Meritropolis

by Joel Ohman

  He headed into the most densely populated part of Meritropolis—the outer ring of small dwelling places encircling an interior concrete wall—“Zero City,” as it was referred to. Only High Scores were allowed inside of the interior wall, called “the real Meritropolis” by those wishing to live on the inside, while the vast majority of average- to low-Score residents were relegated to the outer areas, closest to the gates.

  Charley had quickly learned that there were exceptions to every rule, however. Payoffs to crooked guards, insider dealings, and exemptions for family members had so far proved the norm. Charley’s high Score granted him access to almost anywhere he pleased, but, as an orphaned below-grounder, he was finding out quickly that he was still pretty sheltered when it came to the workings of day-to-day above-ground life. It continued to shock him when he saw the blatant discrimination against those with lower Scores. Those with the lowest Scores of all were hardly treated better than animals.

  Charley hurried along as fast as he could without arousing suspicion, desperate to talk to someone old enough to have the information he needed. How he would get them to reveal anything worthwhile he didn’t know, but he had always been good at making things happen—one way or another.

  “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

  Charley pulled up short. A round-headed lump of a man turned the corner ahead of him and barred his path.

  “You must be one of the new worms, eh? Out exploring the above-ground world for the first time. Ain’t that sweet? Huh, Jibs?” He crinkled up the great thick rolls on his forehead and nodded in the direction of a much skinnier companion, all the while keeping his shrewd pig eyes on Charley.

  The man’s oversized paunch and garlicky breath would cause anyone within ten feet to back up hurriedly, but Charley sized up the situation and stepped forward. He’d been around enough bullies below-ground to know there was no other option. He wouldn’t let this fat-necked tyrant of a man mistake revulsion for intimidation by stepping away.

  “You got some place you’re trying to be, boy?”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Charley replied.

  “Looky what we have here, Jibs. This boy comes up above-ground one day and next thing you know he thinks he’s running these streets.” His eyes flickered down to the Score on Charley’s forearm, widened momentarily, and then focused back on Charley’s face with increased shrewdness and a mixture of something else—respect perhaps, or admiration, or maybe just curiosity.

  “Probably thinks he’s gonna flaunt his high Score around town and be made a guard or a Hunter or something. Whaddya say, boy? You aiming to step on your elders and get yourself a little above-ground promotion? Maybe force us out them gates some day? Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “I don’t really even know how any of that works, actually,” Charley replied, exaggerating his ignorance.

  The man’s mean little eyes narrowed. “Ah, I see how it is now. Out fishing for a little information, is it? That’s what you’re wandering around here trying to find. Don’t even bother denying it. Well, ol’ Jibs and I haven’t made it this far by giving a leg up to any worms along the way, that’s for sure.” Jibs took the cue and nodded, dutifully adding his part to the conversation.

  “How have you made it this far?”

  “What are you talking about, boy?” The big man’s brow crinkled.

  “I mean, you said that you didn’t make it this far by giving a leg up to anyone else. Well, how did you do it? Make it this far, that is.” Charley paused and then decided to take a chance. “I mean, let’s be honest, you guys aren’t young and healthy enough to get a high Score …” Charley let his voice trail off.

  The fat man stared at Charley, his eyes glinting from within caverns neatly enclosed by a protruding brow and mushrooming cheeks. A random and almost absurdly comical thought struck Charley; he couldn’t help but think that the man had very nice bone structure: high cheekbones and a barrel chest that seemed custom made for one of those opera houses he had seen pictures of in a book from the Old Days. Charley mentally shrugged the inopportune thought from his mind. Nice bone structure or not, Charley’s fists clenched and his chin lowered slightly.

  Unexpectedly, the big man started to laugh—great chortles beginning deep in his substantial belly and cascading up and over his tremendous expanse. This time, Charley did take a step back, marveling at the sheer amount of energy it must take to set all of that weight in motion.

  “I like you, boy. You’ve got pluck.” The man’s eyes softened and some of the mean glint disappeared. “The name’s Chappy.” He wiped his sausage fingers on his bulging coveralls and held out his right hand.

  Charley eyed him cautiously and then reached out to grasp his hand in a handshake.

  “Charley.”

  Chappy retracted his hand and did a mock formal bow, dipping his head and bending at the hips and knees, the seams of his coveralls squeaking and tightening. “The pleasure is all ours, indeed, Mr. Charley High Score. You’re wrong on two accounts, though. Jibs and I ain’t spring chickens, that’s for sure, but we ain’t gate-bait, neither. I could stand to lose a few, and Jibs here could stand to gain a few … although, we do kind of even out, now that I put it that way.”

  He paused as if giving this epiphany some deep thought before lifting his right foot, leaning to his left, and scratching an itch deep in his nether regions.

  “Anyways, what I’m saying is that ‘the System’ ain’t about being healthy or unhealthy, although that’s certainly part of it. The System is all about protecting what keeps it going.”

  “I’m not sure I follow …” Charley pretended to be stumped, hoping that Chappy would elaborate.

  “The System rewards those who make the System work. If you’ve got something the System wants, that’s good. If you’ve got something the System needs to keep on running and controlling everything, then even better: you get yourself a high Score. Simple as that. If you’ve got nothing, then you’re up for gate-bait as soon as we got 13 eggs in a dozen-egg basket, if you catch my drift.”

  “Okay … well, how often do we end up with 13 eggs in a dozen-egg basket, then?” Charley put on a puzzled expression.

  “Ahh, and there’s the rub, my very astute question-asking young worm friend. If we ain’t got enough food or housing or whatnot—resources—then someone’s gotta go. That’s the official answer, anyway. But just between the three of us very astute fellows …” He paused, allowing Jib to use the interlude to add his nod of agreement, this time in advance. “Just between us, ‘resources’ ain’t the reason. The word is that Mr. Big Shot Commander Orson ain’t such the big shot he wants us all to think.”

  “What do you mean?” Charley asked, his eyes flickering.

  Chappy leaned in and spoke in quieter tones, almost soothing, were it not for the moist garlicky warmth bathing the left side of Charley’s face. “What I mean is, someone’s giving ‘Commander’ Orson orders.” He paused. “Someone from outside the gates.”

  Charley blinked. He felt as if his head had become the battleground for a popular kids’ game that was played with pre-Event coins, “Spin Wars” they called it—it was as if someone set loose a little coin spinning around a cylinder in his mind, rotating faster and faster, picking up speed, disorienting him. “But … we were taught below-ground that ever since the Event, it’s just … us. Meritropolis is all there is. We were taught—”

  “Let me stop you right there, my young worm friend.” Some of the mean glint returned to Chappy’s eyes. “It ain’t just us. And you can forget that trash they taught you below-ground. We ain’t alone and the ‘System’ ain’t around so that it can ‘help us.’”

  “But everyone says—”

  “Go ask everyone then, worm. That’s all the dirty secrets of Meritropolis you’re gonna get from us. Consider yourself in the know. Your high Score ain’t gonna save you from anything—or anyone—inside or outside the gates. Whatever you’re up to …” Chappy hesitated, seemed
to consider something, and then pivoted abruptly back toward the corner from where he had first appeared. It all happened in one quick movement, surprisingly nimble for a man of his size. Charley watched the expanse of his back start to recede around the corner, clearly a dismissal of Charley and his questions.

  “Wait!” Charley called out, but his voice trailed off. They were gone. Charley slowly turned to head back. Maybe he needed to just lay low and figure out himself who was really in control of the System, and Meritropolis, before he ended up doing something that he might regret. That wouldn’t help this little girl, but perhaps it would end up helping other little girls in the future. He was lost in thought, heading toward the courtyard, when Chappy called back from around the corner.

  “Remember, worm: cause any trouble and Commander Orson ain’t gonna be your only problem.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Gate Ceremony

  Charley moved through the crowd, making his way to the western edge of the courtyard. He was tall enough to have a good view of the gate ceremony no matter where he stood, but he was hoping for a vantage point close to Commander Orson so he could observe him and learn as much as possible. Could Chappy be right that Commander Orson was just a lackey, following orders from someone unknown, someone outside the gates?

  Either way, Charley determined that Orson had to be punished. Charley’s blood boiled at the thought that Orson must have had some involvement in Alec being zeroed. But wasn’t Charley just about to be involved himself, in at least some capacity, with the zeroing of this little girl? Charley swallowed, his discomfort growing. It’s not like I have a choice, he told himself, as beads of sweat popped up on his brow. No matter what, I can’t get involved. He was just following the System; he was just being a good citizen of Meritropolis. But even as he kept repeating his mantra of blamelessness, he knew that he wasn’t convincing himself of anything. It struck him that, if questioned, Orson would likely say the exact same things Charley was telling himself right now. Orson was just following the System; he was just being a good citizen of Meritropolis. Charley pushed the thought out of his mind.

  He couldn’t help but think that Chappy may not be the most reliable source. Perhaps fabricating a fanciful story about hidden masters outside of the gates was his way of toying with him. Charley wanted—needed—clarity: he had to find everyone who had anything to do with implementing the System and taking Alec from him. Figuring out the who and the why would be difficult. And if he got himself killed in the process, and the System continued business as usual, zeroing little kids like Alec and this little girl, then what would he have accomplished? Charley needed to shut down the System. Permanently. The System must be zeroed.

  Below-ground, Charley’s thoughts of revenge had been nothing more than dreams. But since coming above-ground, they had begun taking the form of concrete plans. Now it would be important to think, to slow down, to make sure he didn’t mess up by acting too hastily. He couldn’t avenge Alec if he tipped his hand too early and was zeroed himself. To learn about the Gates and the System first-hand, his only option would be to both study Orson and watch the girl as she entered the courtyard in a few hours’ time.

  Charley wasn’t a scared little boy shirking back from a confrontation with a few Blue Coats anymore, like when they took Alec. Now he was a prime physical specimen who had been in more fights, who had won more fights, than he could count. But he was only one person, and he might not be able to save the girl even if he tried. Perhaps it would be better to just blend into the crowd and silently learn from this ceremony.

  But then an image flashed unbidden across Charley’s mind: Alec bouncing up and down, his cheeks rosy, clapping his hands as Charley made a funny face. Charley closed his eyes. He had been happy then, truly happy. Charley opened his eyes and stared straight ahead, unblinking. He knew that if Sven were here, he would tell him to take a few deep breaths, get ready for the gate ceremony, and be prepared to take it all in for now. Calmly. Making sure not to draw any attention to himself.

  At least, that was the smart thing to do.

  * * *

  Charley stood rigid in the midst of the courtyard, watching as the girl was led along the colonnade, the backdrop of the pillars rising like ancient stone jaws, and dwarfed on each side by three large, blue-coated guards. Her white sundress swished from side to side, flapping lightly at the edges. It seemed that the two guards closest to her were not just propelling her forward but supporting her weight. Her tiny, slippered feet barely skimmed the ground, her face a mask of serenity, though Charley detected an undercurrent of pain and fright. She didn’t appear to be resisting. Maybe she couldn’t. Not if the rumors circulating the crowd around him were true and her legs didn’t work properly. Charley fought back a tremor.

  The girl’s eyes seemed to flit rapidly from Commander Orson, now making his appearance down the steps, to the gates ahead of her, to a figure in the crowd moving alongside her. Maybe her mother? Charley wondered. Too young. An older sister, probably. Charley’s stomach tightened. He could get through this.

  The older sister was by far the worse for wear of the two girls. She was crying hysterically. The younger girl’s mouth smiled reassuringly at her sister, but her eyes continued to dart back and forth, a small frightened animal, caged, and with nowhere to go. Charley’s gaze hardened. This was going to be tougher than he thought.

  Over time, Charley had come to realize that his brain was wired differently than most: when it came to confrontation, to battle, Charley’s mind found clarity in the stress. It hadn’t always been this way, something had happened after Alec was taken: something small at first, not visible externally; a wire crossed, a switch flipped, a mental circuit breaker tripped.

  Charley’s pulse quickened as he caught flashes of the little girl being pushed through the crowd. He had read underground that studies showed high-level athletes exhibited a special kind of intelligence—termed athletic intelligence, the ability to process and react to complex and rapidly changing sensory cues in an almost superhuman fashion. These athletes could see events unfolding in their mind’s eye virtually before they happened and then act with blistering speed. For Charley, when placed under extreme stress, his rage and his mental acuity were a combustible mix.

  The crowd filling the courtyard massed on either side of the girl and her captors, a slow-motion whirling river of bodies, moving them along like so much flotsam, toward Commander Orson and the gates. Charley watched intently as each person in the crowd strained to get a glimpse of the little girl.

  Charley had read books about hangings in the Old Days, where crowds had traveled from miles around to see, and even cheer at, the macabre deed performed, but this was different. There was no excitement, but there was also no undercurrent of disappointment, of sadness, or even of shame; it was business as usual. Someone had been sentenced to the gates and that someone just happened to be a scared little girl.

  Each person in the crowd wanted a glimpse of the girl to see how she would react, to see if they recognized her, to see the pitifully low Score on her arm, and perhaps to verify that she deserved the gates, but there was no outrage, no demand for justice. The System had ordered her to the gates, so it must be just. Charley thought about Sven’s statement: “I’m sure it gets easier” and considered that, maybe, if you see something often enough and put up with it for long enough, even the most horrendous deed can become part of your daily life. Maybe you just stop caring.

  Was this how the crowd had reacted when Alec was put outside of the gates? Charley wondered. As the younger sibling of Alec, only eight, and presumably unable to take in what was happening, Charley had been confined underground during Alec’s gate ceremony—they had simply replaced Alec by assigning someone new to sleep in his bed that exact night. Had some of the very same people around him now looked at Alec with the same sick feeling in their stomachs that Charley now felt? Had they remained silent, swallowing their shouts, averting their eyes, and now, after many such acts of cowa
rdice, they no longer even cared? Bile rose in Charley’s throat. He wanted—he needed—to care, to hate those who had taken Alec from him. It was all he had.

  Charley watched the gloved hands of the guards on either side of the girl squeeze her pale, stick-like upper arms, roughly pressing her forward, just a few short steps in front of Charley. She faltered, stumbling as the toe of her slippered foot caught on the edge of a cobblestone, bending her foot back and causing her to let out a sharp cry of pain. One of the guards on the outer edge, a redheaded Blue Coat with a bristly goatee and arms knotted with thick cords of muscle, gave a muffled curse and dropped back behind her, harshly shoving her onward.

  Her cry ignited some primal part of Charley’s brain: pure emotion, cause and effect. Synapses fired, rage blossomed. To act was to live, as natural a part of living as breathing. There was no fight or flight, only fight.

  In an instant, Charley launched himself at the guards, eyes glazing over, an answering cry rising unbidden from his lips. His limbs pistoning as if controlled by an unseen puppet master; marionetting in time to the inner drum beat of angry energy. There was no plan, no strategy, no thinking ahead to plot out actions and counteractions. There was only the ever-present NOW.

  The vein in Charley’s neck pulsed as he bull-rushed the two guards now bringing up the rear guard, driving his forearm into the throat of the first guard with so much force that he thought he heard the faintest pop as the guard’s Adam’s apple depressed. Whirling to the second guard, he led with the point of his elbow and landed a jarring hit onto the upper part of the guard’s jawline, in front of the ear, the point of impact pinpointing on the guard’s sideburn with enough pressure to whipsaw the guard’s head sideways, his body following in a heap on the ground.