There were also the memories from his past that played a distinct role in his survival. He vaguely remembered his childhood, but his journey to Tisaia was burned into his memory like a tattoo. From the time the raiders pillaged the shanty town he grew up in, to the subsequent trip his father financed to smuggle his family into Tisaia, these memories were as much as part of him as the scars on his back.
Mulia knew what life was like outside the walls, and he would do anything to keep from going back out there. He would rather kiss the boots of the Knight who gave him the scars on his back than be thrown back into the hell and misery of the Wastelands.
He looked back down at his feet and saw the radiation scars lining both of his legs. Every day he remembered how he got them and the cave he and his parents took refuge in when the trip to the storm drains went astray. His family hadn’t made it more than 20 miles before the same group of raiders caught up with them and cornered them in a cave. Their guide took off the moment he saw the raiders, but his family was not so lucky.
It took only a few days for the symptoms of radiation poisoning to manifest. His mom and sister didn’t live much longer than that. He would never forget watching his sister, the life slowly draining from her, a combination of terror and confusion burning in her eyes. Nor would he forget the sores and boils over his Mother’s arms and head where her hair had fallen out. And worst of all was his last image of his father, firing his shotgun harmlessly at the Raiders while their bullets tore through his soft flesh.
Ironically, it was the guide that saved Mulia after the pirates had taken what they wanted and left him for dead. The skinny, toothless man dressed in raggedy tan military fatigues carried him all the way to the great Tisaian walls without saying a word. He turned Mulia over to a sympathetic family living in Rohania. They tried to help him, but his wounds were too severe so they took him to a hospital where he spent a month healing. He never found out why the guide returned for him. Was it a sense of regret from abandoning his family, or something else? He would never know.
“Get moving,” another guard said, nudging his rifle into Mulia’s ribcage. He moaned in pain but continued forward, cringing at the sound of the two ton gate slowly creaking open. It was a sound he heard every day, multiple times a day, and one his ears still rebelled against.
“Let’s go,” the guard said again, his voice muffled by the breathing apparatus inside his helmet.
Mulia hustled towards the customs station. He was a gunsmith, having been taught the trade by his father in the trading town years ago. It was there he learned how to build guns, change out parts, and fix pretty much any gun that came his way. This made him invaluable to the guards, who constantly needed their weapons serviced. It also meant he was strip searched at the end of every working day to make sure he wasn’t stealing any parts. In the past four years, Mulia had made certain every part he did steal for his TDU contacts was never detected.
A sharp pain shot down his leg while he ran, reminding him of the secret place he kept bullets and parts squirreled away for the TDU. He stopped for a second to massage his thigh, where a loose piece of skin covered a hollowed out piece of flesh, just large enough for a round of ammunition or a part to a gun. The wound was a result of the radiation poisoning. It was one of many places where the amateur TDU doctor opted to remove flesh rather than let it heal properly when he was first brought to Tisaia. At first the pain was excruciating, but over the years of hiding weapon parts he grew mostly numb to the pain.
After his strip search he was free to head back to his corridors where his tent mate, Kalah, would be preparing dinner from their rationed food.
The camp was set up in three rows of tents with 30 in each row. The middle row was reserved for families, while the outside rows were used by single occupants. With four guard towers rising far above the camp, it was designed so the CRK would have full range of view at all times.
Most of the guards were Knight Cadets and were training for service, but some were veteran Knights who transferred to the camp for a variety of reasons. The most infamous veteran was Royal Knight Nemir. His hatred for immigrants dated back to when his brother was killed in an uprising at the camp years ago.
Mulia made it to his tent just as the street lights glowed to life.
“Just in time for dinner, my friend,” Kalah said, without looking up from a pot he was stirring. Mulia nodded and sat down on his cot, slowly slipping out of his work boots. He leaned back and watched the old man stir the stew slowly, checking the density with every other stir.
Kalah was a master cook. It was the only thing keeping him from being deported to the Wastelands. The Knights grew so fond of his cooking, they continued to delay his paperwork so he could stay in the camp’s main kitchen.
“I heard Nemir beat another young man today.”
Mulia shrugged. “Someday he will get what he is owed.”
“That day may be approaching quicker than we thought,” Kalah said, a sly grin streaking across his old dark weather-beaten skin.
Mulia sat up, his interest sparked. “What do you mean? I thought we lost contact with the TDU after their headquarters was destroyed.”
“Ah, but we both know the TDU had other locations. The Tin Cans can never kill them all. New freedom fighters will replace the fallen. History proves the just are always victorious in the long run.”
Mulia shrugged again. He wasn’t in the mood to argue tonight.
“There is something else you may be interested in,” Kalah said, picking up on Mulia’s solemn demeanor.
“The Samoan is fighting Royal Knight Tinus at the Golden Dome tomorrow night. Many of the immigrants believe he can win.”
Mulia finished taking off his work boots and caught his friend’s excited gaze.
“Don’t get your hopes up. Tinus has never lost a battle in the arena and I don’t expect he will tomorrow. Besides, you know the fights are rigged.”
Kalah frowned and looked back down at his stew. As a young man he had driven a cab in New York. He survived the nuclear blast in Manhattan and escaped to a refugee camp set up on the east coast before Tisaia was ever formed. He immigrated to Tisaia a decade ago when the refugee camp finally collapsed from disease and famine. He had seen so much in his years, but he wasn’t sure if he would ever see an immigrant win their freedom in the Golden Dome.
Kalah took the pot of stew off the fire and placed it on a pad atop a crate between their two cots. He scooped a steaming spoonful of the dish into two small bowls, sprinkling a pinch of salt into the bowl before handing it to Mulia.
“Hope you like,” he said, with another grin, revealing the last three teeth in his mouth.
“Thank you. I have something for you too.”
Slowly Mulia pulled up his pant leg and peeled back the three inches of dead skin on his thigh. He reached into the opening and pulled out an inch long piece of metal.
“Is that what I think it is?” Kalah asked, beaming.
“It is. This should complete the sniper rifle I have been working on for over a year. When the riots start, we shall be ready,” Mulia said, his voice at a hoarse whisper.
He picked up his bowl and began to shovel the hot stew into his mouth, stopping momentarily to cool it with his breath. Kalah quickly followed suit, and the two men ate the rest of their dinner in silence. When they were finished, Kalah rinsed the bowls with a small bit of left over water and placed the bowls neatly on top of the crate.
Normally Kalah would tell a story before bed, or the two would read, but tonight he was exhausted. Mulia blew the flame out in the lantern hanging from the wood rafters of their tent and lay back down in his cot, pulling the covers up to his chin.
“Goodnight, Kalah,” he said, closing his eyes. He listened to the sounds of the camp in the distance, the chatter of voices and the smell of fires cooking exotic dishes he had never heard of before. He felt oddly at home for the first time in a very long time. The sensation lasted only a few moments and was interrupted by the me
mory of the pirates, the Knights, and the world he lived in. He would never have a home. Not until the Knights were gone and the TDU restored peace and human rights to the last great city on Earth.
“Goodnight, Mulia,” Kalah replied, blowing out the candle on the wooden crate. “Soon we shall be free, my friend.”
Chapter 11: Modern Gladiators
“Victory is always possible for the person who refuses to stop fighting.”
~Napoleon Hill
Time: 8:14 p.m. February 24, 2071
Location: The Golden Dome. Lunia, Tisaia
It was no secret that violence from the Biomass Wars spilled over into everyday life. Those who survived the radioactive holocaust became accustomed to it. In fact, many of them yearned for it. State workers flocked to the arena every week to watch the Royal Knights fight refugees and criminals trying to win their freedom.
Tonight was no different. The Golden Dome was packed full of State workers waiting to watch blood spill. Even the workers who normally skipped the gladiator fights came from all areas of Tisaia to watch Royal Knight Tinus fight his final match.
Alexria and her husband Roni were two newcomers. They had heard word of an immigrant known as the Samoan, who was one fight from winning his freedom—a freedom no other refugee had been able to win. The couple was curious. Did he actually have a shot at winning his? After the fall of the TDU headquarters, many sympathizers believed he was the revolution’s last hope.
And they weren’t the only ones. The crowd was packed with immigrant supporters and TDU sympathizers. Many of them believed immigrants deserved the same rights as any other Tisaian citizen.
They settled into their uncomfortable stadium seats, shuffling to get a better view of the ring below. The crowd grew excited, eager for blood, but Roni and Alexria remained silent. They watched nervously, hand in hand, as the monstrous clock struck nine.
At the bottom of the arena a man dressed in a black suit slowly made his way across the concrete floor of the arena towards the hexagon cage. Everyone around them stood and clapped until the man stopped at the edge of the arena and held up his hand.
The crowd grew silent and, one by one, the large orb-shaped lights hanging from the ceiling clicked off, and the stadium became consumed by darkness. Silence swept across the full arena. Not even a muffled cough could be heard.
A brilliant spot light tore through the arena and illuminated the hexagon cage where the announcer erupted into speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Tisaia! Men and women of the last great city in the world! Tonight we have a delightful show planned for you all. Tonight you shall witness the best the State has to offer and the worst the outside world has to offer! For tonight, Royal Knight Tinus will fight the refugee you have come to know as the Samoan. Tonight they fight to the death.” The crowd erupted with excitement and the announcer paused, once again holding up his hand to silence them.
“Honor versus dishonor. Strength versus frailty. Loyalty versus non-allegiance. Royal Knight Tinus will strike down that which seeks to challenge the Tisaian creed of Honor, Strength and Loyalty.”
The crowd erupted into screams and applause again, prompting the couple to shift nervously in their seats. Alexria shot Roni a frightened glance who watched the crowd in silence.
The thirst for blood was ripe in the air. The arena was alive with it, but mixed in was also the taste of fear. They both felt it within their bones. It was something indescribable, a product of war and destruction—something they had lived with most of their lives. They also knew that along with blood came the loss of life, and even in the violence- plagued society of Tisaia death was still death. It was unnatural to most and easy for others.
The announcer raised his arms towards the ceiling, fueling the crowd’s blood lust. Alexria fidgeted nervously in her chair, grabbing her husband’s hand again.
Overhead another spotlight clicked on, illuminating the gate at the south side of the arena. Slowly it creaked open and the crowd grew silent.
Alexria took a deep breath, the anticipation of the fight growing inside her. It wasn’t excitement, or fear; but a combination of both, a sentiment she wasn’t accustomed to feeling. She gripped Roni’s hand tighter, biting her bottom lip.
For several minutes the crowd stood waiting. Their anticipation quickly turned into impatience, several members of the crowd breaking the quiet with drunken screams.
Finally, the smiling announcer held up his hands, yelling, “State workers, let’s give a round of applause to Royal Knight Tinus!”
The crowd immediately erupted in screams and chants as Royal Knight Tinus came riding out on a black stallion. The spotlight revealed perfection: polished armor from head to toe, a helmet bearing the feathers of the hawk, a chest plate draped with medals, and a sword attached to his side that had struck down countless enemies.
Alexria took another deep breath. She didn’t know what to think. On the one hand he was a hero, having protected the Tisaian walls from raiders and scavengers. On the other he was the symbol of the State; a living, breathing symbol of oppression and death.
She watched him circle the arena. With every pass he raised his sword into the air and screamed before finally stopping at the center of the arena and dismounting his horse.
Two immigrant slaves waited for him at the cage door. He nodded and they opened the metal gate, closing it behind him and locking him in. This was done more as a formality, but there were cases in past games where the Knights’ opponents tried to climb the metal fence and escape the cage.
The crowd began to settle down while they anxiously awaited the Samoan’s return to the arena. The announcer’s aim was always to keep the crowd on its toes, to drag the show on. Traditionally, Knights’ opponents had little chance of surviving for more than a few minutes.
The metallic click of another spotlight turned the crowd’s attention to the gate on the north side of the arena. This time there was no waiting, just the Samoan running out of the rising gate.
He was quite a sight with axe in hand, screaming, barefoot and naked except for a small tan cloth covering his genitals. His naturally tan body was peppered with tribal tattoos that snaked up his legs to his neck. The man was built like a wild animal, his chest muscles bulging and his biceps balls of strength. Even his short legs were swelling with muscle. He knew what was at stake. If he beat Royal Knight Tinus, he would be a free man and would be the first to have ever done so.
The crowd knew the stakes as well, and while many stood and cheered for the Samoan, most of them sat and watched in disgust.
Alexria and Roni sat quietly, watching the games unfold. They had come out of curiosity and were smart enough to not show any biased support for the Samoan, even though deep down they both secretly hoped he would win the battle. The couple watched the two arena slaves open the opposite gate, allowing the Samoan to enter.
The announcer stepped in between the two warriors to explain the rules, raising the microphone to his mouth. “Royal Knight Tinus and…” he paused to look over at the Samoan but purposely refused to acknowledge him with anything but a quick glance.
“I’m now to instruct you on any rules you must abide by during this historic battle. And, I’m happy to say, there are no rules!” he said, flailing his arms in the air with a laugh. Once again the crowd roared with excitement, their blood lust quickly growing.
“Once I leave the arena the battle will begin. Until then go to your corners,” he commanded.
Slowly the Samoan made his way to the middle of the hexagon with his axe raised in both hands. Tinus carefully maneuvered himself to the outside of the hexagon, creeping along the metal fence and drawing his sword from its sheath. He appeared calm, almost stoic, staring through his metal visor at the Samoan. The warrior stared back, his face bright read, his chest heaving in and out.
The crowd watched in silence as the two men carefully navigated their way through the hexagon, trying to find the proper footing for their first strike. Tinus had alw
ays waited for his opponent to make the first move. Patience was his game, and it appeared he was going to follow this strategy. He knew it wouldn’t take long for the anger building inside of the Samoan to overtake him. For what seemed like hours the warriors stared at each other, the crowd waiting for the first strike.
Before the crowd could react, the Samoan screamed with rage and raced toward Tinus with his axe. He swung, but missed. Tinus skipped to the side and lashed out with his sword. He narrowly missed the Samoan’s head; the warrior moved with surprising speed, ducking and going down on one knee. He rose, recovering rapidly and swinging his axe at Tinus’ armored feet. The blade connected, knocking the armored Knight to the ground.
The crowd erupted into pandemonium. In a blur the Samoan rushed the disabled Knight and brought his axe down swiftly. The blade grazed the side of Tinus’ helmet, sending sparks exploding in all directions. The sharp edge of the axe peeled back the metal skin of the helmet, temporarily blinding the Knight.
Tinus screamed and kicked the Samoan in the chest, his feet planting firmly into the immigrant’s rib cage and sending him flying back into the cage.
The Knight jumped to his feet without hesitation, grabbing his sword and discarding his now useless helmet. He threw it with his free hand at the recovering Samoan and struck him in the face with the rough edge of the sharp helmet. The crowd erupted again, roaring with satisfaction.
“Should I kill him now? Or make him suffer?” Tinus yelled, turning to face the crowd.
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