by Joel Ohman
Grigor grimaced. “Sacrificing myself for the cause of some ill-timed revolution would not help anyone. You would do best to think about that—if it’s possible for you to think more than one step ahead without anger clouding your judgment.”
“You are the one who sits by while innocent children are sacrificed outside the gates. You would do best to think about that.” Charley’s heart thumped in his rib cage, and he turned and rolled back to face the wall.
Grigor rose slowly to leave but stopped to look back at Charley. “I am not opposed to vengeance,” he continued softly. “But vengeance is not ours to take; it’s God’s.”
“Where is God, then?” Charley asked, his face still to the wall. “He didn’t save that little girl from being zeroed.”
“His ways are not our ways. His timing is perfect.”
“Defend the poor and fatherless: do justice to the afflicted and needy. Psalm 82:3. I read the Bible underground, too,” Charley muttered. “Maybe I am God’s vengeance.”
Grigor stopped abruptly, his hand on the door handle. Then he continued out the door, slowly pulling it behind him.
But he left it open just a crack.
* * *
Charley lay motionless on his side, facing the wall. Had he dreamed the conversation with Grigor? His thoughts felt strange and sluggish.
He saw Alec, carefree and laughing. He was smiling at Charley, his hands extended, beckoning him forward. Was he dreaming? Charley walked hesitantly toward Alec, then stopped. Alec was saying something, but Charley couldn’t hear him. Why couldn’t he hear him? He was so close, and Alec’s mouth was moving, as if to give him an important message.
Charley leaned in closer. What was Alec trying to tell him? The folds over Alec’s eyelids drooped; he was no longer beaming his usual grin. Now serious, he looked directly in Charley’s eyes. There was a sadness to Alec’s cherubic features; he looked sorrowfully at Charley, as if he wanted to comfort him, but knew he couldn’t.
Alec leaned in closer; he was trying to speak again, more earnestly this time.
Charley strained to hear the faintest wisp of Alec’s message. It sounded something like: I’m okay now. Please, let me go. Help the others, Charley. Help the others.
He felt a chubby hand pat his back, and then he was gone.
Charley awoke, and felt a sharp stab of pain—he hadn’t even thought of Alec once since being in prison.
The self-loathing came in waves. Maybe he was just pretending to himself that this vendetta was about avenging his brother; maybe in truth it was all about himself. Maybe he had forgotten Alec right along with everyone else.
Charley bit his lip, his shoulders hunching and his knees drawing up toward his chest. In silence he cried for the first time in nine years. Alec was never coming back. Something inside Charley broke.
He wept. His back rose and fell convulsively, his breath coming in rushed wheezing gasps.
After the outpouring, Charley found sleep.
* * *
Some time later, Charley woke. He stretched like a cat and rolled over and off the cot in one fluid movement. He padded lightly toward the door. To his amazement he found it slightly ajar, and pushed it gently with his fingertips. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and then walked through the open doorway. He was ravenous.
“Well, apparently you don’t need rescuing, do you?” Sandy trotted down the hall toward him, a smile bursting onto her face.
“How did you—?”
“Get in here? Easy.” She gestured behind her to Jibs and about a dozen other men lined up behind him, apparently following his orders.
“At your service, sir.” Jibs mimicked a short bow.
Charley raised his eyebrows, keeping his eyes on Jib’s face until he spoke again.
“Well, really, it’s Chappy that needs your service,” Jibs relented. “But, please, sir, we really would like it if you would just come with us, easy like. Chappy is calling in his favor. And maybe you even owe him another one—what with us breaking you out of here and all. Although did I just see you walk right out of your cell by yourself?”
“Never mind that. What does he want?” Charley asked.
Sandy spoke before Jibs could respond. “Charley, we really should go to him.” She looked quickly at Jibs and then back again at Charley. “Please.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Sandy sighed, angst etched on her features. “Commander Orson, he … he gave an order. About the gates.”
“What about the gates?”
“Everyone with a Score of under 100 is to be put out of the gates.” She paused. “Tonight.”
“But that’s about 90 percent of the population!”
“Well, guards and their families are excluded. For now, at least. There is talk even among the guards, though, that the lower-Score guards won’t last long after tonight. That’s why Chappy wants you—he’s marshaling as many of the guards as he can to do something.” Charley thought about the rumour that Chappy had almost a quarter of Orson’s forces on his payroll and wondered if it was true.
“It’s pandemonium out there, Charley. People are rioting. Apparently, the guards were ordered to use some kind of gas to deal with the huge volume of people they would need to put out of the gates, but word got out and people just went crazy.”
“Why would he give an order like that in the first place? He had to know people won’t just walk collectively to their deaths.”
Sandy looked unsure. “Maybe he didn’t have a choice. Orson is following an order to ‘cull the herd’—at least that’s what Sven is saying.”
“Which means we’ll be getting some visitors to Meritropolis pretty soon …” Charley’s eyes narrowed.
“Time to go.” Jibs motioned down the hallway. “Enough chit-chat. Chappy will catch you up on anything else you need to know.” He motioned deferentially to Charley. “Please, sir, if you will. This way.”
“Here.” Sandy pushed Charley’s twin blades, sheaths, and other assorted weaponry into his arms.
“You found this—where? How did—?”
“Just gear up already.” Sandy laughed. Her nose wrinkled up, causing her freckles to stand out. Her face softened and she grabbed Charley’s hand. “I was so—”
“We really have to go—now!” Jibs interrupted. His men were shouting in alarm at the end of the hallway.
Jibs set off along the corridor, his long flat feet flip-flapping to lead the way, with Sandy and Charley following close behind. Charley’s weapons were only half-strapped on, and his head still felt fuzzy. He was beyond starving, there was the faint smell of something burning in the distance, and they were running toward a riot of angry people who were probably beyond saving.
But things were looking up: he was still holding Sandy’s hand.
CHAPTER 15
Riot
George Jonas solved problems for a living. He was one of the most senior gate engineers: his main task was to ensure that whatever Meritropolis wanted to stay outside of the gates did so, and he had seen some horrifying things. The key was to tackle them just like any other problem: Identify, Contain, and Engage, or I–C–E.
So when he heard the pronouncement that Commander Orson was putting every civilian with a Score of under 100 out of the gates, and that it could be just a matter of time before this expanded to include guards and their families, such as George, his wife, and their three kids, he approached the problem the only way he knew how: I–C–E.
It was simple. In theory, at least.
Technically, gate engineers were classified as guards, so George and his family were safe from the gates—for tonight. All guards and their families were granted immunity from “the purge,” as it was being called, but George Jonas was a realist. He knew that if history had taught anything, it was that quislings were rarely safe in the long term and it was only a matter of time before Commander Orson turned the System against the guards.
George did not stand in the way of the neighbor
s rioting and breaking things in the streets. When the gas came, congregating together would only make it easier for the other guards to mist them into submission. And that is why he ensured his family was safely tucked away in the mini bomb shelter that he had made beneath the bench in his workshop. Then he had slowly and methodically retrieved his explosives, which had been stacked in pyramids behind the vent in his workshop, each little C-4 brick carefully fashioned after months of quietly pilfering the needed ingredients.
His family was safe. As to the safety of George Jonas himself, that was another matter. He was, at the moment, just as safe as one could possibly be in the middle of a riot when carrying a duffle bag crammed full of enough C-4 explosives to turn Meritropolis into Mount Vesuvius.
One positive outcome of the riot was that the crowds remained in the inner areas of Meritropolis, the herd collectively avoiding the gates, lest they find themselves on the wrong side come nightfall. Almost all the guards were drawn away from the gates and ordered toward the crowds of people, giving George ample time to walk the perimeter and form and mold his charges so that they were just exactly right.
He walked quickly from each carefully chosen spot to the next. He strategically placed his homemade payloads adjacent to drums full of stolen propane. It had taken effort to conceal the thievery of such a precious resource from the city reserves, but as the head gate engineer, he had free reign over virtually all of the supplies. The combination of C-4 and propane would result in astronomical damage, but he had no regrets. If you wanted to solve a problem, then you had to act decisively; you couldn’t second-guess yourself. He had long ago come to terms with the ramifications of his actions.
Many people would die. Many innocent people would die. All because of his actions. Of this, he was perfectly, and painfully, aware. But he would do whatever it took to save the lives of his family.
George hurried to set the final charges so that he could get back to the bomb shelter with his family and their six-month supply of food and provisions.
Because, before the night was over, Meritropolis would have undergone a major architectural adjustment.
The wall would be gone.
* * *
Elena stared glassy-eyed at the ceiling of her bedroom. A moth fluttered in, landed next to a rusted nail protruding from an exposed beam directly overhead, and then fluttered back out, apparently unable to handle the fog of depression bearing down on Elena like a physical presence.
Elena had prepared herself the first time Bree had been taken to the gates. But after her miraculous rescue from a death sentence, Elena had dared to let herself hope again. The second time, Elena had barely had time to say good bye. Just like that, Bree was gone.
Elena hadn’t shifted her position for what seemed like hours. There was a crick in her neck, her back ached, and her lips felt stuck together. Yet, she remained still. Even simple movement seemed to magnify her pain. How do you solve a problem that’s unsolvable? How do you fill the hole in your heart when the only person that could fill it is gone? The living punish themselves for the death of their loved ones. The deeper the love, the deeper the pain. And the deeper the desperation.
Bree didn’t just die, and she didn’t “pass away”—Elena hated when her well-meaning neighbors called it that. She was killed. Murdered.
Elena had trembled with rage at Commander Orson’s calm demeanor when he had ordered Bree out of the gates. To him, Bree was just a number, one of the crowd. She was a minor problem to be dealt with so that the collective health of Meritropolis would be assured.
But Bree is—was—her little sister. And, with their parents gone, Bree had been her responsibility.
And she had failed. Failed miserably, in fact. Charley, the wild, reckless fighter who had saved Bree from her first trip to the gates, had at least been able to do something. Elena was useless: the feeble pounding of her fists on the guard’s chest as he dispassionately restrained her during the gate ceremony had done nothing but make her look foolish in the eyes of the onlookers.
Elena could now hear people yelling in the streets. She remained motionless. She didn’t feel fear, or even curiosity; she was a sarcophagus of stone, placid and stiff on the exterior and deathly numb on the inside.
Let them break things and cause a fuss out there. Nothing would ever change, Elena thought despondently.
And then it did.
A loud booming noise startled Elena, and she moved her head slightly on her bed. Someone was knocking at her door. No, it sounded more like someone was forcing their way in.
Let the mob break their way into this little one-room shack, she thought. Without Bree, Elena didn’t care what happened to the house. She didn’t really care what happened to herself. She just hoped it would be quick. A small teardrop budded and then streaked down her cheek.
The pounding stopped. She wondered if whoever had been slamming against the door had given up.
Suddenly, a large, black-soled boot crashed the door open, splintering the flimsy lock like a plastic toy.
A tall, skinny guard pointed at her and then crooked his finger up and at the door. “Time to go. Make your way to the gates immediately.” He strode over to her bed, avoiding her eyes and then pulled her up. “You need to go—right now.”
Elena sagged, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed. She was a pitiful, deflated balloon that would just wither up and sink out of sight.
He paused. “Listen, I’m just the first sweep. You don’t want to be here when the others come down this street for the final one. It will be dusk soon, and all those with a Score less than 100 need to be in the courtyard for the gate ceremony. It won’t be good for you if they find you here.” He looked her up and down and then averted his eyes in a shy head bob. Finally, he lifted her head and looked in her eyes with a determined expression. “Please, it won’t be good at all. You must go—go to the gates—now!”
She lifted her head. Hearing the word gates had triggered fresh thoughts of Bree. Maybe this was her time too, to be with Bree.
She rose and walked out into the street.
To the gates.
* * *
Charley raised his eyebrows at Chappy. “You want me to lead Meritropolis?”
“That is what I said.” Chappy eyed him steadily, the slightest hint of a smile playing on his great blubbery lips. “I didn’t think you were hard of hearing, but I suppose that could be an issue that we can deal with together.”
“Together …” Charley shifted backward slowly, realization dawning. “So, when you say I’m to take down Orson and lead Meritropolis, and that we are to do this together, then what you’re really saying is that you want control, with me as the figurehead.”
Chappy batted his hand lazily to the side as if shooing a fly. “We can work out the details later. What’s important is that I sprung you from the slammer, and now, it’s time to go pay our mutual friend, Commander Orson, a visit.”
“Why do you need me?” Charley felt like even more of a rube than he sounded.
Chappy twirled a pen between his sausage-like fingers with surprising dexterity. He looked at Jibs, who grinned knowingly, then at Sandy, who met his eyes without blinking or turning away. He let out a great sigh and looked back directly into Charley’s eyes. He stopped the twirling with a sudden thunk of the pen against his wooden desk. His beady eyes bored into Charley’s. Charley was being measured in some way.
Chappy’s pink, hairless bear paw of a hand remained motionless on the table until he spoke in very precise tones, “One could make the case that I don’t need you.”
Charley swallowed, and remained silent.
Chappy’s face broke into a cunning smile. Charley was struck by the notion that Chappy and Grigor were opposites: they were both large men with large smiles, but Grigor’s smile reassured, while Chappy’s made you feel like a deer freezing under the stare of a tiger.
“I might not necessarily need you, but you would definitely make what I plan to do much easier. Not that
overthrowing a government is ever easy—or so I’ve been told. But the people know you and would follow you because of your Score and reputation.” Chappy stopped talking and gazed into space for a moment. Then he burst into loud, coarse laughter. “Well, who am I kidding? It’s gonna be a crapshoot. But if ever there’s a time to pull off a coup, it’s now.”
“Because of the riots,” Sandy added.
“Right indeed, because of the riots.” Chappy nodded toward Sandy. “Let’s just say that Commander Orson is far from popular at the moment.”
“How many men can we count on?” Charley asked.
“Ordinarily, I could count on about a quarter of Orson’s guard force to follow my instructions—for a fee, of course—but that’s just for your run-of-the-mill organized crime: running numbers, protection, the simple stuff. Maybe a stiff reprimand if they’re caught, but Orson and his higher-ups will typically look the other way for that kind of thing.”
Charley nodded, realization dawning. “But revolution is a whole different matter.”
“Of course. There will be no looking the other way. There will be blood. And it takes a different kind of man to commit to something like this. A small financial bribe will hardly do the trick—not when it means the men risking their own lives.”
“Well, Orson certainly has made it easy for you, then. The way he sentenced so many people to the gates all at once,” Charley replied.
Chappy grinned broadly, a smile full of satisfaction and greed for the future. “That he has. Most of the guards are already smart enough to realize that their exemption from the minimum score requirement won’t last forever. Naturally, the regular folk who have a Score of less than a 100 are quite displeased also.” Chappy nodded his head toward the far wall of his office, through which could be heard traces of the commotion out in the streets.
“So, Orson has saved you quite a bit of bribe money,” Sandy said.
“Yes. Yes, he has.” Chappy leaned back in his chair, his cheeks rosy and full, his smile tightening his eyes into little slits.
