The four mile diameter dome created twelve square miles of ground, most of that space taken up by the main towering buildings of downtown Ionath City. The remaining space was home to the “Cultural Areas” of several species: Sklorno, Ki and Human; a fifty-story, high-pressure gas cylinder for the Harrah; aquatic centers for Leekee, Dolphins and Whitok. The Human Cultural Area consisted of only six city blocks, which didn’t leave a lot of room for individual neighborhoods that reflected the thousands of various Human cultures. The Human District, as the residents called it, was a hodge-podge of cultural influences crammed together in a claustrophobically confined space.
“Wait ‘til we eat,” Warburg said. “An old couple owns the place, used to run a restaurant back on Allah. Down-home Nation cooking. They’ve got a habanero falafel biscuit that will put your mouth in punch space.”
Quentin marveled at the area’s diversity. A hotel catering to League of Planets residents right next to a café that advertised food from the Tower Republic, next to a vodka-only liquor store that specialized in brands from across the galaxy. He saw dance clubs, restaurants, grocery stores, shops, all of which had signs written in Standard and hundreds of other languages. Shops and stores and restaurants packed one on top of the other and side-by-side. There were also dozens of places that — despite assorted cultural trappings — were easily identified by brightly lit signs showing stylized logos of liquor and beer, combined with some image of football. Bars, it seemed, looked the same all over in the galaxy.
People of every type walked the streets. Back home, he was used to the skin tones of his countrymen: black, brown, yellowish and pinkish. But here, those tones mingled with others that never set foot on Nation soiclass="underline" blue, bleach-white, reddish, and even the occasional deep purple skin of an amphibious Human from the Whitok Kingdom. The “mongrel” races, as they’d been called back home. And it wasn’t just Humans. Gaudily dressed Ki businessmen freely walked the streets, as did Quyth Leaders, Quyth Warriors, tiny Sklorno males and floating Harrah.
Amidst the diversity, he suddenly realized that one species was notedly absent. “Where are the Creterakian soldiers?”
“There aren’t any.”
Quentin looked at Warburg. “There aren’t any? But, how is that possible? They rule the universe.”
Warburg shrugged. “They don’t rule here. The Quyth are independent. The bats never conquered them.”
The concept seemed impossible. All his life, he and his people had been ruled by Creterakians. Quentin had never known a time when the omnipresent bats hadn’t controlled everything.
“So, in the war, the Quyth won?” The Quyth won while the Purist Nation was conquered were the words that went unsaid.
“They can thank Satan for that,” Warburg said. “The Quyth are in league with the Low One. Temporary freedom for an eternity of fire, Quentin, it’s hardly a good deal.”
Music of many differing styles filtered out of windows and open bar doors. Smells of enticing foods combined with the stench of garbage and the ever-present onion scent of Quyth Workers. Quentin had never before experienced such a concentration of sights, sounds and smells.
“Look at this place,” Warburg said, gesturing to the brightly lit signs of three different churches lined up side-by-side. “Look at all the blasphemy that goes on in the galaxy, Quentin. It’s as if a new religion pops up every other day.”
Churches of every type filled tiny buildings, offices and upper-story lofts. He’d never imagined there were so many different religions. On Micovi, you either followed the Purist way or you followed no way at all — practicing other religions in Nation space got you thrown in jail, if you were lucky, or dragged before a tribunal, which usually resulted in jail, public beatings, or being stoned to death.
“Someday, Purist Nation troops will walk down this street,” Warburg said. “Someday, all of these sinners will burn.”
Quentin said nothing. He didn’t feel anger or disgust, he felt excitement. Excitement at something new and different. He suddenly realized that, for the first time in his life, he was free of not only the Creterakian Empire’s watchful eye, but also the Purist Church’s constant restrictions.
“Here we are,” Warburg said as he hit the stop button on the automated grav-cab. Quentin got out in front of a building with a flickering holo sign of the infinity symbol. Below the flickering sign were the words “The Blessed Lamb,” and below that a nondescript brown door. Some graffiti covered the plain black walls. Quentin couldn’t make out most of the writing, but one message in Standard read haters go home.
Warburg walked in and Quentin followed. There was a brief pause as the men entered and heads turned, followed by a chorus of cheers and calls of “Praise High One.” Over half the crowd of fifty-plus patrons wore the blue. Most of the men bore the infinity tattoo on their foreheads.
“Welcome, Brother Warburg,” said a fat man in priest’s robes. “We enjoyed your performance today.”
“Thank you, Father Harry.” Warburg warmly shook the man’s hand. “Three catches is a good day’s work.”
“Three catches for twenty-eight yards,” said a man on their right. He wore Purist blue and held a coffee mug in his hand. “And let’s not forget the highlight of the day, when you put that cricket in the hospital.”
“Thanks, Elder Greyson. Any word on his condition?”
Father Harry smiled. “ESPN reports the beast is out for two to three games. Said her leg was nearly severed at the knee!”
A snarl-smile covered Warburg’s face, and he pumped his fist. “I tried to make the thing come right off.”
The words shocked Quentin. He stared at Warburg, wondering if the man was joking. Had he really tried to maim the Wallcrawler defensive back?
Warburg stood tall and raised his voice. “Hey, listen everybody. I want to introduce you to the latest Purist Nation export, Quentin Barnes.”
A round of cheers and applause filled the small bar. Hands reached out to pat Quentin’s shoulder or shake his hand. He couldn’t help but smile at the outpouring of affection. These were Nationalites, Church members, and they seemed to instantly accept him. Quentin didn’t know what to make of it.
“A blessed game you played today, my son,” Father Harry said. “Two-for-two, for eighty yards and a touchdown! Now that’s showing the galaxy what a Nationalite can do.”
“Maybe you’ll be starting soon,” Greyson said. “Get some more passes to Rick, here. High One knows he’d have more catches if that damn blue-boy quarterback would stop throwing to that scum Kobayasho. He doesn’t even have half of Rick’s skills!”
Warburg shrugged and held up his hands as if to say what can I do?
Quentin’s thoughts came back to football, and he felt his face turn red with embarrassment. He wouldn’t be starting, he wouldn’t even be playing in the next game. Benched. Benched.
Quentin and Warburg were the center of attention as the bar owners, a husband-and-wife team named Brother Guido and Monica Basset, brought plate after plate of classic Nation dishes. The conversation revolved around the hated Planetary Union, the hated League of Planets, the hated Tower Republic, the demonic Ki, the demonic Sklorno, the demonic Quyth, et cetera, et cetera. It was the same conversation Quentin had heard every day of his life, yet somehow, in this alien city, with his alien teammates probably only a few blocks away at their own cultural centers, the conversation seemed out of place. It even seemed wrong. He suddenly wanted to be somewhere else.