To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga) (31 page)

Blake stepped off the escalator and joined the crowd of excited citizens heading toward the gates of the Caligula Arena.

His nearness to the huge structure again made him nervous and he was unable to resist checking the attitudes of the black-clad police who stood along the mall. There didn't seem to be any more than usual, although the usual number was quite large, due to the reactions the Arena crowd exhibited from time to time. Certain acts and certain types of acts were popular, some were not. Certain gladiators were in favor, others were not. The police often had to quell small riots with nerve-lashes, gas, and weighted batons.

The crowd was moving slowly but steadily. Blake was in no hurry. It was still half an hour before the opening parade. He mingled with one group of boisterous citizens and hoped to be accepted by them. Rio was somewhere behind him, with a pair of strong young warlocks supplied by Constantine. Linda was with Constantine, and they would make their entrance much later. The coven leader had separated Blake and Rio, and both were disguised to make them less conspicuous. Rio's long black hair was hidden under a fashionable hat, though a few strands peeked out. Blake wore a workingman's tunic with MARIN COUNTY RENTFORCE across the back. It was Blake's hope that any cop might think a second before he cut down a member of a brother franchised police force, even if he were only a janitor or mechanic.

"Say, I heard they're having a Black Prince go up against an Eisenhower today," a man at Blake's elbow said.

One of the others spoke up. "Naw, they stopped doing that ages ago, Miller, you ought to know that." The man in front spoke back over his shoulder. "Them big companies got together and said it was bad for a Robotics to fight a General Animators. Bad image, y'know. Fight a human, much better."

"Yeah, but I used to like those fights. They were really somethin', y'know? Remember the Titans? That was a robot team, huh?"

"What I heard," said a man behind Blake, "was that there was going to be an execution today. You know, one of
them
kind."

Several men gave leering laughs, then looked around quickly. The man walking next to Blake said to the man behind, "Aw, now, Schroeder, you know we ain't supposed to take no pleasure in the righteous execution of no heretic. Serves 'em right, though, huh?" He swung an elbow into Blake's arm. "How about that, huh? Serves those scuzzy unbelievers right, huh?"

Blake nodded and made a small, rather sick grin. "What else is on today?"

"There's a race between the Greens and Blues today," the man behind said. "If Blanchard can keep her chariot on the track, that is." The men laughed at this. "There's the usual retiarii and secutors, the regional crashcar championships, some sweets ripping each other – you know."

"I heard they was bringing back old Kong," one of the other men said.

"No kidding? I thought they retired those big robbies as being too expensive to run. Except in the religious festivals and things. What about Bunyon, Zeus, Octobot, or Godzilla, that bunch?"

"Don't know. Just heard about ol' Kong. He's been de-mothballed down the peninsula someplace, I think. Anyway, that's the word I heard."

"They don't give us no shows like that no more, bless 'em," another man said.

They were still talking as they went through the ticket takers and on up into the Arena. Blake stayed with them, not so close that they would feel he was intruding, but close enough so that any casual police observation would include him in the garrulous group. He saw the television monitors up on poles and on the walls of the passages through the Arena to the seats. They settled into padded seats, and Blake saw that the, dome sections had been retracted so that they were open to the sky. He could feel the salt air off the bay, even if he couldn't see the water.

Blake looked around him cautiously, trying to spot both police and the revolutionaries he knew by sight. Police he saw, but not anyone else he knew. He then concentrated on the Arena itself.

Blake had been in the Circus before, recently, but now he had a whole new perspective. Sitting in the stands, he saw the workings of the Arena in a whole new light. The sand had been combed into an intricate Ando design which he now realized was a secret good-luck symbol. The huge doors at the "base" of the oval ring had considerable activity around them, and Blake looked at the smaller entrances to the Arena. The one on the left was the one through which he had charged to save Rio. The bishop's box was to Blake's left, and he could see the minor officials arriving, preparing the throne-like chairs for the archbishop's arrival. From this angle he could also see several television screens around the base of the box so that His Excellency could see the close-ups.

A flair of trumpets sounded, and everyone came to his feet. Blake saw the reason for the fanfare: a line of robed figures had emerged from a private entrance and went among waving citizens to the bishop's box. The column was led by several high-ranking clergymen and clergywomen. They were followed by the San Francisco archbishop and two or three bishops, who blessed the crowd to either side. The robes of their various clergy identified them as members of two different sects, but Blake was not interested in their political gestures. His eyes found and held a single figure at the base of the box, standing in rigid salute. Lieutenant Cady was someone Blake was not likely to forget.

The prelates were soon in their seats and Blake saw Cady speak into a communicator. Almost at once, another flurry of trumpets sounded and the gate on the left rolled open, the first figures in the parade emerging. The honor guard, in exact replicas of Praetorian Guard uniforms came out, flags flying, banners rippling, symbols glittering. These were followed by the honorary grand marshal (an aging vidstar) and then a troop of mixed retiarli and secutors. Blake tried to recognize faces in the troop of gladiators, but the distance and the helmets prevented him.

As the honor guard passed the bishop's box, they saluted and dipped their colors. The grand marshal gave a regal bow from atop his magnificent stallion. The officer leading the gladiators saluted smartly, then passed on.

Each unit that passed offered some sort of salute. The crashcars slammed their clawed waldoes into a straight-armed vertical salute. The slim, tanned group of wire walkers did flips and a bow before the box. Lumbering flamefighters in their stiff white protectors held the deadly flameguns over their heads with both hands. Graceful maidens riding animatronic centaurs waved as the metal beasts rose on their hind legs and shot flaming arrows into the air, which became colorful bursts of fireworks. Each group and type made its salute, and the parade curved around and disappeared into the far exit.

Blake noticed that Lieutenant Cady had disappeared, then spotted him near the private bishop's entrance, talking to someone. The officer moved slightly and Blake went rigid.

Voss!

The lean, saturnine man wore a severe black costume with a red Maltese cross on his left breast. Even in the plain uniform he had authority, and Cady was obviously being servile to him. Another officer joined them – a man of high rank – followed by several subordinates. Voss gestured them toward the bishop's box in a gracious invitational bow, and the men walked past and on up under the crimson awning.

Blake watched Voss narrowly as he spoke to several more subordinates, then walked briskly up the steps and disappeared among the exalted group.

Blake's anger tore at him.
Traitor! Turncoat! You abandoned us! You left Rio to die!
Only an effort of will prevented him
from running down the steps and attacking Voss. He looked quickly glimpse of Rio not far away. He watched until her searching eyes found him, and they smiled, briefly.

More trumpets sounded the beginning of the games, and at once ports opened and two armored tanks thundered at each other. Their treads tore up the carefully combed sand in roostertail spurts and the sun glinted brightly from the long lances that protruded from their steel noses. Both lances caromed off the tanks' sleek sides; one lance bent and the other broke. The tanks screamed with protesting metal as they spun into turns. The broken lance was ejected with a click, falling and rolling to the side. The other tank kept its lance, the turret swinging sideways as they charged at each other again. The first tank sprayed out a thick white fluid from the lance socket, covering the other tank in an instant. But the sidewise swipe of the other's bent lance struck the turret of the spewing tank and knocked it off course. Fluid extruded from nozzles all over the wetted tank, washing away the white fluid, but the acid was already doing its work – eating away at the surfaces.

The acid-covered tank now ejected its bent lance with a click, and from the same port came another metal protuberance: the stubby snout of a flamethrower. The tanks spun again in the sand, maneuvering for position, and the acid-covered tank got behind the other one. A ragged bit of metal dropped off the flank of the charging tank, however, then another. The pieces lay steaming in the sand, slowing dissolving. But, the dying tank rammed into the rear of the other tank and, at the same moment, the object sticking out of the port spewed fire; waldoes popped up from concealed panels and seized the treads of the other tank and began to push it over.

Spumes of sand from racing treads hid the action for a moment, then the first tank toppled on its side. Instantly, the other's waldoes wrenched at a bottom access panel and ripped it loose. The flamethrower depressed and fired a long, fiery blast into the interior of the tank. But the acid-covered tank was dropping more and more bits as it started to back away. Nevertheless, it suddenly gave a jerk, lurched forward, and hit the overturned tank, which was burning furiously. It spun the flaming wreckage around and ran on jerkily for several meters, stopped, shuddered, and stood motionless as more bits and pieces fell off it.

"Why don't they get out?" Blake asked.

The man next to him gave him a disgusted look. "They're cyborgs, chief."

Blake sank into his seat. He stared with sick fascination at the biers of the entombed brains until the cleanup robots wheeled out and scooped them up. One robot sprayed flame retardant on the burning tank and the other cleanup machine gushed a neutralizer over the pitted tank. Smaller cleanup robbies snatched up the steaming pieces just ahead of a wide, low sandcomber. In seconds the arena was almost the same as it had been before. Only the faint odor of burnt metal, acid, and the acrid smell of burned flesh remained.

Blake was not certain that the odor of burned flesh was real.
It could be my imagination. A brain is not very much tissue to cremate,
he thought.
Not enough to spread the smell over this whole arena. I wouldn't put it past them to add a little scent now and again.

The next act entered at once – a fast chariot race, followed by a traditional secutor and retiarius combat. Blake could not identify either gladiator.

He looked at the clock above the stone eagle on the memorial tower to the
east. Almost time. The strike force must be in position by now.

Blake looked around for Constantine and Linda. They were still not in sight. He exchanged glances with Rio and saw her pale and worried.

Someone stepped in front of Blake and squeezed past him, then sat down next to him. Blake gave him a cursory glance and was startled.

"Hello," said Pope Urban, smiling. He was wearing a nondescript brown tunic and carrying what appeared to be a box lunch packaged by someone named Mother Lovinghands.

"What are you doing here?" Blake asked. He gave a quick look around, but no one was paying any attention. A troop of Amazonettes had marched onto the field.

"I wouldn't miss the Centurion Classic for anything," Urban said with a serene smile. He lifted the box lunch and let part of it rest on Blake's thigh.

It was heavier than any box lunch Blake had encountered. He looked up at the old man, whose smile widened.

Urban nodded and said, "I'll be doing penance the rest of my life for what I must do today."

Blake reached to feel the flat GE.2 laser stuck in his tunic pocket as he rechecked the immediate vicinity. "Get away," he said in a fierce whisper, "you're too old for this!"

"You are never too old to fight for liberty and religious freedom," the old man said. "Nor too young. Go on, top that."

Blake shook his head. "No. You are probably just as much a victim of the times as I am. We're both here because we really have no other place to go. But let me give you a tip: Don't stay close to me. I figure I've got to be a high-casualty-rate area, all by myself."

Urban smiled, and Blake felt his finger move against his thigh beneath the box lunch. The old man drew a cross on his leg, and his lips formed a silent "God bless you."

"How did you know I was here?" Blake asked.

The pope shrugged and pulled the box lunch back into his lap, closing his arms around it protectively. "I was told. They wanted me here, too, and some of the other leaders. I brought some of the cardinals, too."

Blake's eyes jerked across the crowd below. He ignored the noisy battle of the Amazonettes and the Daughters of Bilitis below as he sought to find a scarlet cape or skullcap. "Where?"

Urban IX, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Christ on Earth, pointed at a nearby middle-aged fat man who looked drunk and who was cheering and booing enthusiastically. "His Eminence, Wesley Cardinal Parsons." Urban indicated a sour-faced man staring gloomily at the Arena. "His Eminence, Gregory Clement. And that underfed stork at the end of the third row down is Cardinal George Crowe of Boston. I've lost track of His Eminence Marcello Orsini, but he's around here somewhere."