D. MacHale - The Soldiers of Halla

“I guess we’re here,” Patrick declared.

“Where?” I asked. “Disneyland?”

A flagpole rose up next to the building, holding a flag that fluttered in the breeze. Looking up I hoped to see an American flag. Or a New York State flag. Or any flag other than the one that was there.

It was a red flag with the Ravinian star.

The train was parked on the far side of the station. Beyond that was a row of tall, thick trees that blocked our view of what lay beyond. Patrick and I walked past the train and onto a platform on the far side. We followed a brick path that left the station and snaked through the tall trees to reveal…

The Taj Mahal. As with the Eiffel Tower, I’d never seen the real thing, but I’d seen enough pictures to know that this was either a pretty good replica, or the real deal. You couldn’t miss that single, huge onion-shaped dome that crowned the gleaming white building. Smaller domes surrounded the center one, while four circular towers stood tall like sentries, one on each corner of the foundation. A long reflecting pool stretched out before us, leading to the grand structure. To either side of the pool was grass and trees and more sculpture gardens. Lined up in rows to one side, it looked like hundreds of statues of life-size Chinese soldiers.

“I’ve seen those before,” I said. “Like in National Geographic or something.”

“It looks like some of the Terra-cotta Army of Emperor Qin,” Patrick answered. “They were created to guard him in the afterlife. I think it was in something like two hundred BCE.”

I gave him a sideways look. The guy knew his stuff.

People strolled around the statues and enjoyed the gardens here as well. But I noticed something a little different. There were more Ravinian guards hanging around. Each had a silver weapon strapped to his back. They walked in pairs, which said to me they weren’t out to enjoy the day. They were working. They were there to provide security.

That meant we were in the right place.

Patrick and I walked casually, trying to look like we had no purpose other than to check out the statues and enjoy the day.

Patrick spoke softly. “Is it possible that the Ravinians transported all this from around the world?”

“I don’t know” was my answer. “I guess they could have built their own. Either way, this place is all about living large. I haven’t seen a single house that isn’t like, awesome.”

With each step we took toward the massive domed structure, my feeling grew stronger that we were getting closer to Saint Dane. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Or maybe I was beginning to consciously tap into the whole spirit of Solara. I can’t say, but I felt sure it wouldn’t be long before we once again faced the demon. Our goal was to find out what he was up to on Third Earth.

When we reached the high platform that the building stood on, we saw that the Ravinian guards had increased. Instead of patrolling randomly, they were stationed at entry-ways built into the box.

“Do we turn into birds now?” Patrick asked.

The solitude was broken by the sound of a helicopter. We turned to see two tailless choppers heading our way. They descended quickly and landed near one of the archways that led into the base of the building. No sooner did they touch down than several Ravinian guards sprinted for them. Two left their post at the entrance to the building, directly in front of us.

I looked to Patrick. “Could it really be this easy?”

We walked quickly for the building. Before ducking under the arch, I took a look back to see that the Ravinian guards had opened the side doors of the choppers and pulled out four people who seemed to be prisoners. The guards grabbed them by their arms and dragged them toward the building. In that brief instant I recognized one of them. It was the powerful guy with the long black hair, who had helped all those people out of the building at the zoo. My stomach sank. He was a hero. Now he was done. At least he was still alive. For the time being, anyway.

“C’mon,” I ordered, and we ducked inside.

All I knew about the Taj Mahal was that it was built by some emperor in India to be a mausoleum for his wife back in the day. Not that I know much about mausoleums in India. Or mausoleums for emperors. Or their wives. Or anything about any mausoleums, for that matter. But what we saw inside looked nothing like a place for the dead.

It was a palace. Seriously. The walls were lined with ornate tiles that depicted all sorts of detailed scenes of idealized countrysides. Hanging in what would be the sky of these scenes were paintings. Paintings that I recognized. Again, I don’t know much about art, but in the fourteen years I lived on Second Earth, you kind of couldn’t miss seeing the big, famous paintings of the world. I didn’t know any of their names or who painted them, but they sure looked familiar.

“Van Gogh,” Patrick uttered. “There’s a Degas. And a Picasso. Those two are by Cezanne. Dali, Matisse, Lautrec, and Jackson Pollock. My god, Pendragon, these are some of the greatest paintings of all time.”

I guess Patrick knew art, too. Heck, he was a teacher.

“I know that one,” I said. “Mono. Lisa, right?”

Patrick nodded, dumbfounded. “They can’t all be replicas. They’re too… too… good.”

“So maybe that big statue we saw outside really was the original David. And those soldiers really were pulled out of a tomb in China.”

“And maybe these buildings aren’t replicas, either.”

The idea was staggering. Did the Ravinians steal great artworks from around the world for their own personal collection?

“There is something odd, though,” Patrick commented, frowning.

“Gee, you think?”

“All the artwork we’ve seen dates from the early twenty-first century and before. I haven’t seen a single piece of notable art that was made in the three thousand years since then.”

“And you’d know it if you saw it?” I asked. He gave me an impatient look. Of course he would. I shrugged. “Okay, genius, what do you think that means?”

“It could mean that from the time the Ravinians took power on Second Earth, no notable art was created.” “That’s kind of, I don’t know, scary,” I said.

Patrick nodded. It was a sobering thought.

We heard the sound of a heavy door being thrown open, followed by the scuffling of feet. The sounds were coming from deeper in the building. There was a small forest of tall pillars ahead of us. Patrick and I used them to hide behind as we made our way toward the sounds. We only had to move a few yards before we came upon the dead center of the Taj Mahal, directly under the massive dome. The central area was open, with ornate mosaic tile work on the floor. The whole area was ringed by marble columns. I nudged Patrick and pointed to the floor inside the ring. He looked, and winced. The tile pattern formed a giant, red Ravinian star. To our left was a wide set of stairs covered with rich red carpet. On top of these stairs was a platform, upon which was a heavy golden throne. The detail on it was incredible. There were intertwining vines and flowers that looked to have been molded from solid gold. On the seat and the back were rich red cushions.

“So who’s the king?” Patrick asked.

I didn’t know. But I had a pretty good idea.

Opposite the throne, across the center area, light blazed in from the doors that had been thrown open. A group of people hurried in-the Ravinian guards with their prisoners from the helicopters. The poor guys weren’t putting up a fight. They looked too beat up for that. The guards dragged them inside the ring of marble columns, but stopped before entering the circle that contained the Ravinian star.