Meritropolis

by Joel Ohman

  “And, really, Orson has also given an incentive to everyone in Meritropolis to revolt. What do they have to lose? They are all being put out of the gates anyway. Why didn’t he do things incrementally?” Charley wondered aloud. “Why all at once like this, and so quick?”

  “That is the million-dollar question. Word from those who know—or at least should know—is that Orson is facing pressure from outside Meritropolis. Something unexpected.” Chappy said.

  “So, we can expect visitors …”

  “Or, more likely, the clean-up crew.” Chappy’s face took on a malevolent cast as he stood from his chair. “But nothing we can’t handle if we get enough men under our control and get Commander Orson out of the picture.” He lifted his massive hand to his forehead in mock salute. “At your service, Commander Charley. Shall we commence with the coup?”

  It didn’t take a genius to see Chappy was positioning Charley as the leader of this ramshackle insurrection so that if things went sideways, he could slowly melt into the background, leaving Charley to face the consequences alone.

  That was fine with Charley; he was never one to follow someone else’s plans anyway. But there was no need to let Chappy know that just yet. He would also keep to himself the knowledge that Commander Orson’s father was likely to be the impending visitor of doom and harvesting quotas.

  Charley smiled brightly and returned the salute.

  “Let the revolution commence.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Revolution

  Commander Orson felt a droplet of sweat cascade down his spine and horsetail across his lower back. More rivulets followed, until a sweat mark grew steadily on the back of his thin cotton shirt. He was feverishly packing up his belongings.

  For, while most of Meritropolis rioted at his decree, he alone was privy to the knowledge that those put out of the gates were the lucky ones. Those left inside were due a special visitor: his father.

  Orson knew his father’s tactics well. He would show up with his soldiers. Hard, well-trained men who would make Orson’s blue-coated guards look like children playing dress-up as they were obliterated. There was no question about Orson’s obedience; he would be spared. But he felt he was fast losing control of the Blue Coats, and Meritropolis. He could order the guards to not resist his father’s troops, but he doubted they would listen to him. Not when his father’s men, the clean-up crew, were arriving on a death mission, for all but the highest of the High Scores.

  The signal from his father had come through just days before: Harvest all Scores above 100. Get rid of the rest. We’re shutting down Meritropolis.

  And if that wasn’t enough, then came the part that turned his blood to ice:

  I’ll be there soon.

  Orson himself was one of those “harvested” from a crop of High Scores years before. Occasionally, he wished he had a low Score and been put out of the gates long ago. There was no doubt that his father would have done it, too—especially after what he’d done to Orson’s mother.

  Orson was eight when his mother became sick. Very sick. They all knew she didn’t have long to live. Orson had never said it aloud, but deep down he’d known it too. The doctors coming and going, the sinister whispered conversations, and the hushed tones of adult misery and terror all conspired to cause him to feel helpless, paralyzed at what was happening around him.

  At that time, his father had recently implemented the early stages of the System, and he had barely enough support from the other leaders to implement some of its harsher measures. Harsh measures like the mandatory gate sentencing for the very lowest of the Low Scores: disabled children, the elderly, the forced abortion of unborn babies of low-Score parents, and, of course, the zeroing of the terminally ill.

  Like Orson’s mother.

  “It’s too late to turn back now,” his father had said.

  “She’s going to die anyway, so now her death can stand for something. It can stand for all of us; it can stand for the value of the System,” he had said.

  He didn’t say, “Her death would be painless,” because even then Orson knew what kind of terrors prowled outside the gates at night. He didn’t say, “You’ll never miss her.” Orson continued to think of her every day. His father hadn’t spoken about his mother since she died. It was impossible his father would ever share his emotions or admit there might be something not fully under his control.

  Ever since that day, Orson had lived in terror of his father. He threw himself into building up his Score: anything to increase his worth in his father’s eyes. At night, he lay awake in bed, eyes wide open and little fists clenched tightly by his sides, wondering if perhaps he’d be the next one to be zeroed—sacrificed to his father’s plan for the greater good.

  If he had been older, bigger, more mature when his mother had been sick, maybe he could have kept her from the gates. But, even now, with his high Score, deep down he was still the little boy with a worried frown. He was still terrified of his father.

  So he packed.

  He must be ready to leave at a moment’s notice—either in the company of his father or fleeing to avoid him; he would find out which one soon enough. He wouldn’t miss Meritropolis. Abigail’s face sprang to mind, but he would soon forget her.

  Orson had debated keeping her by his side but his father would never allow it. As soon as his father realized Orson cared about Abigail, he would use it against him by ensuring she was treated worst of all the High Scores. No one could ever accuse Orson’s father of playing favorites.

  Even so, Orson didn’t think that he was in danger of being zeroed himself: his Score was too high and, after all, his father had sent him a message foretelling his arrival. Orson’s father would not forecast his pending visit if he wanted to surprise Orson with overwhelming force and ill intentions. Orson’s father had been busy in the years since he had left. Orson had never been to any of the other cities ruled by the System but he had the impression Meritropolis was a small outpost compared to the massive populations that lay three or more hard days’ travel away.

  Orson’s father kept him in the dark about much of what occurred beyond the walls. His father had also instructed him to keep the people believing that Meritropolis was all that existed: they were alone. Of course, they weren’t really alone, and most of the High Scores and the older residents had always suspected something was amiss. Orson suspected some things of his own. Reading between the lines of recent messages from his father seemed to show rising tension in the area outside of Meritropolis; tension that could erupt into full-fledged war at any moment. Food was scarce, and feeding an army was half the way to victory in any war, so his father would have no use for Low Scores. They were just a drain on the food supply. High Scores, on the other hand, were always useful in battle in some way.

  In spite of that, Orson was still surprised when he read the message from his father:

  Meritropolis has served its purpose.

  There are visitors heading for Meritropolis. And not the friendly kind, so be forewarned.

  We don’t need Meritropolis anymore; we have other harvests now.

  Other harvests? His father wanted to level Meritropolis and move on to other cities that need harvested? But surely the Meritropolis farmers and other food producers would hold some value to his father’s wartime efforts, wouldn’t they? But Orson had read the words over and over again until he finally found the nugget of truth hidden between the lines from his father. His father was destroying Meritropolis—and, importantly, its food-producing ability—because he didn’t want the opposing side to have it. Orson was almost certain that some other force, greater than his father’s, was approaching Meritropolis, and resources had to be destroyed before the enemy could benefit.

  It was a strategy as old as war itself: burn the bridges, burn the barns, burn the crops—leave nothing for the other side.

  He stuffed the last of his essential items into his pack and cinched it shut. No matter what happened, he would be ready. Even if two armies ar
rived at once, he was confident they would have difficulty surmounting the city’s heavily fortified walls. Orson would let them in when he was good and ready.

  He reassured himself with thoughts of the tall, imposing, and virtually impenetrable walls. They were stronger than even his father knew; Orson hadn’t bothered to fill him in on some of his more recent improvements. Orson said a silent prayer of thanks for his head gate engineer, George something-or-other—a genius.

  With his pack ready, Orson was now prepared to wait and see who arrived first: his father or this unknown army.

  Dusk was fast approaching. It was time for the gate ceremony.

  * * *

  Sven picked up a rock. He let his fingers slowly play over the jagged edges, feeling the wicked little crevices and spires: it was perfect. Up to that point, he had hung back from the mass of people causing a ruckus in the streets. But as dusk quickly closed in, Sven was getting worried. Whether they realized it or not, the masses were allowing themselves to be herded slowly and methodically toward the courtyard—and the gates.

  He let the weight of the rock buoy his hand up and down, softly bobbing in rhythm with his quickening pace. He continued to eye the oafish guard nearby who was swinging his bat with a gleeful chopping motion into the roiling crowd. Some of the guards looked scared, while others appeared to be actually enjoying this opportunity to use their weapons against a largely defenseless group of people.

  The guard in Sven’s sights was most definitely in the latter category.

  Sven had always been the polar opposite of Charley; he was known for his innocence, trust, and the ability to see the good in everybody. But his time in the Tower had robbed him of that innocence. He frowned, thinking back to that day. His face contorted.

  Sven took a quick hop-skip step, rocked from his back foot to his front, and whipped his arm forward, the rock flying with a savagery that surprised him. The second he let go, he knew it was a perfect throw.

  The rock struck the guard in the temple like a hammer into a melon. The guard’s face sagged and he fell backward, limbs splaying at awkward angles. As soon as he hit the ground, an elderly woman seized the fallen guard’s bat and, with wild eyes and pursed lips, began to bludgeon the unconscious body.

  Sven’s eyes opened wide and his mouth twisted into a leer.

  He bent down and picked up another rock.

  * * *

  “Commander Orson!” The waspish gate engineer hopped back and forth from one foot to the other, uncertainty straining his features.

  “Not now. Just do your job and get the gates ready for the ceremony. I can’t believe that George is missing—he is one of our most dependable men! Of all the times …” Orson’s voice trailed off as he turned to look at the now-frantic gate engineer bouncing up and down, looking like a teakettle about to blow. “Fine! What is it that is so important?”

  “Sir, there’s a huge dust cloud billowing up from the east. And an even larger one coming from the west.” He paused to catch his breath. “I thought at first that it could be a mass grouping of some kind of animal—maybe a large herd of rotthogs that picked up our scent or something—but then I thought, two of them? That can’t be right. And sure enough, at least one group is not animals.” He swallowed quickly, wringing his hands. “There are signs of heavy animal movement in the forest—they will be out in force tonight. But—I know this sounds crazy— I think one of the dust clouds is being kicked up by a large group of people. And they’re heading right for us.”

  Orson sighed. “No, you’re not crazy. We need to speed this ceremony up. Open the gates now, but have them prepped and ready to be shut the second I give you the word.”

  “Right away, sir.” The engineer trotted off, wiping sweat from his brow as he ran.

  Commander Orson stepped into the courtyard to address the undulating crowd that was at that very moment being forced into the courtyard by his guards.

  It was time.

  * * *

  Charley had almost made it to the courtyard; he could feel it before he could see it. There was an electrical charge in the air that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright. He could hear the shouts from the crowd ahead, of course, but it was more than that. There was fear in the air: a palpable feeling of wild animal panic that permeated everything.

  He thought back to the last time he had been in the courtyard, not intending a showdown with Orson, but it had happened nonetheless. All he had wanted was to save that little girl from the gates. He had managed it, but for what? Now she was gone, finally zeroed by Orson—but this time it was too late to save her. For the first time, Charley realized that he didn’t even know anything about the girl besides her name, Bree, and that thought caused his anger to grow.

  Now he was heading back to the courtyard. Today, he was planning a showdown with Orson. He had weapons and a mini army of Chappy’s men at his back.

  Charley turned a corner and saw the crowd for the very first time. Blue-coated guards were mercilessly beating their bats into the boiling mass of people, driving them toward the now-open gates. Commander Orson appeared to be pontificating from a perch high up on the interior of the walls. Charley drew close enough to hear Orson imploring the tumultuous crowd.

  “Every parent wants what’s best for their children. You would sacrifice yourselves for them, give your own life for them: for the next generation. Well, today is that day. Those with a Score of over 100 are, in a sense, all of our children: they are the very best of Meritropolis. They are the next generation of Meritropolis.” Commander Orson lifted his hand and pointed to the gates. “Will you make that sacrifice? Will you sacrifice yourselves for their future?”

  Charley sensed Sandy, Chappy, and the motley assortment of hardened men of his army close beside him, but they drifted from his consciousness as he gazed at the gates.

  The gates were open.

  Alec was put out of these gates. The little girl was put out. He couldn’t save either of them, and nothing could ever change that. He wanted to save all these other Low Scores from suffering that fate, too. But, more than that, Charley wanted to punish Commander Orson and everyone that had carried out the System’s directives.

  Charley felt it with unwavering clarity: the punishment should fit the crime. Alec and the little girl had each died cold, scared, and alone, and the crime was murder. The punishment would be death.

  And Charley was the executioner.

  Charley reached both hands up and over each shoulder, slowly, as if in a dream. His fingers tightened around the knurled handles of the blades. He pulled each long blade from its metal sheath with a piercing ring of steel on steel.

  He wasn’t a defenseless little boy anymore.

  The wild and bloody chaos of the courtyard seemed to pause for just a fraction of a second, as eyes turned from Commander Orson, still with hand outstretched to the open gates and head held high, toward Charley and his horde of armed men drawing close to the crowd with a menacing clatter of heavy boots and weaponry. An old woman’s cry broke the silence. “Death to the Blue Coats! Kill them all!” She was barefoot and perched on a large rock bench, her gnarled toes gripping the limestone like bird claws.

  Every eye turned toward the sound of the woman’s voice. A hulking Blue Coat with shaggy hair was standing right next to her. He lifted his bat high, and with two hands smashed it down on the woman’s back with a sickening thunk.

  The woman fell off the bench never to rise again. But, in that instant, something changed. As one, the hive mind of the people changed from riot to rage. And with that change, from panic to purpose: the Blue Coats must die. A great hissing of anger buzzed up from the crowd. The beehive had been disturbed and appropriate action would be taken. The shaggy-haired guard was swallowed up in a glut of tearing, clawing, and gouging. He disappeared from Charley’s sight as the mass of people dragged him down.

  Charley threw himself into the middle of it, trying to track down Commander Orson. He started working his way toward whe
re he had last seen him. But after the commander’s speech had been interrupted by the arrival of Charley and Chappy’s men, he was now nowhere to be seen.

  Charley saw a flash of blue from the corner of his eye, and chopped his blade down with his teeth bared. He pulled short just inches from thrashing a blond-haired youth who happened to be in a blue shirt. The boy let out a sharp cry and stumbled backward, his forearm raised in front of his face. “Sorry, I didn’t see—” Charley mumbled barely intelligibly. “Sorry.” Charley backed away, quickly turning his face away from the boy. He felt himself coming unhinged. He needed to pull it together. He knew Orson must be around here somewhere.

  Charley retraced his steps hurriedly in hopes of finding Orson on the other side of the courtyard and was surprised to see Chappy was with his men in the middle of the fighting. He was well flanked, but he certainly wasn’t shirking from the action. He held an enormous ancient-looking broadsword that he used like a club, and he fought like a battering ram. Compared to Charley’s leopard-like fighting style, Chappy was a rhinoceros.

  For a moment there was a gap in the crowd. Charley was free from the fray. He stood alone and took it all in.

  Where was Commander Orson? Charley’s thoughts were growing in panic.

  He eyes searched the agitating crowds of people massing and milling, running and fighting. They looked like logs whirling and spinning down a river of rapids: each swept along by a collective force that was stronger and bigger than any single one of them.

  His eyes stopped on Sandy. She was fighting alongside Jibs and a short, barrel-chested man. She was graceful; the clumsy movements of her opponents seemed comical in comparison. Each of her encounters was much like a dance where someone was attempting to teach a complicated step to a partner who simply wasn’t getting it. She slipped punches and ducked under bat swings with an easy grace, only to slip in for a perfectly positioned blow of her own. Sandy was far better trained with a sword than Charley was—maybe than he would ever be. She was calm, in control, fluid and supple, her long limbs bending and moving in rhythm with the undulating crowd.