in his hand at Tizoc. His adversary stood, cowering behind some rubble, near the entrance to the high speed trains. Murasaki, one of her arms bandaged and wrapped up against her side, floated in the air a few meters above the Chief Justice and held out what looked like a fine, white powder, ready to cast it over his head. Her nostrils flared greedily. Ramuel and Rhea, too, were closing in, speeding upwards from either side, eyes burning, mouths open in a horrible chant. Only Kaela and Frey stood with the Chief Justice, floating at his side, weaving desperate incantations of protection. Talisman was present and invisible, sneaking unnoticed around behind Murasaki and about to get close enough to spear her through the chest with a bolt of electrical energy. The confrontation had been a long time in the coming, and perhaps before I tell you any more about it, I ought to explain the events leading up to it.
The war was dragging on. Even worse, Michael was dead, slain in northern New Jersey in an rash attempt to steal the prize on which the whole conflict now turned, and with him his whole army vanquished. The situation exacerbated the deep divisions already present in the Supreme Court. One faction – led by Tizoc – believed that the war should long have been decided were it not for the poor and reckless leadership of the Chief Justice. That one had thrown all he had into the battle for New Jersey. But Epstein's two remaining generals, Steiner and Sokolawski, simply bombarded the Justice and his approaching army from space while they watched the action safely from large, state-of-the-art vidscreens at their headquarters in Baltimore and Washington. Part of the reason this happened is that Xiling no longer had generals of his own. He had quickly tired of their cautious counsels and, not long after seizing New York City, when it seemed he had no further need of their particular talents, he had them thrown from the windows of what had once been his penthouse apartment.
Xiling had all those who displeased him thrown from the windows of his penthouse apartment, special and ordinary alike. A steady stream plummeted to their deaths below each day. It had been his favorite residence, but Epstein had so thoroughly defiled it that not even the most powerful magic could undo the damage. A host of disease-ridden rats had taken up residence in the nearby buildings, feeding on the bodies and preventing any human habitation for blocks all around. Such a display of wanton disregard for human life had – in addition to all his other public acts of cruelty – finally earned him the name Xiling the Terrible, an appellation of which he was invariably quite proud.
Tizoc and Murasaki had formed their own rebellious clique already some time ago, but Michael's sudden death pushed Rhea and Ramuel to join them. In hidden council, they decided to settle the matter the only way two factions on the Supreme Court knew how: a gruesome battle to the death. It is for this reason that those who have latched so tightly onto their egos – whom in ordinary speech we call evil – can never obtain the sure and complete victory that often seems within their grasp. For they are incapable of cooperating for any length of time or making meaningful sacrifices. Like rats caged up for too long in a small space, they will surely turn on each other, and whomever emerges will be too weak to enjoy his victory for long. Indeed, this is very likely what would have happened had Marcellus not managed to destroy the ring or if he had done it a little later. But he did, and he did not. The rebellious Justices chose for their attack the moments after they had all ceremoniously slaughtered Michael's unfortunate acolyte and consumed his flesh.
The moment the ring ceased to exist, the Justices noticed it instantly. It was as if the sun had suddenly gone out, or all the air in the room suddenly sucked away. The Chief Justice blinked. Tizoc stood up and gasped. Murasaki and Ramuel plummeted to the ground, but caught themselves and managed to land safely, if ungracefully. Talisman, however, hit the floor with a muffled thud and turned visible. Slowly, Rhea, Kaela, Frey, and Xiling drifted towards the ground. When they landed, everyone gathered around.
“Is he dead?” Tizoc squeaked, visibly unnerved.
Xiling and Rhea's eyes shot towards the ceiling. Although it could not be seen through the dome, they were looking in the precise direction of the nearly full moon, hanging suspended in the sky outside. “No,” the Chief Justice stated flatly after a moment. “He's still there.”
“What happened to it?” Rhea wanted to know.
“Yes,” Tizoc pressed, “does he really have the power to destroy it?”
A viscious smile crept over the Chief Justice's lips. “You are all so concerned.”
“Are we lost?”
“Weakling! Of course we aren't lost. Our hand has been strengthened.”
Kaela shifted uncomfortably. “Strengthened? Darling, but how? It will take years to make another one.”
Rhea stamped her foot impatiently. “I want to know how he destroyed it!”
Murasaki sighed. “Didn't you feel it, darling? The ring was consumed by the sun.”
“Probably sent it along with the rubbish,” Talisman added, tenderly rubbing his neck.
“It doesn't matter how!” Xiling snapped irritably. “What matters is that we are the only ones who know about it.” He chuckled darkly. “Gyges has removed the only protection he had. Now our task has become simpler.”
“What do we still want with this Gyges?” Ramuel asked. “It's Epstein we want.”
“Revenge,” replied the Chief Justice. The others nodded obediently and called for their acolytes.
“Munib gives me the creeps,” Icarus was saying. “I much prefer Epstein. I mean, even though he tried to kill you.” He shrugged and took a sip of his liquified lunch.
“Yeah, well, up here you can say that and not be afraid you're being listened in on.”
“True.” He took another sip from the silver pouch. Printed in plain block letters across the front was the word “RED”. Yesterday they had been given “GREEN”, but truth be told no matter it said on the pouch, the only thing that seemed to differ from day to day was the color.
Marcellus and Icarus were sitting in the Commons on two, rickety fold-up chairs near the bar. The buzz of activity swirled all around them. From above came the hoots and cries of those jumping or gliding on wings or sliding down the zip-line, enjoying the feathery gravity of the moon. A clump of soldiers lounged by the maple tree, occasionally erupting in raucous laughter. No one seemed to notice them.
Marcellus shifted in his chair. “In a way I miss Judas. I could never forgive him, of course. What's done is done. But – ”
“He seems human,” Icarus interrupted. “What's really freaky about Munib is that he's so polite. But he's really a monster.”
Marcellus shrugged. “He's helping us. That's what counts.”
Icarus smirked. “You're starting to sound like a politician.”
“You know that's not what I want!”
“But it's true!”
“What do you expect me to do? It's not like I have a lot of choices.” Marcellus paused apprehensively. “No, that's not a fair answer.” He bit his lower lip. “I just don't feel I should try and hurt him if he's not an immediate threat. Otherwise I'd be hurting myself. In a manner of speaking.” He grinned uncomfortably and shrugged.
Icarus gestured towards the ring on Marcellus' finger. “You could really fuck him up if you wanted to.”
“Yeah,” Marcellus muttered. Maya was the only one who knew. “Anyway, who am I to decide who should be punished and who rewarded? It's not a burden I want. Or need.”
Much to his surprise, Icarus agreed. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. Sounds like what this guy's been telling me in my dreams.”
Marcellus was stunned. He couldn't possibly have heard right. Icarus must have meant something else.
At that moment, one of the soldiers by the maple tree called out to them. “Hey, Hawkeye!” It was a familiar voice. Startled, Marcellus looked over and picked Norm out of the crowd, one of the first soldiers he had met at the Observatory. “I hear you'll be leading us into battle against the Russians? Is it true?”
Marcellus nodded grimly. “Yes, Norm. It's true.”
A wide grin spread across Norm's face. “The Shadow's been training him personally,” he assured his companions. “Ain't it so, Hawkeye?”
“You bet.”
“You know if my unit's assigned to go?”
“You know I can't tell you even if I did,” Marcellus told him evenly. But when he saw the disappointment creep onto Norm's face, he added, “I'll see what I can do.”
“Yippee!” came the cry, and the soldiers by the maple tree excitedly resumed their conversation.
“They really like you,” Icarus commented.
But Marcellus had something else on his mind.
“You just said – ”
“You've changed, you know,” Icarus continued. “Back at the compound no one liked you except us.”
“They were all Judas' pets.”
Icarus shrugged. “Maybe. Anyway you've changed. You only ever wanted to hang out with Jango.”
“You've changed a lot, too.”
“Really? In what way?”
Marcellus considered for a moment. “You used to be such a dick.”
Icarus laughed. “Yeah, I guess I was. I used to think everything was either true or not true. Now I know the world is mostly grey. I stopped trying to sort it into neat, little compartments. I didn't like the world I had created for myself, so I decided to change it.”
“Really?”
Marcellus' voice hardened.
“Yeah. It all started with this guy
in my dreams. He's my angel. I know, it sounds stupid. But that's
what he says and I believe him.”
“And you believe in what some guy in your dreams tells you?” The voice had turned icy.
Icarus, though, hadn't noticed. “Oh, he's real. He just appears to me in my dreams. He told me he talks to you, too. Is it true?”
Marcellus, consumed by jealousy, leaped up from his chair and glared down at his friend. “I never want to talk to you again,” he snarled and stomped furiously away.
Thus was summoned Gyges the Terrible. Everything had seemed to be going so well, and then in an instant there he was, called up from out of the Everything. It was, of course, Gyges the Terrible I had in front of me. He could not have been mistaken for anyone else.
“You lied to me, Nameless!” he screeched, arms thrown wide, eyes bugging from his head. His hair waved slowly about him as if he were in low gravity.
We were in a steam bath of some kind. It was incredibly hot. The floor was smooth and slippery. The walls were paved with old, chipped tiles of an off-green non-color. Thick, brass piping clung desperately to them.
Marcellus stood, wrapped in a towel, baring his chest at me. He was furious.
“Did you really expect that all these secrets would be reserved for your ears alone?” I asked him plainly. “They are not even secrets.”
“You tricked me!” he hollered. In the distance, the sudden, harsh burst of steam could be heard.
“Charles should never have told you about me. I warned him not to.”
Marcellus grunted with satisfaction. “So you admit it!”
“I did not lie to you, although I am capable of it. Nor did I trick you. But when matters of this world mix with those of the waking world, one must defer to caution.”
“That ugly, pimple-faced geek!” Marcellus screamed. “I can't believe you'd put him on the same page as me.” A hot clump of steam floated between us, almost completely obscuring Marcellus.
“Is that what this is about?” I asked. “You feel you are superior to everyone else?”
“Not everyone else!” snapped the clump of stream.
“Just Charles then?”
The cloud passed on and Marcellus reemerged. “Oh, you wouldn't understand, Nameless,” he sneered at me. “You haven't got any feelings.”
“This is a moment of truth, Marcellus,” I told him solemnly. In the distance came the sudden hiss of more steam. “I can no longer help you.”
“I don't want your help!” he screamed defiantly. “I don't need you any more! I can do this myself! Myself! You hear me?”
“Let go of yourself, Marcellus,” I told him. But he was already gone.
After that, I never saw Marcellus in his dreams again.
This site and all its contents are the result of the tumultuous workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.