|
Page 18.
11. Ankhfire
 Cyrus Mbe sat in the Assembly Hall as all hell broke loose.
The Assembly Hall was, floor to roof, cold design. A thousand people now sat here silently to decide the fate of the universe. A thousand people sat at their seats in ten tiered circles of the tall, round building, and with them their delegation staffs, and the stars were visible through the transparent ceiling. Cold design: A massive buttress rose from floor to ceiling, splitting at the base to enclose an imposing portal, and on a balcony projecting from the face of the buttress high up sat the chairman of the UGO with his staff: cold design: taking even murder into account; the arrangement was meant to protect the chairman from assassination during meetings open to the public.
The stars shone down on the thousand delegates, and many souls across the human galaxy prayed over these thousand.
A small man rose at his seat and said loudly: “I defy you. I damn you, Lacryma, City of Tears.” He was Alan Chase, of Ankhfire, shouting at the delegation of Lacryma, a Mercurian ally.
A thousand faces made a sea of expressions, and their eyes made lights of worry, glistening in sweat: That, so far from their homes, they should have come to watch a battle of giants.
Stasis was mutating, and Cyrus felt the pain of it. There were angry faces among those of Lacryma’s delegation. Mercury’s delegation were pent and silent, but red-faced as if they were going to cut loose with yelling and fist waving at any moment. Cyrus glanced toward Jared Fallon, one of his military advisors, but the young officer’s back was turned. It was the moment of calm before an unstoppable storm.
The new Assembly Chair, Thor Eystrigg of Veredig, let Chase finish some opening remarks. “Very well, Mr. Delegate, proceed. You may make your initial claim for a hearing at this time.”
Chase launched into a harangue without thanking the chairman. “I choose not to call this an initial claim because it is not. It is an indictment. It is a plea for justice. This Lacryman (he pointed at a delegate, who made no sign of emotion) has robbed thousands of followers of Ankhfire of their voice. The Lacryman war machine has crushed and killed them, and I am here to speak for them. They have started it, and this means war!” A shocked babble of voices broke out, but Eystrigg beat it to silence.
“Yes, quite frankly,” Chase continued, “war!” He looked around with gravitas. “A month ago, Ankhfire and her holy allies have been at war since attacked by Lacryma. Behind them stands Mercury, the host nation of this charade, so we condemn Mercury Free Port City as well. Eternal damnation! The gods are with us. You are finished.”
“Throw the son of a bitch out!” someone shouted. The gavel dropped before the mike, and there was silence. Chase yelled words about a holy war of good against evil: “It is the sacred battle of Ankhfire against them who challenge his will.”
Cyrus rolled his eyes up. How could he intervene? Mercury City was the most powerful of nations, but against this alliance of madness and fanaticism he felt oddly powerless. Unreason and insanity were laws of nature, like gravity or evolution.
At this point a man jumped out of the multitude and, in the middle of one of the ramps leading into the pit of the Assembly Hall, raised a dagger to his chest. Crying out loudly, “Ankhfire is love, not war,” he stabbed himself. The huge fan of blood spurting and pulsing from his chest as he fell instantly confirmed his death. The Ankhmen, fools that they were, could not have staged it better. And their manipulators, the Raskians, must be quietly gloating all the more.
Delegates rose in alarm as the mortally wounded Ankhman fell to the ground.
As delegates deteriorated into a herd of panic-stricken sheep, Eystrigg’s gavel crashed and the echoes reverberated louder than voice or masses outcry. “Back to your seats!” he bellowed, but the rioting continued and only grew more violent.
Ankhmen in a mass carried the martyr’s body toward the exit portal.
National Police in forest-green uniforms appeared. Others, with clubs swinging loosely at their hips, appeared in a thin line in the pit, looking up into the expanse of seats. They might protect Cyrus and others on the dais, but they were powerless to control the raging mob that had once been the orderly assembly of Starmeer delegates—the external government of Mercury.
“Ankhfire,” Chase bellowed. His voice resounded with the holy name, powering each syllable of it: “Ankhfire is will.”
A woman rose with a wail like the pain-cry of a wounded animal, but green uniforms and thrashing clubs brought her down before she could harm herself. Some of the saner delegates prepared to leave. Cyrus clutched the railing before him sickly and grimaced in Jared’s direction, thinking: Why this? Why am I here at all?
TOP
|
MAIN
Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
|
