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The
two
surviving
Founders
of
Zion
were
old
men
,
old
with
the
accelerated
aging
that
overtakes
men
who
spend
too
many
years
outside
the
embrace
of
gravity
.
Their
brown
legs
,
brittle
with
calcium
loss
,
looked
fragile
in
the
harsh
glare
of
reflected
sunlight
.
They
floated
in
the
center
of
a
painted
jungle
of
rainbow
foliage
,
a
lurid
communal
mural
that
completely
covered
the
hull
of
the
spherical
chamber
.
The
air
was
thick
with
resinous
smoke
.
'
Steppin
’
Razor
,
’
one
said
,
as
Molly
drifted
into
the
chamber
.
'
Like
unto
a
whippin
’
stick
.
’
'
That
is
a
story
we
have
,
sister
,
’
said
the
other
,
'
a
religion
story
.
We
are
glad
you
’
ve
come
with
Maelcum
.
’
'
How
come
you
don
’
t
talk
the
patois
?
’
Molly
asked
.
'
I
came
from
Los
Angeles
,
’
the
old
man
said
.
His
dreadlocks
were
like
a
matted
tree
with
branches
the
color
of
steel
wool
.
'
Long
time
ago
,
up
the
gravity
well
and
out
of
Babylon
.
To
lead
the
Tribes
home
.
Now
my
brother
likens
you
to
Steppin
’
Razor
.
’
Molly
extended
her
right
hand
and
the
blades
flashed
in
the
smoky
air
.
The
other
Founder
laughed
,
his
head
thrown
back
.
'
Soon
come
,
the
Final
Days
.
.
.
Voices
.
Voices
cryin
’
inna
wilderness
,
prophesyin
’
ruin
unto
Babylon
.
.
.
’
'
Voices
.
’
The
Founder
from
Los
Angeles
was
staring
at
Case
.
'
We
monitor
many
frequencies
.
We
listen
always
.
Came
a
voice
,
out
of
the
babel
of
tongues
,
speaking
to
us
.
It
played
us
a
mighty
dub
.
’
'
Call
’
em
Winter
Mute
,
’
said
the
other
,
making
it
two
words
.
