“I think he’s pulling an old debater’s trick,” McCoy answered softly. “Once he’s got them completely off guard, he’s going to let them have it.”
His prediction was right. Suddenly, the Messiah’s voice took on a ringing timbre and boomed through the square as if amplified.
“You tire of the old words? Good, they’ve kept you divided and confused for too long. Tonight, I bring the new—new words for a new day—” He paused dramatically. “And a sign to seal them by. Listen, my children, the gods have no quarrel with the pleasures of the flesh—love, food, and drink are their gifts to lighten your days. But on Kyros there is little love, and the poor go hungry. And wine is used to deaden misery rather than as a source of joy.
“Why should such things be in a world the gods created for your delight? In your hearts you know the answer. Look to your masters, the oppressive few who feed on your distress and rob you of your birthright from the gods. Our world is splintered into tiny states, each ruled by little groups of greedy men, bloated parasites whose taloned hands wield taxes, police, and jails!
“But the gods have eyes! The gods have ears! And now, their wrath—too long withheld—descends! For behold, I have been ordained and sent among you to lead you to the light, a messiah for the golden age to come.
Through me, all Kyros will be united into one people: one people believing as one, thinking as one, worshipping as one. You shall be my body and I shall be your soul; you, my sword, and I, your shield. And through me you shall find such glory and blessings as you have never known in all your troubled days.”
As he spoke, the Messiah’s arms and extended hands beat up and down, punctuating the rhythmic Sow of his words. Shadows cast by the flaming torches surrounding him danced on the buildings facing the plaza.
A low rumble of thunder sounded from the darkening sky as the speaker chanted his vision of the days that were to come, a vision of Kyros united, where there were no longer slaves and masters, no longer rich and poor, no longer hunger and suffering and oppression. Then a note of menace entered his voice as he shifted from the future to the present. There were those, he rumbled, who would attempt to thwart the will of the gods, parasites who would never willingly surrender their power. For those, he pledged, there would be no mercy.
His voice rose higher and higher until it was at once shrill and nearly hysterical and yet, at the same time, as commanding and booming as the distant, growling thunder.
Kirk had a sudden memory of an ancient history tape of a small, mustached man wearing an armband with a twisted cross on it, molding a vast amphitheater of people into a single, screaming beast with the magic of his voice. The Messiah’s arms pumped and suddenly stopped. Kirk heard a fault buzz come from the box on the figure’s hip. The Messiah flung his arms up and pointed to the eastern horizon. That area of the sky was still clear of clouds, and a few stars shone through a dancing, shifting veil of rainbow colors that was draped across a full sixty degrees in a rippling aurora. But that didn’t cause the sudden gasp of fearful awe.
One star was moving!
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Behold… Afterbliss!”
The Messiah’s cry rang through the square and the eyes of the crowd followed the pointing arm of the black-robed man. The new star rose, a shimmering pearl of white that climbed swiftly up the vault of the heavens, moving across the sky toward Andros.
“Behold the work of the gods, a dwelling place of everlasting delight for those who follow their will and their chosen Messiah. Death in battle is no longer death, but a gateway to eternal life. The swords of the ungodly may pierce our bodies and spill our blood on the dry ground, but with each rising of our heavenly home, the gods shall lift our dead to their reward. And for those who resist the divine will”—the Messiah’s voice growled his message of warning again—”another place has been prepared, a place of burning and eternal torment!”
As the new star moved on its downward course, dropping to the western horizon, the torch-bearing hillmen who ringed the wagon began a barking chant, continuing through the minutes the star was visible.
“Death! Death to unbelievers! Death to the Messiah’s enemies!”
Scattered voices in the crowd began to pick it up, and the Messiah himself joined in, cracking out the staccato words.
“Death! Death! Death!”
Raw, demonic power seemed to pour from the black-robed man, and more and more voices from the crowd began to join in. Feet began to stomp on the paving stones of the plaza, a thrumming, echoing sound. Shoulders began to sway.
Kirk found himself caught up in tidal currents of building emotion that threatened to swirl him out of control. Bit by bit, his will began to ebb, surrendering to that hammering, hypnotic voice.
He dug his nails into his palms, hoping to use pain as a defense against the web of madness being woven by the Messiah’s siren call. The urge to join, to become one with the chanting, howling crowd, mounted to irresistibility.
He fought for control of his body as it tried to stamp and jerk in cadence with the rest of the puppets, whose movements were orchestrated by the wildly waving arms of the black-robed magician. In spite of the chill of the evening, sweat dripped from Kirk’s contorted face. His healer’s wand slipped unnoticed from writhing fingers and fell to the ground.
“Jim!” a voice called, seemingly from a great distance. A hand gripped his forearm in a vise-like grasp. He tried to shake it off, but it only clamped down harder. Kirk grunted in pain, pain which broke through the oratory-induced trance.
“Jim! Snap out of it. Spock’s miracle—that was the Enterprise! It had to be.”
Kirk gave a dazed shake of his head, trying to cast off the grip of the emotional spell projected by the chanting figure on the roof of the wagon.
“Somehow he’s forced Sulu to change orbit; she can’t be more than a hundred and fifty kilometers up,” McCoy hissed into his ear. “Get the wand; you’ve got to stop that madman before it’s too late. Another few minutes of this, and he’ll have everyone under his control.”
Sudden anger blossomed in Kirk, clearing his head. His ship, a pawn in the Messiah’s mad game! Aware that he had dropped the wand, Kirk bent and snatched it up. With shaking hands, he pointed it toward the capering figure on the van and pressed the firing stud.
“Death! Death to un—”
In mid-word, the Messiah slapped his hands to his chest, staggered a step, then pitched over the edge of the van like a giant, broken-winged crow.
A shocked gasp rose from the crowd. Hillmen dropped their torches and leaped to his rescue. Their reaching arms caught him, lowering the Messiah gently to the ground.
With the snapping of the hypnotic spell that had held them in thrall, voices of protest began to rise here and there as the personal implications of the Messiah’s revolutionary pronouncement began to sink in. Somewhat belatedly, Kaseme’s men remembered why they were there and broke out in a chorus of hooting jeers. The Messiah’s followers began to shout back.
Shoving began, and in moments the square was filled with cursing, struggling knots of Kyrosians, some trying to escape, others plunging into the melee.
“Come on, Bones,” Kirk muttered. The two officers began to shove their way into the seething mass, heading for the black van. Units of the provost guard came trotting out of several side streets in disciplined formations. The squads broke up, and the guards, truncheons swinging, charged into the mob.
Hillmen milled in the center of the square, clustering defensively around their fallen leader.
“Make way,” Kirk shouted authoritatively. “Make way so we may help the Messiah!”