The Lotus Eaters

Rome, Province of Italy

For reasons known only to himself, Moore directed the driver of the vehicle to pass by the Ara Pacis, Augustus' Altar of Peace and the holiest spot on all of United Earth. Here the last vestiges of open Christianity had died—been burned, rather—and one couldn't get more holy than that.

"I don't mind that it's a bit out of the way," he informed the Class Four driver.

"Yes, Lord," the driver answered.

"What's with the ribbons around the heads? They're kind of attractive. Should I wear one to keep in style?" Marguerite asked, once she noticed that about one in twenty of the people they passed on the street wore them.

Moore snickered, "The diadems? No, I don't think so. They've become something of a fashion statement by the children of the Class Ones. From our point of view, it saves trouble by telling us lowly Class Twos exactly whom we must bow and scrape to. There's a color and ornament coding to it I can brief you on later.

"It isn't just the children, actually," Moore amended. "Some fairly older Class Ones have taken to wearing them, too, the last couple of years. The SecGen, however, has not."

Whatever the Class Four driver thought of the subject of diadems or fashion statements, he kept it to himself.

"Ara Pacis coming up on the left, Lord," the driver announced, slowing his vehicle to a crawl. The Altar itself had been modified some centuries prior, with a matching white marble roof having been placed over it, and overhanging the sculptures on the sides. Along with the roof two narrow sets of marble steps lead off, at right angles to the steps that led inside. The building that had once housed it and protected it from the air pollution was gone. With so few cars and so little industry operating, it was no longer needed.

Moore didn't bother to look right away. Marguerite, however, did, and was surprised—perhaps better said, shocked—to see rivulets of red running down the Altar's creamy marble sides. She looked up and saw five muscular men in outlandish garments, all gold and feathers, two of them holding a sixth who was naked but for a loin cloth.

"It's an Azteca day," Moore explained, though the bare words explained little. "Those come only a few times a year." He added, "Some objected, of course, to using the Altar of Peace for human sacrifice. On the other hand, the Azteca have or influence a significant block of votes within the Consensus. And the Orthodox Druids were on their side since they wanted to have burnings and hangings here."

Marguerite gulped as she watched the sixth, near naked man forced down to the stone roof and flipped over. A black, jagged obsidian knife, the hilt wrapped in cloth, in the hand of one of the other five flashed down. Out came a dripping heart, probably still beating, which was held aloft. As the heart was squeezed out and then tossed over the side of the altar, she looked away. Even so, however repulsive the scene, it was still fascinating. She turned her eyes back to the Altar.

"Just thought you might find it interesting," Moore said.

"Where do the victims come from?" Wallenstein asked.

Moore shrugged, saying, "Some are political prisoners from Central America. It's been in a state of near rebellion for years. Some, too, supposedly, are genuine volunteers."

The next victim was a beautiful, young, brown-skinned girl. She wept and screamed and struggled pitifully with the larger men dragging her to her death. Even through the sealed windows of the vehicle Wallenstein heard the girl's screams. She heard, too, when they were abruptly cut off.

"The Azteca insist it's a necessary terror against the lowers," Moore said, just as the car left the area and drove off. "And if you think this is a bit much, you ought to go to The Burning Man this year."