"DEATH TO WILTON CHYLE!"
The posters were all over town, hanging under the setting sun, gleaming in the orange light and soaking up the rays for when darkness fell when the phosphorescence of the stored light would shine out their message until morning returned.
Beneath the interjection was a picture of a man in his forties with greying brown hair and big watery eyes. He was holding a cardboard sign under his chin, bearing his name and date of birth in black letters, just in case anybody doubted he was really a criminal. Under the photo were the words: 'New City's most shameless criminal, Vote Yes on November 12th!"
Wilton himself was sitting in a small holding cell on the so-called Vote Row in the Central Detention Unit, waiting for the set date. It was November the 9th, 3 days to go. Through the bars and across the corridor was the guard's desk with its blaring television. Wilton could hear his execution being advocated during every commercial break of the day. He was being called dangerous, brazen and shameless. The streets would be safer without him. Still, Wilton Chyle had never hurt a living thing in his life, nor ever wanted to.
The closer he got to the date of the vote, the more desperately Wilton prayed to God for a miracle that would save him from the lethal jack- in that would shock his brain into Heaven or Hell. He still hoped it would be Heaven, after all, his crime had been a very small one judged by the moral guidelines of his system of belief. Breaking a lock would not send you to Hell; it just was not possible. How could such a small thing have got him into such big trouble?
Wilton looked over the shoulder of his state appointed lawyer and saw the bluish flicker of the TV across the hall. The guard was like glued to the screen as the familiar tune began to play. The Traveller was starting. They had taken his freedom, locked him away without any comforts, but he could have taken it all easily if it was not for the loss of his television. They had robbed him of the only sight he cared about. Although, was that not what had got him into trouble in the first place, the caring? That and the drugs. He could have contained his knowledge and his longing if it was not for the drugs. Damned Oranges.

*

It had been late August, the end of an uncharacteristically long period of high-pressure weather, and the sky was high and clear. Looking up from the ruins and the rubbish Wilton could see eternity. It was during days like these that he could feel the presence that his mother had spent most of his childhood talking about. The ever-watching, caring, benevolent God she had so firmly believed in until the day she died. One year ago to the date.
Out by the Wall, the sun was scorching the black sand and heating the rocks to the point of meltdown. Only the massive marble construct stayed cool, the chill embedded deep in the heart of tonnes of stone enough to withstand even the most enthusiastic of suns. Wilton lay a white rose on the dark sand beneath the Wall, at the bottom of the column where Vera Chyle's name was carved in the polished black surface. Brand dropped a second one beside it and squinted at the clear blue sky.
"Do you think she found her God, Wilt? Or do you reckon death was a massive disappointment?"
Brand had never bought into the idea. His mother, Wilton's mother's sister, had somehow escaped the strong faith that skewered generations of Chyles down to some distant relative back in a time that had looked differently upon religion. According to Wilton's mother, there had once been a time where the belief in God was the norm rather than a delusion bordering on clinically alternative perception. That time was now lost, and that was what made it so important that Wilton understood. His mother never talked about believing or disbelieving, only about understanding fact, and he had thought that he did understand. During his whole life, until this gloriously clear day in August, he had thought that he understood. Today he would become certain.

Wilton's mother had never been a fanatic of any kind. She had gone through life with the dignity of quiet conviction, never trying to force her beliefs onto people outside the family. That would have resulted into a trip to the loony bin for sure. She had taught him right from wrong, but never threatened with the more unsavoury elements of her religion should he do something bad, and she had never willingly deprived Wilton of any experiences normal to a boy his age. All the same, there was one thing that even the poorest of Wilton's classmates had that he lacked. A TV. His mother claimed they couldn't afford one and they did not really need one anyway since TV was bad both for your body and your brain. Wilton could have pushed the issue, but never really felt the need to. As he grew up, he became used to finding his entertainment in books and music and it never occurred to him how much he might be missing. Not until today.

Brand's apartment was a mess of newspapers and empty soda bottles. He worked the morning shift at the factory and spent the whole afternoon and night in front of the TV. Wilton worked evenings at the same place and spent all his spare time reading books so, no matter how strange it may seem, today was the first time in ten years that he had been exposed to the opportunity of serious television watching.
"You don't know what you're missing, Wilt," Brand said as he located the remote control beneath the piles of paper and empty crisp packets on the coffee table, "You have got to be the only person in the world who's never seen the Traveller. It's a hell... 'scuse me, heck of a show, I meant to say."
Turned out he was right.
The opening credits rolled and Wilton experienced revelation. Just like his mother had told him: at certain events in your life you just knew. At the first glimpse of that face, he was five years old again, lying in his bed as his mother told him about his favourite thing: angels. Wilton's mother had liked talking about angels because she claimed that she had once seen one on the Shuttle between the Industrial Estate and the Harbour. That was forty years ago, but she had told her son how she at once knew that there was a greater good at work behind the scenes of the world. It shone through in places and people and made them holy. Angels might not even know what they were, she had said, but that did not change the fact that they were walking proof of the existence of God and confirmations of the premise that there was a better life after this one. Five year old Wilton had gone to sleep with a warm feeling of safety and love and in his dreams he had enjoyed visions of the kind of light and beauty that was nowhere to be found in the war-torn City.
"I figured you might feel a bit down, what with it being the anniversary of your mother's death and all, so I got you a little present," Brand said.
Wilton was hardly listening. He could not take his eyes off the creature on the screen. He was not much more than a boy but he radiated such a heavenly light that Wilton felt sure that he was a being of ancient wisdom and profound kindness.
"Wilt! Here..."
Brand was holding out his hand. A small, orange coloured pill was lying in his palm. Some kind of sweet, Wilton presumed. He took it absentmindedly and put it in his mouth, then returned his attention to the angel on the TV. Suddenly, as if he needed any more proof of the boy's divine identity, the whole world was filled with sparkling gold. The sweetest taste appeared in Wilton's mouth. The setting sun shone through the window and gilded every surface. He felt so intensely happy that he thought his heart would burst. He had seen the light, literally, and it was more beautiful than he had ever dared to hope.
"Good, huh?" Brand asked from behind a glittering veil of particles falling through the air.
"Yes."
Wilton was crying tears of joy. The golden drops slid down his cheek to his wide smile and the salt mixed with the taste of orange. He wanted more. He wanted to find this man, this Milon, and kneel at his feet. He wanted to tell him that even if nobody else in the world knew the truth any longer, Wilton still carried the old faith within his heart and he was ready to do anything God wanted him to do.
"Where can I find him?" he asked Brand.
"Who?"
"Him."
Wilton almost did not want to speak his name out loud, it seemed sacrilegious somehow. He pointed at the screen.
"Milon? Well, he lives at EterniVision, I guess. I don't think he's taking visitors though."
Brand laughed at Wilton's naivety and grabbed a handful of crisps out of the nearest packet. He would never understand, never had. A whole legion of angels could show up in his livingroom and he still would not recognise them for what they were.
"EterniVision... yes."
Wilton rose from the sofa, noticing how the golden orange light moved with him. The bubbling joy inside him carried him towards the door. Behind him, Brand said something that was lost among the singing, jubilant voices in Wilton's head. In the hall, hanging on the coat rack, was Brand's electro key. It looked like a stun gun, and in a way it was. Brand used it in work for opening electronic locks that for some reason had jammed. That was what the factory did, make, install and maintain electronic locks. The instrument seemed to be glowing with its own golden light, and Wilton picked it up and stuck it in his belt. He could not afford to let simple door locks keep him apart from the divine creature he was aching to look upon with his own two eyes.

Outside, the world was a celebration of beauty. The golden disc of the sun was spinning in the sky, throwing fireworks like rain down over the earth. A shimmer lay around the houses and every moving thing left trails of gold dust. Wilton laughed and licked the non-depleting orange flavour from his lips. He felt like singing, like spinning around with his arms out and let the sparks fly from his fingertips. Instead, he made his way to the Shuttle station.

EterniCorps was a massive building complex and the EterniVision skyscraper with its fifty stories above ground was easily the mightiest construct in the City. A tall, impenetrable wall with barbed wire and sharp metal spikes on top surrounded the entire complex. There were entrances on the underground level, just off the shuttle platform, but these were lifts and required pass card authorisation. Wilton could not get in that way. The other option was through one of the four gates above ground, where the guard booths were always manned and the cameras were set up to capture every angle of the entrance. Wilton did not worry too much about the heavy surveillance though; God would provide a way. He stood across the street from the eastern entrance and looked in at the big tower of steel and glass. The sun bounced off the windowpanes, making them burn like fire. It was beautiful. Somewhere in there, he would be. Perhaps waiting for Wilton to come, perhaps innocently unaware of Wilton's knowledge. It didn't matter. When they met, everything would become clear. There would be no more loneliness and confusion only the gentle affirmation of Wilton's faith.
A black limousine emerged from around the corner of the road, heading towards the gate. The windows were black, impossible to see through, but that did not matter. Whoever was in the car, it was not him, Wilton would have known if it was. The limousine stopped at the gate and the driver rolled down the window to speak to the guard. As the gates started to open, Wilton could see a trail of light leading in through them, up the driveway, and in behind a large sign at the place where the road forked. This was the route he would take. He ducked down behind the car, out of sight from the guard and darted through the gates. Laughter bubbled inside him; this was the greatest adventure! Just like in those books he had read as a child, where the daring sidekick risks life and limb to save the hero from the villain's prison cell. For some reason, Wilton had always identified more with the sidekick than the hero. He had no illusions about his own place in life. As the car started moving again, Wilton ran alongside it, ducked down until he reached the sign where he crouched until the car had passed then quickly made his way around to the side where he would not be seen from the guard booth. His stomach tingled with nervous excitement, but there was no real fear. Capture did not really seem likely; he was, after all, on a mission from God. It was with this feeling of protection and good fortune that he stood up and started walking up the road to the main entrance. Anybody that saw him now would simply presume that he was a legitimate visitor since the guard at the gate must obviously have let him through.
The main entrance of EterniVision consisted of two huge reinforced glass doors. Through these, Wilton could see a bright, spacious lobby. There was a desk where the receptionist sat and a few chairs, that was all of the furniture. The metal doors of the lifts were shining like solid gold from the reflected the light. That was where Wilton wanted to go, but first he had to find out on what floor, in what room, his newfound angel resided. That might prove difficult.
On the right hand side of the big doors was the verification console. It had a hollow to put your finger in and also a slot for a pass card. Wilton had neither, what he did have was the electronic key. It would not work on the console but in the narrow space between the thick panes of glass, the steel bolt lay exposed. Wilton drew the gunlike contraption and stuck the end plate between the doors. A bright spark shot up the length of the bolt into the chamber of the locking mechanism, triggering the circuitry to release the lock. Wilton pushed the door open.
The receptionist was a blonde woman in her thirties. She looked at Wilton through her glasses and there was a look of worry on her face. "Good evening!" Wilton smiled at her, "I'm here to fix the lock."
The receptionist frowned but the hand that had been reaching for the alarm button retreated for the moment.
"What lock?"
The words had sprung out without Wilton's intention. He realised that he did not know Milon's surname and he could hardly call him by his first name without raising suspicions. A sliver of worry cut through his happiness. He walked closer to the desk and lowered his voice.
"I got a call that there was a lock that needed fixing on Milon's floor. I guess they're keeping it a bit secret, for security reasons."
"I see, Mr..."
"Chyle."
"One moment please."
She gave him a stiff smile and picked up the receiver on the phone. Wilton looked around in the big open space. It was so clean, so serene. Like a temple, he though. Which it was. The effects of the Orange was wearing off, but Wilton still felt a deep joy at being here, being so near to his goal. He could see Milon's face in his mind, the white hair and the pale green eyes that seemed so full of compassion and love. Light shone through him, heavenly light, into this world of darkness.
Wilton heard footsteps and looked up. A guard was walking towards him with a serious look on his face.
"Mr. Chyle? May I see your work order?"
Wilton smiled and pretended to be searching through his pockets, then frowned and said he must have lost it.
"What about your visitor's pass then? How did you get in through the main gate? How did you get in to the reception?"
Questions Wilton could not answer. The orange light was fading, darkness falling outside. He started to feel cold. Two more guards emerged from a doorway to the left of the reception desk, heading towards him.
"Look, I just want to see Milon... I have to tell him..."
Wilton still held some hope that everything was going to turn out fine, and even if it didn't, what was the worst that could happen? They would throw him out. He would have to refine his plan and try again another day. Then all his illusions shattered as one of the new guards shouted:
"Look out, he's got a stun-gun!"
Wilton opened his mouth to tell them that it was not a weapon, it was simply a tool, but the words were knocked out of him together with his breath as the guards tackled him to the floor. Wilton's left arm was caught beneath him at a bad angle in the fall, and pain shot through his body. He tried desperately to get his weight off it, but the guards must have interpreted this as struggling because they pushed him down even harder. They were asking him questions in loud, upset voices, but he couldn't make out one among the others and even if he had, they would not have listened to his answer.
Eventually, they pulled his throbbing left arm behind his back and handcuffed him. They hoisted him to his feet and started dragging him towards the door beyond the reception desk. The secretary looked nervous, but relieved now the situation was under control. For Wilton, he started to realise, it was anything but.

Wilton had no idea how long the interrogation lasted. The room was windowless and there was no clock on the wall. The three guards paced around him in their dark blue uniforms and asked question after question. Wilton told them how he had sneaked by the guard at the gates and how he had used the unlocker on the front door. He told them about what had happened earlier, how he had seen Milon on the TV and had to talk to him. He even told them about the orange pill that he had taken. Not five minutes later, a nurse entered the room and stuck a needle in his arm. Drug test, they said.
Eventually, everybody but one guard left the room. He stood by the door with a blank expression on his face. Wilton was starting to feel afraid, the adventure had turned into a nightmare.
"Excuse me..." he said, "When are you going to let me go?"
The guard shifted his gaze to Wilton. He did not sound angry when he spoke, quite the opposite; there was almost pity in his voice.
"Let you go? Mr. Chyle, I don't think you realise how much trouble you're in here. You've already confessed to trespassing, breaking and entering and carrying a concealed weapon. Add to that the drugs charges and..."
"It wasn't a weapon and it wasn't concealed! I didn't know the thing I took was a drug! I only wanted to see Milon, to meet him, to..."
"Yes, that doesn't exactly help the situation, Mr. Chyle. The head of the production team for the Traveller, Mr. Moore, is on his way down. When he gets here, may I suggest that you do not mention this... obsession of yours. Milon Leverett is a very private person and the fact that you would go to such lengths to -as you say "meet him"- it doesn't look good."
Wilton just stared at the guard, incapable of understanding what it was he said. He had come here to pledge his undying loyalty to this angel and they were making it sound like something incriminating. As Wilton opened his mouth to plead for the guard's understanding so did the door. A fat man in a suit entered the room, accompanied by the other two guards. His grey hair was slicked back and the suit he wore looked worth more than Wilton's monthly paycheque. The man walked up to the table that Wilton was sitting behind and looked down at him. Then he asked one simple question:
"What are you doing here?"
Wilton looked down at the tabletop. It was white, plastic topped. A small, dark stain in the top right corner looked at bit like a skull. It was probably some spilt coffee...
"I asked you a question!"
The man in the suit raised his voice and when Wilton looked up he noticed that the fat cheeks had grown a fair few shades darker red.
"I don't think I should answer any more questions without my lawyer," Wilton managed.
The fat man, who the guard had referred to as Mr. Moore, sneered at him.
"Your lawyer won't be able to help you. You were caught red handed, breaking in here, drugged up and armed, looking for the last person you have any right to intrude upon. I can't see it as anything less than a direct threat to Milon's safety."
Wilton shrank back in his chair, feeling like he was being sucked into a black hole. Even the guards looked uncomfortable.
"I would never do anything to hurt him!" Wilton said, "I only wanted to tell him that I know..."
He stopped himself. It would not be wise to reveal his knowledge to these people. Mr. Moore wanted to hear the rest of the sentence though.
"Know what? What is it you think you know?"
"Nothing."
That dark stain was grinning at him with its skeleton mouth. The light in the room seemed dimmer and Wilton got a sensation like he was slowly, slowly sliding to the right. Maybe it was the room that was sliding to the left.
"I'll give you one more chance to tell me what you were going to do to him. Kidnap him?"
"No!"
"Kill him?"
"No! No of course not!"
Wilton felt short of breath at the thought. Mr. Moore pressed on:
"Then why the stun-gun?"
"It's not a stun-gun, it's a tool for unlocking doors..."
"But it could just as easily be used as a stun-gun, isn't that right?"
"I suppose... but I wasn't going to..."
"What were you going to do then? Tell me that."
"I... I can't. You wouldn't understand."
"Yeah, that's what all the lunatics say. Titus, get me criminal inspector Morris on the phone. I'll brief him on the situation and get him to send some men down here and take care of this intruder."

Mr. Moore had turned and walked out; followed by the guard who had told Wilton not to mention his true reason for being here. Not that it had mattered; the outcome had been the same. They were arresting him. Just exactly what the charges were, Wilton had not yet know at this point. What a time of blissful ignorance.

*

Two and a half months had passed since that day and if Wilton had felt fear when they took him down to the central detention unit, it was nothing compared to what he had experienced since. Mr. Moore had filed charges of attempted murder against him. As ludicrous as that was, they claimed to have the evidence. A potentially lethal weapon and the fact that Wilton had tested positive for drugs were only facts to support Mr. Moore's lies. According to him, Wilton had confessed to the intention of murder. Naturally, they did not have that on record, but on the other hand, none of the guards came forward to contradict their boss. Attempted murder it was to be. Wilton met the requirements for the Vote. He did not need his lawyer to tell him that it didn't look good. The lawyer did it anyway.
"Mr. Chyle, it doesn't look good. At the most recent poll, 85 percent claimed that if the referendum was today, they would vote for your execution. Are you certain that you have no friends or relations that can afford some kind of counter-advertisements?"
"I don't have any family."
Brand had visited him in prison only once and that had been to tell him that he would have nothing to do with this. Obviously he thought Wilton was innocent, but it was just too dangerous to put yourself up against the big shots in EterniVision. He was sorry, but that was just the way it was. He wouldn't be back. He hoped that Wilton would understand.
"Colleagues then? Anybody?"
"No. I wish you'd put me on TV. I could tell them the truth. I was never going to hurt anybody..."
"Prisoners are not allowed to contest the verdict on air, you know that. Urging people to vote for your life would imply that you claim you're not guilty. It's red tape, but it's the law I'm afraid."

The lawyer left with the resigned air of a man who knows that he's working against impossible odds and Wilton could no longer hold back the tears. He looked around in the tiny room. Nothing but grey stone walls, a small bed with a thin mattress, and a toilet bowl. No window. The only light came from the corridor outside. His prison overall was thin and it was freezing cold. The reflected light from the TV was mocking him, reminding him of the face he could not see and would most likely never see again. Wilton clasped his hands and prayed. Prayed for a miracle. Another day ended.

2

A five-point star of light hovered 8 centimetres above the floor on the top level of the EterniVision building. The air was growing thin inside it, the veil between dimensions transparent. A man's figure faded into reality and stepped out onto the floor.
"Welcome back. I trust the transition went without complications?"
A technician in a white coat walked up to the pair and ran a small hand-held device up and down his body.
"Yep, all in order. Oh yeah, Milon, Mr. Moore wants to talk to you in his office. Says it's important."
"Okay. Did Pitch come back yet?"
"This morning. We had to pull him out; it was getting a bit too dangerous, what with the volcano eruption and everything. The camera guys got some killer shots though."
"Yeah, I'm sure. Any other news?"
The white-coated technician hesitated. Milon's empathic seventh sense picked up the feeling of a secret. Then the technician said:
"No. You'd better talk to Mr. Moore right away though. That's what he told me to tell you."
"Alright, sure."

This place. Everyone was keeping secrets. It was tiring. Milon left the channeller room and got in the lift. He knew that when the technician had said that Mr. Moore wanted to talk to him right away, he meant literally the minute he got back. He just was not in the mood for the Producer right now, and so in a tiny act of defiance he pressed the button for his room's floor instead. Moore could wait. Milon had been away for over two months, surely they could give him another ten minutes.
Milon's room was just like he had left it, save for one detail. The kitchen door was open. He never bothered to lock it since the other door in the kitchen only led to Pitch's room. That door was now also open. Pitch called him from the other room:
"Miles, come here."
The TV was on in Pitch's room and it looked like Pitch was finding it interesting. He had a strange look in his eyes, like he was amused and appalled at the same time.
"I saved the main news from while we were gone. Look at this."
Pitch pressed a button and a man started reading the news on the screen.
"Forty-two year old factory worker Wilton Chyle was arrested on Friday night for trespassing on EterniVision property and suspected attempted murder on actor Milon Leverett. Chyle was apprehended on the premises with an electrical weapon and traces of illegal substances in his body. A spokesperson for EterniVision says that Mr. Leverett did not receive any injuries in the attack but that he is naturally very upset about the events of last Friday. Wilton Chyle was sentenced on Monday and will be up for the Execution Referendum on the 12th of November. EterniVision ask anybody who wants to show their sympathy for Milon to let their vote reflect their feelings."
Milon swallowed. For the first couple of seconds he didn't know if he was afraid or angry, then rage simmered up inside him like a kettle boiling.
"They certainly know how to sway the public opinion," Pitch said.
"I wasn't even here..."
Milon's voice was hardly audible.
"Miles, it's nothing to do with you. What's wrong, you're shaking!"
"I wasn't even here. How can they call it attempted murder, I wasn't even here! How dare they say that I'm "very upset" when I didn't even know about this!"
He was shouting, too upset to contain himself anymore. Pitch was looking at him, seemingly fascinated by his desperation.
"Pitch, they're going to kill this guy in my name! For something he didn't even do! And they have the gall to tell people to vote for his death for my sake!"
"Maybe he was planning to kill you, we don't know. Maybe he's some kind of lunatic."
"Well, I'm going to find out. Who knows what else they've been lying about!"
Pitch smiled. A small amused smile that had nothing to do with the situation and everything to do with Milon's reaction. Milon didn't care what he though, he would find out what had happened. Mr. Moore would not tell him the truth, he knew that, but Titus Io might.

The guards' office looked more like a giant livingroom than a proper office. There was a desk at the back of the room where some paperwork might on occasion be filled out, but otherwise this was just a room to relax in when breaktime rolled around. Titus was sitting in a fake-leather sofa in front of the widescreen TV, with his boots on the coffee table and a magazine in his hands. The TV was mumbling out news, the sound drowned out by other guards walking around, making coffee or eating. Being on call for 12 hours straight didn't look so bad at all. Milon cared nothing about the twenty plus pairs of eyes that bore into him as he marched over to where their boss was relaxing. Titus Io was only in his mid twenties, but he had shot up through the ranks. Now, he was in command of the entire dayshift and it looked likely that he would be promoted again to Chief of Guards for all of EterniVision. A lot of responsibility for his age. Milon couldn't help wondering which particular arses he was licking.
"Titus, can I talk to you?"
Milon tried to sound as friendly as his distress would let him. Titus looked up, surprised at first, and then something uncomfortable came over his face.
"Sure Milon. Outside?"
The entire room was holding their breath trying to hear what they were saying.
"Doesn't matter."
Titus got up and ushered Milon outside into a quiet, carpeted corridor. He made sure the door was firmly closed before he said:
"So, what can I do for you?"
"What happened? I come back after months and the first thing I hear is that they're going to execute somebody for trying to kill me! What's this all about?"
"He broke in here. He was armed and he said he was looking for you."
"What did he say?"
Titus was avoiding eye contact and Milon could feel how nervous he was.
"It doesn't matter. You have to understand that they can't let people get away with things like this..."
"Things like what? You won't tell me what happened!"
"I just did. He broke in. The company can't afford..."
"Did he say anything threatening?"
"Not exactly, but Mr. Moore didn't want to take any risks."
"And what about you? Do you think he wanted to kill me? If I had been here, do you think I would have been in any danger?"
"Milon..."
Titus' awkward twisting and evasive eyes were enough to answer that question. Whoever this guy had been, he had not wanted to kill anybody. Mr. Moore's pride had simply been dented by the fact that somebody had got so far past security.
"How did he get in?"
"He had a device for opening electronic locks. Apparently that's his job."
"What kind of weapon did he have?"

Little droplets of sweat were beginning to break out on Titus's forehead. He knew that he could get into trouble for telling Milon these things, at the same time, his conscience was already compromised by what had happened. There was a distinct flavour of guilt in the emotions Milon were receiving.
"That was the weapon," Titus said, his eyes investigating the carpet, "it could have been used as a stun-gun of sorts..."
"Would it be strong enough to kill you?"
"It might. If you had a weak heart or..."
Milon shook his head. It wasn't right. He wanted no part of this, and yet he knew that he wasn't just a part, he was the core. He was the reason this man, this very likely innocent man, would die and it made him so angry he just wanted to scream.
"I want to see him. In prison, I want to talk to him."
Titus looked shocked at the suggestion.
"Mr. Moore would never allow it, you know that!"
"So, don't tell him then. You can fix it, I know you can."
"I could risk my job Milon."
Milon couldn't believe what he was hearing. He stood like frozen, so full of negative emotions that he couldn't move. Titus looked at him; something in his face was weakening. Finally, he said:
"Okay. I'll go in with you... this is a really bad idea..."
Maybe it was. But sitting back and doing nothing while the date of the referendum drew closer every day, that was an even worse idea.

3

The day before the day before Voting Day, Wilton hit his lowest point this far. He had tried to keep his hope up, put his faith in God to provide some kind of rescue, but as the lawyer declared that it was now officially up to the public to decide based on the information they had received so far, Wilton knew that he was a dead man. He rolled up into a ball on the hard cot in his cell and rocked back and forth, trying not to let panic take hold of him. The execution would be on the evening of the referendum, if that was the result of the vote, which he knew it would be. The sound of the TV in the corridor outside with its hourly news broadcasts and even more frequent ad breaks confirmed his bleak outlook. All he could do now was wait for the inevitable.
A shadow fell over Wilton as he lay on the bed. A large, guard-shaped shadow.
"Wilton. You have a visitor."
The voice sounded coarse with repressed anger. Wilton looked up and saw the guard unlock his cell door and step inside. Quickly, he wiped the tears from his face before the guard cuffed his hands together behind his back.
"Who is it?" Wilton asked.
"You'll see, won't you."
The guard pushed him out in the corridor and down towards another door, which opened from within as he knocked on it. Wilton stepped inside. The first face he saw was familiar, it was the guard who had been left alone with him in the interrogation room back at EterniVision. Then his face moved aside and Wilton saw who the other person in the room was. All thoughts ceased for a second. His tears started streaming down his face again. It was him. Milon. Here, in front of him, at last. His white hair was shining in the dull room and his eyes met Wilton's. Wilton would have fallen to his knees if the guard behind him had not been holding tightly on to his handcuffs.
"Mr. Chyle?"
Milon looked concerned, a crease of worry on his flawless face. Wilton hated to be responsible for that look so he struggled to pull himself together. Still he had no idea whether Milon had bought into their lies and believed that Wilton had been looking to hurt him.
"Please believe me, I was never trying to... do what they say I was. I did break in, but I only wanted to see you... to talk to you... you have to believe me..."
"I do believe you. Tell me what happened."
Wilton opened his mouth and the last couple of months just came pouring out. The facts, the fears, all his thoughts and feelings. There was no control, no stopping it, his tongue moved of its own accord. The angelic boy just listened in silence. Wilton almost felt the same euphoria he had felt when taken that stupid orange pill, but this was from pure relief rather than any chemical effects. Once during his speech, the guard behind him tried to shut him up by twisting the handcuffs, but Wilton hardly felt the pain. He was saved. This angel had heard his prayers and come to save him.
When Wilton's stream of words finally ceased, the room fell uncomfortably quiet. The two guards looked at each other and shuffled their feet. Wilton was still crying and Milon looked like he felt sick. Finally he said:
"So, what happens now? Will you let him go?"
The EterniVision guard standing behind him answered:
"They can't just let him go. He was convicted, it doesn't work that way."
"So, there'll be another trial then?"
The guard hesitated for a second, then said:
"Milon, there aren't really any new evidence or information... I don't think they will re-open the case on the basis of this conversation... you must understand that in the eyes of the law, it doesn't really matter if you believe he's guilty or not."
Milon spun around and stared at the guard. He looked so upset, Wilton felt sorry for him. Even though he felt sure that Milon was infinitely much wiser and capable of handling problems than him, Wilton still felt strongly protective of him. He had never had any children, but on the testaments of other parents and the mixed assortment of books that had crossed his path, he could guess that the love of a father for his child would be something very close to what he was feeling for Milon.
"Titus! This is crazy! He hasn't done anything wrong! Okay, so maybe breaking in was wrong, but that doesn't mean he deserves to die!"
The guard -apparently named Titus- looked ashamed but said:
"I know, Milon but you have to understand that EterniVision is never going to admit fault in this... once the sentence is passed... there's nothing we can do except..."
He never finished the sentence. Milon interrupted him with a quiet, determined tone:
"I understand what you're saying. Now can you please leave? I want to talk to Mr. Chyle alone for a minute."
The guard behind Wilton's back seemed to have found his voice at last and said:
"Mr. Leverett, while you're here, I am responsible for you safety. There is no way I am going to leave you alone with a man convicted of trying to kill you."
"But he's not guilty! Can't you go outside for a minute?"
"I'm sorry Sir, no can do."
Wilton just kept staring at Milon during this whole exchange, observing every tiny shift of emotion in his features. He could see why the television show was so popular; it was impossible not to be spellbound by that face.
Finally, Milon seemed to accept defeat and nodded. The EterniVision guard looked relieved; a feeling Wilton was sure reflected just how the prison guard behind him felt. As they went to leave, Milon walked up to Wilton and put his hand on his shoulder.
"Don't give up, okay?" he whispered so that the guards would not hear, "I have a plan."
Wilton smiled, unable and unwilling to stop. It was probably a good thing that his hands were cuffed behind his back, otherwise he might have had to reach out and touch Milon, just to make sure he was real.

November the 12th was bearing down on him like a train in a tunnel as Wilton sat in his cell and tried to keep the faith. In 24 hours, the voting would be over. In 32, his life. Unless Milon could use some of his heavenly influence to change the course of events. In the distance, Wilton heard the ceaseless mumble of the television across the hall, but he was not really listening to it anymore. The ads that encourage people to send him to his death had lost his interest. The guard that had brought him to see Milon had somehow forgot to bring Wilton's dinner, but he was not hungry anyway. While darkness was falling outside, the jingle for the 5 o'clock news played out in the stony corridor. Wilton did not listen to the newsreader; it would be the same old things. Then, at about 8 o'clock, something happened. The guard outside called his colleagues over to the TV. Excited voices reached Wilton through the bars and then quieted down. Wilton pressed his face to the bars to see what was going on. The guards were all staring at the screen; somebody turned the TV up. A familiar, wonderful voice emerged from the speakers of the set.
"Good evening. Sorry to interrupt your programme, but I do have something very important to say. As I'm sure most of you know; tomorrow is the referendum on the life of a man named Wilton Chyle. Mr. Chyle was arrested for trespassing on EterniVision property. Apparently, he also opened a lock without permission. That was all he did, and the Law has decided that he deserves to die for it. EterniVision has been spreading lies and propaganda all through this time, claiming that Mr. Chyle was somehow looking to harm or kill me. This is a complete lie! I have spoken to Mr. Chyle in person and I am totally convinced of his innocence. All he wanted was to talk to me, and both the guards and the producer of the Traveller, Perry Moore, are perfectly aware of this. Still, EterniVision have advocated his execution from the start. They have even released statements to the press, speaking on my behalf, without my knowledge. As I'm sure you can understand, I'm very upset about this. Now that you know the facts, I beg you all to vote no to the execution of Wilton Chyle tomorrow. He committed a very small crime, with no bad intentions, and he does not deserve to die! Please, please make sure you vote life. Vote no tomorrow! Plea..."
Milon's voice was cut off halfway through the last word and replaced by static. The people at EterniVision must have discovered the transmission and terminated it. Wilton's heart sang inside him. The truth was out, sent from the lips of an angel. Surely, the people would listen. His prayers had been answered; his life had been saved!

4

The door burst open and Mr. Moore stormed into the room with a broadcasting technician at his heels. His face was deeply red, verging on purple, and his voice was shaking with the effort not to shout as he said:
"How dare you! Who do you think you are? Slandering the company live on air... I should have your contract terminated right here and now!"
"I was only telling the truth."
Milon looked his producer straight in the eyes. He knew how he felt, not just because he could sense it through empathy, but because he had felt the exact same when he heard the first newscast.
"The truth doesn't matter! You stupid boy, do you realise how much your little stunt might have damaged the company? Now get out of here!"
"You mean 'go to my room'?"
"I can have the guards escort you to a security cell if you would rather have that!"
Milon didn't answer, just bit back the curses and walked out. There was nothing more he could do here anyway.

"Nice little show you put on. I bet Moore's pissed off."
Pitch leaned back in his chair and looked at him with an amused little smile. Although Pitch's feelings were the hardest to read of anybody he knew, Milon still thought he could feel a hint of... pride?
"I don't care what Moore thinks. This is insane, this whole thing."
"Yeah. Oh, what's this? Turn the sound up."
Milon turned towards the television, where a screen had been displaying a message about "technical difficulties" and reassured the viewers that they would be back shortly. Now they were back, Mr. Moore filled the screen with a serious face.
"I am Perry Moore, producer of the Traveller," he said, "and I have some important news. We have just discovered a serious security breach at EterniVision, where a person or persons unknown have managed to hack into the system and use our own digital equipment to illegally broadcast a message using a synthesised image of Milon. I can assure you that we take this kind of information piracy very seriously indeed and investigations are ongoing to find the perpetrator. Meanwhile, I would just like to assure you that all and any information broadcast by the hackers are false and clearly an attempt at swaying the public opinion in favour of the criminal Wilton Chyle. As previous, I have to urge you to follow your conscience in the referendum tomorrow, and not be led astray by the transmission of any illicit material. We will now return to our scheduled programming and I would like to personally offer you my apologies for the disruption. Goodnight."
"Bastard!"
Milon very nearly threw the remote control at the TV screen. That would have been a very bad idea since it was Pitch's room and Pitch's TV. Still, in his 19 years of this life, he had never been so angry before. Pitch looked at him, seemingly a little surprised at the intensity of his outburst.
"Well, you did what you could," he said.
"What if it's not enough? What am I going to do?"
Pitch shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing you can do. It's not up to you anyway."
"You don't care, do you? He's going to die because of me, because of who I am. If he'd mentioned anybody else's name down there in the guardroom, do you think they would have put him up for the death vote? Do you?"
Pitch didn't answer right away. The sounds of light entertainment filled the room, clashing with the desperation and sadness in Milon's eyes. Finally Pitch said:
"I guess not."
Milon turned and walked out without a word.

The 12th of November was bitterly cold with icy showers of rain lashing down over the City. Still, the turnout for the vote on Wilton Chyle's life was well over 80%. The case had engaged people, as the ones involving celebrities usually did, and the opportunity to pass your own judgement, quite literally, was always appreciated. At three o'clock in the afternoon the polls closed. People hurried home to their TVs to watch the outcome. Wilton would not find out the result until a representative from the organisation in charge of counting and verifying the votes came to the prison. The guards were by law prohibited from letting him know how the votes had fallen or even have him accidentally find out, so the TV in the corridor was kept switched off for the day.
The grey light falling in through the tiny window and the uncharacteristical silence in the wing made the day seem somehow unreal. Wilton sat on his cot, hands clasped together, but he was not praying, just staring into nowhere. The fear and stress over weeks had left him exhausted. Although it was likely that he would die tonight, he just did not have the strength to worry about it anymore. It was up to God now. Maybe it had been all along.
Judging form the light, it was about mid afternoon when the door at the end of the hall rattled open and a man came walking up the corridor, heels clicking against concrete. A man in a dark grey suit approached the bars of Wilton's cell. He was holding a piece of plasticky paper. Wilton could see the colour shimmer of a reflected holographic stamp on his face. Time had come for Wilton to find out the verdict of the people. He got off the bed and walked over to the bars, where the voting representative was holding out his message towards him. Feeling sick and unreal, Wilton took it. 78%. That was the amount of people in the city who wanted to see him dead. 78% who felt that what he had done, sought to find Milon without permission, was a crime so unforgivable that he deserved to pay with his life for it. Maybe they were right. If you venture too near the sun you are going to get burnt.
"So, when is it happening?" he asked the man in the dark suit.
"Your termination is scheduled for six o'clock."
"What time is it now?"
"Quarter past four."
The man left without saying any more. Wilton sat back down, feeling numb. After some time, there were footsteps again, much lighter this time, almost inaudible. When Wilton looked up, Milon was standing on the other side of the bars with an expression of deep sadness on his face. There were no guards to be seen in the hallway. They must have allowed him one final visit now his fate had been officially decided.
"I'm so sorry..." Milon said, or tried to, his voice was just a whisper.
Wilton rose and walked over to the bars. His emotions were in turmoil. Fear of his impending death mingled with joy at seeing Milon and sadness -guilt even- for the way the situation seemed so distressing to him.
"You have nothing to apologise for," he told Milon, "I'm the one who's sorry. I was so arrogant to think that I could just walk in there and see you. Why should they let me? I had no right to be there. Everything just felt so... clear to me."
Wilton felt miraculously calmed by Milon's presence. He could almost see that heavenly light shine through him again, like a glimpse into paradise. He hoped and prayed that in another few hours, that was where he would be. Truly happy at last, forever surrounded by angels. Only, this angel was crying.
"You don't deserve to die! And it is my fault. I should have left the minute I realised how ridiculously famous the show had got. I never should have let them make me into some kind of symbol for.. whatever it is. I never should have let them..."
His voice faded out. Wilton didn't know what to do. That feeling came over him again, that feeling he guessed parents felt. He wanted to put his arms around Milon and comfort him, but the bars were in the way, and even if they had not been, he didn't have the right to do something like that anyway.
"Maybe I could get you out," Milon said suddenly, wiping his face, "I could get the keys off one of the guards... you could escape..."
Wilton shook his head, slowly.
"No, it wouldn't work. Too many guards and too many locks between here and freedom. Besides, I would spend the rest of my life running. Not to mention the risks for you."
"I don't care about the risks! They're going to execute you!"
"If that's God's will, then that's what's going to happen," Wilton said.
"God? What are you talking about?"
So, after all this, it turned out that Milon was not aware of the truth either. Somehow, that surprised Wilton a little. Still, he was still so young, surely he would learn the truth in time. It was not Wilton's place to teach him either.
"Don't worry about it."
Wilton managed a smile. He had to be strong now, after all, he was the one with the knowledge.
"Here, I brought you this..."
Milon reached in between the bars and opened his hand. A single, brightly orange pill rested in his palm.
"You don't have to use it, of course, but it might help the fear... you must be so scared..."
He was the one who looked scared though. Wilton picked up the little pill. It was fitting; this drug had put him in this situation in the first place and still he didn't regret taking it. If he could feel the same happiness one last time, that was the greatest gift anyone could get.
"Thank you."
Wilton picked the pill up and put it in the front pocket of his shirt. Everything was silence for a while. Milon didn't make any move to leave and Wilton didn't want to spoil the surprising serenity he felt by talking. It was getting darker; a short time between the daylight shining in through the windows and the fluorescent lights in the hallway coming on, the wing was in near darkness. In this soft twilight, Wilton could see a faint shimmer around Milon. He knew it was not just his imagination or will to make Milon into something more magical than he already was; the light was there, it was real, but so subtle that only he could see it. It was so beautiful, like the first light of a dawn in another world. Here, at the end of his life, he was finally in the position to tell Milon everything he had risked so much to tell him. Somehow, it didn't feel as important anymore. Paradise was no longer a faraway dream, it was a very real possibility, and Wilton would know for sure within the hour. All his life, he had believed in something different from everybody else. Ever since his mother died he had kept this faith that nobody shared alone in the world. Very soon he would find out who had been right all along, him or the rest of the world.
"Do you believe in life after death?" Wilton finally asked.
Milon looked down at the floor, the grief showing through on his face.
"I want to."
"I do. I believe it with all my heart."
Then Milon said the most shocking thing that Wilton had ever heard.
"I wish I could trade places with you."
"What? Why would you want to die?"
"It's not that I want to die, believe me, I'd be terrified... but if this happened to you, there's no guarantee that it won't happen to somebody else. If EterniVision can use me to hurt people like this... then maybe I'm too dangerous to be left alive."
"No!" Wilton could feel his own tears running down his face again, "Never think that! This world needs you, we all do. You're more worth than the lives of hundreds of people like me!"
"That's not true! You're not worth any less than me, how can you even say that. You..."
Milon's desperate voice was cut off by the sound of the door at the end of the hallway rattling aside. Two guards came walking up the hall. It was time.
"Listen," Wilton threw all prudence and caution to the wind and grabbed Milon's hands through the bars, "You're not going to blame yourself for this. I was stupid, maybe, but I don't regret anything. You make people happy, Milon, you made me happy. You did nothing wrong, remember that..."
Suddenly, a sharp pain flared up in Wilton's stomach, his breath cutting off the sentence. One of the guards had jabbed him with his truncheon. In the same second, Milon had pulled it out of his hand and raised it to strike. He never did. Milon was trembling with rage, but contained himself. The guard looked shocked and a little worried at the speed of which he had been disarmed, but waited patiently until Milon gave him his club back.
"Mr. Chyle, it is time."
The second guard unlocked the door and Wilton stepped out into the corridor.
"Remember what I said," he told Milon.
"This is insane... don't go..."
Wilton turned towards Milon. When the guards couldn't see, he took the little pill out of his pocket and put it in his mouth. The taste of orange filled his senses; the dim hall lit up with the glow of gold and sunsets. Everything was going to be alright. Wilton was embarking upon the most fantastic adventure of his life and he could hardly wait. Milon was standing there in the gleaming hall, looking like a lost child. Wilton smiled at him, a smile of complete joy, and said:
"Everything is going to be alright, I promise."
A tear of solid gold left Milon's eye and slipped down, sparkling, shining. Wilton caught it as it fell. It was solid; he could keep it if he liked. Maybe it was the ticket into paradise.
"I want to go with him," Milon said to the guards.
"Sorry, Mr. Leverett. No visitors allowed in the execution room. Those are the rules."
"They say it's painless," Milon said, turning to Wilton once again, "you won't feel a thing."

The guards were clearly getting impatient, although they dared not do anything in front of Milon.
"Come on now, time to go. Hands behind your back."
Wilton put his hands together behind his back and felt the handcuffs click in place. It didn't matter; it was only his body. He smiled widely at the guards and then took a last look at his guardian angel. There was no more time for consoling words or heartfelt goodbyes. Although Wilton felt like he had know Milon all his life, he would have to leave him here, in this harsh and cold world while Wilton himself went off to explore the glorious worlds beyond. With his hands cuffed together, he could not even give him a hug before he left. Not fair, really, was it? Still, God would set all at right and they would meet again in heaven, Wilton felt sure of it. What was seventy or eighty years in the perspective of eternal life?
"I'll see you again," Wilton said as the guards started leading him down the hall.
Milon didn't answer; just nodded, not even bothering to wipe the tears from his face this time. He shrunk in perspective as the distance grew, and when Wilton rounded the corner he was only a small, gleaming figurine in the darkening corridor. That was the last he ever saw of him.

The execution room was a small room with a very comfortable-looking chair in the centre, a couple of computers against one wall and not much else. The warm orange light filled the room and made it look cosy. After spending so many nights on the hard cot in the chilly cell, Wilton couldn't wait to sink into that lovely padded armchair. The guards took off his handcuffs and told him to sit down. The chair was just as comfortable as it looked. Wilton leaned back and closed his eyes. In his mind's eye, he could see the sun setting over the Wall where his ashes would be scattered after his soul had been set free.
"Any last words for the record?" one of the guards asked.
"No. Nothing I say can make you understand. You'll just have to wait until it's your turn. Then you'll find out."
Wilton smiled, not even opening his eyes. He could feel the jack going into the bioport at the base of his neck, the same feeling he had experienced every working day when logging on to the factory's computer. There was nothing here that could scare him.
"Systems ready. Shutdown will commence in ten second."
Almost time. The jubilant joy in his heart grew until he didn't know what to do with it. He would see his mother again, maybe even find out what God really looked like. The world was beautiful and orange. He heard the tiny sound of a button being pressed. Then there were fireworks. The biggest, brightest most wonderful display of light and colour that anybody had ever seen. They lingered on the black sky of eternity for a long time before they finally faded. Yes, this show had definitely been worth watching.