Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2)

by Joel Ohman

  “My name’s Sandy,” Sandy said, dipping her chin to eye Marta steadily in return.

  Marta continued unabashed. “Right, anyway, I have a good spot for you. And, Charley, Mr. High Score himself—a Score of 173—the highest I’ve seen in quite some time…” Marta’s eyes shone bright as she stared at Charley’s forearm, almost mesmerized. Charley saw a look of envy, or greed, or something flash across her broad face. He shifted away from her gaze and wondered just how high of a Score Marta had seen in Meritorium; had she seen a Score higher than his?

  Marta started speaking again abruptly, her eyes lifting to his. “Yes, I’ve something special planned for you indeed …”

  “So,” Charley said. “What kind of animal combo are we trying to capture exactly?”

  “I’m glad you asked!” Jameson appeared at Marta’s side, looking as if he might jump out of his skin with excitement. “So, this is a great area for seeing all kinds of combos: there are lots of chimpanzelles, chimp-gazelles—Hank told me that you have already seen plenty of those, but those aren’t really worth that much in Meritorium; the crowd wants to see bigger game.” He hopped from side to side in a way that Charley thought was reminiscent of a chimpanzelle himself. “Let’s see, you will likely see some marmosals. Those things are weird: they are a combination of marmoset and jackal. Umm, those aren’t worth much, though, either …”

  “Which combos are worth the most?” Charley asked.

  Marta interrupted Jameson before he could begin. “Well, the bigger the better, as a general rule. So that is what we are going for.”

  “Right,” Jameson said. “But there are some smaller combos that are crowd favorites and pay well, too. Hedgedogs, hedgehog-wild dingo dogs—those add some spice to any match in the arena, at least for the wild beast fights since their spines make them so difficult to kill, not so much as a danger to humans, though. And if you spot any weird lizard combos, sometimes those will do well.”

  Hank, still slightly ashen-faced, asked, “So, what are the big ones that we might see? The ones that are a danger to humans—not that I’m worried or anything, of course. But since I’m the bait I just thought it might be helpful for our planning, you know …”

  “Well,” Jameson said. “What we would really like to bag is a zippo—basically just a big zebra-striped hippo. Those things are like wrecking balls in the amphitheater; they go for a lot of money.”

  “How do you catch one of those?” Sandy asked.

  Jameson’s eyes twinkled. “No clue! We’ve never caught one.”

  Turning to Hank, Marta said, “If we see one, and we likely will, you just make sure to get its attention. We’ve got a lot of manpower now so this is our chance to go for one; we’ll take it from there. Your job is just to keep on your feet long enough to let us get the harness on it.” Marta nodded at a contraption of iron shackles and what looked like rods reinforced with bamboo that Grigor was closely inspecting, a frown on his furrowed brow.

  “Just don’t get gored,” Jameson said. “I’m sure even a zippo will be nothing compared to facing down a bion, though. Right, Hank?”

  “Right …” Hank said, looking suspiciously green around the gills and weak around the knees.

  “Alright, enough chatter.” Marta turned and made a motion to some of the other hunters in her group. “Show everyone to their positions and let’s move out.” She pointed at a tall, broad-shouldered man with a beard tapered to a point. “Carter, you take Grigor, Orson, and Charley. Let’s see how the four of you do with the tethers.” She looked at Sandy. “As for you, Pretty, you hang close with me. Hank, Jameson will show you where to best, umm, make yourself available.”

  In spite of the twisting knots rising in his stomach, Charley fought to stifle a grin at Sandy’s gritted teeth and Hank’s unaccustomed speechlessness.

  Sure, he was about to try to tether a rampaging, highly aggressive animal that likely weighed in the tons, but it could be worse. He tried not to think about what might be done to the animal in the arena; at least he wouldn’t personally be responsible for killing the animal just for sport.

  Charley’s insides continued to churn. In his experience, when things could get worse …

  They usually did.

  ***

  Charley eyed the harness with a raised brow. “Do you think it can actually restrain a zippo, or whatever?”

  “I don’t know …” Grigor said, still running his enormous calloused hands slowly along the lengths of bamboo lashed by thick twine to the iron manacles. “I’ve never seen a zippo, or any sort of hippo combo—I have heard stories of them, though, and if the stories are to be believed, they are fearsome creatures.”

  “That they are,” Carter said, their handler from Marta’s group who walked up with Orson. He gripped an iron shackle and rattled the iron chain. “These are built well, though; we’ve never had a problem with them.” He paused, and gave it another shake. “Not that we’ve ever tried them on a zippo …”

  Orson narrowed his eyes, appraising Carter and his Score of 86. “What exactly have these chains been tested on?”

  Carter spoke slowly, meeting Orson’s eyes. “Nothing as big as a zippo.” He paused, seeming to weigh his answer. “Just smaller creatures.”

  “I see, well I’m glad someone with your expertise is going along with us,” Orson said dryly. “You’re about as useful as an accordion on a durkey hunt.” He fingered the chains. “Well, if the zippo breaks free, then I guess it’s up to us four to subdue it.” His eyes glittered. “By any means necessary.” Orson casually flipped out his blade and did an intricate pirouette, not quite close enough to Carter as to be insulting, but just close enough to be insouciant.

  Carter stood straight-backed, not wanting to give Orson the pleasure of taking a step backward. “You’ll see just how effective of a restraint they are,” Carter said with a smirk, returning Orson’s vitriol. “Just you wait.” He motioned for them to pick up the harness. “Let’s go.”

  Something about Carter’s exchange with Orson gave Charley pause. He looked from Grigor to Orson and back to Carter, each helping to carry the massive harness as they trekked over the grassy plain and toward a bottle tree that stood in silhouette against the purple-streaked late-afternoon sky.

  Charley felt on edge, and not just about the roaming animal combos.

  ***

  “Sit.” A tattooed arm corded with muscle pointed a finger at Sven.

  It wasn’t a request. Sven sat.

  Inside, Sven fumed. Oddly enough, he wasn’t mad at being ordered to sit down, lined up like so many cattle in their stalls with the other Low Scores; he was used to that sort of treatment in Meritropolis. He was furious at the apathetic way in which Marta’s men had imposed their will on the camp. It was as if Marta’s men knew Sven and the dozens of other Low Scores would comply, as if they didn’t have the capacity for refusing an order; they were just faceless and nameless masses. Guiltily, Sven realized that except for Elena, the girl whose sister had been killed in Meritropolis, he hardly knew anyone’s name himself. Sven pulled his knees up to his chest, glowering under his brows at the tattooed men lazily patrolling. It was demeaning; they weren’t even considered a threat. Sven thought of Charley and Sandy and the other High Scores out hunting. No one would dare to approach them in such a carefree and casual manner. No one gave orders to Charley.

  The familiar resentment bubbled up in Sven. Charley was his friend—maybe his only real friend—but it wasn’t easy when everyone could see on their forearms that Charley was more important, more useful, more of a person. Sven was just a nobody, a Low Score whose only merit was that his best friend had the highest score. If Charley were here—thinking of this, Sven’s face twisted into a sickening leer—if Charley were here, he wouldn’t sit on the ground taking orders from anybody. If Charley were here, there would be blood.

  Sven hugged his knees, keeping his le
gs and his thoughts close to his chest. The men strolled mere inches by his curled-up feet, not even seeing him, little plumes of dust puffing up and drifting softly onto him. He thought back to the fall of Meritropolis. He had felt something like power then—like he was in control of his own destiny, like he was more than just a Low Score.

  He had taken action. He had fought. Flames burning. The oppressive guards screaming out. It was horrendous. Yet Sven knew something deep down inside. He had liked it. It had given him a sense of control that he had never felt before, like he was the one calling the shots while everyone else scattered in fright and confusion.

  Sven peeked his eyes out between his knees, looking at the glowing embers in the still-smoldering campfire. He wasn’t Charley; he had to accept that. As much as his soul chafed at being forced into a position of subservience—Meritropolis all over again—with his small frame and lack of fighting skills, it would be suicidal to get up off the ground right now.

  He kept his eyes on the fire. He might be a Low Score, but he wasn’t helpless. He just needed to wait, to bide his time. If he was one thing that Charley was most certainly not, it was patient. When the time was right, someone would pay.

  ***

  Marta was strong. Very strong. Sandy fought back a surprising wetness in her eyes, furiously rubbing her shoulder against her cheek to smudge it away. She hated herself for it, she really did. She couldn’t believe she had let this happen—and now she was a crying captive? Maybe Charley was right. Maybe she just needed to know her place: meek, submissive, and content to let Charley lead. Her back stiffened. No way. She was happy to follow Charley, but she refused to be treated like a second-class citizen—that was right back to classifying people by their Score under the System. She would show Charley and the others what she was capable of; she wouldn’t let them down like this. Even more than she already had.

  If only she hadn’t been so distracted thinking about Charley and his cocky dismissal of her leadership ability. But she hadn’t even seen it coming. Once she had Sandy separated from the others, Marta had morphed into a different person. The kindly mother act was gone; the transformation coming as fast as Marta had disarmed Sandy and flipped her on her back, gasping for a breath in the dirt.

  Now the shackles were on.

  Marta tugged Sandy behind her carelessly. Marta’s true feelings were on full display; Sandy was only chattel to her. If Marta’s attitude wasn’t clue enough, the manacles around Sandy’s ankles and wrists cleared up any confusion as to who was now in charge.

  “Step pretty now, Pretty,” Marta said, glancing over her shoulder, and yanking on the chain to hurry Sandy forward.

  Sandy stumbled, but forced her head high. She needed to be aware of her surroundings, to see if she could warn Charley and the others somehow.

  If it wasn’t already too late.

  ***

  Something still seemed wrong. Charley shook it off, chalking it up to his nerves and the eerie shadows thrown off by the setting sun melting over the horizon. Garish dark shapes made from the last remaining rays of the day sliced through the skeleton branches of the bottle tree, transmuting onto the waving grass below, where Charley, Grigor, Orson, and Carter crouched ready with the harness.

  They had been in this position for hours—not long at all in hunting time. Each of them had long ago grown accustomed to the cardinal tenet of hunting: you wait, a lot. Of course, hunting in the post-Event world changed this in some important ways. With many of the animal combinations imbued with an aggression toward man, if you were willing to make yourself visible, you often didn’t need to wait long.

  However, as Grigor had taught them, the trick was getting noticed by the right kind of animal. They had seen chimpanzelles, stotting and chattering back and forth in a way that unnerved Charley. They had even seen a few of the hedgedogs Jameson had mentioned. Charley had recoiled inwardly when another snurtle wandered not many paces from the bottle tree, not even noticing the humans crouching at the ready. But no zippos.

  The rough semblance of a plan was for Carter, or another of Marta’s men positioned in a strategic wide semicircular arc, to give the signal, via a small cone-shaped whistle that all of Marta’s men wore around their neck. That signal meant a zippo, or another form of game adequate for capture, had been sighted and they should begin to collapse inward. Hank would lead the charge by running furiously for the bottle tree and making as much noise as possible. The other men in the hunting party were equipped with great nets and clubs, while Charley and those under the tree had clubs, as well as the harness at the ready.

  Charley shifted his weight, trying to increase the blood flow to his right foot, to keep it from falling asleep. He looked straight up, through the scraggly branches of the bottle tree. Was that a flap of wings overhead? He froze, eyes squinting. It was hard to tell through the upraised spines on the tree, each leafless branch with tiny fingers stretching skyward, like roots growing upward. Charley looked at the others; they hadn’t noticed anything. No, it couldn’t be wings—

  The whistle blew. A sound like a horn rolled from across the savannah, piercing the stillness.

  There was calm and silence for the span of a heartbeat, and then screaming. Rising with the others, Charley lifted the harness in one hand, his club in the other.

  The screaming grew louder.

  It sounded … human. Charley thought, like someone running for their life.

  It was.

  Hank pealed over a slight incline, arms pumping furiously, mouth wide open. Screaming. His eyes bulged, the whites gleaming specter-like against the darkening sky.

  “Run!” Hank screamed out. “Run!”

  “Some kind of High Scores you are training here,” Orson said, looking over at Grigor.

  Grigor frowned. “Something’s not right here …”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Carter said. “This is supposed to be your mighty bion hunter?”

  Charley looked closer. Hank’s mouth was bloody: red streaked his lips and cheeks. A deep dark mark appeared to be swelling on the side of his face.

  “What the—” Orson swore under his breath, and whispered something to Grigor.

  Grigor dropped the harness and turned to Carter. Before Grigor could open his mouth, the point of Orson’s sword was at Carter’s throat.

  “Let’s talk about this plan again,” Orson said, his eyes appearing to suck in any remaining light in the sky. He nodded his head to Hank, now falling at their feet and babbling almost incoherently. “What in the blazes happened to him?”

  Grigor bent over Hank and then rose suddenly, his voice hard. “He has marks on his wrists and ankles.”

  Carter swore, looking off to the horizon. “I told Marta that we shouldn’t try for the zippo, too.”

  “Too?” Orson repeated, his voice soft and his blade still inches from Carter’s throat.

  Carter sighed. “If you’re going to kill me, go ahead and get it over with. You should know, though, that Marta likely already has your entire camp captured. If you kill me, I can’t help you.”

  “Captured?” Charley asked, thinking instantly of Sandy, and then belatedly, and guiltily, about Sven.

  “Come on, don’t you guys know anything about Meritorium?” Carter said. “We’re slavers, man. There’s way more money in selling people for the Venatio than in selling combos.”

  Charley looked down at the manacles and chains that formed their zippo harness and thought back to some of the strange comments Carter had made. Everything clicked. Of course, how could they have been so stupid?

  Hank was starting to pull himself together and got to his feet. “It’s true. They had me bound and gagged. I was bait for a zippo, or something, if it happened to come by, but their real plan was to collapse inward on you guys.”

  Grigor stepped back, scanning the horizon. “That means they will be coming.”

  Carter s
mirked. “They already are coming.” He looked haughtily at Charley. “And we don’t give a rip about finding the czar, or getting revenge on your brother or whatever.”

  Charley’s eyes widened, momentarily rendered speechless.

  Carter’s eyes locked on Charley’s, seeming to enjoy his discomfort. “What? You didn’t think we’d do a little investigative work and ask around in your camp about why you guys are even out here?” His lip curled up. “Give it a rest, dude. Your brother’s dead.”

  Before he could even think, Charley stepped forward. He whipsawed his elbow viciously into Carter’s cheek, dropping him backward onto the ground. For Charley it was a natural reaction; he couldn’t really help it, not that he cared. If pain demanded to be felt, then rage demanded to be expressed.

  Charley stood across Carter’s chest, towering over him like a prizefighter, then leaned down close. “Don’t talk about him.” Charley spoke softly. “Underground in Meritropolis, bullies like Hank would raccoon people.” Charley balled up his right fist and punched Carter square in the eye. “That’s for Hank.” He punched his other eye. “And that’s for talking about my brother.” The punches, one-two, were staccato fast and hard enough to leave a substantial mark—this he could have avoided, but he didn’t want to.

  Charley backed away slowly, the anger draining away, and leaving nothing but a cold sadness in its place. “Now get off the ground.” He looked to Orson and Grigor with a shrug.

  Orson looked at Grigor. “I do like your training on this one, though.”

  Grigor shook his head. “I did not teach him that.”

  Hank grinned crookedly, some of his usual confidence returning. “At least you learned something from me, Charley.” He paused, growing serious. “Thanks, Charley.”

  “My pleasure,” Charley said, and he meant it. It was true that Hank was a bully growing up, and quite often still an insufferable jerk, but Charley couldn’t help but think that jerks have feelings, too, or something. Charley drew his blades. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go get the others back before it’s too late.”