Max Quick: The Bane of the Bondsman (Max Quick Series Book 3)

by Mark Jeffrey

  As they approached the stadium, Max realized that it was several times larger than he had imagined or believed it to be when he saw it from a distance. Immense was too small a word to describe it. There was no colosseum or sports stadium in his old world that was anywhere near this size. It was in the shape of a great oval, punctuated by large triangular towers that rose into the sky with box seats. These towers bent inward on the colosseum as they rose, looming over the floor seats far, far below. Max got a twist of vertigo just staring up at them.

  The crowd inside was chanting something. And then, it broke up into a ripple of laughter. But the sound —! The cavernous, seething sound! So many people, clapping and stamping and cheering … it was like great beast, a throng with a single voice like thunder. The thought of that beast recognizing him chilled Max to the bone. That crowd in there would rip him limb from limb if they knew who he was.

  He wondered suddenly if Fell Simon would be present.

  Probably, he thought with dismay. It would make sense that he would be here, at a rally of this size for the Bondsman.

  WITH HIS TRAM group, Max moved with the crowd towards one of the many great arches that served as a gate into the floor of the arena.

  Just before they arrived, the mob slowed down. There was a checkpoint; they were frisking people.

  Well, that wasn’t a problem, Max thought. He didn’t carry a weapon; he was a weapon. But he certainly did not want to use his power and expose himself.

  When it came to be Max’s turn, he raised his arms and let himself be searched, praying that he would not be recognized. But as he suspected, nobody would really think Max Quick would really be here, not at a Bondsman rally. It was too unbelievable, even if he had a passing resemblance. He was allowed to pass without incident.

  “Turns out, I was the droid you were looking for,” Max muttered to himself smugly as he slipped past the guard station.

  When he stepped out into the arena, his senses were assaulted in every possible way. The sheer number of faces and bodies moving near and far away, as far away as another planet yet he could see still all of them … the noise, the smell of food, the sweeping lights, the energy … it was like being in a great sea, and every bit as dizzying. Everyone was already whipped up to fever pitch … and nothing was even happening yet. It was like a tied football game, with fourth down and one yard to go and one second on the clock — all the time.

  The crowd urged him forward. They were being herded out onto the floor seats, somewhere in the middle, it seemed. At the far end of the stadium stood a great stage made of gold. It was draped with an impossible number of red Bondsman flags, all fluttering like pinions in the wind. Two spotlights criss-crossed the backdrop of shimmering red, still as stone, waiting patiently like guardians.

  At last, the crowd Max had followed was herded into their seats. He allowed the crush of bodies to carry him somewhere in the middle of the floor seats, perhaps only fifty rows away from the stage itself.

  Max’s own heartbeat began to slam in his chest. It was contagious, all of this. The spectacle, the deafening roar all around …

  Images began appearing on the screen behind the stage. The first was a girl, suspended in a glass box …

  They were images from the Dream. They followed, one after the other, like the blows of a hammer.

  Max felt a physical sickness take him. He felt heavier, drained. The crowd was pulsating with Bondsman-energy, reaching towards a crescendo.

  Un-Bondsman thoughts did not seem as real, as substantial. In fact, they suddenly felt impossible. How could you even think of rising up against him? Why would you want to? Why were we even asking these questions? Even Max was beginning to feel this. Sickeningly, a sort of love for the Bondsman entered his mind, despite his efforts to resist it. Only with fierce effort did he push it away — and he half believed he would light up with star-power accidentally with the effort of it.

  The will of the crowd bent all the little individual wills all around it. This was how the Bondsman had created his prison — through the manipulation of mind. And mind threw off energy that soaked everyone’s soul — and recreated the physical world around it. All these little engines, these people, were powering it! Their directed and focused attention and passion, roaring like an animal, caused it to be.

  This gathering, this colosseum functioned as an amplifier. That was the true point of the rally: to focus the energy, refine its potency, and send it screaming into the cosmos all around.

  As if the emphasize this point, Max spotted several of miniature versions of the Machine, mounted all around the circumference of the arena, spinning and pounding like dark hearts. He knew what those did: amplified the fear and and rage of anyone nearby, reflected it back tripled, quadrupled.

  HIGH ABOVE MAX, and unknown to him, Enki, Casey, Sasha and Ian likewise had found their way to a box seat just off the floor and up to the right of the stage.

  “This is disgusting,” Casey said, somewhat loudly.

  “Mind your volume,” Enki said, leaning over. “We walk among the wicked. And they have ears.”

  Casey snorted in protest.

  “We’re lucky we got our guns in,” Sasha said in a lower tone. “What did you say to that guard?”

  “Nothing,” Enki replied, bored by the question. “I just hit him with a quick case of cryptomnesia. It was nothing.”

  “When we get back to our world,” Ian said with a grin, “you’ll have to teach me that. It’ll come in handy getting toothpaste on airplanes.”

  Sasha laughed, despite herself. But Casey was not amused.

  “Look at all of them,” Casey said. “They love this. They love him. How?”

  “They don’t know anything else,” Enki replied. “And they’re scared.”

  “They’re not scared. That’s the point,” Casey said. “They should be.”

  But the timbre of the crowd changed now, and the foursome’s attention went to the stage. A man walked out and approached a single microphone that had been placed there for him. Everyone cheered.

  Fell Simon.

  “Good evening,” he said, to thunderous applause. “Ah. Well. I trust everyone had a pleasant journey getting out here. And that you’ve found your way to your seats by now.” He said this last bit menacingly; Casey glanced around the cavernous stadium — everywhere, people that had been returning from the bathroom or milling about scrambled frantically to get to where they were supposed to be — as if their lives depended on it.

  Some didn’t make it; they were too slow. These were scooped up by guards dressed in quasi-military gear.

  “Bring them down here,” Simon yelled into the microphone. The crowd howled in approval. All over the stadium, unlucky souls were hauled screaming towards the stage.

  When most of them were present in a small, terrified cluster, cowering from Fell Simon, he turned and faced them. He took a mere two steps towards them. The quaking crowd backed away, cringing pitifully.

  “Please!” they screamed. “Please, Simon! I am so, so, so sorry! Mercy! Mercy from our lord and Bondsman!”

  Simon stared for a moment, then said, “Your Bondsman appreciates punctuality. He demands it. When he says a thing shall start on time, it shall exactly on the dot.”

  Behind him, the imagery shifted to hundreds of clocks of all kinds and sizes and makes.

  Time.

  Time is the thief, always the thief.

  The Eaters of Time.

  The harrowing division and sundering of moments into precise, discrete measurement. The tyranny of time. Love of the clock, and subjugation to it, that was the message, the unmerciful message.

  “Your Bondsman demands recompense. You were not in your seats, awaiting him, when he commanded. Do you not love him?”

  The small crowd on stage was quaking horribly now. Tears and sobbing were everywhere. Some tried to run — only to be shoved back into the throng by guards.

  “Mercy! Mercy! Yes, yes, oh yes we love him!”

&nbs
p; “Well,” Fell Simon intoned thoughtfully. “Maybe I will let the crowd decide, hmm?”

  The crowd roared cruelly in approval. There was little doubt which way this was going to go with the bloodthirsty mob in charge of the vote.

  The poor people on stage shivered with utter terror. Several collapsed from the strain of it.

  “Oooooh. No, no. That won’t do,” Simon said.

  Enki turned to Casey, whose hand was already under the hoodie wrapped around her waist, reaching for the Red Roses. “Don’t,” he said pointedly. Casey glared at him, but removed her hand from the handle. “It is not wise. Remember why we are here.”

  The crowd booed, playfully angry that they were to be denied their chance to pass judgement.

  “Your Bondsman would not have it, I’m afraid. How about this, though: you lot in the front two rows! Everyone knows you! Stand up, stand up! Take a bow!”

  Mildly surprised, the inhabitants of the two rows directly in front of the stage — clearly a very, very exclusive area, with large box seating and a wall of security behind them to protect them from the masses seated in the pit — obliged. They rose and waved. The crowd cheered wildly.

  The cameras swung down and panned across the first two rows of gaudy, mostly good-looking people. Some of the women had outrageous hats that no fashion sense could possibly explain. And some of the men had modified their bodies and faces in ways that made them appear like reptiles or dogs. Others had tattooed themselves head to toe in Bondsman-red.

  Some of them looked normal — wearing the drab grey suit and tie of this colorless world: they were regional Governors or members of the banking elite.

  “They’re the celebrities of this world,” Ian said, understanding. “I recognize that one there on the end — he’s Marcos Wilding, the baseball guy. I saw him on the telly, back at the Shell. Only they don’t play baseball quite the same way — I don’t recall our players actually dying during our games.”

  Sasha nodded in agreement. “Those are the famous people. The athletes, the actors. Even the musicians, I suppose.”

  “If they had any musicians in this world worth a hoot,” Ian said disdainfully.

  “Well …” Fell Simon said with a whoop and a clap. “We’re going to have a celebrity decision, I think. Let’s see what the North American Region’s favorite sons and daughters have to say about our crowd of latecomers. I’m going to leave the stage and let them decide what is to be done here.” Fell Simon stepped forward and handed the microphone to Marcos Wilding — and then did as he promised and vanished behind the curtain.

  “Well,” Wilding said, his smug face filling the giant screen on stage. “This is a first. I didn’t expect to have to sit in for our beloved Bondsman.” The crowd laughed. “How you all doing tonight?” The crowd hollered. “Wait. I don’t think you heard me. I said: How you all doing tonight?” The crowd yelled several decibels louder. “That’s good, that’s good!” he said. Then he passed the microphone.

  Celeb after celeb did a little schtick, while the crowd alternately laughed, cheered and clapped. Each was careful to mention the Bondsman as the source of their celebrity — he gave them the big break, or gave them talent, or the education, or whatever it was. Then, they passed the microphone down the line.

  When it was all done, an actor named Caleb McKnave — a dimpled-chinned blonde smiler, clearly pleased with his existence — took the microphone and said, “All right! Time to decide! Friends — what do you think?”

  Right on cue, the celebrity rows booed and gave the poor people on stage a thumbs down. Caleb smiled a wicked grin. “Aw, that’s too bad. Right everyone? Too bad.”

  The crowd roared its approval. The small crowd on stage of latecomers pressed in close to on another, sheer panic gripping them at the prospect of whatever came next.

  “Those poor people …” Casey said.

  Then something wholly unexpected happened.

  Walls rose up violently out of the floor around the celebrity rows, boxing them in. A barrier shot up front of the stage made of something that looked like thick plexiglass. The cameras were still trained on the celebrity rows; they looked confused, but not alarmed. They smiled and joked with one another, wondering what new manner of entertainment their Bondsman had prepared for them.

  “Bravo!” came Fell Simon’s voice. Then he appeared, walking out on the stage, clapping his hands. “Bravo, my dear celebrities! Fame has made you both rich and powerful and wise indeed! And I appreciate your decision — really I do.”

  The faces of the celebrities began to look somewhat troubled at that. A murmur went through the crowd like a tickle.

  “Oh …” Simon laughed slightly. “Let’s give it up for your celebrities! Give them the applause they crave!”

  The crowd complied.

  When it died down Simon said, “Because it’s the last they will ever get. Well. Ever hear, to be more accurate. Ladies and gentlemen of the first two rows, take your last bows …”

  That did it. Panic hit the celebrities.

  But it was too late.

  Trap doors in the floor slid open and wolves poured out — a hideous swarm of snapping.

  Fangs gnashed. Fur bristled like steel wool. Blood splashed.

  The celebrities ran screaming — with nowhere to run to. They climbed over each other, smacked one another, desperate for escape. The cameras struggled to capture it all — but the motion was too fast. All you could see on the giant screen was jaws lock around necks — and cut a scream off into hideous silence.

  “Wolves …” Ian said, visceral fear pounding in him. He knew wolves. Almost, his armor covered him before he could stop it, but Sasha — seeing the danger — immediately got his gaze to focus on her eyes.

  “Ian!” she said. “Look at me! Only at me! Don’t look away. You’re safe up here. You’re only in danger if you cover yourself.”

  Ian panted hard.

  “You’ll endanger everyone, Ian!” Then she stopped and said calmly, “You’ll endanger me. I can’t shoot everyone here with the White Roses. I don’t have that many bullets.”

  That got to him. Ian nodded.

  Casey stared at the celebrity bloodbath, unable to speak. Enki kept a firm grip on her arm.

  “First rule of being Emperor,” Enki murmured. “Every now and then, do something surprising, unthinkable. Then, you are never predictable. No one ever feels safe — not even at the very top of the pyramid.”

  Fell Simon clapped and laughed.

  When it was over, the wolves were herded back down into the trap doors by guards with shock prods. A cleaning crew arrived and disposed of the mess with hoses and brooms and other cleaning implements with a remarkable, clinical efficiency.

  Within moments, the first two rows of seats were pristine as if nothing had ever happened.

  Then Fell Simon turned to the latecomers. “Well? Recompense to the Bondsman for your lateness has been had! And it seems we have a few rows that have opened up, right here, right here, right in front of the stage, you lucky people! Front row seats to the Bondsman! Can you imagine that? Here we go now … here we go … take your seats …”

  The stunned latecomers filed down (and in some cases were carried down) and seated right up front. Stark white horror whirled in every eye and blood fled from every face. Nervous eyes glanced towards the trap doors. They were all too aware that they were now vulnerable to those very same wolves at any moment.

  The terror gushing from them right now must be like dark rich chocolate to the Archons, Casey thought. She pictured them all with straws in their backs and dark shadow-things drinking from them.

  When they were seated, Simon said: “Now remember, we can see you now, you little latecomers! Bet you won’t be late again, hmm?” The audience laughed manically, mirroring Simon’s own savage sense of humor. “No bathroom breaks!” The audience really loved that one. “Although …” Simon leaned in conspiratorially with a whisper and a wink, “I think most of them have emptied themselves alrea
dy here on stage, don’t you think?”

  Thunderous applause!

  “Sick,” Casey muttered. “Absolutely revolting. Sick, sick, sick.”

  “His time will come,” Enki said with a rumbled.

  “Well … we’ll be keeping an eye on you all now, at any rate,” Fell Simon said, stabbing a finger at the front two rows. “On to some more mundane matters now. Slides, please!” All screens in the arena showed a map of the world divided in to six regions.

  “Alright,” Simon said. “In the North American Region, roughly 50% of the population is incarcerated. That’s up from 42% just five years ago, so we’re making progress.” The crowd cheered. “The offender’s crimes are mostly related to insufficient adoration of the Bondsman in one way or another.” Here Simon leered at the audience, which cowered under his gaze and feel silent. “South America, you’re only at 31% so you’ve got some work to do. Africa is up to 77%, so they are a shining model for us for all to be inspired by and follow. Their prisons and work camps are also by far the most profitable of any on the planet. We have a number of gold, coal and diamond mines there which are operating with tremendous efficiency. You North American Regional Managers ought to visit the African regions if you want to know how to really run things right!

  “And honorable mention has to go out to the Veerspike Family this year … their banking efforts have been truly exemplary. They have managed to confiscate more actual concrete asset value through currency manipulation than almost any one else has ever done is history. Bravo, Veerspikes! And keep up the good work!”

  The crowd cheered, less enthusiastically this time, Max noted. It seemed that there were many interests here competing. In their allegiance to the Bondsman, they were all united. But other than that, they were greedy and selfish and interested in gamesmanship. They competed for the lower rungs on the Bondsman’s ladder.