Raven's Song

by Launnie Roush

“It’s Mavi Zibil, a homemade drink commonly produced and imbibed by the inmates of Dis. Try some, it’s quite tasty,” Sabine related before taking a sip from her own cup.

  Caitlyn took one last hesitant sniff of the drink before quickly tossing back half the cup. As her host had said, the drink was actually quite flavorful and possessed an acidic bite that stung her tongue.

  Sabine giggled, “I’m glad to see you like it.”

  The Saviors downed their drinks, and once each of them had received a second cup, Caitlyn quickly consumed it, then another after it. Sabine continued to let the pair drink and favored them with anecdotes of life as a prison warden. Caitlyn was starting to feel very comfortable as pleasant warmth spread from her belly. It was when she suddenly realized that her host was trying to intoxicate her that she sat up straight, folded her hands on the table, and favored Sabine with a solemn expression.

  “I know sneaking into Dis could have dire consequences for us, so you have to believe me when I say that our business is of utmost importance,” she told their host.

  “You have my complete attention, ma’am. Tell me why you felt the need to break into prison,” Sabine urged.

  “As you most likely know, my son was kidnapped roughly twelve years ago. During this entire time period, we’ve searched desperately for him, but to no avail. Yesterday we received information that may finally return him to us.”

  “Go on, please.”

  Caitlyn leaned forward, “Your family’s holding my son prisoner here in Dis.”

  Sabine frowned, “That’s a weighty accusation, my friend.”

  “I know, but I have little reason to doubt the validity of said accusation.”

  Sabine suddenly stood and favored her guests with a bright smile, “Let me go check my records to see if your accusation has even the remotest bit of truth to it.”

  The Saviors watched as Sabine went to her guards, conferred with them for a quick moment, and then left the clearing without even a backward glance. Caitlyn knew the woman could easily use her Cell to check the records in question, and believing a foul plot to be in the works, she prepared herself for any and all threats that could arise. Ronald reached for the teapot, only to have her drag his hand away.

  “That sinful garbage will not cost me my son!” she insisted.

  #

  Beneath the white pyramid and the castle keep was one of the State of Scarab’s most prized of treasures. The Hub was a tower that plunged some one-hundred stories into the earth and contained an immense amount of circuitry, wiring, and other types of electronica. It was this massive device that made all electronic communications in the Federation possible and assured that they all operated at optimal efficiency. It was also used as a cloud storage device for the citizens of the Federation and, most importantly, it stored and monitored the intelligences of the Federation’s SIRs. It technically belonged to the Federation and its citizens, but Mundi Incepta was under contract to oversee its maintenance.

  Sabine entered an elevator in one of the castle’s towers and pressed the button for the lowest story of the Hub. A couple of minutes later, the elevator came to a stop, and she stepped out of the car and gazed upward at the Hub, taking in the miles of cable which glowed a soft blue as impulses of information coursed through them and the numerous catwalks that were attached to the massive device, allowing countless men and women to monitor the machine’s various functions from terminals designed for just that purpose. After she had finished this activity, Sabine walked to a small dais of black marble at the Hub’s base and went down on one knee before it.

  As Sabine sat kneeling, the dais began to bulge upwards at its center, the movement of this black matter comprising the dais being as fluid as molten rock. What started as a bulge rapidly became a stalagmite which continued to grow and stretch until it stood nearly twelve feet tall. The stalagmite suddenly split lengthwise down the middle and opened like a blooming flower, revealing a billowy golden interior which housed a white marble statue in the Classical Greek style. The statue depicted a handsome, well-muscled young man dressed in a chiton, a type of long cloth tunic. Bundles of cables issued from ports along its hairless pate, falling like hair down its back and vanishing into the golden folds of the bloom.

  There came a sound like the sharp intake of breath, and Sabine looked to find that the upper part of the statue had apparently come to life. Its torso moved as it took in breath and its arms flexed slowly, as if working out stiffness in its joints. Its head moved last of all as its eyelids snapped opened, revealing two pools of gold, and it trained its gaze on her. Though a remarkable visual spectacle, this performance was a rather mundane occurrence in Sabine’s life, one she found ridiculously ostentatious and time-consuming. Still, she waited, as always, with respectful patience as it was played out.

  “I am glad you have come,” the now living statue greeted, his pleasing bass-baritone voice full of warmth and paternal affection.

  “You are, Venerable Grandfather Heylel?” Sabine asked.

  “Indeed, for I am troubled. You are more than aware that I am wired directly into the Hub and have unfettered access to everything contained within, everything from Cell call transcripts to classified documents and surveillance footage. As such, nothing should ever escape me, child, yet two outsiders have infiltrated our most vital of holdings, and I had no knowledge of this until they were walking the streets. Tell me please, lovely granddaughter, how did these outsiders infiltrate Dis?”

  “I don’t know,” Sabine answered meekly, once again bowing her head.

  “That is no excuse!” Heylel thundered, his vocal tone and facial expression blazing with rage, “You damned well remember your place, you stupid little girl! You are warden in name only, and your comfort and livelihood, not to mention your very existence, are mine to eliminate at the slightest provocation! I am, and shall always be, CEO of Mundi Incepta, and as such I am the true ruler of not only Dis, but the entire state of Scarab! Now, when I say no outsiders enter Dis, you are to ensure my orders are obeyed! Will you dare force me to ever repeat this lesson?!”

  “Of course not, Venerable Grandfather,” Sabine replied, valiantly managing to restrain the tears of shame flooding her eyes.

  Heylel’s overall demeanor was suddenly friendly once more, “Of course not. Now, as far as your current difficulty is concerned, we must be cautious. If we deny any involvement in the kidnapping in question, we will raise suspicion, and the Von Rabens will stop at nothing to reach the truth. I cannot afford to have anyone prying into my affairs.”

  “Then what do we do?” Sabine asked.

  “We give them what they want, of course, but make them pay for it.”

  “How do we go about doing that?”

  “I am certain my lovely and intelligent granddaughter can figure that out for herself,” Heylel told her.

  Sabine was about to press Heylel further, but when she looked up she found the gilded petals once again enveloping his form, and she knew that he would be of no further assistance.

  #

  It’s a good thing this was a mild liquor, Caitlyn thought to herself as she stared into her empty cup.

  Nearly an hour had passed since Sabine left the Saviors sitting there, and thankfully their burgeoning intoxication had almost completely subsided. The sound of rustling in the synthetic forest caused them to look up expectantly. Sabine entered the clearing with a small child in her arms. It wore a black dress and a sparkling tiara on its head, but they had no clues as to the child’s sex as its head and face were covered by a heavy black veil. Sabine sat in the chair she had used when she first received her visitors and held the child in her lap. The child was silent as it clutched at the sleeves of Sabine’s dress.

  “Honored guests, allow me to introduce my daughter, Elizabeth. She’s three years old, and she is the love of my life,” Sabine said.

  Caitlyn smiled warmly, “It’s good to meet you, Elizabeth.”

  The child continued to press herself against her moth
er and refused to acknowledge Caitlyn’s greeting.

  “I want you to see something, my friends,” Sabine insisted solemnly before maneuvering her daughter around to face the Saviors.

  They watched as Sabine lifted the veil that covered her daughter’s face, and it was all they could do to internalize their revulsion. The little girl’s face was a pale, craggy mass of tumors and scars. Her mouth was a jagged gash across her face, her nose merely two holes at its center, and her one good eye was a sparkling blue gem half sunk into a mound of flesh. A few strands of blonde hair poked from beneath the veil, but their sparseness led Caitlyn to believe that the poor girl had little hair to speak of.

  Once her initial shock had faded, a big smile lit up Caitlyn’s face. “Hello, beautiful!” she gushed.

  The girl let out several abrupt croaking sounds and enthusiastically clapped her hands. “She’s unable to speak, but you’ve made her very happy,” Sabine informed her.

  Ronald broached the sensitive subject Caitlyn had been reluctant to speak on, “What in Creation made her this way?”

  “She was born like this. The domed cities, of which only Dis remains, were built to contain the pollutants that various industrial activities, the backbone of Scarab’s economy, once produced. These cities were located almost exclusively in Scarab, and the ancestors of the Scarab citizens were exposed to the extremely toxic pollutants in them for centuries. Our genetics are contaminated to such an extent that no medical science, including nanite technology, has been able to cure us. Almost thirty percent of all babies born in Scarab are horrendously deformed and are sent to Dis, where they typically don’t last long. The law says we can’t reveal this secret, lest we suffer grave ramifications. They are the Federation’s darkest shame,” Sabine explained, great sorrow consuming her.

  “And you’re here for her?” Ronald asked as he nodded towards Elizabeth.

  “I’m a member of Mundi Incepta’s board of directors, but when Elizabeth was born, I begged to be given this warden position. I’d do anything to be with her, even spend the rest of my life in Dis,” Sabine related as she kissed her daughter’s cheek before lowering the veil back over her face.

  “That doesn’t seem too bad,” Ronald remarked, his gaze drifting over their lovely synthetic surroundings.

  “A cage, no matter how gilded, is always a cage,” Sabine retorted.

  “I’m truly sorry for your plight,” Caitlyn lamented.

  “If you are, then make me a promise,” Sabine said.

  “Will this promise lead to my son?”

  Sabine said nothing, but her expression led Caitlyn to believe this was the case. “What do you need?” Caitlyn asked.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this, but in reality Mundi Incepta is the true governing force of Scarab, and every governor it’s had for over two centuries has been under our control,” Sabine disclosed, “Alexander Fulsom somehow found this out, and he promised me that if Governor Beardsley helped his son Stephen win the presidential election, both the Federation government and Liberty Enterprises would help the people of Scarab. When Richard Fulsom took his father’s place as CEO, he swore to keep this promise if Stanz-Fielding won the election. I don’t trust Richard, and as a mother I can sympathize with your anguish. As a result, I’ll give you your son back, and I will make it so that Governor Beardsley votes for your brother-in-law in the election. Promise me that when he wins, he will personally see to it that the Scarab genetic defects are repaired. I don’t want another child to be born into misery.”

  “My family and I will make everyone aware of your strife and make sure you are helped,” Caitlyn solemnly assured her.

  Sabine nodded, “I believe you, Caitlyn, and because I do, I’ll confide in you the whereabouts of your son.”

  Caitlyn’s heart began thudding wildly, “Please tell me!”

  Sabine’s answer was surprisingly simple, “He’s in the Stadium.”

  TWENTY SIX

  The young man had been fighting for as long as he could remember. When he was a small child, he had been brought to the Stadium, the biggest gladiatorial arena in Dis, and immediately thrust into martial training. His lanista, or trainer, and his training methods were horrifically brutal, and for the next five years his body and spirit were broken on a daily basis as he was formed into a pitiless fighting machine. He quickly became the peerless killer his lanista was after. He had his first arena match at what he was told was the age of ten and had felled his opponent, a grown man and seasoned gladiator, in seconds by way of decapitation.

  Now he was to go to battle once again for his lanista. He sat on the cold concrete floor of his gloomy holding pen, his hands bound behind his back with heavy manacles and a helmet featuring only an eye slot encasing his head. He listened as the roar of the crowd died down, and the arena announcer began his performance.

  “And now for the much anticipated main event of the evening! First, we present the challengers, ten of the most dangerous gladiators to ever grace the Stadium! I give you the very skilled, and very deadly, Ryback’s Wreckers!” the announcer bellowed.

  He knew the Wreckers. Seven men and three women, all of them dangerous, hardened combatants. They were well loved by the crowds, and this love was made even more potent by the fact that one of the female Wreckers was marrying one of her male counterparts at the conclusion of this fight, supposedly over the body of their felled opponent. He would hate to destroy their dream of a wonderful wedding day, but his lanista had already ordered him to kill all the Wreckers, and failure was never an option.

  “And now,” the announcer continued once the crowd’s jubilation had subsided, “I present our champion! A teenager who started his career at the age of ten and has been undefeated for over seven years! He is our silent destroyer, our beloved killer of killers, and his sting means certain death! Citizens of Dis, I give you the Red Scorpion!”

  The door to his pen banged opened and two large, dangerous-looking men, entered. It was his lanista and the man’s assistant. The lower ranking of the two went behind him while his lanista, a large, bald monstrosity who always wore a dirty green rain slicker, stood over him with an almost disinterested carriage. The young man was roughly snatched to his feet and marched from the pen. He plodded to the center of the arena floor; its blood-drenched earthen expanse rendered all the more harsh by the cold white lights that shone down from overhead. His lanista stepped in front of him and presented a large, rust-flecked key to the frenzied audience with a flourish. At this point, the young man always chose to lock away what little humanity was left in him deep inside, and allowed his hated alter ego, the Red Scorpion, to handle the bloody business at hand.

  So now the Red Scorpion waited with cold indifference while the manacles and helmet were stripped from him by his lanista’s subordinate. He was then outfitted with a heavy wooden bat topped with two thick rings of spike-studded steel, and a buckler made of a circular cut of rusty steel was strapped to his left forearm. The buckler had a pentagonal-shaped pad of dingy white vinyl attached to its front. This pad was known as the Home Plate, and it was the badge of honor that the Stadium’s champion had the privilege of carrying into battle. The only other thing on his person was a pair of dirty, tattered cloth trousers of pinstriped white.

  As the Red Scorpion’s handlers moved back to the holding pen, Ryback’s Wreckers stood in formation across from him, all of them heavily armed and armored. Most of them eyed him hatefully or taunted him with showy bravado, but the engaged couple were too caught up in a passionate kiss to pay him any mind. One detail briefly piqued his interest; one of the usual female Wreckers had been substituted with a haggard and terrified looking redheaded woman who held her sword with amateur gracelessness. He did not concern himself with this detail for too long as she was simply another opponent to be defeated. He gave the Wreckers one final cursory glance, then hung his head.

  “The ancient sport of baseball was once played in this very arena, but those who once played here, those champions in
their pinstripe uniforms, could never have given you a show as awe-inspiring as the one you are about to enjoy! So I ask you now, are you ready for carnage?!” the announcer inquired.

  The arena, which was property of a powerful gang called the Bombers, was capable of holding a formidable crowd, and on this particular day every seat was filled with ravenous spectators anxious to see blood spilt. A mighty roar erupted from them, but the Red Scorpion was left completely unmoved by this. All his attention was focused on his feet. The Wreckers all lined up and bowed to the Red Scorpion, a bow he did not return or even acknowledge. The audience loved this and showed their affection by growing ever louder.

  Next, the Wreckers turned to the stands and bowed to the man in charge of the Bombers, a brutal chieftain called the Sultan, whose equally brutal appearance was remarkably unique among the roiling mass of savage criminals around him. Known as the Creatures, they were a horde of his most loyal and fanatical followers and were willing to kill or die for their sultan without the slightest reservation. The main feature which extinguished the Sultan from his underlings was his battle standard, a ragged swatch of white pinstriped cloth emblazoned with a large blue number “3” that was draped across his thick, black padded chest armor.

  “Prepare!” commanded the announcer.

  The Wreckers returned their attention to their single opponent and brought their weapons to bear, while the Red Scorpion stood stoically, his head and arms still hanging limply.

  “BATTLE!”

  The Red Scorpion raised his head, his visage horrifically feral as broke into a heated sprint, bringing his weapon and buckler up. As he closed the distance between himself and his opposition, two male Wreckers stepped forward and began rapidly hurling javelins at him, which he dodged and deflected with shocking ease. He quickly closed the distance between himself and these men and dispatched them with effortless authority. A female Wrecker armed with a trident and two men wielding short spears sprinted towards him as the other Wreckers cheered them on, completely confident these three would triumph over their lone opposition.