Meritropolis

by Joel Ohman

  It was.

  The guard jolted, turned around to face them, eyes widening rapidly, and furiously began to scratch his rump. “Ah—ah—hah—ooh—ahh.” Tears poured out of his eyes, as he appeared to fight the urge to throw himself down and drag his hindquarters on the ground like a dog.

  With what had to be a tremendous act of willpower, the suddenly not-so-cocky guard walked stiffly to the fence and shooed them out. “Go, all three of you. In fact, Shane, you aren’t needed here—just leave. I will get this all sorted out. Just go.”

  The strain on the guard’s face as he attempted to keep his dignity while in their presence was almost cause for sympathy. Almost.

  “Thank you so much,” Charley said.

  Charley, Sandy, Shane, and Lucretia exhaled in relief as they walked away from the Tower.

  CHAPTER 11

  Human Farm

  Abigail hated fairy tales. She had read her share of them during her time in the underground dormitories, just like most of the other High Scores in her class, because there was little else to do underground other than read. She had hated every one of them. The damsel in distress? The dashing prince who would always rush in to save the poor helpless maiden? No thank you was Abigail’s reply to every one.

  The weakness that the female characters exhibited in every tale infuriated her. She spent her time wondering why Rapunzel didn’t just chop off her own hair, braid herself an escape rope, and rappel down the side of the tower? And Cinderella, if she wasn’t so busy prancing and twirling around in her glass slippers, then she could have escaped from her evil stepmother without so much as a backward glance. As for Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, it pained Abigail to even think about those paradigms of male chauvinism—the moral of the story is that the woman is just supposed to lie there helplessly and wait for a kiss from a prince. Really? Just thinking about it made her fume.

  By all outward appearances, Abigail could be perfectly cast as Cinderella or Snow White, and she was well aware that she perhaps even cultivated the ingénue look to some degree. But on the inside, she was no storybook princess.

  Abigail used her beauty as a tool, just as she did with her other assets. Abigail knew that with a Score of 118 she had the highest Score of any female in Meritropolis. But she certainly was not going to lay around in a glass coffin with her bosom heaving and her mouth parted waiting for a prince’s magical kiss to arrive and save the day. Abigail was, in fact, a princess on a mission to upstage the lead.

  And in Meritropolis the lead was, of course, Commander Orson. Abigail was happy to let him think he was in control. For now.

  On the outside, Abigail flounced her hips and batted her eyelashes: all the usual helpless-maiden theatrics. On the inside, she carefully plotted and schemed.

  Meritropolis was a functional kingdom under Commander Orson. And she knew that every king needed his queen, but that was not where Abigail ultimately aimed to rest. She wanted it all.

  For now, Meritropolis was a kingdom. Soon enough, Abigail would make it her queendom.

  But she was aware that this new high-Score brat might turn all her hard work and planning to naught. She was beginning to wonder if she had hitched herself to the wrong train in choosing Commander Orson as her target. Charley was already close to having as high a Score as Orson, and it was only a matter of time before the highest Score either rose to the top position of power, or met with a very bloody end—of that, she was sure. But there were no rules against her targeting the both of them at the same time.

  Abigail pulled her shoulders back and adjusted her blouse; she had chosen the shimmery silk one that was a special weapon in its own right. She knocked lightly on Commander Orson’s door. She was one of the few people the guards knew to let approach Orson’s door unaccompanied.

  She was pleased so far with her progress into the commander’s inner sanctum, but she felt it was time to take her plan to the next level. It was time to move beyond flirting and try to get some usable information out of the commander.

  “Who is it?” Orson called out brusquely.

  “Commander, it’s me,” she called through the door, making her voice just a timbre lower and huskier.

  “Ah, Abigail? Yes, just a moment. I’m coming!” His voice was noticeably cheerier.

  Men: so predictable, Abigail thought. She sighed. From a very young age she’d realized she could exert near mind control on the opposite sex—and, the part that continued to amaze her, they welcomed it.

  “Come in, come in.” Orson creaked open his door and motioned her into his workspace.

  “Thank you.” She strolled past him, fully aware of his eyes devouring her every move, but pretended not to notice. Inwardly, she rolled her eyes at this chink in his armor: this man had the highest Score in Meritropolis, yet she couldn’t believe how easy it would be for her to just slip a knife into his ribs while he was busy ogling her bust. What a pompous creep, she thought in spite of her act. But now was not the time to skip steps in her plan.

  “Busy?” she asked with feigned innocence.

  “Ah, yes, just dealing with the usual problems …” His voice trailed off, and he frowned.

  “Really? You seem unusually stressed today. Not that it’s anything you can’t handle, of course.” That was a little too over the top, she thought, as she leaned over his desk and straightened a few papers. He wasn’t listening to a word she was saying.

  “Hmm, yeah, maybe.”

  “I’m always here to listen.”

  “Yes, hmm, that you are.” He looked at her in a way that told Abigail he was not thinking about her listening ability.

  She pushed on. “How is everything going in the Tower?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, and he uncharacteristically looked up from her figure to her eyes, just for a moment. “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, I’ve just heard some things—about a disturbance yesterday in some of the lower levels, some injuries, or something …” She trailed off, watching his face searchingly.

  For the first time since entering the room, Abigail had the impression he was thinking of something other than her appearance.

  Orson sat down at his desk. “Yes, eight guards were assaulted, two doctors were held against their will, one lab was broken into. Need I go on?” He tapped his fingertips together and continued. “But I am pretty sure I know who is responsible—for most of the damage at least.”

  “Who?”

  “The high-Score boy—Charley. He has a Score of 137 now, you know.”

  She knew.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Probably nothing, at least for now.” He paused, as if considering something, before adding, “At present, he enjoys a certain amount of privilege afforded because of his Score. I am under certain—how can I say?—unique pressures from those outside Meritropolis to make sure that all High Scores of his stature are well taken care of—and well trained. Hence, we will say that some kind of accident occurred and we will let our brightest young high-Score continue on with his training—with closer supervision from Grigor.”

  Abigail nodded and sidled up to his chair, leaning down at just the precisely calculated angle to induce maximum talking and minimal thinking. Who needs torture to extract information when you’ve got a silky blouse and a trained technician behind it?

  “Who is putting pressure on you from outside Meritropolis?” she cooed softly.

  His eyes were glazing over from drinking in her figure pressed up against his chair. He started to say something and then stopped.

  She chanced a small twirl of the hair just above his ear with her nail. “You can tell me … Who could possibly cause you to feel pressured? You’re the Commander of Meritropolis.”

  “It’s … my father.” He looked down at his lap and fumbled with his hands.

  “Your father? He’s not from Meritropolis?” she gently prodded, hoping to keep the information coming.

  “No.” He continued to fidget. Abigail was awar
e that she’d never seen him this way. “I am not from Meritropolis, either. I was given Meritropolis and charged with meeting certain harvesting quotas.”

  “Harvesting quotas?” Clearly her magic was still working and she had chosen her timing perfectly.

  He sighed. He quickly looked up at her and down. “The only purpose of Meritropolis is to grow as many High Scores as possible and then harvest them when they are needed for service. Hence, the System.”

  She had a million questions, but all she could think to say was, “I see …”

  Orson shook his head, as if to shake himself free of his trance. “I’ve said too much already. I need to get back to covering up this mess that the prize of our current crop has caused.” He rotated away from her, continuing to keep his eyes averted, just as he had ever since the mention of his father.

  She knew when she was being dismissed. Even her charm had its limits. When she reached his door and silently closed it behind her; it was only then that it hit her.

  Meritropolis was just a farm, and they were the cattle.

  They were being bred.

  * * *

  Charley smelled cinnamon. A vivid image of Abigail bloomed in his mind. It was silly, really, how often he had thought about that woman since her cinnamon-scented whispered warning after the bion hunt. He quickened his pace along the colonnade as he walked toward the high-Score dorms, forcing himself to think of Sandy. Abigail was beautiful, but she was Commander Orson’s woman, and at least five years older than Charley. He shook his head. It was strange how particular smells could elicit memories. And cinnamon was an instant Abigail memory-trigger. The warm cinnamon smell did seem to be growing stronger, and turning the corner—there she was.

  “You! High Score, come here! I need to tell you something—now!” Abigail’s eyes darted quickly to one side, and her arm hooked a surprised Charley around the crook of his arm. “In here,” she pulled him into an alleyway and held a long brown finger to his lips, “Shhh.” Her eyes surveyed the entrance as the sound from a group of women drew closer.

  She kept her finger on his lips. “Just wait.”

  Charley waited, motionless, his eyes on her slightly parted lips. They were a dark mahogany, full and moist, revealing just the tips of perfect white teeth.

  The group of women crested the edge of the alleyway and then slowed. The mahogany lips puckered into the hint of a pout, and Abigail withdrew her finger from Charley’s lips. She turned from the direction of the approaching women and looked directly into Charley’s eyes. Suddenly, she grasped his face with both hands and pulled it into hers. Her lips brushed his, and he responded with a start, an electric current seeming to simultaneously push him away and pull him closer.

  “What—?” he began, but was cut off by an insistent full press of her lips. She raked her nails down his back and pulled him closer, forcing his weight forward so that he was practically pinning her up against the soot-streaked brick wall.

  Then, slowly, she withdrew, gently pushing him back. “That was—” Charley began, attempting to take a breath.

  She interrupted. “Okay, they’re gone. Sorry about that; I just had to keep them from turning down here.”

  “Uh, yes, right, of course. Just don’t—”

  “Just don’t let it happen again?” she asked slyly, a twinkle in her eyes.

  He felt himself growing red. “Just—what exactly did you need to tell me that is so important you had to accost me in an alleyway?”

  She laughed, then stopped abruptly, and her face grew serious. “We only have a few moments. You’re the fancy-pants upstart new High Score; you don’t seem to be afraid of anyone; you killed the bion and the people all look up to you; blah, blah—you’re a hero.” She smiled wryly, her eyes still twinkling, but looking intently on Charley. “So here goes: Commander Orson’s father is really the one who’s in charge. He is likely coming to Meritropolis sometime soon to check if Orson has been meeting his harvesting quotas.”

  Charley took a step back, but she continued hurriedly. “And we—especially High Scores—we are the ones being harvested.”

  Abigail paused, looked down the alleyway, and then back up at Charley. “I just thought you should know—someone should know—do with it what you will.” She looked at him meaningfully, her gaze lingering on his face with something like pity.

  “I have to go,” she said quickly. And, leaving a faint whirl of cinnamon scent in her wake, she was gone.

  Charley blinked his eyes, rested his hand against the wall, and slowly turned to leave the alleyway. It was all starting to make sense. He ran his hand slowly along the bricks. The contrast between the high-tech modern trappings of the Tower that he had seen on his “pregnancy mission” with Sandy the day before and the rundown buildings in the rest of Meritropolis, the interior wall that separated the High Scores from the Low Scores, and even the fact that he was still alive. If the average citizen with an average Score had killed guards, or even provoked Commander Orson, then they would have long ago been put out of the gates.

  And yet, Charley was still in Meritropolis.

  This whispered information from Abigail was like the penultimate piece of the puzzle. He felt light-headed at the revelation and leaned against the soot-stained bricks. He didn’t know what she hoped to gain by telling him about harvesting quotas and Commander Orson’s father, but it had the ring of truth to it.

  Charley now understood the simple reason he was still alive. His high Score. He was Orson’s prize-winning bull. But, as for Sven, and Lucretia, and the little girl—and all the others who weren’t High Scores—how long did they really have? Under the System’s human farm all were equal, but some were just more equal than others. Charley now knew that he and the other High Scores were not kept alive because it was for the good of Meritropolis, it was because Orson’s father, somewhere outside, had plans for them.

  Charley was still alive, but Alec was dead and all Low Scores were likely heading the same route—whenever it was harvest time. A fresh wave of shame rushed over him at the thought of his own passivity when Alec was taken.

  It had all happened so quickly.

  I wasn’t prepared.

  I didn’t know what was happening.

  I was just a young boy.

  He had repeated the excuses to himself a thousand times. He had failed Alec, but he would not fail those around him this time. Now he had a chance to act and he knew what he was fighting for.

  He forced himself to push thoughts of Abigail out of his mind and concentrate on the task at hand. He had only the barest semblance of a plan. It was far from perfect, but ever since Alec he had come to realize that a good plan executed at once is better than a perfect plan executed too late.

  It was time to overthrow this human farm.

  CHAPTER 12

  Stars

  “We leave in an hour. We’ll be gone overnight,” Grigor said as he bundled his things into his pack.

  This was definitely not expected. Charley looked at Sandy, Hank, and the others, and then quickly back at Grigor.

  “We’ll be gone overnight—outside of the gates?” Charley asked. It had been two days since Charley’s storming of the Tower, but his nerves were still a little frayed. He hadn’t even had a chance to discuss in private with Sandy what had they had been through.

  “Yes.” Grigor didn’t turn around.

  Everyone seemed to be speaking at once. Everyone, that is, but Grigor.

  “Where will we sleep?” Lila asked.

  “Who cares where we will sleep—how will we even survive the night?” Hector said.

  “I’m not really sure that this is a good idea …” Armen added.

  “Puh-lease, I’m not scared. Charley sounds scared, though,” Hank said, smirking at Charley.

  “Umm, Grigor. Why will we be gone overnight?” Sandy asked the question everyone was thinking.

  Grigor finished cinching his enormous pack and slowly turned to face them. His blinding smile flashed across his fa
ce. “We are staying overnight for the adventure of it, of course!”

  Charley looked sideways at the others as they all attempted to return Grigor’s smile, yet each shifted their weight uneasily.

  “No, really …” Sandy wrinkled up her forehead and kept her gaze fixed on Grigor.

  “Okay, really, Commander Orson wants us all to spend some time outside of the gates training for night-time hunting and fishing—and to blow off some steam.” He looked meaningfully at Charley and then Sandy. “So, we are heading to the river for some fishing.”

  Charley shifted uncomfortably and tried to keep from looking at Sandy. Since walking out of the Tower two days earlier, Charley and Sandy had barely seen each other. Neither of them had dared to try to find out what had happened to Shane and Lucretia, and nothing more had been said. Both Charley and Sandy had been kept busy training with Grigor until they fell into sleep dead to the world, but they caught each other’s eye whenever they could. Their trip to the Tower had all been too easy; they both knew the consequences were still to come. It was obvious to Charley that Grigor was to be their babysitter, observing them at all times to avoid a repeat of the Tower escapades. But Charley hoped it wasn’t as obvious to the others, who still had not connected the dots and worked out Charley and Sandy were the culprits of the rumored Tower antics.

  “The river? I didn’t know there was a river close by,” Lila said, quickly glancing over at her bookworm brother as if to confirm.

  “You’re right. There isn’t a river close by. We have quite a hike ahead of us,” Grigor said.

  “What are we fishing for?” Charley asked, hoping to steer the subject away from any discussion of Commander Orson’s motives behind this overnight expedition.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. But I will say that it will be both delightful—and delicious!” Grigor guffawed, rubbing his belly. “Now, hurry and get your packs and weapons together. You won’t need fishing gear. I have everything we need already safely stored at the river with our boat.”