D. MacHale - The Soldiers of Halla

“Don’t think about it,” I warned. “Go.”

I grabbed the rail with both hands, jumped up, and launched myself up and over with both my legs to one side, like vaulting over a pommel horse in gymnastics. I hit the ground and rolled backward to absorb the shock. It was disorienting, but I bounced back to my feet quickly and turned toward the train to spot Patrick. He wasn’t as quick about it as I was. He stood grasping the handrail, looking nervous, moving away. I wanted to shout “Jump!” but I was afraid of who might hear. All I could do was will him to move.

He did. It wasn’t exactly graceful. He landed on one leg, tumbled sideways, and fell on his shoulder. Ouch. I ran to him, hoping that he wasn’t hurt. Of course, I knew if something had happened, I could fix it. A healing Traveler hand would do the trick. But that would have sapped more strength from Solara.

“You okay?” I asked.

Patrick sat up, rubbing his sore shoulder. “It would have been easier to turn into birds,” he complained.

I didn’t argue the point. He knew what was at stake. I think he was just complaining for the sake of it. That was okay. He deserved to. The train kept moving. No alarm was sounded. No shouts of “Hey! Who are you guys?” Wherever we were, we had arrived unnoticed. I realized that we were sitting on grass. Soft, green grass. It was a welcome, physical sign of life. There would be more. Many more.

“Wow,” Patrick said. “I didn’t expect this.”

That was an understatement. Once the train cleared our field of view, we got a good look at our surroundings. I don’t know what better word to use to describe what we saw other than “beautiful.” Okay, maybe I can think of a few others. Lush. Green. Idyllic. Maybe even perfect. We were sitting next to the single rail that cut through an absolutely spectacular park. At least, I thought it was a park. There were leafy trees, a meadow covered in wildflowers, a narrow stream that meandered quietly along the length of the track, songbirds darting about, and sculptures. Many sculptures. A few yards from the side of the track there was a massive white statue of a naked guy. It was like three times life-size. It was awesome, in more ways than one.

“David,” Patrick said with a gasp.

”Who?”

“It’s the statue of David by Michelangelo. It’s a pretty good replica.”

“Maybe it’s the real one,” I suggested.

“That’s impossible. The David is in Florence, Italy. It’s eight thousand years old; it would never be here and definitely not kept outside like this.” He gave me a dark look and added, “At least, I hope not. The David is one of the great art treasures of all time.”

We crossed over the rail and found a path that wandered through the grounds. We passed many other elaborate sculptures and fountains and footbridges that spanned lazy brooks. Oddly, the air was clear and the sky was blue. I wondered how they were able to keep the dirt and grime that swirled through the air outside from descending here.

“It’s like paradise,” Patrick said.

“It definitely isn’t one of those Horizon Compounds,” I added. “That answers one question. The wall is to keep people out, because I can’t imagine anybody wanting to leave this place. Especially knowing what’s outside.”

We passed a few buildings, though calling them “buildings” doesn’t come close to describing them. They were more like palaces. Or mansions. Whoever lived there was definitely living large.

Eventually we saw people. At first we hid behind trees, so as not to be seen, but we soon realized it wasn’t necessary. There were kids playing touch football on grassy flats.

Couples strolled around, holding hands. Mothers pushed baby carriages. It all looked so normal, like a park. A really incredible park. I was still wearing the brown sweater and khakis I had glommed from the Chetwyndes’ boat on Second Earth. Patrick wore jeans and a blue short-sleeved shirt, which is exactly what he was wearing the day I met him. Oddly, our clothes were totally clean. Except for whatever dirt we’d picked up on our trip from the zoo, it was like our visit to Solara had refurbished everything. The people we saw wore a variety of normal-looking Earth clothing. This could have been a park on Second Earth, which meant we didn’t stand out.

Besides seeing the people who were enjoying the day, we also saw workers. They wore dark green khaki uniforms with short pants and pith helmets. I didn’t think they were dados because they didn’t all look the same. There were all types, all races, and both men and women. They were trimming trees, cutting the grass, and sweeping the pathways. Yes, sweeping the pathways. Not a leaf was out of place or blade of grass too long. The place was immaculate.

I asked, “You think if I pulled a flower petal and dropped it, somebody would come running to sweep it up?”

“Look,” Patrick said, pointing to a man who was polishing a bronze statue of a giant guy holding what looked like the world on his back. It looked familiar but I couldn’t place it. “Look at the guy’s arm.”

My mouth went dry. The man had a cloth patch on his sleeve. It was a red star. The symbol of Ravinia.

“I guess Ravinia is alive and well,” Patrick said soberly.

“I want to know how big this place is,” I said.

“For that we have to get up high,” Patrick offered.

We kept walking, looking for some sort of structure that would give us a bird’s-eye view. I was thankful that Patrick didn’t suggest that we turn into birds and get an actual bird’s-eye view. We needed to get up high the old-fashioned way. It didn’t take long for us to find what we needed. I’m not sure why we didn’t see it until we were almost on it. Maybe it was because the trees were too dense. Maybe we had been too close to get perspective. Maybe there was so much to see on ground level that we hadn’t been looking up. Maybe we were just idiots. Whatever. When we stepped out of a thick stand of trees, it was my turn to gasp. We were staring at one leg of a giant, golden, four-legged structure. Though I had never seen it in person, I recognized it for what it was. It was impossible, yet it was there.

“Is this a replica too?” I said, my voice cracking.

Patrick was staring straight up at the giant golden tower. “It has to be,” he declared. “What other explanation is there?”

People strolled casually through gardens that were situated under the massive structure. A small orchestra played classical music. Vending stands with festive red and white awnings were set up, offering drinks and ice cream, though it didn’t look like anybody was paying for the treats. They just walked up and got what they wanted. It was like some big, private party… happening beneath the Eiffel Tower.

“We’re not in Paris, are we?” I asked, stunned.

“Let’s find out,” Patrick answered, and walked toward the closest leg of the tower, and an elevator that would take us up and give us the view we needed. Neither of us said a word as we entered the red elevator, where a woman wearing a dark green khaki worker uniform greeted us.

“Which level?” she asked with a smile.

“Uh, first stop is fine,” I answered awkwardly. I had never been to the Eiffel Tower and figured going up to the first observation level would be plenty high enough. The elevator clattered as it ascended through the golden trusses.

“It can’t be the real deal,” I whispered to Patrick. “The Eiffel Tower isn’t golden, is it?”

Patrick shrugged. It only took a minute for us to rise to the first level. The worker opened the door with a smile to allow Patrick and me to exit.

“Thanks,” I said to the woman.

She gave me an odd look, as if I had said something strange. How could that have been strange? All I said was “thanks.” Odd.