A whistle was blown, a gun was fired. The signal for the cleaners to get to work.
"Is it always our fate to pick up and dispose of the dead?" Joxx asked Hunter wearily.
Our hero didn't reply.
He simply nudged Joxx forward, and they trotted out onto the track and went about their grisly jobs.
Flash!
It was dark inside the catacomb.
Cold, too, even though it was still very hot up on the surface, ninety-five feet above.
It was five years later. Hunter and Joxx were now dressed in threadbare combat suits. They were two of several bodyguards protecting the thirty-six men sitting around a crude table in the middle of the dank, underground compartment. This place was located in the most isolated ring of tunnels cored out for drainage beneath the massive sports arena. The men at the table were all dressed in rags. They wore scraggly beards, and their hair was matted and unwashed. They looked like just three dozen of the billions of indigent beggars who had sprung up on the streets of Earth and throughout the Galaxy, one more consequence of the brutal regime of the still-new Second Empire.
Appearances were deceiving though; these men were not beggars. They were all high officers of the old Earth Forces, the huge army that had once provided on-planet security for Emperor Jimmy. These men had once worn silver braids on their shoulders, their tunics weighed down with dozens of space medals. They had commanded thousands of spaceships and millions of men. They had maintained peace and stability on Earth, proudly protecting the crown jewel of the First Galactic Empire. But all that had been swept away once darkly enlightened Brother Michael arrived on the scene.
Each man here represented one of the thirty-six original geographic regions of the Mother Planet. Under the brutal thumb of the new regime, it had been just a question of time before what happened to the millions of heads of state across the Galaxy happened to them: victims of a purge of astronomical proportions. They all knew it. So they had gone underground. Literally.
The name of the group was the 36 Coalition. Its goal was to somehow put an end to Brother Michael's brutal dictatorship on Earth and across the Galaxy. They'd been meet-ing secretly ever since Michael appeared so dramatically five years before, to upset the thousand-year rule of Emperor Jimmy. Many of the thirty-six officers had taken on thankless jobs, such as cleaning up the sports arena after the bloodlust games were completed. Menial labor was a perfect cover for their seditious activities.
Though they'd been able to maintain contact with other groups with similar aims across the Galaxy, just how to overthrow the murderous Michael was a deep dilemma. There was no question that popular support would be theirs if and when any move was made. And many military units would come over to their side, too; as many as half of the Second Empire's forces would oppose Michael if given the chance. They were sure of this.
But how to do it? No one had been sure. Michael was never far away from his personal army of goons. They even slept together, all in one big bed. Michael's movements were always unpredictable. He was smart enough not to leave Earth. And rarely did he stray from the huge palace he'd built for himself in the big hole he'd uncovered at the tip of another New York island once known as Manhattan. But he did attend social functions thrown by his entourage, and these were frequent, almost every night.
The 36 Coalition had always had a notion to hit Michael at one of these soirees. But they didn't know if they were powerful enough to succeed in the first crucial minutes and hours after such an attack on the Emperor. Would the Empire survive, or would it collapse? If it collapsed, it might not ever rise again. That was a chance they couldn't take. So, the group needed a spark, a bright light, something or someone to show them the way, to rally the Milky Way and to prevent the entire Galaxy from devolving into chaos if the deed was ever really done.
And as it turned out, on this very hot day, that ray of hope finally seemed to shine on them.
"This might be an auspicious moment," one officer declared now, starting the secret meeting. "A guardian angel of sorts has been delivered to us. And not a second too soon." The others moved in a little closer around the table.
"After hearing so many rumors, our operatives have finally found him," the man told them with no little drama. "He was wandering the countryside on the Emerald Isle. He was preaching to the few souls left alive over there. And we have confirmed that he is who he says he is. He is the younger brother of Michael and Jimmy. He has the power. He has the vision. If we can clear the way for him, even partially, he will step in. He will act."
The group erupted in a spontaneous cheer. This was nothing less than a miracle — and just the sort of thing they'd been waiting to hear. They had declared themselves a coalition a handful of years ago, when they had first tentatively come together. Suddenly, now it seemed to mean something.
The discussion progressed in hushed tones for the next hour. Occasionally, it grew heated; other times, it became quiet and almost routine. The group began working on the skeleton of a plan, a variation of one of their many earlier ideas. Hunter and Joxx simply listened in as a plot was hatched.
"It's just that last bit scaring me," one officer said now. He was from the part of Earth once known as Russia. "Michael has boasted about being immortal so many times. I'm wondering if anything can really bring an end to him."
"There's a difference between living forever and impossible to kill," another replied. "Our friend Jimmy must have told us a hundred times that he, too, could last forever— and look what happened to him. He might still be alive, but he is long gone. Besides, we have an unbreakable plan here. And we know the undercurrent of hate for Michael is pervasive across the Galaxy. And we have the perfect person to fill the void.
"Let us just do it then!"
Flash!
It was one month later, the biggest party of the year. The Saturnalia before the Earth Race.
It was being held as always inside a huge orange-tinted hall located at the center of the dumpy, city that was still known as New York. This hall was so cavernous, its windows so dirty, and its lighting so dingy, it was just about impossible to see from one end to the other.
There were small forests of scraggly can-can plants surrounding the building. All one needed to do, if they dared, was walk up, pick off a leaf, and light it up. Euphoric confusion was the usual result. It was said Michael lit up an entire tree of this stuff every day, this after downing as much as a case of wine — all before breakfast. While the euphoria part was debatable, no one argued that his regimen didn't cause him much confusion. It was the same for the small army of goons that surrounded him.
A long line of invited guests was streaming into the orange building now. It was a hot evening, and the neighborhood was rife with foul odors, especially the smell of the dead still buried underground. The party list was made up mostly of high military officers and Second Empire diplomats, guaranteed to be an angry, boisterous, intoxicated crowd. Surly guards were stationed at every doorway, scanning everyone for weapons, from ion-powered pistols and hand-carried sonic guns to the ubiquitous daggers. Most guests gave up their arms willingly; others only after an argument or even a struggle. Only the extremely belligerent were led away by the guards, though. Everyone else was allowed inside.
The members of the 36 Coalition arrived in masterful disguise. They were dressed not as military officers but as priests, right down to the stiff collars and large silver crosses worn around the neck. The First Empire's substantial religious component had not been purged by Michael in his five years of rule; he was far too superstitious to do that. But it had been substantially reduced, and the holy men that remained weren't really holy at all, just the opposite in fact. For the conspirators then, this was the perfect masquerade.