Spock Messiah

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A faint touch of gray appeared in the eastern sky as the clans assembled before the torch-ringed platform in front of the black pavilion and waited silently for the command that would send them flooding down upon Andros. There was a snarl of hill horns.

A black-robed, black-and-red-hooded figure appeared, walked slowly to the platform, and climbed the stairs heavily.

A roar went up from the thousands assembled and they pounded their spear butts in unison on the hard-packed earth.

“Messiah! Messiah!”

He stood staring out into the pre-dawn darkness for a moment, as if oblivious to the frenzy of his followers, and then, with an obvious effort, raised one hand jerkily in a plea for silence. His voice was strained, and cracked as he spoke.

“With the rising of our heavenly home, we ride against the godless. The gods send Afterbliss at my command. Behold!”

The clans pivoted as one when he turned to the east and threw out his arms.

The magic moment came—and passed.

A growing uneasiness began to run through the crowd as no glowing sign rose above the distant mountaintops. Minutes dragged by, and the eastern sky grew lighter as high, floating clouds turned molten red in the first rays of the rising sun.

A querulous muttering began, first hushed and then louder and more demanding. The figure on the platform dropped his arms at last and tried to speak. His faltering words were drowned in shouted questions as warriors broke ranks and began to press closer.

On the platform, a sudden sparkle of shimmering light made them freeze in place. A tall, white-robed apparition with slanted eyebrows and pointed, alien ears appeared next to the Messiah.

The Messiah backed up a step, throwing up his arms as if to protect himself. His wail of distress and loss was cut off as a hand shot out and gripped him where his shoulder met his neck. He slumped to the platform, a puppet without strings.

The white-clad figure faced the stunned, silent crowd and began to speak in a powerful, resonant voice.

“Do not fear. The gods have not sent me to bring you harm. And they have only pity for this poor, mad creature here whom demons used to work their will. Do not wait again for Afterbliss; there never was a golden city for the dead. You were tricked by an empty ball of light set burning in the sky by demons’ spells.”

“But our dead? We saw them rise!” a clansman cried, his voice shaking.

“But not to a new life. Once a spirit sinks into the ground, it cannot return. The demons took the dead you brought and hid them in the clouds, so you would believe their false messiah’s lies. Behold.”

Heads craned upward as he pointed into the sky. High up, like distant birds, white specks began to descend, circling, floating lower and lower until, as gently as snowftakes, rigid, white-swathed bodies came to rest in the circle from where they had been lifted the night before.

“Return to your old ways. If you change them, let it be because you, yourselves, have decided that they should be, not because some evil magician has dazzled your eyes. Will you obey?”

All heads bowed in assent.

“See that you do. The gods have one more command. The chief Tram Bir has been ill used. Restore him to his place. Henceforth he shall sit first among the chiefs.”

Again heads bowed.

“I go,” the figure said and then added a warning. “If you again heed evil voices calling you to war, I may return.” The voice softened. “And now, disperse. Go back to your hills and be at peace among yourselves and with the people of the plains.”

The figure raised his right hand, thumb extended and middle and fourth fingers spread in a vee.

“Live long and prosper.”

Then, the hum muted by the open air, the flickering carrier wave of an Enterprise transporter surrounded the two men and they slowly, slowly disappeared.