But one person had. And the message was so simple, it was actually a work of art, of politics, possibly even a piece of great literature.
For on that wall, on the little barren street, in dull red paint, were written three words: Something is coming…
What excitement ran through Calandrx when he saw that scrawl! He’d been waiting to read those very words ever since he’d won the Earth Race ninety-seven years ago — and maybe even before then. He knew history and he knew that empires not only rose and fell, they also changed in between. You just had to look for the signs. A Blackship in Supertime? A man from nowhere figures out one of the greatest secrets of the age… without even trying? Three words splashed on a wall on the most insignificant street in the heart of the Galaxy. Could this be the change in the wind he’d been yearning for it ever since the Emperor exiled him here on Earth?
At that moment, he thought so. Because just like his anonymous tagger, he believed something was coming. It was, in fact, inevitable. And if the pilot in him wasn’t able to fly off this planet to go look for it, then the poet in him sure wanted to be here, on Earth, when that something finally arrived.
Its official name was the First Galactic Sporting Events Arena. To the Specials, it was the Holy Imperial Stadium of the Great O’Nay.
To the citizens of Earth, it was simply the circus.
It was an enormous structure, two miles long and a half mile across. The rows of seats went up nearly thirty stories. A small coral sea dominated the center; the track itself was layered with precious red-diamond Martian soil. Tens of thousands of flags flew from the arena’s spires.
More than a million people could fit into this place, and on this warm sunny morning, every seat was taken. Several million more citizens were packed into the thousands of sports clubs and cloud holes surrounding the stadium. Trillions more were watching from all points across the Galaxy. The start of the Empire’s most sacred of sporting events was fewer than thirty minutes away.
The sky above the circus was crowded as well. Thousands of air-chevys were circling the arena. Some were towing banners or laser messages; others were jockeying for coveted hovering spots. Farther up were the larger airships, military vessels of all sizes, from scout ships to huge V–Class battle cruisers.
More than a dozen floating cities were in the vicinity as well.
Most of those on hand, both on the ground and hanging in the air above, were Very Fortunates, citizens with no real holy blood in them but who were close to the Imperial family nevertheless. That was the only way to secure a space in or above the circus on this, the biggest day of the year. Everyone here had some connection to the Specials.
Well, almost everyone…
Erx and Berx had no such pull. They had no seats, no confederates on the inside, not even a reserved place to stand. But this was not a problem. They were galactic explorers; they’d roamed the outer borders of the Fringe, fought in the interstellar wars, crashed a monstrously large spaceship and still come back for more. Negotiating a crowd of snobs was a piece of cake for them. After placing their bets, they’d slowly wormed their way through the throng, cajoling here, threatening there, until not ten minutes after their arrival, they’d secured a spot on the main track beam rail, close to the starting line itself.
This was the place to be. All the action was here, practically at their fingertips. The beam rail was thick with track handlers, bookies, soldiers, priests, angels, space technicians, viz-screen engineers, and robots. Hundreds of beautiful women, some real, some not, were circulating about as well.
Delighted with themselves and their location, Erx and Berx broke out flasks of slow-ship wine, did a quick toast, and began drinking heavily. They’d never been within a light-year of the Earth Race before, and both knew it was unlikely they would ever get this close again. It was important that they enjoy themselves. The weather was appropriately clear, the sky deep blue, with just a few clouds softening the warm glare of the sun. In a place where it was summer most of the time, these were still exceptional conditions. The metero engineers had done their jobs well.
Time passed quickly. The crowd grew, the sky above the arena became more crowded. Just a few minutes before noon, Number One, the largest of all the floating cities, drifted over the stadium. A hush went through the crowd as the arena was enveloped by the Holy Shadow. A huge, gleaming review stand, known as the zadora, had slowly begun to materialize about halfway down the first leg of the track and not a hundred yards from where Erx and Berx stood. As it completed its pop-in, the arena was suddenly flooded with Earth Police. More than twenty thousand of the huge cops began appearing all over the stadium, and especially in the area surrounding the zadora. The ethereal bass music booming throughout the stadium faded away. A very special moment was at hand.
Berx began gulping from his wine flask. “I’m not sure I’m high enough to handle this,” he said.
Erx held his timepiece up to his bleary eyes; he could just barely read the numbers. “Well, drink up and get ready,” he told Berx. “It’s seven seconds to noon… five… four…”
Both men took this as their cue to turn their eyes away from the gleaming zadora. Others around them did the same. At the exact moment the last second ticked down to noon, the arena was rocked by a huge thunderclap. A collective gasp came from the million-plus spectators. Those who dared to look saw a bright emerald beam begin to illuminate the review stand. The beam intensified until it was all but impossible to look at it. Then came an incredibly bright flash of light.
An eyeblink later, a magnificent throne appeared on the top level of the zadora. Sitting on it was a man of undetermined age. He had a full white beard and very long white hair that fell past his shoulders. He was wearing a flowing emerald gown and had a gold-green miter on his head. In the center of the miter was the distorted image of a three-leaf green flower, the ancient symbol of the last three empires. This was O’Nay, supreme ruler of the Galaxy, Emperor of the Milky Way, the current god among men.
The circus erupted in cheers and applause, shaking the arena to its substantial foundation. Lights flashed, flags waved, the booming music came back on louder than before. Overcome with emotion, some people fainted. Others cheered through finger-size voice amplifiers that were all the rage this year. This went on and on… and on. One minute, two minutes, five minutes, more. O’Nay made no notice of the crowd. He sat, looking straight ahead, expressionless, possibly oblivious, to what was going on around him. Only when he raised his right hand slightly did the throaty roar finally begin to die away.
But not for long. Came the exact moment it reached its lowest ebb, there was another tremendous flash of light. This one was bright, eye-blinding yellow. It quickly faded to reveal that three more people had joined the Emperor on the reviewing stand. His wife, his son, and his gorgeous daughter were officially OTP — on the planet.
The stadium erupted again. More lights, more music, more vapors. Though not quite the magnitude as before, this new round of cheering took another five minutes to subside. When relative silence returned, the Emperor raised his right hand again and, without any means of outward amplification needed, spoke four words that all could hear: “Let the race begin…”
The voices of the one million began building again, like the low rumble of waves, a sea of anticipation.
Erx and Berx opened another flask and drank another toast.