The Golden City by John Twelve Hawks Page A

that held black cardboard storage boxes. Each box was tied shut with a silk cord and labeled with faded numbers.
    Maya grabbed a box from the shelf and placed it on a table. At that moment, escape seemed possible, but she tried to control her emotions. Slowly, she untied the cord, opened the box, and found a faded lithograph of a creature in human form with wings and light emerging from its body. An angel. Beneath that lithograph was another angel, wearing different colored robes.
    Furious, Maya ripped open two more storage boxes, stacking them on top of each other. She found full-color prints of angels carrying swords or gold caskets. Illustrations ripped from books. Water-colors and wood-block prints. But the subject was always the same:Angels on earth and in heaven. Angels floating and flying and sitting on golden thrones. Black angels, white angels and even one with six arms and green skin. But no trace of a map anywhere.
    She heard a banging from outside the room. Holding one of the cardboard boxes, Maya stepped out of the doorway. Her improvised bridge had been kicked away and was lying on the rubble three stories below.
    Pickering stood on the edge of the walkway, smiling triumphantly. “Don’t go anywhere,” he giggled. “I need to find one of the patrols.”
    “They’ll kill you.”
    “No they won’t. They know me. I can find anyone who’s lost or missing—even a demon like you.”
    “What about the maps, Pickering? I just found a map that shows a passageway under the river.”
    “Show it to me. Let me see it.”
    “Sure. No problem.” Maya waved the box. “Just help me get off this platform.”
    Pickering considered the idea and then shook his head. “There can’t be a map because there’s no way off the island.”
    “Help me and I’ll defend you from the wolves.”
    “If I stayed with you, we’d both be killed. You still have hope, Maya. That’s your weakness. That’s why I could lead you to this place.”
    As he turned and hurried away, Maya reached into the box and tossed a handful of brightly colored angels into the air. The prints and illustrations fluttered downward into the gloom. Hope. That’s your weakness .
    Now, it was gone.

6
    M ichael woke up and took a shower in a suite decorated with flowers. Two dozen red roses drew his eyes to the bedroom dresser. A spray of white hawthorn blossomed from a crystal vase near the bathroom sink. Little cards had been attached to these offerings—personal messages from Mrs. Brewster and other members of the Brethren. Good luck , announced one. You carry our hopes with you on your journey .
    Michael had no illusions about the sincerity of these statements. He was still alive because the Brethren believed that he could help them increase their power. When the monitor screen attached to the quantum computer flashed the words come to us , he knew that the executive board would demand that he cross over. That was his role—to go off into the darkness and come back with technological miracles.
    He pulled on a T-shirt and sweatpants and walked into the living room. An hour ago, the security staff at the research center had placed yet another elaborate flower arrangement on the coffee table,a Japanese village with straw-yellow orchids twined around a ceramic pagoda.
    Standing at the window, Michael gazed at the Neurological Cybernetics Research Facility, a windowless, white box of a building that looked like a sugar cube dropped from the sky. Now that he was a Traveler, he didn’t need special drugs or wires inserted in his brain to cross over. But going back into the building was a public act, a demonstration of his unique power. It was clear that he was no longer a prisoner, but becoming a member of the Brethren had only increased his enemies. If he returned with some new form of technology, then his position would be much stronger.
    The six realms were parallel worlds, alternative realities. He had already crossed over to the Second Realm of the